TRANSFORMATION.
Had Sheila, then, Lavender could not help asking himself, a bad
temper, or any other qualities or characteristics which were apparent
to other people, but not to him? Was it possible that, after all,
Ingram was right, and that he had yet to learn the nature of the girl
he had married? It would be unfair to say that he suspected something
wrong about his wife--that he fancied she had managed to conceal
something--merely because Mrs. Lavender had said that Sheila had a bad
temper; but here was another person who maintained that when the days
of his romance were over he would see the girl in another light.
Nay, as he continued to ask himself, had not the change already begun?
He grew less and less accustomed to see in Sheila a beautiful wild
sea-bird that had fluttered down for a time into a strange home in
the South. He had not quite forgotten or abandoned those imaginative
scenes in which the wonderful sea-princess was to enter crowded
drawing-rooms and have all the world standing back to regard her and
admire her and sing her praises. But now he was not so sure that that
would be the result of Sheila's entrance into society. As the date of
a certain dinner-party drew near he began to wish she was more like
the women he knew. He did not object to her strange sweet ways of
speech, nor to her odd likes and dislikes, nor even to an unhesitating
frankness that nearly approached rudeness sometimes in its scorn
of all compromise with the truth; but how would others regard these
things? He did not wish to gain the reputation of having married an
oddity.
"Sheila," he said on the morning of the day on which they were going
to this dinner-party, "you should not say _like-a-ness_. There are
only two syllables in _likeness_. It really does sound absurd to hear
you say _like-a-ness_."
She looked up to him with a quick trouble in her eyes. When had he
spoken to her so petulantly before? And then she cast down her eyes
again, and said submissively, "I will try not to speak like that. When
you go out I take a book and read aloud, and try to speak like you;
but I cannot learn all at once."
"_I_ don't mind," he said. "But you know other people must think it
so odd. I wonder why you should always say _gyarden_ for _garden_ now,
when it is just as easy to say _garden_?"
Once upon a time he had said there was no English like the English
spoken in Lewis, and had singled out this very word as typical of one
peculiarity in the pronunciation. But she did not remind him of that.
She only said in the same simple fashion, "If you will tell me my
faults I will try to correct them."
She turned away from him to get an envelope for a letter she had been
writing to her father. He fancied something was wrong, and perhaps
some touch of compunction smote him, for he went after her and took
her hand, and said, "Look here, Sheila. When I point out any trifles
like that, you must not call them faults, and fancy I have any serious
complaint to make. It is for your own good that you should meet the
people who will be your friends on equal terms, and give them as
little as possible to talk about."
"I should not mind their talking about me," said Sheila with her eyes
still cast down, "but it is your wife they must not talk about; and if
you will tell me anything I do wrong I will correct it."
"Oh, you must not think it is anything so serious as that. You will
soon pick up from the ladies you will meet some notion of how you
differ from them; and if you should startle or puzzle them a little at
first by talking about the chances of the fishing or the catching of
wild-duck, or the way to reclaim bogland, you will soon get over all
that."
Sheila said nothing, but she made a mental memorandum of three things
she was not to speak about. She did not know why these subjects should
be forbidden, but she was in a strange land and going to see strange
people, whose habits were different from hers. Moreover, when her
husband had gone she reflected that these people, having no fishing
and no peat-mosses and no wild-duck, could not possibly be interested
in such affairs; and thus she fancied she perceived the reason why she
should avoid all mention of those things.
When in the evening Sheila came down dressed and ready to go out,
Lavender had to admit to himself that he had married an exceedingly
beautiful girl, and that there was no country gawkiness about her
manner, and no placid insipidity about her proud and handsome face.
For one brief moment he triumphed in his heart, and had some wild
glimpse of his old project of startling his small world with this
vision from the northern seas. But when he got into the hired
brougham, and thought of the people he was about to meet, and of the
manner in which they would carry away such and such impressions of the
girl, he lost faith in that admiration. He would much rather have
had Sheila unnoticeable and unnoticed--one who would quietly take her
place at the dinner-table, and attract no more special attention than
the flowers, for example, which every one would glance at with some
satisfaction, and then forget in the interest of talking and dining.
