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Chronicles of Carlingford
MISS MARJORIBANKS
_By_ MRS OLIPHANT
The Zodiac Press LONDON
Contents
Chapter I 25
Chapter II 34
Chapter III 41
Chapter IV 45
Chapter V 55
Chapter VI 63
Chapter VII 72
Chapter VIII 80
Chapter IX 90
Chapter X 98
Chapter XI 110
Chapter XII 118
Chapter XIII 125
Chapter XIV 133
Chapter XV 141
Chapter XVI 149
Chapter XVII 157
Chapter XVIII 167
Chapter XIX 179
Chapter XX 188
Chapter XXI 199
Chapter XXII 204
Chapter XXIII 213
Chapter XXIV 229
Chapter XXV 240
Chapter XXVI 248
Chapter XXVII 258
Chapter XXVIII 267
Chapter XXIX 279
Chapter XXX 289
Chapter XXXI 296
Chapter XXXII 304
Chapter XXXIII 312
Chapter XXXIV 321
Chapter XXXV 333
Chapter XXXVI 338
Chapter XXXVII 341
Chapter XXXVIII 352
Chapter XXXIX 363
Chapter XL 377
Chapter XLI 387
Chapter XLII 394
Chapter XLIII 402
Chapter XLIV 409
Chapter XLV 420
Chapter XLVI 430
Chapter XLVII 439
Chapter XLVIII 449
Chapter XLIX 461
Chapter L 471
Chapter LI 481
Chapter the last 494
_Chapter I_
Miss Marjoribanks lost her mother when she was only fifteen, and when,to add to the misfortune, she was absent at school, and could not haveit in her power to soothe her dear mamma's last moments, as she herselfsaid. Words are sometimes very poor exponents of such an event: but ithappens now and then, on the other hand, that a plain intimationexpresses too much, and suggests emotion and suffering which, inreality, have but little, if any, existence. Mrs Marjoribanks, poorlady, had been an invalid for many years; she had grown a little peevishin her loneliness, not feeling herself of much account in this world.There are some rare natures that are content to acquiesce in the generalneglect, and forget themselves when they find themselves forgotten; butit is unfortunately much more usual to take the plan adopted by MrsMarjoribanks, who devoted all her powers, during the last ten years ofher life, to the solacement and care of that poor self which otherpeople neglected. The consequence was, that when she disappeared fromher sofa--except for the mere physical fact that she was no longerthere--no one, except her maid, whose occupation was gone, could havefound out much difference. Her husband, it is true, who had, somewhere,hidden deep in some secret corner of his physical organisation, theremains of a heart, experienced a certain sentiment of sadness when here-entered the house from which she had gone away for ever. But DrMarjoribanks was too busy a man to waste his feelings on a meresentiment. His daughter, however, was only fifteen, and had floods oftears at her command, as was natural at that age. All the way home sherevolved the situation in her mind, which was considerably enlightenedby novels and popular philosophy--for the lady at the head of MissMarjoribanks school was a devoted admirer of _Friends in Council_, andwas fond of bestowing that work as a prize, with pencil-marks on themargin--so that Lucilla's mind had been cultivated, and was brimful ofthe best of sentiments. She made up her mind on her journey to a greatmany virtuous resolutions; for, in such a case as hers, it wasevidently the duty of an only child to devote herself to her father'scomfort, and become the sunshine of his life, as so many young personsof her age have been known to become in literature. Miss Marjoribankshad a lively mind, and was capable of grasping all the circumstances ofthe situation at a glance. Thus, between the outbreaks of her tears forher mother, it became apparent to her that she must sacrifice her ownfeelings, and make a cheerful home for papa, and that a great manychanges would be necessary in the household--changes which went so faras even to extend to the furniture. Miss Marjoribanks sketched toherself, as she lay back in the corner of the railway carriage, with herveil down, how she would wind herself up to the duty of presiding at herpapa's dinner-parties, and charming everybody by her good humour, andbrightness, and devotion to his comfort; and how, when it was all over,she would withdraw and cry her eyes out in her own room, and be found inthe morning languid and worn-out, but always heroical, ready to godownstairs and assist at dear papa's breakfast, and keep up her smilesfor him till he had gone out to his patients. Altogether the picture wasa very pretty one; and, considering that a great many young ladies indeep mourning put force upon their feelings in novels, and maintain asmile for the benefit of the unobservant