"Oh, Lucilla, you are very kind; nobody could be kinder," cried Mrs

Mortimer, with compunction. "It is very nice to have friends. I do not

know what I should do without you, I am sure; but then one cannot live

upon one's friends; and then one knows, when they go away," said the

widow, with more feeling than distinctness of expression, "that they all

go away to something of their own, and pity you or forget you; but you

always stay there, and have nothing of your own to go away to. I am not

grumbling, but it is hard, Lucilla; and then you are young, and happy,

and at home, and I don't think it is possible you can understand."

"My dear," said Miss Marjoribanks, "it is quite easy to understand, and

I know exactly what you mean. You want me to tell you all about Mr

Beverley, and what I said to him, and what he has in his mind. If he is

the something of your own you would like to go away to, I think it is a

pity. I am sure he has a temper, and _I_ would not marry him for my

part. But if you mean _me_, I have nothing to go away to," said Lucilla,

with a little scorn. "I should be ashamed not to be enough for myself.

When I leave you it is not to enjoy myself, but to think about you and

to plan for you; and all that you want to know is about _him_!" said

Miss Marjoribanks, piercing through and through the thin armour of her

incapable assailant. Naturally all the widow's defences fell before this

ruthless response. She cried with a mingled sensation of shame at being

found out, and penitence for being so ungrateful, and a certain desolate

distress with her own incapacity and want of power to defend herself. It

was an acute variety of feminine anguish on the whole. The idea that

she, a mature woman, a married woman and widow, who ought to have been

done with all these vanities, should have been found out by a young girl

to be thinking about _a gentleman_, struck poor Mrs Mortimer with a

sharp sense of shame as if her wistful preoccupation had been a crime.

Indeed the chances are, if it had been a crime, she would not have been

nearly so much ashamed of it. She hid her face in her hands and blushed

down to the very edge of her black dress and up into the glooms of her

widow's veil; and all the self-defence she was capable of was a faint

"Oh, Lucilla!" a mere appeal of weakness without reason--a virtual

throwing of herself in acknowledged guilt at her judge's feet.

"Thomas is coming with the tea," said Miss Marjoribanks. "Come into my

room and take off your bonnet. What is the good of worrying yourself

when you know I have taken it into my own hands? Spoiling your eyes with

crying, and making everybody uncomfortable never does the least good;

and, besides, one never knows what harm one might do one's self," said

Lucilla seriously. "I don't think you gone off at all, for my part; but

if you don't take proper care----I shall give you some rose-water, and

you will be all right after you have had a cup of tea."

"Oh, no; it will be best to go home. I am such a poor creature now. I am

not good for anything. Let me go home, Lucilla," said poor Mrs Mortimer.

But Lucilla would not let her go home; and by the time tea was ready,

and Dr Marjoribanks had come upstairs, she had so managed to soothe her

visitor's nerves, and console her spirits, that the Doctor himself grew

complimentary. He was so civil, in fact, that Lucilla felt slightly

startled, and on the whole thought it was as well that the Archdeacon

was at hand, and affairs in a promising way; for it was doubtful whether

even Miss Marjoribanks's magnanimity could have got over any ridiculous

exhibition of interest on the part of her father, who certainly was old

enough to know better. Even to see him taking Mrs Mortimer's tea to her,

and congratulating her upon her improved looks, and felicitating himself

and the world in general on the fact that Carlingford agreed with her,

was aggravating to his daughter--more aggravating, though it is strange

to say so, than even the blank looks of General Travers in the morning,

or his transference of the homage intended for herself to little Rose

Lake; _that_ was no more than a blunder, and Lucilla felt a consolatory

conviction that, so far as incivility went, the General had received a

very satisfactory set-off. But to see Dr Marjoribanks exerting himself

in such an unheard-of way made her open her eyes. If he were still

accessible to such influences, nobody could answer for anything that

might happen; and the widow was so grateful for his kindness, that at

one moment it was all that Lucilla could do to keep her lips shut fast,

and restrain herself from a tempting allusion which would have made an

end of Mrs Mortimer. It was the first time that Lucilla's protégée had

ventured to come thus familiarly and uninvited to her friend's house;

and the Doctor, who knew no special reason for the visit, expressed his

satisfaction with a warmth which was quite uncalled-for, and hoped that

Lucilla might often "have the advantage of her company;" and actually

betrayed symptoms of a disposition to "see her home," if Miss

Marjoribanks had not already made provision for that emergency. When the

visitor had finally departed, under the charge of Thomas and Mary Jane,

the father and daughter regarded each other, for the first time, with

dubious glances--for, as far as Lucilla was concerned, it was a

revelation to her of a new and altogether unsuspected danger; and the

Doctor, for his part, was very conciliatory, and showed a certain

consciousness of having committed himself, which made matters twenty

times worse.

"Really, Lucilla, your friend is a credit to you," said Dr Marjoribanks.

"It was a stroke of talent to pick her up, as you did, and make a woman

of her--and a pretty woman too," he added incautiously; as if he, at his

age, had anything to do with that.

"I am so glad you think so, papa," said Lucilla, in her dutiful way. "I

don't think myself that she has gone off at all to speak of. In some

lights she might pass for being no older than I am--if she was very well

dressed, you know; and it really does not matter what age a woman is if

she keeps her looks. I should be very glad to see her nicely married,

for my part; she is one of the people who ought to be married," Miss

Marjoribanks continued, with an inflection of compassionate tolerance in

her voice. As for the Doctor, he mistook her as usual, and took her tone

of pity and kindly patronising disdain for another instance of his

daughter's policy and high art; whereas the truth was she was quite in

earnest, and meant every word she said. And then Dr Marjoribanks's sense

of humour was keener than that of Lucilla. After this the conversation

flagged slightly, for Miss Marjoribanks had undeniably received a shock.

In the midst of her benevolent preoccupation and care for other people,

it had suddenly dawned upon her that her own stronghold might be

attacked, and the tables turned upon her in the twinkling of an eye.

There are days of discouragement in the most triumphant career and this

was one of those uncomfortable moments. Her faith in herself did not

fail her for an instant; but the faith of her natural born subjects--the

creatures of her bounty--had visibly failed her. Neither Rose Lake nor

Mrs Mortimer had shown that confidence in Lucilla's genius which

experience and loyalty both called upon them to show. When Dr

Marjoribanks had gone downstairs to resume the case which he was writing

out for the _Lancet_, Lucilla passed through one of those moments of

sublime despondency which now and then try the spirits of the

benefactors of their race. A few tears came to her eyes as she reflected

upon this great problem. Without such trials genius would not fully know

itself nor be justly aware of its own strength. For no temptation to

give up her disinterested exertions had any effect upon the mind of Miss

Marjoribanks; and even her sense of pain at the unbelief of her

followers was mingled with that pity for their weakness which involves

pardon. Even when they wounded her she was sorry for them. It was nature

that was in fault, and not the fallible human creatures who had it not

in them to believe in the simple force of genius. When Lucilla had shed

these few tears over her subjects' weakness and want of faith, she rose

up again in new strength from the momentary downfall. It was, as we have

said, a sublime moment. The idea of giving them up, and leaving their

affairs to their own guidance, never for an instant penetrated into her

heroic mind; but she was human, and naturally she felt the prick of

ingratitude. When the crisis was over she rose up calmly and lighted her

candle, and went to her room with a smile upon her magnanimous lips. As

she performed that simple action, Lucilla had lifted up the feeble

widow, and taken the family of Lakes, and Mr Cavendish, and even the

burly Archdeacon himself, upon her shoulders. They might be ungrateful,

or even unaware of all she was doing for them; but they had the supreme

claim of Need upon Strength; and Miss Marjoribanks, notwithstanding the

wound they had given her, was loyal to that appeal, and to her own

consciousness of superior Power.

At the same time, it would not be just to omit all mention of a

consolatory recollection which occurred to Lucilla in this moment of her

weakness. At such a crisis the mind of genius may be supported by a

matter very trifling in itself. Even at the instant when the moisture

sprang to her eyes, Miss Marjoribanks said to herself, "Poor Tom!" and

felt that the bitterness, to a certain extent, had evaporated out of her

tears. He was a long way off, and Lucilla would have thought it madness

indeed to connect herself in any way with the fortunes of her unlucky

cousin; yet it gave her a certain support to think that, amid all the

want of faith she was encountering, Tom believed in her, heart and soul.

It was an insignificant matter, so far as any practical result was

concerned, if, indeed, anything can be called insignificant which gives

strength to a great mind in a moment of discouragement. She said "Poor

Tom!" and felt as if for the moment she had something to lean on, and

was comforted. We mention this fact rather as a contribution to the

history of those phenomena of the human mind, which have as yet escaped

the metaphysician, than as an actual circumstance in the life of Miss

Marjoribanks. She was a woman of genius, and he only a very simple,

unlucky fellow; and yet a sensation of comfort came to Lucilla's heart

when she said "Poor Tom!"

_Chapter XXVIII_

Lucilla prepared her toilette the next evening, to take tea with the

Lakes, with greater care than she would have spent upon a party of much

greater pretensions. She was, to be sure, dressed as usual in the white

dress, _high_, which she had brought into fashion in Carlingford; but

then that simple evening toilette required many adjuncts which were not

necessary on other occasions, seeing that this time she was going to

walk to her destination, and had in her mind the four distinct aims of

pleasing Rose, of dazzling Barbara, of imposing upon Mr Cavendish, and,

finally, of being, as always, in harmony with _herself_. She was as

punctual to the hour and minute of her engagement as if she had been a

queen; and, indeed, it was with a demeanour as gracious that she entered

the little house in Grove Street, where, naturally, there had been also

sundry preparations made for her visit. Mr Lake himself, who had

postponed his usual walk, and was taking his tea an hour later than

usual, received his young visitor with all the suavity natural to him;

and as for Barbara, she did the honours with a certain suppressed

exultation and air of triumph, which proved to Lucilla that her plan was

indeed an inspiration of genius. As for Rose, it would be impossible to

describe what were her sensations. Her faith still failed her at that

momentous hour. She was sceptical of Lucilla, and naturally of all the

world, and regarded everybody with jealous scrutiny and expectation and

distrust, as was natural to a young conspirator. She was profoundly

excited and curious to know what Miss Marjoribanks meant to do; and at

the same time she did not believe in Miss Marjoribanks, and was almost

disposed to betray and interfere with her, if such treachery had been

possible. It was Rose Lucilla specially came to visit, and yet Rose was

the only one who was cool to her, and did not seem fully to appreciate

her condescension; but then, happily, Miss Marjoribanks was magnanimous,

and at the same time had a purpose to support her, which was much more

comprehensive and of larger application than anything that had entered

into the mind of Rose Lake.

"I am proud to see you in my house, Miss Marjoribanks," said Mr Lake. "I

have always considered your excellent father one of my best friends. I

am not able to give my children the same advantages, but I have always

brought them up not to have any false pride. We have no wealth; but we

have some things which cannot be purchased by wealth," said the

drawing-master, with mild grandeur; and he looked round upon the walls

of his parlour, which were hung with his own drawings, and where one of

Willie's held the place of honour. In all Carlingford there was no other

house that enjoyed a similar distinction; and, consequently, it was with

a delicious sense of chivalrous deference yet equality that the

exceptional man of Grove Street received the young sovereign of Grange

Lane.

"I am so glad to come, Mr Lake," said Lucilla. "It is so nice to be

among such old friends; and, besides that, you know there never was any

voice that suited mine like Barbara's; and that dear old Rose was always

my pet at Mount Pleasant. I should have come long ago if anybody had

ever asked me," said Miss Marjoribanks. And as for Mr Lake, he was so

overpowered by this implied reproach upon his hospitality that he

scarcely knew how to reply.

