_Chapter XLIII_
The talk of this evening might not have been considered of anyimportance to speak of, but for the extraordinary and most unlooked-forevent which startled all Carlingford next morning. Nobody could believethat it was true. Dr Marjoribanks's patients waited for him, anddeclared to their nurses that it was all a made-up story, and that hewould come and prove that he was not dead. How could he be dead? He hadbeen as well as he ever was that last evening. He had gone down GrangeLane in the snow, to see the poor old lady who was now sobbing in herbed, and saying it was all a mistake, and that it was she who ought tohave died. But all those protestations were of no avail against the coldand stony fact which had frightened Thomas out of his senses, when hewent to call the Doctor. He had died in the night without calling ordisturbing anybody. He must have felt faint, it seemed, for he had gotup and taken a little brandy, the remains of which still stood on thetable by his bedside; but that was all that anybody could tell about it.They brought Dr Rider, of course; but all that he could do was toexamine the strong, still frame--old, and yet not old enough to beweakly, or to explain such sudden extinction--which had ceased its humanfunctions. And then the news swept over Carlingford like a breath ofwind, though there was no wind even on that silent snowy day to carrythe matter. Dr Marjoribanks was dead. It put the election out ofpeople's heads, and even their own affairs for the time being; for hadhe not known all about the greater part of them--seen them come into theworld and kept them in it--and put himself always in the breach when thepale Death approached that way? He had never made very much boast of hisfriendliness or been large in sympathetic expressions, but yet he hadnever flinched at any time, or deserted his patients for anyconsideration. Carlingford was sorry, profoundly sorry, with that truesorrow which is not so much for the person mourned as for the mourner'sself, who feels a sense of something lost. The people said tothemselves, Whom could they ever find who would know theirconstitutions so well, and who was to take care of So-and-so if he hadanother attack? To be sure Dr Rider was at hand, who felt a littleagitated about it, and was conscious of the wonderful opening, and wasvery ready to answer, "I am here;" but a young doctor is different froman old one, and a living man all in commonplace health and comfort isnot to be compared with a dead one, on the morning at least of hissudden ending. Thank Heaven, when a life is ended there is always thathour or two remaining to set straight the defective balances and do ahasty late justice to the dead, before the wave sweeps on over him andwashes out the traces of his steps, and lets in the common crowd to maketheir thoroughfare over the grave.
"It cannot be the Doctor," Mrs Chiley said, sobbing in her bed, "or elseit has been in mistake for me. He was always a healthy man, and neverhad anything the matter with him--and a great deal younger than we are,you know. If anything has happened to him it must have been in mistakefor me," said the poor old lady, and she was so hysterical that they hadto send for Dr Rider, and she was thus the first to begin to build thenew world on the foundations of the old, little as she meant it. But forthe moment everything was paralysed in Grange Lane, and canvassing cameto a standstill, and nothing was discussed but Dr Marjoribanks--how hewas dead, though nobody could or would believe it; and how Lucilla wouldbe left, and who her trustees were, and how the place could ever getused to the want of him, or would ever look like itself again withouthis familiar presence. It was by way of relieving their minds from thehorror of the idea, that the good people rushed into consultations whatLucilla would do. It took their minds a little off the ghastlyimagination of that dark room with the snow on the window, and the latemoonlight trying to get into the darkness, and the white rigid faceinside, as he was said to have been found. It could not but make aterrible change to her--indeed, through her it could not but make agreat change to everybody. The Doctor's house would, of course, be shutup, which had been the most hospitable house in Carlingford, and thingswould drop into the unsatisfactory state they used to be in before MissMarjoribanks's time, and there would no longer be anybody to organisesociety. Such were the ideas the ladies of Grange Lane relapsed into byway of delivering themselves from the pain of their first realisation ofwhat had happened. It would make a great change. Even the election andits anticipated joys could not but change character in some respects atleast, and there would be nobody to make the best of them; and then thequestion was, What would Lucilla do? Would she have strength to "make aneffort," as some people suggested; or would she feel not only her grief,but her downfall, and that she was now only a single woman, and sinkinto a private life, as some others were inclined to believe?
