_Chapter XXVII_
Miss Marjoribanks, except for her habitual walk, did not go out muchthat day. She was too much occupied with what she had in hand. She couldnot conceive--for Lucilla naturally took a reasonable view of affairs ingeneral, and did not account for the action of any such unknown quantityas love, for example--why Mr Cavendish should conceal himself socarefully from society in Carlingford, and yet run all the risk ofmeeting Barbara Lake in the evenings. It seemed to Lucillainconceivable, and yet it was impossible not to believe it. MrCavendish, though she had seen him on the very verge of a proposal, didnot present himself to her mind in the aspect of a man who wouldconsider the world well lost for any such transitory passion; neither,as was natural, did Barbara Lake appear to Lucilla the least like aperson calculated to call forth that sentiment; but nevertheless it mustbe 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 bedepended on, when women were concerned. Miss Marjoribanks was determinedto lose no more time, but to speak to Mr Cavendish, if it was MrCavendish, and she could get the chance, quite plainly of the situationof affairs--to let him know how much she knew, and to spur him up tocome forward like a man and brave anything the Archdeacon could do. Hadit been any small personal aim that moved Lucilla, no doubt she wouldhave shrunk from such a decided step; but it was, on the contrary, thebroadest philanthropical combination of Christian principles, help tothe weak and succour to the oppressed, and a little, just a very little,of the equally Evangelical idea of humbling the proud and bringing downthe mighty. She was so much occupied with her plans that it was with alittle difficulty she roused herself to keep up the conversation withher father at dinner, and be as amusing and agreeable as ordinary; whichindeed was more than ordinarily her duty, since Dr Marjoribanks came in,in a fractious and disturbed state of mind, discontented with things ingeneral. The truth was, he had got a letter from Tom Marjoribanks fromIndia, where that unlucky man had gone. It was all very well and naturalto go to India, and Lucilla had felt, indeed, rather satisfied withherself for having helped forward that desirable conclusion, especiallyafter the Doctor had taken pains to explain to her, not knowing that shehad any share in it, that it was the very best thing for Tom to do. Forit has been already said that Dr Marjoribanks, though he liked Tom, andthought it very odd that Providence should have given the girl to him,and the boy to his incapable sister-in-law, who did not in the leastknow how to manage him, had no desire to have his nephew for ason-in-law. Going to India was very right and proper, and the best thingto do; for a man might get on _there_, even at the bar, who would haveno chance _here_; but after he had made one step in the right direction,it was only to be expected that all sorts of misfortunes should happento Tom. He was wrecked, which might have been looked for, and he losthis boxes, with the greater part of his outfit, either at that unhappymoment, or in the Desert, or at an after part of his unlucky career; andthe object of the letter which Dr Marjoribanks had just received was toget money to make up for his losses. Tom, who was a very good son, didnot want to vex his mother, and accordingly it was his uncle whom heapplied to, to sell out a portion of the money he had in the Funds. "Shewould think I was ruined, or that it was my fault, or at least that Imeant to spend all my money," wrote Tom, "and you understand, uncle,that it is not my fault." "Confound him! it is never his fault," said DrMarjoribanks, as if that could possibly be brought against theunfortunate young man as a crime.
"No, papa, it is his luck," said Lucilla; "poor Tom!--but I should notlike to take a passage in the same boat with him if I was the otherpeople. Though I am sure he is not a bit to blame."
"I hope he does not mean to go on like this," said the Doctor. "He willsoon make ducks and drakes of his five thousand pounds. A young fellowlike that ought to mind what he's doing. It is a great deal easier tothrow money away than to lay it by."
"Papa, it is his luck," said Miss Marjoribanks; "it is all put into asystem in political economy, you know. For my part, I am always theother way. It is very funny before you get used to it; but you knowthere has to be a balance in everything, and that is how it must be."
"I don't think it at all funny," said Dr Marjoribanks, "unless your goodluck and his bad were to be joined together; which is not an expedient Ifancy." When he said this the Doctor gave a sharp glance at hisdaughter, to see if by chance that might perhaps be what she wasthinking of; but naturally the maiden candour and unsuspecting innocenceof Lucilla was proof to such glances. She took no notice at all of theimplied suspicion. But though it was very absurd for anybody to thinkthat she would have married him, it was not in Miss Marjoribanks'snature to be disloyal to Tom.
