"You shall have a cup of tea, dear Mrs Chiley," said Miss

Marjoribanks--"some of them will bring you one; but I can't let you take

any trouble about Barbara. She had to be stopped, you know, or she would

have turned us into a musical party; and as for Mr Cavendish, he is the

best assistant I have. There are so few men in Carlingford who can

flirt," said Lucilla regretfully. Her eyes fell as she spoke upon young

Osmond Brown, who was actually at that moment talking to Mr Bury's

curate, with a disregard of his social duties painful to contemplate.

Poor Osmond started when he met Miss Marjoribanks's reproachful eye.

"But then I don't know how," said the disconcerted youth,--and he

flushed, poor boy, being only eighteen, and not much more than a

schoolboy. As for Lucilla, who had no intention of putting up with that

sort of thing, she sent off the curate summarily for Mrs Chiley's cup of

tea.

"I did not mean you, my dear Osy," she said, in her motherly tone. "When

you are a little older we shall see what you can do; but you are not at

all disagreeable for a boy," she added encouragingly, and took Osmond's

arm as she made her progress down the room with an indulgence worthy of

her maturer years; and even Mrs Centum and Mrs Woodburn and the Miss

Browns, who were, in a manner, Lucilla's natural rivals, could not but

be impressed with this evidence of her powers. They were like the Tuscan

chivalry in the ballad, who could scarce forbear a cheer at the sight

of their opponent's prowess. Perhaps nothing that she could have done

would have so clearly demonstrated the superiority of her genius to her

female audience as that bold step of stopping the music, which began to

be too much, by sending off the singer downstairs under charge of Mr

Cavendish. To be sure the men did not even find out what it was that

awoke the ladies' attention; but then, in delicate matters of social

politics, one never expects to be understood by _them_.

Barbara Lake, as was to be expected, took a very long time over her cup

of tea; and even when she returned upstairs she made another pause on

the landing, which was still kept possession of by a lively stream of

young people coming and going. Barbara had very little experience, and

she was weak enough to believe that Mr Cavendish lingered there to have

a little more of her society all to himself; but to tell the truth, his

sentiments were of a very different description. For by this time it

must be owned that Barbara's admirer began to feel a little ashamed of

himself. He could not but be conscious of Lucilla's magnanimity; and, at

the same time, he was very well aware that his return with his present

companion would be watched and noted and made the subject of comment a

great deal more amusing than agreeable. When he did take Barbara in at

last, it was with a discomfited air which tickled the spectators beyond

measure. And as his evil luck would have it, notwithstanding the long

pause he had made on the landing, to watch his opportunity of entering

unobserved, Miss Marjoribanks was the first to encounter the returning

couple. They met full in the face, a few paces from the door--exactly,

as Mrs Chiley said, as if it had been Mr and Mrs Cavendish on their

wedding visit, and the lady of the house had gone to meet them. As for

the unfortunate gentleman, he could not have looked more utterly

disconcerted and guilty if he had been convicted of putting the spoons

in his pocket, or of having designs upon the silver tea-service. He

found a seat for his companion with all the haste possible; and instead

of lingering by her side, as she had anticipated, made off on the

instant, and hid himself like a criminal in the dark depths of a group

of men who were talking together near the door. These were men who were

hopeless, and good for nothing but to talk to each other, and whom Miss

Marjoribanks tolerated in her drawing-room partly because their wives,

with an excusable weakness, insisted on bringing them, and partly

because they made a foil to the brighter part of the company, and served

as a butt when anybody wanted to be witty. As for Lucilla, she made no

effort to recall the truant from the ranks of the Incurables. It was the

only vengeance she took upon his desertion. When he came to take leave

of her, she was standing with her hand in that of Mrs Chiley, who was

also going away. "I confess I was a little nervous this evening," Miss

Marjoribanks was saying. "You know it is always the second that is the

test. But I think, on the whole, it has gone off very well. Mr

Cavendish, you promised to tell me the truth; for you know I have great

confidence in your judgment. Tell me sincerely, do you think it has been

a pleasant evening?" Lucilla said, with a beautiful earnestness, looking

him in the face.

The guilty individual to whom this question was addressed felt disposed

to sink into the earth, if the earth, in the shape of Mr Holden's

beautiful new carpet, would but have opened to receive him; but, after

all, that was perhaps not a thing to be desired under the circumstances.

Mr Cavendish, however, was a man of resources, and not disposed to give

up the contest without striking a blow in his own defence.

"Not so pleasant as last Thursday," he said. "I am not fit to be a

lady's adviser, for I am too sincere; but I incline to think it is the

third that is the test," said the future M.P.; and Lucilla made him, as

Mrs Chiley remarked, the most beautiful curtsey; but then nothing could

be more delightful than the manner in which that dear girl behaved

through the whole affair.

"If everybody would only help me as you do!" said Miss Marjoribanks.

"Good-night; I am so sorry you have not enjoyed yourself. But then it is

such a consolation to meet with people that are sincere. And I think, on

the whole, it has gone off very well for the second," said Lucilla,

"though I say it that should not say it." The fact was, it had gone off

so well that the house could hardly be cleared of the amiable and

satisfied guests. A series of the most enthusiastic compliments were

paid to Lucilla as she stood in state in the middle of the room, and

bade everybody good-bye. "Next Thursday," she said, with the benevolent

grace of an acknowledged sovereign. And when they were all gone, Miss

Marjoribanks's reflections, as she stood alone in the centre of her

domains, were of a nature very different from the usual reflections

which the giver of a feast is supposed to make when all is over. But

then, as everybody is aware, it was not a selfish desire for personal

pleasure, nor any scheme of worldly ambition, which moved the mind of

Lucilla. With such motives it is only natural that the conclusion, "All

is vanity," should occur to the weary entertainer in the midst of his

withered flowers and extinguished lights. Such ideas had nothing in

common with the enlightened conceptions of Miss Marjoribanks. Perhaps it

would be false to say that she had suffered in the course of this second

Thursday, or that a superior intelligence like Lucilla's could permit

itself to feel any jealousy of Barbara Lake; but it would be vain to

deny that she had been _surprised_. And any one who knows Miss

Marjoribanks will acknowledge that a great deal was implied in that

confession. But then she had triumphed over the weakness, and

triumphantly proved that her estimate of the importance of her work went

far beyond the influence of mere personal feeling. In these

circumstances Lucilla could contemplate her withered flowers with

perfect calmness, without any thought that all was vanity. But then the

fact was, Miss Marjoribanks was accomplishing a great public duty, and

at the same time had the unspeakable consolation of knowing that she had

proved herself a comfort to her dear papa. The Doctor, it is true, after

looking on for a little with a half-amused consciousness that his own

assistance was totally unnecessary, had gradually veered into a corner,

and from thence had finally managed to escape downstairs to his beloved

library. But then the sense of security and tranquillity with which he

established himself at the fire, undisturbed by the gay storm that raged

outside, gave a certain charm to his retirement. He rubbed his hands and

listened, as a man listens to the wind howling out of doors, when he is

in shelter and comfort. So that, after all, Lucilla's sensation of

having accomplished her filial duties in the most effective manner was

to a certain extent justified, while at the same time it is quite

certain that nobody missed Dr Marjoribanks from the pleasant assembly

upstairs.

_Chapter XIII_

It was thus that the reign of Miss Marjoribanks became gradually

established and confirmed in Carlingford. It would be unnecessary to

enter into detail, or to redouble instances of that singular genius

which made itself so fully felt to the furthest limits of society, and

which even indeed extended those limits miraculously beyond the magic

circle of Grange Lane. Lucilla's powers beguiled not only the Powells

and Sir John Richmond's family, who were, as everybody knows, fully

entitled to be called county people, and came only on the Thursdays when

there was moonlight to light them home, which was not so much to be

wondered at, since county society in those parts was unusually heavy at

that period; but even, what was more extraordinary, Miss Marjoribanks

made a lodgment in the enemy's country on the other side, and made a

capture, of all people in the world, of John Brown, who lived in his

father's big old house at the _town_ end of George Street, and had

always laughed in his cynical way at the pretensions of Grange Lane. But

then Lucilla had, as all the ladies admitted, an influence over "the

gentlemen," of which, as was natural, they were slightly contemptuous,

even if perhaps envious, to some extent, of the gift. For everybody

knows that it requires very little to satisfy the gentlemen, if a woman

will only give her mind to it. As for Miss Marjoribanks herself, she

confessed frankly that she did her best to please Them. "For you know,

after all, in Carlingford, one is obliged to take them into

consideration," she said, with a natural apology. "So many of you poor

dear people have to go where they like, and see the people they want you

to see," Miss Marjoribanks added, fluttering her maiden plumes with a

certain disdainful pity in the very eyes of Mrs Centum and Mrs Woodburn,

who were well aware, both of them, at the bottom of their hearts, that

but for Dr Marjoribanks's dinners, their selfish mates would find

infinite objections to the Thursday evening, which was now an

institution in Carlingford. And Lucilla knew it just as well as they

did, which gave a certain sense of condescension and superiority to her

frankness. "I never pretend I don't try to please them," Miss

Marjoribanks said; and the matrons found themselves worsted as usual;

for, to be sure, it was not for _Them_, but for the good of the

community in general, that Lucilla exerted herself so successfully.

Nothing, indeed, could have proved more completely the disinterested

character of Miss Marjoribanks's proceedings than her behaviour in

respect to Mr Cavendish. After the bold and decisive action taken by

Lucilla on the first occasion when the flirtation between him and

Barbara Lake became apparent, the misguided young man returned to a

better frame of mind; perhaps out of admiration for her magnanimity,

perhaps attracted by her indifference, as is the known and ascertained

weakness of the gentlemen. And perhaps also Mr Cavendish was ashamed of

himself, as, in Mrs Chiley's opinion at least, he had so much reason to

be. Anyhow, whatever the cause, he behaved himself with the profoundest

decorum for several weeks in succession, and treated the contralto with

such overwhelming politeness as reduced poor Barbara out of her

momentary exultation into the depths of humiliation and despair. Mr

Cavendish was Lucilla's right hand for that short but virtuous period,

and fully justified Miss Marjoribanks's opinion, which was founded at

once upon reflection and experience, that to have a man who can flirt is

next thing to indispensable to a leader of society; that is to say, if

he is under efficient discipline, and capable of carrying out a grand

conception. Everything went on delightfully so long as this interval

lasted, and Lucilla herself did not disdain to recompense her faithful

assistant by bestowing upon him various little privileges, such as

naturally appertain to a subject whose place is on the steps of the

throne. She took him into her confidence, and made him to a certain

extent a party to her large and philanthropic projects, and even now and

then accepted a suggestion from him with that true candour and modesty

which so often accompany administrative genius. While this continued,

kind old Mrs Chiley kept caressing them both in her old-womanly way. She

even went so far as to call Mr Cavendish "my dear," as if he had been a

grandson of her own, and took her afternoon drive in her little brougham

past his house with a genial sense of prospective property through

Lucilla, which was wonderfully pleasant. To be sure there was not very

much known in Carlingford about his connections; but then everybody was

aware that he was one of the Cavendishes, and the people who are not

content with that must be hard indeed to please. As for Mrs Woodburn,

she, it was true, continued to "take off" Miss Marjoribanks; but then,

as Mrs Chiley justly remarked, she was a woman who would take off the

Archbishop of Canterbury or the Virgin Mary, if she had the opportunity;

and there was no fear but Lucilla, if once married, would soon bring her

to her senses; and then Mr Chiltern grew more and more feeble, and was

scarcely once in a fortnight in his place in Parliament, which was a

sacrifice of the interests of the borough dreadful to contemplate. And

thus it was in the interests of Lucilla, notwithstanding that ladies are

not eligible for election under such circumstances, that Mrs Chiley

carried on a quiet little canvass for the future M.P.

