Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 39 (2/3)

“The fire is very nice,” said Mrs. Chiley. “I hate to have the fire poked when it does not want it. Lucilla, if you make him go over to that Mr. Ashburton’s side, you will have a great deal to answer for, and I will never forgive you. My dear, you must be dreaming⁠—a man that is as dry as a stick, and not one-hundredth nor one-thousandth part so nice⁠—”

“I shan’t say another word,” said Lucilla; “I shan’t stay any longer, for I can’t help it, and you would be angry with me. People can’t help what they believe, you know. There is poor little Oswald Brown, who has doubts, and can’t go into the Church, and will ruin all his prospects, and nobody can help it⁠—”

“If I were his mother I should help it!” cried Mrs. Chiley. “I promise you he should not talk of his doubts to me! A bit of a lad; and what is good enough for all the bishops, and everybody in their senses, is not good enough for him! If that is the kind of example you are going to follow, Lucilla⁠—”

“Dear Mrs. Chiley,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “everybody knows what my Church principles are; and perhaps you will come round to think with me; but I am not going to say any more about it now. I am so glad your rheumatism is better this morning; but you must wrap up well, for it is so cold, oh, so cold, out of doors!”

When Lucilla had thus dismissed the subject, she came to her old friend’s side and bent over her in her sealskin cloak, to say goodbye. Mrs. Chiley took her by both hands as she thus stood with her back to the old Colonel, and drew her down close, and looked searchingly into her eyes. “If you have any particular reason, Lucilla, you ought to tell me⁠—that would make such a difference,” said the old lady. “I always tell you everything,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with evasive fondness, as she kissed the soft old withered cheek; and naturally, with the Colonel behind, who was standing up before the fire shadowing over them both, and quite unaware of this little whispered episode, it would have been impossible to say more had there been ever so much to say. But it had been a close encounter in its way, and Lucilla was rather glad to get off without any further damage. She did not feel quite successful as she went out; but still she had left a very wholesome commotion behind her; for Colonel Chiley could not but feel that the sentiment which she had quoted from himself was a very just sentiment. “By George! Lucilla was in the right of it,” he said again, after she was gone; and in fact went through a process very similar to that which had modified the sentiments of Dr. Marjoribanks on the previous night. Mr. Cavendish was a young fellow who had rushed off among a set of Frenchmen, because Lucilla Marjoribanks would not have him, or because he could not marry Barbara Lake in addition, or at least somehow because he failed of having his own way. It was all very well for him to come back and make a commotion, and be sentimental about it. But what if, after all, Ashburton, who had the Firs, and lived there, and spent his money like a Christian, was the man for Carlingford? The Colonel’s mind still wavered and veered about; yet it had received an impulse which was by no means unworthy of consideration.

As for Mrs. Chiley, she laid back her head upon her pillows and painfully questioned with herself whether Lucilla could have any particular reason for taking Mr. Ashburton’s part so warmly. She thought with justice that Miss Marjoribanks was looking brighter and better, and had more of her old animation than she had shown for a long time⁠—which arose from the simple fact that she had something in hand, though the old lady thought it might have a more touching and delicate motive. If that was the case, it would make a great difference. Mrs. Chiley was no longer able to go out in the evening, and had to be dependent on other people’s observation for a knowledge of what happened⁠—and she was wounded by a sense that her young friend had not been appreciated as her worth deserved. If Mr. Ashburton had the sense to see what was for his own advantage, it would be a frightful thing, as Mrs. Chiley said to herself, if Lucilla’s friends should fly in his face. And though it was a hard trial to give up Mr. Cavendish, still if anything of the kind had happened⁠—Thus it will be evident that Lucilla’s visit, though it was not a long one, nor the least in the world an argumentative visit, was not without its fruit.

She went up Grange Lane again cheerful and warm in her sealskin coat. It was a thing that suited her remarkably well, and corresponded with her character, and everybody knows how comfortable they are. The snowflakes fell softly, one at a time, and melted away to nothing upon her sleeves and her shoulders without leaving any trace⁠—and Lucilla, with the chill air blowing in her face, and those feathery messengers in the air, could not but feel that her walk and the general readiness which she felt to face all kinds of objections and difficulties, and to make a sacrifice of her own feelings, had in them a certain magnanimous and heroic element. For after all she had no particular reason, as Mrs. Chiley said. Mr. Ashburton was a dry man, and of very little use in a social point of view, and had never paid her any attention to speak of, nor at all put himself forth as a candidate for her favour. If he had done so, she would not have felt that thrill of utter disinterestedness which kept her as warm within as her sealskin did without.