"I think he is quite right about his mother, papa," said Lucilla; "shewould never understand it, you know; she would think the world wascoming to an end. I would not for anything take a passage in the sameboat with him, but he is nice in his way, poor fellow! I wonder what hehas ever done to have such dreadful luck--but I hope you are going to dowhat he asks you:" and with this calm expression of her interest MissMarjoribanks went upstairs. When the Doctor became thus aware of hisdaughter's sentiments, it seemed to him that he was more at liberty tobe kind to his nephew. He had never been able to divest himself of alittle lurking dread, an inherent idea which was so obstinate that itfelt like a prophecy, that somehow or other, after costing her father somuch, and making such a difference in the house, Lucilla, who on thewhole was a dear production, would fall to Tom's share, with all DrMarjoribanks's other possessions; and the Doctor saw no reason why heshould work and lay up money for a boy whom Providence, with a wonderfulwant of discrimination, had bestowed, not upon him, but upon Mrs JohnMarjoribanks. However, when that question was settled and done with, hisheart began to relent to Tom the unlucky, who, after all, when theson-in-law hypothesis was fully dismissed, was his natural born nephew,and, as Lucilla said, very nice in his way, poor fellow! The Doctorbegan to write him a letter, and softened more and more with every linehe wrote; but as for Lucilla, she had something more immediatelyimportant to occupy her upstairs.
The fact was that Miss Marjoribanks had found a shadowy figure in blackin the corner of one of the sofas when she came into thedrawing-room--a-figure with a veil down, and a large shawl, and atremulous air. It was very seldom that Mrs Mortimer took courage tovisit her young patroness; and to go out at night, except sometimes toSalem Chapel when there was a meeting, and when the timid womanrepresented to herself that it was her duty, was a thing unknown to her.But yet, nevertheless, it was Mrs Mortimer who sat waiting for Lucilla.They had not met since that momentous interview in which the widowrevealed her history to Miss Marjoribanks's sympathetic ears, and thepoor woman had been able to bear no longer the solitude of her cottage,and her garden-walls, and her little pupils, and Mary Jane. To know thatsomething was going on outside that concerned her--to hear the waves, asit were, beating round the walls of her prison, and never to have evenso much as a peep at them, what they were about, if the tide wasbeginning to turn, or the wind to change, or the lifeboat to appear--wasmore than Mrs Mortimer, even with all her training to patience, couldput up with; and accordingly she had made a frantic rush out, undercover of night, to see if there was anything to see, and hear if therewas anything to hear.
"You don't know how dreadful it is to keep staring at the walls all dayand never see any change," said the widow. "It is very stupid and silly,but you know I cannot help it. I get to fancy always that somethingwonderful must be going on on the other side."
"That is because you don't go out enough," said Lucilla. "You know howoften I have said you should go out once every day; and then you wouldsee that everything outside was very much the same as everythingwithin."
"Oh, Lucilla! don't say so," said Mrs Mortimer; "and besides, _he_ hasbeen again, and I could see you had been saying something to him. Hespoke as if I understood it all when I did not understand a word of it;and he spoke of him, you know, and was quite solemn, and warned me tothink well of it, and not
do anything rash--as if I had anything tothink about, or was going to do anything! Tell me what you said to him,Lucilla; for I am sure, by the way he spoke, he must have taken him forhimself, and perhaps you for me."
"Who did he take for himself, I wonder?" said Lucilla. "As for you andme, dear Mrs Mortimer, we are so different that he could never take usfor each other, whatever the circumstances might be."
"Ah, yes, Lucilla! we are different," said the poor widow. "You have allyour own people to take care of you, and you are not afraid of anybody;but as for me, I have not a creature in the world who cares what becomesof me." As she made this forlorn statement it was only natural that thepoor woman should cry a little. This was no doubt the result of the fourgarden-walls that closed in so tightly, and the aggravating littlepupils; but Miss Marjoribanks felt it was not a state of feeling thatcould be allowed to go on.
"You ought not to speak like that; I am sure there are a great manypeople who are interested in you; and you have always Me," said Lucilla,with a certain reproachful tenderness. As for Mrs Mortimer, she raisedher head and dried her eyes when Miss Marjoribanks began to speak, andlooked at her in a somewhat eager, inquiring way; but when Lucillauttered those last reassuring words, it is undeniable that the widow'scountenance fell a little. She faltered and grew pale again, and onlycried the more--perhaps with gratitude, perhaps with disappointment. Andwhen she said, "I am sure you are very kind, Lucilla," which was all thepoor soul could utter, it was in a very tremulous undecided voice. Thefact that she had always the sympathy and co-operation of such a friendas Miss Marjoribanks, did not seem to have the exhilarating effect uponher that it ought to have had. It did not apparently do any more for herthan the similar reassurance that Lucilla was coming to tea did for RoseLake. But then, like every other benefactor of the human race, MissMarjoribanks was aware that the human mind has its moments of unbelief.It was a discouraging experience to meet with; but she never permittedit seriously to interrupt her exertions for the good of her kind.
