Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 49 (1/2)

XLIX

Mr. Ashburton, it may be supposed, had but little time to think on that eventful evening; and yet he was thinking all the way home, as he drove back in the chilly spring night to his own house. If his further course of action had been made in any way to depend upon the events of this day, it was now settled beyond all further uncertainty; and though he was not a man in his first youth, nor a likely subject for a romantic passion, still he was a little excited by the position in which he found himself. Miss Marjoribanks had been his inspiring genius, and had interested herself in his success in the warmest and fullest way; and if ever a woman was made for a certain position, Lucilla was made to be the wife of the Member for Carlingford. Long, long ago, at the very beginning of her career, when it was of Mr. Cavendish that everybody was thinking, the ideal fitness of this position had struck everybody. Circumstances had changed since then, and Mr. Cavendish had fallen, and a worthier hero had been placed in his stead; but though the person was changed, the circumstances remained unaltered. Natural fitness was indeed so apparent, that many people would have been disposed to say that it was Lucilla’s duty to accept Mr. Ashburton, even independent of the fact that he was perfectly eligible in every other respect.

But with all this the new Member for Carlingford was not able to assure himself that there had been anything particular in Lucilla’s manner to himself. With her as with Carlingford, it was pure optimism. He was the best man, and her quick intelligence had divined it sooner than anybody else had done. Whether there was anything more in it, Mr. Ashburton could not tell. His own impression was that she would accept him; but if she did not, he would have no right to complain of “encouragement,” or to think himself jilted. This was what he was thinking as he drove home; but at the same time he was very far from being in a desponding state of mind. He felt very nearly as sure that Lucilla would be his wife, as if they were already standing before the Rector in Carlingford Church. He had just won one victory, which naturally made him feel more confident of winning another; and even without entertaining any over-exalted opinion of himself, it was evident that, under all the circumstances, a woman of thirty, with two hundred a year, would be a fool to reject such an offer. And Lucilla was the very furthest in the world from being a fool. It was in every respect the beginning of a new world to Mr. Ashburton, and it would have been out of nature had he not been a little excited. After the quiet life he had led at the Firs, biding his time, he had now to look forward to a busy and important existence, half of it spent amid the commotion and ceaseless stir of town. A new career, a wife, a new position, the most important in his district⁠—it was not much wonder if Mr. Ashburton felt a little excited. He was fatigued at the same time, too much fatigued to be disposed for sleep; and all these united influences swayed him to a state of mind very much unlike his ordinary sensible calm. All his excitement culminated so in thoughts of Lucilla, that the new Member felt himself truly a lover; and late as the hour was, he took up a candle and once more made a survey all alone of his solitary house.

Nothing could look more dismal than the dark rooms, where there was neither light nor fire⁠—the great desert drawing-room, for example, which stood unchanged as it had been in the days of his grandaunts, the good old ladies who had bequeathed the Firs to Mr. Ashburton. He had made no change in it, and scarcely ever used it, keeping to his library and dining-room, with the possibility, no doubt, always before him of preparing it in due course of time for his wife. That moment had now arrived, and in his excitement he went into the desolate room with his candle, which just made the darkness visible, and tried to see the dusky curtains and faded carpet, and the indescribable fossil air which everything had. There were the odd little spider-legged stands, upon which the Miss Penrhyns had placed their work-boxes, and the old sofas on which they had sat, and the floods of old tapestry-work with which they had decorated their favourite sitting-room. The sight of it chilled the Member for Carlingford, and made him sad. He tried to turn his thoughts to the time when this same room should be fitted up to suit Lucilla’s complexion, and should be gay with light and with her presence. He did all he could to realise the moment when, with a mistress so active and energetic, the whole place would change its aspect, and glow forth resplendent into the twilight of the county, a central point for all. Perhaps it was his fatigue which gained upon him just at this moment, and repulsed all livelier thoughts; but the fact is, that however willing Lucilla might turn out to be, her image was coy, and would not come. The more Mr. Ashburton tried to think of her as in possession here, the more the grim images of the two old Miss Penrhyns walked out of the darkness and asserted their prior claims. They even seemed to have got into the library before him when he went back, though there his fire was burning, and his lamp. After that there was nothing left for a man to do, even though he had been that day elected Member for Carlingford, but to yield to the weakness of an ordinary mortal, and go to bed.

