are always finding fault with their neighbours, but I always get on so
well with everybody--I suppose it is my luck." This was not precisely an
answer to the Archdeacon's question; and there was somebody at the table
who could have fallen upon Lucilla and beaten her for putting off the
revelation which trembled on the lips of Mr Beverley, and yet would have
given anything in the world to silence the Archdeacon, and felt capable
of rushing at him like a fury and tearing his tongue out, or suffocating
him, to stop the next words that he was going to say. But nobody knew
anything about this, or could see into the one heart that had begun to
flutter and throb with alarm; for outwardly, all the well-dressed,
cheerful people at Dr Marjoribanks's table sat eating their dinner, one
precisely like another, as if there had been no such thing as mystery or
terror in the world.
"You must not expect me to believe in the perfection of human society,"
said the Archdeacon, going on in the same strain; "I would much rather
pin my faith to the amiable dispositions of one young lady who always
finds her neighbours agreeable--and I hope she makes no exception to the
rule," said the Broad-Churchman in a parenthesis, with a smile and a
bow--and then he raised his voice a little: "The man I speak of is
really a very amusing fellow, and very well got up, and calculated to
impose upon ordinary observers. It is quite a curious story; he was a
son of a trainer or something of that sort about Newmarket. Old Lord
Monmouth took an extraordinary fancy to him, and had him constantly
about his place--at one time, indeed, he half brought him up along with
his grandson, you know. He always was a handsome fellow, and picked up a
little polish; and really, for people not quite used to the real thing,
was as nearly like a gentleman----"
"Come, now, I don't put any faith in that," said Mr Woodburn. "I don't
pretend to be much of a one for fine company myself, but I know a
gentleman when I see him; a snob always overdoes it, you know----"
"I never said this man was a snob," said the Archdeacon, with a refined
expression of disgust at the interruption flitting over his features;
"on the contrary, if he had only been honest, he would have been really
a very nice fellow----"
"My dear sir," said Mr Bury, "excuse me for breaking in--perhaps I am
old-fashioned, but don't you think it's a pity to treat the question of
honesty so lightly? A dishonest person has a precious soul to be saved,
and may be a most deeply interesting character; but to speak of him as a
very nice fellow, is--pardon me--I think it's a pity; especially in
mixed society, where it is so important for a clergyman to be guarded in
his expressions," said the Rector. When Mr Bury began to speak,
everybody else at table ceased talking, and gave serious attention to
what was going on, for the prospect of a passage of arms between the two
clergymen was an opportunity too captivating to be lost.
"I hope Mr Bury's dishonest friends will pardon me," said the
Archdeacon; "I mean no harm to their superior claims. Does anybody know
the man here, I wonder? He had changed his name when I knew him, and
there is no telling what he may call himself now. I assure you he was a
very good-looking fellow--dark, good features, nearly six feet high----"
"Oh, please don't say any more," said Miss Marjoribanks, and she could
not quite have explained why she interrupted these personal details; "if
you tell me what he is like, I shall fancy everybody I meet is him; Mr
Centum is dark, and has good features, and is nearly six feet high.
Never mind what he is like; you gentlemen can never describe
anybody--you always keep to _generals_; tell us what he has done."
Somebody drew a long breath at the table when the Archdeacon obeyed Miss
Marjoribanks's injunction. More than one person caught the sound, but
even Lucilla's keen eyes could not make out beyond controversy from whom
it proceeded. To be sure, Lucilla's mind was in a most curious state of
tumult and confusion. She was not one of the people who take a long time
to form their conclusions; but the natural conclusion to which she felt
inclined to jump in this case was one so monstrous and incredible that
Miss Marjoribanks felt her only safeguard in the whirl of possibilities
was to reject it altogether, and make up her mind that it was
impossible; and then all the correspondences and apparent corroborations
began to dance and whirl about her in a bewildering ring till her own
brain seemed to spin with them. She was as much afraid lest the
Archdeacon by some chance should fall upon a really individual feature
which the world in general could identify, as if she had had any real
concern in the matter. But then, fortunately, there was not much chance
of that; for it was one of Lucilla's principles that men never can
describe each other. She listened, however, with such a curious
commotion in her mind, that she did not quite make out what he was
saying, and only pieced it up in little bits from memory afterwards. Not
that it was a very dreadful story. It was not a narrative of robbery or
murder, or anything very alarming; but if it could by any possibility
turn out that the man of whom Mr Beverley was speaking had ever been
received in society in Carlingford, then it would be a dreadful blow to
the community, and destroy public confidence for ever in the social
leaders. This was what Lucilla was thinking in her sudden turmoil of
amazement and apprehension. And all this time there was another person
at table who knew all about it twenty times better than Lucilla, and
knew what was coming, and had a still more intense terror lest some
personal detail might drop from the Archdeacon's lips which the public
in general would recognise. Mr Beverley went on with his story with a
curious sort of personal keenness in his way of telling it, but never
dreaming for a moment that anybody that heard him was disturbed or
excited by it. "He has a mark on his face," the Archdeacon said--but
here Miss Marjoribanks gave a little cry, and held up both her hands in
dismay.
"Don't tell us what marks he has on his face," said Lucilla. "I know
that I shall think every man who is dark, and has good features, and is
six feet, must be him. I wonder if it could be my cousin Tom; _he_ has a
little mark on his face--and it would be just like his dreadful luck,
poor fellow. Would it be right to give up one's own cousin if it should
turn out to be Tom?" said Miss Marjoribanks. The people who were sitting
at her end of the table laughed, but there was no laughing in Lucilla's
mind. And this fright and panic were poor preparatives for the evening,
which had to be got through creditably with so few resources, and with
such a total reversal of the ordinary programme. Miss Marjoribanks was
still tingling with curiosity and alarm when she rose from the table. If
it should really come to pass that an adventurer had been received into
the best society of Carlingford, and that the best judges had not been
able to discriminate between the false and true, how could any one
expect that Grange Lane would continue to confide its most important
arrangements to such incompetent hands?
Such was the dreadful question that occupied all Lucilla's thoughts. So
far as the adventurer himself was concerned, no doubt he deserved
anything that might come upon him; but the judgment which might overtake
the careless shepherds who had admitted the wolf into the fold was much
more in Miss Marjoribanks's mind than any question of abstract justice.
So that it was not entirely with a philanthropical intention that she
stopped Mr Beverley and put an end to his dangerous details. Now she
came to think of it, she began to remember that _nobody of her
acquaintance_ had any mark on his face; but still it was best not to
inquire too closely. It was thus with a preoccupied mind that she went
up to the drawing-room, feeling less in spirits for her work than on any
previous occasion. It was the first of the unlucky nights, which every
woman of Lucilla's large and public-spirited views must calculate upon
as inevitable now and then. There was no moon, and the Richmonds
naturally were absent, and so were the Miss Browns, who were staying
there on a visit--for it was after the engagement between Lydia[1] and
John; and Mr Cavendish was away (though perhaps under the circumstances
that was no disadvantage); and Mrs Woodburn was silenced; and even
Barbara Lake had failed her patroness.
[Footnote 1: It may be mentioned here that this was an engagement that
none of the friends approved of, and that it was the greatest possible
comfort to Miss Marjoribanks's mind that she had nothing to do with
it--either one way or another, as she said.]
"You are not in spirits to-night, Lucilla, my poor dear," said Mrs
Chiley, as they went upstairs; and the kind old lady cast a fierce
glance at Mrs Woodburn, who was going before them with Miss Bury, as if
it could be her fault.
"Dear Mrs Chiley," said Miss Marjoribanks, "I am in perfect spirits; it
is only the responsibility, you know. Poor Barbara is ill, and we can't
have any music, and what if people should be bored? When one has real
friends to stand by one it is different," said Lucilla, with an
intonation that was not intended for Mrs Chiley, "and I _always_ stand
by my friends."
This was the spirit with which Miss Marjoribanks went upstairs. It was a
sentiment which pervaded her whole life. Even when she had occasion to
be sufficiently displeased with the people who surrounded her, and to
feel that her own loyal friendship met with no adequate response, this
was the unfailing inspiration of her heart. She did not rush into
opposition because any misguided man or woman failed for the moment to
appreciate her efforts, and return, as they ought to have been glad to
do, her sentiments of kindness. On the contrary, nothing could have been
more long-suffering and tolerant and benign than the feelings with which
Lucilla regarded the unfortunate persons who mistook or did not
appreciate her. She knew herself, which, however superior they might be,
was something they could not know; and she could afford to be sorry (for
their own sakes) for their want of discrimination. If there should
happen to be somebody in Grange Lane who had gained admittance into
society under false pretences, not even such an offence, grievous as it
was, could induce Miss Marjoribanks to condemn the culprit unheard. It
was at once her settled resolution, and a peculiarity of her character,
to stand by her friends; and whatever might be the thoughts in her own
mind, her immediate decision was to shut her ears to every indication of
the culprit's personality, and to be blind to every suggestion that
could identify him. People who like to discover the alloy which blends
with all human motives, may suppose that Lucilla felt her own credit as
the leader of society at stake, and would not admit that she had been
duped. But this had in reality but a very small share in the matter. Her
instinct, even when reason suggested that she should be doubtful of
them, was always to side with her own friends; and though there might be
persons included in that sacred number who were scarcely worthy of the
character, yet Lucilla, like every lofty character, could act but
according to her own nature, and could not forsake any one whom she
supposed to be thus mysteriously and darkly assailed.
And she had her reward. There are virtues in this world which go without
any recompense, but there are other virtues upon which a prompt guerdon
is bestowed; and Lucilla possessed this happier development. Whether it
was that little speech of hers which touched the mimic's heart, or
whether the effect was produced by some other secret influence, it is
certain that this was the night on which Mrs Woodburn's talent came to
what may be called a sort of apotheosis. She shook off her languor as by
a sudden inspiration, and gave such a sketch of the Archdeacon as up to
this day is remembered more clearly in Carlingford than the man himself.
She took him off to his very face, and he never found it out, though
everybody else did, and the house shook with restrained laughter. And as
if this was not enough, Rose Lake had come with her portfolio, with some
sketches of her brother's (who afterwards became so celebrated) in it,
which electrified all the people who were fond of art; and by the side
of the young Preraphaelite was Barbara, who had come "to spite Lucilla,"
and who remained unwittingly to grace her triumph. She stood by herself,
all wan and crumpled, all the night, showing her disappointment and rage
and jilted state so clearly in her face, as to afford to all the mammas
in her neighbourhood a most startling example of the danger of showing
your feelings, with which to point a moral to the other young people
about. She had come because Rose was coming, and she would not be
eclipsed by her younger sister. But nobody took any notice of Barbara on
this miserable evening; nobody asked her to sing, or offered her a seat,
or even spoke to her, except Lucilla, who in her magnanimity found time
to say a word as she passed. She was carelessly dressed, and her hair
was hastily arranged, and her eyes were red. She had no desire to look
as if she had not been jilted, and had no proper pride, as Rose said;
and Mrs Chiley, who was Lucilla's partisan and champion, and who thought
poor Barbara deserved it all, seized the opportunity, and delivered a
little lecture on the subject to the first group of girls who came in
her way.
"A disappointment may happen to any one," said Mrs Chiley; "and so long
as they had done nothing unbecoming, nobody could blame them; but, my
dears, whatever you do, don't show it like that! It makes me ashamed of
my sex. And only look at Lucilla!" said the old lady. Lucilla had the
best of it now. Instead of a failure, such as for a moment seemed
likely, she had a triumphant success. She, and she only, said a word of
kindness to her formerly triumphant rival. She drove her chariot over
Barbara, and drew an advantage even from her sullen looks and red eyes.