male creatures of whom theyhave the charge, the idea was not at all extravagant, considering thatMiss Marjoribanks was but fifteen. She was not, however, exactly thekind of figure for this _mise en scene_. When her schoolfellows talkedof her to their friends--for Lucilla was already an important personageat Mount Pleasant--the most common description they gave her was, thatshe was "a large girl"; and there was great truth in the adjective. Shewas not to be described as a tall girl--which conveys an altogetherdifferent idea--but she was large in all particulars, full andwell-developed, with somewhat large features, not at all pretty as yet,though it was known in Mount Pleasant that somebody had said that such aface might ripen into beauty, and become "grandiose," for anythinganybody could tell. Miss Marjoribanks was not vain; but the word hadtaken possession of her imagination, as was natural, and solaced hermuch when she made the painful discovery that her gloves were half anumber larger, and her shoes a hair-breadth broader, than those of anyof her companions; but the hands and feet were both perfectly wellshaped; and being at the same time well clothed and plump, were muchmore presentable and pleasant to look upon than the lean rudimentaryschoolgirl hands with which they were surrounded. To add to theseexcellences, Lucilla had a mass of hair which, if it c
ould but have beencleared a little in its tint, would have been golden, though at presentit was nothing more than tawny, and curly to exasperation. She wore itin large thick curls, which did not, however, float or wave, or do anyof the graceful things which curls ought to do; for it had thisaggravating quality, that it would not grow long, but would growridiculously, unmanageably thick, to the admiration of her companions,but to her own despair, for there was no knowing what to do with thoseshort but ponderous locks. These were the external characteristics ofthe girl who was going home to be a comfort to her widowed father, andmeant to sacrifice herself to his happiness. In the course of her rapidjourney she had already settled upon everything that had to be done; orrather, to speak truly, had rehearsed everything, according to the habitalready acquired by a quick mind, a good deal occupied with itself.First, she meant to fall into her father's arms--forgetting, with thatsingular facility for overlooking the peculiarities of others whichbelongs to such a character, that Dr Marjoribanks was very little givento embracing, and that a hasty kiss on her forehead was the warmestcaress he had ever given his daughter--and then to rush up to thechamber of death and weep over dear mamma. "And to think I was not thereto soothe her last moments!" Lucilla said to herself, with a sob, andwith feelings sufficiently real in their way. After this, the devoteddaughter made up her mind to come downstairs again, pale as death, butself-controlled, and devote herself to papa. Perhaps, if great emotionshould make him tearless, as such cases had been known, MissMarjoribanks would steal into his arms unawares, and so surprise himinto weeping. All this went briskly through her mind, undeterred by thereflection that tears were as much out of the Doctor's way as embraces;and in this mood she sped swiftly along in the inspiration of her firstsorrow, as she imagined, but in reality to suffer her firstdisappointment, which was of a less soothing character than that mildand manageable grief.
When Miss Marjoribanks reached home her mother had been dead fortwenty-four hours; and her father was not at the door to receive her asshe had expected, but by the bedside of a patient in extremity, whocould not consent to go out of the world without the Doctor. This was asad reversal of her intentions, but Lucilla was not the woman to bedisconcerted. She carried out the second part of her programme withouteither interference or sympathy, except from Mrs Marjoribanks's maid,who had some hopes from the moment of her arrival. "I can't abear tothink as I'm to be parted from you all, miss," sobbed the faithfulattendant. "I've lost the best missus as ever was, and I shouldn't mindgoing after her. Whenever any one gets a good friend in this world,they're the first to be took away," said the weeping handmaiden, whonaturally saw her own loss in the most vivid light. "Ah, Ellis," criedMiss Marjoribanks, reposing her sorrow in the arms of this anxiousattendant, "we must try to be a comfort to poor papa!"
