There were many circumstances to add to the passionate annoyance and
irritation with which Margaret became aware of the deception, as she
conceived it, of which she had been the victim. She saw now a hundred
indications by which she ought to have been able to make sure from
the beginning who and what the stranger was: his sudden appearance
at Murkley, a place calculated to attract nobody, which even "those
tourist-cattle," who roused Miss Margaret's wrath, had left out,
where nobody came but for the fishing; his anxiety to secure their
acquaintance, to recommend himself to them, his suit to Miss Jean, so
unlike anything that had ever come in the way of the sisters before,
even his conversations, of which she recollected now disjointed scraps
and fragments quite enough to have betrayed him. Twice over had he come
to her to explain his wishes; the last time, she believed now (though
that was a mistake), that he had meant to confess everything. And she
would not listen to him. Well, that was all honest enough; it had not
been a wilful attempt to deceive her on his part: but yet she had been
completely deceived. How blind she had been! Had it not been plain to
every eye but hers? Had the Setons suspected something? Had Jean known
anything? Was it possible--Margaret started up and rang the bell with
great vehemence. She was so little in the habit of doing this that it
brought Simon rushing from below and Susan flying from above, and Miss
Jean in consternation to listen at the head of the stairs.
"Is my sister ill?" Jean said, trembling with apprehension.
"She would like if you would go and speak to her, mem," said Susan,
who had outstripped the heavier-footed man. Simon was standing ready
to open the door for her into the little room in which Margaret was
sitting.
"Is my sister ill?" she asked again.
"I reckon, mem, that something is wrong," Simon said, in his deliberate
voice.
"There is nothing wrong with me," said Miss Margaret. "Sit down, sit
down, and make no fuss, if you will not drive me doited: I am well
enough. But there is a matter to be cleared up between you and me. Will
you tell me frankly, Jean, eye to eye, what you know about this young
Murray that has just been haunting our house?"
"About Mr. Murray?" said Jean, looking more guilty than ever criminal
looked, innocent guilt faltering and ready to betray itself in every
line of her face.
"Just about Mr. Murray. I have said always he was of no kent
Murrays--were you in this secret all the time, you, my sister, the
other part of me? Oh! Jean, was this well done? I can read it in your
face. You were in his secret all the time."
"Margaret! what do you call his secret?" the culprit said.
She was of the paleness of ashes, and sat twisting her fingers
nervously together, feeling her treachery, her untruth to her first
allegiance, weigh upon her like something intolerable. Her very eyelids
quivered as she stole a glance at Margaret's face.
"Do you mean his secret at Murkley," poor Miss Jean said, breathless,
"or his secret--here?"
Margaret laughed aloud. The tones in this laugh were
indescribable--wrath, and scorn, and derision, and underneath all a
pitiful complaint.
"It is evident you are further ben than me, for I know of but one
secret," she said, "but we'll take them in succession, if you please."
"Oh! Margaret," said poor Jean, trembling, "was there any harm in it?
There was harm in me, perhaps, but what in him? For who could see
Lilias and not be in love with her? And then, when he saw us in London
just a little forlorn, and knowing so few folk, and him that had
everybody at his beck and call----"
"Him that had everybody at his beck and call--Yes?--and then? He took
pity upon us and----What are you meaning? Our friends in London," said
Margaret, with dignity, forgetting how she had, by the light of Mr.
Allenerly's statement, glimpsed the truth on this point as well as
on others, "are persons we have met at other friends' houses in the
ordinary way of society. There was nobody came to me from him, except
just perhaps that old duchess who takes you to the music. Your friend's
compassion, Jean, I think, might have been spared."
"Oh, Margaret!" faintly said the accused at the bar.
"What do you mean by 'Oh, Margaret'?--is it not true that I say? What
did it advantage us, I ask you, that this young lad had everybody, as
you say, at his beck and call?"
Jean gave a deprecatory, wistful glance at her sister, and said
nothing--but it was the look of one that had a great deal to say: and
there was that mixture of pity in it by which Margaret had been moved
to a passing wonder before.
