Next morning some further incidents occurred which disturbed Margaret,
just recovering from the discomfiture of the preceding night, and
plunged her into fresh anxiety. It was Jean that was the cause of one
of these as of so many of her annoyances since they came to town--Jean,
who could not contain her pleasure when amid all these crowds of
unknown people she saw "a kent face." She had got so much into the
way of doing this, and was so delighted with everybody that looked
like home, ministers with their wives who had come up for a holiday
after the Assembly, and little lairds, and professional persons of all
classes, that, when it was possible, her sister had contrived to leave
Jean at home when they went into the Row for their usual walk. But on
this occasion it had not been possible to do so, and scarcely were they
seated under their favourite tree, when Margaret with dismay heard the
usual explosion.
"Oh! Lilias, just look--it is certainly him; though I never would have
thought of seeing him here."
"Whom do you mean by _him_?" said Margaret. "And for goodness sake,
Jean, where everybody is hearing you, do not exclaim like that. You
will just be taken for an ignorant person that knows nobody."
"And I'm sure they would not be far wrong that thought so," said Jean.
"Yes, I was sure it was him: and glad, glad he will be to see us, for
he seems not to have a creature to speak to. Dear me, Philip," she
said, rising and stretching out her hand through a startled group who
separated to let the friends approach each other, "who would have
thought of seeing you here!"
Philip Stormont's face lighted up.
"I was looking for you," he said, in his laconic way. He had been
strolling along with a vague stare, looking doubly rustic and home-spun
and out of place; he had the very same cane in his hand with the knob
that he used to suck at Murkley. "I knew you were here, and I was
looking for you," he said.
"And have you just arrived, and straight from Tayside? and how is your
good mother and all our friends?"
"My mother is away: and I've been away for the last three months," said
Philip; "I've been out in the Mediterranean. There was little doing at
home, and she was keen for me to go."
"And now I suppose you have come to London to go into all the gaieties
here?" said Margaret, for the first time taking her part in the
conversation. She looked somewhat grimly at the long-leggit lad. He was
brown from his sea-voyaging, and too roughly clad for these fashionable
precincts. "This is just the height of the season, and you'll no doubt
intend to turn yourself into a butterfly, like the rest of the young
men."
"I am not very like a butterfly now," said Philip, suddenly awakened to
the imperfections of his dress.
"Oh! but that is soon mended," said Miss Jean, always kind; "you will
have to go to your tailor, and you will soon be as fine as anybody."
Philip grew fiery red with sudden shame and dismay. He cast a glance at
Lilias, and read the same truth in her eyes. Except Jean, who had first
found him out, nobody was very glad to see him in his sea-going tweeds.
It had not struck him before. He muttered something about making
himself decent, and left them hurriedly, striding along out of sight
under the trees. Miss Margaret smiled as he disappeared.
"Well," she said, drawing a long breath, "that is a good riddance; and
I wish the rest of our country friends were got rid of as easy. I think
you might remember, Jean, that to entertain the like of Philip Stormont
is not what we came to London for."
Jean was magnanimous. She had it on her lips to say something of the
failure so far of their expedition to London, but it died away before
it was spoken. As for Margaret, she had forgotten the downfall of last
night. Her mind was labouring with schemes for advancement. All her
faculties were nerved to the struggle. But, alas! what are faculties
when it is friends you want? To repulse Philip was a matter of
instinct; but to open the doors of the great houses was another affair.
And, even when that was done, all was not done; for what would be the
good of taking Lilias to a great ball unless there was some prospect
of getting her partners when she was there? Margaret had determined
that she would accomplish both--but how? To see a worthy human being
struggling in the face of difficulties is a great sight, especially
when he (or she) struggles not for himself, but for those he loves.
Nothing can be more entirely true, or indeed more completely a truism;
but when the difficulties are those of getting an invitation to a ball,
and, when there, partners for your charge, the world may laugh, but the
struggle is no less arduous. A mother in such a case gets contempt,
if not reproach, instead of any just appreciation; but a sister may
perhaps secure a gentler verdict. Such love was in the object, if it
was not otherwise very worthy; and if there was much pride too, it was
of so natural a kind. She shook off Philip as she would have shaken
off a thorn that clung to her dress; but still he was another element
of discomfort. She wanted no long-leggit lad to attach himself to her
party, and less now than ever--for who could tell what effect the
contrast between the indifference of the world and the devotion of her
old playfellow might have upon Lilias if once, she said to herself, he
was out of those ridiculous tweeds, which he ought to have known better
than to appear in. Margaret made the signal to her party to rise from
their chairs after this little incident. She had a suspicion that the
people about were smiling at the encounter with the rustic. But indeed
the people about were concerned with themselves, and paying little
attention to the ladies from the country. Everybody knew them to be
ladies from the country, which of itself was an irritating circumstance
enough.
