_Chapter XLV_
It must be allowed that Lucilla's decision caused very general surprisein Carlingford, where people had been disposed to think that she wouldbe rather glad, now that things were so changed, to get away. To be sureit was not known for some time; but everybody's idea was that, beingthus left alone in the world, and in circumstances so reduced, MissMarjoribanks naturally would go to live with somebody. Perhaps with heraunt, who had something, though she was not rich; perhaps, after alittle, to visit about among her friends, of whom she had so many.Nobody doubted that Lucilla would abdicate at once, and a certainuneasy, yet delicious, sense of freedom had already stolen into thehearts of some of the ladies in Grange Lane. They lamented, it is true,the state of chaos into which everything would fall, and the dreadfulloss Miss Marjoribanks would be to society; but still, freedom is anoble thing, and Lucilla's subjects contemplated their emancipation witha certain guilty delight. It was, at the same time, a most fertilesubject of discussion in Carlingford, and gave rise to all those livelyspeculations and consultations, and oft-renewed comparing of notes,which take the place of bets in the feminine community. The Carlingfordladies as good as betted upon Lucilla, whether she would go with heraunt, or pay Mrs Beverley a visit at the Deanery, or retire to MountPleasant for a little, where those good old Miss Blounts were so fond ofher. Each of these opinions had its backers, if it is not profane to sayso; and the discussion which of them Miss Marjoribanks would choosewaxed very warm. It almost put the election out of people's heads; andindeed the election had been sadly damaged in interest and socialimportance by the sad and most unexpected event which had just happenedin Grange Lane.
But when the fact was really known, it would be difficult to describethe sense of guilt and horror which filled many innocent bosoms. Thebound of freedom had been premature--liberty and equality had not comeyet, notwithstanding that too early unwise _elan_ of republicansatisfaction. It was true that she was in deep mourning, and that for ayear, at least, society must be left to its own devices; and it wastrue, also, that she was poor--which might naturally be supposed adamper upon her energies--but, at the same time, Carlingford knew itsLucilla. As long as she remained in Grange Lane, even though retired andin crape, the constitutional monarch was still present among hersubjects; and nobody could usurp her place or show that utterindifference to her regulations which some revolutionaries had dreamedof. Such an idea would have gone direct in the face of the BritishConstitution, and the sense of the community would have been deadagainst it. But everybody who had speculated upon her proceedingsdisapproved of Lucilla in her most unlooked-for resolution. Some couldnot think how she could bear it, staying on there when everything was sochanged; and some said it was a weakness they could never have believedto exist in her; and some--for there are spiteful peopleeverywhere--breathed the names of Cavendish and Ashburton, the rivalcandidates, and hinted that Miss Marjoribanks had something in her mindto justify her lingering. If Lucilla had not been supported by aconscious sense of rectitude, she must have broken down before thisuniversal disapprobation. Not a soul in the world except one supportedher in her resolution, and that was perhaps, of all others, the oneleast likely to be able to judge.
And it was not for want of opportunity to go elsewhere. Aunt Jemima, ashas been seen, did not lose an instant in offering the shelter of herhouse to her niece; and Mrs Beverley wrote the longest, kindest, mostincoherent letter begging her dear Lucilla to come to her immediatelyfor a long visit, and adding, that though she had to go out a good dealinto society, she needn't mind, for that everything she could think ofwould be done to make her comfortable; to which Dr Beverley himself, whowas now a dean, added an equally kind postscript, begging MissMarjoribanks to make her home at the Deanery "until she saw how thingswere to be." "He would have found me a place, perhaps," Lucilla said,when she folded up the letter--and this was a terrible mode ofexpression to the genteel ears of Mrs John.
"I wish you would not use such words, my dear," said Aunt Jemima; "evenif you had been as poor as you thought, my house would always have beena home for you. Thank Heaven I have enough for both; you never needed tohave thought, under any circumstances, of taking a--a situation. It is athing I could never have consented to,"--which was a very handsome thingof Aunt Jemima to say.