With this end Lucilla made herself very troublesome to the sober-mindedDoctor during those few dim days before the faint and daily lesseningshadow of poor Mrs Marjoribanks was removed altogether from the house.When that sad ceremony had taken place, and the Doctor returned, seriousenough, Heaven knows, to the great house, where the faded helplesswoman, who had notwithstanding been his love and his bride in otherdays, lay no longer on the familiar sofa, the crisis arrived which MissMarjoribanks had rehearsed so often, but after quite a differentfashion. The widower was tearless, indeed, but not from excess ofemotion. On the contrary, a painful heaviness possessed him when hebecame aware how little real sorrow was in his mind, and how small anactual loss was this loss of his wife, which bulked before the world asan event of just as much magnitude as the loss, for example, which poorMr Lake, the drawing-master, was at the same moment suffering. It waseven sad, in another point of view, to think of a human creature passingout of the world, and leaving so little trace that she had ever beenthere. As for the pretty creature whom Dr Marjoribanks had married, shehad vanished into thin air years and years ago. These thoughts wereheavy enough--perhaps even more overwhelming than that grief whichdevelops love to its highest point of intensity. But such were notprecisely the kind of reflections which could be solaced by paternal_attendrissement_ over a weeping and devoted daughter. It was May, andthe weather was warm for the season; but Lucilla had caused the fire tobe lighted in the large gloomy library where Dr Marjoribanks always satin the evenings, with the idea that it would be "a comfort" to him;and, for the same reason, she had ordered tea to be served there,instead of the dinner, for which her father, as she imagined, could havelittle appetite. When the Doctor went in to his favourite seclusion,tired and heated and sad--for even on the day of his wife's funeral thefavourite doctor of Carlingford had patients to think of--the veryheaviness of his thoughts gave warmth to his indignation. He had longedfor the quiet and the coolness and the solitude of his library, apartfrom everybody; and when he found it radiant with firelight, tea set onthe table, and Lucilla crying by the fire, in her new crape, the effectupon a temper by no means perfect may be imagined. The unfortunate manthrew both the windows wide open and rang the bell violently, and gaveinstant orders for the removal of the unnecessary fire and thetea-service. "Let me know when dinner is ready," he said, in a voicelike thunder; "and if Miss Marjoribanks wants a fire, let it be lightedin the drawing-room." Lucilla was so much taken by surprise by thissudden overthrow of her programme, that she submitted, as a girl of muchless spirit might have done, and suffered herself and her fire and hertea-things to be dismissed upstairs, where she wept still more at sightof dear mamma's sofa, and where Ellis came to mingle her tears withthose of her young mistress, and to beg dear Miss Lucilla, for the sakeof her precious 'elth and her dear papa, to be persuaded to take sometea. On the whole, master stood lessened in the eyes of all thehousehold by his ability to eat his dinner, and his resentment at havinghis habitudes disturbed. "Them men would eat and drink if we was all inour graves," said the indignant cook, who indeed had a real grievance;and the outraged sentiment of the kitchen was avenged by a bad and hastydinner, which the Doctor, though generally "very particular," swallowedwithout remark. About an hour afterwards he went upstairs to thedrawing-room, where Miss Marjoribanks was waiting for him, much less atease than she had expected to be. Though he gave a little sigh at thesight of his wife's sofa, he did not hesitate to sit down upon it, andeven to draw it a little out of its position, which, as Lucilladescribed afterwards, was like a knife going into her heart. Though,indeed, she had herself decided already, in the intervals of her tears,that the drawing-room furniture had got very faded and shabby, and thatit would be very expedient to have it renewed for the new reign ofyouth and energy which was about to commence. As for the Doctor, thoughMiss Marjoribanks thought him insensible, his heart was heavy enough.His wife had gone out of the world without leaving the least mark of herexistence, except in that large girl, whose spirits and forces wereunbounded, but whose discretion at the present moment did not seem muchgreater than her mother's. Instead of thinking of her as a comfort, theDoctor felt himself called upon to face a new and unexpectedembarrassment. It would have been a satisfaction to him just then tohave been left to himself, and permitted to work on quietly at hisprofession, and to write his papers for the _Lancet_, and to see hisfriends now and then when he chose; for Dr Marjoribanks was not a manwho had any great need of sympathy by nature, or who was at all addictedto demonstrations of feeling; consequently, he drew his wife's sofa alittle farther from the fire, and took his seat on it soberly, quiteunaware that, by so doing, he was putting a knife into his daughter'sheart.
