Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 18 (1/2)

XVIII

But the anticipations of Rose Lake were trifling matters in comparison with the universal interest and even excitement which attended the Archdeacon’s first appearance in Carlingford. What might be called his first public appearance took place at Dr. Marjoribanks’s table, although he had previously dined at the Rectory, and also at Sir John Richmond’s, besides that there had been somebody to dinner at Colonel Chiley’s almost every day; but then there were only county people at Sir John’s, and Mr. Bury’s guests naturally counted for very little in Grange Lane;⁠—indeed, it was confidently reported that the Rector had invited Mr. Tufton of Salem Chapel to meet the Archdeacon, and that, but for the Dissenting minister having more sense and knowing his place, that unseemly conjunction would have taken place, to the horror of all right-thinking people. So that Dr. Marjoribanks’s was in reality the first house where he had any chance of seeing society. It would perhaps be using too strong a word to say that Miss Marjoribanks was anxious about the success of her arrangements for this particular evening; but, at the same time, it must be admitted that the circumstances were such as to justify a little anxiety. Mr. Cavendish was gone, who, to do him justice, was always agreeable, and his departure disturbed the habitual party; and Mrs. Woodburn had lost all her powers, as it seemed, and sat at Dr. Marjoribanks’s left hand, looking just like other people, and evidently not to be in the least depended on; and Lucilla was aware that Barbara was not coming, which made, if nothing else, a change in the programme. No music, nobody to do the flirting, nor to supply the dramatic byplay to which Grange Lane had become accustomed; and a new man to be made use of, and to be done honour to, and introduced in society. A young woman of powers inferior to those of Miss Marjoribanks would have sunk under such a weight of responsibility, and there was no doubt that Lucilla was a little excited. She felt that everything depended upon her courage and self-possession. If she but lost her head for a moment and lost command of affairs, everything might have been lost; but then fortunately she knew herself and what she could do, and had a modest confidence that she would not lose her head; and thus she could still eat her dinner with the composure of genius, though it would be wrong to deny that Lucilla was a little pale.

And then, as if all these things had not been enough to discourage the lady of the house, another discordant element was added by the presence of Mr. Bury and his sister, whom it had been necessary to ask to meet the Archdeacon. The Rector, though he was very Low-Church, has no particular objections to a good dinner⁠—but he made a principle of talking of that important daily necessity in a disparaging, or at best in a patronising way, which roused Dr. Marjoribanks’s temper; and sometimes the Doctor would launch a shaft of medical wit at his spiritual guide, which Mr. Bury had no means of parrying. Nor was this the only danger to which the peace of the party was exposed. For the Rector, at the same time, regarded Mr. Beverley with a certain critical suspiciousness, such as is seldom to be encountered except among clergymen. He did not know much about his clerical superior, who had only recently been appointed to his archdeaconry; but there was something in his air, his looks, and demeanour, which indicated what Mr. Bury considered a loose way of thinking. When the Archdeacon made any remark the Rector would pause and look up from his plate to listen to it, with his fork suspended in the air the while⁠—and then he would exchange glances with his sister, who was on the other side of the table. All this, it may be supposed, was a little discomposing for Lucilla, who had the responsibility of everything, and who could now look for no assistance among the ordinary members of her father’s party, who were, as a general rule, much more occupied with the dinner than with anything else that was going on. In such a state of affairs, it was a great relief to Miss Marjoribanks when the Archdeacon, who occupied the post of honour by her side, made a lively new beginning in the conversation. It had not to call flagged before⁠—not precisely flagged⁠—but still there were indications of approaching exhaustion, such as can always be perceived half a mile off by anybody who has any experience in society, and when the Archdeacon took up the ball with all the liveliness of a man who is interested in a special question, it will not be difficult to any lady who has ever been in such circumstances to realise to herself Miss Marjoribanks’s sense of gratitude and relief.