All this lasted, alas! only too short a time. After a while the level

eyebrows and flashing eyes and magnificent voice of Barbara Lake began

to reassert their ancient power. Whatever may be the predisposition of

the Cavendishes in general, this particular member of the race was

unable to resist these influences. Barbara had managed to persuade Rose

to persuade her father that it was necessary for her to have a new

dress; and Mr Lake was more persuadable than usual, being naturally

pleased to be complimented, when he went to give his lessons, on his

daughter's beautiful voice. "Her talent has taken another development

from _ours_," he said, with his little air of dignity, "but still she

has the artist temperament. All my children have been brought up to love

the beautiful;" and this argument had, of course, all the more effect

upon him when repeated by his favourite daughter. "And then Barbara has

such a noble head," said Rose; "when nobody is looking at her she always

makes a fine composition. To be sure, when she is observed she gets

awkward, and puts herself out of drawing; but that is not to be wondered

at. I don't want her to be fine, or to imitate the Grange Lane people;

but then, you know, papa, you always say that we have a rank of our own,

being a family of artists," said Rose, holding up her little head with a

pretty arrogance which delighted the father both in a paternal and a

professional point of view. "If one could only have made a study of her

at that moment," he said to himself regretfully; and he consented to

Barbara's dress.

As for the contralto, whose sentiments were very different from those of

her father and sister, she watched over the making of the robe thus

procured with a certain jealous care which nobody unacquainted with the

habits of a family of artists could understand. Barbara's talent was not

sufficiently developed to permit of her making it herself; but she knew

already by sad experience that Rose's views of what was picturesque in

costume were peculiar, and not always successful. And then it was only a

new dress to Rose, whereas to Barbara it was a supreme effort of passion

and ambition and jealousy and wounded _amour propre_. Mr Cavendish had

paid a great deal of attention to her, and she had naturally entertained

dreams of the wildest and most magnificent character--of riding in her

carriage, as she would herself have said, and dressing as nobody else

dressed in Carlingford, and becoming the great lady of the town, and

eclipsing utterly Lucilla Marjoribanks, who had been so impertinent as

to patronise her. Such had been Barbara's delicious dreams for a whole

fortnight; and then Mr Cavendish, who had taken her up, put her down

again, and went away from her side, and delivered himself over, heart

and soul, to the service of Lucilla. Barbara had no intellect to speak

of, but she had what she called a heart--that is to say, a vital centre

of inclinations and passions, all of which were set in motion by that

intense force of self-regard which belongs to some of the lower

organisations. Thus she arrayed herself, not in simple muslin, but in

all the power of fascination which a strong will and fixed purpose can

add to beauty. And in her excitement, and with the sense she had that

this was her opportunity, and that advancement and grandeur depended

upon the result of her night's work, her level eyebrows, and flushing

cheeks, and black intense eyes, rose almost into positive beauty. There

was nobody in the room to compare with her when she stood up to sing on

that memorable evening. The Miss Browns, for example, were very pretty,

especially Lydia, who was afterwards married to young Richmond, Sir

John's eldest son; and they were much _nicer_ girls, and far more

engaging than Barbara Lake, who was not even a lady, Mrs Chiley said.

But then her determination, though it was a poor enough thing in itself,

gave a certain glow and passion to her coarser beauty.

When she stood up to sing, the whole room was struck with her

appearance. She had her new dress on, and though it was only white

muslin like other people's, it gave her the air of a priestess inspired

by some approaching crisis, and sweeping forward upon the victim who

was ready to be sacrificed. And yet the victim that night was far from

being ready for the sacrifice. On the contrary, he had been thinking it

all over, and had concluded that prudence and every other reasonable

sentiment were on the other side, and that in many ways it would be a

very good thing for him if he could persuade Miss Marjoribanks to

preside over and share his fortunes. He had made up his mind to this

with all the more certainty that he was a man habitually prone to run

off after everything that attracted him, in direct opposition to

prudence--an inclination which he shared with his sister, who, as

everybody knew, had ruined poor Mr Woodburn's fortunes by "taking off,"

before his very face, the only rich uncle in the Woodburn family. Mr

Cavendish, with this wise resolution in his mind, stood up in the very

path of the contralto as she followed Miss Marjoribanks to the piano,

and, confident in his determination, even allowed himself to meet her

eye--which was rash, to say the least of it. Barbara flashed upon him as

she passed a blaze of intense oblique lightning from under her level

brows--or perhaps it was only that straight black line which made it

look oblique--and then went on to her place. The result was such as

might have been anticipated from the character of the man. Barbara was

in richer voice than ever before, and all but obliterated even Lucilla,

though she too was singing her best; and thus poor Mr Cavendish again

fell into the snare. That very night the flirtation, which had already

created so much talk, was resumed with more energy than ever; and

Barbara took Miss Marjoribanks's place at the piano, and sang song after

song in a kind of intoxication of triumph. This, to be sure, was visible

only to a small portion of the guests who crowded Lucilla's

drawing-room. But the result was soon so visible that all Carlingford

became aware of it. The hero wavered so much that the excitement was

kept up for many weeks; but still from the first nobody could have any

reasonable doubt as to how it was to end.

And it was while this process of seduction was going on that the

character of Miss Marjoribanks revealed itself in all its native

grandeur. Lucilla had various kind friends round her to advise her, and

especially old Mrs Chiley, whose indignation went beyond all bounds. "My

dear, I would never let her enter my door again--never!" cried the old

lady; "I told you long ago I never could bear her looks--you know I

warned you, Lucilla. As for her singing, what does it matter? You have a

much prettier voice than she has: everybody knows that a soprano is

perfect by itself, but a contralto is only a _second_," Mrs Chiley said,

with mingled wrath and satisfaction; "and, my dear, I should never let

her enter my house again, if it was me."

"Dear Mrs Chiley," said Lucilla, who was now, as usual, equal to the

occasion, "it is so nice of you to be vexed. You know I would do

anything to please you;--but, after all, there are thousands and

thousands of gentlemen, and it is not so easy to find a voice that goes

with mine. All my masters always said it was a quite peculiar second I

wanted; and suppose Barbara is foolish, that is not to say I should

forget _my_ duties," Miss Marjoribanks added, with a certain solemnity;

"and then, you know, she has no mother to keep her right."

"And neither have you, my poor dear," said Mrs Chiley, kissing her

protégée. As for Lucilla, she accepted the kiss, but repressed the

enthusiasm of partisanship with which her cause was being maintained.

"I have _you_," she said, with artless gratitude; "and then I am

different," added Lucilla. Nothing but modesty of the most delicate

description could have expressed the fact with such a fine reticence. No

doubt Miss Marjoribanks was different; and she proved her superiority,

if anybody could have doubted it, by the most beautiful behaviour. She

took no more notice of the unprincipled flirtation thus set agoing under

her very eyes, than if Mr Cavendish and Barbara Lake had been two

figures in gingerbread. So far as anybody knew, not even a flying female

shaft from Lucilla's bow, one of those dainty projectiles which the best

of women cast forth by times, had ever been directed against the

ungrateful young person who had made so unprincipled a use of her

admittance into Grange Lane; and the faithless gallant had not even the

gratification of feeling that Lucilla was "cool" to him. Whether this

singular self-denial cost Miss Marjoribanks any acute sufferings, nobody

could tell, but Mrs Chiley still marked with satisfaction that Lucilla,

poor dear, was able to eat her dinner, of which she had so much need to

support her strength; and after she had eaten her dinner Miss

Marjoribanks would go upstairs and show herself just as usual. She was

in perfect voice, and neither lost her colour, nor grew thin, nor showed

any of those external signs of a disappointment in love with which most

people are familiar. "It might have been different, you know, if my

affections had been engaged," she said to her sole and sympathising

counsellor; and Mrs Chiley, who had had a great deal of experience in

girls, became more and more of opinion that such sense was all but

superhuman.

Meantime the tide of public opinion ran very high in Carlingford against

Mr Cavendish, who had been so popular a little while before. If it had

been one of the Miss Browns, or a niece of the Colonel's, or indeed

anybody in Grange Lane, people might have passed over it--but one of Mr

Lake the drawing-master's daughters! The only person indifferent was Mrs

Woodburn, who ought to have known better; but then she was thoughtless,

like her brother, and liked it all the better, on the whole, that he

should transfer those attentions which he had been paying to Miss

Marjoribanks, and which in that quarter must have come to something, to

a little harmless amusement with Barbara, who, after all, was very

handsome, and had by times a little air of obdurate stupidity which

captivated the mimic. As for anything coming of _that_, Mrs Woodburn

rejected the idea with a simplicity which was perfectly consistent with

her insight into other people's weaknesses. She could put on Barbara's

stolid defiant look, and even make her eyebrows square, and give

something of an oblique gleam to her eyes, with the most perfect skill

and mastery of the character, and at the same time be just as stolid as

Barbara in respect to what was going on at her very hand, and to the

consequences which must follow. She did not want her brother to marry

Miss Marjoribanks, and yet she could not have said a word against so

unexceptionable a match; and accordingly it was quite a satisfaction to

her to see him turned aside in so perfectly legitimate a manner. She

added to her repertory a sketch of Barbara at the moment when, yielding

to Mr Cavendish's entreaties, she seated herself at the piano "for just

one song"; and being perfectly successful in the representation, Mrs

Woodburn took no further care about the matter. To be sure, the hero was

sufficiently experienced in such matters to know how to get out of it

when it should be the proper time.

Thus the affair progressed which was to have far more serious

consequences than these thoughtless persons dreamed of. Barbara ascended

again to the heights of exultation and enchantment. Perhaps she was even

a little in love; for, after all, she was young, and grateful to the man

who thus distinguished her from the world. Yet, on the whole, it is to

be feared that his house and his position in society, and the prospect

of unlimited millinery, were more to her than Mr Cavendish. All these

details were not perhaps contemplated by himself as he devoted himself

to the handsome contralto. He had not begun to dream, as Barbara had

done for a long time, of the wedding breakfast and the orange blossoms,

or even of furnishing a new drawing-room handsomer than Miss

Marjoribanks's, and giving parties which should be real parties and not

mere Thursdays. None of these imaginations occupied Mr Cavendish as he

followed Barbara's glowing cheeks and flashing eyes to his undoing. But

then if he did not mean it she meant it; and, after all, there are

occasions in which the woman's determination is the more important of

the two. So that, taking everything into consideration, there can be no

doubt that it was very fortunate that Lucilla's affections were not

engaged. She behaved as nobody else in Carlingford was capable of

behaving, and very few people anywhere, according to Mrs Chiley's

admiring belief. It was not for a vulgar antagonist like Barbara Lake to

touch Lucilla. The way in which she asked her to lunch and went on

practising duets with her was angelical--it brought the tears to Mrs

Chiley's eyes; and as for the domestic traitor whom Miss Marjoribanks

thus contrived to warm in her magnanimous bosom, she was sometimes so

full of spite and disappointment that she could neither eat her lunch

nor go on with her singing. For, to be sure, the dearest climax of her

triumph was wanting so long as Lucilla took no notice; and so far from

taking any notice, Miss Marjoribanks was sweeter and more friendly than

usual in her serene unconsciousness. "I am so afraid you have caught

cold," Lucilla would say; "if you don't feel clear in your lower notes,

we can pass over this passage, you know, for to-day. You must see papa

before you go away, and he will order you something; but, my dear

Barbara, you must take care." And then Barbara could have eaten her

fingers instead of the gloves which she kept biting in her vexation.

For, to tell the truth, if Miss Marjoribanks was not jealous, the

victory was but half a victory after all.

_Chapter XIV_

It was thus that Miss Marjoribanks went through all the preliminary

stages, and succeeded finally in making a triumph out of what would

certainly have been a defeat, and a humbling defeat, for anybody else.

She was much too sensible to deceive herself on the subject, or not to

be aware that to have a gentleman who was paying attention to her

withdrawn from her side in this open manner in the sight of all the

world, was as trying an accident as can happen to a woman. Fortunately,

as Lucilla said, her affections were not engaged; but then, apart from

the affections, there are other sentiments which demand consideration.

