And by this time Lucilla’s curiosity was beginning again to get the upper hand. If she only could have escaped, it would have been impossible for her cousin to have renewed the conversation; and luckily he was to leave Carlingford the same evening; but then a man is always an inconsequent creature, and not to be calculated on. This time, instead of obeying as usual, Tom—having, as Miss Marjoribanks afterwards described (but only in the strictest confidence), “worked himself up to it”—set himself directly in her way, and seized upon both her hands.
“Lucilla,” cried the unlucky fellow, “is it possible that you really have misunderstood me all this time? Do you mean to say that you don’t know? Oh, Lucilla, listen just five minutes. It isn’t because I am your cousin. I wish to Heaven I was not your cousin, but someone you had never seen before. I mean I want you to consent to—to—to—marry me, Lucilla. That is what I mean. I am called to the bar, and I can work for you, and make a reputation. Lucilla, listen to what I have to say.”
Miss Marjoribanks left her hands in his with a calmness which froze poor Tom’s heart in his breast. She did not even take the trouble to draw them away. “Have you gone out of your senses, Tom?” she asked, in her sensible way; and she lifted her eyes to the face of the poor young fellow who was in love, with an inquiring look, as if she felt a little anxious about him. “If you have any feeling as if fever was coming on,” said Lucilla, “I think you should go upstairs and lie down a little till papa comes in. I heard there had been some cases down about the canal. I hope it is not the assizes that have been too much for you.” When Miss Marjoribanks said this, she herself took fast hold of Tom’s hands with a motherly grasp to feel if they were hot, and looked into his eyes with a certain serious inspection, which, under the circumstances, poor fellow! was enough to drive him out of the little rationality he had left.
Tom was so far carried away by his frenzy, that he gave her a little shake in his impatience. “You are trying to drive me mad, Lucilla!” cried the young man. “I have got no fever. It is only you who are driving me out of my senses. This time you must hear me. I will not let you go till you have given me an answer. I am called to the bar, and I have begun my Career,” said Tom, making a pause for breath. “I knew you would have laughed at me when I was depending on my mother; but now all that is over, Lucilla. I have loved you as long as I can remember; and I always thought—that you—cared for me a little. If you will have me, there is nothing I could not do,” said Tom, who thoroughly believed what he was saying; “and if you will not have me, I will not answer for the consequences. If I go off to India, or if I go to the bad—”
“Tom,” said Lucilla solemnly, and this time she drew away her hands, “if you ever want to get married, I think the very best thing you can do is to go to India. As for marrying just now at your age, you know you might as well jump into the sea. You need not be vexed,” said Miss Marjoribanks, in her motherly way. “I would not speak so if I was not your best friend. As for marrying me, you know it is ridiculous. I have not the least intention of marrying anybody. If I had thought of that, I need never have come home at all. As for your going to the bad, I am not afraid of that. If I were to let you carry on with such a ridiculous idea, I should never forgive myself. It would be just as sensible to go into a lunatic asylum at once. It is very lucky for you that you said this to me,” Lucilla went on, “and not to one of the girls that think it great fun to be married. And if I were you, Tom, I would go and pack my things. You know you are always too late; and don’t jump on your portmanteau and make such a dreadful noise if it won’t shut, but ring the bell for Thomas. You know we are to dine at half-past five today, to give you time for the train.”
These were the last words Tom Marjoribanks heard as Lucilla left the room. She ran up to the drawing-room without losing a minute, and burst in upon the vacant place where Mr. Holden had stood so long waiting for her. To be sure, Miss Marjoribanks’s forebodings were so far fulfilled that the St. Cecilia, which she meant to have over the piano, was hung quite in the other corner of the room, by reason of being just the same size as another picture at the opposite angle, which the workmen, sternly symmetrical, thought it necessary to “match.” But, after all, that was a trifling defect. She stood in the middle of the room, and surveyed the walls, well pleased, with a heart which
