It was the General who took up Mr Beverley's abandoned place in the

conversation. The gallant soldier talked for two with the best will in

the world. He talked of Cavendish, and all the pleasant hours they had

spent together, and what a good fellow he was, and how much the men in

the club would be amused to hear of his domesticity. It was a kind of

talk very natural to a man who found himself placed at table between his

friend's sister, and, as he supposed, his friend's future bride. And

naturally the Archdeacon got all the benefit. As for Lucilla, she

received it with the most perfect grace in the world and saw all the

delicate points of the General's wit, and appreciated him so thoroughly,

that he felt half inclined to envy Cavendish. "By Jove! he is the

luckiest fellow I know," General Travers said; and probably it was the

charms of his intelligent and animated conversation that kept the ladies

so long at table. Mrs Chiley, for her part, did not know what to make of

it. She said afterwards that she kept looking at Lucilla until she was

really quite ashamed; and though she was at the other end of the table,

she could see that the poor dear did not enjoy her dinner. It happened,

too, that when they did move at last, the drawing-room was fuller than

usual. Everybody had come that evening--Sir John, and some others of the

county people, who only came now and then, and without any exception

_everybody_ in Carlingford. And Lucilla certainly was not herself for

the first half-hour. She kept close to the door, and regarded the

staircase with an anxious countenance. When she was herself at the helm

of affairs, there was a certain security that everything would go on

tolerably--but nobody could tell what a set of men left to themselves

might or might not do. This was the most dreadful moment of the evening.

Mrs Mortimer was in the drawing-room, hidden away under the curtains of

a window, knowing nobody, speaking to nobody, and in a state of mind to

commit suicide with pleasure; but Miss Marjoribanks, though she had

cajoled her into that martyrdom, took no notice of Mrs Mortimer. She was

civil, it is true, to her other guests, but there could not be a doubt

that Lucilla was horribly preoccupied, and in a state of mind quite

unusual to her. "I am sure she is not well," Mrs Chiley said, who was

watching her from afar. "I saw that she did not eat any dinner"--and the

kind old lady got up slowly and extricated herself from the crowd, and

put herself in motion as best she could, to go to her young friend's

aid.

It was at this moment that Lucilla turned round radiant upon the

observant assembly. The change occurred in less than a moment, so

suddenly that nobody saw the actual point of revolution. Miss

Marjoribanks turned round upon the company and took Mr Cavendish's arm,

who had just come upstairs. "There is a very, very old friend of yours

in the corner who wants to see you," said Lucilla; and she led him

across the room as a conqueror might have led a captive. She took him

through the crowd, to whom she dispensed on every side her most gracious

glances. "I am coming directly," Miss Marjoribanks said--for naturally

she was called on all sides. What most people remarked at this moment

was, that the Archdeacon, who had also come in with the other gentlemen,

was standing very sullen and lowering at the door, watching that

triumphal progress. And it certainly was not Lucilla's fault if Mrs

Chiley and Lady Richmond, and a few other ladies, were thus led to form

a false idea of the state of affairs. "I suppose it is all right between

them at last," Lady Richmond said, not thinking that Barbara Lake was

standing by and heard her. According to appearances, it was all

perfectly right between them. Miss Marjoribanks, triumphant, led Mr

Cavendish all the length of the room to the corner where the widow sat

among the curtains, and the Archdeacon looked on with a visible passion,

and jealous rage, which were highly improper in a clergyman, but yet

which were exciting to see. And this was how the little drama was to

conclude, according to Lady Richmond and Mrs Chiley, who, on the whole,

were satisfied with the conclusion. But, naturally, there were other

people to be consulted. There was Mr Beverley, whom Miss Marjoribanks

held in leash, but who was not yet subdued; and there was Dr

Marjoribanks, who began to feel a little curiosity about his daughter's

movements, and did not make them out; and there was Barbara Lake, who

had begun to blaze like a tempest with her crimson cheeks and black

bold eyes. But by this time Lucilla was herself again, and felt the

reins in her hands. When she had deposited Mr Cavendish in safety, she

faced round upon the malcontents and upon the observers, and on the

world in general. Now that her mind was at rest, and everything under

her own inspection, she felt herself ready and able for all.

_Chapter XXXIII_

The Archdeacon stood before the fireplace with Dr Marjoribanks and a

host of other gentlemen. Mr Beverley's countenance was covered with

clouds and darkness. He stood, not with the careless ease of a man

amusing himself, but drawn up to his full height and breadth, a

formidably muscular Christian, in a state of repression and restraint,

which it was painful, and at the same time pleasing to see. The

Berserker madness was upon him; and yet such are the restraints of

society, that a young woman's eye was enough to keep him down--Lucilla's

eye, and the presence of a certain number of other frivolous creatures

in white muslin, and of some old women, as he irreverently called them,

who were less pleasant, but not more imposing. He was an Archdeacon, and

a leading man of his party, whose name alone would have conferred

importance upon any "movement," and whom his bishop himself--not to

speak of the clergy whom he charged in his visitation addresses like a

regiment of cavalry--stood a little in awe of. Yet such are the

beneficial restraints of society, that he dared not follow his natural

impulses, nor even do what he felt to be his duty, for fear of Miss

Marjoribanks, which was about the highest testimony to the value of

social influence that could be given. At the same time, it was but

natural that under such circumstances the Archdeacon should feel a

certain savage wrath at the bond that confined him, and be more

indignant than usual at the false and tyrannical conventionalism called

society. And it was at this moment, of all times in the world, that

General Travers, like a half-educated brute as (according to Mr

Beverley's ideas) he was, took the liberty of calling his attention to

what the soldier called "a lot of pretty girls." "And everything

admirably got up, by Jove!" he added; not having the remotest idea what

effect so simple an observation might produce.

"Yes, it is admirably got up," said the Archdeacon, with a snarl of

concealed ferocity. "You never said anything more profoundly true. It is

all got up, the women, and the decorations, and the gaiety, and all this

specious seeming. And these are creatures made in the image of God!"

said the Broad-Churchman--"the future wives and mothers of England. It

is enough to make the devils laugh and the angels weep!"

It may be supposed that everybody was stricken with utter amazement by

this unlooked-for remark. Dr Marjoribanks, for his part, took a pinch of

snuff, which, as a general rule, he only did at consultations, or in the

face of a difficulty; and as for the unlucky soldier who had called it

forth, there can be no doubt that a certain terror filled his manly

bosom; for he naturally felt as if he must have said something

extraordinary to call forth such a response.

"I never was accused before of saying anything profoundly true," the

General said, and he grew pale. "I didn't mean it, I'm sure, if that is

any justification. Where has Cavendish vanished to, I wonder?" the

soldier added, looking round him, scared and nervous--for it was evident

that his only policy was to escape from society in which he was thus

liable to commit himself without knowing how.

"Female education is a monstrous mistake," said Mr Beverley--"always has

been, and, so far as I can see, always will be. Why should we do our

best to make our women idiots? They are bad enough by nature. Instead of

counterbalancing their native frivolity by some real instruction----good

heavens!" The critic paused. It was not that his emotions were too much

for him; it was because the crowd opened a moment, and afforded him a

glimpse of a figure in black silk, with the lace for which Miss

Marjoribanks had stipulated falling softly over a head which had not

quite lost its youthful grace. He gave a glance round him to see if the

coast was clear. Lucilla was out of the way at the other end of the

room, and he was free. He made but one stride through the unconscious

assembly which he had been criticising so severely, and all but knocked

down little Rose Lake, who was not looking at the Archdeacon, though she

stood straight in his way. He might have stepped over her head without

knowing it, so much was he moved. All the gay crowd gave way before him

with a cry and flutter; and Lucilla, for her part, was out of the way!

But there are moments when to be out of the way is the highest proof of

genius. Miss Marjoribanks had just had a cup of tea brought her, of

which she had great need, and her face was turned in the other

direction, but yet she was aware that the Archdeacon had passed like a

Berserker through those ranks which were not the ranks of his enemies.

She felt without seeing it that the "wind of his going" agitated his own

large coat tails and heavy locks, and made a perfect hurricane among the

white muslin. Lucilla's heart beat quicker, and she put down her tea,

though she had so much need of it. She could not swallow the cordial at

such a moment of excitement. But she never once turned her head, nor

left off her conversation, nor betrayed the anxiety she felt. Up to this

time she had managed everything herself, which was comparatively easy;

but she felt by instinct that now was the moment to make a high effort

and leave things alone. And it may be added that nothing but an inherent

sense of doing the right thing under the circumstances could have

inspired Miss Marjoribanks to the crowning achievement of keeping out of

the way.

When Mr Beverley arrived in front of the two people who were seated

together in the recess of the window, he made no assault upon them, as

his manner might have suggested. On the contrary, he placed himself in

front of them, with his back to the company, creating thus a most

effectual moral and physical barrier between the little nook where his

own private vengeance and fate were about to be enacted, and the

conventional world which he had just been denouncing. The Archdeacon

shut the two culprits off from all succour, and looked down upon them,

casting them into profound shade. "I don't know what combination of

circumstances has produced this meeting," he said, "but the time was

ripe for it, and I am glad it has happened," and it was with dry lips

and the calmness of passion that he spoke.

Mrs Mortimer gave a little cry of terror, but her companion, for his

part, sat quite dumb and immovable. The moment had arrived at last, and

perhaps he too was glad it had come. He sat still, expecting to see the

earth crumble under his feet, expecting to hear the humble name he had

once borne proclaimed aloud, and to hear ridicule and shame poured upon

the impostor who had called himself one of the Cavendishes. But it was

no use struggling any longer. He did not even raise his eyes, but sat

still, waiting for the thunderbolt to fall.

But to tell the truth, the Archdeacon, though a torrent of words came

rushing to his lips, felt at a difficulty how to begin. "I don't

understand how it is that I find you here with the man who has ruined

your prospects," he said, with a slight incoherence; and then he changed

the direction of his attack. "But it is you with whom I have to do," he

said; "you, sir, who venture to introduce yourself into society

with--with your victim by your side. Do you not understand that

compassion is impossible in such a case, and that it is my duty to

expose you? You have told some plausible story here, I suppose, but

nothing can stand against the facts. It is my duty to inform Dr

Marjoribanks that it is a criminal who has stolen into his house and his

confidence--that it is a conspirator who has ventured to approach his

daughter--that it is----"

"A criminal? a conspirator?" said Mr Cavendish, and he looked in his

accuser's face with an amazement which, notwithstanding his rage, struck

the Archdeacon. If he had called him an impostor, the culprit would have

quailed and made no reply. But the exaggeration saved him. After that

first look of surprise, he rose to his feet and confronted the avenger,

who saw he had made a blunder without knowing what it was. "You must be

under some strange mistake," he said. "What do you accuse me of? I know

nothing about crime or conspiracy. Either you are strangely mistaken, or

you have forgotten what the words mean."

"They are words which I mean to prove," said the Archdeacon; but there

can be no doubt that his certainty was diminished by the surprise with

which his accusation was received. It checked his first heat, and it was

with a slightly artificial excitement that he went on, trying to work

himself up again to the same point. "You who worked yourself into a

wretched old man's confidence, and robbed an unoffending woman," said Mr

Beverley; and then in spite of himself he stopped short; for it was

easier to say such things to a woman, who contradicted without giving

much reason, than to a man who, with an air of the utmost astonishment,

stood regarding his accuser in the face.

"These are very extraordinary accusations," said Mr Cavendish. "Have you

ever considered whether you had any proof to support them?" He was not

angry to speak of, because he had been entirely taken by surprise, and

because at the same time he was unspeakably relieved, and felt that the

real danger, the danger which he had so much dreaded, was past and over.

