MRS. LUSHINGTON
With all her independence of spirit, it cannot be supposed that Miss
Douglas went to and fro in the world of London without a chaperon. On
women, an immunity from supervision, and what we may call the freedom
of the city, is conferred by matrimony alone. This franchise seems
irrespective of age. A virgin of fifty gathers confidence under the
wing of a bride nineteen years old, shooting her arrows with the more
precision that she feels so safe behind the shield of that tender,
inexperienced matron. Why are these things so? Why do we dine at
nightfall, go to bed at sunrise, and get up at noon? Why do we herd
together in narrow staircases and inconvenient rooms at the hottest
season of the year? If people bore us, why do we ask them to dinner?
and suffer fools gladly, without ourselves being wise? I wonder if we
shall ever know.
Blanche Douglas accordingly, with more courage, resolution, and _savoir
faire_, than nine _men_ out of every ten, had placed herself under the
tutelage of Mrs. Francis Lushington, a lady with a convenient husband,
who, like the celebrated courtier, was never _in_ the way nor _out
of_ the way. She talked about "Frank," as she called him, every ten
minutes; but somehow they were seldom seen together, except once a week
at afternoon church.
That gentleman himself must either have been the steadiest of mortals,
or the most cunning; his wife inclined to think him the latter.
Mrs. Lushington knew everybody, and went everywhere. There was no
particular reason why she should have attained popularity; but society
had taken her up, and seemed in no hurry to set her down again.
She was a little fair person, with pretty features and a soft pleading
voice, very much dressed, very much painted; as good a foil as could be
imagined to such a woman as Blanche Douglas.
They were sitting together in the dining-room of the latter about half
past two P.M. There never was such a lady for going out to luncheon
as Mrs. Lushington. If you were asked to that pleasant meal at any
house within a mile of Hyde Park Corner, it would have been a bad bet
to take five to one about not meeting her. She was like a nice little
luncheon herself. Not much of her; but what there was light, delicate,
palatable, with a good deal of garnish.
"And which is it to be, dear?" asked this lady of her hostess,
finishing a glass of sherry with considerable enjoyment. "I know
I shall have to congratulate one of them soon, and to send you a
wedding-present; but it's no use talking about it, till I know
which----"
"Do you think it a wise thing to marry, Clara?" said the other in
reply, fixing her black eyes solemnly on her friend's face.
Mrs. Lushington pondered. "There's a good deal to be said on both
sides," she answered; "and I haven't quite made up my mind what I
should do if I were you. With me, you know, it was different. If I
hadn't made a convenience of Frank, I should have been nursing my
dreadful old aunt still. You are very independent as you are, and do no
end of mischief. But, my dear, you won't last for ever. That's where we
fair women have the pull. And then you've so many to choose from. Yes;
I think if I were _you_, I _would_!"
"And--You'll laugh at me, Clara, I feel," said Miss Douglas. "Do you
think it's a good plan to marry a man one don't care for; I mean, who
rather bores one than otherwise?"
"I did, dear," was the reply; "but I don't know that I've found it
answer."
"It must be dreadful to see him all day long, and have to study his
fancies. Breakfast with him, perhaps, every morning at nine o'clock."
"Frank would go without breakfast often enough, if he couldn't make
his own tea, and insisted on such early hours. No, dear, there are
worse things than that. We have to be in the country when they want
to shoot, and in the spring too sometimes, if they're fond of hunting.
But, on the other hand, we married women have certain advantages. We
can keep more flirtations going at once than you. Though, to be sure,
I don't fancy the General would stand much of _that_! If ever I saw a
white Othello, it's St. Josephs."
"St. Josephs! Do you think I want to marry St. Josephs?"
Could the General have overheard the tone in which his name was spoken,
surely his honest heart would have felt very sore and sad.
"Well, he wants to marry _you_!" was the reply; "and, upon my word,
dear, the more I think of it, the more I am convinced you couldn't do
better. He is rich enough, rather good-looking, and seems to know his
own mind. What would you have?"
"My dear, I _couldn't_!"
"State your objections."
"Well, in the first place, he's _very_ fond of me."
"That shows good taste; but it needn't stand in the way, for you may be
sure it won't last."
"But it _will_ last, Clara, because I cannot care for _him_ in return.
My dear, if you knew what a brute I feel sometimes, when he goes away,
looking so proud and unhappy, without ever saying an impatient word.
Then I'm sorry for him, I own; but it's no use, and I only wish he
would take up with somebody else. Don't you think you could help me?
Clara, _would_ you mind? It's uphill work, I know; but you've plenty of
others, and it wouldn't tire you, as it does _me_!"
Miss Douglas looked so pitiful, and so much in earnest, that her friend
laughed outright.
"I think I should like it very much," replied the latter, "though I've
hardly room for another on the list. But if it's not to be the General,
Blanche, we return to the previous question. Who is it?"
"I don't think I shall ever marry at all," answered the younger lady,
with a smothered sigh. "If I were a man, I certainly wouldn't; and why
wasn't I a man? Why can't we be independent? go where we like, do what
we like, and for that matter, choose the people we like?"
"Then you _would_ choose somebody?"
"I didn't say so. No, Clara; the sort of person I should fancy would be
sure never to care for me. His character must be so entirely different
from mine, and though they say, contrasts generally agree, black and
white, after all, only make a feeble kind of grey."
"Whatever you do, dear," expostulated Mrs. Lushington, "don't go and
fall in love with a boy! Of all follies on earth, that pays the worst.
They are never the same two days together, and not one of them but
thinks more of the horse he bought last Monday at Tattersalls, than the
woman he 'spooned,' as they call it, last Saturday night at the Opera."
Miss Douglas winced.
"I cannot agree with you," said she, stooping to pick up her
handkerchief; "I think men grow worse rather than better, the more
they live in the world. I like people to be fresh, and earnest, and
hopeful. Perhaps it is because I am none of these myself, that I rather
appreciate boys."
Mrs. Lushington clapped her hands. "The very thing!" she exclaimed.
"He's made on purpose for you. You ought to know Daisy!"
Miss Douglas drew herself up. "I _do_ know Mr. Walters," she answered
coldly; "if you mean _him_. I believe he is called Daisy in his
regiment and by his very particular friends."
"You know him! and you didn't tell _me_!" replied the other gaily.
"Never mind. Then, of course you're devoted to him. I am; we all are.
He's so cheery, so imperturbable, and what I like him best for, is,
that he has no more heart than--than--well, than I have myself. There!"
Miss Douglas was on her guard now. The appropriative faculty, strong in
feminine nature as the maternal instinct, and somewhat akin to it, was
fully aroused. Only in London, no doubt, would it have been possible
for two such intimates to be ignorant of each other's predilections;
but even here it struck Blanche there was something suspicious in her
friend's astonishment, something not quite sincere in her enthusiasm
and her praise.
So she became exceedingly polite and affectionate, as a fencer goes
through a series of courteous salutes, while proposing to himself the
honour of running his adversary through the brisket.
"You make yourself out worse than you are, Clara," said she; "it's
lucky I know you so well. Indeed, you mustn't go yet. You always run
away before I've said half my say. You'll be sure to come again very
soon though. Promise, dear. What a love of a carriage!"
It was, indeed, a very pretty Victoria that stopped at the
door--fragile, costly, delicate, like a piece of porcelain on
wheels--and very pretty Mrs. Lushington looked therein, as she drove
away.
She had turned the corner of the street some minutes before Miss
Douglas left the window. Passing a mirror, that lady caught the
reflection of her own face, and stopped, smiling, but not in mirth.
"They may well call you Satanella," she said; "and yet I could have
been so good--so good!"