But though she succeeded in satisfying her friends that she had made up her mind, she did not secure their approval. There were so many objections to her plan. “If you had been rich even, I don’t think I should have approved of it, Lucilla,” Mrs. Chiley said, with tears; “and I think we could have made you happy here.” So the good old lady spoke, looking round her pretty room, which was so warm and cheery and bright, and where the Colonel, neat and precise as if he had come out of a box, was standing poking the fire. It looked all very solid and substantial, and yet it was as unstable as any gossamer that the careless passenger might brush away. The two good people were so old that they had forgotten to remember they were old. But neither did Lucilla think of that. This was really what she thought and partly said:
“I am in my own house, that wants no expense nor changing, and Nancy is getting old, and does not mind standing by me. And it is not so much trouble after all keeping everything nice when there is no gentleman coming in, and nothing else to do. And, besides, I don’t mean to be Lucilla Marjoribanks forever and ever.” This was the general scope, without going into all the details, of what Lucilla said.
But, at the same time, though she was so happy as not to be disturbed in her decision, or made uncomfortable, either by lamentation or remonstrance, and had no doubt in her mind that she was doing right, it was disagreeable to Miss Marjoribanks to go thus in the face of all her friends. She went home by herself, and the house did look dreary from the outside. It was just as it had always been, for none of the servants were dismissed as yet, nor any external change made; but still a look as if it had fallen asleep—a look as if it too had died somehow, and only pretended to be a house and home—was apparent, in the aspect of the place; and when the servants were gone, and nobody remained except Lucilla and her faithful Nancy, and a young maid—which must be the furthest limit of Miss Marjoribanks’s household, and difficult enough to maintain upon two hundred a year—what would it look like? This thought was more discouraging than any remonstrances; and it was with a heavy heart that Lucilla re-entered her solitary house. She told Thomas to follow her upstairs; and when she sank, tired, into a chair, and put up her veil before commencing to speak to him, it was all she could do to keep from crying. The depressing influences of this sad week had told so much on her, that she was quite fatigued by her walk to see Mrs. Chiley; and Thomas, too, knew why he had been called, and stood in a formal manner before her, with his hands crossed, against the closed door. When she put back her thick black veil, the last climax of painful change came upon Miss Marjoribanks. She did not feel as if she were Lucilla; so discouraged and depressed and pale, and tired with her walk as she was, with all sorts of projects and plans so quenched out of her; almost if she had been charged with being somebody else, the imputation was one which she could not have denied.
“Thomas,” she said faintly, “I think I ought to speak to you myself about all that has happened—we are such old friends, and you have been such a good kind servant. You know I shan’t be able to keep up—”
“And sorry we all was, Miss, to hear it,” said Thomas, when Lucilla’s utterance failed. “I am sure there never was a better master, though particular; and for a comfortabler house—”
“If I had been as poor papa expected to leave me,” said Miss Marjoribanks, after a little pause, “everything would have gone on as usual: but after your long service here, and so many people as know you, Thomas, you will have no difficulty in getting as good a place: and you know that anything I can say—”
“Thank you, Miss,” said Thomas; and then he made a pause. “It was not exactly that as I was thinking of; I’ve set my heart, this many a day, on a little business. If you would be so kind as to speak a word for me to the gentlemen as has the licensing. There ain’t nobody as knows better how—”
“What kind of a business, Thomas?” said Lucilla, who cheered up a little in ready interest, and would have been very glad if she could have taken a little business too.
“Well, Miss, a kind of a quiet—public-house, if I don’t make too bold to name it,” said Thomas, with a deprecating air—“not one of them drinking-places, Miss, as, I know, ladies can’t abide; but many a man, as is a very decent man, wants his pint o’