"My dear Miss Marjoribanks, if you have not been asked it has been from

no want of--of goodwill," said Mr Lake anxiously. "I do not know what

the girls can have been thinking of. You see Rose's genius takes another

line; and Barbara, naturally, has a great many things to think of; but

in the future, I hope----"

"Oh, yes; I shall come without being asked," said Lucilla. And when the

tea came it was all she could do to keep herself quiet, and remember

that she was a visitor, and not take it out of the incapable hands of

Barbara, who never gave her father the right amount of sugar in his tea.

To tell the truth, Barbara's thoughts were occupied by a very different

subject; and even Rose had but little attention to spare for her papa's

comforts at that special moment. But Lucilla's larger mind embraced

everything. She sat with her very fingers itching to cut the

bread-and-butter for him, and give him a cup of tea as he liked it; and

asked herself, with indignation, what was the use of that great

creature, with her level eyebrows and her crimson bloom, who could not

take the trouble to remember that three lumps was what Mr Lake liked.

Miss Marjoribanks had never taken tea with him before; but his second

cup, had she dispensed it, would have been exactly to his taste--which

was a thing Barbara had not learned to make it in all these years. No

wonder that a certain sense of contemptuous indignation arose for one

moment, even in the calm and impartial bosom of genius. Perhaps Rose

would not have done much better; but then Rose was good for something

else, which was always a set-off on the other side. Thus it will be seen

that Lucilla had a respect for use, even of a kind which in her own

person she did not much appreciate, as became a person of a truly

enlightened mind; but a creature who was of no earthly good irritated

her well-regulated spirit; for, to be sure, the possession of a fine

contralto (which is, at the same time, not fine enough to be made use of

professionally) is not a matter of sufficient moment in this world to

excuse a young woman for not knowing how to give her father a

comfortable cup of tea.

It was nearly nine o'clock before Mr Lake went out for his walk, and by

that time it was almost dark, and the lamp outside was lighted, which

was not far from the door. Lucilla had taken a seat near the window,

with the view of witnessing everything; and it cannot be denied that she

felt a little excited when Barbara went out of the room after her

father, leaving Rose alone with her guest. Miss Marjoribanks's heart

gave a beat or two the more in the first minute, though before the next

had passed it had fallen into its usual measure. There were no candles

as yet in the parlour, and Grove Street--or at least the bit of it

which lay before the window, lighted by the lamp outside, and relieved

against a little square of bluish-green sky which intervened between

Miss Hemmings's house and that of old Mr Wrangle on the opposite

side--was very clear to the interested spectator. There was nobody

visible but an organ-man, who was grinding a popular melody very

dolorously out of his box, in what Rose would have called the middle

distance; and beyond, Miss Jane Hemmings looking out of the long

staircase window, and three little boys in different attitudes

below,--that is, if one did not count a tall figure which, perhaps with

the view of listening to the music of the organ, was coming and going in

a limited circuit round the light of the lamp.

"How convenient it is to have the lamp so near," said Lucilla. "Oh,

don't light any candles, please; it is so nice to sit in the dark. Where

is Barbara, I wonder? Let us have some music, and put down that dreadful

organ. I hope she has not gone out. And where are you, you sulky little

Rose?"

"She has gone upstairs," said Rose, who began to feel all the enormity

of her conduct in thus betraying her sister. "I hate sitting in the

dark. I hate being a spy; come in from the window, Lucilla, now you are

here----"

"My dear Rose," said Miss Marjoribanks, "I think you forget a little.

For my part I do not understand what being a spy means. Barbara knows

very well I am here. I should scorn to take an advantage of anybody, for

my part. If she does not bring him past the very window, and under my

eyes--Ah, yes, that is just what I thought," said Lucilla, with gentle

satisfaction. But by this time poor little Rose had roused herself into

an innocent fury.

"What is just as you thought?" said Rose, laying an impatient grasp on

Miss Marjoribanks's arm. "Come in from the window, Lucilla, this

moment--this moment! Oh, me, to think it should be my doing! Oh,

Lucilla, don't be so mean and shabby and wretched. I tell you to come

in--come in directly! If you do not shut the window, and come and sit

here in the corner, I will never, never speak to you again!"

Miss Marjoribanks, as was natural, took no notice of this childish fury.

She was sitting just where she had been sitting all the evening, within

sight of the street lamp and the organ-grinder, and Miss Jane Hemmings

at the staircase window;--just where Barbara had placed her, and where

that young woman calculated on finding her, when she made a promenade of

triumph up the partially lighted street by the side of her clandestine

suitor. Perhaps Barbara had seen Miss Jane as well, and knew that public

opinion was thus watching over her; but at all events she was not at all

ashamed of herself, or indignant at being spied upon. On the contrary,

it was a kind of apotheosis for Barbara, only second to the grand and

crowning triumph which would be accomplished in Carlingford Church under

the shadow of that veil of real Brussels, which grew more and more real

every day. Thus neither the actors in the drama, nor the principal

spectator, were in the smallest degree disturbed by horror or shame or

sense of guilt, excepting always the fanciful little Rose, who suffered

for everybody; who could have wished that the earth would open and

swallow up Barbara and her lover; who could have slaughtered Lucilla on

the spot, and given herself over to any kind of torture for her

treachery. Naturally nobody paid any sort of attention to Rose. Barbara,

for her part, took her admirer's arm in the twilight with a swelling of

exultation, which the gaining of the very highest prize in the

department of ornamental art could scarcely have conveyed to the bosom

of the little artist; and Lucilla put back her small assailant softly

with her hand, and smoothed down her ruffled plumes.

"My dear, it is Miss Hemmings that is spying," said Lucilla; "and poor

Barbara would be so disappointed if I were to go away from the window.

Have patience just a little longer--there's a dear. It is all exactly as

I thought."

And then there followed a pause, which was a terrible pause for Rose.

The organ-grinder stopped his doleful ditty, and there was scarcely any

sound to be heard in the street except the footsteps approaching and

retiring, the measured tread of two people occupied with each other,

going now more slowly, now more quickly, as the humour seized them, or

as their conversation grew in interest; even the sound of their voices

came by times to the auditors--Barbara's with an occasional laugh or

tone of triumph, and the other deeper, with which Rose had but little

acquaintance, but which was perfectly known to Lucilla. All this time,

while her companion sat panting in the dark corner, Miss Marjoribanks

was looking to the joints of her harness, and feeling the edge of her

weapons. For, after all, it was no small enterprise upon which she was

going forth. She was going to denounce the faithless knight to his face,

and take him out of the hands of the enchantress; but then she herself

meant to take him in hand, and show him his true dangers, and vindicate

his honour. A more disinterested enterprise was never undertaken by any

knight-errant. Yet, at the same time, Lucilla could not help

entertaining a certain involuntary contempt for the man who had deserted

her own standard to put himself under that of Barbara Lake, and who was

being paraded up and down here without knowing it, to gratify the vanity

of his new sovereign, and make an exhibition of his weakness. Lucilla

would have been more than mortal if she had not felt the difference

between her own rule, which would have been all to his good, and the

purely egotistical sway of Barbara; and even in her magnanimous mind, it

was impossible that pity itself should not be mingled with a certain

disdain.

She sat quite still for so long that Barbara grew intoxicated with her

triumph. "It is perhaps the last time," Lucilla said to herself, with a

movement of compassion; and the breadth of her human sympathy was such

that she waited till the very latest moment, and let the deluded young

woman have the full enjoyment of her imaginary victory. Then Miss

Marjoribanks rose with a certain solemnity, and put on her hat, and gave

an unappreciated kiss to Rose, who kept in her corner. "Good-night; I am

going," said Lucilla. The words were simple enough, but yet they rang in

Rose's ears like the signal of a conspiracy. When the calm leader of the

expedition went forth, sensible of the importance of her mission, but

tranquil as great minds always are in a moment of danger, Rose got up

too and followed, trembling in every limb. She was capable of having

thrown herself upon the spears in her own person in a sudden _élan_ of

indignation and passion; but she was not capable of waiting till the

right moment, and meeting her antagonists in reasonable combat. Miss

Marjoribanks went out deliberately, without any unnecessary haste,

sweeping into the dusky twilight with her virginal white draperies. It

was a very ordinary scene, and yet, even in the midst of her excitement,

Rose could not help observing involuntarily its pictorial qualities--if

only any painter could have transferred to his canvas the subdued

musical hum of surrounding life, the fragrance of the mignonette, and

the peaceful stillness of the summer night. The sky shone out

green-blue, lambent and wistful, from the vacant space between Miss

Hemmings's and Mr Wrangle's, and there were the dusky twilight shadows

below, and the yellow gleam of the lamp, and Barbara's exulting,

triumphant figure, and the white robes of the avenging angel. Rose could

not have observed all this if she had not been stilled into a kind of

breathless awe by the solemn character of the situation, which struck

her as being somehow like one of Millais's pictures. As for the lovers,

they had just turned at the moment that Miss Marjoribanks came out, and

consequently met her straight in the face, as she stood suave and

smiling at the little garden door.

"It _is_ Mr Cavendish," said Lucilla; "I am so glad; I have been hoping

and trying to see you for ever so long; and as soon as ever I heard you

talking I felt sure it was your voice."

This was the greeting she addressed to Barbara Lake's lover. For his

part he stood before her, growing red and growing pale, struck dumb by

the unlooked-for meeting, and with such a sense of being ashamed of

himself as never before had entered his mind, though, no doubt, he had

done worse actions in his day. Even Barbara had not calculated upon this

open encounter; and instead of giving him any assistance, as was a

woman's duty in such a case, she only tossed her head, and giggled with

an embarrassment which was more pride than shame. As for Mr Cavendish,

he would have liked to disappear under the pavement, if it had been

possible. For once he and Rose were agreed. If a gulf had opened before

him, he would have jumped into it without ever pausing to ask himself

why. And yet all the time Miss Marjoribanks was looking as placid as if

she had been in her own drawing-room, and expecting his reply to her

friendly observations. When he realised that he ought to say something,

Mr Cavendish felt that he had as much need to wipe his forehead as ever

the Archdeacon had. He turned hot and cold, and felt his mind and his

tongue frozen, and could not find a word to say. With a sudden horror he

woke up, like one of Comus's revellers, and found himself changed into

the likeness of the creature he consorted with. If he had found an ass's

head on his shoulders, he could not have felt more startled and

horrified than when he heard himself, in the imbecility of the moment,

giggle like Barbara, and answer to Lucilla's remark, "Oh! yes, it was my

voice."

"I am very sorry to separate you from Barbara," said Miss Marjoribanks;

"but she is at home, you know, and I want so much to talk to you.

Barbara, good-night; I want Mr Cavendish to walk home with me. Rose,

don't stand in the garden and catch cold; thank you, dear, for such a

pleasant evening," said Lucilla, pressing another kiss upon her little

friend's unwilling cheek. When she had done this, she put out her hand

to Barbara, and passed her, sweeping her white garments through the

narrow gateway. She took Mr Cavendish's arm as if he had been a young

brother come to fetch her. "Let us go round by the chapel," said Miss

Marjoribanks, "I have so much to say to you. Be sure to practise for

Thursday, Barbara, and bid your papa good-night for me." This was how

she carried off Mr Cavendish finally out of Barbara's very fingers, and

under her very eyes.

When the two sisters were left standing together at the door, they could

do nothing but stare at each other in the extremity of their amazement.

Rose, for her part, remained but a moment, and then, feeling by far the

guiltiest and most miserable of the whole party, ran upstairs to her own

room and cried as if her heart would break. Barbara, on the contrary,

who was past crying, stood still at the door, and watched Lucilla's

white dress disappearing on the way to Grange Lane with indescribable

emotions. A young woman cannot call the police, or appeal to the crier,

when it is her lover whom she has lost: but to see him carried off by

the strong hand--to watch him gradually going away and disappearing from

her eyes--to hear his steps withdrawing into the distance--was such a

trial as few are called upon to bear. She stood and looked after him,

and could not believe her eyes. And then it was all so sudden--an affair

of a moment. Barbara could not realise how the world had turned round,

and this revolution had been effected;--one minute she had been leaning

on his arm triumphant, making a show and exhibition of him in the pride

of her heart, though he did not know it; and the next was not she

standing here watching him with a blank countenance and a despairing

heart, while Lucilla had pounced upon him and carried him off in her

cruel grasp? The blow was so sudden, that Barbara stood speechless and

motionless till the two departing figures had vanished in the darkness.

