Part 19 (2/2)

He will never come to any good,” said the Archdeacon, with some satisfaction; and then he added in a parenthesis, as if she had expressed some ridiculous doubt on the subject, ”Of course I mean that we should be married before we go away.” It was in this rapid and summary manner that the whole business was settled. Naturally his companion had nothing to say against such a reasonable arrangement. She had never contradicted him in her life about anything but one thing; and that being set aside, there was no possible reason why she should begin now.

_Chapter x.x.xIV_

This was how the crisis came to an end, which had been of so much interest to the parties immediately affected. Mrs Woodburn had one of her nervous attacks next morning, and was very ill, and alarmed Dr Marjoribanks; but at her very worst moment the incorrigible mimic convulsed her anxious medical adviser and all her attendants by a sudden adoption of the character of Mrs Mortimer, whom she must have made a careful study of the previous night. ”Tell him to tell him to go downstairs,” cried the half-dead patient; ”I want to speak to him, and he is not to hear;--if he were not so thoughtless, he would offer him some lunch at least,” Mrs Woodburn said pathetically, with closed eyes and a face as pale as death. ”She never did anything better in her life,” Dr Marjoribanks said afterwards; and Mr Woodburn, who was fond of his wife in his way, and had been crying over her, burst into such an explosion of laughter that all the servants were scandalised. And the patient improved from that moment. She was perfectly well and in the fullest force a week afterwards, when she came to see Lucilla, who had also been slightly indisposed for a day or two. When Thomas had shut the door, and the two were quite alone, Mrs Woodburn hugged Miss Marjoribanks with a fervour which up to that moment she had never exhibited. ”It was only necessary that we should get into full sympathy with each other as human creatures,” she said, lifting her finger like the Archdeacon; and for all the rest of that autumn and winter Mrs Woodburn kept society in Carlingford in a state of inextinguishable laughter. The odd thing was that Miss Marjoribanks, who had been one of her favourite characters, disappeared almost entirely from her repertory. Not quite altogether, because there were moments of supreme temptation which the mimic could not resist; but as a general rule Lucilla was the only woman in Carlingford who escaped the universal critic. No sort of acknowledgment pa.s.sed between them of the obligations one had to the other, and, what was still more remarkable, no discussion of the terrible evening when Lucilla had held the Archdeacon with her eye, and prevented the volcano from exploding. Perhaps Mrs Woodburn, for her part, would have been pleased to have had such an explanation, but Miss Marjoribanks knew better. She knew it was best not to enter upon confidences which neither could ever forget, and which might prevent them meeting with ease in the midst of the little world which knew nothing about it. What Lucilla knew, she knew, and could keep to herself; but she felt at the same time that it was best to have no expansions on the subject. She kept it all to herself, and made the arrangements for Mrs Mortimer's marriage, and took charge of everything.

Everybody said that nothing could be more perfect than the bride's toilette, which was as nice as could be, and yet not like a _real_ bride after all; a difference which was only proper under the circ.u.mstances; for she was married in lavender, poor soul, as was to be expected. ”You have not gone off the least bit in the world, and it is quite a pleasure to see you,” Lucilla said, as she kissed her _that_ morning--and naturally all Carlingford knew that it was owing to her goodness that the widow had been taken care of and provided for, and saved up for the Archdeacon. Miss Marjoribanks, in short, presided over the ceremony as if she had been Mrs Mortimer's mother, and superintended the wedding breakfast, and made herself agreeable to everybody. And in the meantime, before the marriage took place, most people in Carlingford availed themselves of the opportunity of calling on Mrs Mortimer. ”If she should happen to be the future bishop's lady, and none of us ever to have taken any notice of her,” somebody said, with natural dismay. Lucilla did not discourage the practical result of this suggestion, but she felt an instinctive certainty in her mind that _now_ Mr Beverley would never be bishop of Carlingford, and indeed that the chances were Carlingford would never be elevated into a bishopric at all.

