“Don’t let us anticipate anything so dreadful,” said the woman of the world. “A stepdaughter who does not marry is too much to look forward to. No, my dear, that is what you must do. You must bring her out well and get her off. Is she pretty? for, of course, she will be rich.”
“I don’t know. I know little about the children. My husband has been in India for a long time. He does not himself know so much of them as he ought.”
A shiver went through Lady Leighton’s elegant toilette. She kissed her friend with great pity. “I will stand by you, dear,” she said, “to the very utmost of my ability. You may be sure that anything I can do to help you;—but put on your bonnet in the meantime I have a list of houses I want you to look at. You can look at them at least—that does no harm; if not for this season, it will be a guide to you for the next. And it is always more or less amusing. After that there are some calls I have to make. Come, Evelyn, I really cannot leave you to mope by yourself here.”
And Evelyn went. She was lonely, and it was a greater distraction after all than buying cabinets in Wardour Street, and looking over even the most lovely old Persian rugs. Looking at houses, especially furnished houses, to be let for the season, is an amusement which many ladies like. It is curious to see the different ideas, the different habits of the people who want to let them, and to contrast the house that is furnished to be let and the house that is furnished to be lived in, which are two different things. Lady Leighton enjoyed the afternoon very much. She pointed out to her friend just how she could arrange the rooms in every house, so that the liveliest hopes were left in the mind of each householder; and by the time they got back to Madeline’s own house to tea, she declared herself too tired to do anything but lie on the sofa, and talk over all they had seen. “It lies between Wilton Place and Chester Street,” she said. “The last is the best house, but then the other is better furnished. That boudoir in Wilton Place is a little gem: or you might make the drawing-room in Chester Street exceedingly pretty with those old things you are always buying. The carpets are very bad, I must allow, but with a few large rugs—and it is such a good situation. Either of them would do. And so cheap!—a mere nothing for millionaires like you.”
Evelyn allowed, not without interest, that the houses were very nice. She allowed herself to discuss the question. Visions floated before her eyes of old habits resumed, and that flutter of movement, of occupation, of new things to see and hear, which forms the charm of town, caught her with its fascination. To step a little, just a little, not much, into the living stream, to feel the movement, though she was not carried away by it, was a temptation. At a distance it is easy to condemn the frivolity, the hurry, the rush of the season; but to touch its glittering surface over again after a long interval of banishment, and feel the thrill of the tide of life which is never still, which quickens the pulse and stimulates the mind, has a great attraction in it. Evelyn forgot for the moment the shock which had so driven her back from all pleasant projects. She allowed herself to see with Madeline’s eyes. No doubt it might be pleasant. It was now June, and a month of society in the modified way in which a late arrival, so long separated from all old acquaintances can alone hope to enjoy it, would not be too great an interruption to the home life, and it would leave time to have everything done at Rosmore. And it would postpone a little the introduction to many new elements of which she was afraid. She had been disappointed when her husband left her, to have the entrance upon her new life postponed at all, and the period of suspense prolonged. But that feeling began to give way to other feelings—feelings more natural. After the unutterably subdued life she had led in India, and before the novel and strange existence which was now waiting for her as the mother and guide of human creatures unknown to her, might not a moment of relaxation, of individuality, be worth having? She had been Mrs. Stanhope’s friend without any identity, with a life which was all bound up in the obscure rooms of the bungalow; and she was Mr. Rowland’s wife, the mother of his children, the head of his house, in an atmosphere altogether novel to her, and which of her, in her natural personality, knew nothing. Society was not her sphere, yet it was the nearest to any sphere in which she could stand as herself. And she allowed herself to be seduced. She thought that perhaps for a little James might enjoy it. Chester Street is very near the Park. To walk out in the June mornings, when even the London air is made of sunshine, to the Row and see the dazzling stream flow by—the beautiful horses, the beautiful people—girls and men whom it was a sight to see—to meet every five minutes an old acquaintance, to hear once more that babble about people and personal incidents which is so trivial to the outsider, but always attractive to those who know the names and can understand the situations about which everybody talks! And in the evening, to sit at the head of the table with perhaps a statesman, perhaps a poet, somebody of whom the whole world has heard, at her right hand, penetrating even the society chatter with a thread of meaning! Evelyn forgot for the moment various things that would not be so pleasant—that her husband would like to entertain a lord, but would not probably know much more about him, however great he might be—that he might be inclined to tell the price of his wine, and laugh the rich man’s laugh of satisfaction at the costliness of everything, and the ruin that awaited him in London. These little imperfections Evelyn was perhaps too sensitive of, but on this occasion they stole out of her mind. She began to discuss Chester Street with a gradually growing satisfaction. Or Park Lane? There was a house in Park Lane—and for a hundred pounds or two of rent, if he liked the scheme at all, James would not hesitate. She was quite sure of him so far as that was concerned.
“Chester Street has its advantages,” said Lady Leighton. “It is such a capital situation; and yet quite modest, no pretension. It is more like you, Evelyn. So far as Mr. Rowland is concerned, I feel sure, though I don’t know him, that he would prefer Belgrave Square, and the biggest rent in London.”
“How do you know that?” said Evelyn with an uneasy laugh.
“Because I know my millionaires,” said Lady Leighton gravely. “But for the end of the season, and an accidental sort of thing as it will be, I should not recommend that. Next year if you come up in May, and on quite lancé; but for this year, when you are only feeling your way—Chester Street, Evelyn! that’s my idea—and a few small parties, quite select, to meet some Indian man. I don’t want you to have just a common success like the vulgar rich people. Dear, no! quite a different thing—a success d’estime—a real good foundation for anything you might like to do after. You might take Marlborough House then—if you could get it—and stick at nothing.”
“We shall not attempt to get Marlborough House,” said Evelyn, with a laugh, “nor even anything more moderate. Mr. Rowland does not care for town. But I confess that you have beguiled me, Madeline, with your flattering tongue. I think—I should rather like—if he approves of the idea.”
“My dear, it is surely enough if you approve of the idea. He is not going to make you a black slave.”