He recovered all his coolness from the moment he found out that it was

not a venial imposition practised upon society, but a social crime of

the ugliest character, of which he was accused. He was innocent, and he

could be tranquil on that score. "As for robbing Mrs Mortimer," he added

with a little impatience, "she knows, on the contrary, that I have

always been most anxious and ready to befriend her----"

"To befriend----Her!" cried the Archdeacon, restored to all his first

impetuosity. He could not swear, because it was against his cloth and

his principles; but he said, "Good heavens!" in a tone which would have

perfectly become a much less mild expletive. "It is better we should

understand each other thoroughly," he said. "I am not in a humour for

trifling. I consider it is _her_ fortune which enables you to make an

appearance here. It is _her_ money you are living upon, and which gives

you position, and makes you presume as--as you are doing--upon my

forbearance. Do you think it possible that I can pass over all this and

let you keep what is not yours? If you choose to give up everything, and

retire from Carlingford, and withdraw all your pretensions----It is not

for my part," said Mr Beverley, with solemnity, taking breath, "to deal

harshly with a penitent sinner. It is my duty, as a clergyman, to offer

you at least a place of repentance. After _that_----"

But he was interrupted once more. Mrs Mortimer made her faint voice

heard in a remonstrance. "Oh, Charles, I always told you--I had no right

to anything!" cried the terrified widow; but that was not what stopped

the Archdeacon. It was because his adversary laughed that he stopped

short. No doubt it was the metallic laugh of a man in great agitation,

but still Mr Beverley's ear was not fine enough at that moment to

discriminate. He paused as a man naturally pauses at the sound of

ridicule, still furious, yet abashed, and half conscious of a ludicrous

aspect to his passion--and turned his full face to his antagonist, and

stood at bay.

"It is a modest request, certainly," Mr Cavendish said. "Give up all I

have and all I am, and perhaps you will forgive me! You must think me a

fool to make such a proposal; but look here," said the accused

energetically; "I will tell you the true state of affairs, if for once

you will listen. I do it, not for my sake, nor for your sake, but for

the sake of--of the women involved," he added hastily; and it was well

for him that, instead of looking at the shrinking widow beside him as he

said so, his eye had been caught by the eager eye of his sister, who was

watching from her corner. With that stimulus he went on, calming himself

down, and somehow subduing and imposing upon the angry man by the mere

act of encountering him fairly and openly. "I will tell you what are the

actual circumstances, and you can see the will itself if you will take

the trouble," said the defendant, with a nervous moderation and

self-restraint, in which there was also a certain thrill of indignation.

"The old man you speak of might have left his money to a more worthy

person than myself, but he never meant to leave it to his grand-niece;

and she knew that. She was neither his companion nor his nurse. There

was nothing between them but a few drops of blood. For my part, I gave

him----but, to be sure, it would not interest you to know how I spent my

youth. You came upon the scene like--a man in a passion," Mr Cavendish

said, with an abrupt laugh, which this time was more feeble, and proved

that his composure was giving way, "and misjudged everything, as was

natural. You are doing the same again, or trying to do it. But you are a

clergyman, and when you insult a man----"

"I am ready to give him satisfaction," said the Broad-Churchman hotly;

and then he made a pause, and that sense of ridicule which is latent in

every Englishman's mind, came to the Archdeacon's aid. He began to feel

ashamed of himself, and at the same time his eye caught his own

reflection in a mirror, and the clerical coat which contrasted so

grotesquely with his offer of "satisfaction." Mr Beverley started a

little, and changed his tone. "This has lasted long enough," he said, in

his abrupt imperious way. "_This_ is not the place nor the time for such

a discussion. We shall meet elsewhere," the Archdeacon added austerely,

with a significance which it is impossible to describe. His air and his

words were full of severe and hostile meaning, and yet he did not know

what he meant any more than Mr Cavendish did, who took him at his word,

and retired, and made an end of the interview. Whatever the Archdeacon

meant, it was his adversary who was the victor. _He_ went off, threading

his way through the curious spectators with a sense of relief that

almost went the length of ecstasy. He might have been walking on his

head for anything he knew. His senses were all lost and swallowed up in

the overwhelming and incredible consciousness of safety. Where were they

to meet elsewhere? With pistols in a corner of Carlingford Common, or

perhaps with their fists alone, as Mr Beverley was Broad-Church? When a

man has been near ruin and has escaped by a hair-breadth, he may be

permitted to be out of his wits for a few minutes afterwards. And the

idea of fighting a duel with a dignitary of the Church so tickled Mr

Cavendish, that he had not the prudence to keep it to himself. "You will

stand by me if he calls me out?" he said to General Travers as he

passed; and the air of utter consternation with which the warrior

regarded him, drove Mr Cavendish into such agonies of laughter, that he

had to retire to the landing-place and suffocate himself to subdue it.

If any man had said to him that he was hysterical, the chances are that

it was he who would have called that man out, or at least knocked him

down. But he had to steal downstairs afterwards and apply to Thomas for

a cordial more potent than tea; for naturally, when a man has been

hanging over an abyss for ever so long, it is no great wonder if he

loses his head and balance when he suddenly finds himself standing on

firm ground, and feels that he has escaped.

As for the Archdeacon, when the other was gone, he sat down silently on

his abandoned chair. He was one of the men who take pride in seeing both

sides of a question; and to tell the truth, he was always very candid

about disputed points in theology, and ready to entertain everybody's

objection; but it was a different thing when the matter was a matter of

fact. He put down his face into his hands, and tried to think whether it

was possible that what he had just heard might be the true state of the

case. To be sure, the widow who was seated half fainting by his side had

given him the same account often enough, but somehow it was more

effective from the lips of a man who confronted him than from the mild

and weeping woman whom he loved better than anything else in the world,

but whose opinion on any earthly (or heavenly) subject had not the

weight of a straw upon him. He tried to take that view of it; and then

it occurred to him that nothing was more ludicrous and miserable than

the position of a man who goes to law without adequate reason, or

without proof to maintain his cause. Such a horrible divergence from

everything that was just and right might be, as that the well-known and

highly-esteemed Archdeacon Beverley might be held up for the amusement

and edification of the country in a _Times_ leader, which was a

martyrdom the Archdeacon would have rather liked than otherwise in a

worthy cause, but not for a wretched private business connected with

money. He sighed as he pondered, feeling, as so many have felt, the

difficulties which attend a good man's progress in this life--how that

which is just is not always that which is expedient, and how the

righteous have to submit to many inconveniences in order that the

adversary may have no occasion to blaspheme. In this state of mind a man

naturally softens towards a tender and wistful sympathiser close at

hand. He sighed once more heavily, and lifted his head, and took into

his own a soft pale hand which was visible near him among the folds of

black silk.

"So you too have been brought into it, Helen," the Archdeacon said

pathetically; "I did not expect to see you here."

"It was Lucilla," said Mrs Mortimer timidly; "it was not any wish of

mine. Oh, Charles! if you would let me speak. If you will but forget all

this, and think no more about it; and I will do my best to make you

a----" Here the poor woman stopped short all at once. What she meant to

have said was, that she would make him a good wife, which nature and

truth and the circumstances all prompted her to say--as the only

possible solution to the puzzle. But when she had got so far, the poor

widow stopped, blushing and tingling all over, with a sense of shame,

more overwhelming than if she had done a wicked action. It was nothing

but pure honesty and affection that prompted her to speak; and yet, if

it had been the vilest sentiment in human nature, she would not have

been so utterly ashamed. "That was not what I meant to say!" she cried,

with sharp and sudden wretchedness; and was not the least ashamed of

telling a downright lie instead.

But, to tell the truth, the Archdeacon was paying no particular

attention. He had never loved any other woman; but he was a little

indifferent as to what innocent nonsense she might please to say. So

that her confusion and misery, and even the half offer of herself which

occasioned these feelings, were lost upon him. He kept her hand and

caressed it in the midst of his own thoughts, as if it was a child's

head he was patting. "My poor Helen," he said, coming back to her when

he found she had stopped speaking, "I don't see why you should not

come, if this sort of thing is any pleasure to you; but afterwards----"

he said reflectively. He went to that sort of thing often himself, and

rather liked it, and did not think of any afterwards; but perhaps the

case of a weak woman was different, or perhaps it was only that he

happened to be after his downfall in a pathetic and reflective state of

mind.

"Afterwards?" said Mrs Mortimer. She did not take the word in any

religious or philosophical, but in its merest matter-of-fact meaning,

and she was sadly hurt and wounded to see that he had not even noticed

what she said, much as she had been ashamed of saying it. She drew away

her hand with a quick movement of despite and mortification, which

filled Mr Beverley with surprise. "Afterwards I shall go back to my

little house and my school, and shut myself in, and never, never come

back again, you may be sure," said the widow, with a rush of tears to

her eyes. Why they did not fall, or how she kept herself from

fainting--she who fainted so easily--she never, on reviewing the

circumstances, could tell; and Miss Marjoribanks always attributed it to

the fact that _she_ was absent, and there was no eau-de-Cologne on the

table. But whatever the cause might be, Mrs Mortimer did not faint; and

perhaps there never was anything so like despair and bitterness as at

that moment in her mild little feminine soul.

"Never come back again?" said the Archdeacon, rousing up a little; and

then he put out his large hand and took back the other, as if it had

been a pencil or a book that he had lost. All this, let it be known, was

well in the shadow, and could not be seen by the world in general to

teach the young people a bad lesson. "Why should not you come back? I am

going away too," said Mr Beverley; and he stopped short, and resisted

the effort his prisoner made to withdraw. Oddly enough at that moment

his Rectory rose suddenly before him as in a vision--his Rectory, all

handsome and sombre, without a soul in it, room after room uninhabited,

and not a sound to be heard, except that of his own foot or his

servant's. It was curious what connection there could be between that

and the garden, with its four walls, and the tiny cottage covered with

wistaria. Such as it was, it moved the Archdeacon to a singular, and,

considering the place and moment, rather indecorous proceeding. Instead

of contenting himself with the resisting hand, he drew the widow's arm

within his as they sat together. "I'll tell you what we must do,

Helen," he said confidentially--"we must go back to Basing together, you

and I. I don't see the good of leaving you by yourself here. You can

make what alterations you like when you get to the Rectory; and I shall

let that--that person alone, if you wish it, with his ill-gotten gear.

He will never come to any good," said the Archdeacon, with some

satisfaction; and then he added in a parenthesis, as if she had

expressed some ridiculous doubt on the subject, "Of course I mean that

we should be married before we go away." It was in this rapid and

summary manner that the whole business was settled. Naturally his

companion had nothing to say against such a reasonable arrangement. She

had never contradicted him in her life about anything but one thing; and

that being set aside, there was no possible reason why she should begin

now.