Everybody in Carlingford knew that Mr Cavendish had been paying her a

great deal of attention, and the situation was one which required the

most delicate skill to get through it successfully. Besides, Miss

Marjoribanks's circumstances were all the more difficult, since up to

this moment she had been perfectly sincere and natural in all her

proceedings. Policy had been constantly inspired and backed by nature in

the measures Lucilla had taken for the organisation and welfare of her

kingdom, and even what people took for the cleverest calculation was in

reality a succession of happy instincts, by means of which, with the

sovereignty of true genius, Miss Marjoribanks managed to please

everybody by having her own way. A little victory is almost necessary to

begin with, and it is a poor nature that does not expand under the

stimulus of victory; but now the young reformer had come to the second

stage. For, to be sure, that sort of thing cannot last for ever; and

this Lucilla, with the natural prevision of a ruling mind, had foreseen

from the beginning. The shape in which she had feared defeat, if a

nature so full of resources could ever be said to fear, was that of a

breakdown, when all the world was looking to her for amusement, or the

sudden appearance of a rival entertainer in Carlingford with superior

powers: though the last was but a dim and improbable danger, the first

was quite possible, and might have arrived at any moment. Miss

Marjoribanks was much too sensible not to have foreseen this danger in

all its shapes, and even in a kind of way to have provided against it.

But Providence, which had always taken care of her, as Lucilla piously

concluded, had spared her the trial in that form. Up to this moment it

had always providentially happened that all the principal people in

Carlingford were quite well and disengaged on the "evening." To be sure,

the ladies had headaches, and the married gentlemen now and then were

out of temper in Grange Lane as in other less favoured places; but these

social accidents had been mercifully averted on Thursdays, perhaps by

means of some special celestial agency, perhaps only through that

good-luck which had been born with Lucilla. Not in this vulgar and

likely manner was the trial of her strength to come.

But when she was at the height of her success, and full in the eye of

the world, and knew that everybody was remarking her, and that from the

sauces for which the Doctor's table was once so famed, but which even

Colonel Chiley no longer thought of identifying as Dr Marjoribanks's, to

the fashion of the _high_ white frock in which Lucilla had taught the

young ladies of Carlingford to appear of an evening, she was being

imitated on every hand,--at that moment, when an ordinary person would

have had her head turned, and gone wild with too much success, Miss

Marjoribanks suddenly saw her dragon approaching her. Just then, when

she could not put on a new ribbon, or do her hair in a different style,

without all Carlingford knowing of it--at that epoch of intoxication and

triumph the danger came, sudden, appalling, and unlooked for. If Lucilla

was staggered by the encounter, she never showed it, but met the

difficulty like a woman of mettle, and scorned to flinch. It had come to

be summer weather when the final day arrived upon which Mr Cavendish

forgot himself altogether, and went over to the insidious enemy whom

Miss Marjoribanks had been nourishing in her bosom. Fifty eyes were upon

Lucilla watching her conduct at that critical moment--fifty ears were on

the strain to divine her sentiments in her voice, and to catch some

intonation at least which should betray her consciousness of what was

going on.

But if Miss Marjoribanks's biographer has fitly discharged his duty, the

readers of this history will have no difficulty in divining that the

curiosity of the spectators got no satisfaction from Lucilla. Many

people even supposed she had not remarked anything, her composure was so

perfect. No growing red or growing pale, no harsh notes in her voice,

nor evidence of distracted attention, betrayed that her mind was

elsewhere while she was attending to her guests; and yet, to be sure,

she saw, just as other people did, that Barbara, all flushed and

crimson, with her eyes blazing under their sullen brows, stood in a glow

of triumph at the open window, with Mr Cavendish in devoted

attendance--a captive at her chariot-wheels. Matters had been

progressing to this point for some time; but yet the two culprits had

never before showed themselves so lost to all sense of propriety.

Instead of fainting or getting pale, or showing any other symptoms of

violent despite, Lucilla went upon her airy way, indirectly approaching

this point of interest. She went up and chatted with them, and ordered

Mr Cavendish to find a chair for Barbara. "What can you be thinking of

to let her stand so near the window? If she were to catch cold and lose

her voice, what should we all do?" said Lucilla; and she established the

two in the most commodious corner before she left them. "Take care she

does not go back again into the draught," were her parting words, and

even the culprits themselves could do nothing but stare at each other

with consternation and shame.

This was all the notice Lucilla took of what was going on. If she was

affronted, or if she was wounded, nobody found it out; and when Mrs

Chiley offered the tribute of her indignation and sympathy, it has

already been recorded how her young friend responded to her.

"Fortunately my affections never were engaged," Lucilla said, and no

doubt that was a great advantage; but then, as we have said, there are

other things besides affections to be taken into account when the woman

whom you have been kind to snaps up the man who has been paying

attention to you, not only before your eyes, but before the eyes of all

the world. The result of her masterly conduct on this occasion was that

her defeat became, as we have said, a triumph for Miss Marjoribanks. To

be sure, it is to be hoped that, in the sweets of their mutual regard,

the two criminals found compensation for the disapproval of the

spectators; but nothing could be more marked than the way in which

Carlingford turned its cold shoulder on its early favourite. "I never

imagined Cavendish was such a fool," Mr Centum said, who was a man of

few words; "if he likes that style of philandering, it is nothing to me,

but he need not make an idiot of himself." As for Mr Woodburn, he, as

was natural, inflicted vicarious punishment upon his wife. "It must be

all your fault," he growled, when he was taking her home, and had her

at his mercy, with that logic peculiar to a married man; "you ought to

tell him he's making an ass of himself. Why the deuce do you let him go

on with that tomfoolery? He'll lose all his chances in life, and then, I

hope, you'll be satisfied. You women can never see an inch before your

own noses!" cried the uncivil husband; which, it must be confessed, was

rather hard upon poor Mrs Woodburn, who had nothing to do with it, and

had indeed calculated upon perfecting her sketch of Barbara in the

quietness of the walk home; for as everybody lived in Grange Lane,

carriages were not necessary for Miss Marjoribanks's guests. They

flitted out and in, in the moonlight, with pretty scarfs thrown over

their heads and laced handkerchiefs tied under their chins, and made

Grange Lane between the two straight lines of garden-wall like a scene

in a masquerade.

While Mr Cavendish was thus suffering by deputy the contempt of his

former admirers, Lucilla, by herself in the abandoned drawing-room, was

thinking over the evening with a severe but on the whole satisfactory

self-examination. After the first shock, which she had encountered with

so much courage, Miss Marjoribanks was rather grateful than otherwise to

Providence, which had brought the necessary trial upon her in this form.

If it had been a breakdown and humiliating failure instead, how

different would her sensations have been! and Lucilla was quite

conscious that such a thing might have occurred. It might have occurred

to her, as it had done to so many people, to see Thursday come round

with a failure of all that made Thursday agreeable. Lady Richmond might

have had her influenza that day, and little Henry Centum his sudden

attack, which had kept his mother in conversation ever since, and Mrs

Woodburn one of her bad headaches; and as for the Miss Browns, there was

nothing in the world but Lucilla's habitual good fortune which prevented

them from having blacked their fingers with their photography to such an

extent as to make them perfectly unpresentable. Or, to turn to another

chapter of accidents, the last duet, which Barbara had insisted upon

singing without proper practice, might have broken down utterly. None of

these things had happened, and Lucilla drew a long breath of gratitude

as she thought how fortunate she had been in all these particulars. To

be sure, it was necessary to have a trial of one kind or other; and the

modest but intense gratification of having stood the test, diffused

itself like a balm through her bosom. No doubt she would have felt, like

most people, a certain pleasure in snubbing Barbara; but then there is,

on the other hand, a sweetness in sacrificing such impulses to the

sacred sense of duty and the high aims of genius which is still more

attractive to a well-regulated mind. Miss Marjoribanks herself put out

the candles, and went to her own room with that feeling of having

acquitted herself satisfactorily which many people think to be the

highest gratification of which the mind is capable. After all, it was by

no means certain that Mr Cavendish would be M.P. for Carlingford. Mr

Chiltern might live for twenty years, or he even might get better, which

was more unlikely; or supposing him to be comfortably disposed of,

nobody could say with any certainty that some man unknown at present in

Carlingford might not start up all of a sudden and gain the most sweet

voices of the shopkeepers, who were the majority of the community, and

quite outnumbered Grange Lane. It was thus that Lucilla consoled herself

as she went meditative but undaunted to her maiden rest.

While all this was going on, Dr Marjoribanks remained an amused

spectator, and chuckled a little quietly, without saying anything to

anybody, over the turn affairs had taken. The Doctor knew all about

everybody in Carlingford, and he had never been an enthusiast in favour

of Mrs Woodburn's brother, notwithstanding that the young man had been

received so warmly into society as one of the Cavendishes. Perhaps Dr

Marjoribanks being Scotch, and having a turn for genealogy, found the

description a little vague; but at all events there can be no doubt that

he laughed to himself as he retired from the scene of his daughter's

trial. The Doctor possibly thought, in a professional point of view,

that a little discipline of this description would be useful to Lucilla.

Perhaps he thought it would be good for her to find out that--though she

had managed to slip the reins out of his hands, and get the control of

affairs with a skill which amused the Doctor, and made him a little

proud of her abilities, even though he was himself the victim--she could

not go on always unchecked in her triumphant career, but must endure

like other people an occasional defeat. No doubt, had Lucilla been

really worsted, paternal feeling would have interposed, and Dr

Marjoribanks would to some extent have suffered in her suffering; but

then the case was different, and nobody required, as it turned out, to

suffer for Lucilla. The Doctor was pleased she had shown so much

spirit, and pleased to see how entirely she had discomfited her

antagonists, and turned the tables upon the "young puppy," in whom he

had no confidence; and withal Dr Marjoribanks chuckled a little in his

secret heart over the event itself, and concluded that it would do

Lucilla good. She had vanquished Nancy, and by a skilful jerk taken the

reins out of his own experienced hands. He was aware that he had been on

the whole very wisely governed since his abdication, but yet he was not

sorry that the young conqueror should feel herself human; so that nobody

except Mrs Chiley felt that mingled rage and disappointment with which

Barbara Lake had hoped to inspire Lucilla's bosom; and Mrs Chiley, so to

speak, had nothing to do with it. As for Barbara herself, she returned

home in a state of mingled spite and exultation and disgust, which

filled her sister with amazement.

"She is such an actor, you know," Barbara said; "she never will give in

to let you know how she is feeling--not if she can help it; but for all

that she must have felt it. Nobody could help feeling it, though she

carried it off so well. I knew how it would be, as soon as I had on a

dress that was fit to be seen."

"What is it that she could not help feeling?" said Rose. "I suppose it

is Lucilla you mean?"

"I should like to know what right she had to be kind to me," cried

Barbara, all glowing in her sullen but excited beauty; "and invite me

there, and introduce me in her grand way, as if she was any better than

I am! And then to look at all her India muslins; but I knew it would be

different as soon as I had a decent dress," said the contralto, rising

up to contemplate herself in the little mirror over the mantelpiece.

This conversation took place in Mr Lake's little parlour, where Rose had

been waiting for her sister, and where Barbara's white dress made an

unusual radiance in the dim and partially-lighted room. Rose herself was

all shrouded up in her morning dress, with her pretty round arms and

shoulders lost to the common view. She had been amusing herself as she

waited by working at a corner of that great design which was to win the

prize on a later occasion. Readers of this history who have studied the

earlier chapters will remember that Rose's tastes in ornamentation were

very clearly defined for so young a person. Instead of losing herself in

vague garlands of impossible flowers, the young artist clung with the

tenacity of first love to the thistle leaf, which had been the

foundation of her early triumphs. Her mind was full of it even while she

received and listened to Barbara; whether to treat it in a national

point of view, bringing in the rose and shamrock, which was a perfectly

allowable proceeding, though perhaps not original--or whether she should

yield to the "sweet feeling" which had been so conspicuous in her

flounce, in the opinion of the Marlborough House gentlemen--or whether,

on the contrary, she should handle the subject in a boldly naturalistic

way, and use her spikes with freedom,--was a question which occupied at

that moment all Rose's faculties. Even while she asked Barbara what the

subject was on which Lucilla might be supposed to be excited, she was

within herself thinking out this difficult idea--all the more difficult,

perhaps, considering the nature of the subject, since the design in this

case was not for a flounce, in which broad handling is practicable, but

for a veil.

