“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