There was not a soul to be seen in Grange Lane at that moment in the snow, which came on faster and faster, but one of Mr. Wentworth’s (who at that time was new in St. Roque’s) gray sisters, and another lady who was coming down, as quickly as Lucilla was going up, by the long line of garden walls. The gentlemen were either at business or at their club, or keeping themselves snug indoors; and it was only these devoted women who braved the elements outside. The figure in the gray cloak was occupied simply with the poor people, and that is not our present business; but the other two were otherwise inspired. Mr. Cavendish, who had lately arrived, had not been able to make up his mind to face the weather; but his sister was of a different way of thinking. She was not of half the capacity of Lucilla, but still she felt that something ought to be done, and that there was not a moment to be lost. When she saw it was Miss Marjoribanks that was advancing to meet her, a momentary chill came over Mrs. Woodburn. She was thinking so much of her own errand that she could not but jump at the idea that nothing less important could have induced Lucilla to be out of doors on such a day; and her heart beat loud as the two drew near each other. Was it an unexpected and generous auxiliary, or was it a foe accomplished and formidable? For one thing, she was not coming out of Mr. Centum’s, where Mrs. Woodburn herself was going, which at least was a relief. As they came nearer the two ladies instinctively looked to their weapons. They had met already in many a little passage of arms, but nothing like this had ever occurred to them before. If they were to work in union, Mrs. Woodburn felt that they would carry all before them; and if not, then it must be a struggle unto the death.

“Is it really you, Lucilla?” she said; “I could not believe my eyes. What can have brought you out of doors on such a day? You that have everything your own way, and no call to exert yourself⁠—”

“I have been to see Mrs. Chiley,” said Lucilla sweetly; “when the weather is bad she sees nobody, and she is always so pleased to have me. Her rheumatism is not so bad, thank you⁠—though I am sure if this weather should last⁠—”

“You would see Mrs. Beverley’s blanket,” said Mrs. Woodburn, who was a little nervous, though perhaps that might only be the cold; “but we know what sort of woman she is, and it must have been the Archdeacon’s nieces, my dear. Do turn back with me a moment, Lucilla; or I shall go with you. I want to speak to you. Of course you have heard of Harry’s coming home?”

“I saw it in the papers,” said Miss Marjoribanks, whose perfect serenity offered a curious contrast to her companion’s agitation. “I am sure I shall be very glad to see him again. I hope he will come to dinner on Thursday as he used to do. It will be quite nice to see him in his old place.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “but that was not what I was thinking of. You know you used always to say he ought to be in Parliament; and he has always kept thinking of it since he went away⁠—and thinking, I am sure, that it would please you,” said the poor woman, faltering; for Lucilla listened with a smile that was quite unresponsive, and did not change countenance in the least, even at this tender suggestion. “He has come home with that object now, you know, now that poor old Mr. Chiltern is dead; and I hope you are going to help us, Lucilla,” said Mrs. Woodburn. Her voice quite vibrated with agitation as she made this hurried, perhaps injudicious, appeal, thinking within herself at the same moment what would Harry say if he knew that she was thus committing him. As for Lucilla, she received it all with the same tranquillity, as if she expected it, and was quite prepared for everything that her assailant had to say.

“I am sure I wish I had a vote,” said Lucilla; “but I have no vote, and what can a girl do? I am so sorry I don’t understand politics. If we were going in for that sort of thing, I don’t know what there would be left for the gentlemen to do.”

