It was after this that the experiences in society began. The countess
gave them a dinner, which was very kind and friendly, and at which they
met various country friends. Indeed it was an entertainment which had
a whiff of the country about it altogether, a sort of rural air; some
of the gentlemen who were posted here and there about the table to talk
the talk of the clubs and give the other _convives_ a sense of being in
London, got together after the meal was over and talked in the doorway
between the two drawing-rooms with mutual commiseration.
"I suppose all this is on account of Bellendean," they said. Bellendean
was her ladyship's son, and was intended to stand for the county on the
next opportunity. "It is like the Georgies," these gentlemen said. "It
is like running down into the country."
"The country!" said another, "where could you find any country like
that? Not within five hundred miles."
The countess smiled upon this pair as she passed among her guests,
and said, very low, "Talk to them--you are not doing your duty." The
gentlemen from the clubs followed her with mute looks of despair.
In this way a great lady does her devoir to her county without much
hardship. At least, three of the more important guests believed the
party to be made for them, and were surprised, and even a little more
than surprised, to find themselves among their country neighbours.
"Who would have thought of seeing you?" they said to each other. To
Lilias it was delightful to find these old friends. She sympathized
in the countess's very effusive regret at Bellendean's absence. "How
sorry he will be," his mother said. Bellendean was believed to be
engaged to Lady Ida, his plain relation. He was very good about it, and
did his duty manfully; but to have put a pretty little creature like
that in his way would have been madness, his mother felt. So that she
entertained her rural neighbours alone, with the aid of the gentlemen
from the clubs, who were all quite safe from bread-and-butter beauties,
though they admired her complexion and said to each other, "Jove! where
does the girl get her bloom from?"
"It does not come out of Bond Street," said the countess.
Miss Margaret was very stately in this party. She saw through it,
and was indignant with Jean and Lilias for enjoying themselves. Two
or three engagements sprang out of it, very pleasant, but somewhat
humiliating to the head of the family, who had come to London in order
to be beyond the country, and give Lilias experience of the great
world. There were two or three little dinners, one in a hotel, and
the others in other lodgings of similar character to those in Cadogan
Place, and many proposals that they should go to the play together,
and to the Royal Academy to see the pictures, proposals which it
was all Margaret could do to prevent the others from accepting. She
gave a couple of little parties herself to the rural notables. But
all these did not count, they only kept her out of society, in the
true sense of the word. Margaret was as proud a woman as ever bore a
Scottish name, which is saying much; but it seemed to her that she
would almost have stooped to a meanness to get an entry into the upper
world which she felt to be circling just out of her reach, and from
which now and then she heard echoes dropping into the lower spheres.
It was not for herself she desired that entry. And almost wrathful
contempt grew upon her as she heard the chatter of society, the evil
tales, the coterie gossip, the inane vulgarities which, to a visionary
from the country expecting great things, made the first impression
of town in many cases the most distressful of disappointments. For
herself, she longed for the serene quiet which, if it was sometimes
dull, was at least always innocent, and where the routine of every day
contented the harmless mind. Here an uneasy discontent, an ambition
which she felt humiliating, a constant strain of anxiety which was
mean and contemptible, filled her being. She wanted to know people
who had no claim upon human approbation but that of knowing a great
many other people and giving parties. She was unhappy because she
was not acquainted with ladies in the fashionable world, and men who
went everywhere. When Jean and Lilias, seated upon chairs by her side
looking on at the passing crowds of Vanity Fair in Rotten Row with all
the delight of people from the country, saw and hailed and exchanged
joyous greetings with other people from the country passing by,
Margaret's soul was filled with irritation and annoyance. These were
not the acquaintances she desired. It vexed her to be exposed to their
cordiality, their pleasure at sight of anybody they knew. Jean too
was delighted to perceive in the crowd what she called "a kent face;"
but Margaret's heart was wrung with envy, with unsatisfied wishes,
and with a profound contempt for herself which underlay all these.