They got up accordingly with great docility and joined the stream of
people moving up and down. And now it was that another encounter,
more alarming and unexpected still, brought her heart to Margaret's
mouth, and moved both the others in different ways with sudden
excitement. As they moved along with the tide on one hand, the other
stream coming the other way, an indiscriminate mass, in which there
were so few faces that had any interest for them, suddenly, without
warning, wavered, opened, and disclosed a well-known countenance, all
lighted up with animation and eagerness. There was no imperfection of
appearance in the case of this young man. He was walking with two or
three others, and there was in his eyes nothing of that forlorn gaze
in search of acquaintances which distinguished the rural visitor. He
had been, perhaps, too dainty for Murkley, but he was in his element
here. He came up to the three ladies, taking off his hat with that
unusual demonstration of respect which had amused them amid the less
elaborate salutations of the country. His appearance froze the blood
in Margaret's veins. She felt that no compromise was possible, that
her action must be stern and decisive. She turned and gave Lilias a
peremptory look, then made Lewis such a curtsey as filled all the
spectators with awe. She even dropped her hand by her side and caught
hold of the draperies of Lilias to ensure that the girl followed her.
Lilias had almost given her little skip in the air for pure pleasure
at the sight of him, when she received that look and secret tug, more
imperative still. She put out her hand as she was swept past with
an "Oh, Mr. Murray!" which was half a protest: but she was too much
astonished to resist Margaret. Jean, left behind, in her surprise and
delight, greeted the stranger with a tremulous cry.
"Oh, but I am glad to see you!" she said.
But, when she saw that Margaret had swept on, she made an agitated
pause. Lewis took her hand almost with gentle violence.
"You must speak to her--you have always been my friend," he said.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Murray, I am your friend," said Miss Jean, following with
her eyes the two figures that were disappearing in the crowd; "but what
am I to do if I lose Margaret?"
Her perplexity and distress would have amused a less tender observer.
"We will go after them," he said, "and, if we miss them, cannot I see
you home?"
"But that would be taking you from your friends," said Miss Jean, with
wondering eyes and much-divided wishes. As, however, even in this
moment, she was already separated from Margaret, there was nothing to
be done but accept his companionship.
Jean was in a ferment of excitement and anxiety. It was what she
had wished and hoped for--it was delightful--it filled her with an
exhilarating sense of help and satisfaction; but, at the same time, if
it should turn out to be going against Margaret! How difficult it is in
such a terrible, unlooked-for crisis to know exactly what to do! She
did what her heart desired, which is the most general solution.
"They will probably turn at the end, and then I can go back to them,"
she said. "And why should Margaret object? for you have always been my
friend."
"Yes," said Lewis, "you will recollect it was you I knew first in the
family: and I was always supposed to be your visitor. What pleasant
hours those were at the piano! Ah, you could not be so cruel as to pass
me, to treat me like a stranger. We are in each other's confidence," he
said, looking so kindly, tenderly at her, with a meaning in his eyes
which Miss Jean understood, and which delivered her at once out of her
little flutter of timidity. She answered him with a look, and became
herself once more.
"It is so indeed," she said. "We have both opened our hearts to one
another, though I might be your mother. And glad, glad I am to see
you. I feel a little lost among all these people, though it is very
interesting to watch them: but I am just most happy when I come upon a
kent face. And have you been long in London, and have you friends here?
Without that there is but little pleasure in it," Miss Jean said, with
a suppressed sigh.
Then Lewis began to tell her that he had been in town for a week or
two, and had gone everywhere looking for her and her sisters; that he
had found abundance of friends, people whom he had met abroad, who had
known him "in my god-father's time," he said.
"I think I know almost all the diplomatic people, and they are a host;
and it is wonderful to find how many people one has come across, for
everybody goes abroad."
Jean listened with admiration and a sigh.
"There are few," she said, "of these kind of persons that come in our
way, either at Murkley or Gowanbrae."
Something in her tone attracted his attention, especially to the
sentiment of this remark, and Lewis was too sympathetic to be long
unacquainted with its meaning.
"No doubt," he said, "it is a long time since you have been here: and
you find your old friends gone, and strangers in their place."
