But then where personal offence and indignation (if the natural shock to

Miss Marjoribanks's feelings could be called by such hard names) ended,

bewilderment and curiosity began. Who could this Archdeacon be who had

frightened the most popular man in Carlingford out of the place, and

whose unlooked-for appearance had driven Mrs Mortimer back out of her

recovered good looks and cheerfulness into pallor and trembling? It is

true that Lucilla knew quite well who he was--the second son of Mr

Beverley of Trent Valley, a family as well known as any family in

England. Everybody knew all about the Archdeacon: his career from his

youth up was as clearly traceable as if he had been killed in a railway

accident and had had his memoir published in the _Times_. There was

nothing in the smallest degree secret or mysterious about him; and yet

how could it come about that the sight of him should frighten Mr

Cavendish out of his senses, and make Mrs Mortimer, who was utterly

unconnected with Mr Cavendish, all but faint, as she had done on a

former occasion? Was it his mission to go about the world driving

people into fits of terror or agitation? To be sure, he was a

Broad-Churchman, and not the type of clergyman to which Lucilla in her

heart inclined; but still a man may be Broad Church, and speak a little

freely on religious matters, without being a basilisk. As these thoughts

went through her mind, Miss Marjoribanks could not help observing that

the branches of the pear-tree, which was all that the garden contained

in the shape of fruit, had come loose from the wall, and were swaying

about greatly to the damage of the half-grown pears,--not to say that it

gave a very untidy look to that corner. "I must send Crawford down this

evening to fasten it up," Lucilla said to herself, and then went on with

what she was thinking; and she made one or two other remarks of the same

description in a parenthesis as she made her tour. After all, it is

astonishing how many little things go wrong when the man or woman with a

hundred eyes is absent for a few days from the helm of affairs. It was

nearly a week since Miss Marjoribanks had been round Mrs Mortimer's

garden, and in that time the espalier had got detached, some of the

verbenas were dead in the borders, and the half of the sticks that

propped up the dahlias had fallen, leaving the plants in miserable

confusion. Lucilla shook her head over this, as she asked herself what

mysterious influence there could be in the Archdeacon. For her own part,

she was not in the slightest degree afraid of him, nor could she confess

to having felt agitated even when he walked with her into this fated

garden; but there could be no doubt of the seriousness of the effect

produced by his appearance on the two others. "They have broken half of

the props, the little nuisances," Lucilla said to herself, as she

pursued her musings. For her large mind was incapable, now that its

perfect serenity was happily regained, of confining itself, unless with

a very good reason, to one sole subject.

When she had finished her inspection, and saw that nobody had yet

appeared at the door, Miss Marjoribanks collected the books which the

children had left lying in the summer-house, and put them under

cover--for, to tell the truth, it looked a little like rain; and having

done this, and looked all round her to see if anything else required her

immediate care, Lucilla carried philosophy to its highest practical

point by going away, which is, perhaps, a height of good sense which may

be thought too much for humanity. It was not too much for Miss

Marjoribanks's legislative soul and knowledge of human nature;--and in

thus denying herself she was perfectly aware of her advantages, and of

the inevitable result. She knew, just as well as if she had already

received it, that Mrs Mortimer would write her a little three-cornered

note, marked _Private_, as soon as the Archdeacon was gone; and she

thought it was highly probable that Mr Beverley himself would come to

give some explanation. With this tranquil assurance in her mind, Lucilla

turned her face towards Grange Lane. She began to have a kind of

conviction too, since this had happened, either that Carlingford would

not be raised into a bishopric, or that the Archdeacon at least would

not be the first bishop. It was difficult to give any ground for the

idea, but it came into her mind with a kind of quiet certainty; and with

this conviction, in which she recognised that beautiful self-adjusting

balance of compensations which keeps everything right in the world,

Lucilla, quite recovered from her shock, had on the whole a pleasant

walk home.

As for the two who were shut up together in Mrs Mortimer's parlour,

their state of mind was far from partaking of the virtuous peace and

serenity which filled Miss Marjoribanks's bosom. It was more than an

hour before the Archdeacon went away; and when Mrs Mortimer had a little

collected her faculties, the result arrived which had been foreseen by

Lucilla. In the first place, terror seized the widow as to what had

become of her pupils, whom all this time she had forgotten, and deep was

her gratitude when she had ascertained that her protecting genius had

sent them away. But with that gratitude came a sudden recollection of

the manner in which Mr Beverley and Miss Marjoribanks had been coming

together up the garden path, before the mistress of the house showed

herself. Mrs Mortimer wrung her hands when she recollected the looks and

attitude of the two, and the rumour which had reached her ears that the

Archdeacon was paying attention to Miss Marjoribanks. What was she to

do?--was her miserable presence here to dispel perhaps the youthful

hopes of her benefactress, and make a revolution in Lucilla's prospects?

The poor woman felt herself ready to sink into the earth at the thought.

She went to the window and looked out disconsolately into the rain--for

it had come on to rain, as Lucilla supposed it would--and felt like a

creature in a cage, helpless, imprisoned, miserable, not knowing what to

do with herself, and the cause of trouble to her best friends. A little

house in a garden may look like a little paradise in the sunshine, and

yet feel like a dungeon when a poor woman all alone looks out across her

flowers in the rain, and sees nothing but the wall that shuts her in,

and thinks to herself that she has no refuge nor escape from it--nobody

to tell her what to do, nothing but her own feeble powers to support

her, and the dreadful idea that she has done harm and can do no good to

her only protector. Any reasonable creature would have said, that to be

there in her own house, poor enough certainly, but secure, and no longer

driven lonely and distressed about the world, was a great matter. But

yet, after all, the walls that shut her in, the blast of white,

sweeping, downright rain, which seemed to cut her off from any succour

outside, and the burden of something on her mind which by herself she

was quite unable to bear, was a hard combination; and wringing one's

hands, and feeling one's mind ready to give way under a new and

unexpected burden, could not advance matters in the slightest degree.

She was not strong-minded, as has been already proved; nor, indeed, had

she the ordinary amount of indifference to other people, or confidence

in herself, which stands in the place of self-control with many people.

After she had wrung her hands, and looked out again and again with a

vague instinct of perhaps finding some suggestion of comfort outside,

Mrs Mortimer relapsed by necessity into the one idea that had been a

support to her for so many months past. All that she could do was to

consult Lucilla--it might be to wound Lucilla, for anything she could

tell; but when a poor creature is helpless and weak, and has but one

friend in the world who is strong, what can she do but apply to her

sustainer and guardian? When, after beating about wildly from one point

to another, she arrived ultimately, as might have been predicted, and as

Miss Marjoribanks had expected from the first, at that conclusion, there

remained a further difficulty in respect to the means of communication.

Lucilla had settled quite calmly in her own mind that it would be by the

medium of a three-cornered note, a matter in which there was no

difficulty whatever, for the widow was sufficiently fluent with her pen;

but then Lucilla had not thought of Mary Jane, who was the only possible

messenger. It was to this point now that Mrs Mortimer's ideas addressed

themselves. At that moment the rain poured down fiercer than ever, the

bricks of the uncovered wall grew black with the wet, and the wistaria

crouched and shivered about the porch as if it wanted to be taken

indoors. And then to get wet, and perhaps catch cold, was a thing Mary

Jane conscientiously avoided, like the rest of the world; and it was

with a sense of alarm even stronger than that excited by the possibility

of injuring Lucilla, that Mrs Mortimer very gently and modestly rang her

bell.

"I don't think it rains quite so heavily," said the timid

experimentalist, feeling her heart beat as she made this doubtful

statement. "Have you a pair of goloshes, Mary Jane?"

"No," said the little handmaiden, with precaution; "and, please, if it's

for the post, it rains worse nor ever; and I don't think as mother would

like----"

"Oh, it is not for the post," said Mrs Mortimer; "it is for Miss

Marjoribanks. You can take mine, and then you will not get your feet

wet. I go out so very little; you may have them--to keep--Mary Jane. And

you can take the big shawl that hangs in the passage, and an umbrella. I

don't think it is so heavy as it was."

Mary Jane regarded the rain gloomily from the window; but her reluctance

was at an end from the moment she heard that it was to Miss Marjoribanks

she was going. To be sure, the distance between the Serenissime Nancy

and Thomas, and the other inmates of the Doctor's kitchen, and Mrs

Mortimer's little handmaiden, was as great as that which exists between

an English Duke and the poorest little cadet of a large family among his

attendant gentry; but, correspondingly, the merest entrance into that

higher world was as great a privilege for Mary Jane, as the Duke's

notice would be to the Squire's youngest son. She kept up a momentary

show of resistance, but she accepted the goloshes, and even after a

moment agreed in her mistress's trembling assertion about the rain. And

this was how the three-cornered note got conveyed to its destination in

the heaviest of the storm, between three and four o'clock in the

afternoon. Mrs Mortimer still sat at her window, wringing her hands from

time to time, with her head aching and her heart beating, and a dreadful

question in her mind as to what Lucilla would say, or whether perhaps

she might reject altogether in her natural indignation the appeal made

to her; which was an idea which filled the widow with inexpressible

horror. While at the same moment Miss Marjoribanks sat looking for that

appeal which she knew was sure to come. The rain had set in by this time

with an evident intention of lasting, and even from the windows of

Lucilla's drawing-room the prospect of the garden walls and glistening

trees was sufficiently doleful. Nobody was likely to call, nothing was

doing; and Lucilla, who never caught cold, had not the least fear of

wetting her feet. And besides, her curiosity had been rising every

moment since her return; and the widow's pathetic appeal, "Come to me,

my dearest Lucilla. I have nobody whom I can talk to in the world but

you!" had its natural effect upon a mind so feeling. Miss Marjoribanks

got up as soon as she had read the note, and changed her dress, and put

on a great waterproof cloak. Instead of thinking it a trouble, she was

rather exhilarated by the necessity. "Be sure you make your mistress a

nice cup of tea as soon as we get there," she said to Mary Jane. "She

must want it, I am sure, if she has not had any dinner;" for the little

maid had betrayed the fact that Mrs Mortimer could not eat anything, and

had sent away her dinner, which was naturally an alarming and wonderful

occurrence to Mary Jane. The widow was still sitting at the window when

Lucilla appeared tripping across the wet garden in her waterproof cloak,

if not a ministering angel, at least a substantial prop and support to

the lonely woman who trusted in her, and yet in the present instance

feared her. But anything more unlike a disappointed maiden, whose wooer

had been taken away from her under her very eyes, could not have been

seen. On the contrary, Miss Marjoribanks was radiant, with raindrops

glistening on her hair, and what Mrs Chiley called "a lovely colour." If

there was one thing in the world more than another which contented

Lucilla, it was to be appealed to and called upon for active service. It

did her heart good to take the management of incapable people, and

arrange all their affairs for them, and solve all their difficulties.

Such an office was more in her way than all the Archdeacons in the

world.

"I saw you knew him the moment I looked at you," said Lucilla. "I have

seen other people look _like that_ when he appeared. Who is he, for

goodness' sake? I know quite well, of course, who he is, in the ordinary

way; but do tell me what has he done to make people look like that

whenever he appears?"

Mrs Mortimer did not directly answer this question--she fixed her mind

upon one part of it, like an unreasonable woman, and repeated "Other

people?" with a kind of interrogative gasp.

"Oh, it was only a gentleman," said Lucilla, with rapid intelligence;

and then there was a little pause. "He has been here for six weeks,"

Miss Marjoribanks continued; "you must have heard of him; indeed, you

would have heard him preach if you had not gone off after these

Dissenters. Did you really never know that he was here till to-day?"

"I did not think of him being Archdeacon--he was only a curate when I

used to know him," said poor Mrs Mortimer, with a sigh.

