Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 40 (2/2)

“Yes,” said Lucilla, “one leaves all that behind, you know⁠—one leaves ever so many things behind. I wish we could always be twenty, for my part. I always said, you know, that I should be gone off in ten years.”

“Was it the only fib you ever told that you repeat it so?” said Mr. Cavendish; and it was with this pretty speech that he took her downstairs to the well-remembered luncheon. “But you have gone off in some things when you have to do with a prig like that,” he said in her ear, as they went down together, “and cast off old friends. It was a thing a fellow did not expect of you.”

“I never cast off old friends,” said Miss Marjoribanks. “We shall look for you on Thursday, you know, all the same. Must you go, Mr. Ashburton, when lunch is on the table? But then, to be sure, you will be in time at the Browns’,” said Lucilla sweetly, and she gave the one rival her hand while she held the arm of the other, at the door of the dining-room, in which Mr. Ashburton had gallantly deposited Aunt Jemima before saying goodbye. They were both looking a little black, though the gloom was moderate in Mr. Ashburton’s case; but as for Lucilla, she stood between them a picture of angelic sweetness and goodness, giving a certain measure of her sympathy to both⁠—Woman the Reconciler, by the side of those other characters of Inspirer and Consoler, of which the world has heard. The two inferior creatures scowled with politeness at each other, but Miss Marjoribanks smiled upon them both. Such was the way in which she overcame the difficulties of the meeting. Mr. Ashburton went away a little annoyed, but still understanding his instructions, and ready to act upon them in that businesslike way he had, and Mr. Cavendish remained, faintly reassured in the midst of his soreness and mortification, by at least having the field to himself and seeing the last (for the present) of his antagonist⁠—which was a kind of victory in its way.

“I thought I knew you better than to think you ever would have anything to do with that sort of thing,” said Mr. Cavendish. “There are people, you know, whom I could have imagined⁠—but a prig like that.” He became indeed quite violent, as Aunt Jemima said afterwards, and met with that lady’s decided disapproval, as may be supposed.

“Mr. Ashburton is very well-bred and agreeable,” Mrs. John said, with emphasis. “I wish all the young men I see nowadays were as nice.”

“Young men!” said Mr. Cavendish. “Is that what people call young nowadays? And he must be insane, you know, or he would never dream of representing a town without saying a single word about his principles. I dare say he thinks it is original,” said the unhappy man. He thought he was pointing out his rival’s weakness to Lucilla, and he went on with energy⁠—“I know you better than to think you can like that milk-and-water sort of thing.”

“Oh, I don’t pretend to know anything about politics,” said Lucilla. “I hear you gentlemen talk, but I never pretend to understand. If we were not to leave you that all to yourselves, I don’t know what you could find to do,” Miss Marjoribanks added compassionately; and as she spoke she looked so like the Lucilla of old, who had schemed and plotted for Mr. Cavendish, that he could not believe in her desertion in his heart.

“That is a delusion like the going off,” he said. “I can’t believe you have gone over to the enemy. When I remember how I have been roving about all those ten years, and how different it might have been, and whose fault it all was⁠—”

This Mr. Cavendish said in a low voice, but it did not the less horrify Aunt Jemima, who felt prepared for any atrocity after it. She would have withdrawn, in justice to her own sense of propriety; but then she thought it was not impossible that he might propose to Lucilla on the spot, or take her hand or something, and for propriety’s sake she stayed.

“Yes,” said Lucilla⁠—and her heart did for one little moment give a faint thump against her breast. She could not help thinking what a difference it might have made to him, poor fellow, had he been under her lawful and righteous sway these ten years. But as she looked at him it became more and more apparent to Miss Marjoribanks that Mr. Cavendish had gone off, whatever she herself might have done. The outlines of his fine figure had changed considerably, and his face was a little red, and he had the look of a man whose circumstances, spiritual and temporal, would not quite bear a rigid examination. As she looked at him her pity became tinged by a certain shade of resentment to think that after all it was his own fault. She could not, notwithstanding her natural frankness of expression, say to him, “You foolish soul, why didn’t you marry me somehow, and make a man of yourself?” Lucilla carried honesty very far, but she could not go as far as that. “Yes,” she said, turning her eyes upon him with a sort of abstract sympathy, and then she added softly, “Have you ever seen Her again?” with a lowering of her voice.

This interesting question, which utterly bewildered Aunt Jemima, drove Mr. Cavendish wild with rage. Mrs. John said afterwards that she felt a shiver go through her as he took up the carving-knife, though it was only to cut some cold beef. He grew white all at once, and pressed his lips tightly together, and fixed his eyes on the wall straight before him. “I did not think, after what I once said to you, Miss Marjoribanks, that you would continue to insult my judgment in that way,” he said, with a chill which fell upon the whole table, and took the life out of everything, and dimmed the very fire in the chimney. And after that the conversation was of a sufficiently ordinary description until they went back again into the drawing-room, by which time Mr. Cavendish seemed to have concluded that it was best to pocket the affront.

“I am going to begin my canvass tomorrow,” he said. “I have not seen anybody yet. I have nobody but my sister to take me in hand, you know. There was once a time when it might have been different”⁠—and he gave Lucilla a look which she thought on the whole it was best to meet.

“Yes,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with cruel distinctness, “there was a time when you were the most popular man in Grange Lane⁠—everybody was fond of you. I remember it as if it had been yesterday,” said Lucilla, with a sigh.

“You don’t give a man much encouragement, by Jove!” said the unlucky candidate. “You remember it like yesterday? It may be vanity, but I flatter myself I shall still be found the most popular man in Grange Lane.”

Miss Marjoribanks sighed again, but she did not say anything. On the contrary she turned to Aunt Jemima, who kept in the background an alarmed and alert spectator, to consult her about a shade of wool; and just then Mr. Cavendish, looking out of the window, saw Major Brown conducting his rival through his garden, and shaking hands with him cordially at the door. This was more than the patience of the other candidate could bear. A sudden resolution, hot and angry, as are the resolutions of men who feel themselves to have a failing cause, came into his mind. He had been badgered and baited to such an extent (as he thought) that he had not time to consider if it was wise or not. He, too, had sat to Maria Brown, and commanded once the warmest admiration of the household. He thought he would put it to the test, and see if after all his popularity was only a thing to be remembered like yesterday;⁠—and it was with this intention that he bade a hurried goodbye to Lucilla, and, rushing out, threw himself at once upon the troubled waves of society, which had once been as smooth as glass to the most popular man in Grange Lane.