Miss Marjoribanks

of the two candidates, and addressed herself candidly and impartially to the rights of the subject. Mr. Cavendish was disposed, as we have said, to be pathetic and sentimental, and to speak of the claims the borough had upon his affections, and the eagerness with which he had rushed home at the earliest possible moment to present himself to them. If poor old Mr. Chiltern had been King Bomba, or a gloomy Oriental tyrant, keeping all possible reformers and successors banished from his dominions, the new candidate could not have spoken with more pathos. It was a sort of thing which tells among the imaginative part of the community, or so, at least, most people think; and Miss Marjoribanks was moved by it for the first moment; but then her enlightened mind asserted its rights. She said to herself that Mr. Cavendish might have come home at any hour, by any steamboat; that Calais and Boulogne, and even Dieppe, were as open to him as if he had been an actual refugee, and that consequently there was nothing particular to be pathetic about. And then, if the town had such claims on his affections, why had he stayed so long away? These two rationalistic questions dispersed the first attendrissement which had begun to steal over Lucilla’s mind. When she came to this conclusion, her difficulties cleared away. She had no reason to go back from her engagements and reject that intimation which had so impressed it on her, that Mr. Ashburton was the man. It was a sacrifice which ancient truth and friendship did not demand, for verity was not in the document she had just been reading, and that appeal to sentiment was nothing more than what is generally called humbug. “He might have been living here all the time,” Lucilla said to herself; “he might have had much stronger claims upon our affections; if he had wanted, he might have come back ages ago, and not let people struggle on alone.” When this view of the subject occurred to her, Lucilla felt more indignation than sympathy. And then, as Dr. Marjoribanks had done, she turned to the calm utterance of her own candidate⁠—the man who was the only man for Carlingford⁠—and that sweet sense of having given sound counsel, and of having at last met with someone capable of carrying it out, which makes up for so many failures, came like balm to Lucilla’s bosom. There was nothing more necessary; the commotion in her mind calmed down, and the tranquillity of undisturbed conviction came in its place. And it was with this sense of certainty that she put on her bonnet and issued forth, though it snowed a little, and was a very wintry day, on Mr. Ashburton’s behalf, to try her fortune in Grange Lane.

She went to Mrs. Chiley’s, who was now very old, poor old lady! and feeble, and did not like to leave her sofa. Not but what she could leave the sofa, she said to her friends, but at that time of the year, and at her time of life, it was comfortable. The sofa was wheeled to the side of the fire, and Mrs. Chiley reclined upon it, covered with knitted rugs of the brightest colours, which her young friends all worked for her. The last one arrived was what used to be called an Afghanistan blanket, done in stripes of all sorts of pretty tints, which was a present from Mrs. Beverley. “Her work, she says, Lucilla,” said the old lady; “but we know what sort of soft dawdling woman she is, and it must have been the Archdeacon’s nieces, you know.” But still it had the place of honour at present, covering Mrs. Chiley’s feet, and affording something to talk about when anyone came in. And by her side was a little table, upon which stood one China rose, in a glass of water⁠—a pale rose, almost as pale as her soft old cheeks, and chilled like them by the approaching frost. And the fire burned with an officious cheerfulness at her elbow, as if it thought nothing of such accidental circumstances as winter and old age. To be sure this was a reflection which never came into Mrs. Chiley’s head, who was, on the contrary, very thankful for the fire, and said it was like a companion. “And I often think, my dear, how do the poor people get on, especially if they are old and sick, they have no fires to keep them cheerful in this dreadful weather,” the kind old lady would say. She did say so now when Lucilla came in, glowing with cold and her rapid walk, and with a flake or two of snow slowly melting on her sealskin cloak. Perhaps it was not a sentiment the Colonel agreed with, for he gave a humph and a little hoist of his shoulders, as if in protest, being himself a good deal limited in his movements, and not liking to own it, by the wintry torpor within his big old frame, and the wintry weather outside.

“Come and tell us all the news, Lucilla, my darling,” Mrs. Chiley said, as she drew down her young friend’s glowing face to her own, and gave her one of her lingering kisses; “I felt sure you would come and tell us everything. I said it would not be like Lucilla if she didn’t. We know nothing but the fact, you know⁠—not another word. Make haste and tell us everything, my dear.”

“But I don’t know anything,” said Miss Marjoribanks. “Of course you mean about Mr. Cavendish. I saw it in the papers, like everybody else, but I don’t know anything more.”

And then Mrs. Chiley’s countenance fell. She was not very strong, poor old lady, and she could have cried, as she said afterwards. “Ah, well, I suppose there is not time,” she said, after a little pause; “I suppose he has not got here from Dover yet⁠—one always forgets