"Tell me all about it," said Lucilla, with ingenuous sympathy; and she

drew her chair close to that of her friend, and took her hand in a

protecting, encouraging way. "You know, whatever you like to say, that

it is quite safe with me."

"If you are sure you do not mind," said the poor widow. "Oh, yes, I have

heard what people have been saying about him and--and you, Lucilla; and

if I had known, I would have shut myself up--I would have gone away for

ever and ever--I would----"

"My dear," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a little severity, "I thought

you knew me better. If I had been thinking of that sort of thing, I

never need have come home at all; and when you know how kind papa has

been about the drawing-room and everything. Say what you were going to

say, and never think of me."

"Ah, Lucilla, I have had my life," said the trembling woman, whose

agitation was coming to a climax--"I have had it, and done with it; and

you have been so good to me; and if, after all, I was to stand between

you and--and--and--anybody----" But here Mrs Mortimer broke down, and

could say no more. To be sure, she did not faint this time any more than

she did on the first occasion when she made Miss Marjoribanks's

acquaintance; but Lucilla thought it best, as then, to make her lie down

on the sofa, and keep her quite quiet, and hasten Mary Jane with the cup

of tea.

"You have been agitated, and you have not eaten anything," said Lucilla.

"I am going to stay with you till half-past six, when I must run home

for dinner, so we have plenty of time; and as for your life, I don't

consider you gone off at all yet, and you are a great deal

younger-looking than you were six months ago. I am very glad the

Archdeacon did not come until you had got back your looks. It makes such

a difference to a man," Miss Marjoribanks added, with that almost

imperceptible tone of contempt which she was sometimes known to use when

speaking of Their absurd peculiarities. As for Mrs Mortimer, the

inference conveyed by these words brought the colour to her pale

cheeks.

"It will never come to that," she said, "no more than it did in old

days; it never can, Lucilla; and I don't know that it is to be wished. I

couldn't help being put out a little when I saw him, you know; but there

is one thing, that he never, never will persuade me," said the widow.

Lucilla could not but look on in surprise and even consternation, while

Mrs Mortimer thus expressed herself. A warm flush animated the pale and

somewhat worn face--and a gleam of something that looked absolutely like

resolution shone in the yielding woman's mild eyes. Was it possible that

even she had one point upon which she could be firm? Miss Marjoribanks

stood still, petrified, in the very act of pouring out the tea.

"If it is only one thing, if I were you, I would give in to him," said

Lucilla, with a vague sense that this sort of self-assertion must be put

a stop to, mingling with her surprise.

"Never," said Mrs Mortimer again, with a still more distinct gleam of

resolution. "In the first place, I have no right whatever to anything

more than my uncle gave me. He told me himself I was to have no more;

and _he_ was very, very kind to poor Edward. You don't know all the

circumstances, or you would not say so," she cried, with a sob. As for

Miss Marjoribanks, if it is possible to imagine her clear spirit

altogether lost in bewilderment, it would have been at that moment; but

she recovered as soon as she had administered her cup of tea.

"Now tell me all about it," said Lucilla, again sitting down by the

sofa; and this time Mrs Mortimer, to whom her excitement had given a

little spur and stimulus, did not waste any more time.

"He is my cousin," she said; "not my real cousin, but distant; and I

will not deny that long, long ago--when we were both quite young, you

know, Lucilla----"

"Yes, yes, I understand," said Miss Marjoribanks, pressing her hand.

"He was very nice in those days," said Mrs Mortimer, faltering; "that

is, I don't mean to say he was not always nice, you know, but only----I

never had either father or mother. I was living with my Uncle

Garrett--my uncle on the other side; and he thought he should have made

me his heiress; but instead of that, he left his money, you know, to

_him_; and then he was dreadfully put out, and wanted me to go to law

with him and change the will; but I never blamed him, for my part,

Lucilla--he knows I never blamed him--and nothing he said would make me

give in to go to the law with him----"

"Stop a minute," said Lucilla, "I am not quite sure that I understand.

Who was it he wanted you to go to law with? and was it to the Archdeacon

the money was left?"

"Oh, Lucilla," said the widow, with momentary exasperation, "you who are

so quick and pick up everything, to think you should not understand me

when I speak of a thing so important! Of course it was not to Charles

Beverley the money was left: if it had been left to him, how could he

have wanted me to go to law? It has always been the question between

us," said Mrs Mortimer, once more lighting up with exceptional and

unwonted energy. "He said I was to indict him for conspiracy; and I

declare to you, Lucilla, that he was not to blame. Uncle Garrett might

be foolish, but I don't say even that he was foolish: he was so good to

him, like a son; and he had no son of his own, and I was only a girl. He

never was anything to me," said Mrs Mortimer, wiping her eyes--"never,

whatever Charles may choose to say; but if ever I was sure of anything

in the world, I am sure that he was not to blame."

Lucilla's head began to whirl; but after her first unsuccessful essay,

she was wise enough not to ask any more direct questions. She made all

the efforts possible, with ears and eyes intent, to disentangle this web

of pronouns, and failing, waited on in the hope that time and patience

would throw a little light upon them. "I suppose Mr Beverley thought he

was to blame?" she said, when the narrator paused to take breath.

"Is not that what I am saying?" said Mrs Mortimer. "It was through that

it was all broke off. I am sure I don't know whether he has regretted it

or not, Lucilla. It is not always very easy to understand a gentleman,

you know. After I was married to poor Edward, naturally I never had any

more correspondence with him; and to see him to-day without any warning,

and to find him just as bent as he was upon making me prosecute, and

just as full of bad feeling, and speaking as if there was some reason

more than truth and justice why I should be so determined. No, Lucilla,"

said Mrs Mortimer, raising herself up on the sofa, "it is just the same

thing as ever, and the same obstacle as ever, and it never will come to

_that_."

"You are agitating yourself," said Miss Marjoribanks; "lie down--there's

a dear--and keep quite still, and see whether we cannot make anything

better of it. Tell me, what would you go to law with him for?" Lucilla

continued, with the natural humility of imperfect comprehension. It was

perhaps the first time in her life that such a singular chance had

happened to Miss Marjoribanks, as to have a matter explained to her, and

yet be unable to understand.

"He says he could be indicted for conspiracy, or for having too much

influence over him, and making him do what he liked. But he was very

good to him, Lucilla, and to my poor Edward; and when I was married to

him----"

"Goodness gracious! were you married to him as well?" cried Lucilla,

fairly losing the thread and her balance in this confusing circle. Mrs

Mortimer grew pale, and rose quite up from the sofa, and went with the

air of an insulted woman to seat herself in her usual chair.

"I don't know why you should address me so," she said. "He is nothing to

me, and never was. It is an insult to me to think that I must have a

personal reason for refusing to do a wicked and unjust thing. I could

give up anything," said the widow, losing a little of her dignity, and

growing again pathetic--"I would give in in a moment if it was any fancy

of mine--you know I would; but I am sure it would be wicked and

unjust----"

"I am sure I am not the person to bid you do anything unjust or wicked,"

said Lucilla, who, in the utter confusion of her faculties, began to

feel offended in her turn.

"Then I beg you will never speak to me of it again!" cried Mrs Mortimer.

"How is it possible that either he or you can know the rights of it as I

do, who was in the house at the time and saw everything? He may say what

he likes, but I know there was no conspiracy; he was just as much

surprised as you could be, or Charles, or anybody. Of course it was for

his advantage--nobody denies that--but you don't mean to say that a man

is to reject everything that is for his advantage?" said the widow,

turning eyes of indignant inquiry upon her visitor; and Miss

Marjoribanks for once was so utterly perplexed that she did not know how

to respond.

"But you said when you were married to him?" said Lucilla, who felt that

the tables were turned upon her for the moment. "I am sure I beg your

pardon for being so stupid; but whom were you married to?" This was said

in the most deprecating tone in the world, but still it irritated Mrs

Mortimer, whose mind was all unhinged, and who somehow felt that she

was not finding in Miss Marjoribanks the help and support to which her

clear and detailed explanation entitled her. Though her head was aching

dreadfully, she sat up more upright than ever in her chair.

"I don't think you can mean to insult me, Miss Marjoribanks," said the

widow, "after being so kind. Perhaps I have been trying you too much by

what I have said; though I am sure I would have given up everything, and

gone away anywhere, rather than be the cause of anything unpleasant. You

know that it was my poor dear Edward I was married to; you know I have

a--a horror," said Mrs Mortimer, faltering, "in general--of second

marriages."

"Oh, yes," said Lucilla, "but there are always exceptions, you know; and

when people have no children, nor anything--and you that were so young.

I always make exceptions, for my part; and if you could only get over

this one point," Miss Marjoribanks added, making a dexterous strategical

movement. But Mrs Mortimer only shook her head.

"I don't think I am hard to get on with," she said; "but my poor Edward

always said one must make a stand somewhere. He used to say I was so

easy to be persuaded. He was glad to see I had a point to make a stand

on, instead of being disagreeable about it, or thinking he was anything

to me. And oh, Lucilla, he was so kind to him," said the widow, with

tears in her eyes. "We met him quite by chance, and he was so kind. I

will never forget it, if I should live a hundred years. And why should

Charles be in such a way? He never did him any harm! If any one was

injured, it was me, and I never felt myself injured--neither did Edward.

On the contrary, he _always_ did him justice, Lucilla," Mrs Mortimer

continued, fixing a pathetic look upon her friend. What could Lucilla

do? She was burning to take it all in her own hands, and arrange it

somehow, and unite the two lovers who had been so long separated; but

unless she could understand what the point was on which Mrs Mortimer

made her stand, what could she do?

"I never could understand," said the widow, who began to feel her heart

sick with the disappointment of that hope which she had fixed in Miss

Marjoribanks, "why he should take it so much to heart. Poor Edward never

thought of such a thing! and why he should be so set against poor Mr

Kavan, and so----Lucilla! oh, tell me, do you see anything? what do you

mean?"

"I want to know who Mr Kavan is?" said Miss Marjoribanks, much startled.

She had for the moment forgotten the Archdeacon's discovery and her own

suspicions; and the idea of connecting the man who had (apparently) fled

from Mr Beverley's presence, with the innocent and helpless woman upon

whom the appearance of the Broad Churchman had so overwhelming an

effect, had never hitherto entered her imagination. But this name, which

was not the name of anybody she knew, and yet seemed to bear an odd sort

of rudimentary relationship to another name, struck her like a sudden

blow and brought everything back to her mind. It was a bewildering sort

of explanation, if it was an explanation; but still a confused light

began to break upon Lucilla's understanding. If this was what it all

meant then there was the widest opening for charitable exertions, and

much to be done which only a mind like Miss Marjoribanks's could do.

"That is not his name now," said Mrs Mortimer, "I don't see, if he liked

it, why he should not change his name. I am sure a great many people do;

but his name was Kavan when he lived with my uncle. I don't remember

what it was after, for of course he was always Mr Kavan to me; and

Charles Beverley never could bear him. He used to think----But oh,

Lucilla, forgive me--oh, forgive me, if it is too much for you!" she

added, a moment after, as another idea struck her. "It was not with the

idea of--of anything coming of it, you know; it will never come to

that--not now;--I don't know if it is to be wished. I am sure he is

quite free so far as I am concerned. It was not with that idea I asked

for your advice, Lucilla," said the poor woman, in piteous tones. If

Miss Marjoribanks had pressed her, and insisted upon knowing what _was_

the idea which had moved her friend to ask her advice, Mrs Mortimer

would no doubt have found it very hard to reply; but Lucilla had no such

cruel intentions; and the widow, notwithstanding her piteous denial of

any motive, now that her mind was cleared, and she had caught the

comprehension of her auditor, began to regard her with a certain

instinct of hope.

