It was a Lover and His Lass

by Mrs. Oliphant

In all his life Lewis had never had such a problem to solve. In the face of success so probable that, but for the reverence of true feeling, which can never be certain of its own acceptance, and his sense of the wonderfulness of ever having belonging to him that foundation of all relationship, the love which means everything, he would almost have ventured to be sure—was very hard to throw himself back again, to undo all his former building, to present himself under a different light, in the aspect of one not indifferent, but hated, not a stranger, but one who had done them cruel wrong. It seemed to him that even Jean would forsake him, that Lilias, just trembling on the point of throwing herself into his arms, would turn from him with loathing, would flee from him, rejecting his very name with horror. Was it possible for a man to risk all this? And for what? For mere verbal faithfulness, for the matter-of-fact truth which would in reality be falsehood so far as he was concerned, which would convey not a true, but an erroneous, representation of him to their minds. Never had he even thought of so violent a step, one that would open all the question again, and lose him all the standing he had gained. If it had been done perhaps at first—but, now that things had gone so far, why should it be done? The question was debated between the two men until the heart of Lewis was sick with undesired conviction. Mr. Allenerly, to whom it was a matter of business, and who was an entirely unemotional person, had, it need not be said, the best of the argument. He held to his point without swerving; he was very friendly, but a little contemptuous perhaps of the excitement and trouble of Lewis, concluding in his heart that it was his foreign breeding, and that an Englishman (but, to Mr. Allenerly, even an Englishman was tant soit peu foreign), if ever he could have fallen into such an unlikely situation, would have taken care at least not to betray his emotion. The conclusion, however, which they came to at last was that this one evening, almost the last before the ladies left town, and which Lewis was to spend in their company, should be left to him—an indulgence of which Mr. Allenerly did not approve; but that after this the matter should be left in the lawyer's hands, and he should be entrusted with a full explanation of everything to lay before Margaret. With this he went away grumbling, shaking his head, but in his heart very pitiful, and determined so to fight his young client's battles that Miss Margaret, were she as obstinate as a personage whom Mr. Allenerly called the old gentleman, should be compelled to yield; and Lewis was left to prepare for his last night.

His last night! His mind was in so great a state of agitation when Mr. Allenerly left him that he could not settle to anything. At last he had to look in the face an explanation which he saw now must be made, in case his hopes were realized, which he had always pushed from him as unnecessary, or rather had never thought of at all since the first days when he had been in dread of discovery, and when the mere consciousness of a secret had made him uncomfortable. But it was long since he had got over that. And all through he tried to console himself, he had told no lie. He had been rash even in his statements. Had any one put two and three together, he might have been unmasked at any moment. In the entire absence of suspicion, he had talked about his life abroad, his old godfather, from whom his name and money had come, as he would have done had he been assuming no disguise. And indeed he had assumed no disguise; but yet he had, as the lawyer had said, that intention to deceive which is the foundation of all lying. And now the end of all this had come; he had not thought of the explanation that must be made at the end.

He had thought of carrying away his bride like the Lord of Burleigh, with no clearing up of matters until perhaps he should bring her home to her own great palace all decked and garnished, and shown to her the realization of all her dreams. Alas! he saw now that this could not be. The heiress of Murkley could not be wedded so lightly. Was it possible that he had never realized the settlements, the laying open of all things, the unveiling of every mystery? Perhaps it was because he had not thought of anything material in respect to Lilias, of anything but the permission to love her and to serve her, the hope of having her for his own, his companion, the epitome and representative of all loves and relationships. This had been enough to fill all his being; he had thought of nothing more; behind there was the dark shadow of an interview with Margaret to throw up the glory of the sunshine; but he had thought that when he went to Margaret with the news that Lilias loved him, though she might struggle, it would be but a passing struggle. They would not resist the love, the wish of Lilias. There would be a painful interview, and it was likely enough he would have need of all his patience to brave the bitter things that Margaret would say. But what could they do against Lilias? They would give in; and Lewis would have done nothing dishonourable, he would only have done what was justified by the usages of the country, what was so far justified by Nature—what the best in England declared to be the best way. It had been his intention for a long time to risk the final question to-night. He had put it off that none of his proceedings might be hurried or secret. He had given Margaret full warning. When she declared that pure selfishness was to be her rule, he had claimed it also for his. She had no right to expect, after the severe repulse he had received at her hands, that he would go to her again—at least, until he had tried his fortune at first hand from Lilias herself. And he meant to do so on this last night.

