“Yes, my dear, I hope so,” said Mrs. Chiley, but at the same time her disappointment was evident. “It is very nice, thank you—your tea is always nice, Lucilla—but it was not that I was thinking of. I can’t understand how it is, I am sure. I saw him today with my own eyes, and could not help seeing how anxious he was looking! I hope, I do hope, you have not been so cruel as to refuse him, Lucilla—and all for something that is not his fault, poor fellow, or that could be explained, you may be sure.”
Miss Marjoribanks grew more and more surprised as she listened. She put away the kettle without filling the teapot, and left her own cup standing untasted, and went and sat down on the stool by Mrs. Chiley’s feet. “Tell me whom I have refused this time, for I don’t know anything about it,” said Lucilla; and then her visitor burst forth.
“It must be all that creature’s fault! He told me he was coming here; and to tell the truth, I stood and watched him, for you know how interested I am, my dear; and then a little while after he met that Barbara. Oh, Lucilla, why were you ever so foolish as to have her here? I told you how it would end when you brought those artist people about your house. They are all a set of adventurers!” cried Mrs. Chiley. “I saw them meet, and I was so disgusted that I did not know what I was doing; but he passed her as nicely as possible. Just a civil word, you know, and then he was past. Just as I would have done myself; for it is always best not to be uncivil to anybody. I could see her standing as if she had been struck with lightning; and naturally, Lucilla, I never thought anything else than that he had come here, and that all was right between you. Oh, my dear, I hope you are sure you have not refused him,” Mrs. Chiley said, piteously; “anyhow, Lucilla, you need not mind telling me. I may be sorry, but I will not blame you, my dear.”
“I have not refused anybody,” said Lucilla, with a modest innocence that it was a pleasure to see; “but, dear Mrs. Chiley,” she continued, raising her drooping eyelids, “I think you make a mistake about Mr. Cavendish. My own opinion is that Barbara would make him a very nice wife. Oh, please, don’t be angry! I don’t mean to say, you know, that I think her quite what one would call nice—for oneself. But then the gentlemen have such strange ways of thinking. Many a girl whom we could not put up with is quite popular with Them,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a certain mild wonder at the inexplicable creatures whom she thus condescended to discuss. “I suppose they have a different standard, you know; and for my part, I would advise Mr. Cavendish to marry Barbara. I think it is the best thing he could do.”
“Lucilla!” cried Mrs. Chiley, almost with a shriek of horror. She thought, as was perhaps natural, that there was some pique in what her young companion said; not doing Miss Marjoribanks justice—as indeed few people did—for that perfect truthfulness which it was Lucilla’s luck always to be able to maintain. Mrs. Chiley thought it was her young friend’s maidenly pride and determination not to take up the part of a woman slighted or jilted. “You may refuse him, my dear, if your heart is not with him,” said the old lady; “but I would not be so hard upon him as that, poor fellow. You may say what you please, but I always will think him nice, Lucilla. I know I ought to be on the Archdeacon’s side,” said Mrs. Chiley, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; “but I am an old woman, and I like my old friends best. Oh, Lucilla, it is not kind of you to keep up appearances with me. I wish you would give way a little. It would do you good, my darling; and you know I might be both your grandmothers, Lucilla,” she cried, putting her arm round her favourite. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she gave her old friend a close embrace, which was the only thing that even her genius could suggest to do.
“I have always you,” said Lucilla, with touching eloquence; and then she freed herself a little from Mrs. Chiley’s arms. “I don’t say, perhaps, that everybody will receive her; but I mean to make an effort, for my part; and I shall certainly tell Mr. Cavendish so if he ever speaks of it to me. As for Mr. Beverley, he is going to be married too. Did not you hear? He told me all about it himself one day,” said Miss Marjoribanks; “and I will ask him tonight if I may not tell you who the lady is. It is quite a little romance, and I hope we shall have two marriages, and it will make it quite gay for the winter. When you know all about it,” Lucilla added tenderly, by way of breaking the shock, “I am sure you will be pleased.”
But instead of being pleased, Mrs. Chiley was speechless for the moment. Her fresh old cheeks grew ashy with dismay and horror. “The Archdeacon too!” she cried, gasping for breath. “Oh, Lucilla, my dear?—and you?” Then the kind old lady held Miss Marjoribanks fast, and sobbed over her in the despair of the moment. To think, after all the pains that had been taken, and all the hopes and all the speculations, that neither the one nor the other was coming to anything! “If it should be that General, after all—and I cannot abide him,” sobbed Lucilla’s anxious friend. But Miss Marjoribanks’s genius carried her through this trial, as well as through all