"That is just it," said Miss Jean. "It has been perhaps a little
disappointment--oh, not to Lilias and me, who are delighted to see
everything, and never think of parties and things--but Margaret will
vex herself about it, wanting the child to enjoy herself, and to see
all that's worth seeing. You will understand the feeling. There is some
great ball now," she added, with vague hopes for which she could not
account to herself, "which everybody is speaking of----"
"It is perhaps the Greek ball? Is she going?" cried Lewis, eagerly.
"Ah, that will be what you call luck--great luck for me."
"I cannot say that she is going--if you mean Margaret," said Miss Jean,
trembling to feel success within reach. "It is not a thing, you know,
that tempts the like of us at our age--but just for Lilias. Well, I
cannot say. I hear people are asking for invitations, which, to my
mind, is a wonderful way of going about it. I do not think Margaret,
who is a proud person, would ever bring her mind to that."
"She shall not need," said Lewis. "Would she go? Would you go? Dear
Miss Jean, will not you do this for me? They are my dear friends, those
people. They know me since I was a boy. They will call at once, and
send the invitation. If I were not out of favour with your sister, I
would come with my friends. But not a word! Do not say a word! It will
all pass as if we had nothing to do with it, you and I. That is best;
but in return you will see that Miss Lilias saves for me a dance, two
dances perhaps."
"Poor thing!" said Miss Jean, "my fear just is that she will have all
her dances to spare; for we do not know many people, and the people we
know are not going--and it is perhaps just a little unfortunate for
Lilias."
"That will not happen again," cried Lewis, with a glow of pleasure. "I
am not of any good in Murkley, but I can be of some use here."
In the mean time Lilias, very much disappointed, was demanding an
explanation from her sister.
"It was Mr. Murray, Margaret! I would have liked to speak to him. He
was always nice. And you liked him well enough at Murkley. He was
dressed all right, not like poor Philip. Why might not I stop and speak
to him? I had to give him my left hand, for you pulled me away."
"There was no need for giving him any hand at all. He is just a person
we know nothing about--what his family is, if he belongs to anybody,"
Miss Margaret said.
"But we know _him_," said Lilias, with that perfectly inconclusive
argument which sounds so powerful to the foolish speaker, but which in
reality means nothing.
Margaret was full of irritation and annoyance, and a sense of danger to
come.
"What does that matter?" she cried. "Him! We know no harm of him, if
that is what you mean. But his belongings are unknown to me, and with a
man of his name, that cannot be but harm. If it was one of your English
names, it might just be any ignoramus: but there is no good Murray that
has not a drop's blood, as people say, between him and Murkley. I will
have no traffic with that young man."
"But he came to us at home!" said Lilias, in great surprise, "and I saw
him--often."
"Where did you see him, you silly thing? Twice, thrice, at the utmost!"
"Oh, Margaret! I used to see him with Katie. Katie was always about the
park, you know; and he was so fond of the new castle, and always making
sketches----"
Margaret looked at her with severe eyes. And indeed Lilias, who had
revealed perhaps more than was expedient, coloured, and was embarrassed
by her observation, though she indignantly declared to herself that
there was "no cause."
"So you saw him--often?" the elder sister said. "This is news to
me--and the more reason we should see nothing of him now; for a young
man that will thrust himself upon a girl's company when she is out of
the protection of her friends----"
"Margaret!" cried Lilias, with a flash of indignation. "Are you going
to leave Jean behind?" she added, hastily, in a voice of horror, as
Margaret, instead of turning back at the end of the walk, hurriedly
directed her steps homeward, crossing with haste and trepidation the
much crowded road.
"Jean must just take the risk upon herself. It is no doing of mine.
She will tell him no doubt where we are living, and the likelihood is
he will see her home. But mind _you_," said Margaret, turning round
upon the girl with that little pause in her walk to emphasize her
words, which is habitual with all eloquent persons, "I will not have
that young lad coming about us here. There must be no seeing--often,
here--no, nor seldom either. I am your guardian, and I will not be
made light of. He is not a person that I consider good enough for your
acquaintance, and I will not have it. So you must just choose between
him and me."
"Margaret!" cried Lilias again, in consternation.
