Miss Marjoribanks

by Mrs. Oliphant

  _Chapter XLIV_

  When the first whisper of the way in which she was--as peoplesay--"left" reached Lucilla, her first feeling was incredulity. It wasconveyed to her by Aunt Jemima, who came to her in her room after thefuneral with a face blanched with dismay. Miss Marjoribanks took it forgrief; and, though she did not look for so much feeling from Mrs John,was pleased and comforted that her aunt should really lament her poorpapa. It was a compliment which, in the softened and sorrowful state ofLucilla's mind, went to her heart. Aunt Jemima came up and kissed her ina hasty excited way, which showed genuine and spontaneous emotion, andwas not like the solemn pomp with which sympathising friends generallyembrace a mourner; and then she made Lucilla sit down by the fire andheld her hands. "My poor child," said Aunt Jemima--"my poor, dear,sacrificed child! you know, Lucilla, how fond I am of you, and you canalways come to me----"

  "Thank you, dear Aunt Jemima," said Miss Marjoribanks, though she was alittle puzzled. "You are the only relative I have, and I knew you wouldnot forsake me. What should I do without you at such a time? I am sureit is what dear papa would have wished----"

  "Lucilla," cried Mrs John impulsively, "I know it is natural you shouldcry for your father; but when you know all,--you that never knew what itwas to be without money--that never were straitened even, or obliged togive up things, like most other young women. Oh, my dear, they said Iwas to prepare you, but how can I prepare you? I feel as if I nevercould forgive my brother-in-law; that he should bring you up like this,and then----"

  "What is it?" said Miss Marjoribanks, drying her tears. "If it isanything new, tell me, but don't speak so of--of----What is it? say itright out."

  "Lucilla," said Aunt Jemima solemnly, "you think you have a great dealof courage, and now is your time to show it. He has left you without afarthing--he that was always thought to be so rich. It is quite truewhat I am saying. He has gone and died and left nothing, Lucilla. Now Ihave told you; and oh, my poor, dear, injured child," cried Mrs John,with fervour, "as long as I have a home there will be room in it foryou."

  But Lucilla put her aunt away softly when she was about to fall upon herneck. Miss Marjoribanks was struck dumb; her heart seemed to stopbeating for the moment. "It is quite impossible--it cannot be true," shesaid, and gave a gasp to recover her breath. Then Mrs John came downupon her with facts, proving it to be true--showing how DrMarjoribanks's money was invested, and how it had been lost. She made aterrible muddle of it, no doubt, but Lucilla was not very clear aboutbusiness details any more than her aunt, and she did not move nor say aword while the long, involved, endless narrative went on. She keptsaying it was impossible in her heart for half of the time, and then shecrept nearer the fire and shivered, and said nothing even to herself,and did not even seem to listen, but knew that it must be true. It wouldbe vain to attempt to say that it was not a terrible blow to Lucilla;her strength was weakened already by grief and solitude and want offood, for she could not find it in her heart to go on eating herordinary meals as if nothing had happened; and all of a sudden she feltthe cold seize her, and drew closer and closer to the fire. The thoughtswhich she had been thinking in spite of herself, and for which she hadso greatly condemned herself, went out with a sudden distinctness, as ifit had been a lamp going out and leaving the room in darkness, and asudden sense of utter gloom and cold and bewildering uncertainty cameover Lucilla. When she lifted her eyes from the fire, into which she hadbeen gazing, it almost surprised her to find herself still in this warmroom where there was every appliance for comfort, and where her entirewardrobe of new mourning--everything, as Aunt Jemima said, that a womancould desire--was piled up on the bed. It was impossible that she couldbe a penniless creature, left on her own resources, without father orsupporter or revenue; and yet--good heavens! could it be true?

  "If it is true, Aunt Jemima," said Lucilla, "I must try to bear it; butmy poor head feels all queer. I'd rather not think any more about itto-night."

  "How can you help thinking about it, Lucilla?" cried Mrs John. "I canthink of nothing else; and I am not so much concerned as you."