"I wish you would not talk in that foolish way," said Rose; "nobody need

be any better than you, as you say. To be sure, we don't live in Grange

Lane, nor keep a carriage; but I wish you would recollect that these are

only accidental circumstances. As for dress, I don't see that you

require it; our position is so clearly defined; we are a family of----"

"Oh, for goodness gracious sake, do be quiet with your family of

artists!" cried Barbara. "Speak for yourself, if you please. I am not an

artist, and never will be, I can tell you. There are better places to

live in than Grange Lane; and as for keeping a carriage, I would never

call a little bit of a brougham a carriage, if it was me. Lucilla made

believe to take no notice, but she did not deceive me with that. She was

as disappointed as ever she could be--I dare say now she's sitting

crying over it. I never would have cared one straw if I had not wanted

to serve Lucilla out!" cried the contralto, with energy. She was still

standing before the glass pulling her black hair about into new

combinations, and studying the effect; and as for Rose, she too looked

up, and, seeing her sister's face reflected in the glass, made the

discovery that there was something like grimace in the countenance, and

paused in the midst of her meditations with her pencil in her hand.

"Don't put yourself out of drawing," said Rose; "I wish you would not do

that so often. When the facial angle is disturbed to that extent----But

about Lucilla, I think you are excessively ungrateful. Gratitude is not

a servile sentiment," said the little Preraphaelite, with a rising

colour. "It is a slavish sort of idea to think any one has done you an

injury by being kind to you. If that is the sort of thing you are going

to talk of, I think you had better go to bed."

"Then I will, and I shan't tell you anything," said Barbara

angrily--"you are so poor-spirited. For my part, do you think I'd ever

have gone to help Lucilla and sing for her, and all that sort of thing,

if it had not been to better myself? Nor I wouldn't have thought of

_him_ just at first, if it hadn't been to spite _her_. And I've done it

too. I'd just like to look in at her room window and see what she's

about. I dare say she is crying her eyes out, for all her looking as if

she took no notice. I know better than to think she doesn't care. And,

Rose, he's such a dear," said Barbara, with a laugh of excitement. To be

sure, what she wanted was to be Mrs Cavendish, and to have a handsome

house and a great many nice dresses; but at the same time she was young,

and Mr Cavendish was good-looking, and she was a little in love, in her

way, as well.

"I don't want to hear any more about it," said Rose, who was so much

moved as to forget even her design. "I can't think how it is you have no

sense of honour, and you one of the Lakes. I would not be a traitor for

a dozen Mr Cavendishes!" cried Rose, in the force of her indignation.

"He must be a cheat, since you are a traitor. If he was a true man he

would have found you out."

"You had better be quiet, Rose," said Barbara; "you may be sure I shall

never do anything for you after we are married, if you talk like that;

and then you'll be sorry enough."

"After you are married! has he asked you to marry him?" cried Rose. She

pushed away her design with both her hands in the vehemence of her

feelings, and regarded her sister with eyes which blazed, but which were

totally different in their blazing from those which burned under

Barbara's level eyebrows. It was too plain a question to have a plain

answer. Barbara only lighted her candle in reply, and smiled and shook

her head.

"You don't suppose I am going to answer after your insulting ways," she

said, taking up her candle; and she swept out of the room in her white

dress with a sense of pleasure in leaving this grand point unsettled. To

be sure, Mr Cavendish had not yet asked that important question; but

then the future was all before them, and the way clear. As for Rose, she

clenched her little fists with a gesture that would have been too

forcible for any one who was not an artist, and a member of a family of

artists. "To think she should be one of us, and not to know what honour

means," said Rose; "and as for this man, he must be a cheat himself, or

he would find her out."

This was how Mr Cavendish's defection from Lucilla took place; and at

the same time it is a satisfaction to know that the event was received

by everybody very much as little Rose Lake received it. And as for Miss

Marjoribanks, if Barbara could have had the malicious satisfaction of

looking in at the window, she would have been mortified to find that

right-minded young woman sleeping the sleep of the just and innocent,

and enjoying repose as profound and agreeable as if there had been no Mr

Cavendish in the world, not to speak of Carlingford;--which, to be sure,

was a result to be greatly attributed to Lucilla's perfect health, and

entire satisfaction with herself.

_Chapter XV_

This event was of far too much importance in the limited world of Grange

Lane to pass over without some of the many commentaries which were going

on upon the subject coming to the ears of Miss Marjoribanks, who was the

person principally concerned. As for the Doctor, as we have already

said, he was so far lost to a sense of his paternal duties as to chuckle

a little within himself over the accident that had happened to Lucilla.

It had done her no harm, and Dr Marjoribanks permitted himself to regard

the occurrence in a professional point of view, as supplying a little

alterative which he could scarcely administer himself; for it is well

known that physicians are seldom successful in the treatment of their

own families. He was more jocose than usual at breakfast for some days

following, and, on the morning of the next Thursday, asked if everybody

was to come as usual, with a significance which did not escape the young

mistress of the house.

"You know best, papa," she said cheerfully, as she poured him out his

coffee: "if there is anybody who is ill and can't come, it must be your

fault--but I did not hear that any one was ill."

"Nor I," said the Doctor, with a quiet laugh; and he could not help

thinking it would be good sport to see Cavendish come into the

drawing-room all by himself without any support, and make his appearance

before Miss Marjoribanks, and do his best to be agreeable, with an awful

consciousness of his bad behaviour, and nobody sufficiently benevolent

to help him out. The Doctor thought it would serve him right, but yet he

was not sufficiently irritated nor sufficiently sympathetic to lose any

of the humour of the situation; and it was with a little zest, as for

something especially piquant, that he looked forward to the evening. As

for Miss Marjoribanks, she too recognised the importance of the

occasion. She resolved to produce that evening a new _plat_, which had

occupied a corner of her busy mind for some time past. It was a crisis

which called for a new step in advance. She sat down by the window after

breakfast with various novel combinations floating in her creative

brain; and while she was revolving these ideas in her mind, Nancy came

in with more than her usual briskness. It is true that Lucilla had her

household well in hand, and possessed the faculty of government to a

remarkable extent; but still, under the best of circumstances, it was a

serious business to propose a new dish to Nancy. Dr Marjoribanks's

factotum was a woman of genius in her way, and by no means unenlightened

or an enemy of progress; but then she had a weakness common to many

persons of superior intelligence and decided character. When there was

anything new to be introduced, Nancy liked to be herself the godmother

of the interesting novelty; for, to be sure, it was her place, and Miss

Lucilla, though she was very clever, was not to be expected to

understand what came in best with the other dishes for a dinner. "I

ain't one as goes just upon fish and flesh and fowl, like some as call

themselves cooks," Nancy said. "If I have a failing, it's for things as

suits. When it's brown, make it brown, and don't be mean about the

gravy-beef--that's my principle; and when it ain't brown, mind what

you're a-doing of--and don't go and throw a heap of entrys and things at

a gentleman's head without no 'armony. I always says to Miss Lucilla as

'armony's the thing; and when I've set it all straight in my mind, I

ain't one as likes to be put out," Nancy would add, with a gleam in her

eye which betokened mischief. Miss Marjoribanks was much too sensible

not to be aware of this peculiarity; and accordingly she cleared her

throat with something as near nervousness as was possible to Lucilla

before she opened her lips to propose the innovation. Miss Marjoribanks,

as a general rule, did not show much nervousness in her dealings with

her prime minister, any more than in her demeanour towards the less

important members of society; and consequently Nancy remarked the

momentary timidity, and a flash of sympathy and indignation took the

place of her usual impulse of defiance.

"I heard as master said, there was some gentleman as wasn't a-coming,"

said Nancy. "Not as one makes no difference in a dinner; but I allays

likes to know. I don't like no waste, for my part. I ain't one as

calk'lates too close, but if there's one thing as I hates like poison,

it's waste. I said as I would ask, for Thomas ain't as correct as could

be wished. Is it one less than usual, Miss Lucilla?" said Nancy; and it

was Lucilla's fault if she did not understand the profound and indignant

sympathy in Nancy's voice.

"Oh, no; it is just the usual number," said Miss Marjoribanks. "It was

only a joke of papa's--they are all just as usual----" And here Lucilla

paused. She was thinking of the dish she wanted, but Nancy thought she

was thinking of Mr Cavendish, who had treated her so badly. She studied

the countenance of her young mistress with the interest of a woman who

has had her experiences, and knows how little _They_ are to be depended

upon. Nancy murmured "Poor dear!" under her breath, almost without

knowing it, and then a brilliant inspiration came to her mind. Few

people have the gift of interfering successfully in such cases, but then

to offer consolation is a Christian duty, especially when one has the

confidence that to give consolation is in one's power.

"Miss Lucilla, I would say as you've been doing too much, if anybody was

to ask me," said Nancy, moved by this generous impulse--"all them

practisings and things. They're well enough for young ladies as ain't

got nothing else to do; but you as has such a deal in your hands----If

there was any little thing as you could fancy for dinner," said Nancy,

in her most bland accents; "I've set it all down as I thought would be

nicest, allays if you approves, Miss Lucilla; but if there was any

little thing as you could fancy----" "Poor dear, it's all as we can do,"

she murmured to herself. The faithless could not be brought back again;

but Ariadne might at least have any little thing she could fancy for

dinner, which, indeed, is a very general treatment of such a case on the

part of perplexed sympathisers who do not know what to say.

Lucilla was so excited for the moment by this unusual evidence of her

own good fortune, that she had almost spoiled all by sitting straight up

and entering with her usual energy into the discussion--but instinct

saved Miss Marjoribanks from this mistake. She lost no time in taking

advantage of the opportunity, and instead of having a fight with Nancy,

and getting a reluctant consent, and still more reluctant execution of

the novelty, Lucilla felt that she was doing that excellent woman a

favour by naming her new dish. Nancy approved so thoroughly as to be

enthusiastic. "I always said as she had a deal of sense," she said

afterwards triumphantly. "There ain't one young lady in a hundred as

knows what's good for her, like Miss Lucilla." But notwithstanding this

fervent declaration of approval, Nancy, softened as she was, could not

but linger, when all was concluded, to give a little advice.

"I wouldn't worrit myself with all them practisings, Miss Lucilla, if I

was you," said her faithful retainer. "They're a deal too much for you.

I've took the liberty, when all was cleaned up, to go on the stair and

listen a bit, and there ain't nothing to equal it when you're a-singing

by yourself. I don't think nothing of them duets--and as for that

bold-faced brazen thing----"

"Oh, Nancy, hush!" said Lucilla; "Miss Lake has a beautiful voice. If

she does not look quite like a lady, it is not her fault, poor thing.