And the only thing that dissatisfied Mrs Chiley in the entire course of
the evening was the trustful confidence with which Miss Marjoribanks
left the Archdeacon, the (possible) new candidate for her favour, beside
the Lakes and their portfolio of drawings. In this, as in all other
things, Lucilla could not but follow the dictates of her magnanimous
nature. And even her own prospects, as her old friend lamented, were as
nothing to her in comparison with the good of society. Experience ought
to have taught her better; but then experience rarely does that amount
of practical good which is generally attributed to it in the world.
Lucilla gave little Rose the fullest opportunity of showing her drawings
to the Archdeacon and awakening his curiosity, and even securing his
affections, as the jealous observer thought; and everybody knows how
little is necessary, if a young woman likes to exert herself, to lead a
poor man to his undoing; and Mr Beverley, though an archdeacon, was most
probably, in this respect at least, no wiser than other men. This was
the painful aspect of the case which Mrs Chiley discussed with her
husband when they got home.
"He is not like what clergymen were in our day," said the old lady, "but
still he is very nice, and has a nice position, and it would just suit
Lucilla; but to think of her going and leaving him with these Lake
girls, notwithstanding the lesson she has had! and I have no doubt the
little one is just as designing and nasty as the other. If it should
come to anything, she has only herself to blame," said Mrs Chiley. As
for the Colonel, he took it more calmly, as a gentleman might be
expected to do.
"You may trust a parson for that," said the old soldier. "He knows what
he is about. You will never find him make such an ass of himself as
young Cavendish did." But this only made Mrs Chiley sigh the more.
"Poor Mr Cavendish!" said the old lady. "I will never blame him, poor
fellow. It was all that deceitful thing laying her snares for him. For
my part I never like to have anything to do with those artist kind of
people--they are all adventurers," said the Colonel's wife; and she went
to bed with this unchristian persuasion in her mind.
While every one else regarded the matter with, to some extent, a
personal bias, the only person who looked at it abstractly, and
contemplated not the accidents of an evening, but the work itself, which
was progressing in the face of all kinds of social difficulties, was the
master-mind which first conceived the grand design of turning the
chaotic elements of society in Carlingford into one grand unity. Lucilla
was not blind to the dangers that surrounded her, nor indifferent to the
partial disappointment she had undergone; but she saw that, in spite of
all, her great work was making progress. And when we announce that Miss
Marjoribanks herself was satisfied, there remains little more to say.
As for the Archdeacon, he, as was natural, knew nothing about the
matter. He said again, with the natural obtuseness which is so general
among the gentlemen, that it had been a very pleasant party. "She has a
fine clear candid nature," said Mr Beverley, which certainly was better
than pronouncing solemnly that she was a good woman, which was what he
said of Mrs Chiley and Lady Richmond, in the lump, as it were, without
considering how unlike they were to each other. That was all he, being
only a man, knew about it. But though Lucilla was satisfied with the
events of the evening, it would be vain to deny that there were
perturbations in her mind as she laid her head upon her maiden pillow.
She said to herself again with profounder fervour, that fortunately her
affections had not been engaged; but there were more things than
affections to be taken into consideration. Could it be possible that
mystery, and perhaps imposture, of one kind or another, had crossed the
sacred threshold of Grange Lane; and that people might find out and cast
in Lucilla's face the dreadful discovery that a man had been received in
_her_ house who was not what he appeared to be? When such an idea
crossed her mind, Miss Marjoribanks shivered under her satin quilt. Of
course she could not change the nature of the fact one way or another;
but, at least, it was her duty to act with great circumspection, so that
if possible it might not be found out--for Lucilla appreciated fully the
difference that exists between wrong and discovery. If any man was
imposing upon his neighbours and telling lies about himself, it was his
own fault; but if a leader of society were to betray the fact of having
received and petted such a person, then the responsibility was on _her_
shoulders. And softer thoughts mingled with these prudential
considerations--that sweet yet stern resolution to stand by her friends
which Miss Marjoribanks had this evening expressed, and that sense of
pity for everybody who is unfortunate which asserts itself even in the
strongest of female intelligences. On the whole, it was clear that
prudence was the great thing required, and a determination not to give
too hasty heed to anything, nor to put herself in the wrong by any
alarmist policy. Fortunately the respectability of Dr Marjoribanks's
house was enough to cover its guests with a shining buckler. Thus
Lucilla calmed down her own apprehensions, and succeeded in convincing
herself that if the impostor whom the Archdeacon had seen had been
really received in Grange Lane, it was so much the worse for the
impostor; but that, in the meantime, in the lack of evidence it was much
the best thing to take no notice. If there was any one else in
Carlingford who regarded that past danger with a livelier horror and a
more distinct fear, certainly Miss Marjoribanks had no way of knowing of
it; and nobody had been remarked as being in a despondent condition, or,
indeed, in anything but the highest spirits, in the course of this
Thursday, except the ungrateful creature who had begun all the mischief;
and tolerant as Lucilla was, it would have been going beyond the limits
of nature to have expected that she could have been profoundly sorry for
Barbara Lake.
At the same time, poor Barbara, though she was not an elevated
character, had gone home in a very sad state of mind. She had taken
courage to ask Mrs Woodburn about her brother, and Mrs Woodburn had made
the very briefest and rudest response to her question, and had "taken
off" her woe-begone looks almost to her very face. And no one had shown
the least sympathy for the forsaken one. She had not even been called
from her solitude to sing, which might have been something, and it was
Rose, as she said to herself, who had attracted all the attention; for,
like most selfish people, Barbara, though keenly aware of her own
wrongs, had no eyes to perceive that Rose, who had a proud little
spirit, was anything but satisfied with the evening's entertainment, to
which she had herself so largely contributed. "I feel as if I should
never see him more," Barbara said, quite subdued and broken down, with a
burst of tears, as the two went home; and poor little Rose, who was
soft-hearted, forgot all her disapprobation in sympathy. "Never mind
them, dear; they have no feeling. We must cling together all the closer,
and try to be everything to each other," Rose said, with eyes which were
full, but which would not shed any tears. What was passing through her
own mind was, that it was not for herself, but for her portfolio and the
talk that arose over it, that Lucilla had asked her; but, at the same
time, she said to herself, that all that was nothing in comparison to
the wound of the heart under which Barbara was suffering. "Dear, never
mind, we will be everything to each other," said poor little romantic
Rose; and the elder sister, even in the depths of her dejection, could
have given her a good shake for uttering such an absurd sentiment; for a
great deal of good it would do to be everything to each other--as if
that could ever replace the orange blossoms and the wedding tour, and
the carriage and handsome house, which were included in the name of
Cavendish! "And he was such a dear!" she said to herself in her own
mind, and wept, and made her eyes redder and redder. If Mr Cavendish had
known all that was going on in Carlingford that night, the chances are
that he would have been most flattered by those tears which Barbara shed
for him under the lamps in Grove Street; but then it is to be hoped he
would not have been insensible either to the just reticence and
self-restraint which, mingling with Miss Marjoribanks's suspicions,
prevented her, as she herself said, even in the deepest seclusion of her
own thoughts, from naming any name.
_Chapter XIX_
But Lucilla's good luck and powers of persuasion were such that after a
while she even succeeded in convincing little Rose Lake of the perfect
reasonableness, and indeed necessity, of sacrificing herself to the
public interests of the community. "As for enjoying it," Miss
Marjoribanks said, "that is quite a different matter. Now and then
perhaps for a minute one enjoys it; but that is not what I am thinking
of. One owes something to one's fellow-creatures, you know; and if it
made the evening go off well, I should not mind in the least to be
hustled up in a corner and contradicted. To be sure, I don't remember
that it ever happened to me; but then I have such luck; and I am sure I
give you full leave to box the Archdeacon's ears next Thursday; or to
tell him he does not know anything in the world about art," said Miss
Marjoribanks thoughtfully, with a new combination rising in her mind.
"Thank you, Lucilla," said Rose, "but I shall not come back again. I am
much obliged to you. It does not do for people who have work to do. My
time is all I have, and I cannot afford to waste it, especially----"
"Rose," said Miss Marjoribanks, "how are you ever to be an artist if you
do not know life? That is just the very reason why you ought to go out
into the world; and I don't see, for my part, that it matters whether it
is pleasant or not. To practise scales all day long is anything but
pleasant, but then one has to do it, you know. I don't blame you," said
Lucilla, with tender condescension. "You are a dear little thing, and
you don't know any better; but _I_ went through Political Economy, and
learnt all about that;--you don't think _I_ choose it for the pleasure?
But you all know what is the object of my life, and I hope I am not one
to shrink from my duty," Miss Marjoribanks added. And it was difficult
to reply to such a sublime declaration. Little Rose left her friend with
the conviction that it was her duty, too, to sacrifice herself for the
benefit of society and the advancement of art. Such were the lofty
sentiments elicited naturally, as enthusiasm responds to enthusiasm, by
Lucilla's self-devotion. Already, although she was not much more than
twenty, she had the consoling consciousness that she had wrought a great
work in Carlingford; and if Miss Marjoribanks required a little
sacrifice from her assistants, she did not shrink from making the same
in her own person, as has been shadowed forth in the case of Mr
Cavendish, and as will yet, in the course of this history, be still more
seriously and even sadly evolved.
Three weeks had passed in this way, making it still more and more
visible to Lucilla how much she had lost in losing Mr Cavendish, of whom
nothing as yet had been heard, when suddenly, one day, about
luncheon-time, at the hour when Miss Marjoribanks was known to be at
home, the drawing-room door opened without any warning, and the missing
man walked in. It was thus that Lucilla herself described the unexpected
apparition, which appeared to her to have dropped from the clouds. She
avowed afterwards to Mrs Chiley that his entrance was so utterly
unexpected, so noiseless, and without warning, that she felt quite
silly, and could not tell in the least how she behaved; though the
friends of Miss Marjoribanks, it is to be hoped, are too well acquainted
with her promptitude of mind and action to imagine that she in any way
compromised herself even under the surprise of the moment. As for Mr
Cavendish, he exhibited a certain mixture of timidity and excitement
which it was remarkable, and indeed rather flattering for any lady to
see, in such an accomplished man of the world. Lucilla was not a person
to deceive herself, nor did she want experience in such matters, as has
been already shown; but it would be vain to deny that the conviction
forced upon her mind by the demeanour of her visitor was that it was a
man _about to propose_ who thus made his unlooked-for appearance before
her. She confessed afterwards to her confidential friend that he had all
the signs of it in his looks and manners. "He gave that little nervous
cough," Lucilla said, "and pulled his cravat _just so_, and stared into
his hat as if he had it all written down there; and looked as They
always look," Miss Marjoribanks added, with a touch of natural contempt.
Nor was this all the change in Mr Cavendish's appearance. He had managed
miraculously in his month's absence to grow the most charming little
moustache and beard, which were, to be sure, slightly red, like most
people's. It gleamed into Miss Marjoribanks's mind in a moment that
people did such things sometimes by way of disguising themselves; but
if such had been Mr Cavendish's intention, it had utterly failed, since
he seemed rather more like himself than before, in Lucilla's opinion,
and certainly was more likely to attract attention, since beards were
not so usual in these days. They met on the very spot where Lucilla had
seen him last, with that look of insane terror on his handsome face. And
the Archdeacon was still in Carlingford, if it was he who had occasioned
such a panic. Mr Cavendish came in as if he had never been absent, as if
he had seen Miss Marjoribanks on the previous night, and had no fear of
anything in the world but of failing to please her; and Lucilla
fortunately saw the nature of the position, and was not to be put out
even by such an emergency. Of course, under the circumstances, to accept
him was utterly out of the question; but, at the same time, Lucilla did
not feel it expedient, without much more distinct information, to put a
definitive and cruel negative on Mr Cavendish's hopes. As for Barbara
Lake, that was a trifle not worth thinking of; and, notwithstanding that
there was something rather unaccountable in his conduct, he was still
the probable member for Carlingford, just, as Mrs Chiley so often said,
the position which, of all others, she would have chosen for Lucilla; so
that Miss Marjoribanks was not prepared, without due consideration, to
bring the matter to a final end.