"I hope you have had something to eat, Lucilla," he said; "don't getinto that foolish habit of flying to tea as a man flies to a dram. It'sa more innocent stimulant, but it's the same kind of intention. I am notso much against a fire; it has always a kind of cheerful look."
"Oh, papa," cried his daughter, with a flood of indignant tears, "youcan't suppose I want anything to look cheerful this dreadful day."
"I am far from blaming you, my dear," said the Doctor; "it is naturalyou should cry. I am sorry I did not write for my sister to come, whowould hav
e taken care of you; but I dislike strangers in the house atsuch a time. However, I hope, Lucilla, you will soon feel yourself ableto return to school; occupation is always the best remedy, and you willhave your friends and companions----"
"Papa!" cried Miss Marjoribanks; and then she summoned courage, andrushed up to him, and threw herself and her clouds of crape on thecarpet at his side (and it may here be mentioned that Lucilla had seizedthe opportunity to have her mourning made _long_, which had been thedesire of her heart, baffled by mamma and governess for at least ayear). "Papa!" she exclaimed with fervour, raising to him hertear-stained face, and clasping her fair plump hands, "oh, don't send meaway! I was only a silly girl the other day, but _this_ has made me awoman. Though I can never, never hope to take dear mamma's place, andbe--all--that she was to you, still I feel I can be a comfort to you ifyou will let me. You shall not see me cry any more," cried Lucilla withenergy, rubbing away her tears. "I will never give way to my feelings. Iwill ask for no companions--nor--nor anything. As for pleasure, that isall over. Oh, papa, you shall never see me regret anything, or wish foranything. I will give up everything in the world to be a comfort toyou!"
This address, which was utterly unexpected, drove Dr Marjoribanks todespair. He said, "Get up, Lucilla;" but the devoted daughter knewbetter than to get up. She hid her face in her hands, and rested herhands upon her mother's sofa, where the Doctor was sitting; and the sobsof that emotion which she meant to control henceforward, echoed throughthe room. "It is only for this once--I can--cannot help it," she cried.When her father found that he could neither soothe her, nor succeed inraising her, he got up himself, which was the only thing left to him,and began to walk about the room with hasty steps. Her mother, too, hadpossessed this dangerous faculty of tears; and it was not wonderful ifthe sober-minded Doctor, roused for the first time to consider hislittle girl as a creature possessed of individual character, shouldrecognise, with a thrill of dismay, the appearance of the same qualitieswhich had wearied his life out, and brought his youthful affections toan untimely end. Lucilla was, it is true, as different from her motheras summer from winter; but Dr Marjoribanks had no means of knowing thathis daughter was only doing her duty by him in his widowhood, accordingto a programme of filial devotion resolved upon, in accordance with thebest models, some days before.
Accordingly, when her sobs had ceased, her father returned and raisedher up not unkindly, and placed her in her chair. In doing so, theDoctor put his finger by instinct upon Lucilla's pulse, which wassufficiently calm and regulated to reassure the most anxious parent. Andthen a furtive momentary smile gleamed for a single instant round thecorners of his mouth.