Thoughts very different, but even more disturbing, were going on at the same time in Grange Lane. Poor Mr. Cavendish, for one thing⁠—upbraided by everybody’s looks, and even by some people’s words⁠—feeling himself condemned, censured, and despised on all sides⁠—smarting under his sister’s wild reproaches and her husband’s blunt commentary thereupon⁠—had slunk away from their society after dinner, not seeing now why he should bear it any longer. “By Jove! if it had only been for her sake, you might have left over your philandering for another night,” Mr. Woodburn had said, in his coarse way; and it was all Mr. Cavendish could do to refrain from saying that one time and another he had done quite enough for her sake, but he did not see any reason why he should put up with it any longer. He strolled out of doors, though the town was still in commotion, and could not but think of the sympathetic countenance which had paled today at sight of the numbers of the poll. She, by Heaven! might have had reason to find fault with him, and she had never done so; she had never perceived that he was stout, or changed from old times. As he entertained these thoughts, his steps going down Grange Lane gradually quickened, but he did not say to himself where he was going. He went a very roundabout way, as if he did not mean it, as far as St. Roque’s, and then up by the lane to the far-off desert extremity of Grove Street. It was simply to walk off his excitement and disappointment, and free himself from criticism for that evening at least; but as he walked he could not help thinking that Barbara, if she were well dressed, would still be a fine woman, that her voice was magnificent in its way, and that about Naples, perhaps, or the baths of Lucca, or in Germany, or the south of France, a man might be able to get on well enough with such a companion, where society was not so exacting or stiff-starched as in England. And the end was, that the feet of the defeated candidate carried him, ere ever he was aware, with some kind of independent volition of their own, to Mr. Lake’s door⁠—and it may be here said, once for all, that this visit was decisive of Mr. Cavendish’s fate.

This will not be regarded as anything but a digression by such of Lucilla’s friends as may be solicitous to know what she was making up her mind to under the circumstances; but the truth is that Lucilla’s historian cannot, any more than Miss Marjoribanks herself could, refrain from a certain regret over Mr. Cavendish. That was what he came to, poor man! after all his experiences; a man who was capable of so much better things⁠—a man even who, if he had made a right use of his opportunities, might once have had as good a chance as any other of marrying Lucilla herself. If there ever was an instance of chances thrown away and lost opportunities, surely here was that lamentable example. And thus, poor man! all his hopes and all his chances came to an end.

As for Miss Marjoribanks herself, it would be vain to say that this was not a very exciting moment for her. If there ever could be said to be a time when she temporarily lost the entire sway and control of herself and her feelings, it would be at this crisis. She went about all that evening like a woman in a dream. For the first time in her life she not only did not know what she would do, but she did not know what she wanted to do. There could now be no mistaking what Mr. Ashburton’s intentions were. Up to a very recent time Lucilla had been able to take refuge in her mourning, and conclude that she had no present occasion to disturb herself. But now that calm was over. She could not conceal from herself that it was in her power by a word to reap all the advantages of the election, and to step at once into the only position which she had ever felt might be superior to her own in Carlingford. At last this great testimonial of female merit was to be laid at her feet. A man thoroughly eligible in every way⁠—moderately rich, well connected, able to restore to her all, and more than all, the advantages which she had lost at her father’s death⁠—a man, above all, who was Member for Carlingford, was going to offer himself to her acceptance, and put his happiness in her hands; and while she was so well aware of this, she was not at all so well aware what answer she would make him. Lucilla’s mind was in such a commotion as she sat over her embroidery, that she thought it strange indeed that it did not show, and could not understand how Aunt Jemima could sit there so quietly opposite her, as if nothing was the matter. But, to tell the truth, there was a good deal the matter with Aunt Jemima too, which was perhaps the reason why she saw no signs of her companion’s agitation. Mrs. John Marjoribanks had not been able any more than her niece to shut her eyes to Mr. Ashburton’s evident meaning, and now that matters were visibly coming to a crisis, a sudden panic and horror had seized her. What would Tom say? If she stood by and saw the prize snapped up under her very eyes, what account could she give to her son of her stewardship? how could she explain her silence as to all his wishes and intentions, her absolute avoidance of his name in all her conversations with Lucilla? While Miss Marjoribanks marvelled that the emotion in her breast could be invisible, and at Aunt Jemima’s insensibility, the bosom of that good woman was throbbing with equal excitement. Sometimes each made an indifferent remark, and panted after it, as if she had given utterance to the most exhausting emotions; but so great was the preoccupation of both that neither observed how it was faring with the other.

