But Mrs. Stormont was not a person whom it was easy to move from
her purpose. She was a serious woman, little addicted to balls,
but, when she had determined upon this frivolity, it became to her
a piece of business as incumbent upon her, and to be undertaken as
conscientiously, as any other duty. If she foresaw in her sober and
long-sighted intelligence the embarrassment it was likely to bring into
her son's relations with the Setons, this was merely by the way, and
not important enough to rank with her as a motive. She glimpsed at it
in passing as an auxiliary advantage rather than contemplated it as
worth the trouble she was taking in itself. Her motives were distinct
enough. She said to the world that her object was to return the
civilities which had been paid to her son, than which nothing could be
more natural. She owned to herself another and still stronger motive,
which she prepared to carry out by a visit to Murkley as soon as her
project had fully shaped itself in her mind. If she could succeed in
bringing out Lilias at this entertainment, and making it the occasion
of her introduction into society--if, amid the gratification which this
preference of his house above all the other houses of the district must
give Philip, she could place before her son's eyes a young creature
far more lovely than Katie, as well as more gently bred and of higher
pretensions, and re-knit the old bonds of childish intimacy between
them, and convince both that they were made for each other, Mrs.
Stormont felt that all the trouble and the expense, which she did not
like, but accepted as a dolorous necessity, would not be in vain. This
was her aim, if she could but carry it out.
As she thought over the details, she felt, indeed, that the minister's
family, who had given themselves the air of being Philip's chief
friends, would no doubt on such an occasion find their level. Mrs.
Seton, who had it all her own way in the parish, would in the society
of the county be put in her right place. And as for the little thing,
who was not worth half the trouble she was likely to give, she would
get her fill of dancing--for she was a good dancer, there could be
no doubt on that point--but she would not have Mr. Stormont to dance
attendance upon her, as no doubt she would expect. This would be a sort
of inevitable revenge upon them, not absolutely intentional--indeed,
beyond any power of hers to prevent--but which naturally she would have
done nothing to prevent, even if she had the power. She caught sight
of it, as it were, by the way, and was grimly amused and pleased. They
would not like it; but what did that matter? It would let them see what
was their proper place.
This, however, which to Mrs. Stormont was but one of the gratifying
details of her plan, bulked much more largely in the eyes of Philip. He
did the best he could to turn her from the ball altogether.
"It will be a great expense," he said, with a face as long as his arm.
"Do you think, mother, it is really worth the while?"
"Everything is worth the while, Philip, that will put you in your
proper place."
"What is my proper place, if I am not in it already without that? There
is no more need for a ball to-day than there was a year ago."
"Then the less I lee, when I say it's needed now," said Mrs. Stormont,
who loved a proverb. "Being wanted a year ago, as you confess, it is
indispensable by this time. I am going to begin with Murkley; they
are our nearest neighbours, and the oldest family in the county.
If Margaret will but bring Lilias, that of itself will be worth all
the cost. The prettiest girl in the whole neighbourhood, and so much
romance about her. I would dearly like if she took her first step in
the world in this house, Phil. It was here she first learned to walk
alone, poor bit motherless thing; and her first step was into your
arms."
Philip laughed, but the suggestion was confusing.
"I hope you don't intend that performance to be repeated now," he said.
"I would have no objection for my part," said his mother. "You might go
farther and fare worse--both of you. Murkley marches with your lands,
and if anything of the kind should come to pass----"
"I wish, mother, you would give up calculations of that sort."
"I never began them," said Mrs. Stormont, promptly. "I say you may go
farther and fare worse. You can drive me to Murkley, if ye please, in
the afternoon, and pay your respects to the ladies."
"Can't Sandy drive you, as usual?" said her son, with a lowering brow.
"Oh, for that matter, I'm very independent. I can drive myself,"
said Mrs. Stormont, who went on the safe principle of making her own
arrangements.
She lamented a little over Philip's churlishness when he left the
room, reminding herself how different it had been when he was a boy,
with a maternal complaint which is too common to require repetition.
But she was too wise a woman to be tragical on this subject. A mother,
even when she has but one child, must harden herself in such matters.
She rang for Sandy, and ordered her little carriage without any
sentimentality.