"Thank you, aunt," said Lucilla, but she sighed; for, though it was verykind, what was Miss Marjoribanks to have done with herself in such adowager establishment? And then Colonel Chiley came in, who had also hisproposal to make.
"_She_ sent me," the Colonel said; "it's been a sad business for us all,Lucilla; I don't know when I have felt anything more; and as for her,you know, she has never held up her head since----"
"Dear Mrs Chiley!" Miss Marjoribanks said, unable to resist the oldaffection; "and yet I heard she had sent for Dr Rider directly," Lucillaadded. She knew it was quite natural, and perhaps quite necessary, butthen it did seem hard that his own friends should be the first toreplace her dear papa.
"It was I did that," said the Colonel. "What was a man to do? I washorribly cut up, but I could not stand and see her making herself worse;and I said you had too much sense to mind----"
"So I ought," said Lucilla, with penitence, "but when I remembered wherehe was last, the very last place----"
It was hard upon the Colonel to stand by and see a woman cry. It was athing he could never stand, as he had always said to his wife. He tookthe poker, which was his favourite resource, and made one of histremendous dashes at the fire, to give Lucilla time to recover herself,and then he turned to Aunt Jemima, who sat pensively by:
"_She_ sent me," said the Colonel, who did not think his wife needed anyother name--"not that I would not have come of my own accord; we wantLucilla to go to us, you see. I don't know what plans she may have beenmaking, but we're both very fond of her--she knows that. I think, if youhave not settled upon anything, the best that Lucilla can do is to cometo us. She'll be the same as at home, and always somebody to look afterher----"
The old Colonel was standing before the fire, wavering a little on hislong unsteady old legs, and looking wonderfully well preserved, and oldand feeble; and Lucilla, though she was in mourning, was so full of lifeand force in her way. It was a curious sort of protection to offer her,and yet it was real protection, and love and succour, though, Heavenknows! it might not perhaps last out the year.
"I am sure, Colonel Chiley, it is a very kind offer," said Aunt Jemima,"and I would have been thankful if she could have made up her mind to gowith me. But I must say she has taken a very queer notion into herhead--a thing I should never have expected from Lucilla--she says shewill stay here."
"Here?--ah--eh--what does she mean by here?" said the Colonel.
"_Here_, Colonel Chiley, in this great big melancholy house. I have beenthinking about it, and talking about it till my head goes round andround. Unless she were to take Inmates," said Aunt Jemima, in a resignedand doleful voice. As for the Colonel, he was petrified, and for a longtime had not a word to say.
"_Here!_--By Jove, I think she must have lost her senses," said the oldsoldier. "Why, Lucilla, I--I thought--wasn't there something about themoney being lost? You couldn't keep up this house under a--fifteenhundred a year at least; the Doctor spent a mint of money;--you must begoing out of your senses. And to have all the sick people coming, andthe bell ringing of nights. Bless my soul! it would kill anybody," saidColonel Chiley. "Put on your bonnet, and come out with me; shutting herup here, and letting her cry, and so forth--I don't say it ain'tnatural--I'm terribly cut up myself whenever I think of it; but it'sbeen too much for her head," said the Colonel, with anxiety andconsternation mingling in his face.
"Unless she were to take Inmates, you know," said Aunt Jemima, in asepulchral voice. There was something in the word that seemed to carryout to a point of reality much beyond anything he had dreamt of, thesuggestion Colonel Chiley had just made.