She took the greatest trouble, however, to find out people of any
pretensions to fashion whom she had ever known, to recall herself to
their recollection, she who at home considered it her due to be courted
and sought out by others. While she sat in the crowd and listened to
the strangers about her talking over their amusements, her heart burned
within her. "I saw you at Lady Dynevor's last night. Did you ever see
such a crowd! As for dancing, it was out of the question:" or, "Are
you going to the duchess's concert to-morrow? Mamma has promised to go
if we can get away soon enough from the Esmonds', where we dine:" or,
"We have promised just to look in at the French Ambassador's after the
opera." She felt the muscles of her face elongate, and a watering in
her mouth. She looked at these favoured ones with wistful eyes. She did
not form any illusive vision to herself of the charm of society, or
suppose it to be eloquent and brilliant and delightful, but she wanted
to be in it, in the swing, as the slang expression was, not merely
making little parties with friends from the country, fraternizing with
known faces, going to the theatres and the sights. These were not
Margaret's object; her heart sank as she saw the weeks passing, and
felt herself to make no advance.
The countess's dinner had been a disappointment--almost, in the
excited state of Margaret's feelings, had seemed an insult; but there
was the greater gathering in prospect, the reception, at which all
society was expected to be present, and to which she looked forward
with a half-hope that this might realize some of her expectations,
yet a half-certainty of further disappointment and offence. Lilias
had got a new dress for the occasion, to her own surprise and almost
dissatisfaction, for she was somewhat alarmed by Margaret's bounties;
and Jean, though not without a little tremor lest the countess should
recollect that she had worn it at Mrs. Stormont's ball, and indeed on
several other occasions, put on her grey satin. Margaret was in black
silk, very imposing and stately, with her beautiful lace. The three
sisters were a fine sight as their hostess came forward to greet them
at the door of the beautiful rooms, one within another, which, what
with mirrors and a profusion of lights, seemed to prolong themselves
into indefinite distance. The rooms were not very full as yet, for the
ladies had come somewhat early, and the countess was very gracious to
them. She admired Lilias, and kissed her on the cheek, and told Jean,
who beamed, and Margaret, who was not quite sure that she was not
offended, that their little sister was a credit to the North.
"If you keep in this room, you will hear who the people are as they
come in," she said, with an easy assumption of the fact that they knew
nobody.
They took their places accordingly at a little distance, the two elder
ladies seating themselves until they were almost buried by the crowds
that streamed in and stood all about them in lively groups, standing
over them, talking across their shoulders as if they were objects in
still life, till Miss Margaret rose indignantly and formed a little
group of her own with Jean, who was a little bewildered, and Lilias,
who eyed the talkers round her, half frightened, half wistful, with a
great longing to have some one to talk with too.
"We may as well go into the next room," said Margaret; "there will
perhaps be some more rational conversation going on there;" for it is
impossible to describe how impatient she was growing of the duchess's
concert, and dear Lady Grandmaison's Saturdays, and all the other
places in which these fine people met each other daily or nightly. "To
hear who they are," said Margaret, "might be worth our while, if they
were persons that had ever been heard of; but when it is just Lady
Tradgett, and Sir Gilbert Fairoaks, and the Misses This or That, it is
not over-much to edification."
"And you cannot easily fit the folk to their names," said Miss Jean.
"They are just as little attractive as their names are," said Miss
Margaret; "and what does it matter, when it is a name that no mortal
has ever heard tell of, whether it has Lady to it or Sir to it?--or
Duke even, for that matter; but dukes are mostly historical titles,
which is always something."
"But it is a beautiful sight," said Miss Jean, "though it would be more
pleasant if we knew more people."
"I cannot think," said Margaret, with a little bitterness, "that we
would be much made-up with the acquaintance of the people here. So far
as I can judge, it is just the rabble of society that comes to these
big gatherings. It is just a sight, like going to the play."
"There is Lady Ida," said Lilias. "I hope she will come and speak to
us. But I would rather go to the play, if it is only a sight."
"Oh, my dear, it is just beautiful," said Miss Jean. "Look at the
flowers. The cost of them must have been a fortune--and all those grand
mirrors reflecting them till you think every rose is double. And the
diamonds, Lilias! There is an old lady there that is just like a lamp
of light! and many beautiful persons too, which is still finer," Miss
Jean added, casting a tender glance upon the little figure by her side,
which she thought the most beautiful of all.
