But there is no lasting satisfaction in this world. Margaret had no
sooner received the invitation she longed for, the opportunity of
introducing Lilias to a brighter and gayer circle than any that had
been within their reach, than a sudden chill struck to her heart. A
mother has many special anguishes and anxieties all of her own which
nobody shares or even suspects, and Margaret had assumed the position
of a mother, and was bearing her burden with susceptibility all the
more intense that she had no right to it. Other women in society find
a satisfaction in the civilities and attentions that are shown to
themselves individually, but the mother-woman is so intent upon what
is going on in respect to her belongings that she cannot take into
account as she ought these personal solacements. It does not matter to
her if she is taken in first to supper, and has all the ladies in the
neighbourhood put, so to speak, under her feet, if, in the midst of
this glory, she is aware that her girls are not dancing, or that her
son is considered by some important maiden an awkward lout.
The poor lady with half a dozen ungainly daughters, who appears
everywhere, and who is held up to so much ridicule, how her heart cries
out against the neglect which they have to suffer! Her struggles to get
them partners, her wistful looks at everybody who can befriend them,
which are all ridiculous and humiliating enough, have a pathos in them
which is heart-rending in its way. The cause of the sudden coldness
which crept over Margaret, into her very heart like the east-wind, and
paralyzed her for the moment, was not perhaps a very solemn one. It was
no more than tragi-comic at the best; it was the terrible question,
suddenly seizing upon her like a thief in the night, how, now that she
had secured her ball, she was to secure partners for Lilias? Those who
laugh at such an alarm have never had to encounter it. What if, after
this unexpected good-fortune, almost elevated in its unexpectedness
and greatness into a gift from heaven, what if it should only be a
repetition of the other night? Visions of sitting against the wall
all the night through, looking out wistfully upon an ungenial crowd,
all occupied with themselves, indifferent to strangers, rose suddenly
before her troubled eyes. To see the young men come in drawing on their
gloves, staring round them at the girls all sitting expectant, of whom
Lilias should be one, and passing her by, was something which Margaret
felt no amount of philosophy, no strength of mind, could make her able
to bear. She grew cold and then hot at the prospect. It was thus they
had passed an hour or two in the countess's drawing-room, ignored by
the fine company; but in a ball it would be more than she should be
able to bear. She had scarcely time to feel the legitimate satisfaction
in her good-fortune, when the terror of this contingency swooped down
upon her. She had stayed at home with the intention of having a few
peaceful hours, and thinking over Lilias' dress, and anticipating her
triumph, when suddenly in a moment came that black horseman who is
always at our heels, and who had been unhorsed for a moment by the
shock of good-fortune--got up again and careered wildly about and
around her, putting a hoof upon her very heart.
It is not to be supposed that Margaret was unconscious of the fact,
which the simplest moralist could perceive, that to regard a frivolous
occurrence like a ball with feelings so serious was excessive and
inappropriate. Nobody could be more fully aware of this. She, Margaret,
a woman not without pretensions, if not to talent, at least to the
still more wonderful gift of capacity, that she should give herself all
this fyke and trouble, and just wear her very heart out about a thing
so unimportant! But who can regulate his feelings by such thought? Who
can hold a fire in his hand by thinking on the frosty Caucasus? But all
her self-reminders to this effect did nothing for her. Her scorn of any
other woman who concentrated her being on such frivolity would have
been as scathing as ever, but the fact remained that of all the many
objects of desire in this world not one seemed to her at the moment
half so important. Poor Margaret! her very goodness and piety added
torments to her pain; for she had been so used to pray for everything
she desired warmly that in the fervour of her heart she had almost
formulated a new petition, before she bethought herself, and stopped
abashed. "Lord send partners for Lilias!" Could any travesty of piety
be more profane? Margaret checked herself with unmingled horror, yet
returned to the subject unawares, and almost had uttered that innocent
blasphemy a second time, so great was her confusion--a fact which was
not without some pathos, though she herself, grieved and horrified,
was unaware of this. The overwhelming character of this new care
disturbed all her plans, and, instead of sitting tranquil enjoying her
solitude and thinking over her preparations, Margaret hastened to bed
on pretence of weariness, but in reality to escape, if possible, from
herself. Pausing first to look at the cards which had been left in
the afternoon, and which the delight of the invitation had made her
neglect, she found the card of Lewis, and stood pondering over it for
full five minutes. Simon, who had been summoned to put out the lamps,
gave a glance over his mistress's shoulder, with the confidence of a
rural retainer, to see what it was that occupied her. Margaret put the
card down instantly. She said,
"Simon, I see Mr. Murray, who was at Murkley, has been here this
afternoon."
