Miss Marjoribanks

any particular reason for taking Mr. Ashburton’s part so warmly. She thought with justice that Miss Marjoribanks was looking brighter and better, and had more of her old animation than she had shown for a long time⁠—which arose from the simple fact that she had something in hand, though the old lady thought it might have a more touching and delicate motive. If that was the case, it would make a great difference. Mrs. Chiley was no longer able to go out in the evening, and had to be dependent on other people’s observation for a knowledge of what happened⁠—and she was wounded by a sense that her young friend had not been appreciated as her worth deserved. If Mr. Ashburton had the sense to see what was for his own advantage, it would be a frightful thing, as Mrs. Chiley said to herself, if Lucilla’s friends should fly in his face. And though it was a hard trial to give up Mr. Cavendish, still if anything of the kind had happened⁠—Thus it will be evident that Lucilla’s visit, though it was not a long one, nor the least in the world an argumentative visit, was not without its fruit.

She went up Grange Lane again cheerful and warm in her sealskin coat. It was a thing that suited her remarkably well, and corresponded with her character, and everybody knows how comfortable they are. The snowflakes fell softly, one at a time, and melted away to nothing upon her sleeves and her shoulders without leaving any trace⁠—and Lucilla, with the chill air blowing in her face, and those feathery messengers in the air, could not but feel that her walk and the general readiness which she felt to face all kinds of objections and difficulties, and to make a sacrifice of her own feelings, had in them a certain magnanimous and heroic element. For after all she had no particular reason, as Mrs. Chiley said. Mr. Ashburton was a dry man, and of very little use in a social point of view, and had never paid her any attention to speak of, nor at all put himself forth as a candidate for her favour. If he had done so, she would not have felt that thrill of utter disinterestedness which kept her as warm within as her sealskin did without.

There was not a soul to be seen in Grange Lane at that moment in the snow, which came on faster and faster, but one of Mr. Wentworth’s (who at that time was new in St. Roque’s) gray sisters, and another lady who was coming down, as quickly as Lucilla was going up, by the long line of garden walls. The gentlemen were either at business or at their club, or keeping themselves snug indoors; and it was only these devoted women who braved the elements outside. The figure in the gray cloak was occupied simply with the poor people, and that is not our present business; but the other two were otherwise inspired. Mr. Cavendish, who had lately arrived, had not been able to make up his mind to face the weather; but his sister was of a different way of thinking. She was not of half the capacity of Lucilla, but still she felt that something ought to be done, and that there was not a moment to be lost. When she saw it was Miss Marjoribanks that was advancing to meet her, a momentary chill came over Mrs. Woodburn. She was thinking so much of her own errand that she could not but jump at the idea that nothing less important could have induced Lucilla to be out of doors on such a day; and her heart beat loud as the two drew near each other. Was it an unexpected and generous auxiliary, or was it a foe accomplished and formidable? For one thing, she was not coming out of Mr. Centum’s, where Mrs. Woodburn herself was going, which at least was a relief. As they came nearer the two ladies instinctively looked to their weapons. They had met already in many a little passage of arms, but nothing like this had ever occurred to them before. If they were to work in union, Mrs. Woodburn felt that they would carry all before them; and if not, then it must be a struggle unto the death.

“Is it really you, Lucilla?” she said; “I could not believe my eyes. What can have brought you out of doors on such a day? You that have everything your own way, and no call to exert yourself⁠—”

“I have been to see Mrs. Chiley,” said Lucilla sweetly; “when the weather is bad she sees nobody, and she is always so pleased to have me. Her rheumatism is not so bad, thank you⁠—though I am sure if this weather should last⁠—”

“You would see Mrs. Beverley’s blanket,” said Mrs. Woodburn, who was a little nervous, though perhaps that might only be the cold; “but we know what sort of woman she is, and it must have been the Archdeacon’s nieces, my dear. Do turn back with me a moment, Lucilla; or I shall go with you. I want to speak to you. Of course you have heard of Harry’s coming home?”

“I saw it in the papers,” said Miss Marjoribanks, whose perfect serenity offered a curious contrast to her companion’s agitation. “I am sure I shall be very glad to see him again. I hope he will come to dinner on Thursday as he used to do. It will be quite nice to see him in his old place.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “but that was not what I was thinking of. You know you used always to say he ought to be in Parliament; and he has always kept thinking of it since he went away⁠—and thinking, I am sure, that it would please you,” said the poor woman, faltering; for Lucilla listened with a smile that was quite unresponsive, and did not change countenance in the least,