out what they mean, which was Lucy's case. She did not
understand her husband's sudden excitement; what it had to do with Bice,
with the Contessa, with her own resolution and plans she could not tell,
but felt vaguely that many things deeply concerning her were in the air,
and was unhappy in the confusion of her thoughts. For a long time after
the sounds of various persons coming upstairs had died away, Lucy lay
silent waiting for her husband's appearance--but at last unable to bear
the vague wretchedness of her thoughts any longer, got up and put on a
dressing-gown and stole out into the dark gallery to go to the nursery
to look at her boy asleep, which was her best anodyne. The lights were
all extinguished except the faint ray that came from the nursery door,
and Lucy went softly towards that, anxious to disturb little Tom by no
sound. As she did so a door suddenly opened, sending a glare of light
into the dark corridor. It was the door of the Contessa's room, and with
the light came Sir Tom, the Contessa herself appearing after him on the
threshold. She was still in her dinner dress, and her appearance
remained long impressed upon Lucy's imagination like a photograph
without colour, in shadow and light. She gave Sir Tom a little packet
apparently of letters, and then she held out both hands to him, which he
took in his. Something seemed to flash through Lucy's heart like a
knife, quivering like the "pale death" of the poet, in sight and sense.
The sudden surprise and pang of it was such for a moment that she seemed
turned into stone, and stood gazing like a spectre in her white flowing
dress, her face more white, her eyes and mouth open in the misery and
trouble of the moment. Then she stole back softly into her room--her
head throbbing, her heart beating--and buried her face in her pillow and
closed her eyes. Even baby could not soothe her in this unlooked-for
pang. And then she heard his step come slowly along the gallery. How was
she to look at him? how listen to him in the shock of such an
extraordinary discovery? She took refuge in a semblance of sleep.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

LUCY'S DISCOVERY.

When it happens to an innocent and simple soul to find out suddenly at a
stroke the falsehood of some one upon whose truth the whole universe
depends, the effect is such as perhaps has never been put forth by any
attempt at psychological investigation. When it happens to a great mind,
we have Hamlet with all the worl