Would he come back again to-morrow, or was he gone for ever and ever?

Such were the thoughts of the forsaken maiden, as she stood paralysed

under this sudden change of fortune, at her father's door. If some cruel

spectator had thrown into the fire that Brussels veil with which her

imagination had so long played, and Barbara had stood heart-struck,

watching the filmy tissue dissolve into ashes before her eyes, her sense

of sudden anguish could not have been more acute. Yet, after all,

Barbara's pangs were nothing to those of Mr Cavendish, as he felt Miss

Marjoribanks's light touch on his arm, and felt his doomed feet turn in

spite of himself in the most dangerous direction, and became conscious

that he was being led beyond all possibility of resistance, back to

Grange Lane and to his fate.

To be sure it was dark, which was one consolation; but it was not dark

enough to conceal Lucilla's white dress, nor the well-known form and

lineaments of the young monarch of Grange Lane, in whose company nobody

could pass unobserved. Mr Cavendish could have faced danger by sea and

land with the average amount of courage; but the danger of the walk down

the little street, which afterwards led to St Roque's, and up the

embowered stillness of Grange Lane, was more than he was equal to. He

could not be sure of making a single step by these garden-walls without

meeting somebody who knew him--somebody whose curiosity might ruin him

in Carlingford; or even without the risk of encountering in the face of

that arch-enemy, who would not go away, and whose presence had banished

him from the place. It may be supposed that, under these terrible

circumstances, Mr Cavendish's thoughts of Barbara, who had got him into

this scrape, were far from lover-like. He was a man universally popular

among ladies, and who owed a great deal of the social consideration

which he prized so highly to this fact; and yet the most gentle

sentiment in his mind at that moment, was a "Confound these women!"

which he breathed to himself, all low and deep, as he went slowly along

by Lucilla's side. As for Miss Marjoribanks, her thoughts were of a very

much more serious description than anything her unlucky escort was

thinking of, and a minute or two passed in silence before she could make

up her mind to speak.

"I have been thinking a great deal about you lately, and wishing very

much to see you," said Lucilla. "Did not Mrs Woodburn tell you?--I think

I should have written to you had I known your address."

"And I am sure you would have made me the happiest of men," said the

victim, with rueful politeness. "What had I done to deserve such a

privilege? But my sister did not tell me; she left me to hear it from

your own----"

"Yes," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a certain solemnity, interrupting

him; "I have been thinking a great deal--and _hearing_ a great deal

about you, Mr Cavendish." When she had said this Lucilla sighed, and her

sigh found a terrible echo in her hearer's bosom. She knew that he

turned green in the darkness as he gave an anxious look at her. But he

was too much alarmed to give her an opportunity of studying his face.

"_Hearing_ of me," he said, and tried to laugh; "what have my kind

friends been saying?" and for one moment the sufferer tried to delude

himself that it was some innocent gossip about Barbara which might be

circulating in Grange Lane.

"Hush," said Lucilla, "don't laugh, please; for I want to have a very

serious talk. I have been hearing about you from some very, very old

friends, Mr Cavendish--not anything about _this_, you know," Miss

Marjoribanks added, waving her hand in the direction of Grove Street.

And then Barbara Lake and everything connected with her vanished like a

shadow from the unfortunate man's mind. It was horribly ungrateful on

his part, but it was, as Miss Marjoribanks would have said, just what

might have been expected, and how They always behave. He had no longer

any time or patience for the object which had been giving occupation and

interest to his solitude. He woke up in a moment, and gave a passing

curse to his folly, and faced the real danger as he best could.

"You must be making a mistake, Miss Marjoribanks," he said, with some

bitterness; "it should have been, very, very old enemy. I know who it

is. It is that Archdeacon you ladies make such a fuss about. It is he

who has been telling lies about me," said Mr Cavendish. He breathed a

deep hard breath as he spoke, and the blood came back to his face.

Perhaps for the first moment he felt satisfied, and breathed freer after

it was over; but at the same time it was very dreadful to him to feel

that he was found out, and that henceforth Grange Lane would shut its

doors and avert its countenance. "If you take his word for it, I may

give in at once," he continued, bitterly. "A parson will say anything;

they are as bad as--as women." This the poor man said in his despair,

because he did not know what he was saying; for in reality he knew that

women had been his best friends, and that he had still a chance, if the

judgment was to rest with them.

"You are very ungrateful to say so," said Miss Marjoribanks, "but it is

only because you are excited, I suppose. No, Mr Cavendish, it was not

the Archdeacon; on the contrary, it was a lady, and she said nothing but

good of you," said Lucilla; and then there was a pause. As for Mr

Cavendish, it would be altogether impossible to describe the state of

his mind. He was like a man suddenly reprieved, but giddy with the

shock, and feeling the halter still round his neck, and knowing that he

had himself undermined the ground on which he was standing. It was

Lucilla who supported him in the shock of the moment, for all his

self-command could not keep him from a momentary shiver and stagger when

he found that things were not so bad as he thought.

"A lady, and she said nothing but good!" he muttered, under his breath;

and then he made an effort to recover himself. "Pardon me, I cannot

guess who my unknown friend may be. It is very soothing to one's

feelings to be spoken well of by a lady," said Mr Cavendish, and he

laughed again in a discordant unsteady way. Lucilla regarded him through

all these fluctuations with natural pity, and at the same time with the

calmness of a knowledge which was aware of all and had nothing more to

discover; and at the end Mr Cavendish perceived her calm, and the

absence of wonder and curiosity in her face, and began to perceive that

he had something very serious to deal with--more serious even than he

had at first supposed.

"I am going to tell you all about it," said Miss Marjoribanks, "but in

the meantime wait a minute and let me speak to you. I have something

very serious to say."

It was for this they stopped short at the foot of Grange Lane just where

the land was already parcelled out for St Roque's. What Lucilla was

going to say was too important to be spoken while walking, and she

withdrew her hand from Mr Cavendish's arm. They were both so much

absorbed that they did not see anybody coming, nor indeed had any

attention to spare for external affairs. The blood had deserted Mr

Cavendish's face, and he was once more green with anxiety and

inquietude. He stood facing her, feeling that the crisis of his fate

had come, and not knowing whether it was absolute despair or a faint

dawning of hope that possessed him. If he had been the most passionate

of lovers, and if she had held in her hands the dreadful alternative

between rapture and misery, there could not have been a more rapt and

absorbing attention in Mr Cavendish's face.

"I want to tell you, first of all, that you must have confidence in me,"

said Lucilla; "you--must--have confidence in me. We can do nothing

without that. I know everything, Mr Cavendish," Miss Marjoribanks added

compassionately--"_everything_; but nobody else knows it. I hope I can

arrange everything if it is left in my hands. This is what I wanted to

tell you first of all. Before everything, you must have confidence in

me."

What Mr Cavendish might have answered to this solemn appeal it would be

vain to imagine; for the truth was, he was stopped before he could utter

a word. He was stopped and seized by the hand, and greeted with a

frankness which was, perhaps, all the more loud and cordial from what

appeared to the new-comer the comic character of the situation. "It _is_

Cavendish, by Jove!" the intruder exclaimed, waving his hand to some

people who were coming on behind him. "I beg a thousand pardons for

disturbing you, my dear fellow; but they all talk about you so, that I

was determined to make sure it was you. Good heavens, Miss

Marjoribanks!" General Travers added, taking off his hat. It was Mr and

Mrs Centum who were coming down behind him--she with a light shawl

thrown over her head, tempted out by the beauty of the evening; and

Lucilla saw in a moment the consequences of this encounter, and how it

would be over all Carlingford before to-morrow morning that she and Mr

Cavendish were betrothed at the very least. Miss Marjoribanks had all

her wits about her, as ever, fortunately for both.

"Yes, it is me," she said calmly; "I have been taking tea with the

Lakes, and I made Mr Cavendish give me his arm home. He did not like

being found out, to be sure, but he could not help himself; and we all

know about that," Lucilla added, with a smile, taking once more the

unfortunate man's arm. "Oh, yes, we all know," said Mrs Centum, with a

laugh; but yet, notwithstanding, everybody felt sure that it was all

Lucilla's cleverness, and that Barbara Lake was a myth and fiction. And

it was thus, with Miss Marjoribanks leaning on his arm, and General

Travers, in all the warmth of renewed friendship, guarding him on the

other side, that Mr Cavendish, whose head was in a whirl of excitement,

and who did not know what he was doing, was led back in triumph past

Colonel Chiley's very door, where the Archdeacon was lying in wait to

crunch his bones, back from all his aberrations into the very heart of

Grange Lane.

_Chapter XXIX_

Mr Cavendish was led back to his own house that evening by General

Travers, whose claim of acquaintance was too decided to be rejected. He

never knew very well what passed between the moment when Miss

Marjoribanks began to expound to him the urgent necessity that he should

confide in her, and the moment in which he found himself in his own

house, admitted eagerly by the surprised and anxious servants, and

conducted by the energetic soldier. That he had taken leave of Lucilla

at her own door, that he had watched her white dress sweep away into the

dark garden with a faint sense that it was his only remaining protector

who thus left him, and that after that he had smoked a horrible cigar

with Mr Centum, and been accompanied home by the old acquaintance, who

had turned up at so unlucky a moment,--was all that the poor man was

aware of. And yet it is to be supposed that on the whole he behaved

himself very much like other people, since General Travers had no

distinct idea that his company was undesirable, or that his cordial

recognition was anything but welcome. The General, indeed, took it as

quite natural, under the circumstances, that Cavendish should be a

little confused. A man who is no longer a very young man, and has a

character to support, does not care to be found mooning with the object

of his affections on a summer evening, like a boy of twenty; and General

Travers was perfectly aware that he had thus a very good joke against

Cavendish. "It is worth a man's while to set up a bachelor establishment

in the country," the General said. "By Jove! I wish I could do it. It

makes a fellow feel Arcadian, and ready for anything;" and for his own

part he was very ready to seize upon his former acquaintance, a man who

belonged to his club, and had a chance to know what he was talking

about. "As for Charlie Centum," the soldier said, "what between business

and matrimony, he has grown the greatest guy imaginable; and I can't go

off directly, you know; and then there's always this business about the

depot. It's immense luck to find you here, Cavendish," General Travers

added, with flattering cordiality; and if poor Mr Cavendish was not

grateful, it certainly was not his friend's fault. He led the way into

his house with a glum countenance and a sinking heart, though

fortunately the latter was not visible. It was a very nice house, fitted

up with all that luxury of comfort which a man who has, as Mrs Centum

said, "only himself to look to," can afford to collect around him. Mr

Cavendish had only himself, and he had made his habitation perfect,

though, on the whole, he did not pass a very great deal of his time at

home. He had some nice pictures and a good library, though he was not

particularly given to the arts; and he had an admirable cellar, as all

the gentlemen owned in Carlingford, though, for his own part, he was

very moderate in that point, and did not give himself any airs on the

subject. Mr Centum, on the contrary, was one of the men who talk about

vintages, and raise expectations never to be carried out. And General

Travers could not but feel the force of the contrast as he sat deep into

the night, and "talked over everything," with the man who by that time

he felt convinced was one of his best friends.

As for Mr Cavendish, it would be very difficult to describe his

feelings. He had been knocking about in all sorts of poor places, making

clandestine visits to his sister, and hovering round the more than

suburban simplicity of Grove Street, and the sense of being once more

enveloped and surrounded by all that was pleasant to the eye and

comfortable to the outer man was wonderfully consolatory and agreeable.