He was quite conscious of his own weakness in thus fearing social
criticism. He knew that Ingram would have taken Sheila anywhere in her
blue serge dress, and been quite content and oblivious of observation.
But then Ingram was independent of those social circles in which a
married man must move, and in which his position is often defined for
him by the disposition and manners of his wife. Ingram did not know
how women talked. It was for Sheila's own sake, he persuaded himself,
that he was anxious about the impression she should make, and that he
had drilled her in all that she should do and say.
"Above all things," he said, "mind you take no notice of me. Another
man will take you in to dinner, of course, and I shall take in
somebody else, and we shall not be near each other. But it's after
dinner, I mean: when the men go into the drawing-room don't you come
and speak to me or take any notice of me whatever."
"Mayn't I look at you, Frank?"
"If you do you'll have half a dozen people all watching you, saying
to themselves or to each other, 'Poor thing! she hasn't got over her
infatuation yet. Isn't it pretty to see how naturally her eyes turn
toward him?'"
"But I shouldn't mind them saying that," said Sheila with a smile.
"Oh, you mustn't be pitied in that fashion. Let them keep their
compassion to themselves."
"Do you know, dear," said Sheila very quietly, "that I think you
exaggerate the interest people will take in me? I don't think I can be
of such importance to them. I don't think they will be watching me as
you fancy."
"Oh, you don't know," he said. "I know they fancy I have done
something romantic, heroic and all that kind of thing, and they are
curious to see you."
"They cannot hurt me by looking at me," said Sheila simply. "And they
will soon find out how little there is to discover."
The house being in Holland Park they had not far to go; and just as
they were driving up to the door a young man, slight, sandy-haired and
stooping, got out of a hansom and crossed the pavement.
"By Jove!" said Lavender, "there is Redburn, I did not know he knew
Mrs. Lorraine and her mother. That is Lord Arthur Redburn, Sheila:
mind, if you should talk to him, not to call him 'my lord.'"
Sheila laughed and said, "How am I to remember all these things?"
They got into the house, and by and by Lavender found himself, with
Sheila on his arm, entering a drawing-room to present her to certain
of his friends. It was a large room, with a great deal of gilding and
color about it, and with a conservatory at the farther end; but the
blaze of light had not so bewildering an effect on Sheila's eyes as
the appearance of two ladies to whom she was now introduced. She had
heard much about them. She was curious to see them. Many a time had
she thought over the strange story Lavender had told her of the woman
who heard that her husband was dying in a hospital during the war, and
started off, herself and her daughter, to find him out; how there was
in the same hospital another dying man whom they had known some years
before, and who had gone away because the girl would not listen to
him; how this man, being very near to death, begged that the girl
would do him the last favor he would ask of her, of wearing his name
and inheriting his property; and how, some few hours after the strange
and sad ceremony had been performed, he breathed his last, happy in
holding her hand. The father died next day, and the two widows were
thrown upon the world, almost without friends, but not without means.
This man Lorraine had been possessed of considerable wealth, and the
girl who had suddenly become mistress of it found herself able to
employ all possible means in assuaging her mother's grief. They began
to travel. The two women went from capital to capital, until at
last they came to London; and here, having gathered around them
a considerable number of friends, they proposed to take up their
residence permanently. Lavender had often talked to Sheila about
Mrs. Lorraine--about her shrewdness, her sharp sayings, and the odd
contrast between this clever, keen, frank woman of the world and the
woman one would have expected to be the heroine of a pathetic tale.
But were there two Mrs. Lorraines? That had been Sheila's first
question to herself when, after having been introduced to one
lady under that name, she suddenly saw before her another, who was
introduced to her as Mrs. Kavanagh. The mother and daughter were
singularly alike. They had the same slight and graceful figure, which
made them appear taller than they really were, the same pale, fine
and rather handsome features, the same large, clear gray eyes, and
apparently the same abundant mass of soft fair hair, heavily plaited
in the latest fashion. They were both dressed entirely in black,
except that the daughter had a band of blue round her slender waist.