"You should not have so poor an opinion of your friends," said Lucilla,who after all was giving only a stone when her suppliant asked forbread. "You know how much interested we all are in you; and for me,anything I can do----"
"Oh, Lucilla, you are very kind; nobody could be kinder," cried MrsMortimer, with compunction. "It is very nice to have friends. I do notknow what I should do without you, I am sure; but then one cannot liveupon one's friends; and then one knows, when they go away," said thewidow, with more feeling than distinctness of expression, "that they allgo away to something of their own, and pity you or forget you; but youalways stay there, and have nothing of your own to go away to. I am notgrumbling, but it is hard, Lucilla; and then you are young, and happy,and at home, and I don't think it is possible you can understand."
"My dear," said Miss Marjoribanks, "it is quite easy to understand, andI know exactly what you mean. You want me to tell you all about MrBeverley, and what I said to him, and what he has in his mind. If he isthe something of your own you would like to go away to, I think it is apity. I am sure he has a temper, and _I_ would not marry him for mypart. But if you mean _me_, I have nothing to go away to," said Lucilla,with a little scorn. "I should be ashamed not to be enough for myself.When I leave you it is not to enjoy myself, but to think about you andto plan for you; and all that you want to know is about _him_!" saidMiss Marjoribanks, piercing through and through the thin armour of herincapable assailant. Naturally all the widow's defences fell before thisruthless response. She cried with a mingled sensation of shame at beingfound out, and penitence for being so ungrateful, and a certain desolatedistress with her own incapacity and want of power to defend herself. Itwas an acute variety of feminine anguish on the whole. The idea thatshe, a mature woman, a married woman and widow, who ought to have beendone with all these vanities, should have been found out by a young girlto be thinking about _a gentleman_, struck poor Mrs Mortimer with asharp sense of shame as if her wistful preoccupation had been a crime.Indeed the chances are, if it had been a crime, she would not have beennearly so much ashamed of it. She hid her face in her hands and blusheddown to the very edge of her black dress and up into the glooms of herwidow's veil; and all the self-defence she was capable of was a faint"Oh, Lucilla!" a mere appeal of weakness without reason--a virtualthrowing of herself in acknowledged guilt at her judge's feet.
"Thomas is coming with the tea," said Miss Marjoribanks. "Come into myroom and take off your bonnet. What is the good of worrying yourselfwhen you know I have taken it into my own hands? Spoiling your eyes withcrying, and making everybody uncomfortable never does the least good;and, besides, one never knows what harm one might do one's self," saidLucilla seriously. "I don't think you gone off at all, for my part; butif you don't take proper care----I shall give you some rose-water, andyou will be all right after you have had a cup of tea."
"Oh, no; it will be best to go home. I am such a poor creature now. I amnot good for anything. Let me go home, Lucilla," said poor Mrs Mortimer.But Lucilla would not let her go home; and by the time tea was ready,and Dr Marjoribanks had come upstairs, she had so managed to soothe hervisitor's nerves, and console her spirits, that the Doctor himself grewcomplimentary. He was so civil, in fact, that Lucilla felt slightlystartled, and on the whole thought it was as well that the Archdeaconwas at hand, and affairs in a promising way; for it was doubtful whethereven Miss Marjoribanks's magnanimity could have got over any ridiculousexhibition of interest on the part of her father, who certainly was oldenough to know better. Even to see him taking Mrs Mortimer's tea to her,and congratulating her upon her improved looks, and felicitating himselfand the world in general on the fact that Carlingford agreed with her,was aggravating to his daughter--more aggravating, though it is strangeto say so, than even the blank looks of General Travers in the morning,or his transference of the homage intended for herself to little RoseLake; _that_ was no more than a blunder, and Lucilla felt a consolatoryconviction that, so far as incivility went, the General had received avery satisfactory set-off. But to see Dr Marjoribanks exerting himselfin such an unheard-of way made her open her eyes. If he were stillaccessible to such influences, nobody could answer for anything thatmight happen; and the widow was so grateful for his kindness, that atone moment it was all that Lucilla could do to keep her lips shut fast,and restrain herself from a tempting allusion which would have made anend of Mrs Mortimer. It was the first time that Lucilla's protegee hadventured to come thus familiarly and uninvited to her friend's house;and the Doctor, who knew no special reason for the visit, expressed hissatisfaction with a warmth which was quite uncalled-for, and hoped thatLucilla might often "have the advantage of her company;" and actuallybetrayed symptoms of a disposition to "see her home," if MissMarjoribanks had not already made provision for that emergency. When thevisitor had finally departed, under the charge of Thomas and Mary Jane,the father and daughter regarded each other, for the first time, withdubious glances--for, as far as Lucilla was concerned, it was arevelation to her of a new and altogether unsuspected danger; and theDoctor, for his part, was very conciliatory, and showed a certainconsciousness of having committed himself, which made matters twentytimes worse.