But his mind was in a dreadfully harassed condition all the same. He was

preoccupied to the last degree, wondering what Miss Marjoribanks really

knew, and how far he had betrayed himself, and to what extent it would

be safe, as she herself said, to confide in Lucilla; and at the same

time he was obliged to listen to and show a certain interest in the

General's stories, and to make now and then a painful effort of mind to

recall some of the mutual friends referred to, whose names and persons

had in the meantime slipped out of his memory. All the babble of the

club, which General Travers felt must be so refreshing to the ears of a

rusticated member, fell as flat upon Mr Cavendish, whose mind was full

of other matters, as if it had been the merest old woman's gossip,

which, to be sure, it slightly resembled in some points. The gallant

General made himself so agreeable that he nearly drove the unfortunate

man out of his senses, and, when he had exhausted all other means of

aggravation, returned with fresh zest to the sentimental circumstances

in which, as he supposed, he had found his companion out.

"Very sensible I call it," said General Travers. "To be candid, I don't

call her strictly handsome, you know; she's too big for that--and I

don't suppose she's of any family to speak of; though perhaps you don't

mind that trifling circumstance; but a woman that will dress well and

light up well, and knows how to give a man a capital dinner, by Jove!

and no doubt has a pretty little bit of money into the bargain--I

respect your taste, Cavendish," said the friendly critic, with effusion;

and somehow this applause irritated its recipient more than all that had

gone before.

"I am sure I am much obliged to you," said Mr Cavendish, "though,

unfortunately, I don't merit your approbation. Miss Marjoribanks is a

great friend of mine, but she wouldn't have me, and I don't mean to ask

her. At the same time, she has very good connections; and that is not

the way to talk of a girl of twenty. She is worth a dozen of your fast

young ladies," said the sufferer, with some heat. He was not in the

least in love with Lucilla, and indeed had a certain dread of her at

this present moment; but he could not forget that she had once stood by

him in his need--and, besides, he was glad of any subject on which he

could contradict his visitor. "I dare say her family is better than

either yours or mine. Scotch, you know," said Mr Cavendish, trying to

laugh. As for the General, he leaned back on his chair with an indulgent

air, and stroked his mustache.

"Beg your pardon--meant no offence," he said. "For my part, I don't see

that it matters, if a woman is good-looking and has something, you know.

For instance, there was a pretty little thing--a charming little

thing--Lake, or something like that----"

"Ah!" said Mr Cavendish. It was a frightful want of self-control; but he

had been a long time at full strain, and he could not help it. It did

not occur to him, for the moment, that nobody in his senses would have

applied the term "little thing" to Barbara; and, after all the slow

aggravation that he had been submitting to, the idea of this insolent

soldier interfering in Grove Street was beyond his power of endurance.

As for the General, the tone of this exclamation was such that he too

turned round on his chair, and said, "Yes?" with equally unmistakable

meaning, startled, but ready for the emergency, whatever it might be.

Thus the two looked at each other for a second, friends in the ordinary

acceptation of the word, and yet, perhaps, on the eve of becoming

enemies. Mr Cavendish had, up to that moment, pretty nearly forgotten

Barbara Lake. It was a piquant sort of occupation when he had nothing

else to do, and when the world, according to his morbid fancy, was on

the eve of turning its back upon him--but from the moment when he had

said between his teeth "Confound these women!" and had felt the

excitement of the approaching crisis, Barbara, and her crimson cheeks,

and her level eyebrows, and her contralto, had gone altogether out of

his mind. At the same time, it is quite true that a man may feel himself

at liberty to forget a woman when other matters of more immediate

interest are absorbing his attention, and yet be driven furious by the

idea suddenly presented to him that somebody else, who has nothing

earthly to do with it, is about to interfere. Mr Cavendish, however,

recovered himself while the General sat staring at him, and began to see

how ridiculous his defiance was.

"Well?--go on. I did not say anything," he said, and lighted another

cigar. Yet he did not face his companion as a friendly listener should,

but began to beat measure to an irritating imaginary air on the table,

with a certain savage energy by moments, as if he were beating time on

the General's head.

"Then why do you stop a fellow short like that?" said General Travers;

"I was going to tell you of some one I saw the other day in the house of

your--your friend, you know. She was under Miss Marjoribanks's wing,

that was how I saw her--and I hope you are not playing the gay deceiver,

my friend;--a little thing, round-faced, hazel-eyed--a little soft

rosebud sort of creature," said the General, growing eloquent. "By Jove!

Cavendish, I hope you don't mean to make yourself disagreeable. These

sort of looks, you know----"

"It was Rose, I suppose," said Mr Cavendish, relieved in a moment; and,

to tell the truth, he could not help laughing. The more eloquent and

angry the General grew, the more amused and contemptuous grew his

entertainer. He was so tickled by the position of affairs, that he

actually forgot his anxieties for the moment. "No doubt it was Rose," he

repeated, and laughed; Rose! what anybody could see in that little

dragon! And then the contrast between the soldier, who prided himself on

his knowledge of the world, and liked to talk of his family and

position, to the annoyance of those who had none, and the amusement of

those who happen to possess these valuable qualifications--and the

mistress of the Female School of Design, filled Mr Cavendish with

amusement: perhaps all the more because he himself was in a similar

scrape. As for General Travers, he was as much disposed to be angry as,

a moment before, Mr Cavendish had been.

"It might be Rose," he said, "or Lily either, for anything I can tell;

but there is nothing laughable in it that I can see. You seem to be

perfectly _au courant_, at all events--which I hope is quite

satisfactory to Miss Marjoribanks," said the soldier; and then he

resumed, after a disagreeable little pause, "they tell me that everybody

meets at the Doctor's on Thursdays. I suppose I shall see you there.

Thursday, ain't it? to-morrow?" He looked as he spoke, with what seemed

to his victim an insulting consciousness, in poor Cavendish's face. But,

in reality, the General did not mean to be insulting, and knew nothing

whatever of the horrible internal pang which rent his companion when it

was thus recalled to him that it _was_ to-morrow--a fact which, up to

this moment, had not occurred to the unfortunate. To-morrow; and not

even to-morrow--to-day--for by this time it was two o'clock in the

morning, and the unwelcome intruder was wasting the little time he had

for deciding what he should do. Once more his own personal anxieties,

which he had put aside for a moment at the sudden dictate of jealousy,

surged over everything, and swallowed up all lesser sensations.

To-morrow!--and by this time everybody knew that he was in Carlingford,

and he could not stay away from the weekly assembly without attracting

general attention to himself, and throwing open the flood-gates of

suspicion. What was he to do? should he turn his back on the enemy once

for all, and run away and break off his connection with Carlingford? or

should he dare everything and face the Archdeacon, and put his trust in

Lucilla, as that high-minded young woman had invited him to do? With

these thoughts in his mind, it may be supposed that Mr Cavendish gave

but a very mingled attention to the babble of his visitor, who found the

wine and the cigars so good, and perhaps had begun to be a little moved

out of his ordinary lucidity by their effect.

"You've got a nice little house, Cavendish," said the General, "but it's

too small for a married man, my boy. These women are the very deuce for

turning a man out of his comfortable quarters. You'll have to go in for

boudoirs and those sort of things; and, by George! you'll be an ass if

you do, with a snug little box like this to retire into," said the

philosophical warrior; and poor Cavendish smiled a ghastly smile, with

the strongest inclination all the time to take him by the collar and

turn him out of doors. But then he _was_ a warrior and a general

officer, and a member of the same club, and six feet high--all which

particulars, not to speak of the sacred rights of hospitality, made it

somewhat difficult to carry this idea out.

"Don't you think Centum will be sitting up for you?" he said mildly;

"it's past two o'clock; and it's Thursday morning," the victim added,

with a sigh. The last words were an involuntary utterance of his own

despair, but fortunately they struck General Travers's vein of humour,

which happened to be lively at the moment, and worked the desired but

unexpected result. The General laughed loud and long, and declared that

he respected a man who was above-board, and meant to look respectable

for Miss Marjoribanks's sake; and then he poured a mighty libation to

Lucilla, and took an affectionate leave of her supposed lover. The

General made a great commotion in the decorous quiet of Grange Lane when

he knocked at Mr Centum's door. Though it was nearly three o'clock in

the morning, nothing but his inherent dread of a woman would have

prevented him from knocking up the banker to share his hilarity; but Mrs

Centum, in her nightcap, peaceably asleep as she was at the moment,

daunted the soul of the gallant soldier; and naturally his recollection

was not very perfect next day. "I had something very funny to tell you;

but, by Jove! I forget what it was!" General Travers said next morning

when he met his host at breakfast; and thus one bad joke at least was

spared. But Mr Cavendish shut his door upon his departing guest, without

any sense, poor fellow, of having done or said anything in the least

funny. He said, "Thank Heaven!" with a kind of groan of relief when his

troublesome visitor was gone. And then he went back again into his

library, where they had been sitting. Perhaps he had never fully

appreciated before the comfort of everything, the handsome house which

he had enjoyed so long without thinking anything of it, and all the

pleasant luxurious accessories of life. He had been doing without them

for a week or two, and he had not liked it; and yet at that moment it

seemed to Mr Cavendish that he could rather be content to lose them all

at a stroke, to make it known in Carlingford that he was ruined and had

lost his fortune, than that Carlingford should find out that he was not,

after all, one of the Cavendishes, nor the person it took him for. But,

alas! all his fortune could not bring reality to these pretensions, nor

hinder the exposure to which he looked forward with such horror. It is

true that he was an adventurer, but he was not a base one; nor had he

done anything dishonourable either to gain his fortune or to captivate

the good opinion of society, which had become so important to him. But

there are actual crimes that would be sooner forgiven to a man than the

folly of having permitted himself to be considered one of the

Cavendishes, and having set his heart on making a figure in that mild

provincial world. Mr Cavendish knew enough of human nature to know that

a duchess or a lord-chamberlain would forgive more readily than Mr and

Mrs Centum any such imposition upon them, and intrusion into their

exclusive circle. And then his sister, who could not run away! For her

sake it seemed to him that he had better rush off at once, and sell his

house and furniture and horses, and give up Carlingford. As he thought

of that, all the advantages of Carlingford came upon him stronger than

ever. Perhaps a man who has always been used to be recognised as one of

the members of a local aristocracy, would not have seen anything half so

precious as Mr Cavendish saw in the fact of being everywhere known and

acknowledged as a constituent part of Grange Lane;--recognised by the

county people, and by the poor people, and pointed out as he passed by

one and another to any stranger who might happen to be so ignorant as

not to know Mr Cavendish. To people who are not used to it, there is a

charm in this universal acknowledgment. And then he had more need of it

than most men have; and, when Carlingford signed his patent of

gentility, and acknowledged and prized him, it did an infinite deal more

than it had any intention of doing. To keep its regard and recognition

he would have done anything, given up the half or three parts, or even,

on emergency, all he had. Perhaps he had an undue confidence in the

magnanimity of society, and was too sure that in such a case it would

behave with a grandeur worthy of the occasion; but still he was quite

right in thinking that it could forgive the loss of his fortune sooner

than his real offence. And now it was Thursday morning, the day upon

which he must either fight or flee. He too had laughed at Miss

Marjoribanks's evenings in his time, and thought of Thursday lightly as

Lucilla's day; but there was nothing in the least amusing in the

prospect of that assembly now.