  Upon which Lucilla rose and kissed Aunt Jemima, though her head was allconfused and she had noises in her ears. "I don't think we are much likeeach other, you know," she said. "Did you hear how Mrs Chiley was? I amsure she will be very sorry;" and with that Miss Marjoribanks softened,and felt a little comforted, and cried again--not for the money, but forher father. "If you are going downstairs, I think I will come down totea, Aunt Jemima," she said. But after Mrs John had gone away full ofwonder at her philosophy, Lucilla drew close to the fire again and tookher head between her hands and tried to think what it meant. Could it betrue? Instead of the heiress, in a good position, who could go abroad oranywhere, and do anything she liked, was it possible that she was only apenniless single woman with nobody to look to, and nothing to live on?Such an extraordinary incomprehensible revolution might well make anyone feel giddy. The solid house and the comfortable room, and her ownsober brain, which was not in the way of being put off its balance,seemed to turn round and round as she looked into the fire. Lucilla wasnot one to throw the blame upon her father, as Mrs John had done. On thecontrary she was sorry, profoundly sorry for him, and made such apicture to herself of what his feelings must have been, when he wentinto his room that night and knew that all his hard-earned fortune wasgone, that it made her weep the deepest tears for him that she had yetshed. "Poor papa!" she said to herself; and as she was not much given toemploying her imagination in this way, and realising the feeling ofothers, the effect was all the greater now. If he had but told her, andput off a share of the burden from his own shoulders on to hers whocould have borne it! but the Doctor had never done justice to Lucilla'squalities. This, amid her general sense of confusion and dizziness andinsecurity, was the only clear thought that struck Miss Marjoribanks;and that it was very cold and must be freezing outside; and how did thepoor people manage who had not all her present advantages? She tried toput away this revelation from her, as she had said to Aunt Jemima, andkeep it for a little at arm's length, and get a night's rest in themeantime, and so be able to bring a clear head to the contemplation ofit to-morrow, which was the most judicious thing to do. But when themind has been stimulated by such a shock, Solomon himself, one wouldsuppose, could scarcely, however clearly he might perceive what wasbest, take the judicious passive way. When Lucilla got up from where shewas crouching before the fire, she felt so giddy that she could scarcelystand. Her head was all queer, as she had said, and she had a singing inher ears. She herself seemed to have changed along with her position. Anhour or two before, she could have answered for her own steadiness andself-possession in almost any circumstances, but now the blood seemed tobe running a race in her veins, and the strangest noises hummed in herears. She felt ashamed of her weakness, but she could not help it; andthen she was weak with grief and excitement and comparative fasting,which told for something, probably, in her inability to bear sounlooked-for a blow.

  But Miss Marjoribanks thought it was best to go down to the drawing-roomfor tea, as she had said. To see everything just as it had been, utterlyindifferent and unconscious of what had happened, made her cry, andrelieved her giddiness by reviving her grief; and then the next minute abewildering wonder seized her as to what would become of thisdrawing-room, the scene of her triumphs--who would live in it, and whomthe things would go to--which made her sick, and brought back thesinging in her ears. But on the whole she took tea very quietly withAunt Jemima, who kept breaking into continual snatches of lamentation,but was always checked by Lucilla's composed looks. If she had not heardthis extraordinary news, which made the world turn round with her, MissMarjoribanks would have felt that soft hush of exhaustion and griefsubdued which, when the grief is not too urgent, comes after all isover; and even now she felt a certain comfort in the warm firelight andthe change out of her own room--where she had been living shut up, withthe blinds down, and the black dresses everywhere about, for so manydreary days.

  John Br
own, who had charge of Dr Marjoribanks's affairs, came next dayand explained everything to Lucilla. The lawyer had had one shortinterview with his client after the news came, and Dr Marjoribanks hadborne it like a man. His face had changed a little, and he had sat down,which he was not in the habit of doing, and drawn a kind of shiveringlong breath; and then he had said, "Poor Lucilla!" to himself. This wasall Mr Brown could say about the effect the shock had on the Doctor. Andthere was something in this very scanty information which gave Lucilla anew pang of sorrow and consolation. "And he patted me on the shoulderthat last night," she said, with tender tears; and felt she had neverloved her father so well in all her life--which is one of the sweeteruses of death which many must have experienced, but which belonged to amore exquisite and penetrating kind of emotion than was common toLucilla.

