Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 31 (1/2)

XXXI

Lucilla waited till twelve o’clock, as she had said, for Mr. Cavendish’s visit; and so mingled are human sentiments, even in the mind of a person of genius, that there is no doubt she was at once a little disappointed, and that Mr. Cavendish gained largely in her estimation by not coming. Her pity began to be mingled by a certain respect, of which, to tell the truth, he was not worthy; but then Miss Marjoribanks did not know that it was circumstances, and not self-regard, or any sense of dignity, that had kept him back. With the truest consideration, it was in the dining-room that Lucilla had placed herself to await his visit; for she had made up her mind that he should not be disturbed this time by any untimely morning caller. But as she sat at the window and looked out upon the garden, and was tantalised by fifty successive ringings of the bell, none of which heralded her expected visitor, a gentler sentiment gradually grew in Lucilla’s mind. Perhaps it would not be just to call it positively regret; but yet she could not help a kind of impression that if the Archdeacon had never come to Carlingford, and if Mr. Cavendish had never been so weak as to be drawn aside by Barbara Lake, and if everything had gone as might have been expected from first appearances⁠—that, on the whole, it might have been well. After all, he had a great many good qualities. He had yielded to panic for the moment, but (so far as Lucilla knew) he was now girding up his loins to meet the emergency in a creditable way; and if, as has been just said, nothing had come in the way⁠—if there had been no Archdeacon, no Mrs. Mortimer, no Barbara⁠—if Mr. Chiltern had died, as was to have been expected, and Mr. Cavendish been elected for Carlingford⁠—then Lucilla could not help a momentary sense that the arrangement altogether might have been a not undesirable one. Now, of course, all that was at an end. By dexterous management the crisis might be tided over, and the worst avoided; but Lucilla became regretfully conscious that now no fate higher than Barbara was possible for the unfortunate man who might once, and with hope, have aspired to herself. It was very sad, but there was no help for it. A certain tenderness of compassion entered Miss Marjoribanks’s bosom as she realised this change. It would be hard if a woman did not pity a man thus shut out by hard fate from any possibility of ever becoming the companion of her existence⁠—a man who, on the whole, had many capabilities, yet whose highest fortune in life could not mount above Barbara Lake!

This thought filled Lucilla’s heart with gentle regret. It was sad, but it was inevitable; and when Mr. Cavendish’s note was brought to her, in which he said simply, and very briefly, that though not sure whether he understood the meaning of her letter, he should certainly do himself the pleasure of accepting as usual her kind invitation, Miss Marjoribanks’s regret grew more and more profound. Such a man, who had been capable of appreciating herself, to think that, having known her, he should decline upon Barbara! The pity was entirely disinterested, for nobody knew better than Lucilla that, under the circumstances, no other arrangement was possible. He might marry the drawing-master’s daughter, but Miss Marjoribanks was too well aware of her duty to her friends, and to her position in society, to have given her consent to his marriage with anybody’s daughter in Grange Lane. But still it was a pity⁠—nobody could say that it was not a pity⁠—a man so visibly capable of better things.

Lucilla, however, could not afford to waste her morning in unprofitable regrets. An evening so critical and conclusive had to be provided for in many different ways. Among other things, she had to invite, or rather command, the presence of a guest whom, to tell the truth, she had no particular desire to see. The Archdeacon was only a man when all was said, and might change his mind like other men; and to bring Mrs. Mortimer to Grange Lane in the evening, looking interesting, as, to be sure, she could look by times, after that unpleasant exhibition of Dr. Marjoribanks’s feelings, was naturally a trial to Lucilla. Mr. Beverley had drawn back once before, and that when Mrs. Mortimer was young, and no doubt a great deal more attractive than at present; and now that she was a widow, forlorn and faded, it would be no wonder if he were to draw back, especially, as Lucilla acknowledged to herself, when he saw the ancient object of his affections in her own society, and among all the fresh young faces of Grange Lane: and if the Archdeacon should draw back, and leave the field open, and perhaps the Doctor, who ought to know better, should step in⁠—when she had got so far, Lucilla rose up and shook out her draperies, as if by way of shaking off the disagreeable idea. “At all events I have to do my duty,” she said to herself. And thus it was with that last and most exquisite refinement of well-doing, the thought that she might possibly be going to harm herself in benefiting others, that Miss Marjoribanks heroically put on her hat, and issued forth in the dinner-hour of the little pupils, to invite her last and most important guest.

