_Chapter XXII_
The Archdeacon returned to Carlingford before Thursday, as he hadanticipated; but in the interval Mr Cavendish had not recovered hiscourage so far as to renew his visit to Miss Marjoribanks, or to facethe man who had alarmed him so much. Everybody in Grange Lane remarkedat the time how worried poor Mrs Woodburn looked. Her eyes lost theirbrightness, which some people thought was the only beauty she had, andher nerves and her temper both failed her, no one could tell why. Thepersonal sketches she made at this moment were truculent and bitter toan unheard-of degree. She took off Mr Beverley with a savage force whichelectrified her audience, and put words into his mouth which everybodyadmitted were exactly like him, if he could ever be imagined to havefallen into the extraordinary circumstances in which the mimic placedhim. In short, Mrs Woodburn made a little drama out of the Archdeacon.Mr Beverley, of course, knew nothing about this, and showed somesurprise now and then at the restrained laughter which he heard in thecorners; but when anybody spoke of Mrs Woodburn, he showed aninstinctive want of confidence. "I have not studied her sufficiently togive an opinion of her," he said, which was certainly the very reverseof her deliverance upon him. To tell the truth, she had rather studiedhim too much, and gave too keen an edge to his characteristic qualities,as is natural to all literary portraiture, and even went so far that,in the end, people began to ask whether she had any personal spiteagainst him.
"She don't know him," Mr Woodburn said, when he heard some faint echo ofthis suggestion. "She's clever, and it carries her away, you know. Sheenters into it so, she don't know how far she is going; but I can answerfor it she never saw the Archdeacon before; and Hal isn't here to giveher the key-note, as she says. _He_ has met everybody, I believe, oneplace or another," the simple man said, with a little natural pride; forin his heart he was vain of his fashionable brother-in-law. As for MrCavendish himself, it began to be understood that he was with a friendwho was sick, on the Continent; and soon--for news had a wonderfultendency to increase and grow bigger as it spread in Grange Lane--thathis friend was dying, and that a probable large increase of fortune tothe popular favourite would be the result, which was an idea that didcredit to the imagination of Carlingford. He had disappeared completelyonce more after the eventful day which we have described, carrying outin the fullest way Lucilla's prediction, but striking Barbara Lake withbitter disappointment. Miss Marjoribanks had a great many things tooccupy her, but Barbara had nothing except the humble duty of lookingafter her little brothers and sisters, and attending to her father'scomfort, which had never been occupations particularly to her mind. Andthen Barbara was aware that, if she neglected her duties, Rose, on herreturn from the School of Design, would do them, though with a fiercelittle outbreak of indignation, which the elder sister felt she couldbear; and accordingly, she did little else but brood over his suddendisappearance, and spend her time at the window looking for his return.
Lucilla conducted herself, as might have been expected, in a much morerational and dignified manner. She made herself very agreeable to theArchdeacon, who unbended very much, and grew very nice, as Mrs Chileyherself allowed. "But, my dear, I am uneasy about his opinions," the oldlady said. He certainly had a very free way of talking, and was ready todiscuss _anything_, and was not approved of by Mr Bury. But still he hadvery good connections and a nice position, and had always a chance ofbeing Bishop of Carlingford; and in marriage it is well known that onenever can have everything one wants. So that, on the whole, even MrsChiley did not see what difference his opinions made, so far as Lucillawas concerned. When Miss Marjoribanks went down to Colonel Chiley's inthe evening and made tea for the old people, like a daughter of thehouse, Mr Beverley was always disposed to go over to the enemy, as theold Colonel said. No doubt he had enough of Colonel Chiley, who had notreceived a new idea into his mind since the battle of Waterloo, and didnot see what people had to do with such nonsense. And then theArchdeacon would very often walk home with the young visitor. Duringthis time, as was natural, Mr Beverley heard Mr Cavendish's name ahundred times, and regretted, like all the world, that so eminent amember of the Carlingford commonwealth should be absent during hisvisit; but, at the same time, Lucilla took great care to avoid allpersonalities, and kept a discreet silence even about the gifts andaccomplishments of her almost-lover. Mrs Chiley sighed, poor soul, whenshe saw how her young friend avoided this subject, and thought sometimesthat he was forgotten, sometimes that the poor dear was breaking herheart for him; but it is needless to say that neither of thesesuppositions was in the least true.
