Miss Marjoribanks by Margaret Oliphant

Miss Marjoribanks, except for her habitual walk, did not go out much that day. She was too much occupied with what she had in hand. She could not conceive -- for Lucilla naturally took a reasonable view of affairs in general, and did not account for the action of any such unknown quantity as love, for example -- why Mr. Cavendish should conceal himself so carefully from society in Carlingford, and yet run all the risk of meeting Barbara Lake in the evenings. It seemed to Lucilla inconceivable, and yet it was impossible not to believe it.

Mr. Cavendish, though she had seen him on the very verge of a proposal, did not present himself to her mind in the aspect of a man who would consider the world well lost for any such transitory passion; neither, as was natural, did Barbara Lake appear to Lucilla the least like a person calculated to call forth that sentiment; but nevertheless it must be true, and the only way to account for it was by thinking, after all, what fools They were, and what poor judges, and how little to be depended on, when women were concerned. Miss Marjoribanks was determined to lose no more time, but to speak to Mr. Cavendish, if it was Mr. Cavendish, and she could get the chance, quite plainly of the situation of affairs -- to let him know how much she knew, and to spur him up to come forward like a man and brave anything the Archdeacon could do.