“So you had Cavendish here today?” said the Doctor. “What brought him here? What has he been doing? Since you and he are on such good terms, I hope he gave you an account of where he has been.”
“He has been nursing a sick friend on—the Continent,” said Lucilla, with that largeness of geographical expression which is natural to the insular mind. “Who are Mr. Cavendish’s friends, papa?” added Miss Marjoribanks, with confiding simplicity; and it was beautiful to see how the daughter looked up into her father’s face, with that angelic confidence in his knowledge on all subjects which is so rarely to be met with in the present generation. But it was not a question to which the Doctor found it easy to respond.
“Who are his friends?” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “He’s one of the Cavendishes, they say. We have all heard that. I never knew he had any friends; which is, after all, next best to having very good ones,” said the philosophical old Scotchman; and there, as it appeared, he was quite content to let the matter drop.
“I like to know who people belong to, for my part,” said Lucilla. “The Archdeacon, for example, one knows all about his friends. It’s a great deal nicer, you know, papa. Not that it matters in the least about the Cavendishes—”
“Well, I should have thought not, after the way you made an end of him,” said the Doctor. “I hope he doesn’t mean to begin that nonsense over again, Lucilla. He is a good fellow enough, and I don’t mind asking him to my house; but it is quite a different thing to give him my daughter. He spends too much money, and I can’t see what real bottom he has. It may all flare up and come to nothing any day. Nobody can have any certainty with an expensive fellow like that,” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “There is no telling where he draws his income from; it isn’t from the land, and it isn’t from business; and if it’s money in the Funds—”
“Dear papa,” said Lucilla, “if he had the Bank of England, it would not make any difference to me. I am not going to swindle you, after you have had the drawing-room done up, and everything. I said ten years, and I mean to keep to it—if nothing very particular happens,” Miss Marjoribanks added prudently. “Most likely I shall begin to go off a little in ten years. And all I think of just now is to do my duty, and be a little comfort to you.”
Dr. Marjoribanks indulged in a faint “humph!” under his breath, as he lighted his candle; for, as has been already said, he was not a man to feel so keenly as some men might have felt the enthusiasm of filial devotion which beautified Lucilla’s life. But at the same time he had that respect for his daughter’s genius, which only experience could have impressed upon him; and he did not venture, or rather he did not think it necessary, to enter into any further explanations. Dr. Marjoribanks did not in the least degree share the nervousness of Mr. Cavendish, who was afraid of deceiving Lucilla. As for her father, he felt a consoling conviction that she was quite able to conduct her own affairs, and would do him no discredit in any engagements she might form. And at the same time he was amused by the idea that he might be swindled in respect to the drawing-room, if she married at this early moment. He took it for wit, when it was the most solid and sensible reality; but then, fortunately, the points in which he misapprehended her redounded as much to Lucilla’s credit, as those in which he seized her meaning clearest, so that on every side there was something to be gained.
And when Miss Marjoribanks too retired to her maidenly chamber, a sentiment of general content and satisfaction filled her mind. It is true that for the moment she had experienced a natural womanly vexation to see a proposal nipped in the bud. It annoyed her not so much on personal as on general principles; for Lucilla was aware that nothing could be more pernicious to a man than when thus brought to the very point to be thrown back again, and never permitted to produce that delicate bloom of his affections. It was like preventing a rose from putting forth its flowers, a cruelty equally prejudicial to the plant and to the world. But when this pang of wounded philanthropy was over, Miss Marjoribanks felt in her heart that it was Providence that had sent Mrs. Chiley at that special moment. There was no telling what embarrassments, what complications she might not have got into, had Mr. Cavendish succeeded in unbosoming himself. No doubt Lucilla had a confidence that, whatever difficulties there might have been, she would have extricated herself from them with satisfaction and even éclat, but still it was better to avoid the necessity. Thus it was with a serene conviction that “whatever is, is best,” that Miss Marjoribanks betook herself to her peaceful slumbers. There are so many people in the world who hold, or are tempted to hold, an entirely different opinion, that it is pleasant to linger over the spectacle of a mind so perfectly well regulated. Very different were the sentiments of Mr. Cavendish, who could not sleep for the ghosts that kept tugging