  "I thought he looked a little broken when he went out," said Mr Brown,"but full of pluck and spirit, as he always was. 'I am making a gooddeal of money, and I _may_ live long enough to lay by a little still,'were the last words he said to me. I remember he put a kind of emphasison the _may_. Perhaps he knew he was not so strong as he looked. He wasa good man, Miss Marjoribanks, and there is nobody that has not somekind thing to tell of him," said the lawyer, with a certain moisture inhis eyes; for there was nobody in Carlingford who did not miss the oldDoctor, and John Brown was very tender-hearted in his way.

  "But nobody can know what a good father he was," said Lucilla, with asob; and she meant it with all her heart, thinking chiefly of his handon her shoulder that last night, and of the "Poor Lucilla!" in JohnBrown's office; though, after all, perhaps, it was not chiefly as atender father that Dr Marjoribanks shone, though he gave his daughterall she wanted or asked for. Her grief was so true, and so littletinctured by any of that indignation over the unexpected loss, whichAunt Jemima had not been able to conceal, that John Brown was quitetouched, and felt his heart warm to Lucilla. He explained it all veryfully to her when she was composed enough to understand him; and as hewent through all the details the giddiness came back, and once more MissMarjoribanks felt the world running round, and heard his statementthrough the noises in her ears. All this settled down, however, into acertain distinctness as John Brown, who was very clear-headed and goodat making a concise statement, went on; and gradually the gyrationsbecame slower and slower, and the great universe became solid once more,and held to its moorings under Lucilla's feet, and she ceased to hearthat supernatural hum and buzz. The vague shadows of chaos and ruindispersed, and through them she saw once more the real aspect of things.She was not quite penniless. There was the house, which was a very goodhouse, and some little corners and scraps of money in the Funds, whichwere Lucilla's very own, and could not be lost; and last of all therewas the business--the best practice in Carlingford, and entire commandof Grange Lane.

  "But what does that matter?" said Lucilla; "if poor papa had retiredindeed, as I used to beg him to do, and parted with it----But everybodyhas begun to send for Dr Rider already," she said, in an aggrievedvoice; and then for the first time John Brown remembered, to hisconfusion, that there was once said to be "something between" MissMarjoribanks and Dr Rider; which complicated the affair in the mostuncomfortable way.

  "Yes," he said, "and of course that would make it much more difficult tobring in another man; but Rider is a very honourable young fellow, MissMarjoribanks----"

  "He is not so very young," said Lucilla. "He is quite as old as I am,though no one ever would think so. I am sure he is honourable, but whathas that to do with it? And I do think Mrs Chiley might have donewithout--anybody else: for a day or two, considering when it was----"

  And here she stopped to cry, unreasonably, but yet very naturally; forit did feel hard that in the house to which Dr Marjoribanks's last visithad been paid, another doctor should have been called in next day.

  "What I meant to say," said John Brown, "was, that Dr Rider, though heis not rich, and could not pay a large sum of money down, would be veryglad to make some arrangement. He is very anxious about it, and heseemed himself to think that if you knew his circumstances you would notbe disinclined to----But as I did not at all know----"

  Lucilla caught, as it were, and met, and forced to face her, herinformant's embarrassed, hesitating look. "You say this," said MissMarjoribanks, "because people used to say there was something betweenus, and you think I may have some feeling about it. But there never wasanything between us. Anybody with a quarter of an eye could have seenthat he was going out of his senses about that little Australian girl.And I am rather fond of men that are in love--it shows they have somegood in them. But it is dreadful to talk of such things now," saidLucilla, with a sigh of self-reproach. "If Dr Rider has any arrangementto propose, I should like to give him the preference, please. You seethey have begun to send for him already in Grange Lane."

  "I will do whatever you think proper," said John Brown, who was ratherscared, and very much impressed by Miss Marjoribanks's candour. Dr Riderhad been the first love of Mr Brown's own wife, and the lawyer had acurious kind of satisfaction in thinking that this silly young fellowhad thus lost two admirable women, and that probably the littleAustralian was equally inferior to Miss Marjoribanks and Mrs Brown. Heought to have been grateful that Dr Rider had left the latter lady tohis own superior discrimination--and so he was; and yet it gave him acertain odd satisfaction to think that the Doctor was not so happy as hemight have been. He went away fully warranted to receive Dr Rider'sproposition, and even, to a certain extent, to decide upon it--andLucilla threw herself back in her chair in the silent drawing-room, fromwhich Aunt Jemima had discreetly withdrawn, and began to think over thereality of her position as she now saw it for the first time.

