“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 fingertips; 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.
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