As for Miss Marjoribanks, this revelation at once troubled and cleared

her mind. If this was the culprit, he _was_ a culprit and yet he was

innocent; and to heap coals of fire upon his head was in some respects a

Christian duty. Her ideas went forward at a bound to a grand finale of

reconciliation and universal brotherhood. She saw the tools under her

hands, and her very fingers itched to begin. Large and varied as her

experience was, she had never yet had any piece of social business on so

important a scale to manage, and her eyes sparkled and her heart beat at

the idea. Instead of shrinking from interference, her spirits rose at

the thought. To vanquish the Archdeacon, to pluck out from the darkness,

and rehabilitate and set at his ease the mysterious adventurer, whom, to

be sure, _she could not say she knew_--for Lucilla was very careful,

even in her own thoughts, not to commit herself on this subject--and to

finish off by a glorious and triumphant marriage--not her own, it is

true, but of her making, which was more to the purpose--such was the

programme she made out for herself with the speed of lightning, the

moment she had laid hold of the clue which guided or seemed to guide her

through the labyrinth. It would be too lengthy a matter to go into all

her tender cares for the widow's comfort during the rest of her stay,

and the pains and delicacy with which she managed to elicit further

particulars, and to make out her brief, so to speak, while she cheered

up and encouraged the witness. Miss Marjoribanks jumped to the

conclusion that "poor Edward" had been, after all, but a temporary

tenant of the heart, which was now again free for the reception of the

Archdeacon, if he could be got to accept the conditions. When half-past

six arrived, and Thomas came for her with the great umbrella, she went

off quite resplendent in her waterproof cloak, and utterly indifferent

to the rain, leaving Mrs Mortimer worn out, but with a glimmer of hope

in her mind. Such was the great work which, without a moment's

hesitation, Lucilla took upon her shoulders. She had no more fear of the

result than she had of wetting her feet, which was a thing Mrs Mortimer

and Thomas were both concerned about. But then Lucilla knew her own

resources, and what she was capable of, and proceeded upon her way with

that unconscious calm of genius which is always so inexplicable to the

ordinary world.

_Chapter XXIV_

It was the most unlucky moment for the weather to change, being the

middle of July, and as near as possible to St Swithin's Day; but the

season had been so delightful up to that time that nobody in Carlingford

at least had any reason to complain. So far as Miss Marjoribanks was

concerned, she was rather glad, on the whole, that the next day was wet,

and that she could not go out all the morning, nor was likely to be

interrupted by visitors. She had all her plans to settle and mature for

the great enterprise which she had taken in hand. By this time, so far

from feeling any personal interest in the Archdeacon, or considering

herself injured by his sudden desertion, that little episode had gone

out of Lucilla's mind as completely as if it had never been. In one

point, however, Miss Marjoribanks's conviction remained firm; it was

impressed upon her mind that Carlingford would not be made into a

bishopric, or, if made into a bishopric, that it was not Mr Beverley who

would be chosen to occupy the new see. It was one of those instinctive

certainties which are not capable of explanation, which was thus borne

in upon her spirit, and she could not have felt more sure of it had she

seen it under the Queen's own hand and seal. While she went about her

usual morning occupations, her mind was full of her great and novel

undertaking. Mr Beverley was not a man to be revolutionised in a moment;

and many people would have shrunk from the attempt to work in a few days

or weeks, with no better arms than those of acquaintance, a change which

the influence of love had not been able to do in so many years. But it

was not in Lucilla's nature to be daunted by a difficulty so

unimportant. There was, thank Heaven, some difference between herself

and the widow, who, in a strait, could think of nothing better to do,

poor soul! than to faint; and Miss Marjoribanks had the advantage of

never as yet having been beaten, whereas Mrs Mortimer had undergone

numberless defeats.

The hardest matter in the whole business, however, was the

identification of the Mr Kavan whom the Archdeacon thought he had seen

in Carlingford, and was not afraid to speak of as a clever rascal and

adventurer. Mr Beverley had never seen the fellow again, as he had told

Lucilla not many days back, and Miss Marjoribanks had been unfeignedly

glad to hear it; but now matters had changed. In the course of her

reflections, she decided that it would now be best that these two men,

if possible, should meet and recognise each other, and that the business

should once for all be definitively settled. If all the offence he had

committed against society was to have had a large sum of money left him

by a childless old man, Lucilla saw no reason why this mysterious

culprit should conceal himself; and even if he had taken a little

liberty with his name, that was not a crime--his name was his own

surely, if anything was his own. At the same time, Miss Marjoribanks

took pains to impress upon herself, as it is to be hoped a friendly

audience will also have the goodness to do, that she had no _real

foundation_ for her suspicions as to the identity of this personage, and

might turn out to be completely mistaken. He might have made no change

whatever on his name; he might be flourishing in some other quarter of

England or the world, with all his antecedents perfectly well known, and

unconscious of anything to be ashamed about; which, to tell the truth,

was, as Lucilla confessed to herself, a much more likely hypothesis than

the supposition which had taken such possession of her mind. But then

Miss Marjoribanks had a just faith in her instincts, and in those brief

but telling pieces of evidence which supported her conclusion. She was

thinking over this important branch of the subject with the greatest

care and devotion, when, looking out by chance into the rain, she saw

the Archdeacon crossing the garden. Perhaps it was just as well that she

thus had warning and a moment to prepare for his visit; not that Lucilla

was a person to be taken at disadvantage; but still, in a matter so

practical and pressing, it was always better to be prepared.

Mr Beverley came in with an air and expression so different from that

which he had borne in their intercourse no further gone than yesterday,

that, notwithstanding the corresponding revolution in her own mind, Miss

Marjoribanks could not but regard him with mingled admiration and

surprise. She judged him as the general world so often judged herself,

and gave him credit for skill and courage in assuming such an attitude,

when the fact was he was only preoccupied and natural, and did not think

of his attitude at all. It did not occur to the Archdeacon that he had

sinned towards Lucilla. He thought it right to explain to her his

extreme surprise at the sight of Mrs Mortimer, and possibly to make her

aware, at the same time, of his grievances, in so far as Mrs Mortimer

was concerned; but perhaps Mr Beverley was, on the whole, innocent of

those intentions which Mrs Chiley had attributed to him, and which even

Lucilla, more clear-sighted, had seen dawning in their last interview;

for, to be sure, this is one of the questions which the female intellect

is apt to judge in a different light from that in which it is regarded

by a man. The Archdeacon, accordingly, came in preoccupied, with a cloud

on his brow, but without the smallest appearance of penitence or

deprecation; by which demeanour he gained, without deserving it, the

respect, and to a certain extent the admiration, of Lucilla. His

expression was not that of a man repentant, but of a man aggrieved. He

had a cloud upon his countenance, and a certain air of offence and

temper; and when he sat down, he breathed a short impatient sigh.

"Thank you for receiving me so early," he said. "I called yesterday

afternoon, but found you out. You must have had very particular business

to take you out in that rain," Mr Beverley continued, with subdued

exasperation; for naturally, being a clergyman, he was a little

impatient to find, when it was _he_ who wanted her, any of his female

friends out of the way.

"Yes," said Lucilla, who thought it was best to open her battery boldly

and at once. "I was spending the afternoon with poor Mrs Mortimer; poor

dear, she is so solitary!" and to meet Mr Beverley's ill-temper, Miss

Marjoribanks put on her most heavenly air of sympathy, and rounded her

words with a soft sigh, as different from his as a flute is from a

trumpet. It was with an exclamation of impatience that the Archdeacon

replied.

"_Poor_ Mrs Mortimer!" he cried; "I don't know whether you are aware how

much her obstinacy has cost me; and herself, I suppose," he added, in a

parenthesis. "Not to depreciate your kindness, or the truly human and

Christian way in which you have conducted yourself--fancy what my

feelings naturally must have been to find her an object of

charity--actually of charity! I don't mean to say," said Mr Beverley,

controlling himself, "that it is degrading to accept succour when given

as from man to man--quite the contrary; but you will excuse me from

entering into the general question. She knew perfectly well that if I

had known where she was--if she had consented to yield to me on one

point--solely on _one_ point----"

"And she such an obstinate woman!" said Miss Marjoribanks, with fine

scorn. "How could you ever think of such a thing? A woman that never

gives in to anybody. If you knew her as well as I do----"

The Archdeacon glanced up with a momentary intense surprise, as if it

was within the possibilities that such a change might have taken place

in the widow's nature; and then he caught Lucilla's eye, and grew red

and more aggrieved than ever.

"Mrs Mortimer happens to be a relative of mine," he said, in his

authoritative voice. "I have known her from her youth. I am better

instructed in all her affairs than she can possibly be. When I urge her

to any step, however much it may be against her inclinations, she ought

to know that it can only be for her good. I beg your pardon, Miss

Marjoribanks. It will give me great grief to find that you, upon whose

superior good sense I have so much calculated, should support her in her

folly. I know how much she owes to you----"

"Oh, no, she does not owe me anything," said Lucilla. "It was just my

luck, you know. I knew she would turn out to be a lady. I don't want to

stand up for her if she is wrong; but I have only heard _her_ side. When

you tell me about it, I shall be able to form an opinion," Miss

Marjoribanks added prudently; "for of course everything has two sides."

"Most things," said Mr Beverley, "but this is precisely one of the

things which have not two sides. Nothing except some sort of infatuation

or other--but never mind, you shall hear the facts," said the

Archdeacon, once more making an effort upon himself. "Her uncle, Mr

Garrett, was above eighty. Why Providence should have let him live to

such an age to do so much mischief, Heaven alone knows. Some different

rule seems to exist up _there_ about those matters, from what we find to

answer on earth," the Broad-Churchman said, with a certain air of

disapproval. "He had this young fellow to see him and then to live with

him, and took some sort of idiotic fancy to him; and when the will was

made, it was found that, with the exception of a small sum to Helen,

everything was left to this impostor. No, I can't say I have any

patience with her folly. How could any man have two opinions on the

subject? He was neither related to him, nor connected with him," cried

Mr Beverley, with a momentary inclination, as Lucilla thought, to get

aground among the pronouns, as Mrs Mortimer had done. "I do not suspect

my cousin," the Archdeacon continued, with an air so severe and

indignant that it was evident he was contradicting his own sentiments,

"of having any partiality for such a person; but certainly her obstinacy

and determination are such----"

"Hush, please," said Lucilla; "you are only laughing when you use such

words. Now, tell me one thing, and don't be angry if it is a stupid

question--If there was any one that knew her and you, and perhaps him,

and was to try--don't you think it might be arranged?"

"By money?" said the Archdeacon; and he smiled one of those disagreeable

smiles which youthful writers describe by saying that his lip curled

with scorn. "You seem to take me for Mortimer, who could go into that

sort of compromise. I suppose he did give them money before--before she

was left a widow," said Mr Beverley, grinding his teeth slightly with a

savage expression. "No, Miss Marjoribanks. Where everlasting truth and

justice are concerned, I do not understand how things can be arranged."

After such a truculent statement, what was the peacemaker to do? She

left the fire to blaze out by itself for a minute or two, and then she

came down upon the enemy on another wind.

"I am sure I am very sorry," said Lucilla softly, "to think you should

be so fond of her and she so fond of you, and nothing but this standing

in the way; and then she is too good for this world, and never thinks of

herself. I often think, if anything was to happen to me--and my life is

no safer than other people's lives," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a

sigh--"what would become of her, poor dear! I am sure, if I knew of any

way----As for obstinate, you know it is not in her to be obstinate. She

thinks she is right, and you think you are right; and I suppose neither

of you will give in," cried Lucilla. "What is anybody to do?"

