“I hope you don’t think I prefer any of them,” said the injured maiden. “If I had been thinking of that sort of thing, you know, I need never have come home. If they would only let one do one’s duty in peace and quiet,” said Lucilla, with a sigh; and to tell the truth, both the ladies had occasion on that trying afternoon for the consolation of their cup of tea. But while they were thus refreshing themselves, a conversation of a very different kind, yet affecting the same interests, was being carried on not very far off, under the shelter of a little flowery arbour in another of the embowered gardens of Grange Lane, where the subject was just then being discussed from the other side.
XX
Mr. Woodburn’s house, everybody admitted, was one of the nicest in Carlingford; but that was not so visible out of doors as in. He was a great amateur of flowers and fruit, and had his garden lined on each side with greenhouses, which were no doubt very fine in their way, but somewhat spoiled the garden, which had not in the least the homely, luxuriant, old-fashioned look of the other gardens, where, for the most part, the flowers and shrubs grew as if they liked it and were at home—whereas Mr. Woodburn’s flowerbeds were occupied only by tenants-at-will; but at one corner near the house there was a little arbour, so covered up and heaped over with clematis that even the Scotch gardener had not the heart to touch it. The mass was so perfect and yet so light that it was the most perfect hiding-place imaginable; and nobody who had not been in it could have suspected that there was a possibility of getting inside. Here Mrs. Woodburn and Mr. Cavendish were seated on this particular afternoon; she very eager, animated, and in earnest, he silent and leaning his head on his two hands in a sort of downcast, fallen way. Mrs. Woodburn had one of her lively eyes on the garden that nobody might enter unseen, and for this once was “taking off” no one, but was most emphatically and unquestionably herself.
“So you did not do it,” she said. “Why didn’t you do it? when you knew so much depended upon it! You know I did not wish for it myself, at first. But now since this man has come, and you have got into such a panic, and never will have the courage to face it out—”
“How can I have the courage to face it out?” said Mr. Cavendish, with a groan. “It is all very easy for a woman to speak who has only to criticise other people. If you had to do it yourself—”
“Ah, if I only had!” cried the sister. “You may be sure I would not make so much fuss. After all, what is there to do? Take your place in society, which you have worked for and won as honestly as anybody ever won it, and look another man in the face who is not half so clever nor so sensible as you are. Why, what can he say? If I only could do it, you may be sure I should not lose any time.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Cavendish, lifting his head. “To be sure, you’re a mimic—you can assume any part you like; but I am not so clever. I tell you again, the only thing I can do is to go away—”
“Run away, you mean,” said Mrs. Woodburn. “I should be foolish, indeed, if I were trusting to your cleverness to assume a part. My dear good brother, you would find it impossible to put yourself sufficiently in sympathy with another,” cried the mimic, in the Archdeacon’s very tone, with a laugh, and at the same time a little snarl of bitter contempt.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Nelly, no foolery just now,” said Mr. Cavendish. “I don’t understand how you can be so heartless. To mimic a man who has my position, my reputation, my very existence in his hands!”
“Have you murdered anybody?” said Mrs. Woodburn, with intense scorn. “Have you robbed anybody? If you have, I can understand all this stuff. He is the very man to mimic, on the contrary. I’d like to let you see him as he was on that famous occasion when he delivered his opinions on art in Lucilla’s drawing-room. Look here,” said the mimic, putting one hand behind an imaginary coat tail, and with the other holding up a visionary drawing to the light; but this was more than her audience could bear.
“I think you must have vowed to drive me crazy,” cried the exasperated brother. “Put aside for once that confounded vanity of yours—as if a man had always leisure to look at your playing the fool.” While he spoke in this unusual way, he got up, as was natural, and took one or two steps across the narrow space which was shut in by those luxuriant heaps of clematis; and Mrs. Woodburn, for her part, withdrew her chair out of his way in equal heat and indignation.
“You have always the leisure to play the fool yourselves, you men,” she said. “Vanity, indeed! as if it were not simply to show you that one can laugh at him without being stricken with thunder. But leave that if you like. You know quite well if you married Lucilla Marjoribanks that there would be no more about it. There could be no more about it. Why, all Grange Lane would be in a sort of way pledged to you. I don’t mean to say I am attached to Lucilla, but you used to be, or to give yourself out for being. You flirted with her dreadfully in the winter, I remember,
