It was now nearly one o’clock, and it was quite possible that Tom, as well as herself, might be on the way to Grange Lane; but Lucilla, who, as she said, made a point of never going against the prejudices of society, made up her mind to remain sweetly unconscious of the hour of luncheon, unless some lady came to keep her company. But then Miss Marjoribanks was always lucky, as she said. A quarter of an hour before Tom applied for admission, Miss Bury came to pay Lucilla a visit. She had been visiting in her district all the morning, and was very easily persuaded to repose herself a little; and then, naturally, she was anxious about her young friend’s spiritual condition, and the effect upon her mind of a year’s residence abroad. She was asking whether Lucilla had not seen something soul-degrading and dishonouring to religion in all the mummeries of Popery; and Miss Marjoribanks, who was perfectly orthodox, had replied to the question in the most satisfactory manner; when Tom made his appearance, looking rather sheepish and reluctant, and followed by the “somebody amusing” whom Lucilla had commissioned him to bring. He had struggled against his fate, poor fellow! but when it happens to be a man’s instinct to do what he is told, he can no more resist it than if it was a criminal impulse. Tom entered with his amusing companion, who had been chosen with care, and was very uninviting to look at; and by and by Miss Bury, with the most puzzled looks, found herself listening to gossip about the theatres and all kinds of profane subjects. “I think they are going to hang that fellow that killed the tailor,” said the amusing man; “that will stir you up a little in Carlingford, I should suppose. It is as good as a play for a country town. Of course, there will be a party that will get up a memorial, and prove that a man so kindhearted never existed out of paradise; and there will be another party who will prove him to be insane; and then at the end all the blackguards within a hundred miles will crowd into Carlingford, and the fellow will be hanged, as he deserves to be; but I assure you it’s a famous amusement for a country town.”
“Sir,” said Miss Bury, with a tremulous voice, for her feelings had overcome her, “when you speak of amusement, does it ever occur to you what will become of his miserable soul?”
“I assure you, wretches of that description have no souls,” said the young barrister, “or else, of course, I would not permit myself to speak so freely. It is a conclusion I have come to not rashly, but after many opportunities of observing,” the young man went on with solemnity; “on the whole, my opinion is, that this is the great difference between one portion of mankind and the other: that description of being, you may take my word for it, has no soul.”
“I never take anybody’s word for what is so plainly stated in the Holy Scriptures,” said Miss Bury; “I never heard anyone utter such a terrible idea. I am sure I don’t want to defend a—a murderer,” cried the Rector’s sister, with agitation; “but I have heard of persons in that unfortunate position coming to a heavenly frame of mind, and giving every evidence of being truly converted. The law may take their lives, but it is an awful thing—a truly dreadful thing,” said Miss Bury, trembling all over, “to try to take away their soul.”
“Oh, nonsense, Lucilla. By Jove! he does not mean that, you know,” said Tom, interposing to relieve his friend.
“Do you believe in Jove, Mr. Thomas Marjoribanks,” said Miss Bury, looking him in an alarming manner full in the face.
The unfortunate Tom grew red and then he grew green under this question and that awful look. “No, Miss Bury, I can’t say I do,” he answered humbly; and the amusing man was so much less brotherly than Tom that he burst into unsympathetic laughter. As for Lucilla, it was the first real check she had sustained in the beginning of her career. There could not have been a more unfortunate contretemps, and there is no telling how disastrous the effect might have been, had not her courage and coolness, not to say her
