lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Serenissime Nancy and Thomas, and the other inmates of the Doctor’s kitchen, and
Mrs. Mortimer’s little handmaiden, was as great as that which exists between an English Duke and the poorest little cadet of a large family among his attendant gentry; but, correspondingly, the merest entrance into that higher world was as great a privilege for Mary Jane, as the Duke’s notice would be to the Squire’s youngest son. She kept up a momentary show of resistance, but she accepted the goloshes, and even after a moment agreed in her mistress’s trembling assertion about the rain. And this was how the three-cornered note got conveyed to its destination in the heaviest of the storm, between three and four o’clock in the afternoon.
Mrs. Mortimer still sat at her window, wringing her hands from time to time, with her head aching and her heart beating, and a dreadful question in her mind as to what Lucilla would say, or whether perhaps she might reject altogether in her natural indignation the appeal made to her; which was an idea which filled the widow with inexpressible horror. While at the same moment Miss Marjoribanks sat looking for that appeal which she knew was sure to come. The rain had set in by this time with an evident intention of lasting, and even from the windows of Lucilla’s drawing-room the prospect of the garden walls and glistening trees was sufficiently doleful. Nobody was likely to call, nothing was doing; and Lucilla, who never caught cold, had not the least fear of wetting her feet. And besides, her curiosity had been rising every moment since her return; and the widow’s pathetic appeal, “Come to me, my dearest Lucilla. I have nobody whom I can talk to in the world but you!” had its natural effect upon a mind so feeling. Miss Marjoribanks got up as soon as she had read the note, and changed her dress, and put on a great waterproof cloak. Instead of thinking it a trouble, she was rather exhilarated by the necessity. “Be sure you make your mistress a nice cup of tea as soon as we get there,” she said to Mary Jane. “She must want it, I am sure, if she has not had any dinner;” for the little maid had betrayed the fact that
Mrs. Mortimer could not eat anything, and had sent away her dinner, which was naturally an alarming and wonderful occurrence to Mary Jane. The widow was still sitting at the window when Lucilla appeared tripping across the wet garden in her waterproof cloak, if not a ministering angel, at least a substantial prop and support to the lonely woman who trusted in her, and yet in the present instance feared her. But anything more unlike a disappointed maiden, whose wooer had been taken away from her under her very eyes, could not have been seen. On the contrary, Miss Marjoribanks was radiant, with raindrops glistening on her hair, and what
Mrs. Chiley called “a lovely colour.” If there was one thing in the world more than another which contented Lucilla, it was to be appealed to and called upon for active service. It did her heart good to take the management of incapable people, and arrange all their affairs for them, and solve all their difficulties. Such an office was more in her way than all the Archdeacons in the world.
“I saw you knew him the moment I looked at you,” said Lucilla. “I have seen other people look like that when he appeared. Who is he, for goodness’ sake? I know quite well, of course, who he is, in the ordinary way; but do tell me what has he done to make people look like that whenever he appears?”
Mrs. Mortimer did not directly answer this question—she fixed her mind upon one part of it, like an unreasonable woman, and repeated “Other people?” with a kind of interrogative gasp.
“Oh, it was only a gentleman,” said Lucilla, with rapid intelligence; and then there was a little pause. “He has been here for six weeks,” Miss Marjoribanks continued; “you must have heard of him; indeed, you would have heard him preach if you had not gone off after these Dissenters. Did you really never know that he was here till today?”
“I did not think of him being Archdeacon—he was only a curate when I used to know him,” said poor Mrs. Mortimer, with a sigh.
“Tell me all about it,” said Lucilla, with ingenuous sympathy; and she drew her chair close to that of her friend, and took her hand in a protecting, encouraging way. “You know, whatever you like to say, that it is quite safe with me.”
“If you are sure you do not mind,” said the poor widow. “Oh, yes, I have heard what people have been saying about him and—and you, Lucilla; and if I had known, I would have shut myself up—I would have gone away forever and ever—I would—”
“My dear,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a little severity, “I thought you knew me better. If I had been thinking of that sort of thing, I never need have come home at all; and when you know how kind papa has been about the drawing-room and everything. Say what you were going to say, and never think of me.”
“Ah, Lucilla, I have had my life,” said the trembling woman, whose agitation was coming to a climax—“I have had it, and done with it; and you have been so good to me; and if, after all, I was to stand between you and—and—and—anybody—” But here Mrs. Mortimer broke down, and could say no more. To be sure, she did not faint this time any more than she did on the first occasion when she made Miss Marjoribanks’s acquaintance; but Lucilla thought it best, as then, to make her lie down on the sofa, and keep her quite quiet, and hasten Mary Jane with the cup of tea.
“You have been agitated, and you have not