"Oh, Miss Murray, I am so glad to see you," said Lady Ida. "We were
afraid you must have been caught by some other engagement; for no one
minds throwing over an evening invitation. Yes, there are a great many
people. My aunt knows everybody, I think. It is a bore keeping up such
a large acquaintance, but people always come, for they are sure of
meeting everybody they know."
"But that is not our case, for we are strangers--" began Miss Jean,
thinking to mend matters.
Her sister silenced her by a look, which made that well-intentioned
woman tremble.
"Being so seldom in town," she said, "it is not my wish to keep up an
indiscriminate acquaintance. In the country you must know everybody,
but in a place like London you can pick and choose."
This sentence was too long for Lady Ida, whose attention wandered.
"How do you do?" she said, nodding and smiling over Lilias' shoulder.
"Ah, yes, to be sure, that is quite true. I suppose you are going to
take Lilias to the ball everybody is talking of--oh, _the_ ball, the
Greek ambassador's?"
"Dear me, you have never heard of it, Margaret!" Miss Jean said.
"Oh, you must go! Lilias, you must insist upon going," Lady Ida cried,
her eyes going beyond them to some new comers who hurried forward with
effusive greetings. "You have got your tickets?" were the first words
she addressed to them.
"Oh, so many thanks," said the new people. "We got them this morning.
And I hear everybody is going. How kind of you to take so much trouble
for us."
Miss Margaret, somewhat grimly, had moved away. Envy, and desire, and
profound mortification were in her soul.
"If you cannot speak to the purpose, you might at least hold your
tongue," she said to Jean, with unwonted bitterness.
Lilias followed them forlorn. She was dazzling in her young bloom.
She was prettily dressed. Her sweet, wistful looks, a little scared
and wondering, afraid of the crowd, which laughed and talked, and
babbled about its pleasures, and took no notice of her, were enough
to have touched any tender heart. And no doubt there were a number of
sympathetic people about to whom Margaret and Jean would have been much
more interesting than the majority of the chatterers, and who would
have admired and flattered Lilias with the utmost delight. But there
was nobody to bring them together. Lady Ida, in the midst of a crowd
of her friends, was discussing in high excitement this great event in
the fashionable world. The other people were meeting each other daily
in one place or another. Our poor country friends, after the brave
front they had put upon it at first, and their pretence of enjoying
the beautiful sight--the flowers, the lights, the diamonds, the pretty
people--began to feel it all insupportable. After a while, by tacit
consent, they moved back towards the door.
"But the carriage will not be here for an hour yet, Margaret," Jean
said.
"Then we will wait for it in the hall," said Margaret, sternly.
"Are you really going away so soon?" cried the countess, shaking hands
with them. "I know! you are going to Lady Broadway's, you naughty
people. But of course you want to make the best of your time, and show
Lilias everything."
It was on Jean's lips to say, in her innocence, Oh no, they knew
nothing about Lady Broadway: but fortunately she restrained herself.
They drove home very silently, no one feeling disposed to speak, and
when they reached the stillness of Cadogan Place, where they were not
expected for an hour or two, and where no lamp was lighted, but only
a pair of glimmering candles upon the mantel-piece, Miss Margaret
closed the door, sending old Simon peremptorily away, and made a little
address to her sisters.
"It appears," she says, "that I have been mistaken, Lilias. I thought
the name of Murray of Murkley was well enough known to have opened
all the best houses to us wherever we went, and I thought we had old
friends enough to make society pleasant; but you perceive that I have
been mistaken. I would have concealed it from myself, if I could, and
I would have done anything to conceal it from you. But that is not
possible after to-night. My heart is just broken to have raised your
hopes, and then to disappoint them like this. But you see everything is
changed. Our old friends are dead, or out of the way, and it's clear
to me that those fashionable people, that are just living in a racket
night and day, have no thought for any mortal but just themselves and
their own kind. So there is nothing for it but to confess to you,
Lilias, that I have just made a mistake, and proved how ignorant I am
of the world."