"What did he ever do," she repeated, scornfully, "when he saw us,
as you say, forlorn in London, and knowing few folk? It is a pretty
description, but I cannot recognize it as a picture of me," Margaret
said, with a laugh of resentment. The conviction that had flashed upon
her concerning their life in London had been intolerable, and she had
pushed it from her. She was ready now to resist to desperation any
suggestion that Lewis had served them in society, or been instrumental
in opening to them so many fashionable houses. The consciousness in her
mind that this was so, gave heat and passion to her determination to
ignore it, and gave a bravado of denial to her tone. "All this," she
added, "is nothing, nothing to the main subject; but, as we are on it,
let us be done with it. What has your friend done for us I--I am at a
loss to know."
Jean was in a terrible strait, and knew not what to do. She was divided
between her desire to do justice to Lewis and her desire to save
Margaret pain. She hesitated, almost prevaricated in her anxiety, but
at last the story burst forth. The Greek ball, the beginning of all,
Margaret had firmly believed all along, was a homage to the importance
of the Miss Murrays of Murkley, a natural acknowledgment of their
claims to be considered. She could not help remembering the change
that had occurred in the aspect of affairs from the moment that Lewis
had appeared on the scene, but the invitation for which she had wished
so much, and the others that flowed from it, Margaret had endeavoured
to believe were natural: at least the first--she had always clung
to that. But when Jean's story, extracted in fragments, with many a
protestation and many an unintended admission, fell upon her ears,
the sudden disenchantment was terrible. To think that everything was
his doing from beginning to end, that he, this upstart, this minion,
this foreign favourite, should have been able to open the doors of
fashion to those whom he had so injured and supplanted, whose chief
enemy he was! Was it to humiliate them still more, to smite them down
into deeper abasement, to triumph over them in every way? The pang
which it gave Margaret was too bitter for speech. There had been an
appeal made to him, and in his magnanimity--that easy magnanimity of
the conqueror--he had responded to the appeal, and had taken compassion
upon them. It was a bitter pill for a proud woman to swallow. Jean had
appealed to him, and he had been kind--oh! these were the words. He
had been kind to the poor country ladies, and no doubt presented them
as originals, out of whom a little amusement could be had, to his fine
friends. Margaret would not even tell her sister, with whom she was
indignant beyond all possibility (she thought) of forgiveness, what she
had heard this morning. Her mortification, her sense of having been
tricked and cheated, was too great: the only thing she could think of
was to turn her back upon this hated place with all its delusions.
"I am just sick of London," she said; "my very heart is sick. Get your
packing done this afternoon. I will not spend another day here. I think
we will go home to-night."
"To-night!" cried Jean, with dismay. To oppose a decision of Margaret
was impossible, and she felt guilty, and wounded, and miserable, out
of favour, out of heart. But yet to be obliged to cut off her little
leave-takings, and not to see him, the cause of all this, the friend
who had been so kind, so tender, so eager to carry out all her wishes,
was very hard. And even to travel at night was alarming and terrible
to Miss Jean: she thought the dangers of the way were doubled by the
darkness, and that very likely there would be a railway accident. "It is
very sudden," she said. "Oh! Margaret, I know you are ill-pleased at
me. I am sorry--sorry! if I have done what was foolish, it was with a
good intention; but will you change all our plans just for that, only
for that?"
"Only for that!" said Margaret. "Only for what is burnt in on me in
shame, and should on you still more, if you had the heart--to have been
indebted to our enemy, to have sought the help of him, if there had not
been another man in the world, that should have been the last----"
"Oh! Margaret," cried poor Miss Jean, "you are unjust. You are
cruel. He is nobody's enemy. You may think him not good enough for
Lilias,--for who would seem good enough for Lilias to you and me?--but
an enemy he is none. Oh, no enemy, but a friend: or more like a son, a
brother."
Margaret rose with a stern intensity of tone and look that made her
sister tremble.
"Do you know who this friend is," she said, grimly, "this brother, this
lover, this benefactor? His name is not Murray, but Lewis Grantley,
a name you have heard before. He is your grandfather's heir. He has
gotten the inheritance of Lilias. And now, seeing she is a lovelier
thing even than the inheritance, this creature of nothing, this subtile
serpent, this _practiser_ upon an old man's weakness, would have her
too."