When a man has thoughts like these to entertain him, nothing can be more

useless than to go to bed, although in ordinary circumstances, at three

o'clock in the morning, that is about the only thing one can do. Poor Mr

Cavendish, however, was not quite free to act as he thought proper. He

had been a long time away from home, and he did not feel himself in a

position to shock his servants' feelings with impunity. He went to his

room, accordingly, like a martyr, carrying all his difficulties with

him, and these unpleasant companions naturally made a night of it when

they had him all to themselves. When sheer fatigue and exhaustion

procured him a moment's sleep, it was only getting deeper and deeper

into trouble: for then it was the Archdeacon who had planted a heavy

foot on his neck, or General Travers, who, with still more fatal force,

had found out the way to Grove Street. When Mr Cavendish awoke, he said

to himself, "Confound these women!" with more fervour than ever; but, at

the same time, he swore a mighty oath to himself that he would horsewhip

the fellow who ventured to come in his way. Barbara Lake might be no

great things, but at least it was to him, and no one else, that she

belonged. Such was the complication that afforded him a little outlet

for his temper in the midst of the dreadful difficulties of his

position, and the question which was constantly renewing itself in his

thoughts, as to whether he should go or stay. The idea of presenting

himself in the centre of society in Miss Marjoribanks's drawing-room,

and being met by the Archdeacon, and held up to public contempt there

and then, with all the world looking on, and even Travers, who would

carry the narrative out of Carlingford, was something too horrible to be

contemplated; and yet how was he to escape? He was still in this state

of mind, driven backwards and forwards by every new wind, when the

morning came, and when Miss Marjoribanks's note was put into his hand.

For the truth was, that, after long consideration, Lucilla had

determined that the matter was one which could not be permitted to stand

over. She was of too energetic a temperament to let things linger on in

an uncertain way when they could be made an end of, and brought to a

conclusion; and then, as nobody can predict what sudden and unexpected

turn human affairs may take, it was always possible that, if Miss

Marjoribanks did not make an end of the business dramatically, and to

the satisfaction of everybody concerned, it might be found some fine day

to have resolved itself by means of some one of those illegitimate and

incomplete expedients which abound in ordinary life. It was with this

view that Miss Marjoribanks took the step of writing to Mr Cavendish.

She had written in the sacred retirement of her own maiden chamber, when

all the world was still; perhaps at the moment when General Travers was,

as he would himself have vulgarly called it, "chaffing" Cavendish about

the beautiful and disinterested friendship which united him to the young

sovereign of Grange Lane. But naturally such poor raillery was far from

the virginal thoughts of Lucilla at that retired and sacred hour; and we

may venture to add that the elevating influence of the maiden's bower in

which she composed it, and of that tranquil moment of meditation and

solitude, breathed in every line, and gave force to every sentiment of

the letter which Mr Cavendish tore open with an excited hand. Perhaps he

was too anxious and curious to give it the solemn perusal which it ought

to have received.

"MY DEAR MR CAVENDISH,--It was very unlucky that we should have

been interrupted this evening at such an important moment, when I

had so much to say to you. But I think the best thing I can do is

to write, feeling quite sure that when you know all, _you cannot

possibly mistake_ my motives. Everybody has retired, and I am quite

alone, and the silence[2] seems to me full of meaning when I think

that the fate of a person for whom I have so great a regard may be

hanging upon it. I might be afraid of writing to you so frankly, if

I did not feel quite sure that you would appreciate my intention.

"Dear Mr Cavendish, it is not the Archdeacon who has said anything.

_He does not know it is you_; therefore, of course, he could not

say anything directly bearing upon you. But then, you know, if he

were to meet you by hazard, as he is sure to do some day--and for

my part I rather think he is fond of Grove Street--you would be

exposed at once, and everything would be lost, for we all know the

prejudices that exist in Carlingford. I have another plan of

operations to propose to you, which I feel quite sure is for your

good, and also naturally for the good of anybody to whom you may

intend to unite your fortunes. I feel quite sure that it is far

safer to adopt a bold resolution, and to have it over at once. Come

to dinner to-morrow. If you may happen to find an enemy, you will

find also an unlooked-for friend; and, so far as I am concerned,

you _know_ that you may calculate on my support. I do not wonder at

your being anxious about it; but if you will only have full

confidence in me and a little in yourself, believe me it will be

all over in a night. If there had ever been anything between you

and me, as these stupid people suppose, I might have felt

hesitation in writing to you like this; but when I know a thing to

be right, I hope I will never be afraid to do it. I have been

called upon to do many things that are not common for girls of my

age, and perhaps that is why I made up my mind at once to set this

all straight for you. Once more I repeat, dear Mr Cavendish, have

confidence in me. Come to-morrow evening as if nothing had

happened; and take my word for it that all will go well.--Your

friend,

"LUCILLA MARJORIBANKS.

"_P.S._--If you would like to come and talk it over with me

to-morrow, I shall be at home till twelve o'clock; but unless it

will be a satisfaction to your own mind, it is not necessary for

me, for I have all my plans laid."

[Footnote 2: It is only justice to Miss Marjoribanks to say that she was

not addicted to fine writing; but then she was a person who liked to

have everything in keeping, and naturally an emergency such as the

present does not come every day, and requires to be treated

accordingly.]

* * * * *

It would be quite out of the question to attempt any explanation of Mr

Cavendish's feelings when he read this letter. His utter bewilderment,

his terror, his rage, his final helpless sense that it would be utterly

hopeless for him, or half a dozen men, to enter the field against this

curious complication of unknown friends and open enemies and generous

protectors, took away from him the last remnant of courage. He did not

know what to do or to think. He swallowed his coffee with a sense of

despair, and sent the rest of his breakfast away untasted; thus

betraying, without intending it, his emotions to his kitchen. "It stands

to reason as there's a cause for it," Mr Cavendish's domestics concluded

in committee of the whole house; and surely, if ever man had good reason

for not eating his breakfast, it was he. When he had gone over it all

again till his head had grown utterly confused and his thoughts were all

topsy-turvy, Mr Cavendish took a sudden resolution. He went upstairs and

changed his dress with a certain solemnity. He made a toilette more

careful than if he were going, as he once had gone, to propose. It was

like Nelson going into gala uniform for a battle. And then he went out

to discover, if possible, what was coming to him. The difference was,

that in this battle no honour, but only a possible salvage of reputation

and fortunate escape, was to be gained.

_Chapter XXX_

It is possible that some people may think Mr Cavendish's emotions too

acute for all the danger to which he was exposed; but no doubt every

alarm gets intensified when a man broods on it, and thinks of nothing

else for weeks at a time. All that he had to do at the present moment

was to walk into Carlingford by the most frequented way, and to go up

Grange Lane, where every house was open to him, and where nobody was so

great a favourite as he. There were as many chances in his favour that

he would not in that friendly neighbourhood encounter his one enemy, as

there is for every man who goes into action that the bullet which is

predestined to strike somebody will not be directed to him; but then Mr

Cavendish had not the excitement of personal conflict, nor the kind of

security which is given by sharing a risk with a great many other

people. And to see everything smiling and serene around, and yet to know

that the most deadly danger may arrive to you at any innocent opening,

or round the first street-corner, is a kind of risk which naturally

tells upon the nerves more than a more open peril. Mr Cavendish met Dr

Marjoribanks, and the Doctor was good enough to stop his brougham and

keep him in conversation for five minutes with his back to the foe, if

foe there was approaching; and then he met Mrs Chiley, who all but

kissed him, and was so glad to see him again, and so pleased that he was

in time to make acquaintance with the Archdeacon, and so sure that

Lucilla would be quite happy now he had come back. "Perhaps I ought not

to say so, but I _know_ she has missed you," said the injudicious old

lady; and she took both his hands and held the miserable man in a kind

of pillory, from whence he gazed with despairing eyes over her shoulder,

feeling sure that now was the fatal moment, and that his enemy _must_ be

coming. But fortune still favoured him, as it happened. He had the

presence of mind to say, "I am going to call on Miss Marjoribanks;" and

Mrs Chiley dropped his hands on the instant as if they burned her, and

patted him on the arm and sent him away. "She is sure to be in just now,

and I am so glad; and, my dear, you need not mind me, for I am both your

friends," Mrs Chiley said. But when he was delivered from that danger,

something still more formidable awaited the unfortunate man. He could

not believe his eyes at first, nor conceive it possible that Fate would

have such a spite against him; but there was no mistaking the crumpled

dress, any more than the straight eyebrows and flashing oblique glances

that had already found him out. Of all the horrible chances in the

world, it was Barbara--Barbara, who had a right to think he had deserted

her on the previous night, and with whom his next interview could not be

otherwise than stormy--who thus appeared like a lion in his way. When he

saw what awaited him, Mr Cavendish lost courage. His heart sank down

into unfathomable depths. He did not know what he could say to her to

shorten the inevitable interview, nor how he could escape, nor how

hinder her from discovering that it was Lucilla he was going to see; and

he had no longer any doubt in his mind that while he was thus engaged

the Archdeacon must inevitably appear. If he had had time to think of

ordinary subjects, he would have been sufficiently annoyed at the idea

of an interview with Barbara in broad daylight on the sacred soil of

Grange Lane, where all the world could or might be spectators; but such

a merely prudential sentiment was entirely swallowed up to-day in much

more urgent considerations. He would have been content just now, in the

horror of the moment, to plight his troth to Barbara by way of getting

rid of her, and leaving his path clear; but he could not stop her or

himself from advancing, and dared not give any vent to the panic which

was consuming his soul.

"Oh, I am sure I never thought of seeing you here, Mr Cavendish," said

Barbara, with a toss of her head. She would have done a great deal to

secure her wavering lover, but she could not be amiable at a moment when

she had him at a disadvantage. "Perhaps you are going to see Miss

Marjoribanks," said the foolish young woman. To tell the truth, she did

not suspect him of any such treachery; but her heart was beating louder

than usual, and she had the best position of the two, or thought she

had, and chose what she supposed the most aggravating thing to say.

But it is always hard to tell what a man may do when he is in a state of

despair. Mr Cavendish looked her in the face with the composure of

desperation, though she did not know that. All that he was able to think

of was how to get rid of her soonest, and to be able to continue his

way. "Yes, I am going to see Miss Marjoribanks," he said, with a face

which extremity rendered stolid and impassible. As for poor Barbara, her

colour changed in a moment. The very least that she had a right to

expect was that he should have asked her pardon, put himself at her

feet; and her mingled spite and humiliation and mortification at this

response were beyond telling. Her cheeks blazed with sudden rage, her

passion was so furious that she actually did what he wanted and stood

out of his way, and made him an imperious sign to pass on and leave her.

But even then she did not expect to be taken at her word. When Mr

Cavendish took off his hat in that heartless way and passed on, Barbara

stood aghast, not able to believe her senses. Had he really passed and

left her, she who had done so much for him? Had he actually gone over to

her adversary before her very eyes? She stood stock-still when he left

her, gazing after him, blazing with rage and despite, and scarcely able

to keep herself from shrieking out the torrent of reproaches and

vituperations that were in her mind. She made no attempt whatever to

hide her wrath or jealous curiosity from any eyes that might be there to

see; but to be sure she had, as her sister said, no proper pride. If Mr

Cavendish had carried out his intentions, the chances are that Barbara,

driven desperate, would have rushed after him, and found some means of

breaking in upon his interview with Lucilla; but after all this

badgering, he had not the courage to carry out his intentions. He looked

down the long sunshiny line of Grange Lane with a sickening sense that

any of these doors might open at any moment, and his fate rush out upon

him. There was not a soul to be seen, but that only made it all the more

likely to poor Mr Cavendish's distempered fancy that somebody was

coming. He had not even a single thought at leisure to give to Barbara,

and never asked himself whether or not she was standing watching him.

All his senses and faculties were engaged forecasting what might happen

to him before he could reach Dr Marjoribanks's house. He was approaching

it from the lower end of Grange Lane, and consequently had everything to

risk; and when Mr Centum's door opened, and all the nurses and all the

children poured out, the unfortunate man felt his heart jump, and drop

again, if possible, lower than ever. It was this that drove him, instead

of going on to Lucilla, to take refuge in his sister's house, where the

door happened to be open. He rushed in there, and took breath, and was

safe for the instant. But Barbara, for her part, watching him, divined

none of Mr Cavendish's reasons. Her heart too gave a jump, and her wrath

cooled down miraculously. No doubt it was a little impatience at being

questioned which had made him answer as he did. He had not gone to

Lucilla--he had not deserted her standard, who had always met him

half-way, and done so much for him. Barbara calmed down as she saw him

enter at Mrs Woodburn's door. After having thus witnessed his safe exit,

she felt at liberty to go back and return to her own affairs, and

prepare her toilette for the evening; for it moved her very little less

than Mr Cavendish to know that it was Thursday, and that there was no

telling what might happen that night.