Her mind had been agreeably moved by the sight of Lewis. He was
more than a kent face, he was a friend: and indeed he was more than
a friend. Whatever might be her feelings towards him, on which she
had not at all decided, Lilias had a very distinct idea of what his
feelings were towards her, and, let theorists say what they will, there
is nothing more interesting to a girl than the consciousness that she
is--thought of, dreamed of, admired, present to the mind of another,
even if she does not permit herself to say beloved. The sight of him
had brought back all those vague pleasures and embarrassments, those
shynesses, yet suddenly confidential outbursts, which had beguiled
the afternoon hours at Murkley. How friendly he looked! how ready
to listen! how full of talk! and how his face had lighted up at the
sight of her! He was very different from Philip sucking his stick, not
knowing what to do, and from the young men of society, who stared,
inspecting the ladies as if that impertinence was a certain duty.
Lewis had expanded with pleasure. He had detached himself from his
friends in a moment. The sun had shone full upon his head as he stood
uncovered, eager to speak. He was not handsome. He was not even tall
or big, or in any way imposing. As for the hero of whom Lilias had
dreamt so long, Lewis was not in the smallest degree like that paladin;
there need be no alarm on that subject. But he was a friend, and to
be swept away from a friend in this desert place where there were so
few of them, was at once a pain and an injury. What did Margaret mean?
Lilias felt herself insulted by the suspicion expressed, which she was
too proud to protest against. Her indignant exclamation, "Margaret!"
was all that she would condescend to. And they walked homeward through
the streets, which Margaret, in despite and alarm, had hastily chosen
instead of returning by the park, without saying a word to each other.
It was the first time that this had happened in Lilias' life. Her heart
grew fuller and fuller as she went home. Was Margaret, the ruler,
the universal guide, she who up to this time had been infallible, was
she prejudiced, was she unkind? When they reached the house, they
separated, neither saying a word. But this was intolerable to Lilias,
who by-and-by ran down to Margaret's room, and flung herself into her
sister's arms.
"I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! Scold me, if you like, but speak
to me, Margaret," cried the little girl.
It was a very small matter, yet it was a great matter to them. Margaret
took the girl in her arms with a trembling in her own strong and
resolute figure.
"You are the apple of my eye, you are the light of my eyes," she said,
which was all the explanation that passed between them. For Lilias
was awed by the solemnity of her sister's rarely-expressed love. It
thrilled her with a wonderful sense of something too great for her own
littleness, an undeserved adoration that made her humble. It did not
occur to her that great tyrannies are sometimes the outspring of such
a passion. On the contrary, she felt that in the presence of this, her
little liking for a cheerful face was as nothing, too trifling a matter
to be thought of; and yet there was in her mind a little hankering
after that pleasant countenance all the same.
It was some time later before Jean returned, and there was in her a
wonderful flutter of embarrassment and delight, and of fictitious
composure, and desire to look as if nothing had happened, which filled
Lilias with curiosity and Margaret with an angry contempt for her
sister, as for an old fool, who was allowing her head to be turned
by the attentions of _that_ young man. _That_ young man was the name
Lewis took in the agitated mind of the elder sister. He was not even a
long-leggit lad, a member of a well-defined and honourable caste, which
it is permissible to women to be foolish about. Did the old haverel
think that it was really _her_ he was wanting?--Margaret asked herself:
with a disdain which it wounded her to entertain for her sister.
"He would say he had been just wearying to see you," she said, when
Jean entered late for luncheon, and with her hair hastily brushed,
which the wind had blown about a little under her bonnet. Jean was
not too old to indulge in hairdressing, in fringes and curls on her
forehead, had she so chosen, and indeed the wind would sometimes do as
much for her as fashion did for others, finding out unexpected twists
and fantasies in her brown locks. She had smoothed herself all down
outwardly, but had not quite succeeded in patting down those spiritual
signs of a ruffling breeze of excitement which answer to the incipient
curls and secret twists in the hair.
"He said he was very glad to see us all, poor lad! It was a great
disappointment to him, Margaret, when you just sailed away like
that--without a word."
"I hope," said Miss Margaret, "that I am answerable to nobody for the
choice I make of my friends, and this young man is one that gives no
satisfaction to me."
"Oh, but, Margaret----" cried Miss Jean, in eager remonstrance.
"I am laying down no laws for you--you are your own mistress, as I am
mine; but I will have none of him," Margaret said, decisively.
This sudden judgment had a great effect upon the gentler sister.
"Oh! but, Margaret," she repeated, again looking wistfully at the head
of the house. Then her anxious eyes sought Lilias. "I am sure," she
said, "that one more respectful or more anxious to be of any use----"
"And what use do you expect a lad like that to be?" cried Margaret,
with high disdain. "I hope the Murrays of Murkley will be able to fend
for themselves without help from any unknown person," she added, with
lofty superiority.
