Miss Jean sat down to her work at the window when the others went out.
There was a balcony full of flowers which prevented her from seeing
anything more distinct than the coming and going of the carriages,
but that was enough to keep her in a flutter of awed and excited
expectation. Lewis had said that his friends would call at once, and
the idea of receiving a foreign lady, a foreign ambassadress, who
perhaps did not speak English, made Miss Jean tremble from the lace
of her cap to the toe of her slipper. She tried to remember the few
words of school-book French which lingered in her mind; but what if
the lady spoke only Greek? In that case, their intercourse would need
to be carried on by signs: or, since she was an ambassadress, she
would perhaps carry an interpreter with her. Jean did not know the
manners and habits of such people. To be left to encounter such a
formidable person alone was terrible to her. And what would so great
a lady think if she came in expecting Margaret, whom no doubt Lewis
would have described, and found only Jean? "We saw nobody but a homely
sort of country person,"--that was what she would say. But the case
was desperate, and though, when the moment actually arrived, and an
imposing carriage and pair dashed up with all the commotion possible
to the door, and the knocker resounded through the house, Miss Jean's
heart beat so loudly in her ears that it drowned the very knocker, yet
still there was a sort of satisfaction in thus venturing for the sake
of Lilias, facing such an excitement for her benefit, and obtaining for
her what even Margaret had not been able to obtain.
Simon, creaking along the passage in his creaking shoes, seemed to
tread upon Miss Jean's heart. Would he never be ready? She waited,
expecting every moment the door to open, the sweep of silken draperies,
or perhaps--who could tell?--the entrance of a resplendent figure in
costume other than that of fashion; for Jean was aware that Greece
was in the east, and had been delivered in her youth out of its
subjection to the Turks, and that the men wore kilts, and the women
probably----These were long before the days of the dual dress, and
the idea filled her with alarm. She put away her work with trembling
hands, and stood listening, endeavouring to calm herself and make her
best curtsey, but in a whirl of anxiety lest Simon should not say the
name right or else be unable to catch it. But when, instead of this
extraordinary ordeal, she heard the clang, the stir, the glittering
sound of hoofs and wheels and harness, and became aware that the
carriage had driven away, Jean came to herself quite suddenly, as if
she had fallen to the ground. It was a relief unspeakable, but perhaps,
also, it was a little disappointment. She dropped back upon her chair.
To go through so many agonies of anticipation for nothing is trying
too. And Simon came upstairs as if he were counting his steps, as if it
was of no consequence!
"I told them you were in, Miss Jean, but they just paid no attention to
me: and I do not think you have lost much, for they were too flyaway,
and not of your kind. I hope there's cards enough: and this big letter,
with a seal as large as Solomon's," said Simon.
She took them with another jump of her heart. The envelope was too big
for the little tray on which he had placed it; it was half covered with
a great blazon. The cards were inscribed with a name which it taxed all
Jean's powers to make out. She was so moved that she made a confidant
of Simon, having no one else to confide in.
"It's an invitation," she said, "for one of the grandest balls in all
London."
Simon, for his part, looked down upon the magnificent enclosure without
any excitement, with a cynical eye.
"It's big enough to be from the Queen," he said, "and it will keep ye
up to a' the hours of the night, and the poor horse just hoasting his
head off. You'll excuse me, Miss Jean, but I cannot help saying rather
you than me."
"I should have thought, Simon," said Miss Jean, reproachfully, "that
you would have had some feeling for Miss Lilias."
"Oh! I have plenty of feeling for Miss Lilias; but sitting up till two
or three, or maybe four in the morning is good for nobody," Simon said.
Miss Jean could not keep still. As for work, that was impossible. She
met Margaret at the door, when the little victoria drove up, with a
countenance as pale as ashes.
"God bless me!" cried Margaret, in alarm, "what has happened?"
Jean thrust the cards and the envelope into her hands.
"You will know," she said, breathless, "what they mean better than me."
Miss Jean salved her conscience by adding to herself, "And so she will!
for she understands everything better than I do."