It was not until after the marriage that Mr Cavendish went away. To be sure, he was not absolutely present at the ceremony, but there can be no doubt that the magnificent _parure_ which Mrs Mortimer received the evening before her marriage, ”from an old friend,” which made everybody's mouth water, and which she herself contemplated with mingled admiration and dismay, was sent by Mr Cavendish. ”Do you think it could be from _him_; or only from him?” the bride said, bewildered and bewildering. ”I am sure he might have known I never should require anything so splendid.” But Lucilla, for her part, had no doubt whatever on the subject; and the perfect good taste of the offering made Miss Marjoribanks sigh, thinking once more how much that was admirable was wasted by the fatal obstacle which prevented Mr Cavendish from aspiring to anybody higher than Barbara Lake. As for the Archdeacon, he too found it very easy to satisfy his mind as to the donor of the emeralds. He put them away from him severely, and did not condescend to throw a second glance at their deceitful splendour. ”Women are curiously const.i.tuted,”

said Mr Beverley, who was still at the height of superiority, though he was a bridegroom. ”I suppose those sort of things give them pleasure--things which neither satisfy the body nor delight the soul.”

”If it had been something to eat, would it have pleased you better?”

said Lucilla, moved for once in her life to be impertinent, like an ordinary girl. For really when a man showed himself so idiotic as to despise a beautiful set of emeralds, it went beyond even the well-known tolerance and compa.s.sionate good-humour with which Miss Marjoribanks regarded the vagaries of ”the gentlemen.” There is a limit in all things, and this was going too far.

”I said, to satisfy the body, Miss Marjoribanks,” said the Archdeacon, ”which is an office very temporarily and inadequately performed by something to eat. I prefer the welfare of my fellow-creatures to a few glittering stones--even when they are round Her neck,” Mr Beverley added, with a little concession to the circ.u.mstances. ”Jewellery is robbery in a great town where there is always so much to be done, and so little means of doing it; to secure health to the people, and education----”

”Yes,” said Miss Marjoribanks, who knew in her heart that the Archdeacon was afraid of her. ”It is so nice of you not to say any of those dreadful sanitary words--and I am sure you could make something very nasty and disagreeable with that diamond of yours. It is a beautiful diamond; if I were Helen I should make you give it me,” said Lucilla sweetly; and the Archdeacon was so much frightened by the threat that he turned his ring instinctively, and quenched the glitter of the diamond in his closed hand.

”It was a present,” he said hastily, and went away to seek some better occupation than tilting with the womankind, who naturally had possession of the bride's little house and everything in it at that interesting moment. It was the last evening of Lucilla's reign, and she was disposed to take the full good of it. And though Mrs Mortimer's trousseau was modest, and not, as Lydia Brown repeated, like that of a _real_ bride, it was still voluminous enough to fill the room to overflowing, where it was all being sorted and packed under Miss Marjoribanks's eye.

”It is a very nice diamond indeed,” said Lucilla; ”if I were you I would certainly make him give it to me--rings are no good to a gentleman. They never have nice hands, you know--though indeed when they have nice hands,” said Miss Marjoribanks reflectively, ”it is a great deal worse, for they keep always thrusting them under your very eyes. It is curious why They should be so vain. They talk of women!” Lucilla added, with natural derision; ”but, my dear, if I were you I would make him give it me; a nice diamond is always a nice thing to have.”

”Lucilla,” said the widow, ”I am sure I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for me; but, dear, if you please, I would not talk like that! The gentlemen laugh, but I am sure they don't like it all the same;” for indeed the bride thought it her duty, having won the prize in her own person, to point out to her young friend how, to attain the same end, she ought to behave.

Miss Marjoribanks did not laugh, for her sense of humour, as has been said, was not strong, but she kissed her friend with protecting tenderness. ”My dear, if that had been what I was thinking of I need never have come home,” said Lucilla; and her superiority was so calm and serene, that Mrs Mortimer felt entirely ashamed of herself for making the suggestion. The widow was simple-minded, and, like most other women, it gratified her to believe that here and there, as in Miss Marjoribanks's case, there existed one who was utterly indifferent to the gentlemen, and did not care whether they were pleased or not; which restored a little the balance of the world to the widow-bride, who felt with shame that she cared a great deal, and was quite incapable of such virtue. As for Lucilla herself, she was not at that moment in conscious enjoyment of the strength of mind for which her friend gave her credit.

On the contrary, she could not help a certain sense of surprised depression as she superintended the packing of the boxes. The man had had it in his power to propose to her, and he was going to be married to Mrs Mortimer! It was not that Lucilla was wounded or disappointed, but that she felt it as a wonderful proof of the imperfection and weakness of human nature. Even in the nineteenth century, which has learnt so much, such a thing was possible! It filled her with a gentle sadness as she had the things put in, and saw the emeralds safely deposited in their resting-place. Not that she cared for the Archdeacon, who had thus disposed of himself; but still it was a curious fact that such a thing could be.