"Will I clean myself, and go with ye, ma'am," asked Sandy, "or will Mr.
Philip?"
"We must not depend upon Mr. Philip," said Mrs. Stormont, with a smile.
"Gentlemen have so many occupations. You will just be ready at three
o'clock, in case I want you."
And at three o'clock, accordingly, the sturdy old pony felt in his
imagination the flashing of Sandy's whip, and set off at a steady pace
down the hill towards Murkley. They crossed in the big ferry-boat,
to which they were all accustomed, and which the pony regarded as an
every-day matter. Understanding all about the boat, probably he would
have felt a bridge to be something more alarming. The day was fine, the
river shining in the sun, the trees in their deepest summer wealth of
shade.
"Is that the English gentleman that came over to lunch with your
master?" Mrs. Stormont asked.
"I'm no that sure, mem, that he's English," Sandy replied.
"I'm astonished that he's still about. I thought he was a tourist, or
some of those cattle. What is he doing so long here?" the lady asked,
peremptorily.
"He's nae fisher," replied Sandy, with a slight shake of his
head--implying at once a certain stigma upon Lewis' morals, and a
deeper shade of mystery as to his object.
The young man himself was seated on the river-bank, with a sketch-book
before him. He was surrounded by a group of children, however, and was
evidently making very little progress with his sketch. There was a look
of indolence about him which disturbed these critics.
"He's doing nothing," said Mrs. Stormont.
"I canna make out that he ever does anything but tell the bairns
stories," said Sandy.
Such a phenomenon was rare at Murkley, where everybody had something
to do. Had he been fishing however unsuccessfully, both mistress and
man would have been satisfied. But in the absence of that legitimate
occupation Lewis was a vagabond, if not a semi-criminal, meditating
mischief, in their eyes.
The appearance of Mrs. Stormont's carriage was very welcome at Murkley
in the languor of the afternoon. Something in the sense that she "might
have been their mother" gave a softness to her manners in that place.
She kissed even Margaret and Jean with a certain affectionateness,
although they could not have been more than step-daughters to her in
any case.
"And where is my bonnie Lily?" she said. There could not be a
doubt that she loved Lilias for herself, besides all her other
recommendations. She took the girl into her arms, into the warm
enfolding of her heavy black-silk cloak. "Now, let me see how you're
looking," she said, holding her at arm's length. "My dear Margaret,
we'll have to acknowledge, whether we will or not, that this bit
creature is woman grown."
"I have not grown a bit for two years," said Lilias. "I am more than a
woman, I am getting an old woman; but Margaret will never see it."
"And what is the news with you?" said Miss Jean.
"Well, my dears," said Mrs. Stormont, "I have some news, for a wonder,
and I have come to get you to help me. I am going to give a party."
Lilias uttered a soft little cry, and put out her hands towards
Margaret with a gesture of appeal.
"A--ball," said Mrs. Stormont, with deliberation, making a pause before
the word.
Lilias jumped to her feet. She clapped her hands together with soft
vehemence.
"Oh, Margaret, oh, Margaret!" she cried.
"That is exactly what I mean," the elder lady said. "I meant to have
approached the subject with caution, but it's better to be bold and
make a clean breast of it. That is just what it is, Margaret. You see,
everybody has been very kind to Philip, yourselves included. And I
want to give an entertainment, to make some little return. But I am
not a millionnaire, as you know, and I'm very much out of the habit of
gaieties. There is just one thing my heart is set upon, and that is to
have the Lily of Murkley at Philip's ball."
There are some things that even the most judicious cannot be expected
to understand, and one of them is the manner in which persons who
are most important and delightful to themselves may be regarded by
others. That her son was neither a hero nor a genius Mrs. Stormont was
very well aware. She had said to herself long since that she had no
illusions on this subject. There was nothing wonderful about him one
way or another. He would no doubt turn out a respectable member of
society, like his father before him. "You are very well off when you
can be sure of that; plenty of women just as good as I am are trysted
with fools or reprobates," Mrs. Stormont said to herself: and Philip
was neither the one nor the other. If he was not devoted to his mother,
he had never yet gone against her or openly opposed her decisions, and
with this she had learned to be content, and even to glorify herself
a little, comparing her position with that of old Lady Terregles,
who had been obliged for very good reasons to leave her son's house.