_Chapter XXXIV_

This was how the crisis came to an end, which had been of so much

interest to the parties immediately affected. Mrs Woodburn had one of

her nervous attacks next morning, and was very ill, and alarmed Dr

Marjoribanks; but at her very worst moment the incorrigible mimic

convulsed her anxious medical adviser and all her attendants by a sudden

adoption of the character of Mrs Mortimer, whom she must have made a

careful study of the previous night. "Tell him to tell him to go

downstairs," cried the half-dead patient; "I want to speak to him, and

he is not to hear;--if he were not so thoughtless, he would offer him

some lunch at least," Mrs Woodburn said pathetically, with closed eyes

and a face as pale as death. "She never did anything better in her

life," Dr Marjoribanks said afterwards; and Mr Woodburn, who was fond of

his wife in his way, and had been crying over her, burst into such an

explosion of laughter that all the servants were scandalised. And the

patient improved from that moment. She was perfectly well and in the

fullest force a week afterwards, when she came to see Lucilla, who had

also been slightly indisposed for a day or two. When Thomas had shut the

door, and the two were quite alone, Mrs Woodburn hugged Miss

Marjoribanks with a fervour which up to that moment she had never

exhibited. "It was only necessary that we should get into full sympathy

with each other as human creatures," she said, lifting her finger like

the Archdeacon; and for all the rest of that autumn and winter Mrs

Woodburn kept society in Carlingford in a state of inextinguishable

laughter. The odd thing was that Miss Marjoribanks, who had been one of

her favourite characters, disappeared almost entirely from her

repertory. Not quite altogether, because there were moments of supreme

temptation which the mimic could not resist; but as a general rule

Lucilla was the only woman in Carlingford who escaped the universal

critic. No sort of acknowledgment passed between them of the obligations

one had to the other, and, what was still more remarkable, no discussion

of the terrible evening when Lucilla had held the Archdeacon with her

eye, and prevented the volcano from exploding. Perhaps Mrs Woodburn, for

her part, would have been pleased to have had such an explanation, but

Miss Marjoribanks knew better. She knew it was best not to enter upon

confidences which neither could ever forget, and which might prevent

them meeting with ease in the midst of the little world which knew

nothing about it. What Lucilla knew, she knew, and could keep to

herself; but she felt at the same time that it was best to have no

expansions on the subject. She kept it all to herself, and made the

arrangements for Mrs Mortimer's marriage, and took charge of everything.

Everybody said that nothing could be more perfect than the bride's

toilette, which was as nice as could be, and yet not like a _real_ bride

after all; a difference which was only proper under the circumstances;

for she was married in lavender, poor soul, as was to be expected. "You

have not gone off the least bit in the world, and it is quite a pleasure

to see you," Lucilla said, as she kissed her _that_ morning--and

naturally all Carlingford knew that it was owing to her goodness that

the widow had been taken care of and provided for, and saved up for the

Archdeacon. Miss Marjoribanks, in short, presided over the ceremony as

if she had been Mrs Mortimer's mother, and superintended the wedding

breakfast, and made herself agreeable to everybody. And in the meantime,

before the marriage took place, most people in Carlingford availed

themselves of the opportunity of calling on Mrs Mortimer. "If she should

happen to be the future bishop's lady, and none of us ever to have

taken any notice of her," somebody said, with natural dismay. Lucilla

did not discourage the practical result of this suggestion, but she felt

an instinctive certainty in her mind that _now_ Mr Beverley would never

be bishop of Carlingford, and indeed that the chances were Carlingford

would never be elevated into a bishopric at all.

It was not until after the marriage that Mr Cavendish went away. To be

sure, he was not absolutely present at the ceremony, but there can be no

doubt that the magnificent _parure_ which Mrs Mortimer received the

evening before her marriage, "from an old friend," which made

everybody's mouth water, and which she herself contemplated with mingled

admiration and dismay, was sent by Mr Cavendish. "Do you think it could

be from _him_; or only from him?" the bride said, bewildered and

bewildering. "I am sure he might have known I never should require

anything so splendid." But Lucilla, for her part, had no doubt whatever

on the subject; and the perfect good taste of the offering made Miss

Marjoribanks sigh, thinking once more how much that was admirable was

wasted by the fatal obstacle which prevented Mr Cavendish from aspiring

to anybody higher than Barbara Lake. As for the Archdeacon, he too found

it very easy to satisfy his mind as to the donor of the emeralds. He put

them away from him severely, and did not condescend to throw a second

glance at their deceitful splendour. "Women are curiously constituted,"

said Mr Beverley, who was still at the height of superiority, though he

was a bridegroom. "I suppose those sort of things give them

pleasure--things which neither satisfy the body nor delight the soul."

"If it had been something to eat, would it have pleased you better?"

said Lucilla, moved for once in her life to be impertinent, like an

ordinary girl. For really when a man showed himself so idiotic as to

despise a beautiful set of emeralds, it went beyond even the well-known

tolerance and compassionate good-humour with which Miss Marjoribanks

regarded the vagaries of "the gentlemen." There is a limit in all

things, and this was going too far.

"I said, to satisfy the body, Miss Marjoribanks," said the Archdeacon,

"which is an office very temporarily and inadequately performed by

something to eat. I prefer the welfare of my fellow-creatures to a few

glittering stones--even when they are round Her neck," Mr Beverley

added, with a little concession to the circumstances. "Jewellery is

robbery in a great town where there is always so much to be done, and so

little means of doing it; to secure health to the people, and

education----"

"Yes," said Miss Marjoribanks, who knew in her heart that the Archdeacon

was afraid of her. "It is so nice of you not to say any of those

dreadful sanitary words--and I am sure you could make something very

nasty and disagreeable with that diamond of yours. It is a beautiful

diamond; if I were Helen I should make you give it me," said Lucilla

sweetly; and the Archdeacon was so much frightened by the threat that he

turned his ring instinctively, and quenched the glitter of the diamond

in his closed hand.

"It was a present," he said hastily, and went away to seek some better

occupation than tilting with the womankind, who naturally had possession

of the bride's little house and everything in it at that interesting

moment. It was the last evening of Lucilla's reign, and she was disposed

to take the full good of it. And though Mrs Mortimer's trousseau was

modest, and not, as Lydia Brown repeated, like that of a _real_ bride,

it was still voluminous enough to fill the room to overflowing, where it

was all being sorted and packed under Miss Marjoribanks's eye.

"It is a very nice diamond indeed," said Lucilla; "if I were you I would

certainly make him give it to me--rings are no good to a gentleman. They

never have nice hands, you know--though indeed when they have nice

hands," said Miss Marjoribanks reflectively, "it is a great deal worse,

for they keep always thrusting them under your very eyes. It is curious

why They should be so vain. They talk of women!" Lucilla added, with

natural derision; "but, my dear, if I were you I would make him give it

me; a nice diamond is always a nice thing to have."

"Lucilla," said the widow, "I am sure I don't know how to thank you for

all you have done for me; but, dear, if you please, I would not talk

like that! The gentlemen laugh, but I am sure they don't like it all the

same;" for indeed the bride thought it her duty, having won the prize in

her own person, to point out to her young friend how, to attain the same

end, she ought to behave.

Miss Marjoribanks did not laugh, for her sense of humour, as has been

said, was not strong, but she kissed her friend with protecting

tenderness. "My dear, if that had been what I was thinking of I need

never have come home," said Lucilla; and her superiority was so calm

and serene, that Mrs Mortimer felt entirely ashamed of herself for

making the suggestion. The widow was simple-minded, and, like most other

women, it gratified her to believe that here and there, as in Miss

Marjoribanks's case, there existed one who was utterly indifferent to

the gentlemen, and did not care whether they were pleased or not; which

restored a little the balance of the world to the widow-bride, who felt

with shame that she cared a great deal, and was quite incapable of such

virtue. As for Lucilla herself, she was not at that moment in conscious

enjoyment of the strength of mind for which her friend gave her credit.

On the contrary, she could not help a certain sense of surprised

depression as she superintended the packing of the boxes. The man had

had it in his power to propose to her, and he was going to be married to

Mrs Mortimer! It was not that Lucilla was wounded or disappointed, but

that she felt it as a wonderful proof of the imperfection and weakness

of human nature. Even in the nineteenth century, which has learnt so

much, such a thing was possible! It filled her with a gentle sadness as

she had the things put in, and saw the emeralds safely deposited in

their resting-place. Not that she cared for the Archdeacon, who had thus

disposed of himself; but still it was a curious fact that such a thing

could be.

Altogether it must be admitted that at this special moment Miss

Marjoribanks occupied a difficult position. She had given the Archdeacon

to understand that Mr Cavendish was a "_very_ particular friend"; and

even when the danger was past, Lucilla scorned to acknowledge her pious

prevarications. During all this interval she continued so gracious to

him that everybody was puzzled, and Mrs Woodburn even insisted on her

brother, after all, making his proposal, which would be better late than

never.

"I am sure she is fond of you," said the softened mimic, "and that sort

of thing doesn't matter to a woman as it does to a man;" for it has been

already said that Mrs Woodburn, notwithstanding her knack of external

discrimination, had very little real knowledge of character. And even at

moments, Mr Cavendish himself, who ought to have known better, was half

tempted to believe that Lucilla meant it. The effect upon Dr

Marjoribanks was still more decided. He thought he saw in his daughter

the indications of that weakness which is sometimes so surprising in

women, and it disturbed the Doctor's serenity; and he actually tried to

snub Lucilla on sundry occasions, with that wonderful fatuity which is

common to men.

"I hope when this marriage is over people will recover their senses. I

hear of nothing else," Dr Marjoribanks said one day at dessert, when

they were alone. He took some chestnuts as he spoke, and burned his

fingers, which did not improve his temper. "That sort of rubbish, I

suppose, is much more interesting than attending to your natural

duties," the Doctor added morosely, which was not a kind of address

which Miss Marjoribanks was used to hear.

"Dear papa," said Lucilla, "if I attended to my duties ever so much I

could not keep you from burning your fingers. There are some things that

people _must_ do for themselves," the dutiful daughter added, with a

sigh. Nobody could doubt who knew Lucilla that she would have gladly

taken the world on her shoulders, and saved everybody from those little

misadventures; but how could she help it if people absolutely would not

take care of themselves?

The Doctor smiled grimly, but he was not satisfied. He was, on the

contrary, furious in a quiet way. "I don't need at this time of day to

be told how clever you are, Lucilla," said her father; "and I thought

you had been superior to the ordinary folly of women----"

"Papa, for Heaven's sake!" cried Miss Marjoribanks. She was really

alarmed this time, and she did not hesitate to let it be apparent. "I do

not mean to say that I always do precisely what I ought to do," said

Lucilla; "nobody does that I know of; but I am sure I never did anything

to deserve _that_. I never was superior, and I hope I never shall be;

and I know I never pretended to it," she said, with natural horror; for

the accusation, as everybody will perceive, was hard to bear.

The Doctor laughed again, but with increased severity. "We understand

all that," he said. "I am not in the secret of your actions, Lucilla. I

don't know what you intend, or how far you mean to go. The only thing I

know is that I see that young fellow Cavendish a great deal oftener in

the house and about it than I care to see him; and I have had occasion

to say the same thing before. I know nothing about his means," said Dr

Marjoribanks; "his property may be in the Funds, but I think it a great

deal more likely that he speculates. I have worked hard for my money,

and I don't mean it to go in that way, Lucilla. I repeat, I am not in

the secret of your proceedings----"

"Dear papa! as if there was any secret," said Lucilla, fixing her candid

eyes upon her father's face. "I might pretend I did not understand you

if there was anything in what you say, but I never go upon false

pretences when I can help it. I am very fond of Mr Cavendish," she

continued regretfully, after a pause. "There is nobody in Carlingford

that is so nice; but I don't see whom he can marry except Barbara Lake."

Miss Marjoribanks would have scorned to conceal the unfeigned regret

which filled her mind when she uttered these words. "I am dreadfully

sorry, but I don't see anything that can be done for him," she said, and

sighed once more. As for the Doctor, he forgot all about his chestnuts,

and sat and stared at her, thinking in his ignorance that it was a piece

of acting, and not knowing whether to be angry or to yield to the

amusement which began to rise in his breast.