She has no mamma to set her right, you know. She is the best assistant I

have--she and Mr Cavendish," said Lucilla sweetly; and she gave Nancy a

look which moved the faithful servant almost to tears, though she was

not addicted to that weakness. Nancy retired with the most enthusiastic

determination to exert herself to the utmost for the preparation of the

little dish which Lucilla fancied. "But I wouldn't worrit about them

duets," she said again, as she left the room. "I wouldn't, not if I was

you, Miss Lucilla, asking pardon for the liberty: as for having no

mamma, you have no mamma yourself, and you the young lady as is most

thought upon in Carlingford, and as different from that brazen-faced

thing, with her red cheeks----"

"Hush, oh hush, Nancy," Lucilla said, as she sank back in her chair; but

Miss Marjoribanks, after all, was only human, and she was not so

distressed by these unpolished epithets as she might or perhaps ought to

have been. "Poor Barbara! I wish she could only look a little bit like a

lady," she said to herself; and so proceeded with her preparations for

the evening. She had all her plans matured, and she felt quite

comfortable about that evening which all her friends were thinking would

be rather trying for Lucilla. To tell the truth, when a thing became

rather trying, Lucilla's spirits rose. Mr Cavendish's desertion was,

perhaps, on the whole, more than compensated for by the exhilaration of

a difficulty to be encountered. She too began to forecast, like her

father, the possibilities of the evening, and to think of Mr Cavendish

coming in to dinner when there was nobody to support him, and not even a

crowd of people to retire among. Would he run the risk of coming, under

the circumstances? or, if he came, would he prostrate himself as he had

done on a previous occasion, and return to his allegiance? This question

roused Lucilla to a degree of energy unusual even to her who was always

energetic. It was then that the brilliant idea struck her of adjourning

to the garden in the evening--a practice which was received with such

enthusiasm in Carlingford, where the gardens were so pretty. She put on

her hat directly and went downstairs, and called the gardener to consult

him about it; and it was thus that she was employed when Mrs Chiley rang

the bell at the garden gate. If it had been anybody else in Carlingford,

Lucilla would have led her back again to the house, and said nothing

about the subject of her conference with the gardener; for it is always

best, as all judicious persons are aware, not to forestall these little

arrangements which make so agreeable a surprise at the moment; but then

Mrs Chiley was Miss Marjoribanks's special confidant. The old lady had

her face full of business that bright morning. She listened to what her

young friend proposed, but without hearing it, and said. "Oh, yes, my

dear, I am sure it will be charming," without the very least notion what

it was she applauded. "Let us go in and sit down a moment, for I have

something to say to you, Lucilla," Mrs Chiley said; and when they had

reached the drawing-room and shut the door, the Colonel's wife gave her

favourite a kiss, and looked anxiously in her face. "You have not been

to see me since Monday," said Mrs Chiley. "I am sure you are not well,

or you could not have stayed away so long; but if you did not feel equal

to going out, why did you not send for me, Lucilla, my poor dear?"

Though Miss Marjoribanks's thoughts at that moment were full of the

garden, and not in the least occupied with those more troublesome

matters which procured for her Mrs Chiley's sympathy, she placed the

kind old lady in the most easy chair, and sat down by her, as Mrs Chiley

liked to see a young creature do. Lucilla's affairs were too important

to be trusted to a young _confidante_ of her own age; but even a person

of acknowledged genius like Miss Marjoribanks is the better of some one

to whom she can open up her breast.

"Dear Mrs Chiley!" said Lucilla, "I am quite well, and I meant to have

come to see you to-day."

"My poor dear!" said Mrs Chiley again. "You say you are quite well for

you have such a spirit; but I can see what you have been going through.

I don't understand how you can keep on, and do so much. But it was not

_that_ that brought me here. There is some one coming to Carlingford

that I want you to meet, Lucilla. He is a relation of Mary Chiley's

husband, and as she does not get on very well with them, you know, I

think it is our duty to be civil. And they say he is a very nice man;

and young--enough," said Mrs Chiley, with a look of some anxiety,

pausing to see the effect produced upon Lucilla by her words.

Miss Marjoribanks had not, as she once confessed, a very vivid sense of

humour, but she laughed a little, in spite of herself, at the old lady's

anxious look. "Don't be sorry for me," she said; "I told you that

fortunately my affections were not engaged. I don't want any new

gentleman introduced to me. If _that_ was what I was thinking of, I

never need have come home," Lucilla said, with a little dignity; and

yet, to be sure, she was naturally curious to know who the new man, who

was very nice and young--enough, could be; for such apparitions were not

too plentiful in Carlingford; and it did not seem in reason that an

individual of this interesting description could come out of Colonel

Chiley's house.

"My dear, he is a clergyman," said Mrs Chiley, putting her hand on Miss

Marjoribanks's arm, and speaking in a half whisper; "and you know a nice

clergyman is always nice, and you need not think of him as a young man

unless you like. He has a nice property, and he is Rector of Basing,

which is a very good living, and Archdeacon of Stanmore. He has come

here to hold a visitation, you know; and they say that if Carlingford

was made into a bishopric, he is almost sure to be the first bishop; and

you know a bishop, or even an archdeacon, has a very nice position. I

want to be civil to him for Mary Chiley's sake, who is not on such terms

as we could wish with her husband's friends; and then I suppose he will

have to be a great deal in Carlingford, and I should like him to form a

good impression. I want you and your dear good papa to come and meet

him; and then after that--but one thing is enough at a time," the old

lady said, breaking off with a nod and a smile. She too had brought her

bit of consolation to Lucilla; and it was a kind of consolation which,

when administered at the right moment, is sometimes of sovereign

efficacy, as Mrs Chiley was aware.

"I am sure papa will be very happy," said Lucilla; "and, indeed, if you

like, I shall be very glad to ask him here. If he is a friend of yours,

that is quite enough for me. It is very nice to know a nice clergyman;

but as for being a young man, I can't see how that matters. If I had

been thinking of _that_, I need never--but I should think papa would

like to meet him; and you know it is the object of my life to please

papa."

"Yes, my poor dear," said the Colonel's wife, "and he would be

hard-hearted indeed if he was not pleased; but still we must consider

you a little, Lucilla. You do everything for other people, and you never

think of yourself. But I like to see you with nice people round you, for

my part," Mrs Chiley added--"really nice people, and not these

poor-spirited, ungrateful----"

"Hush, hush!" said Lucilla; "I don't know such nice people anywhere as

there are in Carlingford. Some people are never pleased with their

neighbours, but I always get on so well with everybody. It is my good

luck, you know; and so long as I have you, dear Mrs Chiley----"

"Ah, Lucilla!" said the old lady, "that is very kind of you--and you

could not have anybody that is fonder of you than I am; but still I am

an old woman, old enough to be your grandmother, my dear--and we have

your future interests to think of. As for all the vexations you have

had, I think I could find it in my heart to turn that ungrateful

creature to the door. Don't let her come here any more. I like your

voice a great deal better when you are singing by yourself--and I am

sure the Archdeacon would be of my opinion," said Mrs Chiley, with a

confidence which was beautiful to behold. It was true she had not seen

her new hero as yet, but that only left her so much more free to take

the good of him and his probable sentiments; for to persons of frank and

simple imagination a very little foundation of fact is enough to build

upon.

"Dear Mrs Chiley, it is so nice of you to be vexed," said Lucilla, who

thought it as well not to enter into any further argument. "Papa will be

delighted, I am sure, and I can come in the evening. The Colonel likes

to have only six people, and you will be three to start with, so there

can't be any room for me at dinner; and you know I don't mind about

dinner. I shall come in the evening and make tea for you--and if you

think he would like to come next Thursday----" said Lucilla graciously.

This was how it was eventually settled. Mrs Chiley went home again

through Grange Lane in the sunshine, with that little old-womanish

hobble which Mrs Woodburn executed with such precision, perfectly

satisfied with her success, and indulging herself in some pleasant

visions. To be sure, a nice clergyman is always nice to know, even

though nothing more was to come of it; and a new man in the field of

such distinguished pretensions, would be Lucilla's best defence against

any sort of mortification. As for Miss Marjoribanks herself, she was

thinking a great deal more of the new details for the approaching

evening than of anything else more distant, and consequently less

important; but, on the whole, she was by no means displeased to hear of

the Archdeacon. In such a work as hers, a skilful leader is always on

the outlook for auxiliaries; and there are circumstances in which a nice

clergyman is almost as useful to the lady of the house as a man who can

flirt. To be sure, now and then there occurs a rare example in which

both these qualities are united in one person; but even in the most

modest point of view, if he was not stupid or obstinately Low-Church,

there was nothing to despise in the apparition of the Archdeacon thus

suddenly blown to her very door. While she had the seats placed in the

garden (not too visibly, but shrouded among the shrubs and round the

trunks of the trees), and chose the spot for a little illumination,

which was not to be universal, like a tea-garden, but concentrated in

one spot under the big lime-tree, Lucilla permitted herself to speculate

a little about this unknown hero. She did not so much ask herself if he

would be dark or fair, according to the usage of young ladies, as

whether he would be High or Broad. But, however, that question, like

various others, was still hidden in the surrounding darkness.

This was how Mrs Chiley did her best to cheer up Lucilla in the

discouragement from which she supposed her young friend to be suffering.

It was perhaps a loftier expedient in one way than Nancy's desire that

she should have something she would fancy for dinner; but then there

could not be any doubt as to the kindness which prompted both

suggestions; and, after all, it is not what people do for you, but the

spirit in which they do it, which should be taken into consideration, as

Lucilla most justly observed.

_Chapter XVI_

That evening was one which all the people in Grange Lane had unanimously

concluded would be rather hard upon Miss Marjoribanks. To be sure, when

a crisis arrives there is always a certain excitement which keeps one

up; but afterwards, when the excitement is over, then is the time when

it becomes really trying. There was naturally, under these

circumstances, a larger assemblage than usual to watch the progress of

the little drama, and how Lucilla would behave; for, after all, society

would be excessively tame if it were not for these personal

complications, which are always arising, and which are so much better

than a play. As for the Doctor himself, the portion of the evening's

entertainment which particularly amused him was that which preceded all

the rest--the reception given by Lucilla to her guests at dinner, and

especially to the culprit, who came in quite alone, and found nobody to

stand up for him. Mr Cavendish, who felt to the full the difficulty of

his position, and, to tell the truth, was a little ashamed of himself,

came late, in order to abridge his trial as much as possible; but

Lucilla's habitual good-fortune was not confined only to her own

necessities, but seemed to involve everybody opposed to her in a

ceaseless ill-luck, which was very edifying to the spectators. Mr

Cavendish was so late that the other guests had formed into groups round

the room, leaving a great open space and avenue of approach to the lady

of the house in the middle; and the audience, thus arranged, was very

impatient and unfavourable to the lingerer who kept them waiting for

their dinner. When he came in at last, instead of doing anything to help

him, everybody ceased talking and looked on in stern silence as the

wretched culprit walked all the length of the room up to Lucilla through

the unoccupied space which exposed him so unmercifully on every side.

They all stopped in the middle of what they were saying, and fixed stony

eyes on him, as the dead sailors did on the Ancient Mariner. He had a

very good spirit, but still there are circumstances which take the

courage out of a man. To be sure, Miss Marjoribanks, when he reached her

at last, received Mr Cavendish with the utmost grace and cordiality, but

it is easy to imagine what must have been the feelings of the

unfortunate hero. The Balaclava charge itself, in the face of all the

guns, could have been nothing to the sensation of walking through that

horrible naked space, through a crowd of reproachful men who were

waiting for dinner; and it was only after it was all over, and Mr

Cavendish had safely arrived at Miss Marjoribanks's side, and was being

set at his ease, poor wretch, by her incomparable sweetness, that the

Doctor, with a certain grim smile on his countenance, came and shook

hands with his unfortunate guest.

"You are late," Dr Marjoribanks said, taking out the great watch by

which all the pulses of Grange Lane considered it their duty to keep

time, and which marked five minutes after seven, as everybody could see.

It was ten minutes after seven by the pretty French clock on the

mantelpiece, and at least twenty by the lowering countenances of Dr

Marjoribanks's guests. Mr Cavendish made the best of his unhappy

position, and threw himself upon Lucilla's charity, who was the only one

who had any compassion upon him; for to see Mrs Chiley's forbidding

countenance no one could have believed that she had ever called him "my

dear." "Dinner is on the table, papa," Miss Marjoribanks said, with a

little reassuring nod to the culprit who had made her his refuge; and

she got up and shook out her white draperies with a charitable commotion

for which her faithless admirer blessed her in his heart.

But the place at her left hand was not left vacant for Mr Cavendish; he

had not the spirit to claim it, even had he had the time; and the

consequence was that he found himself next to his brother-in-law at

table, which was indeed a hard fate. As for Lucilla, she was quite

radiant when the famous dish made its appearance which Nancy had

elaborated to please her, and told the story of its introduction to her

two next neighbours, in a half whisper, to their immense amusement.

