Part 9 (1/2)
”Rose,” said Miss Marjoribanks, ”how are you ever to be an artist if you do not know life? That is just the very reason why you ought to go out into the world; and I don't see, for my part, that it matters whether it is pleasant or not. To practise scales all day long is anything but pleasant, but then one has to do it, you know. I don't blame you,” said Lucilla, with tender condescension. ”You are a dear little thing, and you don't know any better; but _I_ went through Political Economy, and learnt all about that;--you don't think _I_ choose it for the pleasure?
But you all know what is the object of my life, and I hope I am not one to shrink from my duty,” Miss Marjoribanks added. And it was difficult to reply to such a sublime declaration. Little Rose left her friend with the conviction that it was her duty, too, to sacrifice herself for the benefit of society and the advancement of art. Such were the lofty sentiments elicited naturally, as enthusiasm responds to enthusiasm, by Lucilla's self-devotion. Already, although she was not much more than twenty, she had the consoling consciousness that she had wrought a great work in Carlingford; and if Miss Marjoribanks required a little sacrifice from her a.s.sistants, she did not shrink from making the same in her own person, as has been shadowed forth in the case of Mr Cavendish, and as will yet, in the course of this history, be still more seriously and even sadly evolved.
Three weeks had pa.s.sed in this way, making it still more and more visible to Lucilla how much she had lost in losing Mr Cavendish, of whom nothing as yet had been heard, when suddenly, one day, about luncheon-time, at the hour when Miss Marjoribanks was known to be at home, the drawing-room door opened without any warning, and the missing man walked in. It was thus that Lucilla herself described the unexpected apparition, which appeared to her to have dropped from the clouds. She avowed afterwards to Mrs Chiley that his entrance was so utterly unexpected, so noiseless, and without warning, that she felt quite silly, and could not tell in the least how she behaved; though the friends of Miss Marjoribanks, it is to be hoped, are too well acquainted with her prompt.i.tude of mind and action to imagine that she in any way compromised herself even under the surprise of the moment. As for Mr Cavendish, he exhibited a certain mixture of timidity and excitement which it was remarkable, and indeed rather flattering for any lady to see, in such an accomplished man of the world. Lucilla was not a person to deceive herself, nor did she want experience in such matters, as has been already shown; but it would be vain to deny that the conviction forced upon her mind by the demeanour of her visitor was that it was a man _about to propose_ who thus made his unlooked-for appearance before her. She confessed afterwards to her confidential friend that he had all the signs of it in his looks and manners. ”He gave that little nervous cough,” Lucilla said, ”and pulled his cravat _just so_, and stared into his hat as if he had it all written down there; and looked as They always look,” Miss Marjoribanks added, with a touch of natural contempt.
Nor was this all the change in Mr Cavendish's appearance. He had managed miraculously in his month's absence to grow the most charming little moustache and beard, which were, to be sure, slightly red, like most people's. It gleamed into Miss Marjoribanks's mind in a moment that people did such things sometimes by way of disguising themselves; but if such had been Mr Cavendish's intention, it had utterly failed, since he seemed rather more like himself than before, in Lucilla's opinion, and certainly was more likely to attract attention, since beards were not so usual in these days. They met on the very spot where Lucilla had seen him last, with that look of insane terror on his handsome face. And the Archdeacon was still in Carlingford, if it was he who had occasioned such a panic. Mr Cavendish came in as if he had never been absent, as if he had seen Miss Marjoribanks on the previous night, and had no fear of anything in the world but of failing to please her; and Lucilla fortunately saw the nature of the position, and was not to be put out even by such an emergency. Of course, under the circ.u.mstances, to accept him was utterly out of the question; but, at the same time, Lucilla did not feel it expedient, without much more distinct information, to put a definitive and cruel negative on Mr Cavendish's hopes. As for Barbara Lake, that was a trifle not worth thinking of; and, notwithstanding that there was something rather unaccountable in his conduct, he was still the probable member for Carlingford, just, as Mrs Chiley so often said, the position which, of all others, she would have chosen for Lucilla; so that Miss Marjoribanks was not prepared, without due consideration, to bring the matter to a final end.