It was soon apparent, too, that the manner of the two women was
singularly different; Mrs. Kavanagh bearing herself with a certain
sad reserve that almost approached melancholy at times, while her
daughter, with more life and spirit in her face, passed rapidly
through all sorts of varying moods, until one could scarcely tell
whether the affectation lay in a certain cynical audacity in her
speech, or whether it lay in her assumption of a certain coyness and
archness, or whether there was any affectation at all in the matter.
However that might be, there could be no doubt about the sincerity of
those gray eyes of hers. There was something almost cruelly frank
in the clear look of them; and when her face was not lit up by some
passing smile the pale and fine features seemed to borrow something
of severity from her unflinching, calm and dispassionate habit of
regarding those around her.
Sheila was prepared to like Mrs. Lorraine from the first moment she
had caught sight of her. The honesty of the gray eyes attracted her.
And, indeed, the young widow seemed very much interested in the young
wife, and, so far as she could in that awkward period just before
dinner, strove to make friends with her. Sheila was introduced to
a number of people, but none of them pleased her so well as Mrs.
Lorraine. Then dinner was announced, and Sheila found that she was
being escorted across the passage to the room on the other side by the
young man whom she had seen get out of the hansom.
This Lord Arthur Redburn was the younger son of a great Tory duke;
he represented in the House a small country borough which his father
practically owned; he had a fair amount of ability, an uncommonly high
opinion of himself, and a certain affectation of being bored by the
frivolous ways and talk of ordinary society. He gave himself credit
for being the clever member of the family; and if there was any
cleverness going, he had it; but there were some who said that his
reputation in the House and elsewhere as a good speaker was mainly
based on the fact that he had an abundant assurance and was not easily
put out. Unfortunately, the public could come to no decision on
the point, for the reporters were not kind to Lord Arthur, and the
substance of his speeches was as unknown to the world as his manner of
delivering them.
Now, Mrs. Lorraine had intended to tell this young man something about
the girl whom he was to take in to dinner, but she herself had been
so occupied with Sheila that the opportunity escaped her. Lord Arthur
accordingly knew only that he was beside a very pretty woman, who was
a Mrs. Somebody--the exact name he had not caught--and that the few
words she had spoken were pronounced in a curious way. Probably, he
thought, she was from Dublin.
He also arrived at the conclusion that she was too pretty to know
anything about the Deceased Wife's Sister bill, in which he was, for
family reasons, deeply interested, and considered it more likely that
she would prefer to talk about theatres and such things.
"Were you at Covent Garden last night?" he said.
"No," answered Sheila. "But I was there two days ago, and it is
very pretty to see the flowers and the fruit; and then they smell so
sweetly as you walk through."
"Oh yes, it is delightful," said Lord Arthur. "But I was speaking of
the theatre."
"Is there a theatre in there?"
He stared at her, and inwardly hoped she was not mad.
"Not in among the shops, no. But don't you know Covent Garden
Theatre?"
"I have never been in any theatre, not yet," said Sheila.
And then it began to dawn upon him that he must be talking to Frank
Lavender's wife. Was there not some rumor about the girl having come
from a remote part of the Highlands? He determined on a bold stroke:
"You have not been long enough in London to see the theatres, I
suppose."
And then Sheila, taking it for granted that he knew her husband very
well, and that he was quite familiar with all the circumstances of the
case, began to chat to him freely enough. He found that this Highland
girl of whom he had heard vaguely was not at all shy. He began to feel
interested. By and by he actually made efforts to assist her frankness
by becoming equally frank, and by telling her all he knew of the
things with which they were mutually acquainted. Of course by this
time they had got up into the Highlands. The young man had himself
been in the Highlands--frequently, indeed. He had never crossed to
Lewis, but he had seen the island from the Sutherlandshire coast.
There were very many deer in Sutherlandshire, were there not? Yes, he
had been out a great many times, and had had his share of adventures.
