As for Tom, he had to be disposed of summarily. “Do go away,” Miss Marjoribanks said, in her straightforward way. “You can come back to luncheon if you like;—that is to say, if you can pick up anybody that is very amusing, you may bring him here about half-past one, and if any of my friends have come to call by that time, I will give you lunch; but it must be somebody very amusing, or I will have nothing to say to you,” said Lucilla. And with this dismissal Tom Marjoribanks departed, not more content than the Doctor; for, to be sure, the last thing in the world which the poor fellow thought of was to bring somebody who was amusing, to injure his chances with Lucilla. Tom, like most other people, was utterly incapable of fathoming the grand conception which inspired Miss Marjoribanks. When she told him that it was the object of her life to be a comfort to papa, he believed it to a certain extent, but it never occurred to him that filial devotion, though beautiful to contemplate, would preserve Lucilla’s heart from the ordinary dangers of youth, or that she was at all in earnest in postponing all matrimonial intentions until she was nine-and-twenty, and had begun to “go off” a little. So he went away disconsolate enough, wavering between his instinct of obedience and his desire of being in Lucilla’s company, and a desperate determination never to be the means of injuring himself by presenting to her anybody who was very amusing. All Miss Marjoribanks’s monde, as it happened, was a little out of humour that day. She had gone on so far triumphantly that it had now come to be necessary that she should receive a little check in her victorious career.
When Tom was disposed of, Miss Marjoribanks put on her hat and went down Grange Lane to carry her invitation to Mrs. Chiley, who naturally was very much pleased to come. “But, my dear, you must tell me what to put on,” the old lady said. “I don’t think I have had anything new since you were home last. I have heard so much about Dr. Marjoribanks’s dinners that I feel a little excited, as if I was going to be made a freemason or something. There is my brown, you know, that I wear at home when we have anybody—and my black velvet; and then there is my French gray that I got for Mary Chiley’s marriage.”
“Dear Mrs. Chiley,” said Lucilla, “it doesn’t matter in the least what you wear; there are only to be gentlemen, you know, and one never dresses for gentlemen. You must keep that beautiful black velvet for another time.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Chiley, “I am long past that sort of thing—but the men think, you know, that it is always for them we dress.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “their vanity is something dreadful—but it is one of my principles never to dress unless there are ladies. A white frock, high in the neck,” said Lucilla, with sweet simplicity—“as for anything else, it would be bad style.”
Mrs. Chiley gave her young visitor a very cordial kiss when she went away. “The sense she has!” said the old lady; but at the same time the Colonel’s wife was so old-fashioned that this contemptuous way of treating “The Gentlemen” puzzled her unprogressive intelligence. She thought it was superhuman virtue on Lucilla’s part, nearly incredible, and yet established by proofs so incontestable that it would be a shame to doubt it; and she felt ashamed of herself—she who might have been a grandmother, had such been the will of Providence—for lingering five minutes undecided between her two best caps. “I dare say Lucilla does not spend so much time on such vanity, and she only nineteen,” said the penitent old lady. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she returned up Grange Lane with a mind at ease, and that consciousness of superior endowments which gives amiability and expansion even to the countenance. She did not give any money to the beggar who at that period infested Grange Lane with her six children, for that was contrary to those principles of political economy which she had studied with such success at Mount Pleasant; but she stopped and asked her name, and where she lived, and promised to inquire into her case. “If you are honest and want to work, I will try to find you something to do,” said Miss Marjoribanks; which, to be sure, was a threat appalling enough to keep her free from any further molestation on the part of that interesting family. But Lucilla, to do her justice, felt it equally natural that beneficence should issue from her in this manner as in that other mode of feeding the hungry which she was willing to adopt at half-past one, and had solemnly engaged herself to fulfil at seven o’clock. She went up after that to Mr. Holden’s, and had a most interesting conversation, and found among his stores a delicious damask, softly, spiritually green, of which, to his great astonishment, she tried the effect in one of the great mirrors which ornamented the shop. “It is just the tint I want,” Lucilla said, when she had applied that unusual test; and she left the fashionable upholsterer of Carlingford in a state of some uncertainty whether it was curtains or dresses that Miss Marjoribanks meant to have made.
Perhaps this confusion arose from the fact that Lucilla’s mind was occupied in discussing the question whether she should not go round by Grove Street, and try that duet again with Barbara, and invite her to Grange Lane in the evening to electrify the little company; or whether, in case this latter idea might not be