This period of suspense had not been by any means a happy or comfortable period for Mrs. Mortimer. The poor widow was living in a constant expectation of something happening, whereas her only true policy was to have made up her mind that nothing would ever happen, and shaped herself accordingly to her life. Instead of eating her dinner as she ought to have done at that hour of leisure, and fortifying herself for the weary afternoon’s work, she was sitting as usual at the window when Miss Marjoribanks came to the door. And if it was a tedious business looking out of the window when the rain was drenching the four walls of the garden and breaking down the flowers, and reducing all the poor little shrubs to abject misery, it could not be said to be much more cheerful in the sunshine, when pleasant sounds came in over that enclosure⁠—voices and footsteps of people who might be called alive, while this solitary woman was buried, and had nothing to do with life. Such a fate may be accepted when people make up their minds to it; but when, so far from making up one’s mind, one fixes one’s thoughts upon the life outside, and fancies that every moment the call may come, and one may find one’s place again in the active world, the tedium grows more and more insupportable. As for Lucilla, naturally she could not see any reason why Mrs. Mortimer should sit at the window⁠—why she could not content herself, and eat her dinner instead.

“There are a great many people in Carlingford who have not nearly such a pleasant lookout,” Lucilla said; “for my part, I think it is a very pretty garden. The wistaria has grown quite nice, and there is a little of everything,” said Miss Marjoribanks; and, so far as that went, she was no doubt the best judge, having done it all herself.

“Oh, yes, it is very pretty; and I am sure I am very grateful to Providence for giving me such a home,” said the widow; but she sighed, poor soul, as she said it: for, to tell the truth, though she was not so young as she once was, it takes some people a long time to find out that they themselves are growing old, and have done with life. And then outside, in that existence which she could hear but could not see, there was one figure which was wonderfully interesting to poor Mrs. Mortimer; which is a complication which has a remarkable effect on the question of content or discontent.

“You ought to take a walk every day,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “that is what is the matter with you; but, in the meantime, there is something else I want you to do. This is Thursday, you know, and I have always some people on Thursday. It is not a party⁠—it is only an Evening⁠—and no dress to speak of. Your black silk will look quite nice, and be all that is necessary. Black is very becoming to some people,” said Lucilla reflectively. She looked at Mrs. Mortimer with her head a little on one side, and saw in a moment, with the rapid glance of genius, just what she wanted. “And some lace for your head,” Miss Marjoribanks added. “I don’t think you have gone off at all, and I am sure you will look very nice. It is at nine o’clock.”

“This evening, Lucilla!” said Mrs. Mortimer, faintly: “but you know I never go out⁠—I am not fit for society. Oh, don’t ask me, please! Since poor Edward died⁠—”

“Yes,” said Lucilla, “it must have been a great loss, I am sure; though I can’t say I mind going into a room alone, as some people do; but you know you can avoid that, if you like, by coming early. Come at eight, and there will be nobody in the drawing-room, and you can choose your own corner. Put it quite back⁠—at the back of your head,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a little anxiety. “I could show you how if I had the lace. I do so want you to look nice. Oh, never mind the fashion. When one has a style of one’s own, it is always twenty times better. Put it as you used to wear it before you were married; and then, with that nice black silk⁠—”

“Oh, Lucilla, don’t ask me,” said the widow. “I shall not know how to talk, nor look, nor anything; and then I know nobody; and then⁠—”

“My dear, you have always me,” said Lucilla, with tender reproach. “I am so sorry I can’t stop any longer. I leave it quite to your own taste about the lace. And you will find people you know, you may be quite sure of that. Remember, not later than nine o’clock; and come at eight if you don’t like to come into the room by yourself. Goodbye now. I want you to look very nice tonight,” Miss Marjoribanks added, giving her friend an affectionate kiss; “you must, for my sake.”

“But, Lucilla⁠—” cried Mrs. Mortimer.