"He may marry half a dozen Barbara Lakes," said Dr Marjoribanks, "and I

don't see what reason we should have to interfere: so long as he doesn't

want to marry you----"

"That would be impossible, papa," said Lucilla, with pensive gravity. "I

am sure I am very, very sorry. She has a very nice voice, but a man

can't marry a voice, you know; and if there was anything that I could

do----I am not sure that he ever wished for _that_ either," Miss

Marjoribanks added, with her usual candour. "It is odd, but for all that

it is true." For it was a moment of emotion, and she could not help

giving utterance to the surprise with which this consideration naturally

filled her mind.

"What is odd, and what is true?" said Dr Marjoribanks, growing more and

more bewildered. But Lucilla only put aside her plate and got up from

her chair.

"Not any more wine, thank you," she said. "I know you don't want me any

more, and I have so much to do. I hope you will let me invite Barbara

here when they are married, and pay her a little attention; for nobody

likes her in Grange Lane, and it would be so hard upon _him_. The more I

think of it, the more sorry I am," said Lucilla; "he deserved better,

papa; but as for me, everybody knows what is my object in life."

Thus Miss Marjoribanks left the table, leaving her father in a singular

state of satisfaction and surprise. He did not believe a word of what

she had been saying, with that curious perversity common to the people

who surrounded Lucilla, and which arose not so much from doubt of her

veracity as from sheer excess of confidence in her powers. He thought

she had foiled him in a masterly manner, and that she was only, as

people say, amusing herself, and had no serious intentions; and he

laughed quietly to himself when she left him, in the satisfaction of

finding there was nothing in it. Miss Marjoribanks, for her part, went

on tranquilly with the arrangements for the marriage; one by one she was

disembarrassing herself from the complications which had grown round her

during the first year of her reign in Carlingford; and now only the last

links of the difficulty remained to be unrolled.

The explanation she had with Mr Cavendish himself was in every way more

interesting. It happened pretty late one evening, when Lucilla was

returning with her maid from the widow's little cottage, which was so

soon to be deserted. She was just at that moment thinking of the

wistaria which had grown so nicely, and of all the trouble she had taken

with the garden. Nobody could tell who might come into it now, after she

had done so much for it; and Miss Marjoribanks could not but have a

momentary sense that, on the whole, it was a little ungrateful on the

part of Mrs Mortimer, when everybody had taken such pains to make her

comfortable. At this moment, indeed, Lucilla was slightly given to

moralising, though with her usual wisdom she kept her meditations to

herself. She was thinking with a momentary vexation of all the plants

that had been put into the beds, and of so much time and trouble

lost--when Mr Cavendish came up to her. It was a cold evening, and there

was nothing in common between this walk and the walk they had taken

together from Grove Street to Grange Lane on an earlier occasion. But

this time, so far from being reluctant to accompany her, Mr Cavendish

came to her side eagerly. The maid retired a little behind, and then the

two found themselves in that most perfect of all positions for mutual

confidence--a street not too crowded and noisy, all shrouded in the

darkness, and yet twinkling with the friendly lights of an autumn

evening. Nothing could have been more perfect than their isolation from

the surrounding world, if they thought proper to isolate themselves; and

yet it was always there to be taken refuge in if the confidence should

receive a check, or the mind of the chance companions change.

"I have been trying to catch a glimpse of you for a long time," said Mr

Cavendish, after they had talked a little in the ordinary way, as

everybody was doing in Grange Lane, about the two people henceforward to

be known in Carlingford as "the Beverleys." "But you are always so busy

serving everybody. And I have a great deal to say to you that I don't

know how to say."

"Then don't say it, please," said Lucilla. "It is a great deal better

not. It might be funny, you know; but I am not disposed to be funny

to-night. I am very glad about Mrs Mortimer, to be sure, that she is to

be settled so nicely, and that they are going to be married at last.

But, after all, when one thinks of it, it is a little vexatious. Just

when her house was all put to rights, and the garden looking so pretty,

and the school promising so well," said Lucilla; and there was a certain

aggrieved tone in her voice.

"And it is you who have done everything for her, as for all the rest of

us," said Mr Cavendish, though he could not help laughing a little; and

then he paused, and his voice softened in the darkness by Lucilla's

side. "Do not let us talk of Mrs Mortimer," he said. "I sometimes have

something just on my lips to say, and I do not know whether I dare say

it. Miss Marjoribanks----"

And here he came to a pause. He was fluttered and frightened, which was

what she, and not he, ought to have been. And at the bottom of his heart

he did not wish to say it, which gave far more force to his hesitation

than simply a doubt whether he might dare. Perhaps Lucilla's heart

fluttered too, with a sense that the moment which once would not have

been an unwelcome moment, had at last arrived. Her heart, it is true,

was not _very_ particularly engaged; but still she was sensible of all

Mr Cavendish's capacities, and was "very fond" of him, as she said; and

her exertions on his behalf had produced their natural effect, and moved

her affections a little. She made an involuntary pause for the hundredth

part of a minute, and reckoned it all up again, and asked herself

whether it were possible. There was something, in the first place,

becoming and suitable in the idea that she, who was the only person who

knew his secret, should take him and it together and make the best of

them. And Lucilla had the consciousness that she could indeed make a

great deal of Mr Cavendish. Nobody had ever crossed her path of whom so

much could be made; and as for any further danger of his real origin and

position being found out and exposed to the world, Miss Marjoribanks was

capable of smiling at that when the defence would be in her own hands.

She might yet accept him, and have him elected member for Carlingford,

and carry him triumphantly through all his difficulties. For a small

part--nay, even for the half of a minute--Lucilla paused, and made a

rapid review of the circumstances, and reconsidered her decision.

Perhaps if Mr Cavendish had been really in earnest, that which was only

a vague possibility might have become, in another minute, a fact and

real. It was about the first time that her heart had found anything to

say in the matter; and the fact was that it actually fluttered in her

reasonable bosom, and experienced a certain _malaise_ which was quite

new to her. Was it possible that she could be in love with Mr Cavendish?

or was it merely the excitement of a final decision which made that

unusual commotion far away down at the bottom of Lucilla's heart?

However that might be, Miss Marjoribanks triumphed over her momentary

weakness. She saw the possibility, and at the same moment she saw that

it could not be; and while Mr Cavendish hesitated, she, who was always

prompt and ready, made up her mind.

"I don't know what I have done in particular, either for her or the rest

of you," she said, ignoring the other part of her companion's faltering

address, "except to help to amuse you; but I am going to do something

very serious, and I hope you will show you are grateful, as you

say--though I don't know what you have to be grateful about--by paying

great attention to me. Mr Cavendish, I am going to give you good

advice," said Lucilla; and, notwithstanding her courage, she too

faltered a little, and felt that it was rather a serious piece of

business that she had taken in hand.

"Advice?" Mr Cavendish said, like an echo of her voice; but that was all

he found time to say.

"We are such old friends, that I know you won't be vexed," said Lucilla;

"and then we understand each other. It is so nice when two people

understand each other; they can say quantities of things that strangers

cannot say. Mr Cavendish, you and Barbara are in love," said Lucilla,

making a slight pause, and looking in his face.

"Miss Marjoribanks!" cried the assaulted man, in the extremity of his

amazement and horror. As for Lucilla, she came a little closer to him,

and shook her head in a maternal, semi-reproving way.

"Don't say you are not," said Miss Marjoribanks; "you never could

deceive _me_--not in anything like that. I saw it almost as soon as you

met. They are not rich, you know, but they are very nice. Mr Lake and

Rose," said Lucilla, with admirable prudence, keeping off the difficult

subject of Barbara herself, "are the two very nicest people I know; and

everybody says that Willie is dreadfully clever. I hope you will soon be

married, and that you will be very happy," she continued, with an

effort. It was a bold thing to say, and Lucilla's throat even contracted

a little, as if to prevent the words from getting utterance; but then

she was not a person, when she knew a thing was right, to hesitate about

doing it; and in Miss Marjoribanks's mind duty went before all, as has

already been on several occasions said.

After this a horrible silence fell upon the two--a silence which, like

darkness, could be felt. The thunderbolt fell upon the victim's

unprotected head without any warning. The idea that Lucilla would talk

to him about Barbara Lake was the very last that could have entered Mr

Cavendish's mind. He was speechless with rage and mortification. He took

it for an insult inflicted upon him in cold blood, doing Lucilla much

injustice as the other people who took the candid expression of her

sentiments for a piece of acting. He was a gentleman, notwithstanding

his doubtful origin, and civilised down to his very finger-tips; but he

would have liked to have knocked Miss Marjoribanks down, though she was

a woman. And yet, as she was a woman, he dared not for his life make any

demonstration of his fury. He walked along by her side down into the

respectable solitude of Grange Lane, passing through a bright bit of

George Street, and seeing askance, by the light from the shop windows,

his adviser walking beside him, with the satisfaction of a good

conscience in her face. This awful silence lasted until they reached Dr

Marjoribanks's door.

"Thank you for coming with me so far," said Lucilla, holding out her

hand. "I suppose I must not ask you to come in, though papa would be

delighted to see you. I am afraid you are very angry with me," Miss

Marjoribanks added, with a touch of pathos; "but you may be sure I would

always stand by _you_; and I said it because I thought it was for the

best."

"On the contrary, I am much obliged to you," said Mr Cavendish, with

quiet fury, "and deeply touched by the interest you take in my

happiness. You may be sure I shall always be grateful for it; and for

the offer of your support," said the ungrateful man, with the most

truculent meaning. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she pressed quite kindly

the hurried hand with which he touched hers, and went in, still saying,

"Good-night." She had done her duty, whatever might come of it. He

rushed home furious; but she went to a little worsted-work with a mind

at peace with itself and all men. She was gentler than usual even to the

maids, who always found Miss Marjoribanks a good mistress--but she felt

a little sad in the solitude of her genius. For it is true that to be

wiser and more enlightened than one's neighbours is in most cases a

weariness to the flesh. She had made a sacrifice, and nobody appreciated

it. Instead of choosing a position which pleased her imagination, and

suited her energies, and did not go against her heart, Lucilla, moved by

the wisest discretion, had decided, not without regret, to give it up.

She had sacrificed her own inclination, and a sphere in which her

abilities would have had the fullest scope, to what she believed to be

the general good; and instead of having the heroism acknowledged, she

was misunderstood and rewarded with ingratitude. When Miss Marjoribanks

found herself alone in the solitude of her drawing-room, and in the

still greater solitude, as we have said, of her genius, she felt a

little sad, as was natural. But at the same moment there came into

Lucilla's mind a name, a humble name, which has been often pronounced in

the pages of this history, and it gave her once more a certain

consolation. A sympathetic presence seemed to diffuse itself about her

in her loneliness. There are moments when the faith of a very humble

individual may save a great soul from discouragement; and the

consciousness of being believed in once more came with the sweetest and

most salutary effect upon Lucilla's heart.

_Chapter XXXV_

It was the very day after the marriage, and two or three days after this

conversation, that Mr Cavendish left Carlingford. He went to spend the

winter in Italy, which had long been "a dream" of his, as he explained

to some of the young ladies--most of whom had the same "dream," without

the enviable power of carrying it out. He made very brief and formal

adieux to Lucilla, to the extreme amazement of all the surrounding

world, and then disappeared, leaving--just at that moment after the

excitement of the marriage was over, when Grange Lane stood most in need

of somebody to rouse its drooping spirits--a wonderful blank behind him.