As for the hero of all this commotion, he went and buried himself in Mrs

Woodburn's back drawing-room, and threw himself on the sofa in the dark

corner, and wiped his forehead like the Archdeacon. It was not his fault

if events had overwhelmed him. If he had not met in succession Dr

Marjoribanks and Mrs Chiley and Barbara, he would have gone right to

Lucilla without stopping to question himself further--but he could not

bear all this accumulation. Panic had seized upon him, and this panic

wrought more effectually than all argument. It was so terrible to live

under such a shadow, that he felt it must be put an end to. If only he

were left at rest for this moment, he felt that he could make up his

mind to take the perilous leap at night, and dare everything. "It can't

be worse than ruin," he said to himself, and tried not to think that

for his sister it might be something even worse than ruin. But the first

thing of all was to get a little rest in the meantime, and hide himself,

and forget the nightmare that was seated on his shoulders. When Mrs

Woodburn came to him in haste, and saw his careful dress and pale looks,

she was frightened for the moment. She thought it possible for one

second that despair had driven him out of his wits, and that there might

be, for anything she could tell, a little bottle of prussic acid in his

waistcoat pocket. That was her first idea, and her second was that he

was going to carry out at last his most wise and laudable resolution of

proposing to Miss Marjoribanks, and that it was this--naturally a

serious and hazardous enterprise--which made him look so pale.

"Harry, if you are going to Lucilla----!" said Mrs Woodburn; "wait and

rest yourself a little, and I will get you a glass of wine. Keep still;

there's some Tokay," said the anxious sister. "Don't you go and worry

yourself. You shall see nobody. I'll bring it you with my own hand."

"Oh, confound the Tokay!" said Mr Cavendish. "I know what Woodburn's

Tokay is--if that mattered. Look here, I want to speak to you. I _was_

going to Lucilla, but I'm not up to it. Oh, not in the way you think!

Don't be a fool like everybody. I tell you she wouldn't have me, and I

won't ask her. Read this, which is much more to the purpose," Mr

Cavendish added, taking out Miss Marjoribanks's letter. He watched her,

while she read it, with that sense of contempt and superiority which a

man naturally feels who has advanced much beyond the point in any

special matter at which his interlocutor is still stationary. He even

smiled at her cry of horror and amazement, and found the agitation she

showed ridiculous. "Don't make a row about it," he said, regaining his

colour as his sister lost hers. "It's all right. I can't ask Lucilla

Marjoribanks to have me after that, but I mean to put my trust in her,

as she says. I was going to ask her to explain; but after all, on

thinking of it, I don't see the good of explanations," said Mr

Cavendish, with lofty tranquillity. "The fact is, she is right, Nelly,

and, stand or fall, we'll have it out to-night."

But Mrs Woodburn was scarcely in a condition to reply, much less to give

any advice. "Oh, good heavens! what does she know?" cried the trembling

woman. "What do you suppose she can know? She gave me a dreadful

fright, coming and asking about you and your name. And then she never

was a great friend of mine--and if she should say anything to Woodburn!

Oh, Harry, go away, go away, and don't face her. You know you slighted

her, and she is laying a snare for us. Oh, Harry, go away! She can't do

you much harm, but she could ruin me, and any little peace I have!

Woodburn would never--never forgive--he would be frantic, you know. It

has always been he that made a fuss about the Cavendishes--and, good

heavens! to be in a girl's power, and she one that you have slighted,

Harry! Oh, for Heaven's sake, for pity's sake, if you care anything for

me----"

"Hold your tongue, Nelly," said Mr Cavendish. "Don't make a row. What on

earth is the use of Heaven's-saking? I tell you I am going to make an

end of it. If I were to run away now, it would turn up again at some

other corner, and some other moment. Give me a pen and a bit of paper. I

will write a note, and say I am coming. I don't want any explanations.

If it's all a mistake, so much the better; but I'm going to face it out

to-night."

It was some time before Mrs Woodburn recovered her senses; but in the

meantime her brother wrote Lucilla his note, and in sight of his

sister's agitation felt himself perfectly composed and serene and

manful. It even made him complaisant to feel the difference that there

was, when the emergency really arrived at last, between his own manly

calm and her womanish panic. But then it was for herself that she was

afraid, lest her husband should find out that she was not one of the

Cavendishes. "You must have been giving yourself airs on the subject,"

Mr Cavendish said, as he fastened up his note. "I never was so foolish

as that, for my part;" and naturally the more he admired his own

steadiness and courage, the steadier and more courageous he grew--or at

least so he felt for the moment, with her terror before his eyes.

"If you do go," said Mrs Woodburn at last, "oh, Harry, for goodness'

sake, mind that you deny _everything_. If you confess to anything, it

will all be proved against you; don't allow a single thing that's said

to you. It is a mistaken identity, you know--that is what it is; there

was a case in the papers just the other day. Oh, Harry, for Heaven's

sake don't be weak!--deny everything; you don't know anything about

it--you don't know what they mean--you can't understand----"

"It is I that have to do it, Nelly," said Mr Cavendish, more and more

tranquil and superior. "You must let me do it my way;" and he was very

kind and reassuring to her in his composure. This was how things ought

to be; and it was astonishing how much he gained in his own mind and

estimation by Mrs Woodburn's panic. Being the stronger vessel, he was of

course superior to all that. But somehow when he had got back to his own

house again, and had no longer the spectacle of his sister's terror

before him, the courage began to ooze out of Mr Cavendish's

finger-points; he tried hard to stimulate himself up to the same point,

and to regain that lofty and assured position; but as the evening

approached, matters grew rather worse than better. He did not turn and

flee, because flight, in the present alarmed and touchy state of public

opinion, would have equally been destruction; and nobody could answer

for it how far, if he failed to obey her, Miss Marjoribanks's discretion

might go. And thus the eventful evening fell, and the sun went down,

which was to Mr Cavendish as if it might be the last sun he should ever

(metaphorically) see--while, in the meantime, all the other people

dressed for dinner as if nothing was going to happen, and as if it was

merely a Thursday like other Thursdays, which was coming to Grange

Lane.

_Chapter XXXI_

Lucilla waited till twelve o'clock, as she had said, for Mr Cavendish's

visit; and so mingled are human sentiments, even in the mind of a person

of genius, that there is no doubt she was at once a little disappointed,

and that Mr Cavendish gained largely in her estimation by not coming.

Her pity began to be mingled by a certain respect, of which, to tell the

truth, he was not worthy; but then Miss Marjoribanks did not know that

it was circumstances, and not self-regard, or any sense of dignity, that

had kept him back. With the truest consideration, it was in the

dining-room that Lucilla had placed herself to await his visit; for she

had made up her mind that he should not be disturbed _this time_ by any

untimely morning caller. But as she sat at the window and looked out

upon the garden, and was tantalised by fifty successive ringings of the

bell, none of which heralded her expected visitor, a gentler sentiment

gradually grew in Lucilla's mind. Perhaps it would not be just to call

it positively regret; but yet she could not help a kind of impression

that if the Archdeacon had never come to Carlingford, and if Mr

Cavendish had never been so weak as to be drawn aside by Barbara Lake,

and if everything had gone as might have been expected from first

appearances--that, on the whole, it might have been well. After all, he

had a great many good qualities. He had yielded to panic for the moment,

but (so far as Lucilla knew) he was now girding up his loins to meet the

emergency in a creditable way; and if, as has been just said, nothing

had come in the way--if there had been no Archdeacon, no Mrs Mortimer,

no Barbara--if Mr Chiltern had died, as was to have been expected, and

Mr Cavendish been elected for Carlingford--then Lucilla could not help a

momentary sense that the arrangement altogether might have been a not

undesirable one. Now, of course, all that was at an end. By dexterous

management the crisis might be tided over, and the worst avoided; but

Lucilla became regretfully conscious that now no fate higher than

Barbara was possible for the unfortunate man who might once, and with

hope, have aspired to herself. It was very sad, but there was no help

for it. A certain tenderness of compassion entered Miss Marjoribanks's

bosom as she realised this change. It would be hard if a woman did not

pity a man thus shut out by hard fate from any possibility of ever

becoming the companion of her existence--a man who, on the whole, had

many capabilities, yet whose highest fortune in life could not mount

above Barbara Lake!

This thought filled Lucilla's heart with gentle regret. It was sad, but

it was inevitable; and when Mr Cavendish's note was brought to her, in

which he said simply, and very briefly, that though not sure whether he

understood the meaning of her letter, he should certainly do himself the

pleasure of accepting as usual her kind invitation, Miss Marjoribanks's

regret grew more and more profound. Such a man, who had been capable of

appreciating herself, to think that, having known her, he should decline

upon Barbara! The pity was entirely disinterested, for nobody knew

better than Lucilla that, under the circumstances, no other arrangement

was possible. He might marry the drawing-master's daughter, but Miss

Marjoribanks was too well aware of her duty to her friends, and to her

position in society, to have given her consent to his marriage with

anybody's daughter in Grange Lane. But still it was a pity--nobody could

say that it was not a pity--a man so visibly capable of better things.

Lucilla, however, could not afford to waste her morning in unprofitable

regrets. An evening so critical and conclusive had to be provided for in

many different ways. Among other things, she had to invite, or rather

command, the presence of a guest whom, to tell the truth, she had no

particular desire to see. The Archdeacon was only a man when all was

said, and might change his mind like other men; and to bring Mrs

Mortimer to Grange Lane in the evening, looking interesting, as, to be

sure, she could look by times, after that unpleasant exhibition of Dr

Marjoribanks's feelings, was naturally a trial to Lucilla. Mr Beverley

had drawn back once before, and that when Mrs Mortimer was young, and no

doubt a great deal more attractive than at present; and now that she was

a widow, forlorn and faded, it would be no wonder if he were to draw

back, especially, as Lucilla acknowledged to herself, when he saw the

ancient object of his affections in her own society, and among all the

fresh young faces of Grange Lane: and if the Archdeacon should draw

back, and leave the field open, and perhaps the Doctor, who ought to

know better, should step in--when she had got so far, Lucilla rose up

and shook out her draperies, as if by way of shaking off the

disagreeable idea. "At all events I have to do my duty," she said to

herself. And thus it was with that last and most exquisite refinement of

well-doing, the thought that she might possibly be going to harm herself

in benefiting others, that Miss Marjoribanks heroically put on her hat,

and issued forth in the dinner-hour of the little pupils, to invite her

last and most important guest.

This period of suspense had not been by any means a happy or comfortable

period for Mrs Mortimer. The poor widow was living in a constant

expectation of something happening, whereas her only true policy was to

have made up her mind that nothing would ever happen, and shaped herself

accordingly to her life. Instead of eating her dinner as she ought to

have done at that hour of leisure, and fortifying herself for the weary

afternoon's work, she was sitting as usual at the window when Miss

Marjoribanks came to the door. And if it was a tedious business looking

out of the window when the rain was drenching the four walls of the

garden and breaking down the flowers, and reducing all the poor little

shrubs to abject misery, it could not be said to be much more cheerful

in the sunshine, when pleasant sounds came in over that

enclosure--voices and footsteps of people who might be called alive,

while this solitary woman was buried, and had nothing to do with life.

Such a fate may be accepted when people make up their minds to it; but

when, so far from making up one's mind, one fixes one's thoughts upon

the life outside, and fancies that every moment the call may come, and

one may find one's place again in the active world, the tedium grows

more and more insupportable. As for Lucilla, naturally she could not see

any reason why Mrs Mortimer should sit at the window--why she could not

content herself, and eat her dinner instead.

