“Yes; Mr. Cavendish,” said Lucilla. “Do tell me his address. There is not a man in Carlingford who is good for anything, now that he is gone. You must see that as well as I do. As for flirting, I have always said he was the only man that knew anything about it. Do tell me where he is, and I will write to him; or, please, send him word for me, that absolutely he must come back. We are all dying for him, you may say.”
Mrs. Woodburn had recovered a little, and found a moment to think, but her faculties were not so handy, except in her own particular way, as might have been expected from such a clever woman. She could even at that moment have taken off Miss Marjoribanks to the life, but she was in the most profound bewilderment as to what Lucilla could mean; whether she was really laying herself out to “catch” Mr. Cavendish, or whether she was merely talking nonsense without any particular meaning; or whether she was feigning indifference by way of getting information; and the stupidest person in Carlingford would have acquitted herself as well as Mrs. Woodburn felt able to do in the emergency. “I should think he would rather hear that some of you were willing to live for him,” she said, in a tremulous way; finding nothing better come to her lips than the echo of an old compliment, which went against her nature, but yet with an instinct of serving her brother so far as it might be in her power.
“Not me,” said Lucilla frankly. “Some people once thought so, you know; but I can’t say I ever thought so. There never will be anything about living or dying between him and me. I hope we know better,” said Miss Marjoribanks; “besides, if I were so much as to think of that sort of thing I should feel I was swindling papa. Oh, no; I assure you I am quite disinterested. I want him for my Thursdays. Do write, and say he must come home.”
“I don’t like people to be too disinterested,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “and I don’t think Harry would be at all glad to hear it. I wish he would come back, I am sure. I am always bullying him about it. I thought perhaps some of you young ladies had been unkind to him,” said the anxious sister, who had recovered her head, and thought it might be possible to get at the secret, if there was a secret, by means like this.
“No,” said Miss Marjoribanks; “I have not been unkind to him; and there is nobody else I know of,” said the candid Lucilla, “unless poor Barbara; and she will never be unkind, you know. I will write him a letter if you will give me his address. Is it true that somebody has left him a great deal of money, and he is going to change his name?”
“His name!” said Mrs. Woodburn, with a little cry, like an imprudent woman; and then she recovered herself. “I have not heard of anything of the kind,” she said, “and he would be sure to tell me of it; but in Carlingford people know things before they happen. I should be very glad to know that somebody was going to leave him a great deal of money; but I don’t know about the name—”
“Oh, I heard it only in a confused sort of way,” said Lucilla, “or that he had changed his name. I am sure I don’t know if it was past or present. Did he ever make any change to be somebody’s heir? Oh, I beg your pardon; but you know people do it every day.”
Mrs. Woodburn had grown quite pale—perhaps because she began to see that there was some method in these questions, perhaps with simple and unreasonable fright at the suggestion. She could not say a word for a moment, so startling was the question; and then there was something in Lucilla’s early visit, and in her instant onslaught upon Mr. Cavendish, which was alarming. She was so frightened and driven into a corner that she could not tell how to answer. It occurred to her all at once that perhaps Mr. Cavendish had opened his heart to Miss Marjoribanks and given her an inkling of his secret; and what would Lucilla think if she contradicted her brother? Never was a poor woman in a greater difficulty. All her fun and her mimicry collapsed. She no more noticed the peculiarities of Lucilla’s look and manner than if she had been an ordinary inhabitant of Grange Lane. “Changed his name?” she faltered, in a blank sort of interrogative way; and in spite of herself faltered and shook, and conveyed to Lucilla the most perfect assurance that what she supposed was true.
“When it is for a great deal of money there is some sense in it; when it is only for a prettier name it is dreadfully stupid. Don’t you think so? As if we all could have pretty names!” said Lucilla. “I should like so much to have a talk with Mr. Cavendish.
