Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 28 (2/2)

“I am very sorry to separate you from Barbara,” said Miss Marjoribanks; “but she is at home, you know, and I want so much to talk to you. Barbara, good night; I want Mr. Cavendish to walk home with me. Rose, don’t stand in the garden and catch cold; thank you, dear, for such a pleasant evening,” said Lucilla, pressing another kiss upon her little friend’s unwilling cheek. When she had done this, she put out her hand to Barbara, and passed her, sweeping her white garments through the narrow gateway. She took Mr. Cavendish’s arm as if he had been a young brother come to fetch her. “Let us go round by the chapel,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “I have so much to say to you. Be sure to practise for Thursday, Barbara, and bid your papa good night for me.” This was how she carried off Mr. Cavendish finally out of Barbara’s very fingers, and under her very eyes.

When the two sisters were left standing together at the door, they could do nothing but stare at each other in the extremity of their amazement. Rose, for her part, remained but a moment, and then, feeling by far the guiltiest and most miserable of the whole party, ran upstairs to her own room and cried as if her heart would break. Barbara, on the contrary, who was past crying, stood still at the door, and watched Lucilla’s white dress disappearing on the way to Grange Lane with indescribable emotions. A young woman cannot call the police, or appeal to the crier, when it is her lover whom she has lost: but to see him carried off by the strong hand⁠—to watch him gradually going away and disappearing from her eyes⁠—to hear his steps withdrawing into the distance⁠—was such a trial as few are called upon to bear. She stood and looked after him, and could not believe her eyes. And then it was all so sudden⁠—an affair of a moment. Barbara could not realise how the world had turned round, and this revolution had been effected;⁠—one minute she had been leaning on his arm triumphant, making a show and exhibition of him in the pride of her heart, though he did not know it; and the next was not she standing here watching him with a blank countenance and a despairing heart, while Lucilla had pounced upon him and carried him off in her cruel grasp? The blow was so sudden, that Barbara stood speechless and motionless till the two departing figures had vanished in the darkness. Would he come back again tomorrow, or was he gone forever and ever? Such were the thoughts of the forsaken maiden, as she stood paralysed under this sudden change of fortune, at her father’s door. If some cruel spectator had thrown into the fire that Brussels veil with which her imagination had so long played, and Barbara had stood heart-struck, watching the filmy tissue dissolve into ashes before her eyes, her sense of sudden anguish could not have been more acute. Yet, after all, Barbara’s pangs were nothing to those of Mr. Cavendish, as he felt Miss Marjoribanks’s light touch on his arm, and felt his doomed feet turn in spite of himself in the most dangerous direction, and became conscious that he was being led beyond all possibility of resistance, back to Grange Lane and to his fate.

To be sure it was dark, which was one consolation; but it was not dark enough to conceal Lucilla’s white dress, nor the well-known form and lineaments of the young monarch of Grange Lane, in whose company nobody could pass unobserved. Mr. Cavendish could have faced danger by sea and land with the average amount of courage; but the danger of the walk down the little street, which afterwards led to St. Roque’s, and up the embowered stillness of Grange Lane, was more than he was equal to. He could not be sure of making a single step by these garden-walls without meeting somebody who knew him⁠—somebody whose curiosity might ruin him in Carlingford; or even without the risk of encountering in the face of that arch-enemy, who would not go away, and whose presence had banished him from the place. It may be supposed that, under these terrible circumstances, Mr. Cavendish’s thoughts of Barbara, who had got him into this scrape, were far from lover-like. He was a man universally popular among ladies, and who owed a great deal of the social consideration which he prized so highly to this fact; and yet the most gentle sentiment in his mind at that moment, was a “Confound these women!” which he breathed to himself, all low and deep, as he went slowly along by Lucilla’s side. As for Miss Marjoribanks, her thoughts were of a very much more serious description than anything her unlucky escort was thinking of, and a minute or two passed in silence before she could make up her mind to speak.

“I have been thinking a great deal about you lately, and wishing very much to see you,” said Lucilla. “Did not Mrs. Woodburn tell you?⁠—I think I should have written to you had I known your address.”

“And I am sure you would have made me the happiest of men,” said the victim, with rueful politeness. “What had I done to deserve such a privilege? But my sister did not tell me; she left me to hear it from your own⁠—”

“Yes,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a certain solemnity, interrupting him; “I have been thinking a great deal⁠—and hearing a great deal about you, Mr. Cavendish.” When she had said this Lucilla sighed, and her sigh found a terrible echo in her hearer’s bosom. She knew that he turned green in the darkness as he gave an anxious look at her. But he was too much alarmed to give her an opportunity of studying his face.

“Hearing of me,” he said, and tried to laugh; “what have my kind friends been saying?” and for one moment the sufferer tried to delude himself that it was some innocent gossip about Barbara which might be circulating in Grange Lane.

“Hush,” said Lucilla, “don’t laugh, please; for I want to have a very serious talk. I have been hearing about you from some very, very old friends, Mr. Cavendish⁠—not anything about this, you know,” Miss Marjoribanks added, waving her hand in the direction of Grove Street. And then Barbara Lake and everything connected with her vanished like a shadow from the unfortunate man’s mind. It was horribly ungrateful on his part, but it was, as Miss Marjoribanks would have said, just what might have been expected, and how They always behave. He had no longer any time or patience for the object which had been giving occupation and interest to his solitude. He woke up in a moment, and gave a passing curse to his folly, and faced the real danger as he best could.