Inside the house, naturally, the state of affairs was sad enough.Lucilla, notwithstanding the many other things she had had to occupy hermind, was fond of her father, and the shock overwhelmed her for themoment. Though she was not the kind of woman to torture herself withthinking of things that she might have done, still at the first momentthe idea that she ought not to have left him alone--that she should havesat up and watched or taken some extraordinary, unusual precaution--wasnot to be driven away from her mind. The reign of reason was eclipsed inher as it often is in such an emergency. She said it was her fault inthe first horror. "When I saw how he was looking, and how he wastalking, I should never have left him," said Lucilla, which indeed was avery natural thing to say, but would have been an utterly impossible oneto carry out, as she saw when she came to think of it. But she could notthink of it just then. She did not think at all that first long snowy,troubled day, but went about the house, on the bedroom floor, wringingher hands like a creature distracted. "If I had only sat up," she said;and then she would recall the touch of his hand on her shoulder, whichshe seemed still to be feeling, and cry out, like all the rest of theworld, that it could not be true. But, to be sure, that was a state offeeling that could not last long. There are events for which somethinghigher than accident must be held accountable, were one ever so ready totake the burden of affairs on one's own shoulders; and Lucilla knew,when she came to herself, that if she had watched ever so long or soclosely, that could have had no effect upon the matter. After a while,the bewildering sense of her own changed position began to come uponher, and roused her up into that feverish and unnatural activity ofthought which, in some minds, is the inevitable reaction after theunaccustomed curb and shock of grief. When she had got used to thatdreadful certainty about her father, and had suddenly come with a leapto the knowledge that she was not to blame, and could not help it, andthat though _he_ was gone, _she_ remained, it is no censure uponLucilla to say that her head became immediately full of a horror andconfusion of thoughts, an involuntary stir and bustle of plans andprojects which she did all she could to put down, but which would returnand overwhelm her whether she chose it or not. She could not help askingherself what her new position was, thinking it over, so strangely freeand new and unlimited as it seemed. And it must be recollected that MissMarjoribanks was a woman of very active mind and great energies, too oldto take up a girl's fancy that all was over because she had encountereda natural grief on her passage, and too young not to see a long futurestill before her. She kept her room, as was to be expected, and sawnobody, and only moved the household and superintended the arrangementsin a muffled way through Thomas, who was an old servant, and knew "theways" of the house; but notwithstanding her seclusion and her honestsorrow, and her perfect observance of all the ordinary restraints of themoment, it would be wrong to omit all mention of this feverish bustle ofthinking which came into Lucilla's mind in her solitude. Of all that shehad to bear, it was the thing that vexed and irritated and distressedher the most--as if, she said to herself indignantly, she ought to havebeen able to think of anything! And the chances are that Lucilla, forsheer duty's sake, would have said, if anybody had asked, that of courseshe had not thought of anything as yet; without being aware that themere shock, and horror, and profound commotion had a great deal more todo than anything else in producing that fluttering crowd of busy,vexatious speculations which had come, without any will of hers, intoher hea
rt.
It looked a dreadful change in one way as she looked at it, withoutwishing to look at it, in the solitude of her own room, where the blindswere all down, and the snow sometimes came with a little thump againstthe window, and where it was so dark that it was a comfort when nightcame, and the lamp could be lighted. So far as Carlingford wasconcerned, it would be almost as bad for Miss Marjoribanks as if shewere her father's widow instead of his daughter. To keep up a positionof social importance in a single woman's house, unless, as she hadherself lightly said so short a time since, she were awfully rich, wouldbe next to impossible. All that gave importance to the centre ofsociety--the hospitable table, the open house--had come to an end withthe Doctor. Things could no more be as they had once been, in thatrespect at least. She might stay in the house, and keep up to thefurthest extent possible to her its old traditions; but even to theutmost limit to which Lucilla could think it right to go it could neverbe the same. This consciousness kept gleaming upon her as she sat in thedull daylight behind the closed blinds, with articles of mourning piledabout everywhere, and the gray dimness getting into her very eyes, andher mind distressed by the consciousness that she ought to have beenunable to think; and the sadness of the prospect altogether was enoughto stir up a reaction, in spite of herself, in Miss Marjoribanks's mind.
And on the other side she would no doubt be very well off, and could gowherever she liked, and had no limit, except what was right and properand becoming, to what she might please to do. She might go abroad if sheliked, which perhaps is the first idea of the modern English mind whenanything happens to it, and settle wherever she pleased, and arrange hermode of existence as seemed good in her own eyes. She would be anheiress in a moderate way, and Aunt Jemima was by this time absolutelyat her disposal, and could be taken anywhere; and at Lucilla's age itwas quite impossible to predict what might not happen to a woman in sucha position. When these fairer possibilities gleamed into Lucilla's mind,it would be difficult to describe the anger and self-disgust with whichshe reproached herself--for perhaps it was the first time that she hadconsciously failed in maintaining a state of mind becoming the occasion;and though nobody but herself knew of it, the pain of the accusation wasacute and bitter. But how could Miss Marjoribanks help it?--the mindtravels so much quicker than anything else, and goes so far, and makesits expeditions in such subtle, stealthy ways. She might begin bythinking of her dear papa, and yet, before she could dry her eyes, mightbe off in the midst of one of these bewildering speculations. Foreverything was certain now so far as he was concerned; and everythingwas so uncertain, and full of such unknown issues for herself. Thus thedark days before the funeral passed by--and everybody was very kind. DrMarjoribanks was one of the props of the place, and all Carlingfordbestirred itself to do him the final honours; and all her friendsconspired how to save Lucilla from all possible trouble, and help herover the trial; and to see how much he was respected was the greatest ofall possible comforts to her, as she said.