While Lucilla made this rapid summary of affairs and took her stand in
her own mind, Mr Cavendish had taken a chair and had opened the
conversation. He hoped he had not been entirely forgotten, though a
fortnight's absence was a severe tax on anybody's memory----
"A fortnight!" said Miss Marjoribanks; "how happy you must have been
while you have been away!--for I assure you a month is a month at
Carlingford; and one does not get such ornaments in two weeks," said
Lucilla, putting her hand to her chin, which made Mr Cavendish laugh,
and look more nervous than ever.
"It is a souvenir of where I have been," he said. "I could imagine I had
been gone two years, judging by my own feelings. I am so pleased to see
that you remember how long it is. I dare say it looked a little droll
running away so, but I dared not trust myself with leave-takings," Mr
Cavendish said, with an air of sentiment. "I have been watching over a
poor friend of mine on his sick-bed. He was once very good to me, and
when he sent for me I could not delay or refuse him. I found he had
telegraphed for me when I got home the last Thursday evening I was
here," he continued, looking Lucilla full in the face with the candour
of conscious truth--though, to be sure, when people are stating a simple
fact, it is seldom that they take the pains to be so particular. "I
started by the night-train, and crossed the Channel while you were all
fast asleep. I wonder if any one gave me a thought," continued Mr
Cavendish; and it was still more and more impressed upon Lucilla that he
had all the signs of a man who had come to propose.
"I cannot say about that night in particular, but I am sure a great many
people have given you a thought," said Miss Marjoribanks. "We have all
been wondering what had become of you, where you were, and when you were
coming back. So far as I am concerned, I have missed you dreadfully,"
said Lucilla, with her usual openness; and she really thought for a
moment that Mr Cavendish in a sudden transport was going down on his
knees.
"I scarcely hoped for so much happiness," he said; and though he kept up
the tone proper to good society, which might mean sport or earnest
according as the occasion required, there was a certain air of gratitude
and tenderness in his face which sent Lucilla's active mind a-wondering.
"He is thinking of the music-stand," she said to herself, and then went
on with what she was saying; for though Miss Marjoribanks had a very
good opinion of herself, it had not occurred to her that Mr Cavendish
was very deeply in love--with _her_, at all events.
"Ah, yes--not only for the flirting, you know, which of itself is a
dreadful loss; but then you were so good in keeping the gentlemen to
their duty. I missed you dreadfully--there has been nobody at all to
help me," said Lucilla. Her tone was so genuinely plaintive that Mr
Cavendish grew more and more moved. He put down his hat, he cleared his
throat, he got up and walked to the window--evidently he was getting up
his courage for the last step.
"But I heard you had some distinguished strangers here," he said, coming
back to his seat without having, as it appeared, made up his mind. "My
sister wrote--that is to say I heard--I really don't remember how I got
the news; a dean, or bishop, or something----?"
"Oh, yes, Mr Archdeacon Beverley; he came precisely the night you went
away," said Lucilla. "Didn't you see him? I thought you stayed till
after he came into the room. A nice clergyman is very nice, you know;
but, after all, a man who has some experience in society--and we have
had no music to speak of since you went away. Poor dear Barbara has had
such a bad cold. In short, we have all been at sixes and sevens; and the
Archdeacon----"
"Oh, never mind the Archdeacon," said Mr Cavendish, and Miss
Marjoribanks felt that he had not winced at the name, though he did
glance up at her in spite of himself with a little gleam in his eyes
when she mentioned Barbara Lake. Perhaps this was because he knew
nothing about the Archdeacon, perhaps because he was prepared to hear
the Archdeacon named. Lucilla did not give him all the benefit of the
uncertainty, for she began to get a little impatient, and to wonder, if
the man had come to propose, as appearances suggested, why he did not do
it and get done with it?--which was a very reasonable question. This
time, however, it certainly was coming. "I don't like nice clergymen,"
said Mr Cavendish, "especially not when it is _you_ who find them so. If
I could really flatter myself that you missed me----"
"We all did," said Lucilla; "there is no compliment about it; and poor
dear Barbara has had such a cold----"
"Ah!" said the unfortunate aspirant; and once more he gave a doubtful
glance at Lucilla--decidedly the name of Barbara had more effect upon
him than that of the Archdeacon. It seemed to damp his fire and smother
the words on his lips, and he had to take another promenade to the
window to recover himself. After that, however, he came back evidently
wound up and determined; and his eyes, as he returned to Miss
Marjoribanks's side, fell upon the music-stand by means of which she had
covered his fright and flight (if it was not a mere hallucination on
Lucilla's part that he had been frightened and had fled) on the night he
left Carlingford. He came back with the air of a man who means to delay
and deliberate no more.
"If I could flatter myself that _you_ had missed me," he said;
"_you_--not any one else--I might have the courage to ask----"
It was at that precise moment of all moments that Mrs Chiley, whom they
had not heard coming upstairs, though she was sufficiently audible,
suddenly opened the door. Mr Cavendish, as was natural, broke off in a
moment with a face which had turned crimson, and even Lucilla herself
felt a little annoyed and put out, when, as in duty bound, she got up to
meet and welcome her old friend. One thing was fortunate, as Miss
Marjoribanks afterwards reflected, that since it was to be interrupted,
it had been interrupted so early, before he could have put himself in
any ridiculous attitude, for example; for at such moments it is well
known that some men go down upon their knees--or at least such is the
ineradicable belief of womankind. If Mr Cavendish had been on his
knees--though, to tell the truth, he was not a very likely subject--the
position would have been much more embarrassing. But as it was, there
was an end. _He_ turned back again to the window, biting his glove in
the most frantic way, and taking up his hat, while _she_, always
mistress of the position, advanced to the new-comer with outstretched
hands.
"I know you have come to have lunch with me," said Lucilla. "You are
always so nice--just when I wanted you; for, of course, I dared not have
asked Mr Cavendish to go downstairs if I had been all alone."
"Mr Cavendish!" cried the old lady, with a little scream. "So he has
really come back! I am so glad to see you. I can't tell you how glad I
am to see you; and, I declare, with a beard! Oh, you need not blush for
what I say. I am old enough to be both your grandmothers, and I am so
glad to see you together again!" said Mrs Chiley, with an imprudent
effusion of sentiment. And it may be imagined what the effect of this
utterance was upon the suitor whose love-making (if he was really going
to make love) was thus cut short in the bud. He coughed more than ever
when he shook hands with the new-comer, and kept fast hold of his hat
with that despairing grasp which is common to men in trouble. And then
he kept looking at the door, as if he expected some one else to come in,
or wanted to escape; and so far from following up his interrupted
address by any explanatory or regretful glances, he never even looked at
Lucilla, which, to be sure, struck her as odd enough.
"Miss Marjoribanks is very good," he said, "and I am very glad to see
you so soon after my return, Mrs Chiley--though, of course, I should
have called; but I may have to go away in a day or two; and I am afraid
I cannot have the pleasure of staying to lunch."
"Oh, yes, you must stay," said Mrs Chiley; "I want to hear all about it.
Go away again in a day or two? If I were Lucilla I would not let you go
away. She is queen now in Carlingford, you know;--and then poor old Mr
Chiltern is so ill. I hope you won't think of going away. They all say
it would be such a pity if anything happened to him while you were away.
Tell me where you have been, and what you have been doing all this time.
We have missed you so dreadfully. And now you look quite like a military
man with that beard."
"I have been nursing a sick friend--on the Continent," said Mr
Cavendish; "not very cheerful work. I am sorry about Mr Chiltern, but I
cannot help it. I have doubts now whether, even if he were to die, I
should offer myself. I couldn't give pledges to all the shopkeepers
about my opinions," said the embarrassed man; and as he spoke, he put
his hat against his breast like a buckler. "I must not detain you from
your lunch. Good-bye, Miss Marjoribanks; I am very sorry I can't stay."
"But, dear me, stop a minute--don't run away from us," said Mrs Chiley.
"Come and talk it all over with the Colonel, there is a dear--and don't
do anything rash. Good-bye, if you _will_ go," said the old lady. She
sat with a look of consternation in her face, looking at Miss
Marjoribanks, as he made his way downstairs. "Did I come in at a wrong
time, Lucilla?" said Mrs Chiley, in distress. "Have you refused him, my
dear? What is the matter? I am so dreadfully afraid I came in at the
wrong time."
"Dear Mrs Chiley," said Lucilla sweetly, "you can never come in at a
wrong time; and it is just as well, on the whole, that he didn't--for I
was not prepared to give him any answer. I am sure, on the contrary, it
was quite providential," Miss Marjoribanks said; but it may be doubted
whether Lucilla's mind perfectly corresponded to her words on this
occasion, though she was so amiable about it, as Mrs Chiley afterwards
said. For even when a woman has not her answer ready, she has always a
certain curiosity about a proposal; and then when such a delicate matter
is crushed in the bud like this, who can tell if it will ever blossom
again, and find full expression? Miss Marjoribanks could not be said to
be disappointed, but unquestionably she regretted a little that he had
not been permitted to say out his say. As for Mrs Chiley, when she
understood all the rights of it, she was afflicted beyond measure, and
could not forgive herself for the unlucky part she had played.
"If you had only said you were engaged," the old lady exclaimed, "or not
at home--or anything, Lucilla! You know, you need never stand on
ceremony with me. No wonder he looked as if he could eat me! Poor
fellow! and I dare say he has gone away with his heart full," said Mrs
Chiley, with the tenderest sympathy. She could not get over it, nor eat
any lunch, nor think of anything else. "Poor dear boy! He need not have
been so put out with an old woman like me. He might have known if he had
given me the least hint, or even a look, I would have gone away," said
the kind old woman. "But you must be all the kinder to him when he comes
back, Lucilla. And, my dear, if I were you, I would stay in this
afternoon. He is sure to come back, and I would not keep him in pain."
"I don't think he will come back," Lucilla could not help saying; for
she had a conviction that nothing more would come of it; but
nevertheless she did stay in that afternoon, and received several
visits, but saw nothing more of Mr Cavendish. It was rather vexatious,
to tell the truth; for to see a man so near the point and not even to
have the satisfaction of refusing him, is naturally aggravating to a
woman. But Miss Marjoribanks had far too much philosophy as well as good
sense to be vexed on that account with Mrs Chiley, who could not forgive
herself, and to make up for the consequences of her unlucky visit, would
have done anything in the world. The old lady herself returned in the
afternoon to know the result, and was doubly vexed and distressed to
hear he had not come back.
"I ought to be on the Archdeacon's side, Lucilla," she said, with tears
in her eyes. "I know I ought, when it was I that brought him here: but I
can't help feeling for the other, my dear. He always was so nice--a
great deal nicer, to my way of thinking, than Mr Beverley; not to say
but that the Archdeacon is very agreeable," Mrs Chiley added,
recollecting herself; for in matters of that description a woman of
experience is aware that she cannot be too particular about what she
says; and supposing that Mr Cavendish did not come back, it would never
do to prejudice Lucilla against the other candidate. "I never blamed Mr
Cavendish about that Lake girl," the old lady continued. "It was not his
fault, poor young man. I know he was always devoted to you in his heart;
and to think he should come here the very first place as soon as he
returned! I only wish I had had one of my headaches this morning, my
dear, to keep me indoors for an old Malaprop. I do indeed, Lucilla. It
would have served me right, and I should not have minded the pain."
