"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.