"Yes, Miss Margaret," said Simon; "he has been here. He asked for you
all, and he said he was glad to see me, and that I must be a comfort
(which I have little reason to suppose); but maist probably that was
just all blethers to get round me."
"And why should Mr. Murray wish to get round you?" said Margaret; but
she did not wait for any reply. "If he calls again, and Miss Jean
happens to be in, you will be sure to bring him upstairs; but if she is
not in the house, and me alone, it will perhaps not be advisable to do
that. You must exercise your discretion, Simon."
"No me, mem," said Simon. "I'll exercise no discretion. I hope I
know my place better than that. A servant is here to do what he is
bid--and no to think about his master's concerns; but if you'll take my
advice----"
"I will take none of your advice," cried Margaret, almost angrily.
What contemptible weakness was it that made her give directions for the
problematical admission of the stranger whom she had made up her mind
to shut out and reject? Alas for human infirmity! It was because it had
suddenly gleamed upon her as a possibility that Lewis might be going to
the ball too!
When the momentous evening arrived, Lilias herself, though, with
unheard of extravagance, another new and astonishing dress had been
added to her wardrobe, did not quiver with excitement like Margaret.
The girl was just pleasantly excited; pleased with herself, her
appearance, her prospect of pleasure, and if with a little thrill of
keener expectation in the recollection of "two dances" mysteriously
reserved for "him," of whom Jean, even in moments of confidence, would
speak no more clearly--yet still entirely in possession of herself,
with none of the haze of suspense in her eyes or heart, of anxiety in
her mind, which made her elder sister unlike herself. Margaret was
so sorely put to it to preserve her self-control that she was graver
than usual, without a smile about her, when, painfully conscious that
she did not even know her hostess, she led her little train into the
dazzling rooms, decorated to the last extremity of artistic decoration,
of the Greek Embassy. A dark lady, blazing with diamonds, made a
step forward to meet her: and then our three strangers, somewhat
bewildered, passed on into the fairyland, which was half Oriental,
half European, as became the nationality of the hosts. Even the
anxiety of Margaret was lulled at first by the wonder of everything
about her. They had come early, as inexperienced people do, and the
assembled company was still a little fragmentary. The country ladies
discovered with great relief that it was the right thing to admire and
to express their admiration, which gave them much emancipation; for
they had feared it might be vulgar, or old-fashioned, or betray their
inacquaintance with such glories, if they ventured openly to comment
upon them. But, after all, to find themselves, a group of country
ladies knowing nobody, dropped as from the skies on the skirts of a
magnificent London mob belonging to the best society, was an appalling
experience, when the best was said; and they had all begun to feel as
they did at the countess's party, before aid and the guardian angel in
whom Miss Jean trusted, but whom even Lilias knew little about, who he
was--appeared. They had not ventured to go far from the door, having
that determination never to intrude into high places probably intended
for greater persons, which turns the humility of the parable into the
most strenuous exhibition of pride that the imagination can conceive.
Nobody should ever say to Margaret, "Give this man place." She stood,
with Lilias on one side of her, and Jean on the other, half a step in
advance of them, and felt herself stiffening into stone as she gazed at
the stream of new arrivals, and watched all the greetings around her.
Every new group was more splendid, she thought, than the other. If now
and then a dowdy person, or an old lady wrapped in dirty lace, appeared
among the grand toilettes, the eyes of the three instinctively sought
her as perhaps a sister in distress: but experience soon showed that
the dowdy ladies were often the most elevated, and that no fellowship
of this description was to be looked for. Dancing began in the large
rooms while this went on, and, with a sensation of despair, Margaret
felt that all her terrors were coming true.
