“Ah!” said the unfortunate aspirant; and once more he gave a doubtful glance at Lucilla—decidedly the name of Barbara had more effect upon him than that of the Archdeacon. It seemed to damp his fire and smother the words on his lips, and he had to take another promenade to the window to recover himself. After that, however, he came back evidently wound up and determined; and his eyes, as he returned to Miss Marjoribanks’s side, fell upon the music-stand by means of which she had covered his fright and flight (if it was not a mere hallucination on Lucilla’s part that he had been frightened and had fled) on the night he left Carlingford. He came back with the air of a man who means to delay and deliberate no more.
“If I could flatter myself that you had missed me,” he said; “you—not anyone else—I might have the courage to ask—”
It was at that precise moment of all moments that Mrs. Chiley, whom they had not heard coming upstairs, though she was sufficiently audible, suddenly opened the door. Mr. Cavendish, as was natural, broke off in a moment with a face which had turned crimson, and even Lucilla herself felt a little annoyed and put out, when, as in duty bound, she got up to meet and welcome her old friend. One thing was fortunate, as Miss Marjoribanks afterwards reflected, that since it was to be interrupted, it had been interrupted so early, before he could have put himself in any ridiculous attitude, for example; for at such moments it is well known that some men go down upon their knees—or at least such is the ineradicable belief of womankind. If Mr. Cavendish had been on his knees—though, to tell the truth, he was not a very likely subject—the position would have been much more embarrassing. But as it was, there was an end. He turned back again to the window, biting his glove in the most frantic way, and taking up his hat, while she, always mistress of the position, advanced to the newcomer with outstretched hands.
“I know you have come to have lunch with me,” said Lucilla. “You are always so nice—just when I wanted you; for, of course, I dared not have asked Mr. Cavendish to go downstairs if I had been all alone.”
“Mr. Cavendish!” cried the old lady, with a little scream. “So he has really come back! I am so glad to see you. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you; and, I declare, with a beard! Oh, you need not blush for what I say. I am old enough to be both your grandmothers, and I am so glad to see you together again!” said Mrs. Chiley, with an imprudent effusion of sentiment. And it may be imagined what the effect of this utterance was upon the suitor whose lovemaking (if he was really going to make love) was thus cut short in the bud. He coughed more than ever when he shook hands with the newcomer, and kept fast hold of his hat with that despairing grasp which is common to men in trouble. And then he kept looking at the door, as if he expected someone else to come in, or wanted to escape; and so far from following up his interrupted address by any explanatory or regretful glances, he never even looked at Lucilla, which, to be sure, struck her as odd enough.
“Miss Marjoribanks is very good,” he said, “and I am very glad to see you so soon after my return, Mrs. Chiley—though, of course, I should have called; but I may have to go away in a day or two; and I am afraid I cannot have the pleasure of staying to lunch.”
“Oh, yes, you must stay,” said Mrs. Chiley; “I want to hear all about it. Go away again in a day or two? If I were Lucilla I would not let you go away. She is queen now in Carlingford, you know;—and then poor old Mr. Chiltern is so ill. I hope you won’t think of going away. They all say it would be such a pity if anything happened to him while you were away. Tell me where you have been, and what you have been doing all this time. We have missed you so dreadfully. And now you look quite like a military man with that beard.”
“I have been nursing a sick friend—on the Continent,” said Mr. Cavendish; “not very cheerful work. I am sorry about Mr. Chiltern, but I cannot help it. I have doubts now whether, even if he were to die, I should offer myself. I couldn’t give pledges to all the shopkeepers about my opinions,” said the embarrassed man; and as he spoke, he put his hat against his breast like a buckler. “I must not detain you from your lunch. Goodbye, Miss Marjoribanks; I am very sorry I can’t stay.”
“But, dear me, stop a minute—don’t run away from us,” said Mrs. Chiley. “Come and talk it all over with the Colonel, there is a dear—and don’t do anything rash. Goodbye, if you will go,” said the old lady. She sat with a look of consternation in her face, looking at Miss Marjoribanks, as he made his way downstairs. “Did I come in at a wrong time, Lucilla?” said Mrs. Chiley, in distress. “Have you refused him, my dear? What is the matter? I am so dreadfully afraid I came in at the wrong time.”
“Dear Mrs. Chiley,” said Lucilla sweetly, “you can never come in at a wrong time; and it is just as well, on the whole, that he didn’t—for I was not prepared to give him any answer. I am sure, on the contrary, it was quite providential,” Miss Marjoribanks said; but it may be doubted whether Lucilla’s mind perfectly corresponded to her words on this occasion, though she was so amiable about it, as