"Inmates! Lord bless my soul! what do you mean, ma'am?" said the oldsoldier. "Lucilla, put on your bonnet d
irectly, and come and have alittle fresh air. She'll soon be an inmate herself if we leave herhere," the Colonel said. They were all very sad and grave, and yet itwas a droll scene; and then the old hero offered Lucilla his arm, andled her to the door. "You'll find me in the hall as soon as you areready," he said, in tones half gruff, half tender, and was glad to godownstairs, though it was cold, and put on his greatcoat with the aid ofThomas, and stand warming the tips of his boots at the hall fire. Asfor Lucilla, she obeyed him without a word; and it was with his unsteadybut kind old arm to lean upon that she first saw how the familiar worldlooked through the mist of this strange change that had come over it,and through the blackness of her crape veil.
But though she succeeded in satisfying her friends that she had made upher mind, she did not secure their approval. There were so manyobjections to her plan. "If you had been rich even, I don't think Ishould have approved of it, Lucilla," Mrs Chiley said, with tears; "andI think we could have made you happy here." So the good old lady spoke,looking round her pretty room, which was so warm and cheery and bright,and where the Colonel, neat and precise as if he had come out of a box,was standing poking the fire. It looked all very solid and substantial,and yet it was as unstable as any gossamer that the careless passengermight brush away. The two good people were so old that they hadforgotten to remember they were old. But neither did Lucilla think ofthat. This was really what she thought and partly said:
"I am in my own house, that wants no expense nor changing, and Nancy isgetting old, and does not mind standing by me. And it is not so muchtrouble after all keeping everything nice when there is no gentlemancoming in, and nothing else to do. And, besides, I don't mean to beLucilla Marjoribanks for ever and ever." This was the general scope,without going into all the details, of what Lucilla said.
But, at the same time, though she was so happy as not to be disturbed inher decision, or made uncomfortable, either by lamentation orremonstrance, and had no doubt in her mind that she was doing right, itwas disagreeable to Miss Marjoribanks to go thus in the face of all herfriends. She went home by herself, and the house did look dreary fromthe outside. It was just as it had always been, for none of the servantswere dismissed as yet, nor any external change made; but still a look asif it had fallen asleep--a look as if it too had died somehow, and onlypretended to be a house and home--was apparent, in the aspect of theplace; and when the servants were gone, and nobody remained exceptLucilla and her faithful Nancy, and a young maid--which must be thefurthest limit of Miss Marjoribanks's household, and difficult enough tomaintain upon two hundred a year--what would it look like? This thoughtwas more discouraging than any remonstrances; and it was with a heavyheart that Lucilla re-entered her solitary house. She told Thomas tofollow her upstairs; and when she sank, tired, into a chair, and put upher veil before commencing to speak to him, it was all she could do tokeep from crying. The depressing influences of this sad week had told somuch on her, that she was quite fatigued by her walk to see Mrs Chiley;and Thomas, too, knew why he had been called, and stood in a formalmanner before her, with his hands crossed, against the closed door. Whenshe put back her thick black veil, the last climax of painful changecame upon Miss Marjoribanks. She did not feel as if she were Lucilla; sodiscouraged and depressed and pale, and tired with her walk as she was,with all sorts of projects and plans so quenched out of her; almost ifshe had been charged with being somebody else, the imputation was onewhich she could not have denied.
"Thomas," she said faintly, "I think I ought to speak to you myselfabout all that has happened--we are such old friends, and you have beensuch a good kind servant. You know I shan't be able to keep up----"
"And sorry we all was, Miss, to hear it," said Thomas, when Lucilla'sutterance failed. "I am sure there never was a better master, thoughparticular; and for a comfortabler house----"
"If I had been as poor papa expected to leave me," said MissMarjoribanks, after a little pause, "everything would have gone on asusual: but after your long service here, and so many people as know you,Thomas, you will have no difficulty in getting as good a place: and youknow that anything I can say----"
"Thank you, Miss," said Thomas; and then he made a pause. "It was notexactly that as I was thinking of; I've set my heart, this many a day,on a little business. If you would be so kind as to speak a word for meto the gentlemen as has the licensing. There ain't nobody as knowsbetter how----"
"What kind of a business, Thomas?" said Lucilla, who cheered up a littlein ready interest, and would have been very glad if she could have takena little business too.