"But indeed I don't wish anything of the sort," said Miss Marjoribanks.
"I would not have the best man in the world at the cost of one of those
dreadful headaches of yours. It is so good of you to say so; but you
know very well it is not that sort of thing I am thinking of. If I were
to go off and marry just now, after all that has been done to the
drawing-room and everything, I should feel as if I were swindling papa;
and it is the object of my life to be a comfort to _him_."
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs Chiley, "but we must not neglect your own
interest for all that. I think it is most likely he will come this
evening. He has just come from the Continent, you know, where people do
make calls in the evening. I meant to have asked you to come down to us,
as we shall be all alone----"
"All alone? Then where is the Archdeacon?" asked Lucilla.
"He has gone out to Sir John's for a day or two, my dear," said Mrs
Chiley, and she could not understand the little gleam of intelligence
that shot into Lucilla's eye. "He left word with me for you that he
would be sure to be back before Thursday, but seeing Mr Cavendish when I
came in made me forget all about it. He would be quite distressed, poor
man! if he thought I had forgotten to give you his message. I won't ask
you now to come down and cheer me up a little, Lucilla. I think poor Mr
Cavendish is sure to come this evening, and I will not stand in his way
again. But, my dear, you must send me a little note after he has been.
Now promise. I shall be quite in suspense all night."
"Dear Mrs Chiley, I don't think he will come," said Miss Marjoribanks.
"For my part, I think it was providential your coming to-day--for I am
sure I don't know what I should have said to him. And it is so odd the
Archdeacon should be away just at this moment. I feel quite sure he will
not come to-night."
"There is nothing odd about the Archdeacon," said Mrs Chiley. "It was
for to-day he was asked, you know; _that_ is simple enough. If you are
sure that you prefer the Archdeacon, my dear----" the old lady added,
with an anxious look. But Lucilla cut short the inquiry, which was
becoming too serious, by bringing her kind visitor a cup of tea.
"I hope you don't think I prefer any of them," said the injured maiden.
"If I had been thinking of that sort of thing, you know, I need never
have come home. If they would only let one do one's duty in peace and
quiet," said Lucilla, with a sigh; and to tell the truth, both the
ladies had occasion on that trying afternoon for the consolation of
their cup of tea. But while they were thus refreshing themselves, a
conversation of a very different kind, yet affecting the same interests,
was being carried on not very far off, under the shelter of a little
flowery arbour in another of the embowered gardens of Grange Lane, where
the subject was just then being discussed from the other side.
_Chapter XX_
Mr Woodburn's house, everybody admitted, was one of the nicest in
Carlingford; but that was not so visible out of doors as in. He was a
great amateur of flowers and fruit, and had his garden lined on each
side with greenhouses, which were no doubt very fine in their way, but
somewhat spoiled the garden, which had not in the least the homely,
luxuriant, old-fashioned look of the other gardens, where, for the most
part, the flowers and shrubs grew as if they liked it and were at
home--whereas Mr Woodburn's flower-beds were occupied only by
tenants-at-will; but at one corner near the house there was a little
arbour, so covered up and heaped over with clematis that even the Scotch
gardener had not the heart to touch it. The mass was so perfect and yet
so light that it was the most perfect hiding-place imaginable; and
nobody who had not been in it could have suspected that there was a
possibility of getting inside. Here Mrs Woodburn and Mr Cavendish were
seated on this particular afternoon; she very eager, animated, and in
earnest, he silent and leaning his head on his two hands in a sort of
downcast, fallen way. Mrs Woodburn had one of her lively eyes on the
garden that nobody might enter unseen, and for this once was "taking
off" no one, but was most emphatically and unquestionably herself.
"So you did not do it," she said. "Why didn't you do it? when you knew
so much depended upon it! You know I did not wish for it myself, at
first. But now since this man has come, and you have got into such a
panic, and never will have the courage to face it out----"
"How can I have the courage to face it out?" said Mr Cavendish, with a
groan. "It is all very easy for a woman to speak who has only to
criticise other people. If you had to do it yourself----"
"Ah, if I only had!" cried the sister. "You may be sure I would not make
so much fuss. After all, what is there to do? Take your place in
society, which you have worked for and won as honestly as anybody ever
won it, and look another man in the face who is not half so clever nor
so sensible as you are. Why, what can he say? If I only could do it,
you may be sure I should not lose any time."
"Yes," said Mr Cavendish, lifting his head. "To be sure, you're a
mimic--you can assume any part you like; but I am not so clever. I tell
you again, the only thing I can do is to go away----"
"Run away, you mean," said Mrs Woodburn. "I should be foolish, indeed,
if I were trusting to your cleverness to assume a part. My dear good
brother, you would find it impossible to put yourself sufficiently in
sympathy with another," cried the mimic, in the Archdeacon's very tone,
with a laugh, and at the same time a little snarl of bitter contempt.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Nelly, no foolery just now," said Mr Cavendish.
"I don't understand how you can be so heartless. To mimic a man who has
my position, my reputation, my very existence in his hands!"
"Have you murdered anybody?" said Mrs Woodburn, with intense scorn.
"Have you robbed anybody? If you have, I can understand all this stuff.
He is the very man to mimic, on the contrary. I'd like to let you see
him as he was on that famous occasion when he delivered his opinions on
art in Lucilla's drawing-room. Look here," said the mimic, putting one
hand behind an imaginary coat tail, and with the other holding up a
visionary drawing to the light; but this was more than her audience
could bear.
"I think you must have vowed to drive me crazy," cried the exasperated
brother. "Put aside for once that confounded vanity of yours--as if a
man had always leisure to look at your playing the fool." While he spoke
in this unusual way, he got up, as was natural, and took one or two
steps across the narrow space which was shut in by those luxuriant heaps
of clematis; and Mrs Woodburn, for her part, withdrew her chair out of
his way in equal heat and indignation.
"You have always the leisure to play the fool yourselves, you men," she
said. "Vanity, indeed! as if it were not simply to show you that one can
laugh at him without being stricken with thunder. But leave that if you
like. You know quite well if you married Lucilla Marjoribanks that there
would be no more about it. There _could_ be no more about it. Why, all
Grange Lane would be in a sort of way pledged to you. I don't mean to
say _I_ am attached to Lucilla, but you used to be, or to give yourself
out for being. You flirted with her dreadfully in the winter, I
remember, when those terrible Woodburns were here," she continued, with
a shiver. "If you married Lucilla and got into Parliament, you might
laugh at all the archdeacons in the world."
"It is very easy for a woman to talk," said the reluctant wooer again.
"I can tell you something it is not easy to do," cried his sister. "It
is frightfully hard for a woman to stand by and see a set of men making
a mess of things, and not to dare to say a word till all is spoiled.
What is this Archdeacon, I would like to know, or what could he say? If
you only would have the least courage, and look him in the face, he
would be disabled. As if no one had ever heard of mistaken identity
before? And in the meantime go and see Lucilla, and get her consent. I
can't do that for you; but I could do a great deal of the rest, if you
would only have a little pluck and not give in like this."
"A _little_ pluck, by George!" cried the unfortunate man, and he threw
himself down again upon his chair. "I am not in love with Lucilla
Marjoribanks, and I don't want to marry her," he added doggedly, and sat
beating a tune with his fingers on the table, with but a poorly-assumed
air of indifference. As for Mrs Woodburn, she regarded him with a look
of contempt.
"Perhaps you will tell me who you are in love with," she said
disdainfully; "but I did not ask to be taken into your confidence in
such an interesting way. What I wish to know is, whether you want a wife
who will keep your position for you. I am not in the least fond of her,
but she is very clever. Whether you want the support of all the best
people in Carlingford, and connections that would put _all that_ to
silence, and a real position of your own which nobody could interfere
with--that is what I want to know, Harry; as for the sentimental part, I
am not so much interested about that," said Mrs Woodburn, with a
contemptuous smile. She was young still, and she was handsome in her way
(for people who liked that style), and it jarred a little on the natural
feelings to hear a young wife express herself so disdainfully; but, to
be sure, her brother was not unaccustomed to that.
"You said once that Woodburn was necessary to your happiness," he said,
with a mixture of scorn and appeal, "though I can't say I saw it, for my
part."
"Did I?" she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders; "I saw what
was necessary on another score, as you don't seem to do. When a man has
nobody belonging to him, it is connections he ought to try for: and
Lucilla has very good connections; and it would be as good as securing
the support of Grange Lane. Do it for my sake, Harry, if you won't do it
for your own," said Mrs Woodburn, with a change of tone. "If you were to
let things be said, and give people an advantage, think what would
become of me. Woodburn would not mind so much if somebody else were
involved; but oh, Harry! if he should find out _he_ had been cheated,
and he only----"
"He was not cheated! You were always a great deal too good for him,
Nelly," said Mr Cavendish, touched at last at an effectual point; "and
as for _his_ friends and family, and all that----"
"Oh, please, don't speak of them," said Mrs Woodburn, with a shudder;
"but there are only two of us in the world; and, Harry, for my sake----"
At this appeal Mr Cavendish got up again, and began to pace the little
arbour, two steps to the wall, and two steps back again. "I told you I
had almost done it, when that confounded old woman came in," he said:
"that could not be called my fault?"
"And she said she was both your grandmothers," said the mimic, with a
slightly hysterical laugh, in Mrs Chiley's voice. "I know how she did
it. She can't be there still, you know--go now and try."
"Let alone a little; don't hurry a fellow," said her brother, somewhat
sullenly; "a man can't move himself up to the point of proposing twice
in one day."
"Then promise that you will do it to-morrow," said Mrs Woodburn. "I
shall have to go in, for there is somebody coming. Harry, before I go,
promise that you will do it to-morrow, for my sake."
"Oh, bother!" said Mr Cavendish; and it was all the answer he deigned to
give before Mrs Woodburn was called away, notwithstanding the adjuration
she addressed to him. It was then getting late, too late, even had he
been disposed for such an exertion, to try his fortunes again that day,
and Lucilla's allusion had given him a great longing to see Barbara once
more before his sacrifice was accomplished. Not that it was such a great
sacrifice, after all. For Mr Cavendish was quite aware that Miss
Marjoribanks was a far more suitable match for him than Barbara Lake,
and he was not even disposed to offer himself and his name and fortune,
such as they were, to the drawing-master's daughter. But, to tell the
truth, he was not a person of fixed and settled sentiments, as he ought
to have been in order to triumph, as his sister desired, over the
difficulties of his position. Perhaps Mrs Woodburn herself would have
done just the same, had it been she from whom action was demanded. But
she was capable of much more spirited and determined conduct in theory,
as was natural, and thought she could have done a great deal better, as
so many women do.
Mr Cavendish lounged about the garden a little, with his hands in his
pockets, and then strayed out quite accidentally, and in the same
unpremeditating mood made his way to Grove Street. He meant nothing by
it, and did not even inquire of himself where he was going, but only
strolled out to take the air a little. And it was better to go up to the
higher parts of the town than to linger here about Grange Lane, where
all the people he knew might pass, and stop to talk and ask him where he
had been, and worry his life out. And surely he had had enough of bother
for one day. By this time it was getting dark, and it was very pleasant
in Grove Street, where most of the good people had just watered their
little gardens, and brought out the sweetness of the mignonette. Mr
Cavendish was not sentimental, but still the hour was not without its
influence; and when he looked at the lights that began to appear in the
parlour windows, and breathed in the odours from the little gardens, it
is not to be denied that he asked himself for a moment what was the good
of going through all this bother and vexation, and whether love in a
cottage, with a little garden full of mignonette and a tolerable amount
of comfort within, was not, after all, a great deal more reasonable than
it looked at first sight? This, however, it must be allowed, was no
conclusion arrived at on sufficient premises, and with the calmness that
befitted such an important argument, but the mere suggestion, by the
way, of an impatient, undecided mind, that did always what at the moment
it found most agreeable to do, and reflected afterwards, when the moment
of repentance, not of reflection, had arrived.