Jean looked at her with a glance in which there was disappointment,
impatience, wistfulness, and something else which Lilias could not
divine. There was more in it than mere regret for this ignoring
of Lewis' excellencies. There was--could it be possible?--a kind
of compassion for the other side. But this was so very unlikely a
sentiment to be entertained by Jean for Margaret that Lilias, secretly
observing, secretly ranging herself on Jean's side, felt that she must
be mistaken. But Jean was not herself; she was so crushed by this
conversation that she became silent, and said no more, though it was
evident that there came upon her again and again an impulse to talk,
which it was scarcely possible to restrain. Something was on her lips
to say, which she had driven back almost by force. A concealed triumph
was bursting forth by every outlet. When she sat down to her work,
secret smiles would come upon her face. A quiver was in her hands which
made her apparent industry quite ineffectual. She would start and look
at Lilias when any sound was heard without. Once when Margaret left the
room for a moment, Jean made a rush at her little sister and kissed her
with an agitation to which Lilias had no clue.
"Just you wait a little; it will come perhaps this afternoon," cried
Miss Jean in her ear.
"Do you expect Mr. Murray, Jean? Oh! Margaret will not be pleased,"
Lilias cried, in alarm.
Jean shook her head violently and retreated to the window, where, when
Margaret returned to the room, she was standing looking out.
"Dear me! can you not settle to something?" said Margaret. "I have no
nerves to speak of, but to see you whisking about like this is more
than I can put up with. The meeting this morning has been too much for
you."
"Oh, how little you know," cried Jean, under her breath--and this time
there was no mistaking the compassion, the reproachful pity in her
eyes; but then she added--"Perhaps I am a little agitated, but it is
to think you should be so prejudiced--you that have always had more
insight than other folk."
"If I have had the name of more insight, cannot you believe that I'm
right this time?" said Margaret.
Jean, standing at the window looking out, did nothing but shake her
head. She was entirely unconvinced. When, however, Margaret announced
some time after that she had ordered the victoria, and was going out to
make some calls with Lilias, this intimation had a great effect upon
Jean. She turned round with a startled look to interpose.
"Dear me, you are not going out again, Margaret! and me so sure you
would be at home. You will just tire yourself, and Lilias too: and if
you remember that we are going to the play to-night. There are no calls
surely that are so urgent as that."
"Bless me!" said Margaret, taken by surprise, "what is all this
earnestness for? You are perhaps expecting a visit from your friend;
but in that case it is far better that Lilias and me should be out of
the way."
"I am expecting no visit from him. I had to tell him, poor lad, that
it would be best not to come; but I wish you would stay in, Margaret:
I think it is going to rain, and you have just an open carriage, no
shelter. And you can never tell who may call. You said yourself that
when you went out in the afternoon you missed just the people you most
wanted to see."
"I am expecting nobody to-day," said Margaret; "and, if anybody comes,
there is you to see them."
"Me!" cried Jean, with a nervous tremor. "And what could I say to them?
What if it should be strangers?"
"I hope you have a good Scots tongue in your head," said Miss Margaret,
somewhat warmly perhaps. But Lilias lingered to console the poor lady,
whose look of alarm and trouble was greater than any mere possibility
could have produced.
"Oh! my darling, try to persuade her to stay at home; but mind you do
not say a word," cried Jean in the ear of Lilias, holding her two arms.
"I think there may perhaps be--some grand people coming. And how could
I speak to them?"
"What grand people?" the girl cried.
"Oh, hold your tongue--hold your tongue, Lilias! I would not have her
suspect--but who can tell what kind of people may be coming? Something
always happens when people are out; and then this ball----"
"Margaret," cried Lilias, "don't go out this afternoon. Jean thinks
that people may be calling--somebody who could get us tickets----"
"Oh! not me, not me," cried Jean, putting her hand on the girl's
mouth. "I never said such a thing. It was just an imagination--or a
presentiment----"
"Well," said Margaret, with her bonnet on, "Jean is just as able to
receive the finest company as I am. She is looking very nice, she has a
little colour. To be silly now and then is good for the complexion; she
is fluttered with the sight of her young friend--is it friend you call
him, Jean?"
"What could I call him else?" cried Jean, with dignity. "I will never
call a man more, as you well know; and besides, I might be his mother.
And why should I call him less, seeing he has always been so good to
me, and one that I think much of? But I am not expecting Mr. Murray,
you need not be feared for that. It is just a kind of presentiment,"
Miss Jean said.