"My darling," she said, turning to Lilias with a fondness in which she
seldom indulged, "you must just think, you know, that this grand sight
is like coming to the play. If it is just a sight, you will be pleased
to have seen it--and, when there are so many people, it cannot be very
pleasant dancing; and, my sweet, if by any sacrifice of money, or
trouble, or whatever woman could do, I could have made friends for you,
or gotten you partners--But it is just a beautiful sight----"
"I would rather have our parties at home," said Lilias, plaintively,
looking with wistful eyes towards the doorway, through which an
opening in the crowd permitted the sight now and then of the happy
performers in that whirl of pleasure from which she was shut out. But
she had a high spirit. She threw up her fair head, and would have
performed her little skip upon the floor had there been room for it.
"We are three Peris at the gate of Paradise, and that's too many," she
said, with a laugh.
Margaret was in no laughing mood. Dignity, which was almost tragical,
was in her whole person. The pose of her head, the stateliness of her
aspect, were enough to have dismayed any applicant for favour. She
began to eye the groups about, not anxiously as she had done at first,
but defiantly, as if she scorned them for their ignorance of her.
"I cannot say that I am surprised," she said; "for I counted the
cost--and I thought you would be better pleased to come and just
see what like it was. And then we can go away when we please."
Margaret added this forlorn consolation with a sigh. "What are
you saying, Jean?" she asked, somewhat sharply; for her sister's
voice reached her ear, not tuned at all in harmony with her own,
but with a tone of exultation in it. It would be the music that
pleased her, or some dress that she was admiring! Margaret, in her
vexation and disappointment--though indeed she had expected to be
disappointed--turned round upon her sister with rage in her soul.
Lilias had turned round too, with perhaps sharper ears, and, before
Margaret had recovered her composure, she found herself addressed in
tones whose blandishments she had rejected, but which now, against her
will, her heart beat to hear. There was the little strange accent, the
inflection not like any one else's, which had always hitherto moved her
to impatience--for why should a man pretending to be an Englishman, and
calling himself by a good Scots name, speak like a foreigner? All this
passed through her mind like a sudden flash of a lantern, and then she
found herself looking at Lewis with her most forbidding aspect, a frown
under her brow, but the profoundest anxiety in her heart.
"You are not in a good position here," he was saying, "and soon there
will be a great crowd. May I take you to a better place?"
"Oh! we are in a very good place for seeing, Mr. Murray, I am obliged
to you. We are not like friends of the house to take the best places.
We are just strangers, and enjoying," said Margaret, in her sternest
tones, "the fine sight."
"We are all friends of the house who are here," said Lewis, "and there
is no place that would be thought too good for Miss Murray. You would
like to see your sister when she is dancing: let me take you into
the other room," he said, offering his arm, with a smile which even
Margaret felt to be almost irresistible. She said to herself that it
was French and false, "like all these foreigners," but this was a
secret protest of the pride which was about to yield to necessity.
She made a little struggle, looking at him with a cloudy brow. "Your
sister--will like to dance," said Lewis.
And then Margaret threw down her weapons; but only after a fashion. She
took his arm with proud hesitation and reluctance.
"You just vanquish me," she said, "with that word; but I am not sure it
is quite generous. And, if I take advantage of your present offer, you
will remember it is in pure selfishness, and alters nothing of what has
passed between us. You will make nothing by it," she said.
He had the audacity to press her hand a little closer to his side with
something like a caress, and he laughed.
"In pure selfishness," he said. "I accept the bargain. Nothing is
altered, only a truce for reasons of state. But I must be free to act
according to the same rule of pure selfishness too."
Margaret gave him another keen look. She was not sure that he was
clever enough to mean what he was saying; but she did not commit
herself by any further explanation. She said, "We will just stay where
we can see what is going on, Mr. Murray. Lilias, who is a stranger
here, does not expect to dance."
Lewis smiled. He led the ladies to a sofa, where there was room for
Margaret, and introduced her to a lady in diamonds, who called him
Lewis.
"Take care of Miss Murray," he said, "duchess;" and, leaving Margaret,
approached Lilias, who stood demure behind her. Duchess! Margaret's
head seemed to spin round. She sank down by the side of this new and
magnificent acquaintance, who smiled graciously, and made room for her.
It was like a transformation scene.
"He is your relation, I suppose," said the great lady, with benign
looks.