He had paused by instinct under a lamp not yet lighted, which was almost
opposite Mr Lake's house; and it was not his fault if he saw at the
upper window a figure looking out, like Mariana, and sighing, "He cometh
not." Naturally the figure was concerned to find out who he was, and
_he_ was anxious to find out who was the figure. And, on the whole, it
was in a very innocent manner that this entirely natural curiosity was
satisfied. First the window was opened a little--a very little, just
enough to change the air--and Mr Cavendish down below heard the voice of
Barbara singing softly up above, which settled the matter as to her
identity. As to _his_, Barbara had never, from the first moment she
perceived him, any doubt of that. Her heart leaped back, as she thought,
to its right place when she first caught sight of that blessed
apparition; and with her heart came the orange-flowers, and the wedding
breakfast, and the veil of real Brussels for which Barbara had so much
wept. She tried to sing something that would convey hope and assurance
to her timid lover, according to romantic precedent; but her mind was
far from being a prompt one, as has been said. Thus it was all in the
most natural way that it came about. When Mr Cavendish felt quite sure
who it was, he took off his hat, which was only civil, and made a step
or two forward; and then Barbara took the extreme step of going down to
the door. No doubt it was an extreme step. Nothing but a great public
aim, like that of Miss Marjoribanks, could have justified such a
measure; but then Barbara, if she had not a great public, had at least a
decided personal, purpose, and obeyed the impulse of that mingled
inclination towards another and determination to have her own way, which
in such a mind calls itself passion, and which sometimes, by sheer force
of will, succeeds better than either genius or calculation. She went
down to the door, all palpitating with renewed hope, and, at the same
time, with the dread that he might escape her in the moment which was
necessary for her passage downstairs. But when she opened the door and
appeared with her cheeks glowing, and her eyes blazing, and her heart
thumping in her breast, in the midst of that quiet twilight, the object
of her hopes was still there. He had even advanced a little, with an
instinctive sense of her approach; and thus they met, the street being
comparatively quiet just then, and the mignonette perfuming the air. To
be sure, the poetry of the situation was of a homely order, for it was
under a lamp-post instead of a tree that the lover had placed himself;
and it was not the dew, but the watering, that had brought out the odour
of the mignonette; but then neither of the two were very poetical
personages, and the accessories did perfectly well for them.
"Is it you, Mr Cavendish? Goodness! I could not think who it was," cried
Barbara, out of breath.
"Yes, it is I. I thought, if I had an opportunity, I would ask how you
were--before I go away again," said the imprudent man. He did not want
to commit himself, but at the same time he was disposed to take the
benefit of his position as a hero on the eve of departure. "I heard you
had been ill."
"Oh, no--not ill," said Barbara; and then she added, taking breath, "I
am quite well now. Won't you come in?"
This was the perfectly simple and natural manner in which it occurred.
There was nobody in, and Barbara did not see, any more than her lover
did, why she should sacrifice any of her advantages. They were, on the
whole, quite well matched, and stood in need of no special protection on
either side. Though naturally Barbara, who felt by this time as if she
could almost see the pattern of the real Brussels, had a much more
serious object in view than Mr Cavendish, who went in only because it
was a pleasant thing to do at the moment, and offered him a little
refuge from himself and his deliberations, and the decision which it was
so necessary to come to. Thus it happened that when Mr Lake and Rose
came in from the evening walk they had been taking together, they found,
to their great amazement, Barbara in the little parlour, singing to Mr
Cavendish, who had forgotten all about Grange Lane, and his dangers, and
his hopes of better fortune, and was quite as much contented with the
mellow contralto that delighted his ears, and the blazing scarlet bloom,
and black level brows that pleased his eyes, as anybody could have
desired. To be sure, he had not even yet given a thought to the wedding
breakfast, which was all arranged already in the mind of the enchantress
who thus held him in thrall; but perhaps that may be best accounted for
by referring it to one of those indefinable peculiarities of difference
that exist between the mind of woman and that of man.
When Mr Lake and his daughter came in from their walk, and their talk
about Willie, and about art, and about the "effects" and "bits" which
Rose and her father mutually pointed out to each other, to find this
unexpected conjunction in the parlour, their surprise, and indeed
consternation, may be imagined. But it was only in the mind of Rose that
the latter sentiment existed. As for Mr Lake, he had long made up his
mind how, as he said, "a man of superior position" ought to be received
when he made his appearance in an artist's house. Perhaps, to tell the
truth, he forgot for the moment that his visitor was young, and his
daughter very handsome, and that it was to visit Barbara and not himself
that Mr Cavendish had come. The little drawing-master would not suffer
himself to be seduced by thoughts which were apart from the subject from
carrying out his principles. When Mr Cavendish rose up confused, with a
look of being caught and found out, Mr Lake held out his hand to him
with perfect suavity--"I have the pleasure of knowing you only by
sight," said the innocent father, "but I am very glad to make your
acquaintance in my own house;" and as this was said with the conscious
dignity of a man who knows that his house is not just an ordinary house,
but one that naturally the patrician portion of the community, if they
only knew it, would be glad to seek admittance to, the consequence was
that Mr Cavendish felt only the more and more confused.
"I happened to be passing," he explained faintly, "and having heard that
Miss Lake, whom I have had the pleasure of meeting----"
"I assure you," said the drawing-master, "that I hail with satisfaction
the appearance of a gentleman whose intelligence I have heard so much
of. We artists are a little limited, to be sure; for life, you know, is
short, and art is long, as the poet says; and our own occupation
requires so much of our thoughts. But still we are sympathetic, Mr
Cavendish. We can understand other subjects of study, though we cannot
share them. Yes, Barbara has been a little poorly--but she does not look
as if there was much the matter with her to-night. Ask for the lamp,
Rose," said Mr Lake, with a little grandeur. There was no light in the
room except the candles at the piano, which lighted that corner and left
the rest of the apartment, small as it was, in comparative shade. There
was something magnificent in the idea of adding the lamp to that
illumination; but then it is true that, as Mr Lake himself said, "every
artist is a prodigal in his heart."
Rose had been standing all this time with her hat on, looking at Mr
Cavendish like a little Gorgon. What did he want here? How had he been
admitted? She scorned to go and interrogate the maid, which involved a
kind of infidelity to her sister, but all the same she looked hard at Mr
Cavendish with a severity which had, on the whole, a reassuring effect
upon him. For, to tell the truth, the benign reception which he was
receiving from Mr Lake, instead of setting the visitor at his ease,
made him nervous; for he was not in the least aware of the heroic soul
which existed in the drawing-master's limited person. Mr Cavendish
thought nothing but that he was being "caught," according to his own
vulgar theory. He thought Barbara's father was cringing to him, and
playing the usual mean part of an interested parent who means to secure
a good match for his daughter. But as for Rose, she evidently, either
from jealousy or some other reason, was not in the plot. She stood apart
and scowled, as well as she knew how, upon the intruder. "I suppose,
papa," said Rose, "Mr Cavendish wished to hear Barbara sing, and she has
been singing. She is always very good-natured in that way; but as we
have none of us anything particular to do, I don't see what need we have
for a lamp."
At this trenchant speech Mr Cavendish rose. He was quite grateful to the
little Preraphaelite for her incivility. It made him feel less as if he
had committed himself, and more as if he were an intruder, which was the
more agreeable suggestion of the two under the present circumstances.
"You remind me that I should thank Miss Lake for letting me come in and
hear once more her lovely voice," he said. "I am at present only a
visitor in Carlingford, and indeed in England--I may have to leave again
in a day or two--good-bye. If I am still here, I shall hope to meet you
on Thursday." And then he pressed Barbara's hand, who, to tell the
truth, was very reluctant to let him go away.
"If you must go----" she said, so low that her father could not hear
her, though the vigilant, suspicious little Rose caught the sound, and
came a step nearer, like a little dragon, as Barbara was disposed to
think she was.
"I _must_ go," murmured Mr Cavendish; "but I shall see you--we shall
meet." He dared not say another word, so alarming were the looks of the
small Medusa, whose countenance he could see behind Barbara regarding
the parting. As for Mr Lake, he too regarded it with a momentary
curiosity. He did not quite understand how it was that his daughter and
his visitor could know each other well enough to communicate in this
undertone.
"I am sorry to see so little of you," said Mr Lake. "I am afraid it is
my little girl's _brusque_ way of speaking that hastens your going. I
assure you we were quite unoccupied, and would have been very
happy--perhaps we may be more fortunate another time;" and with that
the drawing-master gave a dignified dismissal to his surprising visitor.
It was Rose herself who saw Mr Cavendish to the door, which she opened
for him with an utter disregard of his excuses and attempts to do that
office for himself. She would not even shake hands, but made him the
most majestic curtsey that was ever executed by a personage five feet
high, under the influence of which Mr Cavendish went away humbled, and,
he could scarcely tell why, ashamed of himself. When Rose came back to
the parlour, still with her hat on, she found that Barbara had gone to
the window, and was looking out at the edge of the blind--which was all
that was wanted to put a climax to her sister's exasperation.
"Papa," said Rose, "I should like to know in your presence, or I should
like you to ask Barbara herself, what is the meaning of all that has
been going on to-night."
Mr Lake turned right round at this appeal with an expression of utter
amaze and bewilderment, which at another moment would have struck Rose
with the profoundest delight as a study; and as for Barbara, without any
more ado she burst into a flood of passionate tears.
"Oh, you nasty, envious thing! oh, you jealous, disagreeable thing!"
sobbed the elder sister; "to send him away and spoil everything with
your airs! when he was as near--just as near"--but here Barbara's voice
lost itself in her tears.
"My dear, what does this mean?" said Mr Lake.
"It means, papa, that she has encouraged him to come, and invited him
in, and been singing to him," cried Rose. "To think she should be one of
us, and have no proper pride! If he was fond of her, he would tell her
so, and ask your permission; but she is laying herself out to please
_him_, and is content that they should all jeer at her in Lucilla's
parties, and say she is trying to catch him. I thought I could have died
of shame when I saw him here to-night; and compromising you, as if that
was why you were so civil. If it were for her good, do you think _I_
would ever interfere?" cried Barbara's guardian angel. At this point
Rose herself would have liked excessively to cry, if the truth must be
told; but Barbara had already appropriated that facile mode of
expression, and the little artist scorned to copy. As for Mr Lake, he
turned from one to the other of his daughters with unmitigated
consternation and dismay.
"It was all your coming in," sobbed Barbara, "if you had only had the
sense to see it. _That_ was what he meant. If I was singing, it was just
to pass the time; I know that was what he came for. And you to send him
away with your airs!" cried the injured young woman. All this made up a
scene entirely novel to the amazed father, who felt it his duty to put a
stop to it, and yet could not tell what to say.