"If any one gives in, it should be she," said the Archdeacon. "For my

part, I will never stand by and consent to such a robbery,--never. In

these matters, at least, a man must be a better judge than a woman. If

you are her friend you will persuade her of her duty," Mr Beverley

added; and he did not show so much as a symptom of yielding. To say that

Miss Marjoribanks was not discouraged would be more than the truth; but

she was still at the beginning of her forces, and no thought of giving

in was in her courageous soul.

"I will tell you what occurs to me," said Lucilla frankly. "Let us find

out something about him. Do you know anything about him? If she were to

hear that he was, as you say, an impostor, you know, and a

villain?--What is his name?--Where does he live?--Is he a very, very

wicked man?" said Miss Marjoribanks, and she looked up with that

ingenuous look of appeal, which was always so touching in her, to the

Archdeacon's face.

As for Mr Beverley, in his haste and excitement, he gave vent to two

very contradictory statements. "She knows all about him. I don't know

anything about him," he said, with some heat. "I mean, she knows as much

as I do, though she draws such a different conclusion. I am sure I saw

him in Carlingford the first day I was here. For anything I can tell,

she knows _more_ of him than I do," said the Broad Churchman, with a

sudden flash of jealousy and anger. It occurred to Lucilla then for the

first time that she had found the grand clue to the whole.

"That would be dreadful," said Miss Marjoribanks, "if she knew him, and

was keeping him out of the way till you were gone. I did not think of

that. If such a thing should be the case, fond as I am of Mrs Mortimer,

I never could go near her any more," said Lucilla sadly. "Oh, don't say

you think so, please. I should have to give her up, and that would be

dreadful; for I owe it to papa, when he gives me so much liberty, to be

very careful. Oh, Mr Beverley, don't say you think so," cried Lucilla,

deeply moved. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and yet she kept

watch upon the Archdeacon through one of the corners. He had got up by

this time, and was walking about the room like any other man in trouble.

To throw suspicion on the widow, or separate her from so effectual a

protector, was the very last thing he had any inclination to do: for, to

tell the truth, he made that jealous suggestion only in order to receive

an indignant denial, and to be assured that such a thing was impossible.

But then Mr Beverley did not know whom he had to deal with, nor that he

was not the first man whom Miss Marjoribanks had reduced to his proper

place.

"If that was the case," said Lucilla, drying her eyes, "dreadful as it

is to think of it--oh, Mr Beverley, if such a thing were the case--it

would be far better for her to marry him, and then she would have all

the fortune without going to law. If things have gone so far, though it

is miserable to think of it, and to believe that she could be so

unkind," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a sob, "and so double-minded, and

so deceitful to _me_----"

"In Heaven's name what are you thinking of?" said the Archdeacon. He had

grown as pale as he was before red, and came to a dead stop in front of

Lucilla, and stood lowering and menacing over her. His shadow was so big

and strong, and stood so directly between her and the window, that Miss

Marjoribanks's heart gave one bound of something like alarm.

"Dear Mr Beverley," said Lucilla, "try and compose yourself. It would be

a dreadful trial to me, but I should endeavour to bear it. If we love

her, we should, on the contrary, urge her to do it," said the young

moralist, with solemnity, "however hard it may be to us. It would be

better than--than dreadful concealment and misery--it would be better

than knowing and not telling, as you say. Oh, Mr Beverley, if you are

sure that is the case, let us both go to her, and beg her to marry him.

I could never, never, never see her again," sobbed Lucilla, "but she

would be happy, and that would be the end of all."

The Archdeacon, though he was not a weakling, was altogether stunned by

this address. He sank into the nearest chair, and drew it closer to

Lucilla, and looked perfectly flabby and ghastly in his white tie, with

his alarmed countenance. "For the sake of all that is sacred," said Mr

Beverley, bending forward towards her, "tell me what foundation you

have--tell me all you know."

Now was the critical moment, and Lucilla felt it. If Mrs Chiley, for

example, had only advised herself to come in then instead of

interrupting people's proposals, and driving a likely suitor to

desperation! But such happy chances do not occur at the real crises of

life. What she wanted was, naturally, not to explain herself, but to let

that arrow rankle in her opponent's heart until it should have served

her purpose. All that she said in answer to Mr Beverley's appeal was to

hide her face in her handkerchief, which was the only means that

occurred to her for the moment of gaining a little time for reflection.

"It is so hard to have such thoughts put into one's head," said Lucilla,

"of a person who has been one's friend. And she always looked so nice

and so true! I never thought she would deceive any one. I thought she

was so transparent, you know. Oh, Mr Beverley, it is so dreadful to be

disappointed in one's friends! I wish I had never heard of it--I wish

you had never told me. I almost wish, though it is dreadful to say such

a thing, that you had never come to Carlingford and found it all out."

"My dear Miss Marjoribanks," said the Archdeacon solemnly, "I implore

you, as the greatest kindness you can do me, to tell me all you know."

"Indeed, I don't know what I know," said Lucilla, partially raising her

face out of her handkerchief; "I don't think I know anything, for my

part. I always thought if one could rely upon any one, one could rely

upon her--for truthfulness, and for yieldingness, and doing what any one

asked her. I did think so; and it is perfectly bewildering to think,

after all, that she should be obstinate and deceiving, and yet look so

different!" said Lucilla. "But if it has come to that, we must be firm,

Mr Beverley. If you ask my opinion, I say she should be allowed to marry

him. That would solve everything, you know," Miss Marjoribanks added,

with sad decision. "She would get all the fortune without going to law,

and she would be settled, and off one's mind. That would be my final

advice, if everything has happened as you say."

Mr Beverley was driven as nearly out of his senses by this counsel as it

was possible for a man of ordinary self-control and warm temper to be.

He got up again and made a stride to and fro, and wiped the moisture

from his forehead, which, as Lucilla remarked at the moment, had a

Low-Church look, which she would not have expected from him. But, on the

other hand, he gave vent to some stifled and unintelligible exclamations

which, whatever they might be, were not blessings. Then he came to

himself a little, which was what Miss Marjoribanks was most afraid of,

and stood over her, large and imposing as before.

"Tell me, for Heaven's sake, what you mean!" cried the Archdeacon. "You

do not think, surely, that I for a moment meant to imply that Helen

would waste a thought upon such a miscreant. Good Heavens, marry him!

You must be raving. She would as soon think of--going for a soldier,"

said Mr Beverley, with a hoarse and perfectly unmirthful laugh, "or

doing anything else that was mad and unnatural. That is how you women

stand up for your friends--always ready to suggest something

inconceivably horrible and debasing! Happily you always go too far," he

added, once more wiping his forehead. It was a very Low-Church, not to

say Dissenterish, sort of thing to do, and it unconsciously reduced her

adversary's dignity in Miss Marjoribanks's opinion, besides affording a

proof that he was not nearly so much convinced of what he said, as he

professed to be, in his secret heart.

"Mr Beverley, I think you forget a little," said Lucilla, with dignity.

"I know nobody but yourself who has any suspicions of Mrs Mortimer. If

it had been anybody but you, I should have laughed at them. But to

return to the question," Miss Marjoribanks added, with calm grace: "I

always used to be taught at Mount Pleasant that feelings had nothing to

do with an abstract subject. I don't see, for my part, now you have

mentioned it, why she should not marry him. It would arrange the money

matter without any trouble; and I have always heard he was very nice,"

said the bold experimentalist, fixing her eyes calmly upon the

Archdeacon's face. "I am sure I should never have thought of it, if it

had been left to me; but speaking calmly, I don't see the objections,

now it has been proposed. Oh, it is only the bell for luncheon that

Thomas is ringing. Is it actually half-past one? and I expect some

people," said Lucilla. She got up as she spoke and went to the mirror,

and looked at herself with that beautiful simplicity which was one of

Miss Marjoribanks's distinguishing features. "When one has been crying

it always shows," she said, with a little anxiety. As for Mr Beverley,

his state of mind, as the newspapers say, could better be imagined than

described.

"I must go away," he said, taking up his hat. "I don't feel capable of

meeting strangers after this exciting conversation. Miss Marjoribanks,"

continued the Archdeacon, taking her hand, and holding it fast over his

hat to give emphasis to his address, "at least I can trust to you not to

breathe a word to Mrs Mortimer--not a syllable--of the horrible

suggestion which has got utterance, I don't know how. I may surely trust

to your honour," Mr Beverley said, with emphasis; but by this time Miss

Marjoribanks considered it time to bring the crisis to an end.

"I wish you would stay to luncheon," she said; "there are only one or

two of my friends. As for _honour_, you know you gentlemen say that we

have no sense of honour," said Lucilla airily; "and to think that two

women could be together and not talk of what might perhaps be a

marriage----"

At this moment some one rang the door-bell. Lucilla knew perfectly well

that it was only the baker, but it could not be expected that the

Archdeacon should be similarly initiated into the secrets of the house.

He thought, as was natural, that it was the people she expected, and

almost wrung her hand as he let it go. "You will let me see you again

first," he said, in a tone of entreaty. "Before you see her, you will

let me see you again. For Heaven's sake don't refuse me," cried Mr

Beverley. If anybody had but heard him! as Lucilla said to herself the

minute he was gone. And the truth was that Thomas did hear him, who had

just opened the door to tell his young mistress that her luncheon was

waiting, and whom the Archdeacon did all but knock downstairs in his

sudden and unlooked-for exit. The impression naturally conveyed to

Thomas by these words was of the clearest and most distinct description.

He was even known to say afterwards, "That he never knew a gentleman as

spoke more plain." But Mr Beverley rushed downstairs, without thinking

of Thomas, in a most unenviable frame of mind, into the rain. He was

more afraid of meeting Miss Marjoribanks's friends than a man of his

size and principles should have been afraid of meeting anybody; but then

there is a vast distinction, as everybody is aware, and no one more than

the Archdeacon, between physical and moral strength.

As for Lucilla, her tears and anxieties passed off in a miraculous

manner as soon as her visitor was gone. She went downstairs and ate her

luncheon with the serenest brow and a most agreeable ladylike appetite.

And it was not a fib, as may perhaps be supposed, that she was expecting

people--for at that hour Miss Marjoribanks always did expect people,

who, to be sure, might be kept back by the rain, but whom she was always

justified in looking for. Perhaps, on the whole, notwithstanding her

warm sense of the duties of hospitality, Lucilla was glad that it rained

so heavily, and that nobody came. She had a great deal to think of as

she took her maidenly and delicate repast. The first step had been

taken, and taken triumphantly. Henceforward, whatever the Archdeacon's

illusions might be, he could no longer stand calm upon his eminence, and

conclude that it was he, and he alone, who could raise the widow from

her lowly estate. Lucilla, it is true, knew that no such idea as that of

marrying her uncle's heir would ever present itself to Mrs Mortimer; and

that--at least so far as Miss Marjoribanks's information went--such a

thought was equally removed from the mind of the personage unknown, whom

Mr Beverley denounced as an impostor. But this did not in the least

affect the value of the suggestion as an instrument to be used against

the Archdeacon, who was big enough to defend himself, and on whose

account the young philanthropist had no compunctions. The first step was

thus taken, and taken successfully, but it was only after this that the

real difficulties began; and Lucilla knew no more as yet how she was to

find and identify, not to say assail and vanquish, the other side, the

mysterious Mr Kavan, the man whom the Archdeacon abused and the widow

defended, than even the greatest military genius knows at the

commencement of the first campaign how to conduct the second. This was

what she considered so closely as she sat alone in the dull afternoon.

She did not go to Mrs Mortimer, because it was impossible that every day

could be a half-holiday, and because, on the whole, she judged it best

not to subject herself, in the present undeveloped state of the

position, to much questioning; but she sent her a little note to satisfy

her mind, telling her to keep herself easy, and not to let the

Archdeacon bully her, and to confide in the devotion of her affectionate

Lucilla. When she had thus satisfied the immediate demands of

friendship, Miss Marjoribanks took her work and sat down to reflect.