Jean had risen also, with eyes full of horror, in the extremity of her
astonishment. She lifted her arms, she opened her lips to cry out, but
no sound came. She stood an image of dumb consternation and misery
gazing at her sister. No doubt of Jean's innocence from all complicity
in the secret could be entertained by any one who saw her. She stood
dumb, staring at Margaret for some minutes. Then her breast began to
labour with choking sobs.
"Oh! no, no. Oh! no, no--no, no," she ran on, unable to restrain
herself. It was a protest which was pitiful, like the cry of a dumb
creature unable to articulate. Hysterics were unknown in the family,
and Margaret was alarmed. It subdued her anger in a moment, and
relieved her own oppressed and excited mind by giving her a new subject
of concern. She put Jean into the easy-chair, and brought her wine, and
soothed her: in the midst of which process Lilias came into the room,
all fresh and radiant, untouched by any darker knowledge.
"Just run away, my dear, Jean is not very well. I want her to stay
quite quiet just for two or three minutes, and then she will come to
you upstairs."
"But why should I run away? Let me take care of her, Margaret. How pale
she is!" cried Lilias, in alarm.
"There is--no--nothing the matter with me," said Jean, tremulously,
making shift to smile, and waving her hand to her darling. "I'll be
better--in two or three minutes."
"Just run away, my dear," Margaret repeated: and Lilias, as she was
told, ran away, in considerable alarm and uneasiness. But, after
all, there was nothing so alarming in the fact that Jean was pale,
and wanted to be quiet for two or three minutes, and the fear soon
dissipated itself. When the door was closed upon her, the two sisters
looked at each other: the shadow of anger that had been between them
had passed away. It even brought them nearer together, this secret
which was so momentous but which she, that young creature whom it was
their happiness to guard from all evil, knew nothing of. Jean pressed
Margaret's hand which held hers.
"You will not tell her?" she said.
"That is what we must see--and judge," said the elder sister. "We must
think of it when you are better."
Margaret said I oftener than we. It was a pledge of renewed union and
closer fellowship, which brought back Jean's smile.
And next morning they left London. It had not been intended that they
should go away till the end of the week, and their abrupt departure
was the occasion of various disturbances of other people's plans. The
person whom it was chiefly designed to affect was Lewis, who, knowing
as he did the crisis that had been reached, and occupied indeed with
the still more extraordinary crisis in his own existence, was not
affected by it at all. He had never, during all the intercourse of
those six weeks, been invited to Cadogan Place. He had been admitted
occasionally when he called, latterly almost always, and it had been
supposed by all the ladies that he would come to bid them good-bye. But
after the interview between Margaret and Mr. Allenerly there was an
end to that intention, and it was only by chance he discovered their
premature departure, which did not move him; for he had run through
all the gamut of emotion, and nothing seemed now to matter. But as
Lewis stood, more pensive than disappointed, gazing at the house,
in the window of which once more hung the intimation that it was to
let, and where a charwoman appeared at the door in place of Simon,
some one else strode up, to whom it was, to all appearance, much more
important. This was Philip Stormont, who, though he could not follow
the ladies into the fashionable world, had hung about them whenever
and wherever he could, following them to the park, turning up in all
their walks, and attaching himself like a sort of amateur footman to
the party. Lilias had been very cold to him for some time after that
evening at the theatre, but by-and-by had slid into her old habit of
a sort of sisterly indifference, thinking it not necessary to make
much account of what Philip said or did. And her sisters were always
"kind--enough," as Miss Jean said, to the young man whose lands marched
with Murkley, their nearest county neighbour, whom they had known all
his life. When it was fully apparent to them that Lilias was entirely
indifferent to this long-leggit lad, they were very kind to him, though
they gave him much good advice on the subject of going home. He had
hung on, following their steps, without any clear explanation of the
reason why, always postponing his departure until the time of theirs
approached. When that date was settled, he speedily found out that it
was important he should get home by the 26th, and it was settled that
he should travel with them. But in the hurry of sudden departure no one
had thought of Philip. He came "round," as he called it, to make the
final arrangements, and to settle where he should meet them, just at
the moment when Lewis, walking slowly past, looking up at the windows,
had concluded within himself, in a sort of stupor of over-feeling which
made the discovery almost unimportant to him, that they were gone. What
did it matter to Lewis? They were as far from him in Cadogan Place as
if they had been in Murkley. It made no difference; between him and
them there was a great gulf fixed. And yet he would have liked to see
her once more! but it made no difference--this was what he was saying
to himself. To Philip, however, it made a very great difference. He
went briskly up to the door, undismayed by a certain vacant air, and
the ticket in the window. Indeed he had not observed these signs. And,
when he was met by the charwoman with the news, his astonishment and
indignation knew no bounds.