"Oh! Margaret, not that--it is just the world that is unworthy of you,"
cried Jean, whom her sister put down with an impatient wave of her hand.
And now it was that Lilias showed her sense, as was often remarked
afterwards. She gave her little skip in the air, and said, with a laugh,
"What am I caring, Margaret? Ida was never very nice. She might have
introduced the people to us. If it had been a dance, it would have been
dreadful to stand and see the rest enjoying themselves; but when it was
nothing but talk, talk, what do I care?"
"It was a beautiful sight," said Jean, taking courage. "I am very glad
to have seen it, though I had never spoken to any person. And we were
not so bad as that. There was the countess and Lady Ida, and that old
gentleman who trod upon my train, and that was very civil, besides----"
"Besides that we did not want them a bit, for there are three of us,
and what do we care?" cried Lilias, throwing her arms round Margaret,
who had dropped, overcome by disappointment and fatigue, into a chair.
Thus there was a little scene of mutual tenderness and drawing together
after the trial of the evening, and Margaret retired to her room with a
relieved heart, though she had felt an hour or two before as if, after
having made her confession, she must drop the helm of the family for
ever and slip into a secondary place. No one, however, seemed to see it
in this light. Lilias and Jean had vied with each other in professions
of enjoyment. They liked the Row, they liked the park, they liked
going to the shops, and to see the play. If Margaret would not make
herself unhappy about it, they would be quite content without society.
They soothed her so much that she gave the helm a vigorous push before
she went to rest that very night; for even while the others were
speaking, and protesting their indifference to all the delights of the
fashionable world, her thoughts had leapt away from them to speculate
whether, after all, it might not be possible to show the countess and
Lady Ida that their good offices were not necessary, and that without
them Margaret Murray in her own person had credit enough to get tickets
for the great ball. She said to herself that her cards were not played
out yet, that she still had something in her power.
Lilias, for her part, was half-disposed to cry after her demonstration
of pride and high spirits. As Jean helped to undress her, which she
loved to do when she had the chance, the girl changed her tone.
"What is the use of all my pretty things, if we go nowhere?" she said.
"Oh, I should like one ball, just to say I have been at a real ball in
London. It would be dreadful to go back again, and, when Katie comes
asking how many dances we were at, to say not one. Oh!" cried Lilias,
clasping her hands, "I will tell fibs, I know I will, for it would be
terrible to confess that."
"My darling!" cried Miss Jean. "Oh, I wish there was any way to get you
asked to this grand one that all yon people were talking about. I am
sure I would give a little finger if that would do any good."
"But your little finger would do no good," said Lilias, ruefully. "I
see now that you never asked that fairy to my christening, as you ought
to have done: and she has never forgiven it. But never mind, I must
just tell Katie a good big one, for I will not have her pitying me. If
it is a little bigger than a fib, it will only be a _lee_, and that is
not so dreadful, after all."
"You must not tell even a fib, my darling--it is never right."
"No, it is never right," said Lilias, with a comical look, kissing her
sister, who was now busy, smoothing out and folding the creamy, foamy
white draperies in which Lilias had stood about the countess's rooms,
not unremarked, though unfriended. What was the use of all these pretty
things if they went nowhere? Miss Jean's thoughts were busy with the
same problem that occupied her elder sister. It was too impossible to
be considered a hope; but if she herself--she who was always the second
and far inferior in every way to Margaret--if only she could find some
way!
Thus those wonderful prognostications of glory and success with which
Miss Margaret had persuaded Lilias to give up the little dissipations
of the country, and in which she herself had entertained a faith
so calm and assured, came to nothing. Lilias, though in Margaret's
presence she took it so nobly, had a great many thoughts upon the
subject after she had smiled sleepily and received Miss Jean's good
night as if from the very borders of sleep. When Jean went out of
the room on tiptoe, Lilias woke up and began to think. She looked
down from those heights of experience on which she at present stood,
upon herself in the happy vale of her ignorance in Murkley, with a
little envy, yet a great deal of contempt. What a little silly thing
she had been, expecting to go to Court in the way people write of
in books, and to be one of the fine company about the Queen! Lilias
reflected with amazement, and even with an amusement which was more
droll than pleasant, that had it been suggested to her that she would
certainly be invited to Windsor Castle, she would have accepted the
incident as quite probable. Margaret had even spoken of the post of
maid-of-honour. Lilias laughed a small laugh to herself in the dusk.