"Well, Miss, a kind of a quiet--public-house, if I don't make too boldto name it," said Thomas, with a deprecating air--"not one of themdrinking-places, Miss, as, I know, ladies can't abide; but many a man,as is a very decent man, wants his pint o' beer now and again, and theirlittle sort of clubs of a night as well as the gentlefolks; and it's myopinion, Miss, as it's a man's dooty to see as that sort of thing don'tgo too far, and yet as his fellow-creatures has their bit of pleasure,"said Thomas, who naturally took the defensive side.
"I am sure you are quite right," said Lucilla, cheering up more andmore, and instinctively, with her old statesmanlike breadth of view,throwing a rapid glance upon the subject to see what capabilities theremight be in it; "and I hope you will try always to exercise a goodinfluence--What is all that noise and shouting out of doors?"
"It's one of the candidates, Miss," said Thomas, "as is addressing ofthe bargemen at the top o' Prickett's Lane."
"Ah!" said Lucilla; and a deep sigh escaped from her bosom. "But youcannot do anything of that kind, you know, Thomas, without a wife."
"Yes, Miss," said Thomas, with great confusion and embarrassment; "thatwas just what I was going to say. Me and Betsy----"
"Betsy!" said Lucilla, with dismay; for it had been Betsy she hadspecially fixed upon as the handy, willing, cheerful maid who, whenthere was no gentleman coming in, and little else to do, might keep eventhis big house in order. She sighed; but it was not in her power, evenif she had desired it, to put any restriction upon Betsy's wishes. Andit was not without a momentary envy that she received the intelligence.It was life the housemaid was about to enter on--active life of her own,with an object and meaning--clogged by Thomas, no doubt, who did notappear to Lucilla as the bright spot in the picture--but stillindependent life; whereas her mistress knew of nothing particularlyinteresting in her own uncertain future. She was roused from hermomentary meditation by the distant shouts which came from the top ofPrickett's Lane, and sighed again, without knowing it, as she spoke.
"It's a pity you had not got your--little inn," said Lucilla, for thesake of euphony, "six months or a year ago, for then you might havevoted for Mr Ashburton, Thomas. I had forgotten about the election untilnow."
"Not as that needn't stand in the way, Miss," said Thomas eagerly;"there's Betsy's brother as has it now, and he ain't made up his mindabout his vote; and if he knowed as it would be any comfort to you----"
"Of course it will be a comfort to me!" said Miss Marjoribanks; and shegot up from her chair with a sense that she was still not altogetheruseless in the world. "Go and speak to him directly, Thomas; and here'sone of Mr Ashburton's colours that I made up myself; and tell him thatthere can be no doubt _he_ is the man for Carlingford; and send up Nancyto me. And I hope Betsy and you will be very happy," said Lucilla. Shehad been dreadfully down, but the rebound was all the more grateful. "Iam not done with yet, and, thank Heaven! there must always be somethingto do," she said to herself when she was alone. And she threw off hershawl, and began to make the drawing-room look like itself; not that itwas not perfectly in order, and as neat as a room could be; but stillthe neatness savoured of Betsy, and not of Lucilla. Miss Marjoribanks,in five minutes, made it look like that cosy empire of hospitality andkindness and talk and wit, and everything pleasant, that it used to be;and then, when she had finished, she sat down and had a good cry, whichdid not do her any harm.
Then Nancy appeared, disturbed in her prep
arations for dinner, and withher arms wrapped in her apron, looking glum and defiant. Hers was notthe resigned and resourceful preparation for her fate which had appearedin Thomas. She came in, and put the door ajar, and leant her backagainst the sharp edge. She might be sent off like the rest, if that wasMiss Lucilla's meaning--her that had been in the house off and on formore than thirty years; but if it was so, at least she would not give upwithout unfolding a bit of her mind.