Lucilla said much less about her feelings on this occasion than she was

in the habit of doing, but there could be no doubt that she felt it, and

felt it acutely. And the worst of it was, that it was she who was

universally blamed for the sudden and unexplained departure of the most

popular man in Carlingford. Some people thought he had gone away to

escape from the necessity of proposing to her; and some of more friendly

and charitable disposition believed with Mrs Chiley that Lucilla had

refused him; and some, who were mostly outsiders and of a humble class,

were of opinion that Miss Marjoribanks had exercised all her influence

to send Mr Cavendish out of the way of Barbara Lake. It was with this

impression that Rose made her way one of those foggy autumn mornings

through the fallen leaves with which the garden was carpeted, to see if

any explanation was to be got from Lucilla. The art-inspectors from

Marlborough House had just paid their annual visit to Carlingford, and

had found the Female School of Design in a condition which, as they said

in their report, "warranted the warmest encomiums," and Rose had also

won a prize for her veil in the exhibition at Kensington of ornamental

art. These were triumphs which would have made the little artist

overwhelmingly happy, if they had not been neutralised by other

circumstances; but as it was, they only aggravated the difficulties of

the position in which she found herself. She came to Lucilla in a

bonnet--a circumstance which of itself was solemn and ominous; for

generally that portentous article of dress, which was home-made, and did

not consist with cheerful dispositions, was reserved by Rose for going

to church; and her soft cheeks were pale, and the hazel eyes more dewy

than usual, though it was rain, and not dew, that had been falling from

them during those last painful days.

"I am ashamed to ask you such a question," said Rose; "but I want you to

tell me, Lucilla, if you know why Mr Cavendish has gone away. She will

not come and ask you herself, or rather I would not let her come; for

she is so passionate, one does not know what she might do. You have

behaved a little strange, Lucilla," said the straightforward Rose. "If

he cared for her, and she cared for him, you had no right to come and

take him away."

"My dear, I did not take him away," said Miss Marjoribanks. "I had to

talk to him about some--business; that was all. It is disgraceful of

Barbara to bother you about it, who are only a baby and oughtn't to know

anything----"

"Lucilla!" cried Rose, with flashing eyes, "I am seventeen, and I will

not put up with it any longer. It is all your fault. What right had you

to come and drag us to your great parties? We are not as rich as you,

nor as fine, but we have a rank of our own," cried the little artist.

"You have a great deal more money, but we have some things that money

cannot buy. You made Barbara come and sing, and put things into her

head; and you made me come, though I did not want to. Why did you ask

_us_ to your parties, Lucilla? It is all your fault!"

Lucilla was in a subdued state of mind, as may have been perceived, and

answered quite meekly. "I don't know why you should all turn against me

like this," she said, more sadly than surprised. "It is unkind of you to

say it was my fault. I did not expect it from you; and when I have so

many vexations----" Miss Marjoribanks added. She sat down as she spoke,

after being repulsed by Rose, with an air of depression which was quite

unusual to her; for to be blamed and misunderstood on all sides was hard

for one who was always working in the service of her fellow-creatures,

and doing everything for the best.

As for Rose, her heart smote her on the instant. "Have _you_ vexations,

Lucilla?" she said, in her innocence. It was the first time such an idea

had entered into her mind.

"I don't think I have anything else," said Lucilla; though even as she

said it she began to recover her spirits. "I do all I can for my

friends, and they are never pleased; and when anything goes wrong it is

always my fault."

"Perhaps if you were not to do so much----" Rose began to say, for she

was in her way a wise little woman; but her heart smote her again, and

she restrained the truism, and then after a little pause she resumed her

actual business. "I am ashamed to ask you, but do you know where Mr

Cavendish is, Lucilla?" said Rose. "She is breaking her heart because he

has gone away."

"Did he never go to say good-bye nor anything?" asked Miss Marjoribanks.

She was sorry, for it was quite the contrary of the advice she had

given, but still it would be wrong to deny that Mr Cavendish rose higher

in Lucilla's opinion when she heard it. "I don't know any more than

everybody knows. He has gone to Italy, but he will come back, and I

suppose she can wait," Miss Marjoribanks added, with perhaps a touch of

contempt. "For my part, I don't think she will break her heart."

"It is because you do not know her," said Rose, with some

indignation--for at seventeen a broken heart comes natural. "Oh,

Lucilla, it is dreadful, and I don't know what to do!" cried the little

artist, changing her tone. "I am a selfish wretch, but I cannot help it.

It is as good as putting an end to my Career; and just after my design

has been so successful--and when papa was so proud--and when I thought I

might have been a help. It is dreadful to think of oneself when her

heart is breaking; but I shall have to give up everything; and I--I

can't help feeling it, Lucilla," cried Rose, with a sudden outburst of

tears.

All this was sufficiently unintelligible to Miss Marjoribanks, who was

not the least in anxiety about Barbara's breaking heart. "Tell me what

is the matter, and perhaps we can do something," said Lucilla,

forgetting how little her past exertions had been appreciated; and Rose,

with equal inconsistency, dried her tears at the sound of Miss

Marjoribanks's reassuring voice.

"I know I am a wretch to be thinking of myself," she said. "She cannot

be expected to stay and sacrifice herself for us, after all she has

suffered. She has made up her mind and advertised in the _Times_, and

nothing can change it now. She is going out for a governess, Lucilla."

"Going for a--what?" said Miss Marjoribanks, who could not believe her

ears.

"For a governess," said Rose calmly; for though she had been partly

brought up at Mount Pleasant, she had not the elevated idea of an

instructress of youth which might have been expected from a pupil of

that establishment. "She has advertised in the _Times_," Rose added,

with quiet despair, "with no objections to travel. I would do anything

in the world for Barbara, but one can't help thinking of oneself

sometimes, and there is an end of my Career." When she had said this she

brushed the last tear off her eyelashes, and sat straight up, a little

martyr and heroic victim to duty. "Her eye, though fixed on empty space,

beamed keen with honour"; but still there was a certain desperation in

the composure with which Rose regarded, after the first outburst, the

abandonment of all her hopes.

"She is a selfish thing," said Lucilla indignantly; "she always was a

selfish thing. I should like to know what she can teach anybody? If I

were you and your papa, I certainly would not let her go away. I don't

see any reason in the world why you should give in to her and let her

stop your--your Career, you know; why should you? I would not give in to

her for one moment, if I were your papa and you."

"Why should I?" said Rose; "because there is nobody else to do anything,

Lucilla. Fleda and Dreda are such two little things; and there are all

the boys to think of, and poor papa. It is of no use asking why. If I

don't do it, there will be nobody to do it," said Rose, with big tears

coming to her eyes. Her Career was dear to her heart, and those two

tears welled up from the depths; but then there would be nobody else to

do it--a consideration which continually filters out the people who are

good for anything out of the muddy current of the ordinary world.

"And your pretty drawings, and the veil, and the School of Design!"

cried Lucilla. "You dear little Rose, don't cry. It never can be

permitted, you know. She cannot teach anything, and nobody will have

her. She is a selfish thing, though she is your sister; and if I were

your papa and you----"

"It would be no good," said Rose. "She will go, whatever anybody may

say. _She_ does not care," said the little martyr, and the two big tears

fell, making two big round blotches upon the strings of that bonnet

which Lucilla had difficulty in keeping her hands off. But when she had

thus expressed her feelings, Rose relented over her sister. "She has

suffered so much here; how can any one ask her to sacrifice herself to

us?" said the young artist mournfully. "And I am quite happy," said

Rose--"quite happy; it makes all the difference. It is her _heart_, you

know, Lucilla; and it is only my Career."

And this time the tears were dashed away by an indignant little hand.

Barbara's heart, if she had such an organ, had never in its existence

cost such bitter drops. But as for Lucilla, what could she do? She could

only repeat, "If I was your papa and you," with a melancholy sense that

she was here balked and could do no more. For even the aid of Miss

Marjoribanks was as nothing against dead selfishness and folly, the two

most invincible forces in the world. Instead of taking the business into

her own hands, and carrying it through triumphantly as she had hitherto

been in the habit of doing, Lucilla could only minister to the sufferer,

and keep up her courage, and mourn over the Career thus put in danger.

Barbara's advertisement was in the newspapers, and her foolish mind was

made up; and the hope that nobody would have her was a forlorn hope, for

somebody always does have the incapable people, as Miss Marjoribanks was

well aware. And the contralto had been of some use in Grange Lane and a

little in Grove Street, and it would be difficult, either in the one

sphere or the other, to find any one to fill her place. It was thus amid

universal demolition that Christmas approached, and Miss Marjoribanks

ended the first portion of her eventful career.

_Chapter XXXVI_

One fytte of Lucilla's history is here ended, and another is to be told.

We have recorded her beginning in all the fulness of youthful confidence

and undaunted trust in her own resources; and have done our best to show

that in the course of organising society Miss Marjoribanks, like all

other benefactors of their kind, had many sacrifices to make, and had to

undergo the mortification of finding out that many of her most able

efforts turned to other people's profit and went directly against

herself. She began the second period of her career with, to some certain

extent, that sense of failure which is inevitable to every high

intelligence after a little intercourse with the world. She had

succeeded in a great many things, but yet she had not succeeded in all;

and she had found out that the most powerful exertions in behalf of

friends not only fail to procure their gratitude, but sometimes convert

them into enemies, and do actual harm; which is a discovery which can

only be made by those who devote themselves, as Miss Marjoribanks had

done, to the good of the human species. She had done everything for the

best, and yet it had not always turned out for the best; and even the

people who had been most ready to appeal to her for assistance in their

need, had proved the readiest to accuse her when something disagreeable

happened, and to say "It was your fault." In the second stage of her

progress Miss Marjoribanks found herself, with a great responsibility

upon her shoulders, with nearly the entire social organisation of

Carlingford depending upon her; and, at the same time, with her means of

providing for the wants of her subjects sensibly diminished, and her

confidence in the resources of the future impaired to an equal degree.

One thing was sure, that she had taken the work upon her shoulders, and

that she was not the woman to draw back, whatever the difficulties might

be. She did not bate a jot of her courage, though the early buoyancy of

hope had departed, never to return. It is true that she was not so

joyful and triumphant a figure as when she conquered Nancy, and won over

Dr Marjoribanks, and electrified Mr Holden by choosing curtains which

suited her complexion; but with her diminished hopes and increased

experience and unabated courage, no doubt Miss Marjoribanks presented a

still nobler and more imposing aspect to everybody who had an eye for

moral grandeur, though it would be difficult to tell how many of such

worthy spectators existed in Grange Lane.

There was, as our readers are aware, another subject also on which

Lucilla had found her position altered. It was quite true that, had she

been thinking of _that_, she never need have come home at all; and that,

in accepting new furniture for the drawing-room, she had to a certain

extent pledged herself not to marry immediately, but to stay at home and

be a comfort to her dear papa. This is so delicate a question that it is

difficult to treat it with the freedom necessary for a full development

of a not unusual state of mind. Most people are capable of falling in

love only once or twice, or at the most a very few times, in their life;

and disappointed and heartbroken suitors are not so commonly to be met

with as perhaps could be wished. But at the same time, there can be

little doubt that the chief way in which society is supposed to signify

its approval and admiration and enthusiasm for a lady, is by making

dozens of proposals to her, as may be ascertained from all the

best-informed sources. When a woman is a great beauty, or is very

brilliant and graceful, or even is only agreeable and amusing, the

ordinary idea is that the floating men of society, in number less or

more according to the lady's merits, propose to her, though she may not

perhaps accept any of them. In proportion as her qualities rise towards

the sublime, these victims are supposed to increase; and perhaps, to

tell the truth, no woman feels herself set at her true value until some

poor man, or set of men, have put, as people say, their happiness into

her hands. It is, as we have said, a delicate subject to discuss; for

the truth is, that this well-known and thoroughly established reward of

female excellence had not fallen to Miss Marjoribanks's lot. There was

Tom, to be sure, but Tom did not count. And as for the other men who had

been presented to Lucilla as eligible candidates for her regard, none of

them had given her this proof of their admiration. The year had passed

away, and society had laid no tribute of this description upon Lucilla's

shrine. The Archdeacon had married Mrs Mortimer instead, and Mr

Cavendish had been led away by Barbara Lake! After such an experience

nothing but the inherent sweetness and wholesome tone of Miss

Marjoribanks's character could have kept her from that cynicism and

disbelief in humanity which is so often the result of knowledge of the

world. As for Lucilla, she smiled as she thought of it, not cynically,

but with a sweetly melancholy smile. What she said to herself was, Poor

men! they had had the two ways set before them, and they had not chosen

the best. It made her sad to have this proof of the imperfection of

human nature thrust upon her, but it did not turn her sweet into bitter,

as might have been the case with a more ordinary mind. Notwithstanding

that this universal reward, which in other cases is, as everybody knows,

given so indiscriminately, and with such liberality, had altogether

failed in her case, Lucilla still resumed her way with a beautiful

constancy, and went forward in the face of fate undaunted and with a

smile.

