“You know best, papa,” she said cheerfully, as she poured him out his coffee: “if there is anybody who is ill and can’t come, it must be your fault—but I did not hear that anyone was ill.”
“Nor I,” said the Doctor, with a quiet laugh; and he could not help thinking it would be good sport to see Cavendish come into the drawing-room all by himself without any support, and make his appearance before Miss Marjoribanks, and do his best to be agreeable, with an awful consciousness of his bad behaviour, and nobody sufficiently benevolent to help him out. The Doctor thought it would serve him right, but yet he was not sufficiently irritated nor sufficiently sympathetic to lose any of the humour of the situation; and it was with a little zest, as for something especially piquant, that he looked forward to the evening. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she too recognised the importance of the occasion. She resolved to produce that evening a new plat, which had occupied a corner of her busy mind for some time past. It was a crisis which called for a new step in advance. She sat down by the window after breakfast with various novel combinations floating in her creative brain; and while she was revolving these ideas in her mind, Nancy came in with more than her usual briskness. It is true that Lucilla had her household well in hand, and possessed the faculty of government to a remarkable extent; but still, under the best of circumstances, it was a serious business to propose a new dish to Nancy. Dr. Marjoribanks’s factotum was a woman of genius in her way, and by no means unenlightened or an enemy of progress; but then she had a weakness common to many persons of superior intelligence and decided character. When there was anything new to be introduced, Nancy liked to be herself the godmother of the interesting novelty; for, to be sure, it was her place, and Miss Lucilla, though she was very clever, was not to be expected to understand what came in best with the other dishes for a dinner. “I ain’t one as goes just upon fish and flesh and fowl, like some as call themselves cooks,” Nancy said. “If I have a failing, it’s for things as suits. When it’s brown, make it brown, and don’t be mean about the gravy-beef—that’s my principle; and when it ain’t brown, mind what you’re a-doing of—and don’t go and throw a heap of entrys and things at a gentleman’s head without no ’armony. I always says to Miss Lucilla as ’armony’s the thing; and when I’ve set it all straight in my mind, I ain’t one as likes to be put out,” Nancy would add, with a gleam in her eye which betokened mischief. Miss Marjoribanks was much too sensible not to be aware of this peculiarity; and accordingly she cleared her throat with something as near nervousness as was possible to Lucilla before she opened her lips to propose the innovation. Miss Marjoribanks, as a general rule, did not show much nervousness in her dealings with her prime minister, any more than in her demeanour towards the less important members of society; and consequently Nancy remarked the momentary timidity, and a flash of sympathy and indignation took the place of her usual impulse of defiance.
“I heard as master said, there was some gentleman as wasn’t a-coming,” said Nancy. “Not as one makes no difference in a dinner; but I allays likes to know. I don’t like no waste, for my part. I ain’t one as calk’lates too close, but if there’s one thing as I hates like poison, it’s waste. I said as I would ask, for Thomas ain’t as correct as could be wished. Is it one less than usual, Miss Lucilla?” said Nancy; and it was Lucilla’s fault if she did not understand the profound and indignant sympathy in Nancy’s voice.
“Oh, no; it is just the usual number,” said Miss Marjoribanks. “It was only a joke of papa’s—they are all just as usual—” And here Lucilla paused. She was thinking of the dish she wanted, but Nancy thought she was thinking of Mr. Cavendish, who had treated her so badly. She studied the countenance of her young mistress with the interest of a woman who has had her experiences, and knows how little They are to be depended upon. Nancy murmured “Poor dear!” under her breath, almost without knowing it, and then a brilliant inspiration came to her mind. Few people have the gift of interfering successfully in such cases, but then to offer consolation is a Christian duty, especially when one has the confidence that to give consolation is in one’s power.
“Miss Lucilla, I would say as you’ve been doing too much, if anybody was to ask me,” said Nancy, moved by this generous impulse—“all them practisings and things. They’re well enough for young ladies as ain’t got nothing else to do; but you as has such a deal in your hands—If there was any little thing as you could fancy for dinner,” said Nancy, in her most bland accents; “I’ve set it all down as I thought would be nicest, allays if you approves,
