Thoughts very different, but even more disturbing, were going on at the same time in Grange Lane. Poor Mr. Cavendish, for one thing—upbraided by everybody’s looks, and even by some people’s words—feeling himself condemned, censured, and despised on all sides—smarting under his sister’s wild reproaches and her husband’s blunt commentary thereupon—had slunk away from their society after dinner, not seeing now why he should bear it any longer. “By Jove! if it had only been for her sake, you might have left over your philandering for another night,” Mr. Woodburn had said, in his coarse way; and it was all Mr. Cavendish could do to refrain from saying that one time and another he had done quite enough for her sake, but he did not see any reason why he should put up with it any longer. He strolled out of doors, though the town was still in commotion, and could not but think of the sympathetic countenance which had paled today at sight of the numbers of the poll. She, by Heaven! might have had reason to find fault with him, and she had never done so; she had never perceived that he was stout, or changed from old times. As he entertained these thoughts, his steps going down Grange Lane gradually quickened, but he did not say to himself where he was going. He went a very roundabout way, as if he did not mean it, as far as St. Roque’s, and then up by the lane to the far-off desert extremity of Grove Street. It was simply to walk off his excitement and disappointment, and free himself from criticism for that evening at least; but as he walked he could not help thinking that Barbara, if she were well dressed, would still be a fine woman, that her voice was magnificent in its way, and that about Naples, perhaps, or the baths of Lucca, or in Germany, or the south of France, a man might be able to get on well enough with such a companion, where society was not so exacting or stiff-starched as in England. And the end was, that the feet of the defeated candidate carried him, ere ever he was aware, with some kind of independent volition of their own, to Mr. Lake’s door—and it may be here said, once for all, that this visit was decisive of Mr. Cavendish’s fate.
This will not be regarded as anything but a digression by such of Lucilla’s friends as may be solicitous to know what she was making up her mind to under the circumstances; but the truth is that Lucilla’s historian cannot, any more than Miss Marjoribanks herself could, refrain from a certain regret over Mr. Cavendish. That was what he came to, poor man! after all his experiences; a man who was capable of so much better things—a man even who, if he had made a right use of his opportunities, might once have had as good a chance as any other of marrying Lucilla herself. If there ever was an instance of chances thrown away and lost opportunities, surely here was that lamentable example. And thus, poor man! all his hopes and all his chances came to an end.
As for Miss Marjoribanks herself, it would be vain to say that this was not a very exciting moment for her. If there ever could be said to be a time when she temporarily lost the entire sway and control of herself and her feelings, it would be at this crisis. She went about all that evening like a woman in a dream. For the first time in her life she not only did not know what she would do, but she did not know what she wanted to do. There could now be no mistaking what Mr. Ashburton’s intentions were. Up to a very recent time Lucilla had been able to take refuge in her mourning, and conclude that she had no present occasion to disturb herself. But now that calm was over. She could not conceal from herself that it was in her power by a word to reap all the advantages of the election, and to step at once into the only position which she had ever felt might be superior to her own in Carlingford. At last this great testimonial of female merit was to be laid at her feet. A man thoroughly eligible in every way—moderately rich, well connected, able to restore to her all, and more than all, the advantages which she had lost at her father’s death—a man, above all, who was Member for Carlingford, was going to offer himself to her acceptance, and put his happiness in her hands; and while she was so well aware of this, she was not at all so well aware what answer she would make him. Lucilla’s mind was in such a commotion as she sat over her embroidery, that she thought it strange