It was thus that she began the second period of her career. Up to this

moment there had never been a time in which it was not said in

Carlingford that some one was paying attention to Miss Marjoribanks; but

at present no one was paying attention to her. There were other

marriages going on around her, and other preliminaries of marriage, but

nobody had proposed to Lucilla. Affairs were in this state when she took

up her burden again boldly, and set out anew upon her way. It was a

proof of magnanimity and philanthropy which nobody could have asked from

her, if Lucilla had not been actuated by higher motives than those that

sway the common crowd. Without any assistance but that of her own

genius--without the stimulating applause of admirers, such as a woman in

such circumstances has a right to calculate upon--with no sympathising

soul to fall back upon, and nothing but a dull level of ordinary people

before her,--Miss Marjoribanks, undaunted, put on her harness and

resumed her course. The difficulties she had met only made her more

friendly, more tender, to those who were weaker than herself, and whom

evil fortune had disabled in the way. When Barbara Lake got her

situation, and went out for a governess, and Rose's fears were realised,

and she had with bitter tears to relinquish her Career, Lucilla went and

sat whole afternoons with the little artist, and gave her the handiest

assistance, and taught her a great many things which she never could

have learned at the School of Design. And the effect of this

self-abnegation was, that Lucilla bore General Travers's decision, and

gave up all hope of the officers, with a stout-heartedness which nobody

could have looked for, and did not hesitate to face her position

boldly, and to erect her standard, and to begin her new campaign,

unaided and unappreciated as she was. People who know no better may go

away upon marriage tours, or they may fly off to foreign travel, or go

out as governesses, when all things do not go just as they wish. But as

for Miss Marjoribanks, she stood bravely at her post, and scorned to

flinch or run away. Thus commenced, amid mists of discouragement, and in

an entire absence of all that was calculated to stimulate and

exhilarate, the second grand period of Lucilla's life.

_Chapter XXXVII_

It would be vain to follow Lucilla in detail through her consistent and

admirable career; nor is it necessary to say that she went on steadily

in face of all her discouragements, with that mixture of success and

failure which comes natural to all human affairs. The singular thing

about it was, that the years passed on, and that she was permitted by

the world in general to fulfil her own promise and prophecy about

remaining ten years at home to be a comfort to her dear papa. She had

been nineteen when she began her career, and she was nine-and twenty

when that little episode occurred with young Dr Rider, before he was

married to his present wife. There would have been nothing in the least

unsuitable in a marriage between Dr Rider and Miss Marjoribanks, though

people who were the best informed never thought either of them had any

serious meaning; but, of course, the general public, having had Lucilla

for a long time before their eyes, naturally added on seven or eight

years to her age, and concluded her to be a great deal older than the

young doctor, though everybody allowed that it would have been a most

advantageous match for him in every possible point of view. But,

however, it did not come to anything, no more than a great many other

nibbles of the same kind did. The period arrived at which Lucilla had

thought she might perhaps have begun to go off in her looks, but still

there was no immediate appearance of any change of name or condition on

her part. Many people quite congratulated themselves on the fact, as it

was impossible to imagine what might be the social condition of Grange

Lane without Miss Marjoribanks; but it is doubtful whether Lucilla

congratulated herself. She was very comfortable, no doubt, in every way,

and met with little opposition to speak of, and had things a great deal

more in her own hands than she might have had, had there been a husband

in the case to satisfy; but notwithstanding, she had come to an age when

most people have husbands, and when an independent position in the world

becomes necessary to self-respect. To be sure, Lucilla _was_

independent; but then--there is a difference, as everybody knows.

And Miss Marjoribanks could not but feel that the world had not shown

that appreciation of her, to which, in her earlier days, she looked

forward with so little fear. The ten years, as they had really gone by,

were very different from the ten years she had looked forward to, when,

in the triumph of her youth, she named that period as the time when she

might probably begin to go off, and would be disposed to marry. By this

time the drawing-room carpets and curtains had faded a little, and

Lucilla had found out that the delicate pale green which suited her

complexion was not to call a profitable colour; and nobody could have

thought or said that to marry at this period would be in the least

degree to swindle the Doctor. Thus the moment had arrived to which she

looked forward, but the man had not arrived with it. Ten years had

passed, during which she had been at the head of society in Grange Lane,

and a great comfort to her dear papa; and now, if there remained another

development for Lucilla's character, it was about time that it should

begin to show itself. But at the same time, the main element necessary

for that new development did not seem at present likely to be found in

Grange Lane.

Unless, indeed, it might happen to be found in the person of Mr

Ashburton, who was so often in Carlingford that he might be said to form

a part of society there. It was he who was related to the Richmonds, who

were a family much respected in the county. He had been at the bar, and

even begun to distinguish himself, before old Miss Penrhyn died and left

him the Firs. He had begun to distinguish himself, but he had not, it

appeared, gone so far as to prevent him from coming down to his new

property and settling upon it, and taking his place as a local

notability. He was not a man who could be expected to care for evening

parties in a provincial town; but he never refused to dine with Dr

Marjoribanks, and was generally popular upstairs, where he always paid a

little attention to Lucilla, though nothing very marked and noticeable.

Mr Ashburton was not like Mr Cavendish, for instance (if anybody

remembered Mr Cavendish), a man whose money might be in the Funds, but

who more probably speculated. Everybody knew everything about him, which

was an ease to the public mind. The Firs was as well known as

Carlingford steeple, and how much it was worth a year, and everything

about it; and so was the proprietor's pedigree, which could be traced to

a semi-mythical personage known as old Penrhyn, whose daughter was Sir

John Richmond's grandmother. The Firs, it is true, had descended in the

female line, but still it is something to know where a man comes from,

even on one side.

Mr Ashburton made himself very agreeable in the neighbourhood, and was

never above enlightening anybody on a point of law. He used to say that

it was kind to give him something to do, which was an opinion endorsed

practically by a great many people. It is true that some of his

neighbours wondered much to see his patience, and could not make out why

he chose to rusticate at the Firs at his age, and with his abilities.

But either he never heard these wonderings, or at least he never took

any notice of them. He lived as if he liked it, and settled down, and

presented to all men an aspect of serene contentment with his sphere.

And it would be difficult to say what suggestion or association it was

which brought him all of a sudden into Miss Marjoribanks's head, one

day, when, seeing a little commotion in Masters's shop, she went in to

hear what it was about. The cause of the commotion was an event which

had been long expected, and which, indeed, ten years before, had been

looked on as a possible thing to happen any day. The wonder was, not

that old Mr Chiltern should die, but that he should have lived so long.

The ladies in Masters's cried, "Poor dear old man!" and said to each

other that however long it might have been expected, a death always

seemed sudden at the last. But, to tell the truth, the stir made by this

death was rather pleasant than sad. People thought, not of the career

which was ended, but of the one which must now begin, and of the

excitement of an election, which was agreeable to look forward to. As

for Lucilla, when she too had heard the news, and had gone upon her way,

it would be vain to assert that a regretful recollection of the time

when Mr Cavendish was thought a likely man to succeed Mr Chiltern did

not occur to her. But when Miss Marjoribanks had dismissed that

transitory thought, Mr Ashburton suddenly came into her head by one of

those intuitions which have such an effect upon the mind that receives

them. Lucilla was not of very marked political opinions, and perhaps was

not quite aware what Mr Ashburton's views were on the Irish Church

question, or upon parliamentary reform; but she said after, that it came

into her mind in a moment, like a flash of lightning, that he was the

man. The idea was so new and so striking, that she turned back and went,

in the excitement of the moment, to suggest it to Mrs Chiley, and see

what her old friend and the Colonel would say. Of course, if such a

thing was practicable, there was no time to lose. She turned round

quickly, according to her prompt nature; and such was her absorbed

interest in the idea of Mr Ashburton, that she did not know until she

had almost done it, that she was walking straight into her hero's arms.

"Oh, Mr Ashburton!" said Lucilla, with a little scream, "is it you? My

mind was quite full of you. I could not see you for thinking. Do come

back with me, for I have something very particular to say----"

"To me?" said Mr Ashburton, looking at her with a smile and a sudden

look of interest; for it is always slightly exciting to the most

philosophical mortal to know that somebody else's mind is full of him.

"What you have said already is so flattering----"

"I did not mean anything absurd," said Miss Marjoribanks. "Don't talk

any nonsense, please. Mr Ashburton, do you know that old Mr Chiltern is

dead?"

Lucilla put the question solemnly, and her companion grew a little red

as he looked at her. "It is not my fault," he said, though he still

smiled; and then he grew redder and redder, though he ought to have been

above showing such signs of emotion; and looked at her curiously, as if

he would seize what she was going to say out of her eyes or her lips

before it was said.

"It is not anything to laugh about," said Lucilla. "He was a very nice

old man; but he is dead, and somebody else must be Member for

Carlingford: that was why I told you that my mind was full of you. I am

not in the least superstitious," said Miss Marjoribanks, solemnly; "but

when I stood there--there, just in front of Mr Holden's--you came into

my mind like a flash of lightning. I was not thinking of you in the

least, and you came into my mind like--like Minerva, you know. If it was

not an intimation, I don't know what it was. And that was why I ran

against you, and did not see you were there. Mr Ashburton, it is you who

must be the man," said Lucilla. It was not a thing to speak lightly

about, and for her part she spoke very solemnly; and as for Mr

Ashburton, his face flushed deeper and deeper. He stood quite still in

the excitement of the moment, as if she had given him a blow.

"Miss Marjoribanks, I don't know how to answer you," he cried; and then

he put out his hand in an agitated way and grasped her hand. "You are

the only creature in Carlingford, man or woman, that has divined me," he

said, in a trembling voice. It was a little public at the top of Grange

Lane, where people were liable to pass at every moment; but still Miss

Marjoribanks accepted the pressure of the hand, which, to be sure, had

nothing whatever to do with love-making. She was more shy of such

demonstrations than she had been in her confident youth, knowing that in

most cases they never came to anything, and at the same time that the

spectators kept a vivid recollection of them; but still, in the

excitement of the moment, Miss Marjoribanks accepted and returned in a

womanly way the pressure of Mr Ashburton's hand.

"Come in and let us talk it over," Lucilla said, feeling that no time

was to be lost. It was a conference very different from that which, had

Mr Chiltern been so well advised as to die ten years before, might have

been held in Dr Marjoribanks's drawing-room over his successor's

prospects; but at the same time there was something satisfactory to the

personal sentiments of both in the way in which this conversation had

come about. When Lucilla took off her hat and sat down to give him all

her attention, Mr Ashburton could not but feel the flattering character

of the interest she was taking in him. She was a woman, and young

(comparatively speaking), and was by no means without admirers, and

unquestionably took the lead in society; and to be divined by such a

person was perhaps, on the whole, sweeter to the heart of the aspirant

than if Colonel Chiley had found out his secret, or Dr Marjoribanks, or

even the Rector: and Lucilla for her part had all that natural pleasure

in being the first to embrace a new interest which was natural under the

circumstances. "Let us talk it all over," she said, giving Mr Ashburton

a chair near her own. "If I believed in spirit-rapping, you know, I

should be sure that was what it meant. I was not thinking of you in the

least, and all at once, like a flash of lightning--Mr Ashburton sit down

and tell me--what is the first thing that must be done?"