"What is it, Margaret?" said Lilias.
The ladies had been engaged all the afternoon in a hopeless effort
of which Lilias was entirely unconscious; they had gone to call on a
number of people in whom the girl, at least, felt no interest, but to
whom Margaret had condescended with a civility which her little sister
could not understand--The countess, who was too much occupied to pay
them any attention, and Lady Ida, who thought quite enough had been
done for the country neighbours, and was inclined to show that she was
bored; and the wife of the county member, who was on the other side in
politics, and consequently received the Miss Murrays with respect but
coldness, and some dowagers, who had almost forgotten Margaret, and
some new people who were barely acquainted with her----Why did she take
all that trouble?
"You are bound," Miss Margaret said, "when you are in London just to
keep up everybody. You never can tell when they may be of use."
"Is it to make them of use that you are friends with people?" Lilias
had asked, with wonder. But they were of no use. How was it possible?
And, even if they had been likely to be so Margaret's heart had failed
her. She was not used to such manœuvres. She came back in very low
spirits, feeling that it was impossible, feeling impotent, and feeling
humiliated not so much because of her impotence, as for a contempt of
her own aim. Between the two her heart had sunk altogether. To think
it possible that she, Margaret Murray, should be going from door to
door in a strange place, seeking an invitation to a ball! Was such
ignominy possible? She was angry with herself, angry with the world in
which trifles were of so much importance, angry with that big, pitiless
place, which had no knowledge of the Murrays of Murkley, and cared
for neither an old race, nor a lovely young creature like Lilias, nor
anything but just monstrous wealth and impudence: for that was how
Margaret put it, being disheartened and disappointed and disgusted
with herself. And coming in, in this state of mind, to meet Jean, pale
as a ghost, what could she think of but misfortune? She expected to
hear that Murkley Castle had been burnt to the ground, or that their
"man of business" had run away. Poor Mr. Allenerly, who was as safe as
Edinburgh Castle standing on a rock! but panic does not wait to count
probabilities. When the big envelope was thrust into her hand she
looked at it with alarm, as if it might wound her. And to think, after
all this mortification, disgust, and terror, to think of finding, what
at this moment looked like everything she desired, in her hand! For the
time, forgetting the frivolous character of the blessing, Margaret was
inclined to believe with a softening and grateful movement of her heart
that it had fallen upon her direct from heaven.
And during the rest of the afternoon no other subject was thought of.
When the ladies assembled over their tea in delightful relaxation and
coolness after the fuss and flutter of their walks and drives, and
those afternoon calls, which had brought nothing but vexation, the
little scene was worthy of any comedy. The delight of Lilias, which was
entirely natural and easy, had no such impassioned character about it
as the restrained and controlled exultation which showed in Margaret's
quietest words and movements. Jean, who was still pale and trembling
with the dread of detection and the strain of excitement, by-and-by
began to regard, with a wonder for which there were no words, her
sister's perfect unconsciousness and absence of suspicion. To associate
this envied distinction with Jean or anything she could have done,
or with the slight person whom she had declined to have anything to
say to in the morning, whose overtures she had negatived so sternly,
never entered Margaret's thoughts. In the happiness and calm that came
over her after the first ecstasy, she indulged, indeed, in a number of
speculations. But, after all, what so natural as that the lady with
the wonderful name, which none of them ventured to pronounce, had heard
that the Miss Murrays of Murkley were in town, and perhaps had them
pointed out to her somewhere, and felt that without Lilias the ball
would be incomplete.
"It might be the countess, but I can hardly think it, or she would have
let fall something to that effect," Margaret said; "and as for Mrs.
Maxwell, they are just in a sort of House-of-Commons circle, and know
little about fashion. But I am not surprised for my part: for, after
all, family is a thing that does tell in society, and I have always
felt that what was wanted was just to have it known we were here. Yes,
it is a great pleasure, I do not deny it--though if anybody had told
me I would have been so pleased to get an invitation to a ball at my
age----"
"It is not for yourself, Margaret."