And then it began to be considered rather odd in Carlingford that theArchdeacon should pay such a long visit. Mrs Chiley no doubt was verykind and hospitable, and exceedingly glad to receive such adistinguished clergyman; but when a man has been six weeks in any one'shouse, and shows no inclination of going, it is natural that peopleshould feel a little surprised. His visitation was over, and he haddined with everybody, and studied the place and its characteristics, andentered into everything that was going on. The only thing, indeed, thathe did not seem to think of, was going away. If it had been MrCavendish, the chances are that he would have made himself so much oneof the family, that his departure would have been felt as a domesticcalamity; but the Archdeacon was very different from Mr Cavendish. Solong as he was in the house it was impossible to forget either hisposition or his ways of thinking, or the absence of any real connectionbetween himself and his hosts. He did not combat or contradict anybody,but he would give a faint smile when the Colonel uttered hisold-fashioned sentiments, which drove the old soldier frantic. "As if Iwas not able to form an opinion, by Jove!" Colonel Chiley said; while,on the other hand, the Archdeacon was quite ready to enter into theyoung people's absurd theories, and discuss the very Bible itself, as ifthat were a book to be discussed. As for the Rector, he turned his headaway when he passed Colonel Chiley's door, and Miss Bury made visits ofcondolence and sympathy. "You must feel it a great responsibility havingMr Beverley with you," the Rector's sister would say, though naturallywithout any distinct explanation of her meaning; and then she would lookat Mrs Chiley and sigh.
"Oh, I am sure it is a great pleasure," Mrs Chiley answered, not willingto let down the prestige of her guest. "He is very nice, and takes agreat deal of interest in everything; and then, you know, he is aconnection of ours. The Colonel's niece, Mary Chiley----"
"Yes, I know," said Miss Bury. "Poor thing! she looked suffering thelast time I saw her. I hope she has found the true consolation tosupport her, now she has entered into the troubles of life."
"Well, yes, I hope so," said Mrs Chiley, a little doubtfully; "but youknow one does not feel the troubles of life very severely at her age;and I don't think I should have called a baby a trouble when I was likeher. I never had any, you know, and I used to fret over it a great deal;but the Colonel never liked the noise of children, and I suppose it isall for the best."
"One may always be sure of that," said Miss Bury, in her instructiveway. "I suppose the Archdeacon is going soon," she added; "he has beenhere a long time now. I almost wonder he likes to be so long absent fromhis parish. Two months, is it not?"
"Oh, no--not quite six weeks," said Mrs Chiley briskly. "I hope he maybe persuaded to stay some time longer. I look upon it as quite acompliment to Carlingford; for, to be sure, he would not stay if he hadnot some attraction," said the imprudent old woman. And this wasprecisely what Miss Bury wanted, as any one of acute perceptions mighthave seen from the first.
"It must be a great responsibility for you," said the Rector's sister,with a sigh, pressing Mrs Chiley's hand. "If it should turn out badly,you know----Of course, my brother and I don't agree with Mr Beverley onall points--though I am sure I hope he is quite conscientious; but I dofeel for you with such a responsibility," said Miss Bury, with a lookthat made the old lady nervous in spite of herself. Thus,notwithstanding all her sense of the duties of hospitality, and heranxiety about Lucilla's interests, she could not but feel that it wouldbe rather a relief to get so
formidable a guest fairly out of the house.It is uncomfortable, it must be allowed, to entertain in your houseanybody, particularly a clergyman of whom your Rector does not approve;and there could be no doubt that the Archdeacon was not like theclergymen that Mrs Chiley had been accustomed to. "And he could comeback another time," she said to herself, by way of conciliating her ownweariness with her visitor's advantage and the interests of Lucilla. Butnotwithstanding these reflections on Mrs Chiley's part andnotwithstanding the Colonel's less amiable growl, uttered everymorning--"Does that parson of yours never mean to go away?"--theArchdeacon showed no intention of budging. It was poor Mrs Chiley whohad all the brunt to bear, to exhaust herself in civilities and to beupbraided with "that parson of yours"--whereas he was not in the leasther parson, nor even the kind of man she approved of as a clergyman. Allthis, however, the brave old woman bore with fortitude for Lucilla'ssake: certainly it must be Lucilla who kept him in Carlingford--if itwere not something else.