Nothing could be more exciting than the position in which she found

herself; but the difficulties were only such as stimulated her genius;

and then it was not any selfish advantage, but the good of her neighbour

in its most sublime manifestation--the good of her neighbour who had

injured her, and been insensible to her attractions, which, according to

the world in general, is the one thing unpardonable to a woman--which

Lucilla sought. And it was not even the scriptural coals of fire she was

thinking of as she pondered her great undertaking in her mind. The

enterprise might not be free from a touch of human vanity, but it was

vanity of a loftier description: the pleasure of exercising a great

faculty, and the natural confidence of genius in its own powers.

_Chapter XXV_

The fruit of Lucilla's long and mature reflection was that next morning

being fine and all the clouds dispersed, she went out with her usual

firm step and self-possession, and, what was rather unusual with her,

except on necessary occasions of ceremony, knocked at Mrs Woodburn's

door.

Mrs Woodburn and Miss Marjoribanks had never, as people say, taken to

each other. They were as different in their ways as it is possible to

imagine. The mimic was a little indolent, and would not take the trouble

to make any exertions for the good of the community, except in the

exercise of her peculiar talent, though she had been known, when

excited, to go through real fatigue for that; but she had none of the

steady force, the persevering energy--or, to sum up all in one word, the

genius--of Miss Marjoribanks, who, for her part, recognised the _use_ of

such an instrument of entertainment as Mrs Woodburn possessed without

appreciating it in her own person; for Lucilla had no sense of humour,

as she candidly admitted, with that consciousness of her own faults, and

slight disposition to consider them virtues, which is common to persons

of great endowments. It was accordingly with a slight sense of effort on

both sides that they met thus in the familiarity of an early visit, at a

moment when people doing their duty to each other in a ceremonial way

would not have thought of calling. She was aware that Mrs Woodburn

regarded her, even when she kissed her in the most neighbourly and

affectionate manner, with a look which seemed to say, "What can she

want, coming here so early?" As for Lucilla, she was too wise to pretend

that it was a mere visit of regard. She was too wise, and her

interlocutor was too clever, and prone to catch every touch of

expression, though Miss Marjoribanks flattered herself she had

sufficient experience to enable her to dismiss, when there was occasion

for it, all expression from her face. But such was not her policy at

this moment. When the two faces had touched each other in that loving

and sisterly salutation, their owners immediately separated, and

regarded each other from two opposite chairs, without decided

hostility, it is true, but with the watchful air of two people whom the

fates may range on different sides, and whom it behoves to be mutually

watchful. And Lucilla thought it the most expedient course, under the

circumstances, to begin her investigations at once.

"I have come to make an inquisition," she said; "I may as well confess

it at once, for you would find me out if I didn't. Mrs Woodburn, where

is Mr Cavendish? I am not going to put up with it any longer. He must be

written to, and had back again. The only man that was to be depended

upon in Carlingford!" said Lucilla; "and to think he should disappear

like this and never say a word!"

Mrs Woodburn fairly gasped in her companion's face. She could no more

tell what this meant, than if she had been a person utterly unacquainted

with human motives and ways of working; and, indeed, it was only the

tricks of the surface for which she had any real insight. "My brother!"

she exclaimed, with something between an impulse of defence and denial,

and a quite opposite instinct of confidence. Had he proposed, after all,

without telling his sister? Had Lucilla a right to ask the question she

uttered so frankly? Had he been prudent for once in his life, and

secured this sensible alliance and prop to his position? All these

questions rushed at lightning-speed through Mrs Woodburn's mind; but she

was not so prompt as Miss Marjoribanks would have been under the

circumstances, and all she did was to open her eyes wide, and give a

start on her chair, and say, "My brother?" with a voice which trembled,

and was half extinguished by surprise.

"Yes; Mr Cavendish," said Lucilla. "Do tell me his address. There is not

a man in Carlingford who is good for anything, now that he is gone. You

must see that as well as I do. As for flirting, I have always said he

was the only man that knew anything about it. Do tell me where he is,

and I will write to him; or, please, send him word for me, that

absolutely he must come back. We are all dying for him, you may say."

Mrs Woodburn had recovered a little, and found a moment to think, but

her faculties were not so handy, except in her own particular way, as

might have been expected from such a clever woman. She could even at

that moment have taken off Miss Marjoribanks to the life, but she was in

the most profound bewilderment as to what Lucilla could mean; whether

she was really laying herself out to "catch" Mr Cavendish, or whether

she was merely talking nonsense without any particular meaning; or

whether she was feigning indifference by way of getting information; and

the stupidest person in Carlingford would have acquitted herself as well

as Mrs Woodburn felt able to do in the emergency. "I should think he

would rather hear that some of you were willing to live for him," she

said, in a tremulous way; finding nothing better come to her lips than

the echo of an old compliment, which went against her nature, but yet

with an instinct of serving her brother so far as it might be in her

power.

"Not me," said Lucilla frankly. "Some people once thought so, you know;

but I can't say I ever thought so. There never will be anything about

living or dying between him and me. I hope we know better," said Miss

Marjoribanks; "besides, if I were so much as to think of that sort of

thing I should feel I was swindling papa. Oh, no; I assure you I am

quite disinterested. I want him for my Thursdays. Do write, and say he

must come home."

"I don't like people to be too disinterested," said Mrs Woodburn; "and I

don't think Harry would be at all glad to hear it. I wish he would come

back, I am sure. I am always bullying him about it. I thought perhaps

some of you young ladies had been unkind to him," said the anxious

sister, who had recovered her head, and thought it might be possible to

get at the secret, if there was a secret, by means like this.

"No," said Miss Marjoribanks; "_I_ have not been unkind to him; and

there is nobody else I know of," said the candid Lucilla, "unless poor

Barbara; and _she_ will never be unkind, you know. I will write him a

letter if you will give me his address. Is it true that somebody has

left him a great deal of money, and he is going to change his name?"

"His name!" said Mrs Woodburn, with a little cry, like an imprudent

woman; and then she recovered herself. "I have not heard of anything of

the kind," she said, "and he would be sure to tell me of it; but in

Carlingford people know things before they happen. I should be very glad

to know that somebody was going to leave him a great deal of money; but

I don't know about the name----"

"Oh, I heard it only in a confused sort of way," said Lucilla, "or that

he _had_ changed his name. I am sure I don't know if it was past or

present. Did he ever make any change to be somebody's heir? Oh, I beg

your pardon; but you know people do it every day."

Mrs Woodburn had grown quite pale--perhaps because she began to see that

there was some method in these questions, perhaps with simple and

unreasonable fright at the suggestion. She could not say a word for a

moment, so startling was the question; and then there was something in

Lucilla's early visit, and in her instant onslaught upon Mr Cavendish,

which was alarming. She was so frightened and driven into a corner that

she could not tell how to answer. It occurred to her all at once that

perhaps Mr Cavendish had opened his heart to Miss Marjoribanks and given

her an inkling of his secret; and what would Lucilla think if she

contradicted her brother? Never was a poor woman in a greater

difficulty. All her fun and her mimicry collapsed. She no more noticed

the peculiarities of Lucilla's look and manner than if she had been an

ordinary inhabitant of Grange Lane. "Changed his name?" she faltered, in

a blank sort of interrogative way; and in spite of herself faltered and

shook, and conveyed to Lucilla the most perfect assurance that what she

supposed was true.

"When it is for a great deal of money there is some sense in it; when it

is only for a prettier name it is dreadfully stupid. Don't you think so?

As if we all could have pretty names!" said Lucilla. "I should like so

much to have a talk with Mr Cavendish. I picked up some very, very old

friends of his the other day--people who used to know him long ago. I am

sure he would be interested if he were to know."

"I don't think it could be him," said Mrs Woodburn, with something like

the instinct of despair; "I don't remember any very old friends he has;

it is so long a time ago----" and then the poor lady stopped short, as

if she had something choking her in her throat. "I don't think it could

be he."

"Not such a very long time," said Lucilla, in her easy way. "It is

dreadful to give him a character for being old. Do write him, please,

and tell him about those people. He is sure to be interested if you say

it is a lady, and a pretty woman, and a widow," continued Miss

Marjoribanks. "She says he was once very kind to her when her poor

husband was alive."

Mrs Woodburn recovered herself a little as Lucilla spoke. "It must have

been some other Mr Cavendish," she said. "Harry was--so much abroad--so

long away from home----" At that moment there was a sound in the house

of a heavy step, and Mr Woodburn's whistle became audible in the

distance. Then the poor woman, who had a secret, fixed haggard eyes upon

Miss Marjoribanks. She dared not say, "Don't speak of this before my

husband." She dared not utter a word to awaken suspicion on one side or

the other. She knew very well that if Mr Woodburn heard of the existence

of any old friends of his brother-in-law, he would insist upon having

them produced, and "paying them some attention"; and at the same time

Mrs Woodburn could not so far confide in Lucilla as to beg her to keep

silent. This was what her brother's poltroonery brought upon the

unfortunate woman. And when the emergency came she was not as equal to

it as she expected to be. Her talents were not of a nature to do her any

good in such a strait. She collapsed entirely, and looked round her in a

flutter of fright and despair, as if to find some means of escape.

But this terror all arose from the fact that she did not know Miss

Marjoribanks, who was generous as she was strong, and had no intention

of going to extremities. Lucilla got up from her chair when she heard Mr

Woodburn's whistle coming nearer. "I hear somebody coming," she said,

"and I must not stay, for I have quantities of things to do. Only mind

you tell Mr Cavendish I have something quite serious to say to him from

his old friend; and from me, please to tell him, that it is _impossible_

to get on without him," continued Lucilla, as Mr Woodburn entered the

room. "There is not a soul that can flirt or do anything. I should write

to him myself if I knew his address."

And then, as was natural, Woodburn, with his usual absurdity, as his

wife explained afterwards, struck in with some boisterous _badinage_. As

for Mrs Woodburn, in her mingled terror and relief, she was too much

excited to know what he said. But when Lucilla, serenely smiling, was

gone, the mimic, with her nerves strung to desperation, burst into the

wildest comic travesty of Miss Marjoribanks's looks and manners, and her

inquiries about Harry, and sent her unsuspicious husband into

convulsions of laughter. He laughed until the tears ran down his

cheeks--the unconscious simpleton; and all the time his wife could have

liked to throw him down and trample on him, or put pins into him, or

scratch his beaming, jovial countenance. Perhaps she would have gone

into hysterics instead if she had not possessed that other safety-valve,

for Mrs Woodburn had not that supreme composure and self-command which

belonged to Lucilla's higher organisation. She wrote a long letter that

afternoon, and had a dreadful headache all the evening after it, which,

considering all things, was to be expected under the circumstances, and

was a weak-minded woman's last resource.

No headache, however, disturbed Miss Marjoribanks's beneficent progress.

She went home conscious that, if she had not acquired any distinct

information, she had at least gained a moral certainty. And besides, she

had measured the forces of Mr Cavendish's bodyguard, and had found them

utterly unequal to any prolonged resistance. All that was wanted was

prudence and care, and that good luck which was as much an endowment in

its way as the other qualities by which Lucilla might be said to have

secured it. She went home meditating her next step, and with a certain

enjoyment in the sense of difficulty and the consciousness of how much

skill and power would be required to carry on three different threads of

innocent intrigue with the three different persons in the drama, without

ever letting the general web get confused, or confounding one strand

with another. She had to frighten the Archdeacon with the idea that Mrs

Mortimer might marry the impostor, and she had to keep the widow in the

profoundest ignorance of this suggestion, and she had to manage and

guide the impostor himself, to save his position, and deliver him from

his enemies, and make his would-be persecutor for ever harmless. If by

chance she should forget herself for a moment, and say to Mr Beverley

what she meant for Mr Cavendish, or betray her mode of dealing with

either to the third person interested, then farewell to all her hopes.