“You have influence, which is a great deal better than a vote,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “and they all say there is nobody like a lady for electioneering⁠—and a young lady above all; and then you know Harry so well, and can always draw him out to the best advantage. I never thought he looked so nice, or showed his talents so much, as when he was with you,” said the eager advocate. She was only wrapped in a shawl herself, and when she looked at Lucilla’s sealskin coat, and saw how rosy and comfortable she looked, and how serene and immovable, poor Mrs. Woodburn was struck with a pang of envy. If Miss Marjoribanks had married ten years ago, it might have been she now who would have had to stand trembling with anxiety and eagerness among the falling snow, knowing sundry reasons why Mr. Cavendish should be disposed to go into Parliament more substantial than that of gratifying a young lady, and feeling how much depended on her ability to secure support for him. This, as it happened, had fallen to his sister’s share instead, and Lucilla stood opposite to her looking at her, attentive and polite, and unresponsive. If Harry had only not been such a fool ten years ago! for Mrs. Woodburn began to think now with Aunt Jemima, that Lucilla did not marry because she was too comfortable, and, without any of the bother, could have everything her own way.

“It is so cold,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “and I do think it is coming on to snow very fast. I don’t think it is good to stand talking. Do come in to lunch, and then we can have a long chat; for I am sure nobody else will venture out today.”

“I wish I could come,” said Mrs. Woodburn, “but I have to go down to Mary Centum’s, and hear all about her last new housemaid, you know. I don’t know what servants are made of for my part. They will go out in their caps and talk to the young men, you know, in a night that is enough to give anyone their death,” the mimic added, with a feeble exercise of her gift which it was sad to see. “But Harry will be sure to come to call the first time he goes out, and you will not forget what I have said to you, Lucilla?” and with this Mrs. Woodburn took her young friend’s hand and looked in her face with a pathetic emphasis which it would be impossible to describe.

“Oh, no, certainly not,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with cheerful certainty; and then they kissed each other in the midst of the falling snow. Mrs. Woodburn’s face was cold, but Lucilla’s cheek was warm and blooming as only a clear conscience and a sealskin cloak could have made it; and then they went their several ways through the wintry solitude. Ah, if Harry had only not been such a fool ten years ago! Mrs. Woodburn was not an enthusiastic young wife, but knew very well that marriage had its drawbacks, and had come to an age at which she could appreciate the comfort of having her own way without any of the bother. She gave a furtive glance after Lucilla, and could not but acknowledge to herself that it would be very foolish of Miss Marjoribanks to marry, and forfeit all her advantages, and take somebody else’s anxieties upon her shoulders, and never have any money except what she asked from her husband. Mrs. Chiley, to be sure, who was more experienced than Mrs. Woodburn, and might have been her grandmother, took a different view of the subject; but this was what the middle-aged married woman felt, who had, as may be said, two men to carry on her shoulders, as she went anxiously down Grange Lane to conciliate Mrs. Centum, wrapping her shawl about her, and feeling the light snow melt beneath her feet, and the cold and discomfort go to her heart. She had her husband to keep in good humour, and her brother to keep up and keep to the mark, and to do what she could to remedy in public the effects of his indolent Continental habits, and carry, if it was possible, the election for him⁠—all with the horrid sense upon her mind that if at any time the dinner should be a little less cared for than usual, or the children more noisy, Woodburn would go on like a savage. Under such circumstances, the poor woman, amid her cares, may be excused if she looked back a little wistfully at Lucilla going home all comfortable and independent and lighthearted, with no cares, nor anybody to go on at her, in her sealskin coat.

This was how Lucilla commenced that effective but decorous advocacy which did Mr. Ashburton so much good in Carlingford. She did not pretend to understand about politics, or to care particularly about Reform or the Income-tax; but she expressed with quiet solemnity her conviction that it was not opinions but a good man that was wanted; that it was not a prime minister they were going to elect, and that Mr. Ashburton was the man for Carlingford. “By George! Lucilla is in the right of it!” Colonel Chiley said; “that was always my opinion;” and the people in Grange Lane soon began to echo the Colonel’s sentiments, which were so sound and so just.

As for Miss Marjoribanks, nobody had any occasion to “go on” about any neglect on her part of her household duties. Dr. Marjoribanks’s dinners were always excellent, and it was now, as ever, a privilege to be admitted to his table; and nothing could be more exemplary than the care Lucilla took of Aunt Jemima, who had always such bad nights. Even on this snowy afternoon she went in from her more important cares, with a complexion freshened by the cold, and coaxed Mrs. John into eating something, and made her as comfortable as possible at the drawing-room fireside.