But, reasonable as she was, there was one natural weakness which Mrs.
Stormont had not got free of. It had not occurred to her that it could
be anything but a recommendation of her ball to everybody about that
it was Philip's ball. To say that it was for him seemed to be the way
of attracting everybody's interest. She thought, in the unconscious
foolishness which accompanied so much excellent sense, that there was
much less likelihood of overcoming Margaret's scruples if she had
claimed Lilias for her party on the ground of her own old affection: to
ask this privilege for Philip's ball was the most ingratiating way she
could put it. She expected with confidence the effect this statement
would have upon them. Philip's ball: not for her sake--that might not
be motive enough--but to confer distinction upon Philip. Poor Mrs.
Stormont! It would have been some consolation to her had she known
that Philip had been the object of Margaret's chiefest alarm for a
long time past. But she did not know this; and when she looked round
upon the ladies and saw the blank that came over their faces, it gave
her a pang such as she had not felt since the first lowering of her
expectations for Philip--and that was long ago. But Lilias herself did
not show any blank. The girl had begun to execute a little dance of
impatience before Margaret, holding out supplicating hands.
"Oh, will you let me go? Oh, Margaret, let me go! I will be an old
woman before you let me see a dance. Oh, just this once, Margaret! Oh,
Jean, why don't you speak? Even if I am to go to Court, the Queen will
never know. And besides, do you think she would take the trouble to
find out whether the girls that are present had ever been at a dance
before? Do you think the Queen has the time for that? And she's far too
kind, besides. Margaret, oh! will you let me go?"
Lilias, it is needless to say, being Scotch, was not skilled in the
management of her wills and shalls; but there were no critical ears in
the little company to find her out.
"I will be sixty before I ever see a dance, and what will I care for it
then?" she added, sinking into plaintive tones.
But Margaret sat behind without saying a word. It is needless to add
that Miss Jean had already put on a look as suppliant as that of the
petitioner herself; instead of backing up her stronger sister, she went
over to the side of youth without a struggle. But Margaret sat in her
big easy-chair, with her feet elevated upon a high footstool--a type of
the inexorable. And, as so often happens, it was upon the innocent one
of the three, she who could derive no benefit from any yielding, that
she turned her thunder.
"Jean," she cried, "I wonder at you! How often have we consulted upon
this, and made up our minds it was best for the child to keep steady
to her lessons till the time and the way that we had fixed upon for
the best? Has anything happened to change that? I am not aware of it.
Every circumstance is just the same; but you pull at my sleeve and you
cast eyes at me as if I was a tyrant not to change at the first word.
I understand Lilias, that is but a child, and thinks of nothing but
diversion; but I am surprised at _you_!"
"Oh! Margaret," Jean said, but she did not venture on anything more.
"My dear Margaret," said Mrs. Stormont, "I would always respect a
decision that had been come to after reflection, as you say. But, dear
me, after all it's not so serious a matter. If a girl had to be kept
out of the world till she's presented, as Lilias says, I suppose that
would be a reason. But you know better than that. And I may never live
to give another dance, though you will have plenty of them, my dear,
long before you are sixty. And it will never be just the same thing
again for Philip. Think what friends they've been all their lives. When
I think they might have been brother and sister," she added, with a
laugh, "if I had been left to my own guiding!--and Philip has always
had that feeling for her. Bless me, Lilias, if _that_ had taken place,
you would have been no heiress at all. So perhaps it is as well for you
I am not your mother," Mrs. Stormont said.
At this Lilias paused in the midst of her excitement to consider so
curious a question. It opened up speculations, indeed, for them all.
To have had a male heir had always been supposed to be the thing
upon earth which would have been most blessed for the Murrays, and
the elder sisters in past years had often sighed to think how much
better it would have been had Lilias been a boy. But the idea that
Philip Stormont might have been that heir-male was confusing and not
agreeable. They felt a sort of half resentment at the suggestion. A
young man like that, who was just nobody, a mere "long-leggit lad." Had
the long-leggit lad been their own, no doubt the sisters would have
represented him to themselves as the most delightful of young heroes:
for even our own detrimentals are better than the best possessions of
other people. But as a supposition it did not please them. To have had
no Lilias, but Philip Stormont instead! Certainly Mrs. Stormont had
been unfortunate in her modes of recommending her son. The presumption
of supposing it possible that Philip could ever have been a Murray was
scarcely less than that of believing that carefully constructed system
could be broken through in order that Lilias might go to Philip's ball.