“You must be making a mistake, Miss Marjoribanks,” he said, with some bitterness; “it should have been, very, very old enemy. I know who it is. It is that Archdeacon you ladies make such a fuss about. It is he who has been telling lies about me,” said Mr. Cavendish. He breathed a deep hard breath as he spoke, and the blood came back to his face. Perhaps for the first moment he felt satisfied, and breathed freer after it was over; but at the same time it was very dreadful to him to feel that he was found out, and that henceforth Grange Lane would shut its doors and avert its countenance. “If you take his word for it, I may give in at once,” he continued, bitterly. “A parson will say anything; they are as bad as⁠—as women.” This the poor man said in his despair, because he did not know what he was saying; for in reality he knew that women had been his best friends, and that he had still a chance, if the judgment was to rest with them.

“You are very ungrateful to say so,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “but it is only because you are excited, I suppose. No, Mr. Cavendish, it was not the Archdeacon; on the contrary, it was a lady, and she said nothing but good of you,” said Lucilla; and then there was a pause. As for Mr. Cavendish, it would be altogether impossible to describe the state of his mind. He was like a man suddenly reprieved, but giddy with the shock, and feeling the halter still round his neck, and knowing that he had himself undermined the ground on which he was standing. It was Lucilla who supported him in the shock of the moment, for all his self-command could not keep him from a momentary shiver and stagger when he found that things were not so bad as he thought.

“A lady, and she said nothing but good!” he muttered, under his breath; and then he made an effort to recover himself. “Pardon me, I cannot guess who my unknown friend may be. It is very soothing to one’s feelings to be spoken well of by a lady,” said Mr. Cavendish, and he laughed again in a discordant unsteady way. Lucilla regarded him through all these fluctuations with natural pity, and at the same time with the calmness of a knowledge which was aware of all and had nothing more to discover; and at the end Mr. Cavendish perceived her calm, and the absence of wonder and curiosity in her face, and began to perceive that he had something very serious to deal with⁠—more serious even than he had at first supposed.

“I am going to tell you all about it,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “but in the meantime wait a minute and let me speak to you. I have something very serious to say.”

It was for this they stopped short at the foot of Grange Lane just where the land was already parcelled out for St. Roque’s. What Lucilla was going to say was too important to be spoken while walking, and she withdrew her hand from Mr. Cavendish’s arm. They were both so much absorbed that they did not see anybody coming, nor indeed had any attention to spare for external affairs. The blood had deserted Mr. Cavendish’s face, and he was once more green with anxiety and inquietude. He stood facing her, feeling that the crisis of his fate had come, and not knowing whether it was absolute despair or a faint dawning of hope that possessed him. If he had been the most passionate of lovers, and if she had held in her hands the dreadful alternative between rapture and misery, there could not have been a more rapt and absorbing attention in Mr. Cavendish’s face.

“I want to tell you, first of all, that you must have confidence in me,” said Lucilla; “you⁠—must⁠—have confidence in me. We can do nothing without that. I know everything, Mr. Cavendish,” Miss Marjoribanks added compassionately⁠—“everything; but nobody else knows it. I hope I can arrange everything if it is left in my hands. This is what I wanted to tell you first of all. Before everything, you must have confidence in me.”

What Mr. Cavendish might have answered to this solemn appeal it would be vain to imagine; for the truth was, he was stopped before he could utter a word. He was stopped and seized by the hand, and greeted with a frankness which was, perhaps, all the more loud and cordial from what appeared to the newcomer the comic character of the situation. “It is Cavendish, by Jove!” the intruder exclaimed, waving his hand to some people who were coming on behind him. “I beg a thousand pardons for disturbing you, my dear fellow; but they all talk about you so, that I was determined to make sure it was you. Good heavens, Miss Marjoribanks!” General Travers added, taking off his hat. It was Mr. and Mrs. Centum who were coming down behind him⁠—she with a light shawl thrown over her head, tempted out by the beauty of the evening; and Lucilla saw in a moment the consequences of this encounter, and how it would be over all Carlingford before tomorrow morning that she and Mr. Cavendish were betrothed at the very least. Miss Marjoribanks had all her wits about her, as ever, fortunately for both.

“Yes, it is me,” she said calmly; “I have been taking tea with the Lakes, and I made Mr. Cavendish give me his arm home. He did not like being found out, to be sure, but he could not help himself; and we all know about that,” Lucilla added, with a smile, taking once more the unfortunate man’s arm. “Oh, yes, we all know,” said Mrs. Centum, with a laugh; but yet, notwithstanding, everybody felt sure that it was all Lucilla’s cleverness, and that Barbara Lake was a myth and fiction. And it was thus, with Miss Marjoribanks leaning on his arm, and General Travers, in all the warmth of renewed friendship, guarding him on the other side, that Mr. Cavendish, whose head was in a whirl of excitement, and who did not know what he was doing, was led back in triumph past Colonel Chiley’s very door, where the Archdeacon was lying in wait to crunch his bones, back from all his aberrations into the very heart of Grange Lane.