“I have been thinking a great deal about you lately, and wishing very much to see you,” said Lucilla. “Did not Mrs. Woodburn tell you?—I think I should have written to you had I known your address.”
“And I am sure you would have made me the happiest of men,” said the victim, with rueful politeness. “What had I done to deserve such a privilege? But my sister did not tell me; she left me to hear it from your own—”
“Yes,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a certain solemnity, interrupting him; “I have been thinking a great deal—and hearing a great deal about you, Mr. Cavendish.” When she had said this Lucilla sighed, and her sigh found a terrible echo in her hearer’s bosom. She knew that he turned green in the darkness as he gave an anxious look at her. But he was too much alarmed to give her an opportunity of studying his face.
“Hearing of me,” he said, and tried to laugh; “what have my kind friends been saying?” and for one moment the sufferer tried to delude himself that it was some innocent gossip about Barbara which might be circulating in Grange Lane.
“Hush,” said Lucilla, “don’t laugh, please; for I want to have a very serious talk. I have been hearing about you from some very, very old friends, Mr. Cavendish—not anything about this, you know,” Miss Marjoribanks added, waving her hand in the direction of Grove Street. And then Barbara Lake and everything connected with her vanished like a shadow from the unfortunate man’s mind. It was horribly ungrateful on his part, but it was, as Miss Marjoribanks would have said, just what might have been expected, and how They always behave. He had no longer any time or patience for the object which had been giving occupation and interest to his solitude. He woke up in a moment, and gave a passing curse to his folly, and faced the real danger as he best could.
“You must be making a mistake, Miss Marjoribanks,” he said, with some bitterness; “it should have been, very, very old enemy. I know who it is. It is that Archdeacon you ladies make such a fuss about. It is he who has been telling lies about me,” said Mr. Cavendish. He breathed a deep hard breath as he spoke, and the blood came back to his face. Perhaps for the first moment he felt satisfied, and breathed freer after it was over; but at the same time it was very dreadful to him to feel that he was found out, and that henceforth Grange Lane would shut its doors and avert its countenance. “If you take his word for it, I may give in at once,” he continued, bitterly. “A parson will say anything; they are as bad as—as women.” This the poor man said in his despair, because he did not know what he was saying; for in reality he knew that women had been his best friends, and that he had still a chance, if the judgment was to rest with them.
“You are very ungrateful to say so,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “but it is only because you are excited, I suppose. No, Mr. Cavendish, it was not the Archdeacon; on the contrary, it was a lady, and she said nothing but good of you,” said Lucilla; and then there was a pause. As for Mr. Cavendish, it would be altogether impossible to describe the state of his mind. He was like a man suddenly reprieved, but giddy with the shock, and feeling the halter still round his neck, and knowing that he had himself undermined the ground on which he was standing. It was Lucilla who supported him in the shock of the moment, for all his self-command could not keep him from a momentary shiver and stagger when he found that things were not so bad as he thought.
“A lady, and she said nothing but good!” he muttered, under his breath; and then he made an effort to recover himself. “Pardon me, I cannot guess who my unknown friend may be. It is very soothing to one’s feelings to be spoken well of by a lady,” said Mr. Cavendish, and he laughed again in a discordant unsteady way. Lucilla regarded him through all these fluctuations with natural pity, and at the same time with the calmness of a knowledge which was aware of all and had nothing more to discover; and at the end Mr. Cavendish perceived her calm, and the absence of wonder and curiosity in her face, and began to perceive that he had something very serious to deal with—more serious even than he had at first supposed.
“I am going to tell you all about it,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “but in the meantime wait a minute and let me speak to you. I have something very serious to say.”
It was for this they stopped short at the foot of Grange Lane just where the land was already parcelled out for St. Roque’s. What Lucilla was going to say was too important to be spoken while walking, and she withdrew her hand from Mr. Cavendish’s arm. They were both so much absorbed that they did not see anybody coming, nor indeed had any attention to spare for external affairs. The blood had deserted Mr. Cavendish’s face, and he was once more green with anxiety and inquietude. He stood facing her, feeling that the