"Girls," he began, with a trembling voice, "this is all perfectly new to
me. I don't understand. If Mr Cavendish, or--or any one, wishes to pay
his addresses to my daughter, it is, of course, his business to apply to
me in the first place. Barbara, don't cry. You know how I dislike to
hear you cry," said the poor man, gradually losing his head. "Don't make
a fuss, Rose; for Heaven's sake, girls, can't you say at once what you
mean, and don't worry me to death? Ah, if your poor mother had but been
spared!" cried the unfortunate widower; and he had five daughters
altogether, poor soul!--and it was so easy to drive him out of his
senses. At this point Rose intervened, and did what she could to calm
matters down. Barbara, still sobbing, retired to her chamber; the boys
came in from their cricket, and the little children had to be put to
bed; and there was no one to attend to all these matters, in the absence
of the eldest sister, except the little mistress of the School of
Design, so that naturally all further explanation was postponed for this
night.
_Chapter XXI_
It was thus that Mr Cavendish, without particularly meaning it,
impressed upon two interesting and amiable young women on the same day
the conviction that he was about to propose, without in either case
realising that expectation. After this last exploit he went home with
his head more confused, and his will more undecided, than ever. For he
had one of those perverse minds which cling to everything that is
forbidden; and the idea that he ought not to have gone near Barbara
Lake, and that he ought not to see her again, made him more anxious to
seek her out and follow her than he had ever been before. If such a
thing had been permissible in England as that a man might marry one wife
for his liking and another for his interests, the matter might have been
compromised by proposing to them both; and there cannot be a doubt that
Lucilla, in such a case, would very soon have triumphed over her
handsome, sullen, passionate rival. But then such a way of conciliating
a man with himself does not exist in the British Islands, and
consequently was not to be thought of. And to be sure, every time he
came to think of it, Mr Cavendish saw more and more clearly what a fool
he would be to marry Barbara, who was evidently so ready to marry him.
The same thing could not with any confidence be predicated of Miss
Marjoribanks, though, if she were to accept him, and her father were to
consent, nothing could be better for his interests. All this he felt,
and yet an unconquerable reluctance kept him back. His history was not
quite spotless, and there were chapters in it which he thought it would
kill him to have brought before the public of Carlingford; but still he
was far from being a bad fellow in his way. And down at the bottom of
his heart, out of everybody's sight, and unacknowledged even by himself,
there was one little private nook full of gratitude to Lucilla. Though
he scarcely knew what was passing at the moment, he knew, when he came
to think of it, that she had saved him from the effects of his first
panic at the unexpected appearance of Mr Beverley. Perhaps it was partly
this consciousness that made him so embarrassed in her presence; and he
could not find it in his heart, with this sense of gratitude, to deceive
her, and say he loved her, and ask her to marry him. To be sure, if Mr
Cavendish had been a very acute observer, he might have felt that
Lucilla was quite able to take care of herself in such an emergency, and
was at the least a match for him, however seductive he might appear to
others; but then, few people are acute observers in a matter so entirely
personal to themselves.
He felt furious with himself as he went home, and thought how foolish he
had been ever to go near Barbara Lake in the present position of
affairs; and yet he could not help feeling that it was more delightful
to him to see the colour blaze into her cheeks, and the song rise like a
bird from her full crimson lips, and that flush of excitement and
triumph come from her eyes, than it could have been in any case to have
been admitted to the same degree of intimacy with Lucilla, who was not
in the least intoxicated by his presence. Thus the unfortunate man was
torn asunder, not so much by love and duty, as by inclination and
interest, though the inclination was not strong enough to have allowed
of any great sacrifice, nor the interest sufficiently certain to have
repaid the exertion. This only made it the more difficult to decide; and
in his circumstances, and with the panic that pursued him, he did not
feel it possible to adopt the only wise policy that remained to him, and
wait.
As Mr Cavendish was thus making his way home, horribly vexed and annoyed
with himself, and avoiding Grange Lane as if the plague was in it, Miss
Marjoribanks sat in her drawing-room alone, and thought the matter over.
Certainly she had not expected him that evening, but still, when she
heard ten o'clock strike, and felt that his coming now absolutely
impossible, she was a little--not exactly disappointed, but annoyed at
herself for having felt a sort of expectation. Lucilla was not a person
to hide her sentiments, or even to conceal a fact which was disagreeable
to her _amour propre_. She had too thorough and well-founded a
confidence in the natural interest of the world in all belonging to her
to do that; so when ten o'clock had done striking, she opened her
blotting-book and took one of her pretty sheets of paper, with
Lucilla on it in delicate rose-tinted letters, the L very large, and
the concluding letters very small, and dashed off her note to Mrs
Chiley. The Miss Blounts' at Mount Pleasant had been one of the very
first establishments to forsake the handwriting which was all corners,
in favour of the bold running hand of the present female generation; and
it was accordingly in a very free and strongly-characterised manuscript,
black with much ink, that Miss Marjoribanks wrote:
"DEAREST MRS CHILEY,--I never expected him to come, and he has not.
I dare say he never meant it. I am so glad. It was Providence that
sent you at that particular moment to-day.--Always in haste, with
fond love, your most truly affectionate
"LUCILLA."
And when she had sent Thomas with this note, Miss Marjoribanks felt her
mind relieved. Not that it had been much distressed before, but when she
had put it in black and white, and concluded upon it, her satisfaction
was more complete; and no such troublous thoughts as those which
disturbed the hero of this day's transactions--no such wild tears as
poured from the eyes of Barbara Lake--interfered with the maidenly
composure of Lucilla's meditations. Notwithstanding all that people say
to the contrary, there is a power in virtue which makes itself felt in
such an emergency. Miss Marjoribanks could turn from Mr Cavendish, who
had thus failed to fulfil the demands of his position, to the serene
idea of the Archdeacon, with that delightful consciousness of having
nothing to reproach herself with, which is balm to a well-regulated
mind. She had done her duty, whatever happened. She had not
injudiciously discouraged nor encouraged the possible Member for
Carlingford; and at the same time she was perfectly free to turn her
attention to the possible Bishop; and neither in one case nor the other
could anybody say that she had gone a step too far, or committed herself
in any way whatsoever. While these consoling reflections were passing
through Lucilla's mind, Dr Marjoribanks came upstairs, as had grown to
be his custom lately. Sometimes he took a cup of tea, though it was
against his principles, and sometimes he only sat by while his daughter
had hers, and amused himself with her chat before he went to bed. He was
later than usual to-night, and naturally the tea-tray had disappeared
some time before. As for Lucilla, she did not for a moment permit her
own preoccupation to interfere with the discharge of her immediate duty,
which was unquestionably to be amusing and agreeable, and a comfort to
her dear papa.
"So you had Cavendish here to-day?" said the Doctor. "What brought him
here? What has he been doing? Since you and he are on such good terms, I
hope he gave you an account of where he has been."
"He has been nursing a sick friend on--the Continent," said Lucilla,
with that largeness of geographical expression which is natural to the
insular mind. "Who are Mr Cavendish's friends, papa?" added Miss
Marjoribanks, with confiding simplicity; and it was beautiful to see how
the daughter looked up into her father's face, with that angelic
confidence in his knowledge on all subjects which is so rarely to be met
with in the present generation. But it was not a question to which the
Doctor found it easy to respond.
"Who are his friends?" said Dr Marjoribanks. "He's one of the
Cavendishes, they say. We have all heard that. I never knew he had any
friends; which is, after all, next best to having very good ones," said
the philosophical old Scotchman; and there, as it appeared, he was quite
content to let the matter drop.
"I like to know who people belong to, for my part," said Lucilla. "The
Archdeacon, for example, one knows all about his friends. It's a great
deal nicer, you know, papa. Not that it matters in the least about the
Cavendishes----"
"Well, I should have thought not, after the way you made an end of him,"
said the Doctor. "I hope he doesn't mean to begin that nonsense over
again, Lucilla. He is a good fellow enough, and I don't mind asking him
to my house; but it is quite a different thing to give him my daughter.
He spends too much money, and I can't see what real bottom he has. It
may all flare up and come to nothing any day. Nobody can have any
certainty with an expensive fellow like that," said Dr Marjoribanks.
"There is no telling where he draws his income from; it isn't from the
land, and it isn't from business; and if it's money in the Funds----"
"Dear papa," said Lucilla, "if he had the Bank of England, it would not
make any difference to me. I am not going to swindle you, after you have
had the drawing-room done up, and everything. I said ten years, and I
mean to keep to it,--if nothing very particular happens," Miss
Marjoribanks added prudently. "Most likely I shall begin to go off a
little in ten years. And all I think of just now is to do my duty, and
be a little comfort to you."
Dr Marjoribanks indulged in a faint "humph!" under his breath, as he
lighted his candle; for, as has been already said, he was not a man to
feel so keenly as some men might have felt the enthusiasm of filial
devotion which beautified Lucilla's life. But at the same time he had
that respect for his daughter's genius, which only experience could have
impressed upon him; and he did not venture, or rather he did not think
it necessary, to enter into any further explanations. Dr Marjoribanks
did not in the least degree share the nervousness of Mr Cavendish, who
was afraid of deceiving Lucilla. As for her father, he felt a consoling
conviction that she was quite able to conduct her own affairs, and would
do him no discredit in any engagements she might form. And at the same
time he was amused by the idea that he might be swindled in respect to
the drawing-room, if she married at this early moment. He took it for
wit, when it was the most solid and sensible reality; but then,
fortunately, the points in which he misapprehended her redounded as much
to Lucilla's credit, as those in which he seized her meaning clearest,
so that on every side there was something to be gained.
And when Miss Marjoribanks too retired to her maidenly chamber, a
sentiment of general content and satisfaction filled her mind. It is
true that for the moment she had experienced a natural womanly vexation
to see a proposal nipped in the bud. It annoyed her not so much on
personal as on general principles; for Lucilla was aware that nothing
could be more pernicious to a man than when thus brought to the very
point to be thrown back again, and never permitted to produce that
delicate bloom of his affections. It was like preventing a rose from
putting forth its flowers, a cruelty equally prejudicial to the plant
and to the world. But when this pang of wounded philanthropy was over,
Miss Marjoribanks felt in her heart that it was Providence that had sent
Mrs Chiley at that special moment. There was no telling what
embarrassments, what complications she might not have got into, had Mr
Cavendish succeeded in unbosoming himself. No doubt Lucilla had a
confidence that, whatever difficulties there might have been, she would
have extricated herself from them with satisfaction and even _éclat_,
but still it was better to avoid the necessity. Thus it was with a
serene conviction that "whatever is, is best," that Miss Marjoribanks
betook herself to her peaceful slumbers. There are so many people in
the world who hold, or are tempted to hold, an entirely different
opinion, that it is pleasant to linger over the spectacle of a mind so
perfectly well regulated. Very different were the sentiments of Mr
Cavendish, who could not sleep for the ghosts that kept tugging at him
on every side; and those of Barbara Lake, who felt that for her too the
flower of her hero's love had been nipped in the bud. But, to be sure,
it is only natural that goodness and self-control should have the best
of it sometimes even in this uncertain world.
_Chapter XXII_
The Archdeacon returned to Carlingford before Thursday, as he had
anticipated; but in the interval Mr Cavendish had not recovered his
courage so far as to renew his visit to Miss Marjoribanks, or to face
the man who had alarmed him so much. Everybody in Grange Lane remarked
at the time how worried poor Mrs Woodburn looked. Her eyes lost their
brightness, which some people thought was the only beauty she had, and
her nerves and her temper both failed her, no one could tell why. The
personal sketches she made at this moment were truculent and bitter to
an unheard-of degree. She took off Mr Beverley with a savage force which
electrified her audience, and put words into his mouth which everybody
admitted were exactly like him, if he could ever be imagined to have
fallen into the extraordinary circumstances in which the mimic placed
him. In short, Mrs Woodburn made a little drama out of the Archdeacon.