But when all that was required was skill and self-possession and

courage, Miss Marjoribanks knew herself too well to be afraid.

She came in with that sense of having done her duty which is so sweet to

a well-regulated mind. But it was not to that internal satisfaction

alone that Providence limited Lucilla's reward. There are exceptional

cases to be found here and there even in this world, in which virtue

finds its just acknowledgment, and disinterested well-doing is

recompensed as it deserves. While Miss Marjoribanks was still occupied

with the arrangement of her plans she was interrupted by a visitor, who

entered with a brow clouded by care, and yet exalted by the sense of a

charge and dignity which is not afforded to every woman. It was Mrs

Centum who thus came to unfold to Lucilla the new event which was about

to happen in Carlingford. She had a great deal to say first, as was

natural, of the dreadful vexation of such a thing happening in

holiday-time when the boys were all at home, and when she did not know

what to do.

"But you know, Lucilla, it will be delightful for all you young ladies

to have the officers," said Mrs Centum; "it keeps a place lively;

though, for my part, I always say in six months there will not be a

servant in the house that one can depend upon. It is dreadful for

servants--especially young ones, and if they are nice-looking, you know;

but it is very nice for the young ladies, and for all the picnics and

dances and everything----"

"What officers?" said Lucilla, pricking up her ears--for to tell the

truth, the very name of officers in a place like Carlingford, where

nobody could flirt but Mr Cavendish, was as water in the desert to Miss

Marjoribanks's soul.

"Has not the Doctor told you?" said Mrs Centum--"but, to be sure, very

few people know as yet. Mr Centum says it must be all on your account,

because you give such nice parties--but of course that is only his fun,

you know. However, I suppose somebody has told Lord Palmerston of all

those great buildings that were meant for the factories, and of

Carlingford being such a healthy place. And so the General is coming to

us to-morrow, Lucilla--General Travers, you know, that was in all the

papers for something he did in India; Charles used to know him at

school. He is quite handsome, and has ever so many medals and things. It

is a dreadful addition to one's troubles in holiday-time, you know; but,

my dear, I hope you will ask him to your Thursdays, and help us to make

Carlingford pleasant to him. It all depends upon him," said Mrs Centum

solemnly;--"if he likes the place, and thinks it will do, and finds nice

society--whether it is here or at Hampton that they establish the

depot."

"At Hampton!" cried Miss Marjoribanks naturally excited--"the stupidest,

wretchedest little place----"

"That is just what Mr Centum says," said the visitor, with a sigh; "what

I am nervous about is the servants, Lucilla; and you know that

under-nurse of mine, what a nice steady girl she has always been, and

such a comfort--but as soon as the soldiers come it turns their heads. I

want you to tell me, if you'll be so very good, Lucilla, how Nancy makes

that _paté_ that Mr Centum is so fond of. I know it is a good deal to

ask; but I am sure you are one to stand by your friends; and if the

General should take a dislike to Carlingford through any fault of mine,

I never could forgive myself; and I want you to ask him to your

Thursdays, Lucilla--there's a dear."

"Dear Mrs Centum," cried Miss Marjoribanks, "papa must call on the

General and ask him to dinner: as for my Thursdays, I always say they

are not parties; they are only _evenings_," said Lucilla sweetly, "and

not worth a gentleman's while."

"And about the _paté_, Lucilla," said Mrs Centum anxiously, "I hope you

won't think it too much of me to ask;--you are so clever, you know, and

so is Nancy: and what with the noise, and the nursery dinners, and all

those big boys home from school----"

Mrs Centum fixed her eyes with true solicitude on Lucilla's face. Miss

Marjoribanks was magnanimous, but the _paté_ in question was one of the

greatest triumphs of the Doctor's table. She thought, and with truth,

that it _was_ a great deal for any one to ask; but then it is true that

genius has duties as well as privileges; and to impress upon mediocrity

the benefit of loyally following and copying superior intelligence, is

of itself a moral effect of the greatest importance. And besides, the

woman who at such a moment produced a live General in Carlingford, and

held out hopes of officers, was not a woman to be denied.

"I will write it down for you," said Lucilla graciously, "if you think

your cook will understand; or perhaps Nancy might step in and show her

how--if I can persuade Nancy. Dear Mrs Centum, I hope you will always

feel sure that I am ready to do anything for my friends."

"Oh, thank you, dear," cried the grateful woman; "I knew you were not

one to mind; and if Nancy would be so very kind----I am sure you will

like the General," added Mrs Centum, with effusion; "he will live here,

you know, if the depot comes, and be such an addition! I said to

Charles, the moment he told me, That would just be the very thing for

Lucilla! And he is quite young looking, and so nice and pleasant," she

added, in the fulness of her enthusiasm and gratitude. As for Miss

Marjoribanks, she shook her head, but nevertheless received the

assurance with a smile.

"It is not that sort of thing I am thinking of," said Lucilla: "if it

had been, I need never have come home; and now, after papa has been so

kind about the drawing-room----; but I am always glad to hear of nice

new people," said Miss Marjoribanks; "and to meet a man that has been in

the world is such a pleasure to papa."

With this benign acknowledgment of the General's merits, Lucilla

received Mrs Centum's affectionate leave-takings. To be sure, she knew

nothing, and did not occupy herself much at that moment about General

Travers. But at the same time Miss Marjoribanks, with her usual piety,

recognised the approval of Providence in this new occurrence, and was

naturally both encouraged and exhilarated. It is but in rare cases, as

has been said, that the reward of virtue is given so promptly, and with

such beautiful discrimination: and there are even people in the world

who profess to have no faith in any prompt or visible recompense. But

Lucilla was not of that new and heretical school. For her own part, she

felt it very natural that her exertions for the good of her kind should

thus be recognised and acknowledged, and returned to her plans with that

sweet and exhilarating sense of moral harmony, which an approving

Heaven, and a sense of blessings earned and goodness recompensed, are so

well calculated to give.

_Chapter XXVI_

Miss Marjoribanks's mind had scarcely subsided out of the first

exhilarating sense of a great many things to do, and a truly important

mission in hand, when little Rose Lake sought her with that confession

of family troubles, and prayer for counsel and aid in the extremity,

which opened a new way and mode of working to Lucilla. Rose was proud,

poor little soul, not only of her exceptional position, and that of her

family, as a family of artists, but also with a constitutional and

individual pride as one of the natural conservators of domestic honour,

who would rather have died than have heard the Lakes lightly spoken of,

or upbraided with debt or indecorum, or any other crime. She had been

silent as long as she could about Barbara's shortcomings, jealously

concealing them from all the world, and attacking them with a violence

which made her big elder sister, who was twice as big and six times as

strong as she, tremble before her when they were alone. But little Rose

had at length found things come to a point beyond which her experience

did not go. Barbara began to have secret meetings with a man whose

presence nobody was aware of, and who did not come openly to the house

to seek her, and persevered, in spite of all remonstrances, in this

clandestine career; and all the prejudices and all the instincts of the

young artist rose up against her. A vague presentiment of greater evil

behind impelled her to some action, and shame and pride combined at the

same time to keep her silent. She could not speak to her father, because

the poor man lost his head straightway, and made piteous appeals to her

not to make a fuss, and threw the burden back again upon her with a

double weight; and besides, he was only a man, though he was her father,

and Rose had the pride of a woman in addition to her other pride. In

these painful circumstances, it occurred to her to consult Lucilla, who

had been, as has been recounted in an early part of this history, a

great authority at Mount Pleasant, where her heroic belief in herself

led, as was natural, others to believe in her. And then Miss

Marjoribanks was one of the people who can keep counsel; and Rose felt,

besides, that Lucilla had been injured, and had not revenged herself,

and that to put confidence in her would be, to a certain extent, to make

up for the offence. All these motives, combined with an intolerable

sense of having upon her shoulders a burden greater than she could bear,

drove the young artist at last to Grange Lane, where Lucilla, as we have

said, was still in the state of mental exhilaration and excitement

naturally consequent upon having a very important piece of work in hand.

"I don't know what to do," said Rose; "I made up my mind I never would

say a word to any one. It is so strange she should have no proper pride!

but then it is dreadful to think, what if anything should come of it!

though I am sure I don't know what could come of it; but they might run

away, or something; and then people are so fond of talking. I thought

for a long time, if I only knew some nice old lady; but then I don't

suppose there are any nice old ladies in Carlingford," added the

Preraphaelist, with a sigh.

"Oh, you little monster!" cried Lucilla, "there is Mrs Chiley, the

dearest old----; but never mind, make haste and tell me all the same."

"Lucilla," said Rose solemnly, "we are not great people like you; we

are not rich, nor able to have all we like, and everybody to visit us;

but, all the same, we have our Pride. The honour of a family is just as

precious whether people live," said the young artist, with a certain

severity, "in Grove Street or in Grange Lane."

This exordium had its natural effect upon Miss Marjoribanks; her

imagination leaped forward a long way beyond the reality which her

companion talked of so solemnly, and she changed her colour a little, as

even a woman of her experience might be excused for doing in the

presence of something terrible and disastrous so near at hand.

"I wish you would not frighten me," said Lucilla; "I am very sorry for

you, you dear little Rose. You are only a baby yourself, and ought not

to have any bother. Tell me all about it, there's a dear."

But these soothing tones were too much for Rose's composure. She cried,

and her cheeks flushed, and her dewy eyes enlarged and lightened when

they had thrown off a little part of their oppression in the form of

those hot salt tears. Miss Marjoribanks had never seen her look so

pretty, and said so to herself, with a momentary and perfectly

disinterested regret that there was "nobody" to see her--a regret which

probably changed its character before Rose left the house. But in the

meantime Lucilla soothed her and kissed her, and took off her hat and

shed her pretty curls off her forehead. These curls were not by any

means so strong and vehement in their twist as Miss Marjoribanks's own,

but hung loosely and softly with the "sweet neglect" of the poet. "You

would look very nice if you would take a little pains," Lucilla said, in

her maternal way. "You must wear your hair just so on Thursday; and now

tell me all about it--there's a dear."

"Lucilla, _you know_" said Rose, drying her tears, "she has taken to

going out in the evening, and I am sure she meets him every night. I

can't be a spy on her, whatever she does, and I can't lock her up, you

know, or lock the door, or anything like that. I am not her mother,"

said the poor little sister pathetically, with a regretful sob. "And

then she has taken to making herself _nice_ before she goes out. I don't

think she ever cared much for being nice--not at home, you know; but now

she has pretty collars and gloves and things, and I can't tell where she

gets them," cried Rose, her eyes lighting up passionately. "She has no

money to spend on such things. Lucilla, I should die if I thought she

would accept them from _him_."

"You dear old Rose, you don't know what you are saying," said the

experienced Lucilla; "most likely, if she meets a gentleman, she is

engaged to him; and They always give people presents, you know. If you

would only tell me who it is."

"Lucilla, do not trifle with me," said Rose; "it is much too serious for

that--engaged without papa knowing of it, nor me! You know very well

that would be no engagement. I sometimes think she is--is--fond of him,"

said the reverent little maiden, whose voice changed and softened under

the influence of that supposition; "and then again I think it is only

because he is rich," she went on, with new vehemence. "Oh, Lucilla, if

you only knew how dreadful it was to have such thoughts--and there is

nobody to take care of her but me! Papa cannot be worried, for that

would react upon everything. An artist is not just like other people. It

is everybody's duty to leave him undisturbed; and then, you know, he is

only a man, and does not understand; and if she won't pay any attention

to me when I speak to her, oh, Lucilla, tell me, what can I do?"

"Let me think," said Lucilla gravely. "You know I can't tell all in a

moment. It is Mr Cavendish, I suppose, though you won't say so. Now just

wait a moment, and let me think."

