kness stood Lucy, with her candle, the only
visible representative of all the hidden life around, suddenly pausing,
asking herself--

Was this what it meant? Undoubtedly, this was what it meant. She had the
power, and she had not used it. With a word she could make all their
schemes unnecessary, and relieve the burden on the soul of the woman who
had the heart of a mother for Bice. Tears sprang up into Lucy's eyes
unawares as this recollection suddenly seized her. The Contessa was not
perfect--there were many things in her which Lady Randolph could with
difficulty excuse to herself: but she had the heart of a mother for
Bice. Oh, yes, it was true, quite true. The heart of a mother! and how
was it possible that another mother could look on at this and not
sympathise; and how was it that the idea had never occurred to her
before--that she had never thought how changed in a moment might be
Bice's position, if only---- Here she picked up her candle again, and
went away hastily to her room. She said to herself that she was keeping
Fletcher up, and that this was unkind. But, as a matter of fact, she was
not thinking about Fletcher. There had sprung up in her soul a fear
which was twofold and contradictory. If one of those alarms was
justified, then the other would be fallacious; and yet the existence of
the one doubled the force of the other. One of these elements of
fear--the contradiction, the new terror--was wholly unthought of, and
had never troubled her peace before. She thought--and this was her old
burden, the anxiety which had already restrained her action and made her
forego what she had never failed to feel as her duty, the carrying out
of her father's will--of her husband's objection, of his opposition, of
the terrible interview she had once had with him, when she had refused
to acquiesce in his command. And then, with a sort of stealthy horror,
she thought of his departure from that opposition, and asked herself,
would he, for Bice's sake, consent to that which he had so much objected
to in other cases? This it was that made her shrink from herself and her
own thoughts, and hurry into her room for the solace of Fletcher's
companionship, and to put off as long as she could the discussion of the
question. Would Sir Tom agree to everything? Would he make no
objections--for Bice's sake?

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE CONTESSA'S TACTICS.

That morning the whole party came down to breakfast expectant, for,
notwithst