"If I could ask you to be on my committee, that would be the first thing

to be done," said Mr Ashburton, "but unfortunately I can't do that. Let

me tell you in the first place how very much I am obliged----"

"Don't say that, please," said Miss Marjoribanks, with her usual good

sense, "for I have done nothing. But papa can be on the committee, and

old Colonel Chiley, who is such a one for politics; and of course Sir

John--that will be a very good beginning; and after that----"

"My dear Miss Marjoribanks," Mr Ashburton said, with a smile, and a

little hesitation, "Sir John takes exactly the other side in politics;

and I am afraid the Doctor and the Colonel are not of the same way of

thinking; and then my opinions----"

"If they are not of the same way of thinking we must make them," said

Lucilla: "after having such an intimation, I am not going to be put off

for a trifle; and besides, what does it matter about opinions? I am sure

I have heard you all saying over and over that the thing was to have a

good _man_. Don't go and make speeches about opinions. If you begin with

that, there is no end to it," said Miss Marjoribanks. "I know what you

gentlemen are. But if you just say distinctly that you are the best

man----"

"It would be an odd thing to say for oneself," said Mr Ashburton,

and he laughed; but, to tell the truth, he was not a man of very

quick understanding, and at the first outset of the thing he

did not understand Lucilla; and he was a little--just a very

little--disappointed. She had divined him, which was a wonderful proof

of her genius; but yet at the bottom she was only an ignorant woman

after all.

"I see it all quite clear what to do," said Miss Marjoribanks. "You must

have the Colonel and Sir John, and everybody. I would not pay the least

attention to Tories or Whigs, or anything of the sort. For my part I

don't see any difference. All that has to be said about it is simply

that you are the right man. Papa might object to one thing and the

Colonel might object to another, and then if Sir John, as you say, is of

quite another way of thinking----But you are the man for Carlingford

all the same; and none of them can say a word against that," said

Lucilla, with energy. She stopped short, with her colour rising and her

eyes brightening. She felt herself inspired, which was a new sensation,

and very pleasant; and then the idea of such a coming struggle was sweet

to Miss Marjoribanks, and the conviction burst upon her that she was

striking out a perfectly new and original line.

As for her candidate, he smiled, and hesitated, and paid her pretty

little compliments for a few minutes longer, and said it was very good

of her to interest herself in his fortunes. All which Lucilla listened

to with great impatience, feeling that it had nothing to do with the

matter in hand. But then after these few minutes had elapsed the meaning

of his fair adviser, as he called her, began to dawn upon Mr Ashburton's

mind. He began to prick up his mental ears, so to speak, and see that it

was not womanish ignorance, but an actual suggestion. For, after all, so

long as he was the Man for Carlingford, all the rest was of little

importance. He took something out of his pocket, which was his address

to the constituency of Carlingford (for being anxious on the subject, he

had heard of Mr Chiltern's death an hour or two before anybody else),

and choke-full of political sentiments. In it he described to the

electors what he would do if they sent him to Parliament, as carefully

as if their election could make him Prime Minister at least; and

naturally a man does not like to sacrifice such a confession of faith.

"I should like to read it to you," he said, spreading it out with

affectionate care: but Lucilla had already arranged her plans, and knew

better than that.

"If you were to read it to me," said Miss Marjoribanks, "I should be

sure to be convinced that you were quite right, and to go in with you

for everything; and then I should be no good, you know. If it were to

drive papa and Sir John and the Colonel all to their own ways of

thinking, we never should make any progress. I would never mind about

anybody's ways of thinking, if I were you. After all," said Lucilla,

with fine satire, of which she was unconscious, "what does it matter

what people think? I suppose when it comes to doing anything, the Whigs

and the Tories are just the same. Mr Ashburton, it is the Man that is

wanted," said Miss Marjoribanks, with all the warmth of sudden

conviction. She felt a little like Joan of Arc as she spoke. When an

army has the aid of a sacred maiden to bring inspiration to its

counsels, the idea of going on in the old formal way is no longer to be

tolerated. And such was the force of Lucilla's conviction, that Mr

Ashburton, though he felt a little affronted, and could not but look

with fond and compunctious regret upon his address, yet began more and

more to feel that there was justice in what she said.

"I will think over what you say," he said, rather stiffly, and put up

his address--for it was natural, when he had done her such an honour as

to offer to read it to her, that he should be affronted by her refusal.

It was a bold experiment on Lucilla's part, but then she was carried out

of herself at the moment by this singular flash of inspiration. "I will

think over what you say," Mr Ashburton continued; "and if my judgment

approves----At all events I shall not issue _this_ till I have thought

it all over. I am sure I am extremely obliged to you for your interest."

And here he stopped short, and looked as if he were going to get up and

go away, which would have spoiled all.

"You are going to stop to lunch," said Lucilla; "somebody is sure to

come in. And you know you must not lose any opportunity of seeing

people. I am so glad to-night is Thursday. Tell me just one thing, Mr

Ashburton, before any one comes. There is one thing that is really

important, and must be fixed upon. If we were to make any mistake, you

know----"

"What?" said the candidate eagerly--"about Reform? I have expressed

myself very clearly----"

Lucilla smiled compassionately, and with the gentlest tolerance, at this

wild suggestion. "I was not thinking of Reform," she said, with that

meekness which people assume when it is of no use being impatient. "I

was thinking what your colours were to be. I would not have anything to

do with the old colours, for my part--they would be as bad as opinions,

you know. You may laugh, but I am quite in earnest," said Miss

Marjoribanks. As for Mr Ashburton, he did not begin to laugh until he

had fixed upon her that gaze of utter amazement and doubt with which on

many similar occasions ordinary people had regarded Lucilla--thinking

she was joking, or acting, or doing something quite different from the

severe sincerity which was her leading principle. She was so used to it,

that she waited with perfect patience till her companion's explosion of

amusement was over. He was thinking to himself what a fool she was, or

what a fool he was to think of taking a woman into his counsels, or what

curious unintelligible creatures women were, made up of sense and folly;

and all the time he laughed, which was a relief to his feelings. Miss

Marjoribanks laughed a little too, to keep him in countenance, for she

was always the soul of good nature; and then she repeated, "Now you must

tell me what our colours are to be----"

"I am sure I don't know anything about colours," said the candidate,

"any more than you do about opinions. I think they are equally

unimportant, to say the least. I shall adopt the colours of my fair

counsellor," Mr Ashburton added, laughing, and making a mock bow to her,

and getting his hat as he did so--for he had naturally calmed down a

little from the first enthusiasm with which he had hailed the woman who

divined him, and he did not mean to stay.

"Blue and yellow are the old colours," said Lucilla thoughtfully, "and

you are the new man, you know, and we must not meddle with these

antiquated things. Do you think this would do?" As she spoke she took up

a handful of ribbons which were lying by, and put them up to her face

with an air of serious deliberation which once more disturbed Mr

Ashburton's gravity. And yet, when a young woman who is not at all

bad-looking puts up a rustling, gleaming knot of ribbons to her hair and

asks a man's opinion of the same, the man must be a philosopher or a

wretch indeed who does not give a glance to see the effect. The

candidate for Carlingford looked and approached, and even, in the

temptation of the moment, took some of the long streamers in his hand.

And he began to think Miss Marjoribanks was very clever, and the most

amusing companion he had met with for a long time. And her interest in

him touched his heart; and, after all, it is no drawback to a woman to

be absurd by moments. His voice grew quite soft and caressing as he took

the end of ribbon into his hand.

"If they are your colours they shall be mine," he said, with a sense of

patronage and protection which was very delightful; and the two were

still talking and laughing over the silken link thus formed between

them, when the people came in whom Lucilla was expecting to lunch, and

who were naturally full of Mr Chiltern's death, which, poor old man! was

so sudden at the last. Mr Ashburton stayed, though he had not intended

it, and made himself very pleasant. And Lucilla took no pains to

conceal her opinion that the thing was neither to consider Whigs nor

Tories, but a good _Man_. And Major Brown, who had come with his

daughters, echoed this sentiment so warmly that Mr Ashburton was

entirely convinced of the justice of Miss Marjoribanks's ideas. "We

can't have a tip-topper, you know," Major Brown said, who was not very

refined in his expressions; "and what I should like to see is a man that

knows the place and would look after Carlingford. That's what we're all

looking for." Mr Ashburton did not declare himself to Major Brown, but

he dashed off his new address ten minutes after he had taken leave of

Miss Marjoribanks, and put the other one in the fire like a Christian,

and telegraphed for his agent to town. Lucilla, for her part, made an

effort equally great and uncompromising. She took the ribbon Mr

Ashburton had played with, and cut it up into cockades of all

descriptions. It was an early moment, but still there was no time to be

lost in a matter of such importance. And she wore one on her breast and

one in her hair when Mr Ashburton's address was published, and all the

world was discussing the new candidate.

"Of course they are his colours--that is why I wear them," said Lucilla.

"I shall always think there was something very strange in it. Just after

I had heard of poor old Mr Chiltern's death, as I was passing

Holden's--when I was not in the least thinking of him--he came into my

mind like a flash of lightning, you know. If I had been very intimate

with poor old Mr Chiltern, or if I believed in spirit-rapping, I should

think _that_ was it. He came into my head without my even thinking of

him, all in a moment, with his very hat on and his umbrella, like

Minerva--wasn't it Minerva?" said Miss Marjoribanks. And she took up Mr

Ashburton's cause openly, and unfurled his standard, and did not even

ask her father's opinion. "Papa knows about politics, but he has not had

an intimation, as I have," said Lucilla. And, naturally, she threw all

the younger portion of Grange Lane, which was acquainted with Mr

Ashburton, and looked forward eagerly to a little excitement, and liked

the idea of wearing a violet-and-green cockade, into a flutter of

excitement. Among these rash young people there were even a few

individuals who took Lucilla's word for it, and knew that Mr Ashburton

was very _nice_, and did not see that anything more was necessary. To be

sure, these enthusiasts were chiefly women, and in no cases had votes;

but Miss Marjoribanks, with instinctive correctness of judgment,

decided that there were more things to be thought of than the electors.

And she had the satisfaction of seeing with her own eyes and hearing

with her own ears the success of that suggestion of her genius.

Carlingford had rarely been more excited by any public event than it was

by the address of the new candidate, who was in the field before anybody

else, and who had the boldness to come before them without uttering any

political creed. "The enlightened electors of Carlingford do not demand,

like other less educated constituencies, a system of political doctrines

cut and dry, or a representative bound to give up his own judgment, and

act according to arbitrary promises," said the daring candidate: "what

they want is an honest man, resolved to do his duty by his country, his

borough, and his constituency; and it is this idea alone which has

induced me to solicit your suffrages." This was what Mr Ashburton said

in his address, though at that moment he had still his other address in

his pocket, in which he had entered at some length into his distinctive

personal views. It was thus that an independent candidate, unconnected

with party, took the field in Carlingford, with Miss Marjoribanks, like

another Joan of Arc, wearing a knot of ribbons, violet and green, in her

hair, to inspire and lead him on.

