Miss Marjoribanks

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 homemade, 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 goodbye 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