“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 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 venture 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.
CHAPTER XIII.
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.
IF Frank Lavender had been told that his love for his wife was in danger of waning, he would have laughed the suggestion to scorn. He was as fond of her and as proud of her as ever. Who knew as well as himself the tenderness of her heart, the delicate sensitiveness of her conscience, the generosity of self-sacrifice she was always ready to bestow? and was he likely to become blind, so that he should fail to see how fair and frank and handsome she was? He had been disappointed, it is true, in his fancies about the impression she would produce on his friends; but what a trifle was that! The folly of those fancies was his own. For the rest, he was glad that Sheila was not so different from the other women whom he knew. He hit upon the profound reflection, as he sat alone in his studio, that a man’s wife, like his costume, should not be so remarkable as to attract attention. The perfection of dress was that you should be unconscious of its presence; might that not be so with marriage? After all, it was better he had not bound himself to lug about a lion whenever he visited people’s houses.
Still, there was something. He found himself a good deal alone. Sheila did not seem to care much for going into society; and, although he did not much like the notion of going by himself, nevertheless one had certain duties towards one’s friends to perform. She did not even care to go down to the Park of a forenoon. She always professed her readiness to go, but he fancied it was a trifle tiresome for her; and so, when there was nothing particular going on in the studio, he would walk down through Kensington Gardens himself, and have a chat with some friends, followed generally by luncheon with this or the other party of them. Sheila had been taught that she ought not to come so frequently to that studio. Bras would not lie quiet. Moreover, if dealers or other strangers should come in, would they not take her for a model? So Sheila stayed at home; and Mr Lavender, after having dressed with care in the morning—with very singular care, indeed, considering that he was going to his work—used to go down to his studio to smoke a cigarette. The chances were that he was not in the humor for working. He would sit down in an easy-chair and kick his heels on the floor for a time, watching, perhaps, the sunlight come in through the upper part of the windows and paint yellow squares on the opposite wall. Then he would go out, and lock the door behind him, leaving no message whatever for those crowds of importunate dealers, who, as Sheila fancied, were besieging him with offers in one hand and purses of gold in the other.
One morning, after she had been in-doors for two or three days, and had grown hopelessly tired of the monotony of watching that sunlit square, she was filled with an unconquerable longing to go away, for however brief a space, from the sight of houses. The morning was sweet, and clear, and bright, white clouds were slowly crossing a fair blue sky, and a fresh and cool breeze was blowing in at the open French windows.
“Bras,” she said, going down stairs and out into the small garden, “we are going into the country.”