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