She had believed it all, it had seemed to her quite natural; but
never--never could she be such a simpleton again. One may be silly
once, but when enlightenment of this sort comes, she said to herself,
it is for ever!--never--never could she be deceived again. And then
gulping down something in her throat, and drying her eyes hurriedly
under cover of the dark, she declared to herself that it was far better
to know, and that even the pain of it was better than the credulous
foolishness with which she had taken everything in. In any case it was
best to know. If Margaret had made such a mistake, it was not much
wonder that she, Lilias, should have been deceived. Lilias recalled
Lady Ida's look over her shoulder, the warmth of her greeting to the
people who had got the tickets, who were in the world, and felt once
more a sensation of hot resentment and indignation darting over her.
And yet, perhaps, even that was not so bad as it seemed. When Katie
Seton was taken by her mother to the county balls, the great ladies,
even Margaret herself, would not encourage the intrusion. To be sure,
Katie could not be left standing unnoticed, for she knew everybody just
as well as Lady Ida did. But London was very different, London was
the world, and it was evident that it was not Lilias' sphere. She saw
all the foolishness of the idea as she lay thinking, throwing off the
coverings and back the curtains to get as much air as possible in the
little, close, London room. She said to herself: Oh! for Murkley, where
there was always air enough and to spare, and wide, peaceful horizons,
and unfathomable skies, and people who had known her from her cradle.
That was far better than standing smiling at nothing, and trying to
look as if she liked it, among hordes and hordes of unknown people who
stared but never took any trouble to be kind to the strangers. "If
I were them," cried Lilias, regardless of possibilities, "and saw
strangers standing that knew nobody, it would be there I would go! I
would not just stare and think it was not my business. I would make it
my business!" She remembered so many ladies who looked as if they must
be _nice_, and girls like herself surrounded with acquaintances and
admirers. "Oh!" Lilias cried to herself, her eyes flashing in the dark,
"if it had been me!" She would not have let another girl stand forlorn
while she was enjoying herself. And Margaret and Jean, whom everybody
could see were so far above the common! Perhaps it was because they
were English--she said to herself, almost with a pleasant flash of
enlightenment--that they were so little kind. But, then, the countess
was not English. It was London that made them heartless, that made them
think of no one but themselves: at home it could not be so. Then Lilias
assured herself once more with lofty philosophy that, though it might
not be very pleasant, it was well to have found out at once, so that
there might be no further question about it, what a stranger had to
expect in the world. No such thing could ever happen at home. The thing
for herself and her sisters to do was to turn their backs upon this
heartless society, indignant, dignified, valuing it as it deserved, and
return to their native scenes, where everybody honoured them, where
they were courted when they appeared, and regretted when they went
away. The worst wish that Lilias could form was that some of these same
young ladies whose looks she could remember anywhere, she thought,
should appear in the country, knowing nobody: and then what a gracious
revenge the Murrays would take! Margaret would not even wait for an
introduction, she would let nobody stand there forlorn in the crowd,
and Lilias herself, proudly magnanimous, would prefer them to all the
little attentions which on Tayside could never fail. This thought gave
a warmer desire to the longing of her disappointment to get home.
But, as she was going to sleep, lulled by this anticipation, two
regrets sprang up within her mind, retarding for at least five minutes
each her slumbers--one was the thought what a pity to have so many
pretty things and never to go anywhere where they could be worn; the
other was a keen, acute, stinging realization of Katie, and the many
questions that little woman of the world would ask her. "How many balls
were you at?" Lilias almost skipped out of bed in her impatience. "But
I will not own to it. I will tell her a fib rather. I will almost tell
her a _lee_," Lilias cried to herself. A _lee_ was perhaps worse than a
fib; but it was not supposed to be so harsh a thing as a lie--at least
upon Tayside.