MARGARET'S CONFESSION.
Margaret heard nothing of her lover's letter that night. It was not
thought desirable that the tranquillity of the evening should be
disturbed. Lady Caroline would have sacrificed a good deal sooner than
the harmonious influences of a well-appointed dinner and the passionless
refinement of an evening spent with her musical and artistic friends.
Mr. Adair's sisters were women of cultured taste, and she had asked two
gentlemen to meet them, therefore it was quite impossible (from her
point of view) to discuss any difficult point before the morning.
Margaret, who knew pretty well what was coming, spent a rather feverish
half-hour in her room before the ringing of the dinner-bell, expecting
every minute that her mother would appear, or that she would be summoned
to a conference with her father in the library. But when the dinner hour
approached without any attempt at discussion of the matter, and she
perceived that it was to be left until the morrow, it must be confessed
that she drew long breath of relief. She was quite sufficiently well
versed in Lady Caroline's tactics to appreciate the force and wisdom of
this reserve. "It is so much better, of course," she said to herself, as
her maid dressed her hair, "that we should not have any agitating scene
just before dinner. I dare say I should cry--if they were all very grave
and solemn I am sure I should cry!--and it would be so awkward to come
down with red eyes. And, of course, I could not stay upstairs to-night
Perhaps mamma will come to me to-night when every one is gone."
And armed with this anticipation, she went downstairs, looking only a
little more flushed than usual, and able to bear her part in the
conversation and the amusements as easily as if no question as to her
future fate were hanging undecided in the air.
But Lady Caroline did not stay when she visited Margaret that night as
usual in her pretty room. She caressed and kissed her with more than
customary warmth, but she did not attempt to enter into conversation
with her in spite of the soft appeal of Margaret's inquiring eyes. "My
dear child, I cannot possibly stay with you to-night," she said. "Your
Aunt Isabel has asked me to go into her room for a few minutes.
Good-night, my own sweetest: you looked admirable to-night in that lace
dress, and your singing was simply charming. Mr. Bevan was saying that
you ought to have the best Italian masters. Good-night, my darling," and
Margaret was left alone.
She was a little disturbed--a little, not very much. She was not apt to
be irritable or impatient, and she had great confidence in her parents'
love for her. She had never realized that she lived under a yoke.
Everything was made so smooth and easy that she imagined that she had
only to express her will in order to have it granted. That there might
be difficulties she foresaw: her parents might hesitate and parley a
good deal, but she had not the slightest fear of overcoming their
reluctance in course of time. She had always been a young princess, and
nobody had ever seriously combated her will.
"I am sure that if I am resolute enough I shall be allowed to do as I
choose," she said to herself; and possibly this was true enough. But
Margaret had never yet had occasion to measure her resolution against
that of her father and mother.
She went to bed and to sleep, therefore, quite peacefully, and slept
like a child until morning, while Wyvis Brand was frantically pacing up
and down his old hall for the greater part of the night, and Janetta was
wetting her pillow with silent tears, and Philip Ashley, sleepless like
these others, vainly tried to forget his disappointment in the perusal
of certain blue-books. Margaret was the cause of all this turmoil of
mind, but she knew nothing of it, and most certainly did not partake in
it.
She suspected that she was to be spoken to on the subject of Mr. Brand's
letter, when, after breakfast, next morning, she found that her father
was arranging to take his sisters and Miss Stone for a long drive, and
that she was to be left alone with her mother. Lady Caroline had
relented, so far as Alicia was concerned. It would not look well, she
had reflected, to send away her own kinswoman in disgrace, and although
she still felt exceedingly, angry with Alicia, she had formally received
her back into favor, cautioning her only not to speak to Margaret about
Wyvis Brand. When every one was out of the way Lady Caroline knew that
she could more easily have a conversation with her daughter, and
Margaret was well aware of her intent. The girl looked mild and
unobservant as usual, but she was busily engaged in watching for
danger-signals. Her father's manner was decidedly flurried: so much was
evident to her: the very way in which he avoided her eye and glanced
uneasily at her mother spoke volumes to Margaret. It did not surprise
her to see that Lady Caroline's face was as calm, her smile as sweet as
ever: Lady Caroline always masked her emotion well; but there was still
something visible in her eyes (which, in spite of herself, _would_ look
anxious and preoccupied) that made Margaret uncomfortable. Was she going
to have a fight with her parents? She hoped not: it would be quite too
uncomfortable!