"--But I am not surprised. The wonder has been the little attention we
have received: but I make little doubt we'll have even too much to fill
up our time now it is known we are here. And, Lilias, you must remember
I will not allow too much of it, to turn your head."
Lilias did not make any reply. She was studying the face of Jean, who
was very intent upon Margaret, following her looks with wondering
admiration, and half-struggling against her better knowledge to believe
that her sister must be in the right after all.
"You see," said Margaret, discoursing pleasantly and at her ease,
as she leant back in her chair, "we are all apt to judge the world
severely when we are not just getting what we want. I confess that I
was in a very ill key the other night. To be in the middle of a large
company all enjoying themselves, and acquainted with each other, and
to know nobody, is a trial for the temper. And as I am a masterful
person by nature, and perhaps used to my own way, I did not put up with
it as I ought. And if I had left town in a pet--as I had a great mind
to do--the impression would just never have been removed. But you see
what a little patience does. Indeed I have remarked before this that,
when you see everything at its blackest, Providence is just preparing a
surprise for you, and things are like to mend."
"If one can say Providence, Margaret," said Jean, a little shocked,
"about such a thing as a ball!"
"Do you think there is anything, great or small, that is beneath
that?" Margaret cried; but she felt herself abashed at having gone
so far. "I am not meaning the ball," she said. "What I am meaning is
just the recognition that we had a kind of a right to look for, and
the friendship and understanding which is the due of a family long
established, and that has been of use to its country, like ours. I hope
you do not think that beneath the concern of Providence--for the best
of life is in it," she added, taking high ground. "Little things may
be signs of it: but you will not say it is a little thing to be well
thought upon and duly honoured among your peers."
To this Jean listened with her lips dropping a little apart, and
her eyes more wide open than their wont, altogether abashed by the
importance of the doctrine involved, not knowing how to fit it into her
own ideal of existence, and half-tempted to confess that it was by her
simple instrumentality, and not in so dignified a way, that the event
had come about.
"But, Margaret----" she said.
"My dear, I wish you would not be always so ready with your buts. You
are just becoming a sort of Thomas, aye doubting," Margaret said. "But,
Jean--if you are going to the play, as you are so fond of, we will
have to be earlier than usual--and, in that case, it is time to dress:
though I am so tired, and have so much to think of, that I would rather
stay at home."
"There will be your ticket lost," said Jean, though in her heart she
was almost glad to have a little time out of Margaret's presence to
realize all that had passed on this agitating day.
"You can send it to Philip Stormont," said Margaret, moved to unusual
good humour, "and take him with you. To look for your carriage and
all that, he will be more use than old Simon. No, it is true I have
no great opinion of him. He is just a long-leggit lad. He has little
brains, and less manners, and his family is just small gentry; but
still he's maybe a little forlorn, and in a strange place he will look
upon us as more or less belonging to him."
"Oh, Margaret!" cried Jean, almost with tears in her eyes, "that is a
thing I would never have thought of. There is nobody like you for a
kind heart."
Margaret said "Toot!" but did not resent the imputation. "When you find
that you are thought upon yourself, it makes you more inclined to think
upon other people. And I'll not deny that I am pleased. To think you
and me, Jean, should be making all this work about a ball! I am just
ashamed of myself," she said, with a little laugh of pleasure.
But Jean did not make any response. She sent off old Simon to the
address which Philip even in the few moments they had seen him had
found time to give, and went upstairs to prepare in the silence of
bewilderment, not able to explain to herself the curious self-deception
and mistake of the sister to whom she had always looked up. She had
been afraid of being seen through at once: her tremor, her excitement,
her breathless consciousness, all, Jean had feared would betray her
yet: Margaret had never observed them at all! She was glad, but she was
also bewildered on her sister's account, and half-humiliated on her
own. For to have been suspected would have been something. Not to have
even been suspected at all, with so many signs of guilt about her, was
so wonderful that it took away her breath. And, tenderly respectful
as her mind was, she felt a little ashamed, a little to blame that
Margaret had been so easily deceived. Her satisfaction in her delusion
abashed Jean. She saw a grotesque element in it, when she knew how
completely mistaken it was. Lilias, who had been questioning her with
her eyes without attracting much attention from Jean, whose mind was
busy elsewhere, followed her upstairs. If Margaret did not suspect the
secret with which she was running over, Lilias did. She put her arm
round the conspirator from behind, making her start.