But perhaps, on the whole, it was Aunt Jemima that suffered the most; for her there was nothing flattering, nothing gratifying, no prospect of change or increased happiness, or any of the splendours of imagination involved. All that could happen to her would be the displeasure of her son and his disappointment; and it might be her fault, she who could have consented to be chopped up in little pieces, if that would have done Tom any good; but who, notwithstanding, was not anxious for him to marry his cousin, now that her father’s fortune was all lost and she had but two hundred a year. They had a silent cup of tea together at eight o’clock, after that noisy exciting one at five, which had been shared by half Carlingford, as Aunt Jemima thought. The buzz of that impromptu assembly, in which everybody talked at the same moment, and nobody listened, except perhaps Lucilla, had all died away into utter stillness; but the excitement had not died away; that had only risen to a white heat, silent and consuming, as the two ladies sat over their tea.

“Do you expect Mr. Ashburton tomorrow, Lucilla?” Aunt Jemima said, after a long pause.

“Mr. Ashburton?” said Lucilla, with a slight start; and, to tell the truth, she was glad to employ that childish expedient to gain a little time, and consider what she should say. “Indeed I don’t know if he will have time to come. Most likely there will be a great deal to do.”

“If he does come,” said Mrs. John, with a sigh⁠—“or when he does come, I ought to say, for you know very well he will come, Lucilla⁠—I suppose there is no doubt that he will have something very particular to say.”

“I am sure I don’t know, Aunt Jemima,” said Miss Marjoribanks; but she never raised her eyes from her work, as she would have done in any other case. “Now that the election is over, you know⁠—”

“I hope, my dear, I have been long enough in the world to know all about that,” Aunt Jemima said severely, “and what it means when young ladies take such interest in elections;” and then some such feeling as the dog had in the manger⁠—a jealousy of those who sought the gift though she herself did not want it⁠—came over Mrs. John, and at the same time a sudden desire to clear her conscience and make a stand for Tom. She did it suddenly, and went further than she meant to go; but then she never dreamt it would have the least effect. “I would not say anything to disturb your mind, Lucilla, if you have made up your mind; but when you receive your new friends, you might think of other people who perhaps have been fond of you before you ever saw them, or heard their very name.”

She was frightened at it herself before the words were out of her mouth, and the effect it had upon Miss Marjoribanks was wonderful. She threw her embroidery away, and looked Tom’s mother keenly in the face. “I don’t think you know anybody who is fond of me, Aunt Jemima,” she said; “I don’t suppose anybody is fond of me. Do you?” said Lucilla. But by that time Aunt Jemima had got thoroughly frightened, both at herself and her companion, and had nothing more to say.

“I am sure all these people today have been too much for you,” she said. “I wonder what they could all be thinking of, for my part, flocking in upon you like that, so soon after⁠—I thought it was very indelicate of Lady Richmond. And Lucilla, my dear, your nerves are quite affected, and I am sure you ought to go to bed.”

Upon which Miss Marjoribanks recovered herself in a moment, and folded up her worsted-work. “I do feel tired,” she said sweetly, “and perhaps it was too much. I think I will take your advice, Aunt Jemima. The excitement keeps one up for the moment, and then it tells after. I suppose the best thing is to go to bed.”

“Much the best, my dear,” Aunt Jemima said, giving Lucilla a kiss; but she did not take her own advice. She took a long time to think it all over, and sat up by the side of the decaying fire until it was midnight⁠—an hour at which a female establishment like this should surely have been all shut up and at rest. And Lucilla did very much the same thing, wondering greatly what her aunt could tell her if she had a mind, and having the greatest inclination in the world to break into her chamber, and see, at any risk, what was in Tom’s last letter. If she could have seen that, it might have thrown some light on the problem Lucilla was discussing, or given her some guidance through her difficulties. It was just then that Mr. Ashburton was inviting her image into the fossil drawing-room, and finding nothing but the grim shades of the Miss Penrhyns answer to his call. Perhaps this was because Lucilla’s image at that moment was called upon more potently from another quarter in a more familiar voice.