"When the servants are gone I will tell you what we are laughing at,"

she breathed across the table to Mrs Chiley, who was "more than

delighted," as she said, to see her dear Lucilla keeping up so well; and

when the dessert was put upon the table, and Thomas had finally

disappeared, Miss Marjoribanks kept her promise. "I could not think how

I was going to get her to consent," Lucilla said, "but you know she

thought I was in low spirits, the dear old soul, and that it would be a

comfort to me." Though there was often a great deal of fun at Dr

Marjoribanks's table, nothing was ever heard there to compare with the

laughter that greeted Lucilla's narrative. Everybody was so entirely

aware of the supposed cause of the low spirits, and indeed was so

conscious of having speculated, like Nancy, upon Miss Marjoribanks's

probable demeanour at this trying moment, that the laughter was not mere

laughter, but conveyed, at the same time a confession of guilt and a

storm of applause and admiration. As for Mr Cavendish, it was alarming

to look at him in the terrible paroxysm of confusion and shame which he

tried to shield under the universal amusement. Miss Marjoribanks left

the dining-room that evening with the soothing conviction that she had

administered punishment of the most annihilating kind, without for a

moment diverging from the perfect sweetness and amiability with which it

was her duty to treat all her father's guests. It was so complete and

perfect that there was not another word to be said either on one side or

the other; and yet Lucilla had not in the least committed herself, or

condescended from her maiden dignity. As for Dr Marjoribanks, if he had

chuckled over it before, in anticipation, it may be supposed how he

enjoyed now this perfect vindication of his daughter's capacity for

taking care of herself. The sound of the victory was even heard

upstairs, where the young ladies at the open windows were asking each

other, with a little envy, what the men could be laughing at. There was,

as we have said, a larger assembly than usual that night. For one thing,

it was moonlight, and all the people from the country were there; and

then public curiosity was profoundly concerned as to how Lucilla was to

conduct herself on so trying an occasion. The laughter even jarred on

the sensitive feelings of some people who thought, where a young girl's

happiness was concerned, that it was too serious a matter to be laughed

at; but then Miss Marjoribanks was not a person who could be classed

with ordinary young girls, in the general acceptation of the word.

It was when things were at this crisis, and all eyes were directed to

Lucilla, and a certain expectation was diffused through the company,

that Miss Marjoribanks made that proposal of adjourning to the garden,

which was received with so much applause. Lucilla's instinct, or rather

her genius, had warned her that something out of the ordinary course of

proceedings would be expected from her on that special occasion. She

could not get up and make a speech to her excited and curious audience,

neither could she, apropos of nothing, tell over again the story which

had been received with such applause downstairs; and yet something was

wanting. The ordinary routine did not satisfy Lucilla's constituency,

who had come with the laudable intention of observing her on a trying

occasion, and watching how she got through it. "The air is so delicious

to-night that I had some seats placed in the garden," Miss Marjoribanks

said, "and if you all like we will sing to you up here, and give you as

much music as ever you please. You know I never would consent to be too

musical when everybody was in one room. It does not matter so much, when

there are a suite; but then papa, you know, is only a professional man,

and I have but one drawing-room," said Lucilla, with sweet humility. It

was Lady Richmond to whom she was addressing herself at the moment, who

was a lady who liked to be the great lady of the party. "It is only in

summer that we can be a little like you fine people, who have as many

rooms as you please. When you are at a little distance we will sing to

you all the evening, if you like."

"But, my dear, are you sure you feel able for so much exertion?" said

Lady Richmond, who was one of those people who did not think a young

girl's happiness a thing to be trifled with; and she looked with what

she described afterwards as a very searching expression in Miss

Marjoribanks's face.

"Dear Lady Richmond, I hope I am always able for my duty," said that

gentle martyr. "Papa would be wretched if he did not think we were all

enjoying ourselves; and you know it is the object of my life to be a

comfort to papa."

This was what the searching expression in Lady Richmond's eyes elicited

from Lucilla. The sentiment was perhaps a little different from that

which she had conveyed to her delighted auditors in the dining-room, but

at the same time it was equally true; for everybody in Carlingford was

aware of the grand object of Miss Marjoribanks's existence. Lady

Richmond went down to the garden at the head of a bevy of ladies, and

seated herself under the drawing-room windows, and placed a chair beside

her own for Mrs Chiley. "I am afraid that dear girl is keeping up too

well," Lady Richmond said; "I never saw such fortitude. All the young

people say she does not feel it; but as soon as I fixed my eyes on her I

saw the difference. You can always find out what a girl's feelings are

when you look into her eyes."

"Yes," said Mrs Chiley, with a little doubt, for she had been shaken in

her convictions by the universal laughter, though she was a little

mystified herself by Lucilla's anecdote; and then she had never been

gifted with eyes like Lady Richmond's, which looked people through and

through. "She goes through a great deal, and it never seems to do her

any harm," the old lady said, with a little hesitation. "It is such a

comfort that she has a good constitution, especially as her mother was

so delicate; and then Lucilla has such a spirit----"

"But one may try a good constitution too far," said Lady Richmond; "and

I am certain she is full of feeling. It is sure to come out when she

sings, and that is why I came to this seat. I should not like to lose a

note. And do tell me who is that horrid flirting, disagreeable girl,"

added the county lady, drawing her chair a little closer. By this time

the garden was full of pretty figures and pleasant voices, and under the

lime-tree there was a glimmer of yellow light from the lamps, and on the

other side the moon was coming up steady like a ball of silver over the

dark outlines of Carlingford; and even the two voices which swelled

forth upstairs in the fullest accord, betraying nothing of the personal

sentiments of their owners, were not more agreeable to hear than the

rustle and murmur of sound which rose all over Dr Marjoribanks's smooth

lawn and pretty shrubbery. Here and there a group of the older people

sat, like Lady Richmond and Mrs Chiley, listening with all their might;

and all about them were clusters of girls and their natural attendants,

arrested in their progress, and standing still breathless, "just for

this bar," as young people pause in their walks and talks to listen to a

chance nightingale. And, to be sure, whenever anybody was tired of the

music, there were quantities of corners to retire into, not to speak of

that bright spot full of yellow light under the lime-tree.

"Nobody but Lucilla ever could have thought of anything so delicious,"

was what everybody said. And then the two singers upstairs gave so much

scope to curiosity. "Do you think they are all by themselves?" Lydia

Brown was heard to ask, with a little natural anxiety; and the livelier

imaginations among the party set to work at once to invent impossible

tortures which the soprano might inflict on the contralto. But, to tell

the truth, the two singers were by no means alone. Half the gentlemen of

the dinner-party, who were past the sentimental age, and did not care

about moonlight, had gone upstairs according to their use and wont, and

remained there, finding, to their great satisfaction, room to move

about, and comfortable chairs to sit down in. They sat and chatted in

the corners in great content and good-humour, while Lucilla and Barbara

executed the most charming duets. Now and then old Colonel Chiley paused

to put his two hands softly together and cry "Brava!" but on the whole

the gentlemen were not much disturbed by the music. And then there were

a few ladies, who were subject to neuralgia, or apt to take bad colds in

the head, who preferred being upstairs. So that if Lucilla had meant to

pinch or maltreat her rival, circumstances would have made it

impossible. Miss Marjoribanks did nothing to Barbara, except incite her

to sing her very best; but no doubt she was the means of inflicting

considerable pain on Mr Cavendish, who stood at a little distance, and

looked and listened to both, and perhaps had inward doubts as to the

wisdom of his choice. Such was the arrangement of the personages of the

social drama, and it was in this way that everybody was occupied, when

an event occurred which at a later period awoke much excitement in

Carlingford, and had no small influence upon the future fate of some of

the individuals whose history is here recorded.

Everything was as calm and cheerful and agreeable as if Carlingford had

been a social paradise, and Miss Marjoribanks's drawing-room the seventh

heaven of terrestrial harmony. The sky itself was not more peaceful, nor

gave less indication of any tempest than did the tranquil atmosphere

below, where all the people knew each other, and everybody was friendly.

Lucilla had just risen from the piano, and there was a little pause, in

which cheers were audible from the garden, and Colonel Chiley, in the

midst of his conversation, patted his two hands together; and it was

just at that moment that the drawing-room door opened, and Thomas came

in, followed by a gentleman. The gentleman was a stranger, whom Miss

Marjoribanks had never seen before, and she made a step forward, as was

her duty as mistress of the house. But when she had made that one step,

Lucilla suddenly stood still, arrested by something more urgent than the

arrival of a stranger. Mr Cavendish, too, had been standing with his

face to the door, and had seen the new arrival. He was directly in front

of Lucilla, so near her that he could not move without attracting her

attention. When Miss Marjoribanks took that step in advance, Mr

Cavendish, as if by the same impulse, suddenly, and without saying a

word, turned right round like a man who had seen something terrible, at

which he dared not take a second look. He was too much absorbed at that

moment in his own feelings to know that he was betraying himself to

Lucilla, or even to be conscious that she was near him. His face was

more than pale; it had a green ghastly look, as of a face from which all

the blood had suddenly been withdrawn to reinforce the vital centre in

some failing of nature. His under-lip hung down, and two hollows which

had never been seen there before appeared in his cheeks. Miss

Marjoribanks was so taken by surprise that she stood still, thinking no

more of her duties, but regarding in utter dismay and amazement the look

of dead stupefied terror which thus appeared so unexpectedly before her.

Mr Cavendish had turned right round, turning his back upon a lady to

whom he had been talking the minute before. But he was as unconscious of

doing so as of the fact that he had presented the spectacle of his

miserable surprise and alarm in the most striking way to the one woman

present who had a right to entertain a certain grudge against him.

During this moment of unusual inaction on Lucilla's part, the stranger

had been led up to Colonel Chiley, and had shaken hands with him, and

was entering into some explanations which Miss Marjoribanks divined with

her usual quick intelligence; and then the old Colonel roused himself up

from his easy-chair, and leaned over to speak to Dr Marjoribanks, and

showed symptoms of approaching the lady of the house. All these

movements Lucilla followed breathlessly, with a strange consciousness

that only her presence of mind stood between her faithless suitor and a

real danger. And as if to prove the difference, Barbara Lake chose that

moment of all others to show her power, and made an appeal to Mr

Cavendish and his taste in music, to which the unhappy man made no

response. Miss Marjoribanks saw there was no time to lose. With a

fearless hand she threw down a great portfolio of music which happened

to be close to her, just at his feet, making a merciful disturbance. And

then she turned and made her curtsey, and received the homage of Mr

Archdeacon Beverley, who had arrived a day before he was expected, and

had come to look after his host, since his host had not been at home to

receive him.

"But you have broken your music-stand or something, Lucilla," said the

Colonel.

"Oh, no; it is only a portfolio. I can't think what could make me so

awkward," said Miss Marjoribanks; "I suppose it was seeing some one come

in whom I didn't know." And then the old gentleman, as was his duty,

paid the Archdeacon a compliment on having made such a commotion. "We

used to have the best of it in our day," said the old soldier; "but now

you churchmen are the men." Miss Marjoribanks heard the door open again

before this little speech was finished. It was Mr Cavendish, who was

going out with a long step, as if he with difficulty kept himself from

running; and he never came back again to say good-night, or made any

further appearance either out of doors or indoors. It is true that the

Archdeacon made himself very agreeable, but then one man never quite

makes up for another. Miss Marjoribanks said nothing about it, not even

when Mrs Woodburn came up to her with a scared face, and in full

possession of her own identity, which of itself was an extraordinary

fact, and proved that something had happened; but it would be vain to

say that Lucilla was not much excited by this sudden gleam of mystery.

It gave the Archdeacon an extraordinary and altogether unexpected

attraction; and as for Mr Cavendish, it was utterly inconceivable that a

man in society, whom everybody knew about, should give way to such a

panic. The question was, What did it mean?