Mr Beverley, of course, knew nothing about this, and showed some
surprise now and then at the restrained laughter which he heard in the
corners; but when anybody spoke of Mrs Woodburn, he showed an
instinctive want of confidence. "I have not studied her sufficiently to
give an opinion of her," he said, which was certainly the very reverse
of her deliverance upon him. To tell the truth, she had rather studied
him too much, and gave too keen an edge to his characteristic qualities,
as is natural to all literary portraiture, and even went so far that,
in the end, people began to ask whether she had any personal spite
against him.
"She don't know him," Mr Woodburn said, when he heard some faint echo of
this suggestion. "She's clever, and it carries her away, you know. She
enters into it so, she don't know how far she is going; but I can answer
for it she never saw the Archdeacon before; and Hal isn't here to give
her the key-note, as she says. _He_ has met everybody, I believe, one
place or another," the simple man said, with a little natural pride; for
in his heart he was vain of his fashionable brother-in-law. As for Mr
Cavendish himself, it began to be understood that he was with a friend
who was sick, on the Continent; and soon--for news had a wonderful
tendency to increase and grow bigger as it spread in Grange Lane--that
his friend was dying, and that a probable large increase of fortune to
the popular favourite would be the result, which was an idea that did
credit to the imagination of Carlingford. He had disappeared completely
once more after the eventful day which we have described, carrying out
in the fullest way Lucilla's prediction, but striking Barbara Lake with
bitter disappointment. Miss Marjoribanks had a great many things to
occupy her, but Barbara had nothing except the humble duty of looking
after her little brothers and sisters, and attending to her father's
comfort, which had never been occupations particularly to her mind. And
then Barbara was aware that, if she neglected her duties, Rose, on her
return from the School of Design, would do them, though with a fierce
little outbreak of indignation, which the elder sister felt she could
bear; and accordingly, she did little else but brood over his sudden
disappearance, and spend her time at the window looking for his return.
Lucilla conducted herself, as might have been expected, in a much more
rational and dignified manner. She made herself very agreeable to the
Archdeacon, who unbended very much, and grew very nice, as Mrs Chiley
herself allowed. "But, my dear, I am uneasy about his opinions," the old
lady said. He certainly had a very free way of talking, and was ready to
discuss _anything_, and was not approved of by Mr Bury. But still he had
very good connections and a nice position, and had always a chance of
being Bishop of Carlingford; and in marriage it is well known that one
never can have everything one wants. So that, on the whole, even Mrs
Chiley did not see what difference his opinions made, so far as Lucilla
was concerned. When Miss Marjoribanks went down to Colonel Chiley's in
the evening and made tea for the old people, like a daughter of the
house, Mr Beverley was always disposed to go over to the enemy, as the
old Colonel said. No doubt he had enough of Colonel Chiley, who had not
received a new idea into his mind since the battle of Waterloo, and did
not see what people had to do with such nonsense. And then the
Archdeacon would very often walk home with the young visitor. During
this time, as was natural, Mr Beverley heard Mr Cavendish's name a
hundred times, and regretted, like all the world, that so eminent a
member of the Carlingford commonwealth should be absent during his
visit; but, at the same time, Lucilla took great care to avoid all
personalities, and kept a discreet silence even about the gifts and
accomplishments of her almost-lover. Mrs Chiley sighed, poor soul, when
she saw how her young friend avoided this subject, and thought sometimes
that he was forgotten, sometimes that the poor dear was breaking her
heart for him; but it is needless to say that neither of these
suppositions was in the least true.
And then it began to be considered rather odd in Carlingford that the
Archdeacon should pay such a long visit. Mrs Chiley no doubt was very
kind and hospitable, and exceedingly glad to receive such a
distinguished clergyman; but when a man has been six weeks in any one's
house, and shows no inclination of going, it is natural that people
should feel a little surprised. His visitation was over, and he had
dined with everybody, and studied the place and its characteristics, and
entered into everything that was going on. The only thing, indeed, that
he did not seem to think of, was going away. If it had been Mr
Cavendish, the chances are that he would have made himself so much one
of the family, that his departure would have been felt as a domestic
calamity; but the Archdeacon was very different from Mr Cavendish. So
long as he was in the house it was impossible to forget either his
position or his ways of thinking, or the absence of any real connection
between himself and his hosts. He did not combat or contradict anybody,
but he would give a faint smile when the Colonel uttered his
old-fashioned sentiments, which drove the old soldier frantic. "As if I
was not able to form an opinion, by Jove!" Colonel Chiley said; while,
on the other hand, the Archdeacon was quite ready to enter into the
young people's absurd theories, and discuss the very Bible itself, as if
that were a book to be discussed. As for the Rector, he turned his head
away when he passed Colonel Chiley's door, and Miss Bury made visits of
condolence and sympathy. "You must feel it a great responsibility having
Mr Beverley with you," the Rector's sister would say, though naturally
without any distinct explanation of her meaning; and then she would look
at Mrs Chiley and sigh.
"Oh, I am sure it is a great pleasure," Mrs Chiley answered, not willing
to let down the prestige of her guest. "He is very nice, and takes a
great deal of interest in everything; and then, you know, he is a
connection of ours. The Colonel's niece, Mary Chiley----"
"Yes, I know," said Miss Bury. "Poor thing! she looked suffering the
last time I saw her. I hope she has found the true consolation to
support her, now she has entered into the troubles of life."
"Well, yes, I hope so," said Mrs Chiley, a little doubtfully; "but you
know one does not feel the troubles of life very severely at her age;
and I don't think I should have called a baby a trouble when I was like
her. I never had any, you know, and I used to fret over it a great deal;
but the Colonel never liked the noise of children, and I suppose it is
all for the best."
"One may always be sure of that," said Miss Bury, in her instructive
way. "I suppose the Archdeacon is going soon," she added; "he has been
here a long time now. I almost wonder he likes to be so long absent from
his parish. Two months, is it not?"
"Oh, no--not quite six weeks," said Mrs Chiley briskly. "I hope he may
be persuaded to stay some time longer. I look upon it as quite a
compliment to Carlingford; for, to be sure, he would not stay if he had
not some attraction," said the imprudent old woman. And this was
precisely what Miss Bury wanted, as any one of acute perceptions might
have seen from the first.
"It must be a great responsibility for you," said the Rector's sister,
with a sigh, pressing Mrs Chiley's hand. "If it should turn out badly,
you know----Of course, my brother and I don't agree with Mr Beverley on
all points--though I am sure I hope he is quite conscientious; but I do
feel for you with such a responsibility," said Miss Bury, with a look
that made the old lady nervous in spite of herself. Thus,
notwithstanding all her sense of the duties of hospitality, and her
anxiety about Lucilla's interests, she could not but feel that it would
be rather a relief to get so formidable a guest fairly out of the house.
It is uncomfortable, it must be allowed, to entertain in your house
anybody, particularly a clergyman of whom your Rector does not approve;
and there could be no doubt that the Archdeacon was not like the
clergymen that Mrs Chiley had been accustomed to. "And he could come
back another time," she said to herself, by way of conciliating her own
weariness with her visitor's advantage and the interests of Lucilla. But
notwithstanding these reflections on Mrs Chiley's part and
notwithstanding the Colonel's less amiable growl, uttered every
morning--"Does that parson of yours never mean to go away?"--the
Archdeacon showed no intention of budging. It was poor Mrs Chiley who
had all the brunt to bear, to exhaust herself in civilities and to be
upbraided with "that parson of yours"--whereas he was not in the least
her parson, nor even the kind of man she approved of as a clergyman. All
this, however, the brave old woman bore with fortitude for Lucilla's
sake: certainly it must be Lucilla who kept him in Carlingford--if it
were not something else.
Things were in this condition, Mr Cavendish having again disappeared
into utter darkness, and Carlingford beginning to enter warmly into the
question whether or not Mr Beverley was paying attention to Lucilla,
when it happened to Miss Marjoribanks one morning to meet the Archdeacon
in a little lane running between Grove Street and Grange Lane. Opening
from this lane was a little door in the wall, which admitted to a little
garden very bright with flowers of the simplest old-fashioned kinds,
with a little house planted at its extremity, which had pretensions to
be an old-fashioned and quasi-rural cottage, on the score of being very
rickety, uncomfortable, and badly arranged. But it must be a very
impracticable erection indeed which does not look tolerable under the
bright sunshine on a summer noon, at the end of a pretty garden where
children are playing and birds singing, and a woman or two about.
Lucilla was standing at the door of this little closed-up hermitage,
almost filling up the opening with her crisp summer draperies, and
affording only a very partial and tempting glimpse of its flowers and
shrubs and whitewashed walls inside; and when Mr Beverley came up to
Miss Marjoribanks he felt his curiosity excited. "Is it Armida's
garden, or the Elysian fields--" said the Archdeacon; and he made a dead
stop before the door, not knowing any more than any other blind mortal
what he was going to find inside.
"I don't know anything about Armida," said Miss Marjoribanks;
"unfortunately they were all Cambridge in their ways of thinking at
Mount Pleasant, and our classics got dreadfully neglected. But you may
come in if you like--at least I think you may come in, if you will
promise not to frighten the children. I am sure they never saw an
Archdeacon in their lives."
"Are there children?" said Mr Beverley, with a doubtful air; for, to
tell the truth, he had come to the age at which men think it best to
avoid children, unless, indeed, they happen to have a personal interest
in them; and he stretched his neck a little to see in over Miss
Marjoribanks's head.
"There are a whole lot of children, and a pretty governess," said
Lucilla. "It is a school, and I am so much interested in it. I may call
it my school, for that matter. I came to know her in the funniest way;
but I will tell you that another time. And it was just my luck, as
usual. She is so nice, and quite a lady. If you will not say you are an
Archdeacon, to frighten the children, I will let you come in."
"You shall call me whatever you like," said Mr Beverley; "when I am with
the lady-patroness, what does it matter what I call myself? Let me see
how you manage your educational department. I have already bowed before
your genius in the other branches of government; but this ought to be
more in my own way."
"I don't think you care for visiting schools," said Lucilla. "I know you
think it is a bore; but she is so nice, and so nice-looking; I am sure
you will be pleased with her. I am quite sure she is a lady, and has
seen better days."
"Oh, those dreadful women that have seen better days!" said the
Archdeacon; "I think Mrs Chiley has a regiment of them. It is hard to
know how to get one's self into sympathy with those faded existences.
They fill me with an infinite pity; but then what can one do? If one
tries to recall them to the past, it sounds like mockery--and if one
speaks of the present, it wounds their feelings. It is a great social
difficulty," said Mr Beverley; and he fixed his eyes on the ground and
entered meditatively, without looking where he was going, in his
Broad-Church way.
"Dear Mrs Chiley is so kind," said Lucilla, who was a little puzzled for
the moment, and did not know what to say.