"Gone! Why, I was to go with them. Are you sure they are gone?" he
said, with a dismay that was almost ludicrous. When he perceived Lewis
a little way off, he hurried up to him. "Do you understand anything
about this?" he said, with a sense of injured antagonism to everybody
who could be supposed to be in the ladies' confidence. There had
always been a jealous feeling in his mind in respect to Lewis, whose
constant presence at all the fine places of which Lilias spoke, to
which he himself had no way of procuring admittance, had given him a
feasible ground of complaint. But a common grievance is a great bond.
When Lewis had declared his ignorance, in a tone from which even his
insensibility to further pain could not take a certain pathos, Philip,
in the excitement of his feelings, obliged to talk to some one, seized
upon his arm, and poured out his heart.
"They just play with a man," he cried, "these women! They don't care
a bit what they do to you, so long as it doesn't touch themselves. I
was to go with them. It was all settled. Our way was the same, as far
as the railway goes--as far as the water-side, for that matter; for
you remember how near we are. And here they are, off without a word,
without a single word! not so much as to say, 'We are going sooner than
we thought,' or anything like that--but no, not a word! I was coming to
ask where I was to meet them, and if I should take the tickets, and so
forth."
Lewis did his best to dissipate the victim's dilemma. He suggested a
sudden change in their plans, a lost message, a mistake of one kind
or another, till Philip was somewhat mollified. But in his heart he
was not displeased to see another man suffer. That the ladies had been
agitated by the revelation made to them, and had changed their plans,
and forgotten their secondary engagements in consequence, soothed
him and gave him a faint sensation of pleasure. Besides, it is never
disagreeable to one man, whose heart is devoted to a certain woman, to
see another man left in the lurch. So far as he was able to enjoy at
all, Lewis enjoyed it, and this made him very amiable to the other,
who was certainly not a successful rival, or likely to be so. He who
had affected their minds so much as to make them alter all their
arrangements at the last moment had no reason to be uncharitable to
the man whose very existence they had evidently forgotten. And Philip,
in his ignorance, took refuge in the sympathy of Lewis. He had not
seen him much in the company of Lilias; they had revolved in different
spheres, and had rarely come in contact, and, so far as Philip knew,
Lewis was little more than an acquaintance of the ladies, who never
invited him, and seldom talked of him. He had forgotten by this time
the position of companion to Lilias which Katie and he had thrust upon
the stranger at Murkley. All that stage of existence had faded away
from Philip's thoughts.
"You see," he said, thrusting his arm through that of his sympathetic
friend, "I came here at first with no will of mine. A man should be
left free one way or other. If the mother is to have so much say as my
mother has, the son should be free to go where he likes, and make his
own way; but, as it is, I am neither laird nor loon, if you understand
what that means. I have the name of being independent; but, if my
mother were to take away her share and leave me with that house to
keep up, where would I be? So I have to be guided by her in many ways,
whether I will or not."
"I do not suppose that she is very hard to please," said Lewis,
politely.
"Oh, I don't know about that! She has always had her own way, and she
likes it. So do I, for that matter. But, you see, for years past there
has never been but a craik about Lilias Murray. She was the only girl
my mother would ever hear of: our lands march; and then the Murrays are
a great family, and then----"
"Do you think it is right to talk of things so private to me?"
"Oh, you!--you are just the person to talk to them about. You are a
stranger, you are an outsider; it cannot be any concern of yours. And
then you know what an ass I made of myself last year," Philip said,
reddening, and with an embarrassed laugh.
"I do not know about the ass," said Lewis, gravely; "I know--what was
happening last year."
"Well, it comes to the same thing, you know. My mother would not
hear of that----It is all very well for a fellow like you, that
are independent, that never needs to think of pleasing anybody but
yourself. But I can do nothing without my mother. As for marrying or
that sort of thing, it would be out of the question. If she gave me up,
I should be as poor as a church-mouse: so I am obliged to mind what she
says. And then, if truth must be told, I got just a little tired of the
affair itself."