While Lucilla made this rapid summary of affairs and took her stand in her own mind, Mr Cavendish had taken a chair and had opened the conversation. He hoped he had not been entirely forgotten, though a fortnight's absence was a severe tax on anybody's memory----
”A fortnight!” said Miss Marjoribanks; ”how happy you must have been while you have been away!--for I a.s.sure you a month is a month at Carlingford; and one does not get such ornaments in two weeks,” said Lucilla, putting her hand to her chin, which made Mr Cavendish laugh, and look more nervous than ever.
”It is a souvenir of where I have been,” he said. ”I could imagine I had been gone two years, judging by my own feelings. I am so pleased to see that you remember how long it is. I dare say it looked a little droll running away so, but I dared not trust myself with leave-takings,” Mr Cavendish said, with an air of sentiment. ”I have been watching over a poor friend of mine on his sick-bed. He was once very good to me, and when he sent for me I could not delay or refuse him. I found he had telegraphed for me when I got home the last Thursday evening I was here,” he continued, looking Lucilla full in the face with the candour of conscious truth--though, to be sure, when people are stating a simple fact, it is seldom that they take the pains to be so particular. ”I started by the night-train, and crossed the Channel while you were all fast asleep. I wonder if any one gave me a thought,” continued Mr Cavendish; and it was still more and more impressed upon Lucilla that he had all the signs of a man who had come to propose.
”I cannot say about that night in particular, but I am sure a great many people have given you a thought,” said Miss Marjoribanks. ”We have all been wondering what had become of you, where you were, and when you were coming back. So far as I am concerned, I have missed you dreadfully,”
said Lucilla, with her usual openness; and she really thought for a moment that Mr Cavendish in a sudden transport was going down on his knees.
”I scarcely hoped for so much happiness,” he said; and though he kept up the tone proper to good society, which might mean sport or earnest according as the occasion required, there was a certain air of grat.i.tude and tenderness in his face which sent Lucilla's active mind a-wondering.
”He is thinking of the music-stand,” she said to herself, and then went on with what she was saying; for though Miss Marjoribanks had a very good opinion of herself, it had not occurred to her that Mr Cavendish was very deeply in love--with _her_, at all events.
”Ah, yes--not only for the flirting, you know, which of itself is a dreadful loss; but then you were so good in keeping the gentlemen to their duty. I missed you dreadfully--there has been n.o.body at all to help me,” said Lucilla. Her tone was so genuinely plaintive that Mr Cavendish grew more and more moved. He put down his hat, he cleared his throat, he got up and walked to the window--evidently he was getting up his courage for the last step.
”But I heard you had some distinguished strangers here,” he said, coming back to his seat without having, as it appeared, made up his mind. ”My sister wrote--that is to say I heard--I really don't remember how I got the news; a dean, or bishop, or something----?”
”Oh, yes, Mr Archdeacon Beverley; he came precisely the night you went away,” said Lucilla. ”Didn't you see him? I thought you stayed till after he came into the room. A nice clergyman is very nice, you know; but, after all, a man who has some experience in society--and we have had no music to speak of since you went away. Poor dear Barbara has had such a bad cold. In short, we have all been at sixes and sevens; and the Archdeacon----”
”Oh, never mind the Archdeacon,” said Mr Cavendish, and Miss Marjoribanks felt that he had not winced at the name, though he did glance up at her in spite of himself with a little gleam in his eyes when she mentioned Barbara Lake. Perhaps this was because he knew nothing about the Archdeacon, perhaps because he was prepared to hear the Archdeacon named. Lucilla did not give him all the benefit of the uncertainty, for she began to get a little impatient, and to wonder, if the man had come to propose, as appearances suggested, why he did not do it and get done with it?--which was a very reasonable question. This time, however, it certainly was coming. ”I don't like nice clergymen,”
said Mr Cavendish, ”especially not when it is _you_ who find them so. If I could really flatter myself that you missed me----”
”We all did,” said Lucilla; ”there is no compliment about it; and poor dear Barbara has had such a cold----”
”Ah!” said the unfortunate aspirant; and once more he gave a doubtful glance at Lucilla--decidedly the name of Barbara had more effect upon him than that of the Archdeacon. It seemed to damp his fire and smother the words on his lips, and he had to take another promenade to the window to recover himself. After that, however, he came back evidently wound up and determined; and his eyes, as he returned to Miss Marjoribanks's side, fell upon the music-stand by means of which she had covered his fright and flight (if it was not a mere hallucination on Lucilla's part that he had been frightened and had fled) on the night he left Carlingford. He came back with the air of a man who means to delay and deliberate no more.