_Chapter XVII_

The arrival of Mr Archdeacon Beverley in Carlingford was, for many

reasons, an event of importance to the town, and especially to society,

which was concerned in anything that drew new and pleasant people to

Grange Lane. For one thing, it occurred at the time when that first

proposal of elevating Carlingford into a bishopric, in order to relieve

the present bishop of the district of a part of his immense diocese, had

just been mooted; and supposing this conception to be ever carried out,

nobody could have been more eligible as first bishop than the

Archdeacon, who was in the prime of life, and a very successful

clergyman. And then, not to speak of anything so important, his presence

was a great attraction to the country clergy, especially as he had come

to hold a visitation. Notwithstanding all this, it is impossible to deny

that Mrs Chiley, his hostess, and even Miss Marjoribanks herself,

regarded the manner of his first appearance with a certain displeasure.

If he had only had the good sense to stay at home, and not come to seek

his entertainers! To be sure it is awkward to arrive at a house and find

that everybody is out; but still, as Mrs Chiley justly observed, the

Archdeacon was not a baby, and he might have known better. "Coming to

you the very first night, and almost in his travelling things, to take

the cream off everything," the old lady said, with tears of vexation in

her eyes; "and after that, what have we to show him in Carlingford,

Lucilla?" As for Miss Marjoribanks, she was annoyed, but she knew the

wealth of her own resources, and she was not in despair, like her old

friend. "They never know any better," she said sympathetically. "Dear

Mrs Chiley, there was nothing else to be expected; but, at the same

time, I don't think things are so very bad," said Lucilla; for she had

naturally a confidence in herself of which even Mrs Chiley's admiring

faith fell short.

The Archdeacon himself took it quite cheerfully, as if it was the most

natural thing in the world. "I have no doubt it was a very pleasant

party, if one could have got the key-note," he said, in his

Broad-Church way, as if there was nothing more to be said on the

subject, and Lucilla's Thursday was the merest ordinary assembly. For

there could be no doubt that he was Broad-Church, even though his

antecedents had not proclaimed the fact. He had a way of talking on many

subjects which alarmed his hostess. It was not that there was anything

objectionable in what he said--for, to be sure, a clergyman and an

archdeacon may say a great many things that ordinary people would not

like to venture on,--but still it was impossible to tell what it might

lead to; for it is not everybody who knows when to stop, as Mr Beverley

in his position might be expected to do. It was the custom of good

society in Carlingford to give a respectful assent, for example, to Mr

Bury's extreme Low-Churchism--as if it were profane, as it certainly was

not respectable, to differ from the Rector--and to give him as wide a

field as possible for his missionary operations by keeping out of the

way. But Mr Beverley had not the least regard for respectability, nor

that respect for religion which consists in keeping as clear of it as

possible; and the way in which he spoke of Mr Bury's views wounded some

people's feelings. Altogether, he was, as Mrs Chiley said, an anxious

person to have in the house; for he just as often agreed with the

gentlemen in their loose ways of thinking, as with the more correct

opinions by which the wives and mothers who had charge of Their morality

strove hard to keep them in the right way; and that was the reverse of

what one naturally expected from a clergyman. He was very nice, and had

a nice position; and, under all the circumstances, it was not only a

duty to pay attention to him, but a duty from which results of a most

agreeable character might spring; but still, though she could not be

otherwise than kind, it would be impossible to say that it was out of

personal predilection that Mrs Chiley devoted herself to her guest. She

admitted frankly that he was not like what clergymen were in her time.

For one thing, he seemed to think that every silly boy and girl ought to

have an opinion and be consulted, as if they had anything to do with

it--which was just the way to turn their heads, and make them utterly

insupportable. On the whole, perhaps, the old lady was more charitable

to Mary Chiley, and understood better how it was that she, brought up in

sound Church principles, did not get on so well as might be desired with

her husband's family, after a week of the Archdeacon. And yet he was a

delightful person, and full of information, as everybody admitted; and

if Carlingford should be erected into a bishopric, as would be only

right--and if Mr Beverley should happen to be appointed bishop, as was

highly probable--then it would be a pleasure to think that one had been

kind to him. At the same time, it must be owned that he showed a great

want of tact in coming to Miss Marjoribanks's Thursday on the night of

his arrival, and thus brushing, as it were, the very cream off his

introduction to Grange Lane. And Mrs Chiley still sighed a little over

Mr Cavendish, and thought within herself that it was not his fault, but

that designing, artful creature, who was enough to lead any man wrong.

For it was very clear to the meanest capacity that nobody could ever

call the Archdeacon "my dear," as, with all his faults, it had been

possible to call Mr Cavendish. And by this line of thought Mrs Chiley

was led to regret Mr Cavendish, and to wonder what had become of him,

and what family affairs it could be that had taken him so suddenly away.

A great many people in Carlingford were at that moment occupied by the

same wonders and regrets. Some people thought he was frightened to find

how far he had gone with _that_ Miss Lake, and had left town for a

little to be out of the way; and some thought he must have been

speculating, and have lost money. To tell the truth, it was very strange

that he should have disappeared so suddenly,--just at the moment, too,

when old Mr Chiltern had one of his bad attacks of bronchitis, which Dr

Marjoribanks himself had admitted might carry him off any day. Nothing

could be more important to the future interests of young Cavendish than

to be on the spot at this critical moment, and yet he had disappeared

without telling anybody he was going, or where he was going, which was

on the whole a perfectly unexplainable proceeding. His very servants, as

had been ascertained by some inquiring mind in the community, were

unaware of his intention up to the very last moment; and certainly he

had not said good-bye to anybody before leaving Dr Marjoribanks's garden

on that Thursday evening. Mr Woodburn, who was not a person of very

refined perceptions, was the only man who found his disappearance quite

natural. "After making such a deuced ass of himself, by George! what

could the fellow do?" said his brother-in-law, who naturally enjoyed the

discomfiture of so near a connection; and this was no doubt a

providential circumstance for Mrs Woodburn, who was thus saved from the

necessity of explaining or accounting for her brother's unexpected

disappearance; but it failed to satisfy the general community, who did

not think Mr Cavendish likely to give in at the first blow even of so

distinguished an antagonist as Miss Marjoribanks. Some of the more

charitable inhabitants of Grange Lane concluded that it must be the

sudden illness of some relative which had called him away; but then,

though he was well known to be one of the Cavendishes, neither he nor

his sister ever spoke much of their connections; and, on the whole,

public opinion fluctuated between the two first suggestions--which

seemed truest to nature at least, whether or not they might be fully

corroborated by fact--which were, either that Mr Cavendish had taken

fright, as he might very naturally have done, at the advanced state of

his relations with Barbara Lake; or that he had speculated, and lost

money. In either case his departure would have been natural enough, and

need not, perhaps, have been accomplished with quite so much

precipitation; but still such a community as that in Grange Lane was in

circumstances to comprehend how a young man might take fright and leave

home, either because of losing a lot of money, or getting entangled with

a drawing-master's daughter.

The immediate result, so far as society was concerned, was one for which

people did not know whether to be most glad or sorry. Mrs Woodburn, who

kept half the people in Grange Lane in terror of their lives, seemed to

have lost all her inspiration now her brother was away. She did not seem

to have the heart to take off anybody, which was quite a serious matter

for the amusement of the community. To be sure, some people were

thankful, as supposing themselves exempted from caricature; but then

unfortunately, as has been said, the people who were most afraid for Mrs

Woodburn were precisely those who were unworthy of her trouble, and had

nothing about them to give occupation to her graphic powers. As for Miss

Marjoribanks, who had supplied one of the mimic's most effective

studies, she was much disturbed by the failure of this element of

entertainment. "I have always thought it very strange that I never had

any sense of humour," Lucilla said; "but it would not do, you know, if

all the world was like me; and society would be nothing if everybody did

not exert themselves to the best of their abilities." There was a

mournful intonation in Lucilla's voice as she said this; for, to tell

the truth, since Mr Cavendish's departure she had been dreadfully

sensible of the utter absence of any man who could flirt. As for Osmond

Brown and the other boys of his age, it might be possible to train them,

but at the best they were only a provision for the future, and in the

meantime Miss Marjoribanks could not but be sensible of her loss. She

lamented it with such sincerity that all the world thought her the most

perfect actress in existence. "I have nothing to say against any of

you," Lucilla would say, contemplating with the eye of an artist the

young men of Grange Lane who were her raw material. "I dare say you will

all fall in love with somebody sooner or later, and be very happy and

good for nothing; but you are no assistance in any way to society. It is

Mr Cavendish I am sighing for," said the woman of genius, with the

candour of a great mind; and even Mrs Woodburn was beguiled out of her

despondency by a study so unparalleled. All this time, however, Lucilla

had not forgotten the last look of her faithless admirer as he faced

round upon her when Mr Archdeacon Beverley came into the room. She too,

like everybody else, wondered innocently why Mr Cavendish had gone away,

and when he was coming back again; but she never hinted to any one that

the Archdeacon _had_ anything to do with it; for indeed, as she said to

herself, she had no positive evidence except that of a look that the

Archdeacon had anything to do with it. By which it will be seen that

Miss Marjoribanks's prudence equalled her other great qualities. It

would be wrong to say, however, that her curiosity was not excited, and

that in a very lively way; for the vague wonder of the public mind over

a strange fact, could never be compared in intensity to the surprise and

curiosity excited by something one has actually seen, and which gives

one, as it were, a share in the secret,--if indeed there was a secret,

which was a matter upon which Lucilla within herself had quite made up

her mind.

As for the Archdeacon, the place which he took in society was one quite

different from that which had been filled by Mr Cavendish, as, indeed,

was natural. He was one of those men who are very strong for the

masculine side of Christianity; and when he was with the ladies, he had

a sense that he ought to be paid attention to, instead of taking that

trouble in his own person. Miss Marjoribanks was not a woman to be

blind to the advantages of this situation, but still, as was to be

expected, it took her a little time to get used to it, and to make all

the use of it which was practicable under the circumstances--which was

all the more difficult since she was not in the least "viewy" in her own

person, but had been brought up in the old-fashioned orthodox way of

having a great respect for religion, and as little to do with it as

possible, which was a state of mind largely prevalent in Carlingford.

But that was not in the least Mr Beverley's way.

It was when Lucilla's mind was much occupied by this problem that she

received a visit quite unexpectedly one morning from little Rose Lake,

who had just at that time a great deal on her mind. For it may easily be

supposed that Mr Cavendish's sudden departure, which bewildered the

general public who had no special interest in the matter, must have had

a still more overwhelming effect upon Barbara Lake, who had just been

raised to the very highest pinnacle of hope, closely touching upon

reality, when all her expectations collapsed and came to nothing in a

moment. She would not believe at first that it could be true; and then,

when it was no longer possible to resist the absolute certainty of Mr

Cavendish's departure, her disappointment found vent in every kind of

violence--hysterics, and other manifestations of unreason and self-will.

Rose had been obliged to leave the Female School of Design upon her

papa's overburdened shoulders, and stay at home to nurse her sister.

Perhaps the little artist was not the best person to take care of a

sufferer under such circumstances; for she was neither unreasonable nor

self-willed to speak of, though perhaps a little opinionative in her

way--and could not be brought to think that a whole household should be

disturbed and disordered, and a young woman in good health retire to her

room, and lose all control of herself, because a young man, with whom

she had no acquaintance three months before, had gone out of town

unexpectedly. Perhaps it was a want of feeling on the part of the

unsympathetic sister. She gave out that Barbara was ill, and kept up a

most subdued and anxious countenance downstairs, for the benefit of the

children and the maid-of-all-work, who represented public opinion in

Grove Street; but when Rose went into her sister's room, where Barbara

kept the blinds down, and had her face swollen with crying, it was with

a very stern countenance that her little mentor regarded the invalid.