"I don't think," said Lewis, disengaging his arm, "that it is quite
_comme il faut_ to say so."
"Com-eel--what do you mean by that? It began when I was too young to
think of anything but the fun of it: and she liked the fun, too. It was
a great joke to make a fool of everybody, and carry on behind their
backs; but, when it comes to be serious, you can't go on like that."
"I don't think you can go on _like that_ at any time," Lewis said,
gravely.
Philip laughed.
"That is just your stiff, foreign way," he said; "you are always
thinking harm--and there was no harm. Well, then, my mother insisted I
was to go away, and, as there was a good opportunity to have a little
yachting and see something of the world, I just consented. Absence
makes a great difference, you know," he added, laughing again somewhat
nervously. "I saw what an ass I had been making of myself. And then I
heard from home that the Murrays were here, and that I had better stay
and make myself agreeable. Now, you know, there's a great deal to be
done in London that makes the time pass. So I just stayed, and made
myself agreeable--as far as I could, you know----"
"Indeed it is not for me to know how far that is," said Lewis, with
something between a jeer and a snarl: for it was not in flesh and blood
to remain passive. "You are a dangerous fellow, no doubt, when you
please."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said simple Philip; "it was a bore at
first, but I couldn't help feeling that it was far the best way to get
out of the other, you know. And that little Lilias has grown awfully
pretty, don't you think?--whether it's the dress, or the way she's got
of carrying herself, or having seen a little more of the world----"
Lewis would have liked to knock him down, but probably could not have
done so, for the young Scot was much bigger and stronger than himself:
and then, even if he could, he had no pretext for so doing, for there
was no intentional disrespect in what Philip said.
"I never discuss ladies whom I respect--it is bad form," said Lewis,
bringing forward a word which he had picked up, and generally found
most effectual.
Philip reddened and grew serious all at once. He was one of the class
who hold that vague but stinging accusation in special awe.
"It would be worse form, I think, to discuss ladies whom you do not
respect," he said, very pertinently, but changing his tone. "Well," he
said, "to please you, I will say nothing about that. I thought it a
bore at first, but by-and-by it was different. And it is just the only
way of coming out of the other business safe and sound; and it would be
a fine thing for the property; and, to sum up all, the girl herself----"
Lewis raised his hand, for he felt that he could not bear much more.
"You mean that you fell in love, I suppose, since that is the English
phrase," he said, with a slight inflection of contempt, which the ear
of Philip was not keen enough to seize.
"Well, you may call it that, if you like," he said. "And I thought we
were getting on very well--they all bully me, as if I were a small
boy, and she too, but that's one way of showing that they consider me
one of the family, you know. So I thought we were getting on as well
as possible, and I wrote home word to my mother, and we were to travel
together, which would have given us just the opportunity to settle
everything before we got home: and that was what I wanted above all----"
Here poor Philip's face grew long once more, and the sense of the
ludicrous which had been growing in the mind of his hearer--a sort of
forlorn amusement to think of this little commonplace thread running
smoothly through the tangled web of affairs--rose above the irritation
and disdain, which were too serious for the occasion.
"Perhaps," he said, gravely, "it was the elder sisters. They might be
afraid of you."
Philip turned upon him with a beaming face and gave him a blow of
approval on his shoulder.
"Now that just shows," he said, "that you have an eye in your head. I
always knew you were a clever fellow--it is just that. Margaret cannot
abide me--my mother herself sees it. She has just held me at arm's
length since ever I was that height; but, if Lilias takes to me, I will
just snap my fingers at Margaret," cried the long-leggit lad, plucking
up his courage.
Finally he made up his mind to follow them by the evening train,
and pick them up at Stirling or Perth, where they would be sure, he
thought, to stay for the night. And Lewis went home to his rooms, where
also packing was going on, with a sense of exhaustion, through which
faint sensations of amusement penetrated. He was sad as death, but, at
the same time, he was worn out by a great mental conflict. At such a
moment pain is deadened by its own excess. He was like a man newly out
of a fever, not able to feel at all save in a muffled and ineffectual
way: and it almost amused him to see Philip's self-complacency and
confidence in "getting on very well." For such a rival he was not
afraid.