  The sense of bewildering revolution and change was over; for, strangelyenough, the greater a change is the more easily the mind, after thefirst shock, accepts and gets accustomed to it. It was over, and theworld felt steady once more under Lucilla's feet, and she sat down, notprecisely amid the ruins of her happiness, but still in the presence ofmany an imagination overthrown, to look at her real position. It wasnot, after all, utter poverty, misery, and destitution, as at the firstglance she had believed. According to what John Brown had said, and arapid calculation which Lucilla had herself made in passing, somethingapproaching two hundred a year would be left to her--just a small singlewoman's revenue, as she thought to herself. Two hundred a year! All atonce there came into Miss Marjoribanks's mind a sudden vision of the twoMiss Ravenswoods, who had lived in that pretty set of rooms overElsworthy's shop, facing into Grange Lane, and who had kept a lady'smaid, and asked the best people in the place to tea, upon a verysimilar income, and how their achievements had been held up to everybodyas a model of what genteel economy could do. She thought of them, andher heart sank within her; for it was not in Lucilla's nature to livewithout a sphere, nor to disjoin herself from her fellow-creatures, norto give up entirely the sovereign position she had held for so manyyears. Whatever she might ultimately do, it was clear that, in themeantime, she could not make up her mind to any such giving up of thebattle as that. And then there was the house. She might let it to theRiders, and add probably another hundred a year to her income; forthough it was an excellent house, and worth more than a hundred a year,still there was no competition for houses in Grange Lane, and the newDoctor was the only probable tenant. And, to tell the truth, thoughLucilla was very reasonable, it went to her heart at the present momentto think of letting the house to the new Doctor, and having the patientscome as usual, and the lamp lighted as of old, and nothing changedexcept the central figure of all. She ought to have been above suchsentimental ideas when a whole hundred pounds a year was in question;but she was not, which of itself was a strange phenomenon. If she couldhave made up her mind to that, there were a great many things that shemight have done. She might still have gone abroad, and to some extenttaken a limited share in what was going on in some section of Englishsociety on the Continent. Or she might have gone to one of the mildcentres of a similar kind of l
ife in England. But such a prospect didnot offer many attractions to Miss Marjoribanks. If she had been rich,it would have been different. Thus there gradually dawned upon her thegerm of the plan she ultimately adopted, and which was the only one thatcommended itself to her feelings. Going away was expensive andtroublesome at the best; and even at Elsworthy's, if she could have madeup her mind to such an expedient, she would have been charged a pound aweek for the rooms alone, not to speak of all kinds of extras, and neverhaving the satisfaction of feeling yourself in your own place. Under allthe circumstances, it was impressed upon Lucilla's mind that her naturalcourse was to stay still where she was, and make no change. Why shouldshe make any change? The house was her own, and did not cost anything,and if Nancy would but stand by her and one good maid----It was aventure; but still Lucilla felt as if she might be equal to it. Thoughshe was no mathematician, Miss Marjoribanks was very clever at mentalarithmetic in a practical sort of way. She put down lines upon lines offigures in her head while she sat musing in her chair, and worked themout with wonderful skill and speed and accuracy. And the more shethought of it, the more it seemed to her that this was the thing to do.Why should she retreat and leave her native soil and the neighbourhoodof all her friends because she was poor and in trouble? Lucilla was notashamed of being poor--nor even frightened by it, now that sheunderstood what it was--any more than she would have been frightened,after the first shock, had her poverty even been much more absolute. Shewas standing alone at this moment as upon a little island of as yetundisturbed seclusion and calm, and she knew very well that outside aperfect sea of good advice would surge round her as soon as she wasvisible. In these circumstances Lucilla took by instinct the only wisecourse: she made up her mind there and then with a perfect unanimitywhich is seldom to be gained when counsellors are admitted. And what shedecided upon, as was to be expected from her character, was not to flyfrom her misfortune and the scene of it, but to confront fate and takeup her lawful burden and stay still in her own house. It was the wisestand the easiest, and at the same time the most heroic course to adopt,and she knew beforehand that it was one which would be approved of bynobody. All this Lucilla steadily faced and considered and made up hermind to while she sat alone; although silence and solitude anddesolation seemed to have suddenly come in and taken possession allaround her of the once gay and brilliant room.