"There are a great many people in Carlingford who have not nearly such a

pleasant lookout," Lucilla said; "for my part, I think it is a very

pretty garden. The wistaria has grown quite nice, and there is a little

of everything," said Miss Marjoribanks; and, so far as that went, she

was no doubt the best judge, having done it all herself.

"Oh, yes, it is very pretty; and I am sure I am very grateful to

Providence for giving me such a home," said the widow; but she sighed,

poor soul, as she said it: for, to tell the truth, though she was not

so young as she once was, it takes some people a long time to find out

that they themselves are growing old, and have done with life. And then

outside, in that existence which she could hear but could not see, there

was one figure which was wonderfully interesting to poor Mrs Mortimer;

which is a complication which has a remarkable effect on the question of

content or discontent.

"You ought to take a walk every day," said Miss Marjoribanks, "that is

what is the matter with you; but, in the meantime, there is something

else I want you to do. This is Thursday, you know, and I have always

some people on Thursday. It is not a party--it is only an Evening--and

no dress to speak of. Your black silk will look quite nice, and be all

that is necessary. Black is very becoming to some people," said Lucilla

reflectively. She looked at Mrs Mortimer with her head a little on one

side, and saw in a moment, with the rapid glance of genius, just what

she wanted. "And some lace for your head," Miss Marjoribanks added. "I

don't think you have gone off at all, and I am sure you will look very

nice. It is at nine o'clock."

"This evening, Lucilla!" said Mrs Mortimer, faintly: "but you know I

never go out--I am not fit for society. Oh, don't ask me, please! Since

poor Edward died----'

"Yes," said Lucilla, "it must have been a great loss, I am sure; though

I can't say I mind going into a room alone, as some people do; but you

know you can avoid that, if you like, by coming early. Come at eight,

and there will be nobody in the drawing-room, and you can choose your

own corner. Put it quite back--at the back of your head," said Miss

Marjoribanks, with a little anxiety. "I could show you how if I had the

lace. I do so want you to look nice. Oh, never mind the fashion. When

one has a style of one's own, it is always twenty times better. Put it

as you used to wear it before you were married; and then, with that nice

black silk----"

"Oh, Lucilla, don't ask me," said the widow. "I shall not know how to

talk, nor look, nor anything; and then I know nobody; and then----"

"My dear, you have always _me_," said Lucilla, with tender reproach. "I

am so sorry I can't stop any longer. I leave it quite to your own taste

about the lace. And you will find people you know, you may be quite sure

of that. Remember, not later than nine o'clock; and come at eight if you

don't like to come into the room by yourself. Good-bye now. I want you

to look very nice to-night," Miss Marjoribanks added, giving her friend

an affectionate kiss; "you must, for my sake."

"But, Lucilla----" cried Mrs Mortimer.

It was vain to make any further protest, however, for Lucilla was gone,

having, in the first place, communicated her requirements to Mary Jane,

who was not likely to forget, nor to let her mistress be late. "And mind

she is _nice_," said Miss Marjoribanks emphatically, as she went out at

the door. It was necessary she should be nice; without that the intended

_situation_ which Lucilla was preparing--the grand finale of her

exertions--would fall flat, and probably fail of its effect. For this it

was necessary that the widow should look not only pretty, but

interesting, and a little pathetic, and all that a widow should look

when first dragged back into society. Miss Marjoribanks gave a momentary

sigh as she emerged from the garden door, and could not but feel

conscious that in all this she might be preparing the most dread

discomfiture and downfall for herself. Even if it passed over as it

ought to do, and nobody was charmed but the Archdeacon, who was the

right person to be charmed, Lucilla felt that after this she never could

have that entire confidence in her father which she had had up to this

moment. The incipient sentiment Dr Marjoribanks had exhibited was one

that struck at the roots of all faith in him as a father; and every

person of sensibility will at once perceive how painful such a

suggestion must have been to the mind of a young woman so entirely

devoted as was Miss Marjoribanks to the consolation and comfort of her

dear papa.

Lucilla was not allowed to spend the rest of this momentous afternoon in

maturing her plans, as might have been necessary to a lesser

intelligence; and when the refreshing moment came at which she could

have her cup of tea before preparing for the fatigues of the evening, it

was Mrs Chiley who came to assist at that ceremony. The old lady came in

with an important air, and gave Lucilla a long, lingering kiss, as old

ladies sometimes do when they particularly mean it. "My dear, I am not

going to stay a moment, but I thought you might have something to tell

me," the kind old woman said, arranging herself in her chair with the

satisfaction of a listener who expects to be confided in. As for

Lucilla, who had no clue to Mrs Chiley's special curiosity, and who had

a good many things on her mind just at that moment which she rather

preferred not to talk about, she was for once struck with veritable

astonishment, and did not know what to say.

"Dear Mrs Chiley, what should I have to tell you?" said Miss

Marjoribanks. "You know very well where I should go the very first

moment if anything happened;" and by way of staving off more particular

questions, she took her old friend a cup of tea.

"Yes, my dear, I hope so," said Mrs Chiley, but at the same time her

disappointment was evident. "It is very nice, thank you--your tea is

always nice, Lucilla--but it was not that I was thinking of. I can't

understand how it is, I am sure. I saw him to-day with my own eyes, and

could not help seeing how anxious he was looking! I hope, I do hope, you

have not been so cruel as to refuse him, Lucilla--and all for something

that is not his fault, poor fellow, or that could be explained, you may

be sure."

Miss Marjoribanks grew more and more surprised as she listened. She put

away the kettle without filling the teapot, and left her own cup

standing untasted, and went and sat down on the stool by Mrs Chiley's

feet. "Tell me whom I have refused this time, for I don't know anything

about it," said Lucilla; and then her visitor burst forth.

"It must be all that creature's fault! He told me he was coming here;

and to tell the truth, I stood and watched him, for you know how

interested I am, my dear; and then a little while after he met _that_

Barbara. Oh, Lucilla, why were you ever so foolish as to have her here?

I told you how it would end when you brought those artist people about

your house. They are all a set of adventurers!" cried Mrs Chiley. "I saw

them meet, and I was so disgusted that I did not know what I was doing;

but he passed her as nicely as possible. Just a civil word, you know,

and then he was past. Just as I would have done myself; for it is always

best not to be uncivil to anybody. I could see her standing as if she

had been struck with lightning; and naturally, Lucilla, I never thought

anything else than that he had come here, and that all was right between

you. Oh, my dear, I hope you are sure you have not refused him," Mrs

Chiley said, piteously; "anyhow, Lucilla, you need not mind telling

_me_. I may be sorry, but I will not blame you, my dear."

"I have not refused anybody," said Lucilla, with a modest innocence that

it was a pleasure to see; "but, dear Mrs Chiley," she continued,

raising her drooping eyelids, "I think you make a mistake about Mr

Cavendish. My own opinion is that Barbara would make him a very nice

wife. Oh, please, don't be angry! I don't mean to say, you know, that I

think her quite what one would call _nice_--for oneself. But then the

gentlemen have such strange ways of thinking. Many a girl whom we could

not put up with is quite popular with Them," said Miss Marjoribanks,

with a certain mild wonder at the inexplicable creatures whom she thus

condescended to discuss. "I suppose they have a different standard, you

know; and for my part, I would advise Mr Cavendish to marry Barbara. I

think it is the best thing he could do."

"Lucilla!" cried Mrs Chiley, almost with a shriek of horror. She

thought, as was perhaps natural, that there was some pique in what her

young companion said; not doing Miss Marjoribanks justice--as indeed few

people did--for that perfect truthfulness which it was Lucilla's luck

always to be able to maintain. Mrs Chiley thought it was her young

friend's maidenly pride and determination not to take up the part of a

woman slighted or jilted. "You may refuse him, my dear, if your heart is

not with him," said the old lady; "but I would not be so hard upon him

as that, poor fellow. You may say what you please, but I always will

think him nice, Lucilla. I know I ought to be on the Archdeacon's side,"

said Mrs Chiley, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; "but I am an old

woman, and I like my old friends best. Oh, Lucilla, it is not kind of

you to keep up appearances with me. I wish you would give way a little.

It would do you good, my darling; and you know I might be both your

grandmothers, Lucilla," she cried, putting her arm round her favourite.

As for Miss Marjoribanks, she gave her old friend a close embrace, which

was the only thing that even her genius could suggest to do.

"I have always _you_," said Lucilla, with touching eloquence; and then

she freed herself a little from Mrs Chiley's arms. "I don't say,

perhaps, that everybody will receive her; but I mean to make an effort,

for my part; and I shall certainly tell Mr Cavendish so if he ever

speaks of it to me. As for Mr Beverley, he is going to be married too.

Did not you hear? He told me all about it himself one day," said Miss

Marjoribanks; "and I will ask him to-night if I may not tell you who the

lady is. It is quite a little romance, and I hope we shall have two

marriages, and it will make it quite gay for the winter. When you know

all about it," Lucilla added tenderly, by way of breaking the shock, "I

am sure you will be pleased."

But instead of being pleased, Mrs Chiley was speechless for the moment.

Her fresh old cheeks grew ashy with dismay and horror. "The Archdeacon

too!" she cried, gasping for breath. "Oh, Lucilla, my dear?--and you?"

Then the kind old lady held Miss Marjoribanks fast, and sobbed over her

in the despair of the moment. To think, after all the pains that had

been taken, and all the hopes and all the speculations, that neither the

one nor the other was coming to anything! "If it should be that General,

after all--and I cannot abide him," sobbed Lucilla's anxious friend. But

Miss Marjoribanks's genius carried her through this trial, as well as

through all the others which she had yet encountered on her way.

"Dear Mrs Chiley!" said Lucilla, "it is so good of you to care; but if

it had been _that_ I was thinking of, I need never have come home at

all, you know; and my object in life is just what it has always been, to

be a comfort to papa."

Upon which Mrs Chiley kissed her young friend once more with lingering

meaning. "My dear, I don't know what They mean," she said, with

indignation; "everybody knows men are great fools where women are

concerned--but I never knew what idiots they were till now; and you are

too good for them, my darling!" said Mrs Chiley, with indignant

tenderness. Perhaps Miss Marjoribanks was in some respects of the same

way of thinking. She conducted her sympathetic friend to the garden

door, when it came to be time for everybody to go and dress, with a

certain pathetic elevation in her own person, which was not out of

accord with Mrs Chiley's virtuous wrath. To have Mrs Mortimer and

Barbara Lake preferred to her did not wound Lucilla's pride--one can be

wounded in that way only by one's equals. She thought of it with a

certain mild pity and charitable contempt. Both these two men had had

the chance of having _her_, and this was how they had chosen! And there

can be little wonder if Miss Marjoribanks's compassion for them was

mingled with a little friendly and condescending disdain.

It was, however, an ease to Lucilla's mind that she had let Mrs Chiley

know, and was so far free to work out her plans without any fear of

misconception. And on the whole, her old friend's tender indignation was

not disagreeable to her. Thus it was, without any interval of repose to

speak of, that her lofty energies went on unwearied to overrule and

guide the crisis which was to decide so many people's fate.

_Chapter XXXII_

Dr Marjoribanks was not a man to take very much notice of trivial

external changes; and he knew Lucilla and her constitution, and, being a

medical man, was not perhaps so liable to parental anxieties as an

unprofessional father might have been; but even he was a little struck

by Miss Marjoribanks's appearance when he came into the drawing-room. He

said, "You are flushed, Lucilla? is anything going to happen?" with the

calmness of a man who knew there was not much the matter--but yet he did

observe that her colour was not exactly what it always was. "I am quite

well, papa, thank you," said Lucilla, which, to be sure, was a fact the

Doctor had never doubted; and then the people began to come in, and

there was no more to be said.