What was Philip, that they should thus meet him upon every side? Mrs.
Stormont did not quite fathom the cause of the sudden cloud which fell
upon her friends. It could not, she said to herself, be her joke about
Philip--that was just nonsense, she had no meaning in it. It was just
one of the things that people say to keep up the conversation. But she
had to retire without receiving any final answer to her proposition.
She had indeed to congratulate herself that there was no final answer,
for this left ground for a little hope; but, whether or not Lilias
was eventually permitted to accept the invitation, Mrs. Stormont left
Murkley with an uncomfortable feeling that her present visit had been
a failure. She had gone wrong somehow, she could not exactly tell
how. Something about Philip had jarred upon them, and she had been so
anxious to present Philip under the best possible light! It was not
often that she failed in making herself welcome, and the sensation
was disagreeable. It was this failure, perhaps, which prompted her to
tell Sandy to drive to the manse, perhaps with a slight inclination
to indemnify herself, to make the people there suffer a little for
the mistake she had made. She was so sure that Mrs. Seton had been
injudicious about Katie, that she felt confident in her own power of
being disagreeable at a moment's notice. It was not, however, with any
intention of this kind that she stopped Sandy at the garden door, and
went round by that way, instead of driving formally round the little
"sweep," and reaching in state the grand entrance. Most of the visitors
of the manse entered by the garden. Had she been walking, neither she
nor any one else would have thought of any other way.
But it was an unfortunate moment. Somebody was playing the piano in
the drawing-room. "And, if that is Katie, she must have been having
lessons, for I never heard her play like that before: and, no doubt,
dear lessons," Mrs. Stormont added to herself, "though there are six
of a family, and boys that should be at college." She was a little
jaundiced where the Setons were concerned. She came up to the glass
door, and tapped lightly; whereupon there was a stir in the room, not
like the placid composure with which people turn their faces towards
a new visitor when they have been doing nothing improper. There was a
confused sound of voices: one of the younger girls came in sight from
behind the piano, and advanced with a somewhat scared face to the door
which Mrs. Stormont had opened. Having thus had her suspicions fully
aroused, she was scarcely surprised to see stumbling up from a chair,
in a corner which retained a position of guilty proximity--noticed too
late to be remedied--to another chair, her very son Philip who had
already spoiled one visit to her, and of whom she believed that he was
engaged in some necessary duty about the estate several miles off.
Philip's face was flushed and sullen. Of all things in the world there
is nothing so disagreeable as being "caught," and perhaps the sensation
of being caught is all the more odious when you have the consciousness
of doing no wrong. Katie, more rapid than her lover, was standing at
the window with innocent eyes regarding the flowers. To jump up from
Philip's side had been the affair of an instant with her. She came
forward now, but not without a certain faltering.
"Mamma has just gone to the nursery for a moment; but I will tell her
you are here," Katie cried. As for Philip, he stood like a culprit,
like a man at the bar, and frowned upon his mother.
"Oh! Philip!" she said, "so you are here."
"Why shouldn't I be here?" the young man replied. He thought for the
moment, with the instinct of guilt, that his mother had come on purpose
to find him out.
All this time there was, as Mrs. Stormont afterwards remembered with
gratitude, "one well-bred person" in the room, which was the stranger
of whom Sandy had doubted whether he were English. English or not, he
was a gentleman, she afterwards concluded, for he went on playing,
not noisily, as if to screen anything, but as he had been doing when
she came through the garden, and asked herself could that be Katie
who played so well. Lewis had perception enough to know that this
unexpected arrival would not be pleasant to his friends. He, who had
stumbled into their secret before without any will of his, was aware
of the whispering of the lovers in the corner, which he saw out of the
corner of his eye with a wistful sort of sympathy. He had put his music
between himself and them to afford at once a cover to their whisperings
and a shelter to himself from the sight of a happiness which he thought
never would be his. When the mother came in, startled, irate, yet
self-subdued, his quick sympathy perceived that this was no moment to
stop to emphasize the situation more. He had a vague perception of the
half-quarrel, the sullen, too ready self-defence, the surprise which
was an accusation. His heart took the part of the lover as a matter of
course. The old lady was jealous, ill-tempered, full of suspicions.
