“Lucilla, you know” said Rose, drying her tears, “she has taken to going out in the evening, and I am sure she meets him every night. I can’t be a spy on her, whatever she does, and I can’t lock her up, you know, or lock the door, or anything like that. I am not her mother,” said the poor little sister pathetically, with a regretful sob. “And then she has taken to making herself nice before she goes out. I don’t think she ever cared much for being nice—not at home, you know; but now she has pretty collars and gloves and things, and I can’t tell where she gets them,” cried Rose, her eyes lighting up passionately. “She has no money to spend on such things. Lucilla, I should die if I thought she would accept them from him.”
“You dear old Rose, you don’t know what you are saying,” said the experienced Lucilla; “most likely, if she meets a gentleman, she is engaged to him; and They always give people presents, you know. If you would only tell me who it is.”
“Lucilla, do not trifle with me,” said Rose; “it is much too serious for that—engaged without papa knowing of it, nor me! You know very well that would be no engagement. I sometimes think she is—is—fond of him,” said the reverent little maiden, whose voice changed and softened under the influence of that supposition; “and then again I think it is only because he is rich,” she went on, with new vehemence. “Oh, Lucilla, if you only knew how dreadful it was to have such thoughts—and there is nobody to take care of her but me! Papa cannot be worried, for that would react upon everything. An artist is not just like other people. It is everybody’s duty to leave him undisturbed; and then, you know, he is only a man, and does not understand; and if she won’t pay any attention to me when I speak to her, oh, Lucilla, tell me, what can I do?”
“Let me think,” said Lucilla gravely. “You know I can’t tell all in a moment. It is Mr. Cavendish, I suppose, though you won’t say so. Now just wait a moment, and let me think.”
“I once thought of going to him,” said Rose; “perhaps he might be generous, and go away. An artist can do many things that other people can’t do. We have an exceptional position,” the Preraphaelist went on, faltering a little, and not feeling quite so sure of the fact on that special occasion. “I thought of going and begging of him, if it was on my knees—”
“My dear,” said Lucilla, with great seriousness, “if you did, I think it is most likely he would fall in love with you, and that would not mend the matter; and I am sure Barbara would give you poison. I will tell you what we must do. I would not do it for everybody; but you know I was always very fond of you, you dear little Rose. You shall ask me for tomorrow evening to come to tea.”
“To come to tea!” echoed poor Rose, in dismay. She had been waiting for Lucilla’s advice with a great deal of anxiety; but at the present moment it would be vain to conceal that the proposed expedient seemed to her altogether inadequate for the emergency. The light went out of her face as she opened her eyes wide and fixed them on Lucilla; and for one moment, one desperate moment, Rose was disloyal, and lost faith in the only person who could help her; which, perhaps, under the circumstances, was not a thing to cause much surprise.
“My dear, you may be sure I would not propose it, if I did not feel it was the best thing to do,” said Lucilla, with great gravity. “It happens precisely that I want to see Mr. Cavendish, and if he is at home he never shows himself, and I have been wondering how I could find him. I shall make him walk home with me,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “so you need not be uneasy, Rose, about the trouble I am taking. I am doing it to serve myself as well as you. We shall say eight o’clock, if that is not too late.”
“But, Lucilla—” said Rose, with consternation; and then she stopped short, and could not tell what more to say.
“You don’t understand it?” said Miss Marjoribanks; “I don’t think it was to be expected that you should understand it. A little thing like you has no way of knowing the world. When Barbara knows I am there, she will be sure to bring him to the very door; she will want me to see that he is with her; and you may leave the rest to me,” said Lucilla. “For my part, I have something very particular to say to Mr. Cavendish. It is my luck,” Miss Marjoribanks added, “for I could not think how to get to see him. At eight o’clock tomorrow evening—”
“Yes,” said Rose; but perhaps it was still doubtful how far she understood the mode of operations proposed. Lucilla’s prompt and facile genius was too much for the young artist, and there was, as she herself would have said, an entire want of “keeping” between her own sense of the position, tragical and desperate as that was, and any state of matters which could be ameliorated by the fact of Miss Marjoribanks coming to tea. It had been Rose’s only hope, and now it seemed all at once to fail her; and yet, at the same time, that instinctive