"I cannot say that," Margaret answered, with a gasp of astonishment and
dismay. "I do not even know what Murrays----"
"Ah! in Scotland one knows you are all related." Margaret's horror
at this statement may be more easily imagined than described, as the
newspapers say; but there was no pause to give an opportunity for
the indignant explanation that rose to her lips. "But I forgot," the
duchess said, "there is quite a romantic story. Anyhow, he is a dear
boy. There is no family that might not be proud to claim him. And that
pretty creature who is dancing with Lewis. She is your--niece?"
"My sister," said Margaret. "It is a long story. My father, General
Murray of Murkley, married twice----"
"Ah! I knew you were related somehow. And that is your sister? You must
feel quite like a mother to her. She is a most perfect little Scotch
beauty--that lovely hair and that sweet complexion."
"And as good as she is bonnie," cried Miss Jean, who was standing
beaming at the end of the sofa. The unknown duchess lifted her eyes
with some surprise, and made her a small bow.
"I can very well believe it. I have a grandchild nearly that age, and
she seems to me an angel. I could wish that she should never grow any
older."
"Oh, no, madam," said Jean, whose heart responded to the eyes of the
other, as Margaret, proud, suspicious, and dominant, could not permit
herself to do. It seemed to Jean in her simplicity that some word of
respect ought to be added when she spoke to a duchess. "They are more
sweet than words can say," said the simple woman, "but we must not for
any pleasure of ours keep them from living their life."
"Will not you sit down?" said the duchess; "it is very hard standing
all the evening through, when you are not accustomed to it. You
interest me very much. I am sure you have thought a great deal on the
subject."
"My sister Jean," said Margaret, "has instincts that come to her like
other people's thoughts. She is not very wise, perhaps. But, if you
will allow me, Scotland is just the country where such ideas should
not be encouraged, for our names being names of clans, are just spread
among all classes, and----"
The duchess was much experienced in society, and never permitted
herself to be bored, which is one of the first rules for a great lady.
She suffered just that faintest shadow of indifference to steal over
her face, which warns the initiated, and said, sweetly,
"I have heard of that--it must be embarrassing. I am going to have a
little dance on the 17th--may I hope that you will bring your young
sister to it? It is a great pleasure to see anything so fresh and fair:
and Lewis may always command me for his friends," this gracious lady
said. And then she turned and talked to Jean, and ended by arranging
to convey her to a very recondite performance of classical music a
few days after. She left her seat on the sofa by-and-by, seeing, as
she said, some friends arrive whom she must talk to. But this was
not the only incident of the kind which made the evening remarkable.
In the course of these exciting hours Margaret and Jean made the
acquaintance of several other distinguished personages who were
giving entertainments, and who hoped they would bring their young
sister. They did not like to venture far from the spot where all this
had occurred, but they abandoned the sofa, with their sensitive fear
of being supposed to take too much upon them, and stood for the most
of the night, confused with all that passed, watching Lilias through
every dance, following her with their eyes when she disappeared
in the crowd. Jean was perfectly, ecstatically happy; though her
unaccustomed limbs were trembling under her, she stood up heroic, and
never complained since Margaret thought it right to stand lest they
might be taking up somebody's place. Margaret's happiness was not so
complete. She was able for a time to enjoy the consciousness that all
her troublous thoughts had come to nothing, and that Lilias' _succès_
was unquestionable. But, alas! there came with this the thought that
it was all owing to Lewis. His friends had given the invitations; the
young men who were contending for Lilias' dances were all friends of
his. It was supposed that the ladies were his relatives, a family group
whom he had brought up, all fresh and original, from the country. Thus
the sweetness was encompassed with bitterness, and surrounded with
embarrassment. How was she to keep her hostile position and receive
such favours?--and, if she allowed Lilias to be won after all this
trouble by a young man who had proposed for her in Murkley, what was
the object of all the care and expenditure? But that hypothesis was
impossible; it was not to be contemplated for a moment. Lilias to
marry a plain Mr. Murray, a person who was nobody, whose very right
to the name was doubtful--such a thing was not to be thought of. And,
though he had so many friends, these afforded no indication as to the
standing of his family, nor did anybody seem to know what his family
was, or they would not--not even those inconsiderate persons in London,
who, Miss Margaret said, "absolutely knew nothing" about families in
Scotland--have thought of supposing that he was related to Murkley.