Altogether it must be admitted that at this special moment Miss Marjoribanks occupied a difficult position. She had given the Archdeacon to understand that Mr Cavendish was a ”_very_ particular friend”; and even when the danger was past, Lucilla scorned to acknowledge her pious prevarications. During all this interval she continued so gracious to him that everybody was puzzled, and Mrs Woodburn even insisted on her brother, after all, making his proposal, which would be better late than never.

”I am sure she is fond of you,” said the softened mimic, ”and that sort of thing doesn't matter to a woman as it does to a man;” for it has been already said that Mrs Woodburn, notwithstanding her knack of external discrimination, had very little real knowledge of character. And even at moments, Mr Cavendish himself, who ought to have known better, was half tempted to believe that Lucilla meant it. The effect upon Dr Marjoribanks was still more decided. He thought he saw in his daughter the indications of that weakness which is sometimes so surprising in women, and it disturbed the Doctor's serenity; and he actually tried to snub Lucilla on sundry occasions, with that wonderful fatuity which is common to men.

”I hope when this marriage is over people will recover their senses. I hear of nothing else,” Dr Marjoribanks said one day at dessert, when they were alone. He took some chestnuts as he spoke, and burned his fingers, which did not improve his temper. ”That sort of rubbish, I suppose, is much more interesting than attending to your natural duties,” the Doctor added morosely, which was not a kind of address which Miss Marjoribanks was used to hear.

”Dear papa,” said Lucilla, ”if I attended to my duties ever so much I could not keep you from burning your fingers. There are some things that people _must_ do for themselves,” the dutiful daughter added, with a sigh. n.o.body could doubt who knew Lucilla that she would have gladly taken the world on her shoulders, and saved everybody from those little misadventures; but how could she help it if people absolutely would not take care of themselves?

The Doctor smiled grimly, but he was not satisfied. He was, on the contrary, furious in a quiet way. ”I don't need at this time of day to be told how clever you are, Lucilla,” said her father; ”and I thought you had been superior to the ordinary folly of women----”

”Papa, for Heaven's sake!” cried Miss Marjoribanks. She was really alarmed this time, and she did not hesitate to let it be apparent. ”I do not mean to say that I always do precisely what I ought to do,” said Lucilla; ”n.o.body does that I know of; but I am sure I never did anything to deserve _that_. I never was superior, and I hope I never shall be; and I know I never pretended to it,” she said, with natural horror; for the accusation, as everybody will perceive, was hard to bear.

The Doctor laughed again, but with increased severity. ”We understand all that,” he said. ”I am not in the secret of your actions, Lucilla. I don't know what you intend, or how far you mean to go. The only thing I know is that I see that young fellow Cavendish a great deal oftener in the house and about it than I care to see him; and I have had occasion to say the same thing before. I know nothing about his means,” said Dr Marjoribanks; ”his property may be in the Funds, but I think it a great deal more likely that he speculates. I have worked hard for my money, and I don't mean it to go in that way, Lucilla. I repeat, I am not in the secret of your proceedings----”

”Dear papa! as if there was any secret,” said Lucilla, fixing her candid eyes upon her father's face. ”I might pretend I did not understand you if there was anything in what you say, but I never go upon false pretences when I can help it. I am very fond of Mr Cavendish,” she continued regretfully, after a pause. ”There is n.o.body in Carlingford that is so nice; but I don't see whom he can marry except Barbara Lake.”

Miss Marjoribanks would have scorned to conceal the unfeigned regret which filled her mind when she uttered these words. ”I am dreadfully sorry, but I don't see anything that can be done for him,” she said, and sighed once more. As for the Doctor, he forgot all about his chestnuts, and sat and stared at her, thinking in his ignorance that it was a piece of acting, and not knowing whether to be angry or to yield to the amus.e.m.e.nt which began to rise in his breast.

”He may marry half a dozen Barbara Lakes,” said Dr Marjoribanks, ”and I don't see what reason we should have to interfere: so long as he doesn't want to marry you----”

”That would be impossible, papa,” said Lucilla, with pensive gravity. ”I am sure I am very, very sorry. She has a very nice voice, but a man can't marry a voice, you know; and if there was anything that I could do----I am not sure that he ever wished for _that_ either,” Miss Marjoribanks added, with her usual candour. ”It is odd, but for all that it is true.” For it was a moment of emotion, and she could not help giving utterance to the surprise with which this consideration naturally filled her mind.

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