Had he not gone out before daylight, and waited on the top of a hill,
hidden by some rocks, to watch the mists clear along the hillsides and
in the valley below? Did not he tremble when he fired his first shot,
and had not something passed before his eyes so that he could not see
for a moment whether the stag had fallen or was away like lightning
down the bed of the stream? Somehow or other, Lord Arthur found
himself relating all his experiences, as if he were a novice begging
for the good opinion of a master. She knew all about it, obviously,
and he would tell her his small adventures if only that she might
laugh at him. But Sheila did not laugh. She was greatly delighted to
have this talk about the hills and the deer and the wet mornings.
She forgot all about the dinner before her. The servants whipped off
successive plates without her seeing anything of them: they received
random answers about wine, so that she had three full glasses standing
by her untouched. She was no more in Holland Park at that moment than
were the wild animals of which she spoke so proudly and lovingly. If
the great and frail masses of flowers on the table brought her any
perfume at all, it was a scent of peat-smoke. Lord Arthur thought that
his companion was a little too frank and confiding, or rather that she
would have been had she been talking to any one but himself. He rather
liked it. He was pleased to have established friendly relations with
a pretty woman in so short a space; but ought not her husband to give
her a hint about not admitting all and sundry to the enjoyment of
these favors? Perhaps, too, Lord Arthur felt bound to admit to himself
there were some men who more than others inspired confidence in women.
He laid no claims to being a fascinating person, but he had had his
share of success, and considered that Sheila showed discrimination
as well as good-nature in talking so to him. There was, after all,
no necessity for her husband to warn her. She would know how to guard
against admitting all men to a like intimacy. In the mean time he
was very well pleased to be sitting beside this pretty and agreeable
companion, who had an abundant fund of good spirits, and who showed no
sort of conscious embarrassment in thanking you with a bright look
of her eyes or by a smile when you told her something that pleased or
amused her.
But these flattering little speculations were doomed to receive
a sudden check. The juvenile M.P. began to remark that a shade
occasionally crossed the face of his fair companion, and that she
sometimes looked a little anxiously across the table, where Mr.
Lavender and Mrs. Lorraine were seated, half hidden from view by a
heap of silver and flowers in the middle of the board. But though they
could not easily be seen, except at such moments as they turned to
address some neighbor, they could be distinctly enough heard when
there was any lull in the general conversation. And what Sheila heard
did not please her. She began to like that fair, clear-eyed young
woman less. Perhaps her husband meant nothing by the fashion in which
he talked of marriage and the condition of a married man, but she
would rather have not heard him talk so. Moreover, she was aware that
in the gentlest possible fashion Mrs. Lorraine was making fun of her
companion, and exposing him to small and graceful shafts of ridicule;
while he seemed, on the whole, to enjoy these attacks.
The ingenuous self-love of Lord Arthur Redburn, M.P., was severely
wounded by the notion that, after all, he had been made a cat's-paw
of by a jealous wife. He had been flattered by this girl's exceeding
friendliness; he had given her credit for a genuine impulsiveness
which seemed to him as pleasing as it was uncommon; and he had, with
the moderation expected of a man in politics who hoped some day to
assist in the government of the nation by accepting a junior lordship,
admired her. But was it all pretence? Was she paying court to him
merely to annoy her husband? Had her enthusiasm about the shooting of
red-deer been prompted by a wish to attract a certain pair of eyes at
the other side of the table? Lord Arthur began to sneer at himself for
having been duped. He ought to have known. Women were as much women
in a Hebridean island as in Bayswater. He began to treat Sheila with a
little more coolness, while she became more and more preoccupied with
the couple across the table, and sometimes was innocently rude in
answering his questions somewhat at random.
When the ladies were going into the drawing-room, Mrs. Lorraine
put her hand within Sheila's arm and led her to the entrance to the
conservatory. "I hope we shall be friends," she said.
"I hope so," said Sheila, not very warmly.
"Until you get better acquainted with your husband's friends you will
feel rather lonely at being left as at present, I suppose."