Her enjoyment was marred by all these questions and thoughts, which
kept her still alive and awake when, in the dawning, Lewis put them
into their carriage--Lewis again--always Lewis. It was to Margaret
he devoted himself; he had taken her to supper, he had paid every
attention that a son or brother could have paid her.
"We are enemies," he had said--"generous enemies respecting each
other. We will hob and nob to-night, but to-morrow I know you will not
recognize me in the Row."
"I am far from sure that I am going to the Row--it is just a waste of
time," Margaret said, with a literalness which it pleased her sometimes
to affect. And Lewis laughed. He was himself somewhat excited, and
his laugh had a nervous sound. He had been very generous, he felt. He
had not tried to absorb Lilias; the utmost propriety had regulated all
his actions; he had presented to her the most attractive people he
knew; his behaviour had been almost angelic. He held Margaret's hand
for a moment (he was so audacious) as she followed the others into the
carriage.
"We are to go on the same rule as before," he said; "it is to be pure
selfishness; but you will not refuse to accept other invitations for
fear of meeting me."
"You are right about the principle, Mr. Murray," said Margaret, with
seriousness, "but, as for your fine friends and their invitations, it
will be time enough to answer them when I get them. Word of mouth is
one thing--but more is necessary for Lilias." And then she bade him
"good night," or rather "good morning," leaning out of the window of
the carriage to prevent any interchange of glances. There was pure
selfishness in that action, at least.
From this time the remainder of their season in London was almost too
brilliant. Though Margaret was greatly subdued, and would take little
pleasure in the thought that it was "the best people" to whose houses
they went, and whose acquaintance they made, she yet did not refuse
the invitations, and watched Lilias enjoying herself with a swelling
heart. Lilias, for her part, had no _arrière pensée_. She enjoyed her
gaieties with all her heart, and recovered from her awe, and set as
small store by her partners and admirers as she had done at Murkley.
She had "got out her horns again," Margaret said. She took little airs
upon her, and refused the languid gentlemen who proposed themselves
in tones which invited refusal. But even these languid gentlemen did
not like to be refused, and woke up, startled and tingling, when they
came into contact with this independent little beauty. For it had been
decided that she was a beauty in the highest circles. At home she had
only been a pretty girl; but, when fashion took Lilias up, she became
a beauty out of hand. Let nobody be deceived, however, and think
that her photograph was in the shop-windows or the newspapers. The
professional beauty had not been invented in those days, nor indeed
was she known till long after. There were not even any photographs to
speak of, and books of beauty had died out. It was an unusually safe
moment for the lovely face that did not want exhibition. She was the
Scotch beauty, which was distinction enough. Her sweet complexion,
her fair locks, too fair to be golden, the dazzling freshness of her
altogether, were identified with her country in a way which perhaps
neither Margaret nor Jean fully appreciated. They were both themselves
brown-haired and rather pale, and they were of opinion that their own
complexion was quite as distinctively Scotch, though not so beautiful
as the other. When it became the fashion to praise her accent and her
little Scotticisms, Margaret and Jean were much irritated. They were
very much attached to their country, but they were fondly convinced
that no shade of peculiarity or provincialism was to be found in
Lilias, whose English they considered perfect, far more perfect than
that generally spoken in London. When some unwise person spoke of the
"whiff of the heather," the sisters took it as an offence. But, with
this small exception, everything went to their wishes, and more than to
their hopes. Margaret, who had prepared herself at least a dozen times
to do final battle with Lewis, and show him conclusively, as she had
threatened at first, that "he would make nothing by it," was almost
disappointed that he provoked no explanation, and never indeed thrust
himself upon them except in society, where he was their good genius.
Was this a policy so astute that her simple wisdom was scarcely capable
of understanding it? or was it that he had thought better of his suit,
and meant to give up an effort so hopeless? This last supposition did
not perhaps bring so much pleasure with it as Margaret would have
wished. For in fact she had rather looked forward to the final battle
and trial of strength, and did not feel satisfied to think that she was
to be allowed to walk over the field.