Things were in this condition, Mr Cavendish having again disappearedinto utter darkness, and Carlingford beginning to enter warmly into thequestion whether or not Mr Beverley was paying attention to Lucilla,when it happened to Miss Marjoribanks one morning to meet the Archdeaconin a little lane running between Grove Street and Grange Lane. Openingfrom this lane was a little door in the wall, which admitted to a littlegarden very bright with flowers of the simplest old-fashioned kinds,with a little house planted at its extremity, which had pretensions tobe an old-fashioned and quasi-rural cottage, on the score of being veryrickety, uncomfortable, and badly arranged. But it must be a veryimpracticable erection indeed which does not look tolerable under thebright sunshine on a summer noon, at the end of a pretty garden wherechildren are playing and birds singing, and a woman or two about.Lucilla was standing at the door of this little closed-up hermitage,almost filling up the opening with her crisp summer draperies, andaffording only a very partial and tempting glimpse of its flowers andshrubs and whitewashed walls inside; and when Mr Beverley came up toMiss Marjoribanks he felt his curiosity excited. "Is it Armida'sgarden, or the Elysian fields--" said the Archdeacon; and he made a deadstop before the door, not knowing any more than any other blind mortalwhat he was going to find inside.
"I don't know anything about Armida," said Miss Marjoribanks;"unfortunately they were all Cambridge in their ways of thinking atMount Pleasant, and our classics got dreadfully neglected. But you maycome in if you like--at least I think you may come in, if you willpromise not to frighten the children. I am sure they never saw anArchdeacon in their lives."
"Are there children?" said Mr Beverley, with a doubtful air; for, totell the truth, he had come to the age at which men think it best toavoid children, unless, indeed, they happen to have a personal interestin them; and he stretched his neck a little to see in over MissMarjoribanks's head.
"There are a whole lot of children, and a pretty governess," saidLucilla. "It is a school, and I am so much interested in it. I may callit my school, for that matter. I came to know her in the funniest way;but I will tell you that another time. And it was just my luck, asusual. She is so nice, and quite a lady. If you will not say you are anArchdeacon, to frighten the children, I will let you come in."
"You shall call me whatever you like," said Mr Beverley; "when I am withthe lady-patroness, what does it matter what I call myself? Let me seehow you manage your educational department. I have already bowed beforeyour genius in the other branches of government; but this ought to bemore in my own way."
"I don't think you care for visiting schools," said Lucilla. "I know youthink it is a bore; but she is so nice, and so nice-looking; I am sureyou will be pleased with her. I am quite sure she is a lady, and hasseen better days."
"Oh, those dreadful women that have seen better days!" said theArchdeacon; "I think Mrs Chiley has a regiment of them. It is hard toknow how to get one's self into sympathy with those faded existences.They fill me with an infinite pity; but then what can one do? If onetries to recall them to the past, it sounds like mockery--and if onespeaks of the present, it wounds their feelings. It is a great socialdifficulty," said Mr Beverley; and he fixed his eyes on the ground andentered meditatively, without looking where he was going, in hisBroad-Church way.
"Dear Mrs Chiley is so kind," said Lucilla, who was a little puzzled forthe moment, and did not know what to say.
"Mrs Chiley is a good, pure, gentle woman," said the Archdeacon. Hespoke in a tone which settled the question, and from which there was noappeal; and no doubt what he said was perfectly true, though it was nota very distinct characterisation. Thus they went in together into thebright little garden, thinking of nothing in particular, and loiteringas people do who do not know what is coming. There was something thatmorning in Mr Beverley's tone and manner which struck Lucilla assomething more than usual. She was not a young woman to attach undueimportance to looks and tones; but the Archdeacon's manner was sosoftened and mellowed, and his eyes had so much expression in them, andhe looked at Lucilla with such marked regard, that it was impossible forher not to recognise that a crisis might be approaching. To be sure, itwas not by any means so near as that crisis _manque_ which had so latelypassed over her head in respect to Mr Cavendish. But still MissMarjoribanks could not but remark the signs of a slowly approaching andmost likely more important climax; and as she remarked it, Lucillanaturally by anticipation prepared herself for the coming event thatthus threw a shadow upon her. She did not make up her mind to accept MrBeverley any more than she had made up her mind to accept Mr Cavendish;but she thought it only her duty to him and to herself, and to societyin general, to take his claims into full consideration. And no doubt, ifthese claims had seemed to her sufficiently strong to merit such areward, Miss Marjoribanks had it in her to marry the Archdeacon, andmake him an admirable wife, though she was not at the present moment, sofar as she was aware, absolutely what foolish people call in love withhim. At the same time, she made herself all the more agreeable to MrBeverley from her sense of the dawn of tenderness with which he regardedher. And in this way they went up the broad central path which traversedthe little garden, neither looking to the left nor the right, butpresenting all that appearance of being occupied with each other, which,especially to a female observer, is so easy of interpretation. For, tobe sure, the Archdeacon had not the remotest idea into whose house hewas going, nor who it was whom he was about to see.