"I once thought of going to him," said Rose; "perhaps he might be

generous, and go away. An artist can do many things that other people

can't do. We have an exceptional position," the Preraphaelist went on,

faltering a little, and not feeling quite so sure of the fact on that

special occasion. "I thought of going and begging of him, if it was on

my knees----"

"My dear," said Lucilla, with great seriousness, "if you did, I think it

is most likely he would fall in love with _you_, and that would not mend

the matter; and I am sure Barbara would give you poison. I will tell you

what we must do. I would not do it for everybody; but you know I was

always very fond of you, you dear little Rose. You shall ask me for

to-morrow evening to come to tea."

"To come to tea!" echoed poor Rose, in dismay. She had been waiting for

Lucilla's advice with a great deal of anxiety; but at the present moment

it would be vain to conceal that the proposed expedient seemed to her

altogether inadequate for the emergency. The light went out of her face

as she opened her eyes wide and fixed them on Lucilla; and for one

moment, one desperate moment, Rose was disloyal, and lost faith in the

only person who could help her; which, perhaps, under the circumstances,

was not a thing to cause much surprise.

"My dear, you may be sure I would not propose it, if I did not feel it

was the best thing to do," said Lucilla, with great gravity. "It happens

precisely that I want to see Mr Cavendish, and if he is at home he never

shows himself, and I have been wondering how I could find him. I shall

make him walk home with me," said Miss Marjoribanks, "so you need not be

uneasy, Rose, about the trouble I am taking. I am doing it to serve

myself as well as you. We shall say eight o'clock, if that is not too

late."

"But, Lucilla----" said Rose, with consternation; and then she stopped

short, and could not tell what more to say.

"You don't understand it?" said Miss Marjoribanks; "I don't think it was

to be expected that you should understand it. A little thing like you

has no way of knowing the world. When Barbara knows I am there, she will

be sure to bring him to the very door; she will want me to see that he

is with her; and you may leave the rest to me," said Lucilla. "For my

part, I have something very particular to say to Mr Cavendish. It is my

luck," Miss Marjoribanks added, "for I could not think how to get to see

him. At eight o'clock to-morrow evening----"

"Yes," said Rose; but perhaps it was still doubtful how far she

understood the mode of operations proposed. Lucilla's prompt and facile

genius was too much for the young artist, and there was, as she herself

would have said, an entire want of "keeping" between her own sense of

the position, tragical and desperate as that was, and any state of

matters which could be ameliorated by the fact of Miss Marjoribanks

coming to tea. It had been Rose's only hope, and now it seemed all at

once to fail her; and yet, at the same time, that instinctive faith in

Lucilla which came naturally to every one under her influence struggled

against reason in Rose's heart. Her red soft lips fell apart with the

hurried breath of wonder and doubt; her eyes still expanded, and clearer

than usual after their tears, were fixed upon Lucilla with an appealing,

questioning look; and it was just at this moment, when Rose was a great

deal too much absorbed in her disappointment and surprise, and lingering

hope, to take any notice of strange sounds or sights, or of anybody

coming, that Thomas all at once opened the door and showed Mrs Centum

into the room.

Now it would have mattered very little for Mrs Centum--who, to be sure,

knew Lucilla perfectly well, and would never have dreamed for a moment

of identifying such a trifling little person as Rose Lake in any way

with Miss Marjoribanks; but then Mrs Centum happened at that precise

moment to be bringing the new arrival, the important stranger, who had

so much in his power--General Travers himself--to be introduced to

Lucilla; and it was not the fault either of Rose or the General if it

was on the young mistress of the Female School of Design that the

warrior's first glance fell. Naturally the conversation had run upon

Miss Marjoribanks on the past evening, for Mrs Centum was full of the

enthusiasm and excitement incident to that _paté_ which Lucilla had so

magnanimously enabled her to produce. "Is she pretty?" General Travers

had demanded, as was to be expected. "We--ll," Mrs Centum had replied,

and made a long pause--"would you call Lucilla pretty, Charles?" and

Charles had been equally dubious in his response; for, to be sure, it

was a dereliction from Miss Marjoribanks's dignity to call her pretty,

which is a trifling sort of qualification. But when the General entered

the drawing-room, which might be called the centre of Carlingford, and

saw before him that little dewy face, full of clouds and sunshine,

uncertain, unquiet, open-eyed, with the red lips apart, and the eyes

clear and expanded with recent tears--a face which gave a certain

sentiment of freshness and fragrance to the atmosphere like the quiet

after a storm--he did not understand what his hosts could mean. "I call

her very pretty," he said, under his breath, to his interested and

delighted chaperone; and we are surely justified in appealing to the

readers of this history, as Lucilla, who was always reasonable,

afterwards did to herself, whether it could be justly said under all the

circumstances, that either Rose or the General were to blame?

The little artist got up hurriedly when she awoke to the fact that other

visitors had come into the room, but she was not at all interested in

General Travers, whom Rose, with the unconscious insolence of youth,

classified in her own mind as an elderly gentleman. Not that he was at

all an elderly gentleman; but then a man of forty, especially when he is

a fine man and adequately developed for his years, has at the first

glance no great attraction for an impertinent of seventeen. Rose did

not go away without receiving another kiss from Lucilla, and a parting

reminder. "To-morrow at eight o'clock; and mind you leave it all to me,

and don't worry," said Miss Marjoribanks; and Rose, half ashamed, put on

her hat and went away, without so much as remarking the admiration in

the stranger's eyes, nor the look of disappointment with which he saw

her leave the room. Rose thought no more of him than if he had been a

piece of furniture; but as for the General, when he found himself

obliged to turn to Lucilla and make himself agreeable, the drawback of

having thus had his admiration forestalled and drawn away from its

legitimate object was such, that he did not find her at all pretty;

which, after all, on a first interview at least, is all They think

about, as Miss Marjoribanks herself said.

"We must do all we can to make Carlingford agreeable to the General,"

said Mrs Centum. "You know how much depends upon it, Lucilla. If we can

but make him like the place, only think what an advantage to

society--and we have such nice society in Carlingford," said the

injudicious woman, who did not know what to say.

"Nothing very particular," said Miss Marjoribanks. "I hope General

Travers will like us; but as for the officers, I am not so sure. They

are all so light and airy, you know: and to have nothing but flirting

men is almost as bad as having nobody that can flirt; which is my

position," Lucilla added, with a sigh, "as long as Mr Cavendish is

away."

"Lucilla," cried Mrs Centum, a little shocked, "one would think to hear

you that you were the greatest coquette possible; and on the contrary

she is quite an example to all our young ladies, I assure you, General;

and as for flirting----"

"Dear Mrs Centum," said Lucilla sweetly, "one has always to do one's

duty to society. As far as I am concerned, it is quite different. And I

don't mean to say that the officers would not be a great acquisition,"

Miss Marjoribanks continued, with her usual politeness; "but then too

many young people are the ruin of society. If we were to run all to

dancing and that sort of thing, after all the trouble one has taken----"

said Lucilla. Perhaps it was not quite civil; but then it must be

admitted, that to see a man look blankly in your face as if he were

saying in his mind, "Then it is only _you_, and not that pretty little

thing, that is Miss Marjoribanks!" was about as exasperating a sensation

as one is likely to meet with. Lucilla understood perfectly well

General Travers's look, and for the moment, instead of making herself

agreeable, it was the contrary impulse that moved her. She looked at

him, not blankly as he looked at her, but in a calmly considerate way,

as she might have looked at Mr Holden the upholsterer, had he proposed a

new kind of _tapisserie_ to her judgment. "One would be always

delighted, of course, to have General Travers," said Miss Marjoribanks,

"but I am afraid the officers would not do."

As for Mrs Centum, she was quite incapable of managing such a terrible

crisis. She felt it, indeed, a little hard that it should be her man who

was defied in this alarming way, while Mr Cavendish and the Archdeacon,

the two previous candidates, had both been received so sweetly. To be

sure, it was his own fault; but that did not mend matters. She looked

from one to the other with a scared look, and grew very red, and untied

her bonnet; and then, as none of these evidences of agitation had any

effect upon the other parties involved, plunged into the heat of the

conflict without considering what she was about to say.

"Lucilla, I am surprised at you," said Mrs Centum, "when you know how

you have gone on about Mr Cavendish--when you know what a fuss you have

made, and how you have told everybody----"

"By the bye, who is Mr Cavendish?" said General Travers, interposing,

with that holy horror of a quarrel between women which is common to the

inferior half of creation. "I wonder if he is a fellow one used to meet

everywhere. One never could get any satisfaction who he belonged to. He

never pretended to be one of the Devonshire Cavendishes, you know. I

don't know if he had any family at all, or relations, or that sort of

thing. In most cases a man gets on just as well without them, in my

opinion. I wonder if this fellow you are talking of is he?"

"Oh, no," said Mrs Centum. "I hope you will meet him before you leave

Carlingford. He has a sister married here; but we have always understood

he was one of the Cavendishes. I am sure Mrs Woodburn always gives

herself out for somebody," she continued, beginning to let the

interesting suspicion enter her mind; for, to be sure, they were about

of a standing, and the banker's wife had sometimes felt a little sore at

the idea that her neighbour possessed distinctions of family which were

denied to herself. "It is true, none of her relations ever come to see

her," said Mrs Centum, and she began to forget the General, and

Lucilla's reception of him, in this still more interesting subject. It

was the first time that the authenticity of the Cavendishes had been

attacked in Carlingford; and, to be sure, what is the good of having

fine connections if they cannot be produced? While Mrs Centum pondered a

suggestion so interesting, Lucilla, on her part, also took advantage of

the occasion, and descended from the calm heights of dignity on which

she had placed herself. And the General, who was a well-bred man, had

got over for the moment the unlucky impression made upon him by the

fresh face of little Rose Lake.

"Mr Cavendish is very nice," said Miss Marjoribanks. "I am very fond of

all my own relations, but I don't care about other people's. Of course

he is one of the Cavendishes. I don't see how he can help it, when that

is his name. I should think it was sure to be the same. We should be so

obliged to you if you would bring him back to Carlingford. I don't know,

I am sure, why he is so obstinate in staying away."

"Perhaps somebody has been unkind to him," said the General, feeling it

was expected of him.

"I am sure _I_ have not been unkind to him," said Lucilla. "He is such a

loss to me. If you are going to do us the pleasure of coming on

Thursday--Oh, I am sure we shall feel quite honoured, both papa and I--I

will show you how badly off I am. It is not a party in the least, and we

don't dance," said Miss Marjoribanks, "that is why I am a little

uncertain about the officers. It is one of my principles that too many

young people are the ruin of society; but it is hard work, sometimes,

when one is not properly supported," Lucilla added, with a gentle sigh.

"If I can be of any use," said the amused soldier. "I don't pretend to

be able to replace Cavendish, if it is Cavendish; but----"

"No," said Miss Marjoribanks, with resignation, "it is not easy to

replace him. He has quite a talent, you know; but I am sure it is very

kind of you, and we shall be delighted to have such an acquisition,"

Lucilla continued, after a pause, with a gracious smile; and then she

led her guests downstairs to luncheon, which was every way satisfactory.