“By the by,” said Mr. Beverley, “I meant to ask if anyone knew a man whom I am sure I caught a glimpse of the first day I was in Carlingford. Perhaps it was in the morning after I arrived, to be precise. I can’t recollect exactly. If he lives about here, he ought to be known, for he is a clever amusing sort of fellow. I don’t know if Carlingford is more blessed than other country towns with people of that complexion,” said the Archdeacon, turning to Lucilla with a smile. His smile, as he paused and turned to Miss Marjoribanks, was such as conveys a kind of challenge when it is addressed to a young lady, and meant to lead to a lively little combat by the way; and yet there was something of keen personal anxiety and animosity in it. As for Lucilla, she was conscious of an immediate thrill of curiosity, but still it was curiosity unmingled with any excitement, and she had no particular objection to respond.

“Everybody is nice in Carlingford,” said Miss Marjoribanks; “some people are always finding fault with their neighbours, but I always get on so well with everybody⁠—I suppose it is my luck.” This was not precisely an answer to the Archdeacon’s question; and there was somebody at the table who could have fallen upon Lucilla and beaten her for putting off the revelation which trembled on the lips of Mr. Beverley, and yet would have given anything in the world to silence the Archdeacon, and felt capable of rushing at him like a fury and tearing his tongue out, or suffocating him, to stop the next words that he was going to say. But nobody knew anything about this, or could see into the one heart that had begun to flutter and throb with alarm; for outwardly, all the well-dressed, cheerful people at Dr. Marjoribanks’s table sat eating their dinner, one precisely like another, as if there had been no such thing as mystery or terror in the world.

“You must not expect me to believe in the perfection of human society,” said the Archdeacon, going on in the same strain; “I would much rather pin my faith to the amiable dispositions of one young lady who always finds her neighbours agreeable⁠—and I hope she makes no exception to the rule,” said the Broad-Churchman in a parenthesis, with a smile and a bow⁠—and then he raised his voice a little: “The man I speak of is really a very amusing fellow, and very well got up, and calculated to impose upon ordinary observers. It is quite a curious story; he was a son of a trainer or something of that sort about Newmarket. Old Lord Monmouth took an extraordinary fancy to him, and had him constantly about his place⁠—at one time, indeed, he half brought him up along with his grandson, you know. He always was a handsome fellow, and picked up a little polish; and really, for people not quite used to the real thing, was as nearly like a gentleman⁠—”

“Come, now, I don’t put any faith in that,” said Mr. Woodburn. “I don’t pretend to be much of a one for fine company myself, but I know a gentleman when I see him; a snob always overdoes it, you know⁠—”

“I never said this man was a snob,” said the Archdeacon, with a refined expression of disgust at the interruption flitting over his features; “on the contrary, if he had only been honest, he would have been really a very nice fellow⁠—”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bury, “excuse me for breaking in⁠—perhaps I am old-fashioned, but don’t you think it’s a pity to treat the question of honesty so lightly? A dishonest person has a precious soul to be saved, and may be a most deeply interesting character; but to speak of him as a very nice fellow, is⁠—pardon me⁠—I think it’s a pity; especially in mixed society, where it is so important for a clergyman to be guarded in his expressions,” said the Rector. When Mr. Bury began to speak, everybody else at table ceased talking, and gave serious attention to what was going on, for the prospect of a passage of arms between the two clergymen was an opportunity too captivating to be lost.

“I hope Mr. Bury’s dishonest friends will pardon me,” said the Archdeacon; “I mean no harm to their superior claims. Does anybody know the man here, I wonder? He had changed his name when I knew him, and there is no telling what he may call himself now. I assure you he was a very good-looking fellow⁠—dark, good features, nearly six feet high⁠—”

“Oh, please don’t say any more,” said Miss Marjoribanks, and she could not quite have explained why she interrupted these personal details; “if you tell me what he is like, I shall fancy everybody I meet is him; Mr. Centum is dark, and has good features, and is nearly six feet high. Never mind what he is like; you gentlemen can never describe anybody⁠—you always keep to generals; tell us what he has done.”