"Come here, darling," said Lady Caroline, when the carriage had driven
away; "come to my morning-room and talk to me a little. I want you."
Margaret faintly resisted. "It is my practicing time, mamma."
"But if I want you, dearest----"
"Oh, of course it does not matter," said Margaret, with her usual
instinct of politeness. "I would much rather talk than practice."
The mother laid her hand lightly within her tall daughter's arm, and led
her towards the morning-room, a place of which she was especially fond
in summer, as it was cool, airy, and looked out upon a conservatory full
of blossoming plants. Lady Caroline sank down upon a low soft couch, and
motioned to the girl to seat herself beside her; then, possessing
herself of one of Margaret's hands and stroking it gently, she said with
a smile--
"You have another admirer, Margaret?"
This opening differed so widely from any which the girl had expected
that she opened her eyes with a look of intense surprise.
"Why should you be astonished, darling?" said Lady Caroline, with some
amusement in her light tones. "You have had a good many already, have
you not? And, by the by, you have had one or two very good offers,
Margaret, and you have refused everything. You must really begin to
think a little more seriously of your eligible suitors! This last one,
however, is not an eligible one at all."
"Who, mamma?" said Margaret, faintly.
"The very last man whom I should have expected to come forward," said
her mother. "Indeed, I call it the greatest piece of presumption I ever
heard of. Considering that we are not on visiting terms, even."
"Oh, mamma, do tell me who you mean!"
Lady Adair arched her pencilled eyebrows over this movement of
impatience. "Really, Margaret, darling! But I suppose I must be lenient:
a girl naturally desires to hear about her suitors; but you must not
interrupt me another time, love. It is that most impossible man, Mr.
Brand of the Red House."
Margaret's face flushed from brow to chin. "Why impossible, mamma?"
"Dear child! You are so unworldly! But there is a point at which
unworldliness becomes folly. We must stop short of that. Poor Mr. Brand
is, for one thing, quite out of society."
"Not in Paris or London, mamma. Only in this place, where people are
narrow and bigoted and censorious."
"And where, unfortunately, he has to live," said Lady Caroline, with
gentle firmness. "It matters to _us_ very little what they say of him in
Paris or London: it matters a great deal what the County says."
"But if the County could be induced to take him up!" said Margaret,
rather breathlessly. "He was at Lady Ashley's the other day, and he
seemed to know a great many people. And if you--we--received him, it
would make all the difference in the world."
"Oh, no doubt we could float him if we chose," said Lady Caroline,
indifferently; "but would it really be worth the trouble? Even if he
went everywhere, dear, he would not be a man that I should care to
cultivate; he has not a nice reputation at all."
"Nobody knows of anything wrong that he has done," Margaret averred,
with burning cheeks.
"Well, I have heard of one or two things that are not to his credit. I
am told that he drinks and plays a good deal, that his language to his
groom is something awful, and that he makes his poor little boy drunk
every night." In this version had Wyvis Brand's faults and weaknesses
gone forth to the world near Beaminster! "Then he has very disagreeable
people to visit him, and his mother is not in the least a lady--a
publican's daughter, and not, I am afraid, quite respectable in her
youth." Lady Caroline's voice sank to a whisper. "Some very unpleasant
things have been said about Mrs. Brand. Nobody calls on her. I am very
sorry for her, poor thing, but what could one do? I would not set foot
in the house while she was in it--I really would not. Mr. Brand ought to
send her away."
"But what has she done, mamma?"
"There is no necessity for you to hear, Margaret. I like your mind to be
kept innocent of evil, dear. Surely it is enough if I tell you that
there is something wrong."
The girl was silent for a minute or two: she was beginning to feel
abashed and ashamed. It was in a very low voice that she said at last--
"Mr. Brand would probably find another home for her if he married."
"Oh, most likely. But I do not know that what he would do affects us
particularly. He is quite a poor man: even his family is not very good,
although it is an old one, and it has been the proverb of the
country-side for dissipation and extravagance for upwards of a century."
"But if he had quite reformed," Margaret murmured.
"My darling, what difference would it make? I am sure I do not know why
we discuss the matter: it is a little too ridiculous to speak of it
seriously. Your father will give Mr. Wyvis Brand his answer, and in such
a way that he will not care to repeat his presumptuous and insolent
proposal, and there will be an end of it. I hope, dearest, you have not
been annoyed by the man? I heard something of his pursuing you with his
attentions at Lady Ashley's party."