"Mrs Chiley is a good, pure, gentle woman," said the Archdeacon. He
spoke in a tone which settled the question, and from which there was no
appeal; and no doubt what he said was perfectly true, though it was not
a very distinct characterisation. Thus they went in together into the
bright little garden, thinking of nothing in particular, and loitering
as people do who do not know what is coming. There was something that
morning in Mr Beverley's tone and manner which struck Lucilla as
something more than usual. She was not a young woman to attach undue
importance to looks and tones; but the Archdeacon's manner was so
softened and mellowed, and his eyes had so much expression in them, and
he looked at Lucilla with such marked regard, that it was impossible for
her not to recognise that a crisis might be approaching. To be sure, it
was not by any means so near as that crisis _manqué_ which had so lately
passed over her head in respect to Mr Cavendish. But still Miss
Marjoribanks could not but remark the signs of a slowly approaching and
most likely more important climax; and as she remarked it, Lucilla
naturally by anticipation prepared herself for the coming event that
thus threw a shadow upon her. She did not make up her mind to accept Mr
Beverley any more than she had made up her mind to accept Mr Cavendish;
but she thought it only her duty to him and to herself, and to society
in general, to take his claims into full consideration. And no doubt, if
these claims had seemed to her sufficiently strong to merit such a
reward, Miss Marjoribanks had it in her to marry the Archdeacon, and
make him an admirable wife, though she was not at the present moment, so
far as she was aware, absolutely what foolish people call in love with
him. At the same time, she made herself all the more agreeable to Mr
Beverley from her sense of the dawn of tenderness with which he regarded
her. And in this way they went up the broad central path which traversed
the little garden, neither looking to the left nor the right, but
presenting all that appearance of being occupied with each other, which,
especially to a female observer, is so easy of interpretation. For, to
be sure, the Archdeacon had not the remotest idea into whose house he
was going, nor who it was whom he was about to see.
But as it happened, Lucilla's protégée, who had seen better days, had
just finished one of her lessons, and sent her little pupils out into
the garden. She was preparing for the next little class, when, raising
her eyes accidentally, she saw Miss Marjoribanks coming through the
garden with the Archdeacon by her side. She was the same person whom Mr
Bury had brought to Lucilla with the idea of recommending her to Dr
Marjoribanks as a companion and chaperone for his daughter; but since
then Mrs Mortimer's appearance had considerably changed. She had grown
younger by ten years during the period of comparative comfort and
tranquillity which Lucilla's active help and championship had procured
for her. Her house, and her garden, and her little scholars, and the
bloom on her cheeks, and the filling-up of her worn frame, were all Miss
Marjoribanks's doing. In the intervals of her legislative cares Lucilla
had run about all over Carlingford searching for pupils, and at the same
moment had cut and stitched and arranged, and papered walls, and planted
flower-beds, for the feeble creature thus thrown upon her. This was a
side of Lucilla's character which certainly she did nothing to hide from
the public, but which, at the same time, she never made any fuss about;
and it was an endless pleasure to her to find a protégée so perfectly
content to be "done for," and do as she was told to do. It was thus that
the poor faded widow, who was sensitive and had feelings, and forgot
herself so far as to faint, or nearly to faint, just at the most unlucky
moment possible, when the Rector's character and dignity demanded
superior self-control on her part, had found her youth again and her
good looks under Lucilla's shadow. When she looked up and saw the two
approaching, Mrs Mortimer's first impulse was to smile at the
conjunction; but the next moment she had dropped the books out of her
hands, and was standing gazing out like a woman in a dream, with the
colour all gone out of her cheeks, and even out of her lips, in the
surprise of the moment. It was only surprise and a kind of dismay; it
was not terror, like that which Mr Cavendish had exhibited at the same
apparition. She dropped into her chair without knowing it, and probably
would have fainted this time also, if something more urgent than mere
"feelings" had not roused her up. As it was, it happened very happily
for her that she had thus a little preparation. When she saw that her
patroness was leading Mr Beverley up to the door, and that in a minute
more he would inevitably be brought to her very side, Mrs Mortimer
roused up all her strength. She gathered up her books in her hand
without knowing very well what she was doing, and, taking virtue from
necessity, went desperately out to meet them. It was Miss Marjoribanks
who first saw her, white and tottering, leaning against the trellis of
the little porch, and Lucilla could not but give a little cry of alarm
and wonder. What kind of man could this be, who thus struck down another
victim without even so much as a glance? It was just then that the
Archdeacon raised his eyes, and saw standing before him, among the faded
roses, the woman whom he had been approaching so indifferently--the
faded existence that had seen better days. He saw her, and he stood
stock-still, as if it was she who was the basilisk, and the look of
pleased interest went out of his face in a moment. In that moment he had
become as unconscious of the presence of Lucilla as if he had never in
his life softened his voice to her ear, or talked nonsense to please
her. His eyes did not seem big enough to take in the figure which stood
shrinking and looking at him in the porch. Then he made one long step
forward, and took hold of her sleeve--not her hand--as if to convince
himself that it was something real he saw. He showed no joy, nor
satisfaction, nor anything but sheer amaze and wonder, at this
unexpected appearance, for he had not had time to prepare himself as she
had. "Am I dreaming, or is it you?" he said, in a voice that sounded as
different from the voice with which he had been speaking to Lucilla, as
if years had elapsed between the two. And it would be vain to describe
the amazement and singular sense that the earth had suddenly given way
under her feet, with which Miss Marjoribanks stood by and looked on.
_Chapter XXIII_
Miss Marjoribanks was naturally the first to recover her senses in this
emergency. Even she, self-possessed as she was, felt the natural
giddiness inseparable from such a strange reversal of the position. But
she did not lose her head like the others. She looked at the widow
standing white and tremulous in the shadow of the little porch, and on
the Archdeacon, whose manly countenance had paled to a corresponding
colour. A man does not seize a woman by the sleeve and ask, "Is it
_you_?" without some reason for an address so destitute of ordinary
courtesy; and Lucilla was sufficiently versed in such matters to know
that so rude and startling an accost could be only addressed to some one
whose presence set the speaker's heart beating, and quickened the blood
in his veins. It was odd, to say the least, after the way in which he
had just been speaking to herself; but Miss Marjoribanks, as has been
already said, was not the woman to lose her head. She recovered herself
with the second breath she drew, and took her natural place. "I can see
that you have something to say to each other," said Lucilla. "Mrs
Mortimer, ask Mr Beverley to walk in. Never mind me. I want to speak to
the little Lakes. I shall come back presently," Miss Marjoribanks added,
nodding pleasantly to the Archdeacon--and she went away to the other end
of the garden, calling to the children with that self-possession which
is the gift only of great minds. But when Lucilla found herself at a
safe distance, and saw the Archdeacon stoop to go in under the porch, it
cannot be denied that her mind was moved by the sight. It was she who
had seen after the putting-up of that trellis round that porch, and the
arrangement of the wistaria, which had been sprawling all over the front
of the house uncared for. If there was any place in the world where she
should have been free from such a shock, it certainly should have been
here, in this spot, which she had, so to speak, created. Naturally the
unfitness of these surroundings to witness a revolution so unlooked-for
and disagreeable struck Lucilla. If she had to be again humiliated, and
to submit once more to see another preferred to herself, it certainly
should have been under other circumstances. When we admit that such a
thought did pass through the mind of Miss Marjoribanks, it will prove to
all who know her that Lucilla found her position sufficiently
aggravating. She had exerted herself for Mrs Mortimer as nobody else in
Carlingford would have exerted themselves. She had not only found pupils
and a means of living for the widow, which, perhaps, a committee of
ladies might have done at the end of a year, had it been put into their
hands; but Miss Marjoribanks had done it at once, and had taken charge
of that timid and maladroit individual herself, and set her up, and done
everything for her. It was Dr Marjoribanks's gardener, under Lucilla's
orders, who had arranged and planted the garden, and trained the
embowering foliage which had just brushed the Archdeacon's clerical hat
as he went in; and in the act of refurnishing her drawing-room, Miss
Marjoribanks had managed to procure, without costing anybody anything
except a little trouble, as she herself said, many accessories, which
gave an air of comfort to the little parlour, in which, no doubt, at
that moment, Mr Beverley and Mrs Mortimer were explaining themselves.
Lucilla had a great deal too much good sense to upbraid anybody with
ingratitude, or even to make any claim upon that slippery quality; but
she knew at the same time that the widow was the very last person from
whom a new discomfiture should come, and that to enter in under that
trellis when he left her was, on the Archdeacon's part, an aggravation
of the change in his sentiments which it was difficult to bear.
She walked along the garden path very briskly under the influence of
these thoughts, and it was not in nature to do otherwise than snub the
children when she joined them. Lucilla was a woman of genius, but she
was not faultless; and when she found Ethelinda and Ethelfreda Lake, the
two twins, the one with her clean frock all muddy and stained, the other
with the front breadth torn right up the middle, it is scarcely to be
wondered at if she lost her patience. "You little nasty untidy things!"
she said, "I should like to know who you expect is to go mending up and
washing every day for you? It will not be Barbara, I am sure," Miss
Marjoribanks added, with a fine intonation of scorn, of which the
culprits were insensible; and she gave Ethelinda a shake, who was
sitting on the wet ground, all muddy with recent watering, and who,
besides, was the one who most resembled Barbara. When this temporary
ebullition had taken place, Lucilla began gradually to right herself.
It was a grand sight, if anybody had been there to witness it, or if
anybody could have seen into Miss Marjoribanks's maiden bosom; but the
spectacle of a great mind thus recovering its balance is one which can
rarely be visible except in its results. While she set the children to
rights, and represented to Mrs Mortimer's little servant, who was in the
garden furtively on a pretence of cabbages, the extreme folly, and
indeed idiocy, of letting them get to the water and make a mess of
themselves, Lucilla was in reality coming to herself. Perhaps she spoke
with a little more energy than usual; but the offenders were so well
aware of their guilt, and so thoroughly satisfied of the justice of the
reproof addressed to them, that no other explanation was necessary; and,
little by little, Miss Marjoribanks felt herself restored to her natural
calm.
"You know I don't like to scold you," she said; "but what would anybody
say?--nice clean frocks, that I am sure were put on fresh this
morning--and you, Mary Jane----"
"Please, Miss, it was only for a young cabbage. Missis is fond of a bit
of vegetable," said the little maid. "I knew _she'd_ not say
nothing;--and just as I had told 'em all to have done and be good--and
nobody knew as _you_ was here," said Mary Jane. There was something even
in that small and humble testimony to Lucilla's sovereignty which helped
on the process which was operating in her mind. She regained bit by bit
that serene self-consciousness which places the spirit above the passing
vexations of the world. What did it matter what other people might be
doing or saying? Was not she still Lucilla Marjoribanks? and when one
had said that, one had said all.
"It is time you were all going home to your dinners," said Lucilla; "and
I have asked Mrs Mortimer to give you a half-holiday. As for you, you
little Linda, you are not fit to be seen; and I am sure if I were your
sister I should send you off to bed. Now get all your hats and things
and run away; and if you are not awfully good to-morrow, I shall never
ask for another half-holiday again."
Saying which, Miss Marjoribanks herself saw the hats brought out, and
the little scholars sent away. She took matters into her own hand with
the confidence of a superior nature. "After all the long talk they are
having she will not be able for her scholars to-day," Lucilla said
magnanimously to herself; and she again made the tour of the garden,
inspecting everything, to see that all was in order. With every step
that she took, Miss Marjoribanks became more and more herself. As we
have already said, it was a grand and inspiring sight; but then, to be
sure, as in the former case, her affections, fortunately, were not
engaged. She was not in love with the Archdeacon, any more than she had
been in love with Mr Cavendish;--though it is true, love is not
everything. And to think how he had been looking and talking not much
more than half an hour ago, and to reflect that now he had most likely
forgotten her very existence, and was explaining himself, and placing
that position which would have just suited Lucilla at the feet of the
object of her bounty, was enough to have driven a young woman of
ordinary mind half out of her senses with disgust and indignation. But,
fortunately, Lucilla's mind was not an ordinary one; and every step she
took round the garden restored her more and more entirely to herself.
Instead of conceiving any jealous dislike to Mrs Mortimer, she had
already, as has been stated, exerted herself with her usual benevolence
to leave the widow free for the rest of the day. "After all, it is not
her fault if she knew him before, or if he was in love with her,"
Lucilla said to herself. And when she had arrived at this perfectly true
and profoundly philosophical conclusion, it may be said that the crisis
was at an end.