But as it happened, Lucilla's protegee, who had seen better days, hadjust finished one of her lessons, and sent her little pupils out intothe garden. She was preparing for the next little class, when, raisingher eyes accidentally, she saw Miss Marjoribanks coming through thegarden with the Archdeacon by her side. She was the same person whom MrBury had brought to Lucilla with the idea of recommending her to DrMarjoribanks as a companion and chaperone for his daughter; but sincethen Mrs Mortimer's appearance had considerably changed. She had grownyounger by ten years during the period of comparative comfort andtranquillity which Lucilla's active help and championship had procuredfor her. Her house, and her garden, and her little scholars, and thebloom on her cheeks, and the filling-up of her worn frame, were all MissMarjoribanks's doing. In the intervals of her legislative cares Lucillahad run about all over Carlingford searching for pupils, and at the samemoment had cut and stitched and arranged, and papered walls, and plantedflower-beds, for the feeble creature thus thrown upon her. This was aside of Lucilla's character which certainly she did nothing to hide fromthe public, but which, at the same time, she never made any fuss about;and it was an endless pleasure to her to find a protegee so perfectlycontent to be "done for," and do as she was told to do. It was thus thatthe poor faded widow, who was sensitive and had feelings, and forgotherself so far as to faint, or nearly to faint, just at the most unluckymoment possible, when the Rector's character and dignity demandedsuperior self-control on her part, had found her youth again and hergood looks under Lucilla's shadow. When she looked up and saw the twoapproaching, Mrs Mortimer's first impulse was to smile
at theconjunction; but the next moment she had dropped the books out of herhands, and was standing gazing out like a woman in a dream, with thecolour all gone out of her cheeks, and even out of her lips, in thesurprise of the moment. It was only surprise and a kind of dismay; itwas not terror, like that which Mr Cavendish had exhibited at the sameapparition. She dropped into her chair without knowing it, and probablywould have fainted this time also, if something more urgent than mere"feelings" had not roused her up. As it was, it happened very happilyfor her that she had thus a little preparation. When she saw that herpatroness was leading Mr Beverley up to the door, and that in a minutemore he would inevitably be brought to her very side, Mrs Mortimerroused up all her strength. She gathered up her books in her handwithout knowing very well what she was doing, and, taking virtue fromnecessity, went desperately out to meet them. It was Miss Marjoribankswho first saw her, white and tottering, leaning against the trellis ofthe little porch, and Lucilla could not but give a little cry of alarmand wonder. What kind of man could this be, who thus struck down anothervictim without even so much as a glance? It was just then that theArchdeacon raised his eyes, and saw standing before him, among the fadedroses, the woman whom he had been approaching so indifferently--thefaded existence that had seen better days. He saw her, and he stoodstock-still, as if it was she who was the basilisk, and the look ofpleased interest went out of his face in a moment. In that moment he hadbecome as unconscious of the presence of Lucilla as if he had never inhis life softened his voice to her ear, or talked nonsense to pleaseher. His eyes did not seem big enough to take in the figure which stoodshrinking and looking at him in the porch. Then he made one long stepforward, and took hold of her sleeve--not her hand--as if to convincehimself that it was something real he saw. He showed no joy, norsatisfaction, nor anything but sheer amaze and wonder, at thisunexpected appearance, for he had not had time to prepare himself as shehad. "Am I dreaming, or is it you?" he said, in a voice that sounded asdifferent from the voice with which he had been speaking to Lucilla, asif years had elapsed between the two. And it would be vain to describethe amazement and singular sense that the earth had suddenly given wayunder her feet, with which Miss Marjoribanks stood by and looked on.
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