"A little," said Sheila.
"It is a silly thing altogether. If men smoked after dinner I could
understand it. But they merely sit, looking at wine they don't drink,
talking a few common-places and yawning."
"Why do they do it, then?" said Sheila.
"They don't do it everywhere. But here we keep to the manners and
customs of the ancients."
"What do you know about the manners of the ancients?" said Mrs.
Kavanagh, tapping her daughter's shoulder; as she passed with a sheet
of music.
"I have studied them frequently, mamma," said the daughter with
composure, "--in the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens."
The mamma smiled, and passed on to place the music on the piano.
Sheila did not understand what her companion had said; and indeed
Mrs. Lorraine immediately turned, with the same calm, fine face and
careless eyes, to ask Sheila whether she would not, by and by, sing
one of those northern songs of which Mr. Lavender had told her.
A tall girl, with her back hair tied in a knot and her costume copied
from a well-known pre-Raphaelite drawing, sat down to the piano and
sang a mystic song of the present day, in which the moon, the stars
and other natural objects behaved strangely, and were somehow mixed up
with the appeal of a maiden who demanded that her dead lover should be
reclaimed from the sea.
"Do you ever go down to your husband's studio?" said Mrs. Lorraine.
Sheila glanced toward the lady at the piano.
"Oh, you may talk," said Mrs. Lorraine, with the least expression of
contempt in the gray eyes. "She is singing to gratify herself, not
us."
"Yes, I sometimes go down," said Sheila in as low a voice as she could
manage without falling into a whisper, "and it is such a dismal place.
It is very hard on him to have to work in a big bare room like that,
with the windows half blinded. But sometimes I think Frank would
rather have me out of the way."
"And what would he do if both of us were to pay him a visit?" said
Mrs. Lorraine. "I should so like to see the studio! Won't you call for
me some day and take me with you?"
Take her with her, indeed! Sheila began to wonder that she did not
propose to go alone. Fortunately, there was no need to answer the
question, for at this moment the song came to an end, and there was a
general movement and murmur of gratitude.
"Thank you," said Mrs. Lorraine to the lady who had sung, and who was
now returning to the photographs she had left--"thank you very much.
I knew some one would instantly ask you to sing that song: it is the
most charming of all your songs, I think, and how well it suits your
voice, too!"
Then she turned to Sheila again: "How did you like Lord Arthur
Redburn?"
"I think he is a very good young man."
"Young men are never good, but they may be very amiable," said
Mrs. Lorraine, not perceiving that Sheila had blundered on a wrong
adjective, and that she had really meant that she thought him honest
and pleasant.
"You did not speak at all, I think, to your neighbor on the right:
that was wise of you. He is a most insufferable person, but mamma
bears with him for the sake of his daughter, who sang just now. He is
too rich. And he smiles blandly, and takes a sort of after-dinner view
of things, as if he coincided with the arrangements of Providence.
Don't you take coffee? Tea, then. I have met your aunt--I mean, Mr.
Lavender's aunt: such a dear old lady she is!"
"I don't like her," said Sheila.
"Oh, don't you, really?"
"Not at present, but I shall try to like her."
"Well," said Mrs. Lorraine calmly, "you know she has her
peculiarities. I wish she wouldn't talk so much about Marcus Antoninus
and doses of medicine. I fancy I smell calomel when she comes near.
I suppose if she were in a pantomime, they'd dress her up as a phial,
tie a string round her neck and label her 'POISON.' Dear me, how
languid one gets in this climate! Let us sit down. I wish I was as
strong as mamma."
They sat down together, and Mrs. Lorraine evidently expected to be
petted and made much of by her new companion. She gave herself pretty
little airs and graces, and said no more cutting things about anybody.
And Sheila somehow found herself being drawn to the girl, so that she
could scarcely help taking her hand, and saying how sorry she was to
see her so pale and fine and delicate. The hand, too, was so small
that the tiny white fingers seemed scarcely bigger than the claws of
a bird. Was not that slender waist, to which some little attention was
called by a belt of bold blue, just a little too slender for
health, although the bust and shoulders were exquisitely and finely
proportioned?