"It is you, Jean," she whispered in her ear.
"Oh! me, Lilias! How could it be me? Do I know these kind of foreign
folk?"
"Then you know who it is, and you are in the secret," Lilias said.
Jean threw an alarmed glance towards Margaret's closed door.
"You are to keep two dances for him," she whispered, hurriedly; "but if
I had thought what a deception it would be, Lilias! It just makes me
meeserable!"
"I hope you will never have anything worse to be miserable about," said
the girl, with airy carelessness.
"Oh! whisht, whisht!" cried Miss Jean, "it would go to her very heart,"
and she led the indiscreet commentator on tiptoe past Margaret's door.
Lilias sheltered herself within her own with a beating heart. To keep
two dances for him! Then it was he who had done it. It did not occur
to Lilias that to call any man _he_ was dangerous and significant. She
had not a doubt as to who was meant. Though she had not been allowed
to speak to him, scarcely to look at him, yet he had instantly exerted
himself to do her pleasure. Lilias sat down to think it over, and
forget all about the early dinner and the play. Her heart beat high
as she thought of the contrast. She had no knowledge of the world,
or the way in which girls and boys comport themselves to each other
now-a-days, which is so different from the way of romance. To think
that he should have set to work to procure a gratification for her,
though she had been made to slight him, pleased her fancy. Why did he
do it? It could not be for friendship, because she was not allowed to
show him any. Was it--perhaps--for the sake of Jean? In the unconscious
insolence of her youth, Lilias laughed softly at this hypothesis. Dear
Jean! there was nobody so kind and sweet; but not for such as Jean, she
thought, were such efforts made. It would have disappointed her perhaps
a little had she known that Lewis was entirely capable of having done
it for Jean's sake, even if he had not had the stronger inducement of
doing it for herself. But this did not occur to her as she sat and
mused over it with a dreamy smile wavering upon her face. She did not
ask herself anything about her own sentiments, or, indeed, about his
sentiments. She only thought of him as she had done more or less since
the morning in a sort of happy dream, made up of pleasure in seeing him
again, and of a vague sense that herself and the future were somehow
affected by it, and that London was brighter and far more interesting
because he was in it. To think of walking any morning round the street
corner, and seeing him advancing towards her with that friendly look!
It had always been such a friendly look, she said to herself, with a
little flutter at her heart. The bell ringing for dinner startled her
suddenly out of these thoughts, and she had to dress in haste and hurry
downstairs, where they were all awaiting her, Philip looking red and
sunburnt in his evening clothes. He was never a person who had very
much to say, and he was always overawed by Margaret, though she was
kind to him beyond all precedent. He told them about his voyage and the
Mediterranean, and the places he had seen--with diffidence, drawn out
by the elder ladies, who wished to set him at his ease. But Lilias was
pre-occupied, and said little to him. She felt that she was on no terms
of ceremony with Philip. She knew a great deal more about him than the
others did. She had borne inconveniences and vexations for him such as
nobody knew of--even now to think of his mother's affectionate adoption
and triumph in the supposed triumph of her son brought an angry red
on Lilias' cheek. All this made her entirely at her ease with Philip.
There could be no mistake between them. She behaved to him as she might
have behaved to a younger brother, one who had cost her a great deal
of trouble--that is to say, that he might have been a gooseberry-bush
or a cabbage-rose for anything Lilias cared. She took his attendance
as a matter of course, and gave him the orders about the carriage with
perfect calm. Philip on his part was by no means so composed. There
was a certain suppressed excitement about him. He had been chilled to
find that Lilias was not down when he came in, and feared for the
moment that he was to go to the theatre with the elder ladies: but the
appearance of the younger set this right. Lilias immediately decided
in her own mind that some new crisis had occurred in the love struggle
of which she was the confidant, and that it was his anxiety to speak
to her on the subject which agitated Philip. She took the trouble to
contrive that she should sit next to him, letting Jean pass in before
her, and as soon as there was an opportunity, when Jean's attention was
engaged, she took the initiative, and whispered, "You have something to
tell me?" in Philip's ear.