It was vain to make any further protest, however, for Lucilla was gone, having, in the first place, communicated her requirements to Mary Jane, who was not likely to forget, nor to let her mistress be late. “And mind she is nice,” said Miss Marjoribanks emphatically, as she went out at the door. It was necessary she should be nice; without that the intended situation which Lucilla was preparing⁠—the grand finale of her exertions⁠—would fall flat, and probably fail of its effect. For this it was necessary that the widow should look not only pretty, but interesting, and a little pathetic, and all that a widow should look when first dragged back into society. Miss Marjoribanks gave a momentary sigh as she emerged from the garden door, and could not but feel conscious that in all this she might be preparing the most dread discomfiture and downfall for herself. Even if it passed over as it ought to do, and nobody was charmed but the Archdeacon, who was the right person to be charmed, Lucilla felt that after this she never could have that entire confidence in her father which she had had up to this moment. The incipient sentiment Dr. Marjoribanks had exhibited was one that struck at the roots of all faith in him as a father; and every person of sensibility will at once perceive how painful such a suggestion must have been to the mind of a young woman so entirely devoted as was Miss Marjoribanks to the consolation and comfort of her dear papa.

Lucilla was not allowed to spend the rest of this momentous afternoon in maturing her plans, as might have been necessary to a lesser intelligence; and when the refreshing moment came at which she could have her cup of tea before preparing for the fatigues of the evening, it was Mrs. Chiley who came to assist at that ceremony. The old lady came in with an important air, and gave Lucilla a long, lingering kiss, as old ladies sometimes do when they particularly mean it. “My dear, I am not going to stay a moment, but I thought you might have something to tell me,” the kind old woman said, arranging herself in her chair with the satisfaction of a listener who expects to be confided in. As for Lucilla, who had no clue to Mrs. Chiley’s special curiosity, and who had a good many things on her mind just at that moment which she rather preferred not to talk about, she was for once struck with veritable astonishment, and did not know what to say.

“Dear Mrs. Chiley, what should I have to tell you?” said Miss Marjoribanks. “You know very well where I should go the very first moment if anything happened;” and by way of staving off more particular questions, she took her old friend a cup of tea.

“Yes, my dear, I hope so,” said Mrs. Chiley, but at the same time her disappointment was evident. “It is very nice, thank you⁠—your tea is always nice, Lucilla⁠—but it was not that I was thinking of. I can’t understand how it is, I am sure. I saw him today with my own eyes, and could not help seeing how anxious he was looking! I hope, I do hope, you have not been so cruel as to refuse him, Lucilla⁠—and all for something that is not his fault, poor fellow, or that could be explained, you may be sure.”

Miss Marjoribanks grew more and more surprised as she listened. She put away the kettle without filling the teapot, and left her own cup standing untasted, and went and sat down on the stool by Mrs. Chiley’s feet. “Tell me whom I have refused this time, for I don’t know anything about it,” said Lucilla; and then her visitor burst forth.

“It must be all that creature’s fault! He told me he was coming here; and to tell the truth, I stood and watched him, for you know how interested I am, my dear; and then a little while after he met that Barbara. Oh, Lucilla, why were you ever so foolish as to have her here? I told you how it would end when you brought those artist people about your house. They are all a set of adventurers!” cried Mrs. Chiley. “I saw them meet, and I was so disgusted that I did not know what I was doing; but he passed her as nicely as possible. Just a civil word, you know, and then he was past. Just as I would have done myself; for it is always best not to be uncivil to anybody. I could see her standing as if she had been struck with lightning; and naturally, Lucilla, I never thought anything else than that he had come here, and that all was right between you. Oh, my dear, I hope you are sure you have not refused him,” Mrs. Chiley said, piteously; “anyhow, Lucilla, you need not mind telling me. I may be sorry, but I will not blame you, my dear.”

“I have not refused anybody,” said Lucilla, with a modest innocence that it was a pleasure to see; “but, dear Mrs. Chiley,” she continued, raising her drooping eyelids, “I think you make a mistake about Mr. Cavendish. My own opinion is that Barbara would make him a very nice wife. Oh, please, don’t be angry! I don’t mean to say, you know, that I think her quite what one would call nice⁠—for oneself. But then the gentlemen have such strange ways of thinking. Many a girl whom we could not put up with is quite popular with Them,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a certain mild wonder at the inexplicable creatures whom she thus condescended to discuss. “I suppose they have a different standard, you know; and for my part, I would advise Mr. Cavendish to marry Barbara. I think it is the best thing he could do.”