As for the General, it cannot be doubted that he had the worst of it in

this little encounter, and felt himself by no means such a great

personage in Carlingford as his hospitable entertainers had persuaded

him he should be. Mrs Centum declared afterwards that she could not

form the least idea what Lucilla meant by it, she who was generally so

civil to everybody. But it is not necessary to say that Miss

Marjoribanks knew perfectly well what she was doing, and felt it

imperatively necessary to bring down General Travers to his proper

level. Carlingford could exist perfectly well without him and his

officers; but Lucilla did not mean that the society she had taken so

much pains to form should be condescended to by a mere soldier. And

then, after all, she was only human, and it was not to be expected she

could pass over the blank look with which her visitor turned to herself,

after having by evil fortune cast his eyes upon Rose Lake. At the same

time, Miss Marjoribanks, always magnanimous, did not blame Rose, who had

no hand whatever in the matter; and if she avenged herself in a ladylike

and satisfactory manner, it is not to be supposed that it was simply a

sense of offence which actuated Lucilla. She did it, on the contrary, on

strictly philosophical principles, having perceived that Mrs Centum was

spoiling her General, and that it was absolutely necessary that he

should be disabused.

When they left, Mrs Centum was almost afraid to put the question that

trembled on her lips. She uttered it at last, faltering, and with a very

doubtful expression, for she could not conceal from herself the fact

that the General had been snubbed. "How do you like Lucilla?" she said,

in the most humble way; and then she turned away her face. She could

bear it, whatever it might be. She said to herself that so long as the

children were well, and the holidays about over, she could bear

anything; and what did it matter to her about the officers?--but at the

same time she preferred to avert her face when she received the blow.

"I am sure Miss Marjoribanks is a person for whom I shall always

entertain the highest respect," said the General, and he gave a little

laugh. "Was that pretty little creature a sister of hers?--or a

friend?--or what? I don't know when I have seen anything so pretty,"

said the unsuspecting man; and then Mrs Centum turned round upon him

with a kind of horror.

"_That_ Lucilla's sister!--why, she has no sister; I told you so; she is

an only child, and will have everything. She will be quite an heiress,"

cried Mrs Centum, "if the old Doctor were to die; though, I am sure,

poor dear man, I hope he will not die. There is no other medical man in

the town that one can have the least confidence in, except Dr Rider;

and then _he_ is so young, and can't have much experience with children.

Her sister, indeed! It was little Rose Lake, the drawing-master's

daughter," said Mrs Centum, with cruel distinctness. The General only

said, "Oh!" but it was in a crestfallen tone; for to be snubbed by one

lady, and struck with sudden enthusiasm for another, who, after all, was

not a lady to speak of, but only a drawing-master's daughter, was rather

hard upon the poor man. Thus it was the soldier, who in ordinary

circumstances ought to have been the most successful, who began in the

most cruel and uncomfortable way his campaign in Carlingford.

_Chapter XXVII_

Miss Marjoribanks, except for her habitual walk, did not go out much

that day. She was too much occupied with what she had in hand. She could

not conceive--for Lucilla naturally took a reasonable view of affairs in

general, and did not account for the action of any such unknown quantity

as love, for example--why Mr Cavendish should conceal himself so

carefully from society in Carlingford, and yet run all the risk of

meeting Barbara Lake in the evenings. It seemed to Lucilla

inconceivable, and yet it was impossible not to believe it. Mr

Cavendish, though she had seen him on the very verge of a proposal, did

not present himself to her mind in the aspect of a man who would

consider the world well lost for any such transitory passion; neither,

as was natural, did Barbara Lake appear to Lucilla the least like a

person calculated to call forth that sentiment; but nevertheless it must

be true, and the only way to account for it was by thinking, after all,

what fools _They_ were, and what poor judges, and how little to be

depended on, when women were concerned. Miss Marjoribanks was determined

to lose no more time, but to speak to Mr Cavendish, if it was Mr

Cavendish, and she could get the chance, quite plainly of the situation

of affairs--to let him know how much she knew, and to spur him up to

come forward like a man and brave anything the Archdeacon could do. Had

it been any small personal aim that moved Lucilla, no doubt she would

have shrunk from such a decided step; but it was, on the contrary, the

broadest philanthropical combination of Christian principles, help to

the weak and succour to the oppressed, and a little, just a very little,

of the equally Evangelical idea of humbling the proud and bringing down

the mighty. She was so much occupied with her plans that it was with a

little difficulty she roused herself to keep up the conversation with

her father at dinner, and be as amusing and agreeable as ordinary; which

indeed was more than ordinarily her duty, since Dr Marjoribanks came in,

in a fractious and disturbed state of mind, discontented with things in

general. The truth was, he had got a letter from Tom Marjoribanks from

India, where that unlucky man had gone. It was all very well and natural

to go to India, and Lucilla had felt, indeed, rather satisfied with

herself for having helped forward that desirable conclusion, especially

after the Doctor had taken pains to explain to her, not knowing that she

had any share in it, that it was the very best thing for Tom to do. For

it has been already said that Dr Marjoribanks, though he liked Tom, and

thought it very odd that Providence should have given the girl to him,

and the boy to his incapable sister-in-law, who did not in the least

know how to manage him, had no desire to have his nephew for a

son-in-law. Going to India was very right and proper, and the best thing

to do; for a man might get on _there_, even at the bar, who would have

no chance _here_; but after he had made one step in the right direction,

it was only to be expected that all sorts of misfortunes should happen

to Tom. He was wrecked, which might have been looked for, and he lost

his boxes, with the greater part of his outfit, either at that unhappy

moment, or in the Desert, or at an after part of his unlucky career; and

the object of the letter which Dr Marjoribanks had just received was to

get money to make up for his losses. Tom, who was a very good son, did

not want to vex his mother, and accordingly it was his uncle whom he

applied to, to sell out a portion of the money he had in the Funds. "She

would think I was ruined, or that it was my fault, or at least that I

meant to spend all my money," wrote Tom, "and you understand, uncle,

that it is not my fault." "Confound him! it is never his fault," said Dr

Marjoribanks, as if that could possibly be brought against the

unfortunate young man as a crime.

"No, papa, it is his luck," said Lucilla; "poor Tom!--but I should not

like to take a passage in the same boat with him if I was the other

people. Though I am sure he is not a bit to blame."

"I hope he does not mean to go on like this," said the Doctor. "He will

soon make ducks and drakes of his five thousand pounds. A young fellow

like that ought to mind what he's doing. It is a great deal easier to

throw money away than to lay it by."

"Papa, it is his luck," said Miss Marjoribanks; "it is all put into a

system in political economy, you know. For my part, I am always the

other way. It is very funny before you get used to it; but you know

there has to be a balance in everything, and that is how it must be."

"I don't think it at all funny," said Dr Marjoribanks, "unless your good

luck and his bad were to be joined together; which is not an expedient I

fancy." When he said this the Doctor gave a sharp glance at his

daughter, to see if by chance that might perhaps be what she was

thinking of; but naturally the maiden candour and unsuspecting innocence

of Lucilla was proof to such glances. She took no notice at all of the

implied suspicion. But though it was very absurd for anybody to think

that she would have married him, it was not in Miss Marjoribanks's

nature to be disloyal to Tom.

"I think he is quite right about his mother, papa," said Lucilla; "she

would never understand it, you know; she would think the world was

coming to an end. I would not for anything take a passage in the same

boat with him, but he is nice in his way, poor fellow! I wonder what he

has ever done to have such dreadful luck--but I hope you are going to do

what he asks you:" and with this calm expression of her interest Miss

Marjoribanks went upstairs. When the Doctor became thus aware of his

daughter's sentiments, it seemed to him that he was more at liberty to

be kind to his nephew. He had never been able to divest himself of a

little lurking dread, an inherent idea which was so obstinate that it

felt like a prophecy, that somehow or other, after costing her father so

much, and making such a difference in the house, Lucilla, who on the

whole was a dear production, would fall to Tom's share, with all Dr

Marjoribanks's other possessions; and the Doctor saw no reason why he

should work and lay up money for a boy whom Providence, with a wonderful

want of discrimination, had bestowed, not upon him, but upon Mrs John

Marjoribanks. However, when that question was settled and done with, his

heart began to relent to Tom the unlucky, who, after all, when the

son-in-law hypothesis was fully dismissed, was his natural born nephew,

and, as Lucilla said, very nice in his way, poor fellow! The Doctor

began to write him a letter, and softened more and more with every line

he wrote; but as for Lucilla, she had something more immediately

important to occupy her upstairs.

The fact was that Miss Marjoribanks had found a shadowy figure in black

in the corner of one of the sofas when she came into the

drawing-room--a-figure with a veil down, and a large shawl, and a

tremulous air. It was very seldom that Mrs Mortimer took courage to

visit her young patroness; and to go out at night, except sometimes to

Salem Chapel when there was a meeting, and when the timid woman

represented to herself that it was her duty, was a thing unknown to her.

But yet, nevertheless, it was Mrs Mortimer who sat waiting for Lucilla.

They had not met since that momentous interview in which the widow

revealed her history to Miss Marjoribanks's sympathetic ears, and the

poor woman had been able to bear no longer the solitude of her cottage,

and her garden-walls, and her little pupils, and Mary Jane. To know that

something was going on outside that concerned her--to hear the waves, as

it were, beating round the walls of her prison, and never to have even

so much as a peep at them, what they were about, if the tide was

beginning to turn, or the wind to change, or the lifeboat to appear--was

more than Mrs Mortimer, even with all her training to patience, could

put up with; and accordingly she had made a frantic rush out, under

cover of night, to see if there was anything to see, and hear if there

was anything to hear.

"You don't know how dreadful it is to keep staring at the walls all day

and never see any change," said the widow. "It is very stupid and silly,

but you know I cannot help it. I get to fancy always that something

wonderful must be going on on the other side."

"That is because you don't go out enough," said Lucilla. "You know how

often I have said you should go out once every day; and then you would

see that everything outside was very much the same as everything

within."

"Oh, Lucilla! don't say so," said Mrs Mortimer; "and besides, _he_ has

been again, and I could see you had been saying something to him. He

spoke as if I understood it all when I did not understand a word of it;

and he spoke of him, you know, and was quite solemn, and warned me to

think well of it, and not do anything rash--as if I had anything to

think about, or was going to do anything! Tell me what you said to him,

Lucilla; for I am sure, by the way he spoke, he must have taken him for

himself, and perhaps you for me."

"Who did he take for himself, I wonder?" said Lucilla. "As for you and

me, dear Mrs Mortimer, we are so different that he could never take us

for each other, whatever the circumstances might be."

"Ah, yes, Lucilla! we are different," said the poor widow. "You have all

your own people to take care of you, and you are not afraid of anybody;

but as for me, I have not a creature in the world who cares what becomes

of me." As she made this forlorn statement it was only natural that the

poor woman should cry a little. This was no doubt the result of the four

garden-walls that closed in so tightly, and the aggravating little

pupils; but Miss Marjoribanks felt it was not a state of feeling that

could be allowed to go on.

"You ought not to speak like that; I am sure there are a great many

people who are interested in you; and you have always Me," said Lucilla,

with a certain reproachful tenderness. As for Mrs Mortimer, she raised

her head and dried her eyes when Miss Marjoribanks began to speak, and

looked at her in a somewhat eager, inquiring way; but when Lucilla

uttered those last reassuring words, it is undeniable that the widow's

countenance fell a little. She faltered and grew pale again, and only

cried the more--perhaps with gratitude, perhaps with disappointment. And

when she said, "I am sure you are very kind, Lucilla," which was all the

poor soul could utter, it was in a very tremulous undecided voice. The

fact that she had always the sympathy and co-operation of such a friend

as Miss Marjoribanks, did not seem to have the exhilarating effect upon

her that it ought to have had. It did not apparently do any more for her

than the similar reassurance that Lucilla was coming to tea did for Rose

Lake. But then, like every other benefactor of the human race, Miss

Marjoribanks was aware that the human mind has its moments of unbelief.

It was a discouraging experience to meet with; but she never permitted

it seriously to interrupt her exertions for the good of her kind.

"You should not have so poor an opinion of your friends," said Lucilla,

who after all was giving only a stone when her suppliant asked for

bread. "You know how much interested we all are in you; and for me,

anything I can do----"