It is scarcely possible not to stray into the conventional when such words are the text. They have been as fruitful of truism as ever words were. But truism and conventional phrases now and then gain a certain glorification from circumstances, and Lewis went to his ball that night with all that had ever been said on the subject buzzing in his mind. The last! it must bring a pang with it, even if it were to be followed by higher happiness—the last of all those meetings which had divided his life, which had been the points of happiness in it, the only hours in the twenty-four that were of any particular importance. How sweet they had been; sometimes, indeed, crossed by awful shadows of tall heroes, with languishing eyes, exactly like (though fortunately he did not know this) the hero of Lilias' dreams. These shadows had crossed his path from time to time, filling his soul with pangs of envy and hatred; but the tall heroes had come to nothing. Either they had obliterated themselves, having other affairs in hand, or Lilias had put them quickly out of their pain, and she had always turned back to himself with a smile, always been ready to welcome him, to look to him for little services. Was she, perhaps, too confiding, too smiling, too much at her ease with him altogether, considering him more as a brother than a lover? This fear would now and then cross his mind, chilly like a breath of winter, but next time he would catch a glance of her eyes which made his heart leap, or would see her watch him when he was apart from her, as she watched no one else. But this gave him an exhilaration against which prudence had no power. And now this was the last time, and it must be decided once for all what was to come of it. Something must come of it, either the downfall of all his dreams, or something far more delightful, happy, and brilliant than the finest society could give. He had looked forward to this climax since ever the time of the ladies' departure had become visible, so to speak. At first a month or six weeks seemed continents of time; but when these long levels dwindled to the speck of a single week, it had become apparent to Lewis that he must delay no longer. He would have liked to say what he had to say in the woods of Murkley, in some corner full of freshness and verdure, in the silence, and quiet of Nature. To say it in a corner of a ball-room, with the vulgar music blaring and the endless waltz going on, was a kind of profanation. But there was no help for it. He had waited till the last day, and he had arranged the very spot, the best that could be found in such a scene, the shade of a little thicket of palms in a conservatory where there was little light, and where only habi;tués knew the secrets of the place. It had been before his mind's eye for days and nights past. The cool air full of perfumes, the Oriental leafage, the shaded light, the sounds of revelry coming faint from the distance. He would take Lilias there under pretence of showing her something, and, when they had reached this innermost hermitage, what if the thing he had to show her was his heart?

So Lewis had planned. He had been full of it all the morning. It seemed to run into his veins and brim them over. It was not that he was planning what to say, but that the theme was so strong in him that it said itself over and over, like a song he was singing. And that Mr. Allenerly, and his trenchant advice, his disapproval, his suggestion that filled Lewis with panic, his almost determination not to leave the matter where it was, should fall upon him precisely at this moment, was like the very spite of fate. Had the lawyer appeared before, or had he come after, one way or other, it was over—there would have been no particular importance in him; but that it should happen now!—no interruption could have been more ill-timed. It checked his élan at the moment of all others when he wanted his courage. It chilled him when he was at the boiling point. Lewis did his utmost to throw off the impression while he dined and prepared for the crisis. He had chosen to dine alone, that nothing might disturb him, but the feverish anticipation which was in him was so much twisted and strained by the lawyer's ill-starred appearance, that he was sorry he had not company to deliver him from himself and the too great pressure of his thoughts.

At last the moment came. He felt himself to change colour like a girl, now red, now white, as he set out for the ball, late because his heart had been so early. He did not know how he was to get through the first preliminaries of it, the talking and the dancing, until the time should come when he could find a pretext to lead Lilias away. The programme was nearly half through before he got into the room, where, after an anxious inspection, he saw his three judges, his fates, the ladies of Murkley, all standing together. Lilias was not dancing; she was looking, he thought, a little distraite. He stood and watched her from the doorway, and saw her steal one or two long anxious looks through the crowd. The sisters, he thought, looked grave—was it that Allenerly had not respected their bargain, that he had gone at once to make the threatened explanation? Lewis lingered gazing at them in the distance, racking his soul with questions which he might no doubt have solved at once. All at once he saw the countenance of Lilias light up; her face took a cheerful glow, her eyes brightened, the smile came back to her lip. Was this because she had seen him? He could not help feeling so, and a warm current began to flow back into his heart. She seemed to tell her sisters, and they, too, looked, Miss Jean waving her hand to him, and even Miss Margaret more gracious than her wont. How often a little gleam like this, too bright to last, fictitious even in its radiance, comes suddenly over the world before a storm! He made his way towards them, ignoring the salutations of his friends. When he reached them, Margaret herself, who generally used but scant courtesy to him, was the first to speak.

"We thought you were not coming," she said, "and I fear you have not been well. You're looking pale."

"Dear me, Margaret, he is looking anything but pale—he has just a beautiful colour," Miss Jean said, giving him her hand.

And then he felt that Margaret looked at him with interested eyes—with eyes that were almost affectionate.

"I do not like changes like that," she said. "I am afraid you are not well, and all this heat and glare is not good for you."