"We were at the Academy all the morning, and mamma is not a bit tired.
Why has not Mr. Lavender anything in the Academy? Oh, I forgot" she
added, with a smile. "Of course, he has been very much engaged. But
now I suppose he will settle down to work."
Sheila wished that this fragile-looking girl would not so continually
refer to her husband; but how was any one to find fault with her when
she put a little air of plaintiveness into the ordinarily cold gray
eyes, and looked at her small hand as much as to say, "The fingers
there are very small, and even whiter than the glove that covers them.
They are the fingers of a child, who ought to be petted."
Then the men came in from the dining-room. Lavender looked round to
see where Sheila was--perhaps with a trifle of disappointment that she
was not the most prominent figure there. Had he expected to find all
the women surrounding her and admiring her, and all the men going up
to pay court to her? Sheila was seated near a small table, and Mrs.
Lorraine was showing her something. She was just like anybody else. If
she was a wonderful sea-princess who had come into a new world, no one
seemed to observe her. The only thing that distinguished her from
the women around her was her freshness of color and the unusual
combination of black eyelashes and dark blue eyes. Lavender had
arranged that Sheila's first appearance in public should be at a very
quiet little dinner-party, but even here she failed to create any
profound impression. She was, as he had to confess to himself again,
just like anybody else.
He went over to where Mrs. Lorraine was, and sat down beside her.
Sheila, remembering his injunctions, felt bound to leave him there;
and as she rose to speak to Mrs. Kavanagh, who was standing by,
that lady came and begged her to sing a Highland song. By this time
Lavender had succeeded in interesting his companion about something or
other, and neither of them noticed that Sheila had gone to the piano,
attended by the young politician who had taken her in to dinner. Nor
did they interrupt their talk merely because some one played a few
bars of prelude. But what was this that suddenly startled Lavender to
the heart, causing him to look up with surprise? He had not heard the
air since he was in Borva, and when Sheila sang
Hark, hark! the horn
On mountain-breezes borne!
Awake, it is morn,
Awake, Monaltrie!--
all sorts of reminiscences came rushing in upon him. How often had
he heard that wild story of Monaltrie's flight sung out in the small
chamber over the sea, with a sound of the waves outside and a scent of
sea-weed coming in at the door and the windows! It was from the shores
of Borva that young Monaltrie must have fled. It must have been in
Borva that his sweetheart sat in her bower and sang, the burden of all
her singing being "Return, Monaltrie!" And then, as Sheila sang now,
making the monotonous and plaintive air wild and strange--
What cries of wild despair
Awake the sultry air?
Frenzied with anxious care,
She seeks Monaltrie--
he heard no more of the song. He was thinking of bygone days in Borva,
and of old Mackenzie living in his lonely house there. When Sheila had
finished singing he looked at her, and it seemed to him that she was
still that wonderful princess whom he had wooed on the shores of the
Atlantic. And if those people did not see her as he saw her, ought he
to be disappointed because of their blindness?
But if they saw nothing mystic or wonderful about Sheila, they at all
events were considerably surprised by the strange sort of music she
sang. It was not of a sort commonly heard in a London drawing-room.
The pathos of its minor chords, its abrupt intervals, startling
and wild in their effect, and the slowly subsiding wail in which it
closed, did not much resemble the ordinary drawing-room "piece." Here,
at least, Sheila had produced an impression; and presently there was
a heap of people round the piano, expressing their admiration, asking
questions and begging her to continue. But she rose. She would rather
not sing just then. Whereupon Lavender came out to her and said,
"Sheila, won't you sing that wild one about the farewell--that has the
sound of the pipes in it, you know?"
"Oh yes," she said directly.
Lavender went back to his companion.
"She is very obedient to you," said Mrs. Lorraine with a smile.
"Yes, at present," he said; and he thought meanly of himself for
saying it the moment the words were uttered.