"Come in," said Lucilla, drying her eyes--"come in and shut the door;you had better come and sit down here, Nancy, for I have a great deal tosay, and I want to speak to you as a friend."
Nancy shut the door, but she thought to herself that she knew what allthis meant, and made but a very little movement into the room, lookingmore forbidding than ever. "Thank you all the same, Miss Lucilla, but Iain't too old to stand," she said; and stood firm to meet the shock,with her arms folded under her apron, thinking in her heart that it wasabout one of the almshouses, her horror and hope, that her youngmistress was going to speak.
"Nancy," said Lucilla, "I want to tell you what I am going to do. Ihave to make up my mind for myself now. They all go against me, and onesays I should do this and another says I should do that; but I don'tthink anybody knows me so well as you do. Don't stand at the door. Iwant to consult you as a friend. I want to ask you a question, and youmust answer as if you were before a judge--I have such confidence in_you_."
Nancy's distrust and defiance gave way a little before this appeal. Shecame a step nearer, and let the apron drop from her folded arms. "Whatis it, Miss Lucilla?--though I ain't pretending to be one to advise,"she said, building a kind of intrenchment round her with the nearestchairs.
"You know how things are changed," said Lucilla, "and that I can't stayhere as I used to do. People think I should go and live with somebody;but _I_ think, you know--if I was one of those ladies that have afaithful old servant to stand by them, and never to grumble nor make afuss, nor go back on the past, nor go in for expensive dishes--one thatwouldn't mind cooking a chop or making a cup of tea, if that was all wecould afford--why, I think, Nancy----"
But Nancy could not hear any more. She made a little rush forward, witha kind of convulsive chuckling that was half sobbing and half laughter."And me here!" cried Dr Marjoribanks's famous cook, who had spent afortune on her gravy-beef alone, and was one of the most expensivepeople in Carlingford--"me as has done for you all your days! me aswould--if it was but a roast potato!" cried the devoted woman. She wasin such a state of hysterical flutter and excitement that Lucilla had totake her almost into her arms and put the old woman into a chair andbring her to, which was an occupation quite in Miss Marjoribanks's way.
"But I shall only have two hundred a year," said Lucilla. "Now don't berash; there will have to be a maid to keep things tidy, and that isevery farthing I shall have. You used to spend as much in gravy-beef,"said Miss Marjoribanks, with a sigh.
"Oh, Miss Lucilla, let bygones be bygones," said Nancy, with tears. "IfI did, it wasn't without many a little something for them as was toopoor to buy it for themselves--for I never was one as boiled the sensesout of a bit of meat; and when a gentleman is well-to-do, and hasn't gotno occasion to count every penny----The Doctor, I will say for him, wasnever one as asked too many questions. Give him a good dinner on hisown table, and he wasn't the gentleman as grudged a bit of broken meatfor the poor folks. He did a deal of good as you nor no one never know'dof, Miss Lucilla," said Nancy, with a sob.
And then his daughter and his faithful old servant cried a little incompany over Dr Marjoribanks's vacant place. What could a man have more?Nobody was made altogether desolate by his death, nor was any heartbroken, but they wept for him honestly, though the old woman felt happyin her sorrow. And Lucilla, on her knees before the fire, told Nancy ofthat exclamation the Doctor had made in John Brown's office, and how hehad put his hand on her shoulder that last night. "All he said was, PoorLucilla!" sobbed Miss Marjoribanks; "he never thought of himself nor allhis money that he had worked so hard for;" and once more that touch ofsomething more exquisite than was usual to her went sharply down intoLucilla's heart and brought up tenderer and deeper tears.
She felt all the better for it after, and was even a little cheerful inthe evening, and like herself; and thus it will be seen that one personin Carlingford--not, it is true, a popular oracle, but of powerfulinfluence and first-rate importance in a practical point of view--gavethe heartiest approbation to Miss Marjoribanks's scheme for her newlife.
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