He started as if he had been shot; and looked at her eagerly, guiltily.
"Yes--there's a good deal to tell you: if you will listen," he said,
with something between an entreaty and a defiance, as if he scarcely
believed that her benevolence would go so far.
"Of course I will listen," said Lilias; and she added, "I have not
heard from her for a long time, Philip. Wasn't she very wretched about
it when you came away?"
A guilty colour came over Philip's face. He had looked a sort of orange
brown before, but he now became a dusky crimson.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, "by _she_," and stared at Lilias
with something like a challenge.
Lilias, for her part, opened her eyes twice as large as usual, and
gazed upon him.
"You--don't--know! I think you must be going out of your senses," she
said, briskly, with elder-sisterly intolerance. "Who should it be but
one person? Do you think I am some one else than Lilias that you speak
like that to me!"
"Indeed," said Philip, growing more and more crimson, "it is just
because you are Lilias that I am here."
This speech was so extraordinary that it took Lilias an entire act to
get over its startling effect, which was like a dash of cold water in
her face. By the time the act was over, she had made out an explanation
of it: which was that the something he had to tell her was something
that only a listener so entirely sympathetic and well-informed as
herself could understand. Accordingly, as soon as the curtain had
fallen, she turned to him again.
"Philip, I am afraid it must be something very serious that has
happened, and you want me to interfere. Perhaps you have quarrelled
with her--but you used to do that almost every day."
"There is nothing about her at all--whoever you mean by her," Philip
replied, with angry embarrassment, and a little shrinking from her eyes.
"Nothing about Katie! Then you _have_ quarrelled?" Lilias cried. "I had
a kind of instinct that told me; and that is why you are looking so
glum, poor boy."
If Philip was crimson before, he became purple now.
"I wish," he said, "that you would not try like this to fix me down to
a childish piece of nonsense that nobody approved. Do you think a man
doesn't outgrow such things?--do you think he can shut his eyes and not
see that others----"
Philip had never said so many words straight on end in all his life,
nor, if he had not been tantalized beyond bearing, would he have said
them now. Lilias fixed her eyes upon him gravely, without a sign
of any consciousness that she was herself concerned. She was very
serious, contemplating him with a sort of scientific observation; but
it was science touched with grief and disapproval, things with which
scientific investigation has nothing to do.
"Do you mean to say that you are inconstant?" she said, with solemnity.
"I have never met with that before. Then, Philip," she added, after a
pause, "if that is so, everything is over betwixt you and me."
"What do you mean by saying everything is over?" he cried--"everything
is going to begin."
She drew a little away from him with an instinctive movement of
delicacy, withdrawing her cloak, which had touched him. She disapproved
of him, as one of a superior race disapproves of a lower being. She
shook her head quietly, without saying any more. If he were inconstant,
what was there that could be said for him or to him? He was outside
the pale of Lilias' charity. She turned round and began to talk to
Jean at the other side. There had been a distinct bond between him and
her; she had been Katie's friend, their confidant, and she had been of
use to them. There must always be, while this lasted, a link between
Philip and herself; but all was over when that was broken. Lilias was
absolute in her horror and disdain of every infidelity; she was too
young to take circumstances into consideration. Inconstant!--it almost
made her shudder to sit beside him, as if it had been a disease--worse
than that, for it was his own fault. She had read of such things in
books, and burned with indignation in poetry over the faithless lover.
But here it was under her own eyes. She looked at it severely, and then
she turned away. She heard Philip's voice going on in explanation, and
she made him a little bow to show that she heard him. She would not be
uncivil, even to a person of whom she so thoroughly disapproved.