”If I could flatter myself that _you_ had missed me,” he said; ”_you_--not any one else--I might have the courage to ask----”
It was at that precise moment of all moments that Mrs Chiley, whom they had not heard coming upstairs, though she was sufficiently audible, suddenly opened the door. Mr Cavendish, as was natural, broke off in a moment with a face which had turned crimson, and even Lucilla herself felt a little annoyed and put out, when, as in duty bound, she got up to meet and welcome her old friend. One thing was fortunate, as Miss Marjoribanks afterwards reflected, that since it was to be interrupted, it had been interrupted so early, before he could have put himself in any ridiculous att.i.tude, for example; for at such moments it is well known that some men go down upon their knees--or at least such is the ineradicable belief of womankind. If Mr Cavendish had been on his knees--though, to tell the truth, he was not a very likely subject--the position would have been much more embarra.s.sing. But as it was, there was an end. _He_ turned back again to the window, biting his glove in the most frantic way, and taking up his hat, while _she_, always mistress of the position, advanced to the new-comer with outstretched hands.
”I know you have come to have lunch with me,” said Lucilla. ”You are always so nice--just when I wanted you; for, of course, I dared not have asked Mr Cavendish to go downstairs if I had been all alone.”
”Mr Cavendis.h.!.+” cried the old lady, with a little scream. ”So he has really come back! I am so glad to see you. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you; and, I declare, with a beard! Oh, you need not blush for what I say. I am old enough to be both your grandmothers, and I am so glad to see you together again!” said Mrs Chiley, with an imprudent effusion of sentiment. And it may be imagined what the effect of this utterance was upon the suitor whose love-making (if he was really going to make love) was thus cut short in the bud. He coughed more than ever when he shook hands with the new-comer, and kept fast hold of his hat with that despairing grasp which is common to men in trouble. And then he kept looking at the door, as if he expected some one else to come in, or wanted to escape; and so far from following up his interrupted address by any explanatory or regretful glances, he never even looked at Lucilla, which, to be sure, struck her as odd enough.
”Miss Marjoribanks is very good,” he said, ”and I am very glad to see you so soon after my return, Mrs Chiley--though, of course, I should have called; but I may have to go away in a day or two; and I am afraid I cannot have the pleasure of staying to lunch.”
”Oh, yes, you must stay,” said Mrs Chiley; ”I want to hear all about it.
Go away again in a day or two? If I were Lucilla I would not let you go away. She is queen now in Carlingford, you know;--and then poor old Mr Chiltern is so ill. I hope you won't think of going away. They all say it would be such a pity if anything happened to him while you were away.
Tell me where you have been, and what you have been doing all this time.
We have missed you so dreadfully. And now you look quite like a military man with that beard.”
”I have been nursing a sick friend--on the Continent,” said Mr Cavendish; ”not very cheerful work. I am sorry about Mr Chiltern, but I cannot help it. I have doubts now whether, even if he were to die, I should offer myself. I couldn't give pledges to all the shopkeepers about my opinions,” said the embarra.s.sed man; and as he spoke, he put his hat against his breast like a buckler. ”I must not detain you from your lunch. Good-bye, Miss Marjoribanks; I am very sorry I can't stay.”