  She had just made her final decision when she was rejoined by her aunt,who, everybody said, was at this trying moment like a mother to Lucilla.Yet Aunt Jemima, too, had changed a little since her brother-in-law'sdeath. She was very fond of Miss Marjoribanks, and meant every word shehad said about giving her a home, and still meant it. But she did notfeel so certain now as she had done about Tom's love for his cousin, norat all anxious to have him come home just at this moment; and foranother thing, she had got a way of prowling about the house and lookingat the furniture in a speculative, auctioneering sort of way. "It mustbe all sold, of course," Aunt Jemima had said to herself, "and I may aswell look what things would suit me; there is a little chiffonier that Ihave always wanted for my drawing-room, and Lucilla would like to see afew of the old things about her, poor dear." With this idea Mrs Johngave herself a great deal of unnecessary fatigue, and gave much offenceto the servants by making pilgrimages all over the house, turning up atthe most unlikely places and poking about in the least frequented rooms.It was a perfectly virtuous and even amiable thing to do, for it wasbetter, as she reasoned, that they should go to her than to a stranger,and it would be nice for Lucilla to feel that she had some of the oldthings about her; but then such delicate motives are seldom appreciatedby the homely critics downstairs.

  It was with something of this same air that she came into thedrawing-room, where Lucilla was. She could not help laying her hand in asuggestive sort of way on a small table which she had to pass, as if shewere saying to herself (as indeed she was saying), "The veneer has beenbroken off at that side, and the foot is mended; it will bring verylittle; and yet it looks well when you don't look too close." Such werethe ideas with which Aunt Jemima's mind was filled. But yet she cameforward with a great deal of sympathy and curiosity, and forgot aboutthe furniture in presence of her afflicted niece.

  "Did he tell you anything, Lucilla?" said Mrs John; "of course he musthave told you something--but anything satisfactory, I mean."

  "I don't know if you can call it satisfactory," said Lucilla, with asudden rush of softer thoughts; "but it was a comfort to hear it. Hetold me something about dear papa, Aunt Jemima. After he had heard of_that_, you know--all that he said was, Poor Lucilla! And don't youremember how he put his hand on my shoulder that last night? I amso--so--glad he did it," sobbed Miss Marjoribanks. It may be supposed itwas an abrupt transition from her calculations; but after all it wasonly a different branch of the same subject; and Lucilla in all her lifehad never before shed such poignant and tender tears.

  "He might well say, Poor Lucilla!" said Mrs John--"brought up as youhave been, my dear; and did not you hear anything more important?--Imean, more important in a worldly point of view," Aunt Jemima added,correcting herself, "of course, it must be the greatest comfort to hearsomething about your poor papa."

  And then Lucilla unfolded John Brown's further particulars to hersurprised hearer. Mrs John lived upon a smallish income herself, and shewas not so contemptuous of the two hundred a year. "And the house," shesaid--"the house would bring you in another hundred, Lucilla. TheRiders, I am sure, would take it directly, and perhaps a great part ofthe furniture too. Three hundred would not be so bad for a single woman.Did you say anything about the furniture, my dear?" Aunt Jemima added,half regretfully, for she did feel that she would be sorry to lose thatchiffonier.

  "I think I shall stay in the house," said Lucilla; "you may think itsilly, Aunt Jemima, but I was born in it, and----"

  "Stay in the house!" Mrs John said, with a gasp. She did not think itsilly, but simple madness, and so she told her niece. If Lucilla couldnot make up her mind to Elsworthy's, there was Brighton and Bath andCheltenham, and a hundred other places where a single woman might bevery comfortable on three hundred a year. And to lose a third part ofher income for a piece of sentiment was so utterly unlike any conceptionAunt Jemima had ever formed of her niece. It _was_ unlike MissMarjoribanks; but there are times of life when even the most reasonablepeople are inconsistent. Lucilla, though she felt it was open to gravecriticism, felt only more confirmed in her resolution by her aunt'sremarks. She heard a voice Aunt Jemima could not hear, and that voicesaid, Stay!