"Really, Lucilla, your friend is a credit to you," said Dr Marjoribanks."It was a stroke of talent to pick her up, as you did, and make a womanof her--and a pretty woman too," he added incautiously; as if he, at hisage, had anything to do with that.
"I am so glad you think so, papa," said Lucilla, in her dutiful way. "Idon't think myself that she has gone off at all to speak of. In somelights she might pass for being no older than I am--if she was very welldressed, you know; and it really does not matter what age a woman is ifshe keeps her looks. I should be very glad to see her nicely married,for my part; she is one of the people who ought to be married," MissMarjoribanks continued, with an inflection of compassionate tolerance inher voice. As for the Doctor, he mistook her as usual, and took her toneof pity and kindly patronising disdain for another instance of hisdaughter's policy
and high art; whereas the truth was she was quite inearnest, and meant every word she said. And then Dr Marjoribanks's senseof humour was keener than that of Lucilla. After this the conversationflagged slightly, for Miss Marjoribanks had undeniably received a shock.In the midst of her benevolent preoccupation and care for other people,it had suddenly dawned upon her that her own stronghold might beattacked, and the tables turned upon her in the twinkling of an eye.There are days of discouragement in the most triumphant career and thiswas one of those uncomfortable moments. Her faith in herself did notfail her for an instant; but the faith of her natural born subjects--thecreatures of her bounty--had visibly failed her. Neither Rose Lake norMrs Mortimer had shown that confidence in Lucilla's genius whichexperience and loyalty both called upon them to show. When DrMarjoribanks had gone downstairs to resume the case which he was writingout for the _Lancet_, Lucilla passed through one of those moments ofsublime despondency which now and then try the spirits of thebenefactors of their race. A few tears came to her eyes as she reflectedupon this great problem. Without such trials genius would not fully knowitself nor be justly aware of its own strength. For no temptation togive up her disinterested exertions had any effect upon the mind of MissMarjoribanks; and even her sense of pain at the unbelief of herfollowers was mingled with that pity for their weakness which involvespardon. Even when they wounded her she was sorry for them. It was naturethat was in fault, and not the fallible human creatures who had it notin them to believe in the simple force of genius. When Lucilla had shedthese few tears over her subjects' weakness and want of faith, she roseup again in new strength from the momentary downfall. It was, as we havesaid, a sublime moment. The idea of giving them up, and leaving theiraffairs to their own guidance, never for an instant penetrated into herheroic mind; but she was human, and naturally she felt the prick ofingratitude. When the crisis was over she rose up calmly and lighted hercandle, and went to her room with a smile upon her magnanimous lips. Asshe performed that simple action, Lucilla had lifted up the feeblewidow, and taken the family of Lakes, and Mr Cavendish, and even theburly Archdeacon himself, upon her shoulders. They might be ungrateful,or even unaware of all she was doing for them; but they had the supremeclaim of Need upon Strength; and Miss Marjoribanks, notwithstanding thewound they had given her, was loyal to that appeal, and to her ownconsciousness of superior Power.
At the same time, it would not be just to omit all mention of aconsolatory recollection which occurred to Lucilla in this moment of herweakness. At such a crisis the mind of genius may be supported by amatter very trifling in itself. Even at the instant when the moisturesprang to her eyes, Miss Marjoribanks said to herself, "Poor Tom!" andfelt that the bitterness, to a certain extent, had evaporated out of hertears. He was a long way off, and Lucilla would have thought it madnessindeed to connect herself in any way with the fortunes of her unluckycousin; yet it gave her a certain support to think that, amid all thewant of faith she was encountering, Tom believed in her, heart and soul.It was an insignificant matter, so far as any practical result wasconcerned, if, indeed, anything can be called insignificant which givesstrength to a great mind in a moment of discouragement. She said "PoorTom!" and felt as if for the moment she had something to lean on, andwas comforted. We mention this fact rather as a contribution to thehistory of those phenomena of the human mind, which have as yet escapedthe metaphysician, than as an actual circumstance in the life of MissMarjoribanks. She was a woman of genius, and he only a very simple,unlucky fellow; and yet a sensation of comfort came to Lucilla's heartwhen she said "Poor Tom!"
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