Somebody drew a long breath at the table when the Archdeacon obeyed Miss Marjoribanks’s injunction. More than one person caught the sound, but even Lucilla’s keen eyes could not make out beyond controversy from whom it proceeded. To be sure, Lucilla’s mind was in a most curious state of tumult and confusion. She was not one of the people who take a long time to form their conclusions; but the natural conclusion to which she felt inclined to jump in this case was one so monstrous and incredible that Miss Marjoribanks felt her only safeguard in the whirl of possibilities was to reject it altogether, and make up her mind that it was impossible; and then all the correspondences and apparent corroborations began to dance and whirl about her in a bewildering ring till her own brain seemed to spin with them. She was as much afraid lest the Archdeacon by some chance should fall upon a really individual feature which the world in general could identify, as if she had had any real concern in the matter. But then, fortunately, there was not much chance of that; for it was one of Lucilla’s principles that men never can describe each other. She listened, however, with such a curious commotion in her mind, that she did not quite make out what he was saying, and only pieced it up in little bits from memory afterwards. Not that it was a very dreadful story. It was not a narrative of robbery or murder, or anything very alarming; but if it could by any possibility turn out that the man of whom Mr. Beverley was speaking had ever been received in society in Carlingford, then it would be a dreadful blow to the community, and destroy public confidence forever in the social leaders. This was what Lucilla was thinking in her sudden turmoil of amazement and apprehension. And all this time there was another person at table who knew all about it twenty times better than Lucilla, and knew what was coming, and had a still more intense terror lest some personal detail might drop from the Archdeacon’s lips which the public in general would recognise. Mr. Beverley went on with his story with a curious sort of personal keenness in his way of telling it, but never dreaming for a moment that anybody that heard him was disturbed or excited by it. “He has a mark on his face,” the Archdeacon said⁠—but here Miss Marjoribanks gave a little cry, and held up both her hands in dismay.

“Don’t tell us what marks he has on his face,” said Lucilla. “I know that I shall think every man who is dark, and has good features, and is six feet, must be him. I wonder if it could be my cousin Tom; he has a little mark on his face⁠—and it would be just like his dreadful luck, poor fellow. Would it be right to give up one’s own cousin if it should turn out to be Tom?” said Miss Marjoribanks. The people who were sitting at her end of the table laughed, but there was no laughing in Lucilla’s mind. And this fright and panic were poor preparatives for the evening, which had to be got through creditably with so few resources, and with such a total reversal of the ordinary programme. Miss Marjoribanks was still tingling with curiosity and alarm when she rose from the table. If it should really come to pass that an adventurer had been received into the best society of Carlingford, and that the best judges had not been able to discriminate between the false and true, how could anyone expect that Grange Lane would continue to confide its most important arrangements to such incompetent hands?

Such was the dreadful question that occupied all Lucilla’s thoughts. So far as the adventurer himself was concerned, no doubt he deserved anything that might come upon him; but the judgment which might overtake the careless shepherds who had admitted the wolf into the fold was much more in Miss Marjoribanks’s mind than any question of abstract justice. So that it was not entirely with a philanthropical intention that she stopped Mr. Beverley and put an end to his dangerous details. Now she came to think of it, she began to remember that nobody of her acquaintance had any mark on his face; but still it was best not to inquire too closely. It was thus with a preoccupied mind that she went up to the drawing-room, feeling less in spirits for her work than on any previous occasion. It was the first of the unlucky nights, which every woman of Lucilla’s large and public-spirited views must calculate upon as inevitable now and then. There was no moon, and the Richmonds naturally were absent, and so were the Miss Browns, who were staying there on a visit⁠—for it was after the engagement between Lydia1 and John; and Mr. Cavendish was away (though perhaps under the circumstances that was no disadvantage); and Mrs. Woodburn was silenced; and even Barbara Lake had failed her patroness.

“You are not in spirits tonight, Lucilla, my poor dear,” said Mrs. Chiley, as they went upstairs; and the kind old lady cast a fierce glance at Mrs. Woodburn, who was going before them with Miss Bury, as if it could be her fault.

“Dear Mrs. Chiley,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “I am in perfect spirits; it is only the responsibility, you know. Poor Barbara is ill, and we can’t have any music, and what if people should be bored? When one has real friends to stand by one it is different,” said Lucilla, with an intonation that was not intended for Mrs. Chiley, “and I always stand by my friends.”