_Chapter XXXVIII_

Life with most people is little more than a succession of high and low

tides. There are times when the stream runs low, and when there is

nothing to be seen but the dull sandbanks, or even mud-banks, for

months, or even years together; and then all at once the waters swell,

and come rushing twice a day like the sea, carrying life and movement

with them. Miss Marjoribanks had been subject to the _eaux mortes_ for a

long time: but now the spring-tides had rushed back. A day or two after

Mr Ashburton had been revealed to her as the predestined member,

something occurred, not in itself exciting, but which was not without

its ultimate weight upon the course of affairs. It was the day when Aunt

Jemima was expected in Grange Lane. She was Aunt Jemima to Lucilla; but

the Doctor called her Mrs John, and was never known to address her by

any more familiar title. She was, as she herself described it, a widow

lady, and wore the dress of her order, and was the mother of Tom

Marjoribanks. She was not a frequent visitor at Carlingford, for she and

her brother-in-law had various points on which they were not of accord.

The Doctor, for his part, could not but feel perennially injured that

the boy had fallen to the lot of Mrs John, while he had only a

girl--even though that girl was Lucilla; and Aunt Jemima could not

forgive him for the rude way in which he treated her health, which was

so delicate, and his want of sympathy for many other people who were

delicate too. Even when she arrived, and was being entertained with the

usual cup of tea, fears of her brother-in-law's robustness and

unsympathetic ways had begun to overpower her. "I hope your papa does

not ask too much from you, Lucilla," she said, as she sat in her

easy-chair, and took her tea by the fire in the cosy room which had been

prepared for her. "I hope he does not make you do too much, for I am

sure you are not strong, my dear. Your poor mamma, you know----" and Mrs

John looked with a certain pathos at her niece, as though she saw signs

of evil in Lucilla's fresh complexion and substantial frame.

"I am pretty well, thank you, Aunt Jemima," said Miss Marjoribanks,

"and papa lets me do pretty much what I like: I am too old now, you

know, to be told what to do."

"Don't call yourself old, my dear," said Aunt Jemima, with a passing

gleam of worldly wisdom--"one gets old quite soon enough. Are you

subject to headaches, Lucilla, or pains in the limbs? Your poor

mamma----"

"Dear Aunt Jemima, I am as well as ever I can be," said Miss

Marjoribanks. "Tell me when you heard from Tom, and what he is doing.

Let me see, it is ten years since he went away. I used to write to him,

but he did not answer my letters--not as he ought, you know. I suppose

he has found friends among the Calcutta ladies," said Lucilla, with a

slight but not unapparent sigh.

"He never says anything to me about Calcutta ladies," said Tom's mother;

"to tell the truth, I always thought before he went away that he was

fond of _you_--I must have been mistaken, as he never said anything; and

_that_ was very fortunate at all events."

"I am sure I am very thankful he was not fond of me," said Lucilla, with

a little natural irritation, "for I never could have returned it. But I

should like to know why that was so fortunate. I can't see that it would

have been such a very bad thing for him, for my part."

"Yes, my dear," said Aunt Jemima, placidly, "it would have been a very

bad thing; for you know, Lucilla, though you get on very nicely here,

you never could have done for a poor man's wife."

Miss Marjoribanks's bosom swelled when she heard these words--it swelled

with that profound sense of being unappreciated and misunderstood, which

is one of the hardest trials in the way of genius; but naturally she was

not going to let her aunt see her mortification. "I don't mean to be any

man's wife just now," she said, making a gulp of it--"I am too busy

electioneering; we are going to have a new member in dear old Mr

Chiltern's place. Perhaps he will come in this evening to talk things

over, and you shall see him," Lucilla added, graciously. She was a

little excited about the candidate, as was not unnatural--more excited,

perhaps, than she would have been ten years ago, when life was young;

and then it was not to be expected that she could be pleased with Aunt

Jemima for thinking it was so fortunate; though even that touch of

wounded pride did not lead Miss Marjoribanks to glorify herself by

betraying Tom.

"My brother-in-law used to be a dreadful Radical," said Aunt Jemima; "I

hope it is not one of those revolutionary men; I have seen your poor

uncle sit up arguing with him till I thought they never would be done.

If that is the kind of thing, I hope you will not associate yourself

with it, Lucilla. Your papa should have more sense than to let you. I

should never have permitted it if you had been _my_ daughter," added Mrs

John, with a little heat--for, to tell the truth, she too felt a slight

vexation on her part that the Doctor had the girl--even though not for

twenty girls would she have given up Tom.

Miss Marjoribanks looked upon the weak woman who thus ventured to

address her with indescribable feelings; but after all she was not so

much angry as amused and compassionate. She could not help thinking to

herself, if she had been Mrs John's daughter, how perfectly docile Aunt

Jemima would have been by this time, and how little she would have

really ventured to interfere. "It would have been very nice," she said,

with a meditative realisation of the possibility--"though it is very odd

to think how one could have been one's own cousin--I should have taken

very good care of you, I am sure."

"You would have done no such thing," said Mrs John; "you would have gone

off and married; I know how girls do. You have not married now, because

you have been too comfortable, Lucilla. You have had everything your own

way, and all that you wanted, without any of the bother. It is very

strange how differently people's lots are ordered. I was married at

seventeen--and I am sure I have not known what it was to have a day's

health----"

"Dear Aunt Jemima!" said her affectionate niece, kissing her, "but papa

shall see if he cannot give you something, and we will take such care of

you while you are here."

Mrs John was softened in spite of herself; but still she shook her head.

"It is very nice of you to say so, my dear," she said, "and it's

pleasant to feel that one has somebody belonging to one; but I have not

much confidence in your papa. He never understood my complaints. I used

to be very sorry for your poor mamma. He never showed that sympathy--but

I did not mean to blame him to you, Lucilla. I am sure he is a very good

father to you."

"He has been a perfect old angel," said Miss Marjoribanks; and then the

conversation came to a pause, as it was time to dress for dinner. Mrs

John Marjoribanks had a very nice room, and everything that was adapted

to make her comfortable; but she too had something to think of when the

door closed upon Lucilla, and she was left with her maid and her hot

water and her black velvet gown. Perhaps it was a little inconsistent to

wear a black velvet gown with her widow's cap; it was a question which

she had long debated in her mind before she resigned herself to the

temptation--but then it always looked so well, and was so very

profitable! and Mrs John felt that it was incumbent upon her to keep up

a respectable appearance for Tom's sake. Tom was very much in her mind

at that moment, as indeed he always was; for though it was a long time

ago, she could not get the idea out of her head that he must have said

something to Lucilla before he went off to India; and he had a way of

asking about his cousin in his letters; and though she would have done

anything to secure her boy's happiness, and was on the whole rather fond

of her niece, yet the idea of the objections her brother-in-law would

have to such a match, excited to the uttermost the smouldering pride

which existed in Aunt Jemima's heart. He was better off, and had always

been better off, than her poor John--and he had robust health and an

awful scorn of the coddling, to which, as he said, she had subjected his

brother; and he had money enough to keep _his_ child luxuriously, and

make her the leader of Carlingford society, while _her_ poor boy had to

go to India and put himself in the way of all kinds of unknown diseases

and troubles. Mrs John was profoundly anxious to promote her son's

happiness, and would gladly have given every penny she had to get him

married to Lucilla, "if that was what he wanted," as she justly said;

but to have her brother-in-law object to him, and suggest that he was

not good enough, was the one thing she could not bear. She was thinking

about this, and whether Tom really had not said anything, and whether

Lucilla cared for him, and what amid all these perplexities she should

do, while she dressed for dinner; and, at the same time, she felt her

palpitation worse than usual, and knew Dr Marjoribanks would smile his

grim smile if she complained, so that her visit to Grange Lane, though

Lucilla meant to take good care of her, was not altogether unmingled

delight to Mrs John.

But, nevertheless, Dr Marjoribanks's dinner-table was always a cheerful

sight, even when it was only a dinner-party of three; for then naturally

they used the round table, and were as snug as possible. Lucilla wore

her knot of green and violet ribbons on her white dress, to her aunt's

great amazement, and the Doctor had all the air of a man who had been

out in the world all day and returned in the evening with something to

tell--which is a thing which gives great animation to a family party.

Mrs John Marjoribanks had been out of all that sort of thing for a long

time. She had been living quite alone in a widowed, forlorn way, and had

half forgotten how pleasant it was to have somebody coming in with a

breath of fresh air about him and the day's budget of news--and it had

an animating effect upon her, even though she was not fond of her

brother-in-law. Dr Marjoribanks inquired about Tom in the most fatherly

way, and what he was about, and how things were looking for him, and

whether he intended to come home. "Much better not," the Doctor

said,--"I should certainly advise him not, if he asked me. He has got

over all the worst of it, and now is his time to do something worth

while."

"Tom is not one to think merely of worldly advantages," said his mother,

with a fine instinct of opposition. "I don't think he would care to

waste all the best part of his life making money. I'd rather see him

come home and be happy, for my part, even if he were not so rich----"

"If all men were happy that came home," said the Doctor, and then he

gave a rather grim chuckle. "Somebody has come home that you did not

reckon on, Lucilla. I am sorry to spoil sport; but I don't see how you

are to get out of it. There is another address on the walls to-day

besides that one of yours----"

"Oh, I hope there will be six addresses!" cried Miss Marjoribanks; "if

we had it all our own way it would be no fun;--a Tory, and a Whig, and

a--did you say Radical, Aunt Jemima? And then, what is a Conservative?"

asked Lucilla, though certainly she had a very much better notion of

political matters than Aunt Jemima had, to say the least.

"I wonder how you can encourage any poor man to go into Parliament,"

said Mrs John; "so trying for the health as it must be, and an end to

everything like domestic life. If it was my Tom I would almost rather he

stayed in India. He looks strong, but there is never any confidence to

be put in young men looking strong. Oh, I know you do not agree with me,

Doctor; but I have had sad reason for my way of thinking," said the poor

lady. As for the Doctor, he did not accept the challenge thus thrown to

him. Tom Marjoribanks was not the foremost figure in the world in his

eyes, as the absent wanderer was in that of his mother; and he had not

yet unburdened himself of what he had to say.

"I am not saying anything in favour of going into Parliament," said the

Doctor. "I'd sooner be a barge-man on the canal, if it was me. I am only

telling Lucilla what she has before her. I don't know when I have been

more surprised. Of course you were not looking for _that_," said Dr

Marjoribanks. He had kept back until the things were taken off the

table, for he had a benevolent disinclination to spoil anybody's dinner.

Now, when all the serious part of the meal was over, he tossed the

_Carlingford Gazette_ across the table, folded so that she could not

miss what he wanted her to see. Lucilla took it up lightly between her

finger and thumb; for the Carlingford papers were inky and badly

printed, and soiled a lady's hand. She took it up delicately without

either alarm or surprise, knowing very well that the Blues and the

Yellows were not likely without a struggle to give up to the new

standard, which was violet and green. But what she saw on that inky

broadsheet overwhelmed in an instant Miss Marjoribanks's

self-possession. She turned pale, though her complexion was, if

possible, fresher than ever, and even shivered in her chair, though her

nerves were so steady. Could it be a trick to thwart and startle her? or

could it be true? She lifted her eyes to her father with a look of

horror-stricken inquiry, but all that she met in return was a certain

air of amusement and triumph, which struck her at the tenderest point.

He was not sorry nor sympathetic, nor did he care at all for the sudden

shock she had sustained. On the contrary, he was laughing within himself

at the utterly unexpected complication. It was cruel, but it was

salutary, and restored her self-command in a moment. She might have

given way under kindness, but this look of satisfaction over her

discomfiture brought Lucilla to herself.