"Mamma," said Margaret, in a tragic tone, "this must not go on. You must
not speak to me as you are doing now. You do not understand the position
of affairs at all. I----"
"I beg your pardon, darling--one moment. Will you give me that palm-leaf
fan from the mantel-piece? It is really rather a hot morning. Thanks,
dear. What was it you were saying?"
Lady Caroline knew the value of an adroit interruption. She had checked
the flow of Margaret's indignation for the moment, and was well aware
that the girl would not probably begin her speech in quite the same tone
a second time. At the same time she saw that she had given her daughter
a momentary advantage. Margaret did not reseat herself after handing her
mother the fan--she remained standing, a pale, slender figure, somewhat
impressive in the shadows of the half-darkened room, with hands clasped
and head slightly lifted as if in solemn protest.
"Mamma," she began, in a somewhat subdued voice, "I must tell you. Mr.
Brand spoke to me before he wrote to papa. I told him to write."
Lady Caroline put her eye-glass and looked curiously at her daughter.
"You told him to write, my dear child? And how did that come about?
Don't you know that it was equivalent to accepting him?"
"Yes, mamma. And I did accept him."
"My dear Margaret!" The tone was that of pitying contempt. "You must
have been out of your senses! Well, we can easily rectify the
matter--that is one good thing. Why, my darling, when did he find time
to speak to you? At Lady Ashley's?"
"In the park, near the forget-me-not brook," murmured Margaret, with
downcast eyes.
"He met you there?"
"Yes."
"More than once? And you allowed him to meet you? Oh, Margaret!"
Lady Caroline's voice was admirably managed. The gradual surprise,
shocked indignation, and reproach of her tones made the tears come to
Margaret's eyes.
"Indeed, mamma," she said, "I am very sorry. I did not know at first--at
least I did not think--that I was doing what you would not like. He used
to meet me when I went into the park, sometimes--when Alicia was
reading. Alicia did not know. And he was very nice, he was always _nice_
mamma. He told me a great deal about himself--how discontented he was
with his life, and how I might help him to make it better. And I should
like to help him, mamma: it seems to me it would be a good thing to do.
And if you and papa would help him too, he might take quite a different
position in the County."
"My poor child!" said Caroline. "My poor deluded child!"
She lay silent for a few moments, thinking how to frame the argument
which she felt was most likely to appeal to Margaret's tenderer
feelings. "Of course," she said at last, very slowly, "of course, if he
told you so much about his past life, he told you about his
marriage--about that little boy's mother."
"He said that he had been very unhappy. I do not think," said Margaret
with simplicity, "that he loved his first wife as he loves me."
"No doubt he made you think so, dear. His first wife, indeed! Did he
tell you that his first wife was alive?"
"Mamma!"
"He says he is divorced from her," said Lady Caroline, sarcastically,
"and seems to think it is no drawback to have been divorced. I and your
father think differently. I do not mean there is any legal obstacle; but
he took a very unfair advantage of your youth and inexperience by never
letting you know that fact--or, at any rate, letting us know it before
he paid you any attention. That stamps him as not being a gentleman,
Margaret."
"Who told you, mamma?"
"His cousin and your friend," said Lady Caroline, coldly: "Miss Janetta
Colwyn."
Margaret's color had fluctuated painfully for the last few minutes; she
now sat down on a chair near the open window, and turned so pale that
her mother thought her about to faint. Lady Caroline was on her feet
immediately, and began to fan her, and to hold smelling salts to her
nostrils; but in a very short time the girl's color returned, and she
declined any further remedies.
"I did not know this," she said at last, rather piteously, "but it is
too late to make any difference, mamma, it really is. I love Wyvis
Brand, and he loves me. Surely you won't refuse to let us love one
another?"
She caught her mother's hand, and Lady Caroline put her arms around her
daughter's shoulders and kissed her as fondly as ever.
"My poor dear, romantic Child!" she said. "Do you think we can let you
throw yourself quite away?"
"But I have given my promise!"
"Your father must tell Mr. Brand that you cannot keep your promise, my
darling. It is quite out of the question."
And Lady Caroline thought she had settled the whole matter by that
statement.