Thus it was that among the changes that everybody looked for, thereoccurred all at once this change which was entirely unexpected, and puteverything else out of mind for the moment. For to tell the truth, DrMarjoribanks was one of the men who, according to external appearance,need never have died. There was nothing about him that wanted to be setright, no sort of loss, or failure, or misunderstanding, so far asanybody could see. An existence in which he could have his friends todinner every week, and a good house, and good wine, and a very goodtable, and nothing particular to put him out of his way, seemed in factthe very ideal of the best life for the Doctor. There was nothing in himthat seemed to demand anything better, and it was confusing to try tofollow him into that which, no doubt, must be in all its fundamentals avery different kind of world. He was a just man and a good man in hisway, and had been kind to many people in his lifetime--but still he didnot seem to have that need of another rectifying, completer existencewhich most men have. There seemed no reason why he should die--a man whowas so well contented with this lower region in which many of us farebadly, and where so few of us are contented. This was a fact whichexercised a very confusing influence, even when they themselves were notaware of it, on many people's minds. It was hard to think of him underany other circumstances, or identify him with angels and spirits--whichfeeling on the whole made the regret for him a more poignant sort ofregret.
And they buried him with the greatest signs of respect. People fromtwenty miles off sent their carriages, and all the George Street peopleshut their shops, and there was very little business done all day. MrCavendish and Mr Ashburton walked side by side at the funeral, which wasan affecting sight to see; and if anything more could have been done toshow their respect which was not done, the corporation of Carlingfordwould have been sorry for it. And the snow still lay deep in all thecorners, though it had been trampled down all about the Doctor's house,where the lamp was not lighted now of nights; for what was the use oflighting the lamp, which was a kind of lighthouse in its way, and meantto point out succour and safety for the neighbours, when the physicianhimself was lying beyond all hope of succour or aid? And all the GrangeLane people retired in a sympathetic, awe-stricken way, and decided, orat least the ladies did, to see Lucilla next day, if she was able to seethem, and to find out whether she was going to make an effort, or whatshe meant to do. And Mrs Chiley was so much better that she was able tobe up a little in the evening, though she scarcely could forgiveherself, and still could not help thinking that it was she who hadreally been sent for, and that the Doctor had been taken in mistake. Andas for Lucilla, she sat in her room and cried, and thought of herfather's hand upon her shoulder--that last unusual caress which was moretouching to think of than a world of words. He had been fond of her andproud of her, and at the last moment he had showed it. And by times sheseemed to feel again that lingering touch, and cried as if her heartwould break: and yet, for all that, she could not keep her thoughtssteady, nor prevent them from wandering to all kinds of profaneout-of-door matters, and to considerations of the future, and estimatesof her own position. It wounded her sadly to feel herself in such aninappropriate state of mind, but she could not help it; and then thewant of natural light and air oppressed her sorely, and she longed forthe evening, which felt a little more natural, and thought that at lastshe might have a long talk with Aunt Jemima, who was a kind of refuge inher present loneliness, and gave her a means of escape at the same timefrom all this bustle and commotion of unbecoming thoughts.
This was enough surely for any one to have to encounter at one time; butthat very night another rumour began to murmur through Carlingford--arumour more bewildering, more incredible still, than that of theDoctor's death, which the town had been obliged to confirm andacknowledge, and put its seal to. When the thing was first mentioned,everybody (who could find it in their heart to laugh) laughed loud inthe face of the first narrator with mingled scepticism and indignation.They asked him what he meant by it, and ridiculed and scoffed at him tohis face. "Lucilla will be the richest woman in Grange Lane," peoplesaid; "everybody in Carlingford knows that." But after this statementhad been made, the town began to listen. It was obliged to listen, forother witnesses came in to confirm the story. It never might have beenfound out while the Doctor lived, for he had a great practice, and madea great deal of money; but now that he was dead, nothing could be hid.He was dead, and he had made an elaborate will, which was all as justand righteous as a will could be; but after the will was read, it wasfound out that everything named in it had disappeared like a bubble.Instead of being the richest, Dr Marjoribanks was one of the poorestmen in Carlingford when he shut his door behind him on that snowy night.It was a revelation which took the town perfectly by storm, and startledeverybody out of their senses. Lucilla's plans, which she thought sowicked, went out all of a sudden, in a certain dull amaze and dismay, towhich no words could give any expression. Such was the secondinconceivable reverse of fortune which happened to Miss Marjoribanks,more unexpected, more incomprehensible still than the other,
in the verymidst of her most important activities and hopes.
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