"It is very good of you to propose sacrificing yourself for me," hesaid; "and if you would sacrifice your excitement in the meantime, andlisten to me quietly, it would really be something--but you are onlyfifteen, Lucilla, and I have no wish to take you from school just now;wait till I have done. Your poor mother is gone, and it is very naturalyou should cry; but you were a good child to her on the whole, whichwill be a comfort to you. We did everything that could be thought of toprolong her days, and, when that was impossible, to lessen what she hadto suffer; and we have every reason to hope," said the Doctor, as indeedhe was accustomed to say in the exercise of his profession to mourningrelatives, "that she's far better off now than if she had been with us.When that is said, I don't know that there is anything more to add. I amnot fond of sacrifices, either one way or another; and I've a greatobjection to any one making a sacrifice for me----"
"But, oh, papa, it would be no sacrifice," said Lucilla, "if you wouldonly let me be a comfort to you!"
"That is just where it is, my dear," said the steady Doctor; "I havebeen used to be left a great deal to myself; and I am not prepared tosay that the responsibility of having you here without a mother to takecare of you, and all your lessons interrupted, would not neutralise anycomfort you might be. You see," said Dr Marjoribanks, trying to softenmatters a little, "a man is what his habits make him; and I have beenused to be left a great deal to myself. It answers in some cases, but Idoubt if it would answer with me."
And then there was a pause, in which Lucilla wept and stifled her tearsin her handkerchief, with a warmer flood of vexation and disappointmentthan even her natural grief had produced. "Of course, papa, if I can'tbe any comfort--I will--go back to school," she sobbed, with a touch ofsullenness which did not escape the Doctor's ear.
"Yes, my dear, you will certainly go back to school," said theperemptory father; "I never had any doubt on that subject. You can stayover Sunday and rest yourself. Monday or Tuesday will be time enough togo back to Mount Pleasant; and now you had better ring the bell, and getsomebody to bring you something--or I'll see to that when I godownstairs. It's getting late, and this has been a fatiguing day. I'llsend you up some negus, and I think you had better go to bed."
And with these commonplace words, Dr Marjoribanks withdrew in calmpossession of the field. As for Lucilla, she obeyed him, and betookherself to her own room, and swallowed her negus with a sense, not onlyof defeat, but of disappointment and mortification which was veryunpleasant. To go back again and be an ordinary schoolgirl, after thepomp and woe in which she had come away, was naturally a painfulthought; she who had ordered her mourning to be made long, andcontemplated new furniture in the drawing-room, and expected to bemistress of her father's house, not to speak of the still dearerprivilege of being a comfort to him; and now, after all, her active mindwas to be condemned over again to verbs and chromatic scales, though shefelt within herself capacities so much more extended. Miss Marjoribanksdid not by any means learn by this defeat to take the characters of theother personae in her little drama into consideration, when she rehearsedher pet scenes hereafter--for that is a knowledge slowly acquired--butshe was wise enough to know when resistance was futile; and like mostpeople of lively imagination, she had a power of submitting tocircumstances when it became impossible to change them. Thus sheconsented to postpone her reign, if not with a good grace, yet stillwithout foolish resistance, and retired with the full honours of war.She had already rearranged all the details, and settled upon all themeans possible of preparing herself for what she called the charge ofthe establishment when her final emancipation took place, before shereturned to school. "Papa thought me too young," she said, when shereached Mount Pleasant, "though it was dreadful to come away and leavehim alone with only the servants; but, dear Miss Martha, you will let melearn all about political economy and things, to help me manageeverything; for now that dear mamma is gone, there is nobody but me tobe a comfort to papa."
And by this means Miss Marjoribanks managed to influence the excellentwoman who believed in _Friends in Council_, and to direct the futuretenor of her own education; while, at least, in that one moment ofopportunity, she had achieved long dresses, which was a visible mark ofwomanhood, and a step which could not be retraced.
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