But there could be no doubt that Lucilla had more colour than usual. Her

pulse was quite steady, and her heart going on at its ordinary rate; but

her admirable circulation was nevertheless so far affected, that the

ordinary rose-tints of her complexion were all deepened. It was not so

distinctly an improvement as it would have been had she been habitually

pale; but still the flush was moderate, and did Miss Marjoribanks no

harm. And then it was a larger party than usual. The Centums were there,

who were General Travers's chaperons, and so were the Woodburns, and of

course Mrs Chiley, which made up the number of ladies beyond what was

general at Dr Marjoribanks's table. Lucilla received all her guests with

the sweetest smiles and all her ordinary ease and self-possession, but

at the same time her mind was not free from some excitement. She was on

the eve of a crisis which would be the greatest failure or the greatest

success of her public life, and naturally she anticipated it with a

certain emotion.

Mr Cavendish, for his part, had sufficient sense to come very early, and

to get into a dark corner and keep himself out of the way; for though he

was screwed up to the emergency, his self-possession was nothing to

that of Lucilla. But on the whole, it was perhaps Mrs Woodburn who

suffered the most. Her heightened colour was more conspicuous than that

of Miss Marjoribanks, because as a general rule she was pale. She was

pale, almost white, and had dark eyes and dark hair, and possessed

precisely all the accessories which make a sudden change of complexion

remarkable; and the effect this evening was so evident that even her

husband admired her for a moment, and then stopped short to inquire, "By

George! had she begun to paint?" to which question Mrs Woodburn

naturally replied only by an indignant shrug of her white shoulders and

aversion of her head. She would not have been sorry, perhaps, for this

night only, if he had believed that it was rouge, and not emotion. Of

all the people at Dr Marjoribanks's table, she perhaps was the only one

really to be pitied. Even Mr Cavendish, if vanquished, would at the most

receive only the recompense of his deeds, and could go away and begin

over again somewhere else, or bury himself in the great depths of

general society, where nobody would be the wiser; but as for his sister,

she could not go away. The first result for her would be to give the

master to whom she belonged, and for whom she had, with some affection,

a great deal of not unnatural contempt, a cruel and overwhelming power

over her; and she knew, poor soul, that he was not at all too generous

or delicate to make use of such a power. In such a case she would be

bound to the rock, like a kind of hapless Andromeda, to be pecked at by

all the birds and blown at by all the winds, not to speak of the

devouring monster from whom no hero could ever deliver her; and with all

these horrible consequences before her eyes, she had to sit still and

look on and do nothing, to see all the hidden meaning of every look and

movement without appearing to see it, to maintain ordinary conversation

when her ear was strained to the uttermost to hear words of fate on

which her whole future depended. No wonder her colour was high; and she

could not go into a corner, as Mr Cavendish did, nor keep silent, nor

withdraw herself from observation. Neither her pulse nor her heart would

have borne the scrutiny to which Miss Marjoribanks's calm organs might

have been subjected with perfect security; and the chances are, if the

Doctor had by any hazard put his finger on her wrist when he shook hands

with her, that instead of handing her over to General Travers to be

taken down to dinner, he would have, on the contrary, sent her off to

bed.

Fortunately by this time the year was declining, and that happy season

had returned in which people once more begin to dine by artificial

light; and at the same time it was not absolutely dark in the

drawing-room, so that Lucilla had not, as she said, thought it necessary

to have the candles lighted. "If there should happen to be a mistake as

to who is to take down who, it will only be all the more amusing," said

Miss Marjoribanks, "so long as you do not go off and leave _me_." This

was addressed to the Archdeacon, to whom Lucilla was very particular in

her attentions at that moment. Mrs Chiley, who was looking on with a

great sense of depression, could not help wondering why--"When she knows

he is engaged and everything settled," the old lady said to herself,

with natural indignation. For her part, she did not see what right a man

had to introduce himself thus under false pretences into the confiding

bosom of society--when he was as bad as married, or even indeed worse.

She was ruffled, and she did not think it worth while to conceal that

she was so; for there are limits to human patience, and a visitor who

stays six weeks ought at least to have confidence in his entertainers.

Mrs Chiley for once in her life could have boxed Lucilla's ears for her

uncalled-for civility. "I think it very strange that it is not the

General who takes her downstairs," she said to Mrs Centum. "It is all

very well to have a respect for clergymen; but after being here so

often, and the General quite a stranger--I am surprised at Lucilla,"

said the indiscreet old lady. As for Mrs Centum, she felt the neglect,

but she had too much proper pride to own that her man was not receiving

due attention. "It is not the first time General Travers has been here,"

she said, reserving the question; and so in the uncertain light, when

nobody was sure who was his neighbour, the procession filed downstairs.

To enter the dining-room, all brilliant and shining as it was, radiant

with light and flowers and crystal and silver, and everything that makes

a dinner-table pretty to look upon, was, as Mrs Centum said, "quite a

contrast." A close observer might have remarked, as Mrs Woodburn and

Lucilla took their places, that both of them, instead of that flush

which had been so noticeable a short time before, had become quite pale.

It was the moment of trial. Poor Mr Cavendish, in his excitement, had

taken just the place he ought not to have taken, immediately under the

lamp at the centre of the table. During the moment when the unsuspecting

Archdeacon said grace with his eyes decorously cast down, Miss

Marjoribanks owned the ordinary weakness of humanity so much as to drop

her fan and her handkerchief, and even the napkin which was arranged in

a symmetrical pyramid on her plate. Such a sign of human feebleness

could but endear her to everybody who was aware of the momentous

character of the crisis. When these were all happily recovered and

everybody seated, Lucilla kept her eyes fixed upon the Archdeacon's

face. It was, as we have said, a terrible moment. When he raised his

head and looked round him, naturally Mr Beverley's eyes went direct to

the mark like an arrow; he looked, and he saw at the centre of the

table, surrounded by every kind of regard and consideration, full in the

light of the lamp, his favourite adventurer, the impostor whom he had

denounced the first time he took his place by Miss Marjoribanks's side.

The Archdeacon rose to his feet in the excitement of the discovery; he

put his hand over his eyes as if to clear them. He said, "Good God!"

loud out, with an accent of horror which paralysed the two people lower

down than himself. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she was not paralysed--she

who had not lost a single glance of his eyes or movement of his large

person. Lucilla rose to the height of the position. She put her hand

upon his arm sharply, and with a certain energy. "Mr Beverley, Thomas is

behind you with the soup," said Miss Marjoribanks. The Archdeacon turned

round to see what it was, conscious that somebody had spoken to him, but

as indifferent to his companion and to civility as he was to Thomas and

the soup. "What?" he said hoarsely, interrupting his scrutiny for the

moment. But when he had met Miss Marjoribanks's eye the Archdeacon sat

down. Lucilla did not liberate him for a moment from that gaze. She

fixed her eyes upon his eyes, and looked at him as people only look when

they mean something. "If you tell me what surprised you so much, perhaps

I can explain," said Miss Marjoribanks. She spoke so that nobody could

hear but himself; and in the meantime General Travers at her left hand

was making himself excessively agreeable to Mrs Woodburn, and no doubt

occupying all her attention; and Lucilla never turned her eyes for a

moment from the Archdeacon's face.

"I beg your pardon," said Mr Beverley. "I was confounded by what I saw.

Good heavens! it is not possible I can deceive myself. I understand your

alarm. I am not going to make a disturbance and break up your party. I

can wait," the Archdeacon said, drawing a rapid forcible breath. "Miss

Marjoribanks, do you know who that man is?"

"Oh, yes," said Lucilla, softening into a smile. "Perfectly, I assure

you. He is one of papa's guests, and very much respected in Carlingford;

and he is one of my--very particular friends," Miss Marjoribanks added.

She laughed as she spoke, a kind of laugh which is only appropriate to

one subject, and which is as good, any day, as a confession; and the

flush was so obliging as to return at that moment to her ingenuous

countenance. "We have known each other a long time," Lucilla went on

after that pretty pause; and then she raised her confiding eyes, which

had been cast down, once more to the Archdeacon's face. "You can't think

how nice he is, Mr Beverley," said Miss Marjoribanks. She clasped her

hands together, just for a moment, as she did so, with an eloquent

meaning which it was impossible to mistake. The Archdeacon, for his

part, gazed at her like a man in a dream. Whether it was true--or

whether he was being made a fool of more completely than ever man before

was--or whether he was the victim of an optical or some other kind of

delusion,--the poor man could not tell. He was utterly stricken dumb,

and did not know what to say. He accepted the soup humbly, which Thomas

set before him, though it was a white soup, an effeminate dish, which

went utterly in the face of his principles. And then he looked at the

innocent young creature at his side in that flutter of happy confusion.

It was a terrible position for the Broad-Churchman. After such a tacit

confession he could not spring from his seat and hurl the impostor out

of the room, as in the first place he had a mind to do. On the contrary,

it was with a voice trembling with emotion that he spoke.

"My dear Miss Marjoribanks," said the Archdeacon, "I am struck dumb by

what you tell me. Good heavens! that it should have come to this; and

yet I should be neglecting my duty if I kept silent. You do not--you

cannot know who he is."

"Oh, yes," said Lucilla, with another little laugh--"_everything_--and

how he used to know Mrs Mortimer, and all about it. He has no secrets

from me," said Miss Marjoribanks. She caught Mr Cavendish's eye at the

moment, who was casting a stealthy glance in her direction, and who

looked cowed and silenced and unquiet to the most miserable degree; and

she gave him a little reassuring nod, which the Archdeacon watched with

an inward groan. What was he to do? He could not publicly expose the man

who had just received this mark of confidence from his young hostess,

who knew everything. Perhaps it was one of the greatest trials of

Christian patience and fortitude which the Archdeacon, who was not

great, as he himself would have said, in the passive virtues, had

undergone in all the course of his life. He was so utterly subdued and

confounded that he ate his soup, and never found out what kind of soup

it was. That is, he consumed it in large spoonfuls without being aware,

by way of occupying his energies and filling up the time.

"You cannot mean it," he said, after a pause. "You must be imperfectly

informed. At least let me talk to your father. You must hear all the

rights of the story. If you will let me speak half a dozen words to--to

that person, Miss Marjoribanks, I am sure he will leave the place; he

will give up any claim----"

"Oh, yes, please talk to him," said Miss Marjoribanks, "it will be so

nice to see you friends. Nothing would make me so happy. You know I have

heard all about it from you and from Mrs Mortimer already, so I am sure

there cannot be much more to tell; and as for papa, he is very fond of

Mr Cavendish," said Lucilla, with an imperceptible elevation of her

voice.

"Is it _he_ whom you call Mr Cavendish?" said the Archdeacon. He too had

raised his voice without knowing it, and several people looked up, who

were not at the moment engaged in active conversation of their own. The

owner of that name, for his part, also turned his face towards the upper

end of the table. He was sick of the suspense and continued endurance,

and by this time was ready to rush upon his fate.

"Did any one call me?" he said; and there was a little pause, and the

company in general fixed its regard upon those three people with a sense

that something remarkable was going on among them, though it could not

tell what or why.

"The Archdeacon wants to make your acquaintance," said Miss

Marjoribanks. "Mr Cavendish--Mr Beverley. There, you know each other;

and when we are gone you can talk to each other if you like," Lucilla

added; "but in the meantime _you_ are too far off, and _I_ want the

Archdeacon. He is _so_ much liked in Carlingford," she continued,

lowering her voice. "You can't think how glad we are to have him back

again. I am sure if you only knew him better----" said Miss

Marjoribanks. As for the Archdeacon, words could not give any idea of

the state of his mind. He ate his dinner sternly after that, and did not

look at anything but his plate. He consumed the most exquisite _plats_,

the tenderest wings of chicken and morsels of _paté_, as if they had

been his personal enemies. For, to tell the truth, he felt the tables

altogether turned upon him, and was confounded, and did not know what it

could mean.