What wonder, he thought, that Philip, out of the offensive atmosphere
at home, should take refuge here?
Mrs. Seton came bustling in a moment after, full of apologies. "I had
not been out of the room a moment--not a moment. But this is always
what happens. The moment you turn your back somebody appears that you
would wish to have the warmest welcome. But I hope it's not too late.
And I am so glad to see you, Mrs. Stormont. I hope you are not walking
this warm afternoon. No, no, you must not sit down there; let me give
you this comfortable chair, and I've told Katie not to wait, but to
send for the tea at once. You will be all the better, after your drive,
of a cup of tea."
"I am afraid," said Mrs. Stormont, "that I've disturbed you all. It
is a stupid thing coming in at a side door. I am sure I don't know
what tempted me to do it. Another time I will know better. I have just
disturbed everybody."
She tried not to look at Philip, but his eyes were bent upon her under
cloudy brows.
"You have disturbed nobody," cried Mrs. Seton. "We've just been sitting
doing nothing, listening to the music. Mr. Murray is so kind; he just
comes in and plays when he pleases, and it is a privilege to listen to
him. There is my little Jeanie sits down on her little stool by his
feet, and is just lost in it. She has a great turn for music: and I am
sure it makes an end to work for Katie and me--we can do nothing but
listen. Play that little bit again, Mr. Murray. I really forget what
you called it--the bit that begins," and she sang a few bars in a voice
that had been very good in its day. "Let Mrs. Stormont hear that; she
will understand the way you keep us all just hanging upon you. He's so
unassuming," she added, turning to the visitor, whose aspect was less
sweet than the music, "so modest, you would never know he had such a
gift. But he has taken kindly to us--I'm sure I don't know why--and
comes in almost every day."
"No wonder he comes when he has such listeners," said Mrs. Stormont.
"And, Philip, are you finding out that you have a turn for music too?"
"Oh, Mr. Philip, he comes with his friend," said Mrs. Seton. "Listen,
now, that's just delightful! I let my stocking drop--where is my
stocking? Music is a thing that just carries me away. Thank you--thank
you, Mr. Murray; and, dear me, Katie is so anxious not to lose
anything, here she is back already with the tea."
Katie came back with a little agitation about her, which the keen
spectator observed in a moment, not without a little pang to perceive
how prettily the colour came and went upon her little countenance,
and how her eyes shone. Katie felt guilty, very guilty. There was a
throb of pleasure in her heart to feel herself in the position of the
wicked heroine. She was frightened and subdued and triumphant all at
once. To see the mother watching who was suspicious, and angry, and
afraid--actually afraid of Katie--made her heart beat high. She made
all the haste she could to speed on the maid with the tea, under cover
of whom she could go back to the arena of the struggle. It is needless
to say that the music did not exercise a very great influence over
Katie. It had veiled her whispering with Philip, so that not even her
mother took any notice of it. And Mrs. Seton, though she was very
tolerant of a little flirtation, was not in the secret, and would have
certainly stopped anything that appeared very serious in her eyes.
Now that they were all put on their guard, the fact was that Mrs.
Stormont was much mystified, and unable to assure herself that she had
found out anything. No one can found an accusation on the fact that a
girl grows red or a young man black and lowering at her appearance.
Such evidence may be quite convincing morally, but it cannot be
brought forth and alleged as a reason for action.
"If there was nothing wrong, why did she blush and you look so glum?"
she asked afterwards.
"I don't know what you call looking glum," said Philip; "perhaps it is
my natural look."
Alas! his mother was also tempted to say, it was. For the last three
months he had been often glum, easily offended. He was only a little
more so when vexed. And Katie blushed very readily; she was always
blushing, with reason and without reason. The only certainty that Mrs.
Stormont arrived at was that the stranger was "a fine lad;" and she
invited him to her ball on the spot, an invitation which Lewis accepted
with smiling alacrity. That was all that came for the moment of Mrs.
Stormont's mission to Murkley.