"I do not ask you to have a sense of duty," Rose said, with a certain

fine disdain, "but at least you might have a proper pride." This was all

she took the trouble to say; but it must be admitted that a great deal

more to the same effect might be read in her eyes, which were generally

so dewy and soft, but which could flash on occasion. And then as the

week drew on towards Thursday, and all her representations proved

unavailing to induce Barbara to get up and prepare herself for her usual

duties, the scorn and vexation and impatience with which the dutiful

little soul met her sister's sullen determination that "she was not

able" to fulfil her ordinary engagements, roused Rose up to a great

resolution. For her own part she was one of the people who do not

understand giving in. "What do you mean by lying there?" she said,

pounding Barbara down small and cutting her to pieces with infallible

good sense and logic; "will that do any good? You would try to look

better than usual, and sing better than usual, if you had any proper

pride. I did not fall ill when my flounce was passed over at the

exhibition. I made up my mind that very evening about the combination

for my veil. I would die rather than give in if I were you."

"Your flounce!" sobbed Barbara--"oh, you unfeeling insensible thing!--as

if your h-heart had anything to do with--that. I only went to s-spite

Lucilla--and I won't go--no more--oh, no more--now he's been and

deserted me. You can't understand my feelings--g-go away and leave me

alone."

"Barbara," said Rose, with solemnity, "I would forgive you if you would

not be mean. I don't understand it in one of _us_. If Mr Cavendish has

gone away, it shows that he does not care for you; and you would scorn

him, and scorn to show you were thinking of him, if you had any proper

pride."

But all the answer Barbara gave was to turn away with a jerk of

annoyance the old easy-chair in which she was lying buried, with her

hands thrust up into her black hair, and her eyes all red; upon which

Rose left her to carry out her own resolution. She was prompt in all her

movements, and she wasted no time on reconsideration. She went down into

Grange Lane, her little head erect, and her bright eyes regarding the

world with that air of frank recognition and acknowledgment which Rose

felt she owed as an artist to her fellow-creatures. They were all good

subjects more or less, and the consciousness that she could draw them

and immortalise them gave her the same sense of confidence in their

friendliness, and her own perfect command of the situation, as a young

princess might have felt whose rank protected her like an invisible

buckler. Rose, too, walked erect and open-eyed, in the confidence of

_her_ rank, which made her everybody's equal. It was in this frame of

mind that she arrived at Dr Marjoribanks's house, and found Lucilla, who

was very glad to see her. Miss Marjoribanks was pondering deeply on the

Archdeacon at that moment, and her little visitor seemed as one sent by

heaven to help her out. For to tell the truth, though Lucilla understood

all about Mr Cavendish, and men of his description, and how to manage

them, and take full use of their powers, even her commanding

intelligence felt the lack of experience in respect to such a case as

that of the Archdeacon, who required a different treatment to draw him

out. She was thinking it over intently at the moment of Rose's arrival,

for Lucilla was not a person to give up the advantages of a novel

position because she did not quite understand it. She felt within

herself that there was no doubt a great effect might be produced if she

could but see how to do it. And it was Thursday morning, and there was

no time to lose.

"I came to speak to you about Barbara," said Rose. "She is not fit to

come out this morning. I told her it was very ungrateful not to make an

effort after you had been so kind; but I am sorry to say she has not a

strong sense of duty; and I don't think she would be able to sing or do

anything but look stupid. I hope you will not think very badly of her.

There are some people who can't help giving in, I suppose," said Rose,

with an impatient little sigh.

"And so this is you, you dear little Rose!" said Lucilla, "and I have

never seen you before since I came home--and you always were such a pet

of mine at Mount Pleasant! I can't think why you never came to see me

before; as for me, you know, I never have any time. Poor papa has nobody

else to take care of him, and it always was the object of my life to be

a comfort to papa."

"Yes," said Rose, who was a straightforward little woman, and not given

to compliments. "I have a great deal to do too," she said; "and then all

my spare moments I am working at my design. Papa always says that

society accepts artists for what they can give, and does not expect them

to sacrifice their time," Rose continued, with her little air of

dignity. Miss Marjoribanks knew very well that society was utterly

unconscious of the existence of the Lake family; but then there is

always something imposing in such a perfectly innocent and superb

assumption as that to which the young Preraphaelite had just given

utterance; and it began to dawn upon Lucilla that here was another

imperfectly understood but effective instrument lying ready to her hand.

"I should like to see your design," said Miss Marjoribanks graciously.

"You made such a pretty little wreath for the corner of my

handkerchief--don't you remember?--all frogs' legs and things. It looked

so sweet in the old satin stitch. What is the matter with poor Barbara?

I felt sure she would catch cold and lose her voice. I shall tell papa

to go and see her. As for to-night, it will be a dreadful loss to be

sure, for I never could find a voice that went so well with mine. But if

you are sure she can't come----"

"When people have not a sense of duty," said Rose, with an indignant

sigh, "nor any proper pride,----Some are so different. Barbara ought to

have been some rich person's daughter, with nothing to do. She would not

mind being of no use in the world. It is a kind of temperament I don't

understand," continued the little artist. All this, it is true, was

novel to Miss Marjoribanks, who had a kind of prejudice in favour of the

daughters of rich persons who had nothing to do; but Lucilla's genius

was broad and catholic, and did not insist upon comprehending

everything. She gave Rose a sudden scrutinising look, and measured her

mentally against the gap she had to fill. No doubt it was an experiment,

and might fail signally; but then Miss Marjoribanks was always at hand

to cover deficiencies, and she had that confidence in herself and her

good fortune which is necessary to everybody who greatly dares.

"You must come yourself this evening, you dear old Rose," said Lucilla.

"You know I always was fond of you. Oh, yes, I know you can't sing like

Barbara. But the Archdeacon is coming, who understands about art; and if

you would like to bring your design----My principle has always been,

that there should be a little of everything in society," said Miss

Marjoribanks. "I dare say you will feel a little strange at first with

not knowing the people, but that will soon pass off--and you _must_

come."

When she had said this, Lucilla bestowed upon little Rose a friendly

schoolfellow kiss, putting her hands upon the little artist's shoulders,

and looking her full in the face as she did so. "I am sure you can

talk," said Miss Marjoribanks. She did not say "Go away now, and leave

me to my arrangements;" but Rose, who was quick-witted, understood that

the salute was a dismissal, and she went away accordingly, tingling with

pride and excitement and pleasure and a kind of pain. The idea of

practically exemplifying, in her own person, the kind of demeanour which

society ought to expect from an artist had not occurred to Rose; but

destiny having arranged it so, she was not the woman to withdraw from

her responsibilities. She said to herself that it would be shabby for

her who was known to have opinions on this subject, to shrink from

carrying them out; and stimulated her courage by recourse to her

principles, as people do who feel themselves bound to lay sacrifices on

the altar of duty. Notwithstanding this elevated view of the emergency,

it must be admitted that a sudden thought of what she would wear had

flushed to Rose's very finger-tips, with a heat and tingle of which the

little heroine was ashamed. For it was Thursday morning, and there was

not a moment to be lost. However, after the first thrill which this idea

had given her, Rose bethought herself once more of her principles, and

stilled her beating heart. It was not for her to think of what she was

to put on, she who had so often proclaimed the exemption of "a family of

artists" from the rules which weigh so hard upon the common world. "We

have a rank of our own," she said to herself, but with that tremor which

always accompanies the transference of a purely theoretical and even

fantastic rule of conduct into practical ground--"We are everybody's

equal, and we are nobody's equal--and when papa begins to be appreciated

as he ought to be, and Willie has made a Name----" This was always the

point at which Rose broke off, falling into reverie that could not be

expressed in words; but she had no leisure to remark upon the chance

"compositions" in the street, or the effects of light and shade, as she

went home. A sudden and heavy responsibility had fallen upon her

shoulders, and she would have scorned herself had she deserted her

post.

_Chapter XVIII_

But the anticipations of Rose Lake were trifling matters in comparison

with the universal interest and even excitement which attended the

Archdeacon's first appearance in Carlingford. What might be called his

first public appearance took place at Dr Marjoribanks's table, although

he had previously dined at the Rectory, and also at Sir John Richmond's,

besides that there had been somebody to dinner at Colonel Chiley's

almost every day; but then there were only county people at Sir John's,

and Mr Bury's guests naturally counted for very little in Grange

Lane;--indeed, it was confidently reported that the Rector had invited

Mr Tufton of Salem Chapel to meet the Archdeacon, and that, but for the

Dissenting minister having more sense and knowing his place, that

unseemly conjunction would have taken place, to the horror of all

right-thinking people. So that Dr Marjoribanks's was in reality the

first house where he had any chance of seeing society. It would perhaps

be using too strong a word to say that Miss Marjoribanks was anxious

about the success of her arrangements for this particular evening; but,

at the same time, it must be admitted that the circumstances were such

as to justify a little anxiety. Mr Cavendish was gone, who, to do him

justice, was always agreeable, and his departure disturbed the habitual

party; and Mrs Woodburn had lost all her powers, as it seemed, and sat

at Dr Marjoribanks's left hand, looking just like other people, and

evidently not to be in the least depended on; and Lucilla was aware that

Barbara was not coming, which made, if nothing else, a change in the

programme. No music, nobody to do the flirting, nor to supply the

dramatic by-play to which Grange Lane had become accustomed; and a new

man to be made use of, and to be done honour to, and introduced in

society. A young woman of powers inferior to those of Miss Marjoribanks

would have sunk under such a weight of responsibility, and there was no

doubt that Lucilla was a little excited. She felt that everything

depended upon her courage and self-possession. If she but lost her head

for a moment and lost command of affairs, everything might have been

lost; but then fortunately she knew herself and what she could do, and

had a modest confidence that she would not lose her head; and thus she

could still eat her dinner with the composure of genius, though it would

be wrong to deny that Lucilla was a little pale.

And then, as if all these things had not been enough to discourage the

lady of the house, another discordant element was added by the presence

of Mr Bury and his sister, whom it had been necessary to ask to meet the

Archdeacon. The Rector, though he was very Low-Church, has no particular

objections to a good dinner--but he made a principle of talking of that

important daily necessity in a disparaging, or at best in a patronising

way, which roused Dr Marjoribanks's temper; and sometimes the Doctor

would launch a shaft of medical wit at his spiritual guide, which Mr

Bury had no means of parrying. Nor was this the only danger to which the

peace of the party was exposed. For the Rector, at the same time,

regarded Mr Beverley with a certain critical suspiciousness, such as is

seldom to be encountered except among clergymen. He did not know much

about his clerical superior, who had only recently been appointed to his

archdeaconry; but there was something in his air, his looks, and

demeanour, which indicated what Mr Bury considered a loose way of

thinking. When the Archdeacon made any remark the Rector would pause and

look up from his plate to listen to it, with his fork suspended in the

air the while--and then he would exchange glances with his sister, who

was on the other side of the table. All this, it may be supposed, was a

little discomposing for Lucilla, who had the responsibility of

everything, and who could now look for no assistance among the ordinary

members of her father's party, who were, as a general rule, much more

occupied with the dinner than with anything else that was going on. In

such a state of affairs, it was a great relief to Miss Marjoribanks when

the Archdeacon, who occupied the post of honour by her side, made a

lively new beginning in the conversation. It had not to call _flagged_

before--not precisely flagged--but still there were indications of

approaching exhaustion, such as can always be perceived half a mile off

by anybody who has any experience in society, and when the Archdeacon

took up the ball with all the liveliness of a man who is interested in a

special question, it will not be difficult to any lady who has ever been

in such circumstances to realise to herself Miss Marjoribanks's sense of

gratitude and relief.

"By the bye," said Mr Beverley, "I meant to ask if any one knew a man

whom I am sure I caught a glimpse of the first day I was in Carlingford.

Perhaps it was in the morning after I arrived, to be precise. I can't

recollect exactly. If he lives about here, he ought to be known, for he

is a clever amusing sort of fellow. I don't know if Carlingford is more

blessed than other country towns with people of that complexion," said

the Archdeacon, turning to Lucilla with a smile. His smile, as he paused

and turned to Miss Marjoribanks, was such as conveys a kind of challenge

when it is addressed to a young lady, and meant to lead to a lively

little combat by the way; and yet there was something of keen personal

anxiety and animosity in it. As for Lucilla, she was conscious of an

immediate thrill of curiosity, but still it was curiosity unmingled with

any excitement, and she had no particular objection to respond.