Oh, soft be thy slumbers, by Tigh-na-linne's waters;
Thy late-wake was sung by Macdiarmid's fair daughters;
But far in Lochaber the true heart was weeping
Whose hopes are entombed in the grave where thou'rt sleeping.
So Sheila sang; and it seemed to the people that this ballad was even
more strange than its predecessor. When the song was over, Sheila
seemed rather anxious to get out of the crowd, and indeed walked away
into the conservatory to have a look at the flowers.
Yes, Lavender had to confess to himself, Sheila was just like anybody
else in this drawing-room. His sea-princess had produced no startling
impression. He forgot that he had just been teaching her the necessity
of observing the ways and customs of the people around her, so that
she might avoid singularity.
On one point, at least, she was resolved she would attend to his
counsels: she would not make him ridiculous by any show of affection
before the eyes of strangers. She did not go near him the whole
evening. She remained for the most part in that half conservatory,
half ante-room at the end of the drawing-room; and when any one talked
to her she answered, and when she was left alone she turned to the
flowers. All this time, however, she could observe that Lavender and
Mrs. Lorraine were very much engrossed in their conversation; that
she seemed very much amused, and he at times a trifle embarrassed;
and that both of them had apparently forgotten her existence. Mrs.
Kavanagh was continually coming to Sheila and trying to coax her back
into the larger room, but in vain. She would rather not sing any more
that night. She liked to look at flowers. She was not tired at all,
and she had already seen those wonderful photographs about which
everybody was talking.
"Well, Sheila, how did you enjoy yourself?" said her husband as they
were driving home.
"I wish Mr. Ingram had been there," said Sheila.
"Ingram! He would not have stopped in the place five minutes, unless
he could play the part of Diogenes and say rude things to everybody
all round. Were you at all dull?"
"A little."
"Didn't somebody look after you?"
"Oh yes, many persons were very kind. But--but--"
"Well?"
"Nobody seemed to be better off than myself. They all seemed to be
wanting something to do; and I am sure they were all very glad to come
away."
"No, no, no, Sheila. That is only your fancy. You were not much
interested, that is evident; but you will get on better when you know
more of the people. You were a stranger--that is what disappointed
you--but you will not always be a stranger."
Sheila did not answer. Perhaps she contemplated with no great hope or
longing the possibility of her coming to like such a method of getting
through an evening. At all events, she looked forward with no great
pleasure to the chance of her having to become friends with Mrs.
Lorraine. All the way home Sheila was examining her own heart to try
to discover why such bitter feelings should be there. Surely that girl
was honest: there was honesty in her eyes. She had been most kind to
Sheila herself. And was there not at times, when she abandoned the
ways and speech of a woman of the world, a singular coy fascination
about her, that any man might be excused for yielding to, even as any
woman might yield to it? Sheila fought with herself, and resolved that
she would cast forth from her heart those harsh fancies and indignant
feelings that seemed to have established themselves there. She would
_not_ hate Mrs. Lorraine.
As for Lavender, what was he thinking of, now that he and his young
wife were driving home from their first experiment in society? He
had to confess to a certain sense of failure. His dreams had not been
realized. Every one who had spoken to him had conveyed to him, as
freely as good manners would admit, their congratulations and their
praises of his wife. But the impressive scenes he had been forecasting
were out of the question. There was a little curiosity about her on
the part of those who knew her story, and that was all. Sheila bore
herself very well. She made no blunders. She had a good presence, she
sang well, and every one could see that she was handsome, gentle and
honest. Surely, he argued with himself, that ought to content the most
exacting. But, in spite of all argument, he was not content. He did
not regret that he had sacrificed his liberty in a freak of romance;
he did not even regard the fact of a man in his position having dared
to marry a penniless girl as anything very meritorious or heroic; but
he had hoped that the dramatic circumstances of the case would be
duly recognized by his friends, and that Sheila would be an object of
interest and wonder and talk in a whole series of social circles. But
the result of his adventure was different. There was only one married
man the more in London, and London was not disposed to pay any
particular heed to that circumstance.