“They may be as stupid and ungrateful as they like,” she said to herself, “but to be warm and comfortable instead of cold and hungry always makes a difference.” Perhaps it was not the highest motive possible, and it might be more satisfactory to some people to think of Lucilla as actuated by lofty sentiments of philanthropy; but to persons acquainted with Miss Marjoribanks’s character, her biographer would scorn to make any pretence. What would be the good of a spirit full of boundless activity and benevolent impulses if there was nobody to help?—what would be the use of self-devotion if the race in general stood in no need of charitable ministrations? Lucilla had been of use to her fellow-creatures all her life; and though she was about to relinquish one branch of usefulness, that was not to say that she should be prevented from entering into another. The state of the Marchbank village did her good to the very bottom of her soul. It justified her to herself for her choice of Tom, which, but for this chance of doing good, might perhaps have had the air of a merely selfish personal preference. Now she could regard it in a loftier light, and the thought was sweet to Lucilla; for such a beautiful way of helping her neighbour would no doubt have been to a certain extent impracticable amid the many occupations of the Member’s wife.
Perhaps the most difficult thing in Miss Marjoribanks’s way at this otherwise satisfactory moment was the difficulty she found in persuading society, first of the reality, and then of the justice, of the step she had taken. Most of them, to tell the truth, had forgotten all about Tom Marjoribanks. It is true that when Lucilla’s intentions and prospects were discussed in Grange Lane, as they had been so often, it was not uncommon for people to say, “There was once a cousin, you know”; but nobody had ever given very much heed to the suggestion. When Lucilla went to tell Mrs. Chiley of what had happened, she was but inadequately prepared for the surprise with which her intelligence was received. For it all seemed natural enough to Miss Marjoribanks. She had gone on very steadily for a long time, without thinking particularly about anybody, and disposed to accept the most eligible and satisfactory person who happened to present himself; but all the time there had been a warm corner in her heart for Tom. And then the eligible person had not come, and she had been worried and wearied, and had had her losses, like most other people. And it had always been pleasant to remember that there was one man in the world who, if she but held out a finger to him—But then the people in Grange Lane were not capable of discrimination on such a delicate subject, and had never, as was to be expected, had the smallest insight into Lucilla’s heart.
“You have something to tell me, Lucilla?” said old Mrs. Chiley. “You need not say no, for I can see it in your eyes. And how lucky it is the Colonel is out, and we can have it all to ourselves! Come here and sit by me, and tell me all—every word.”
“Dear Mrs. Chiley,” said Lucilla, “you can always see what one means before one says a word. And it has all happened so suddenly; but the very first thing I thought of doing was to come and tell you.”
Mrs. Chiley gave her young friend, who was leaning over her, a hug, which was the only answer which could be made to so touching a speech, and drew Lucilla down upon a low chair that had been placed by the side of her sofa. She kept Miss Marjoribanks’s hand in her own, and caressed it, and looked at her with satisfaction in every line of her face. After waiting so long, and having so many disappointments, everything was going to turn out so entirely as it ought to do at last.
“I think I know what you are going to tell me, my dear,” said Mrs. Chiley; “and I am so pleased, Lucilla. I only wonder you did not give me a hint from the very first. You remember I asked you when you came here that snowy evening. I was a hard-hearted old woman, and I dare say you were very vexed; but I am so glad to think that the Colonel never stood out against him, but gave his consent that very day.”
This was the moment, if there ever was such a moment, when Lucilla lost courage. Mrs. Chiley was so entirely confident as to what was coming, and it was something so different that was really coming; and it was hard upon Miss Marjoribanks to feel that she was about to disappoint everybody’s expectations. She had to clear her throat before she spoke—she who was generally so ready for every emergency; and she could not help feeling for the moment as if she was a young girl who had run away with somebody, and deceived all her anxious friends.
“Dear Mrs. Chiley, I am afraid I am not going to say what you expected,” said Lucilla. “I am very comfortable and happy, and I think it’s for the best; and I am so anxious that you should like him; but it is not the person you are thinking of. It is—”
Here the old lady, to Lucilla’s surprise, rose up upon her pillows and threw her arms round her, and kissed her over again, and fell a-crying. “I always said how generous you were, Lucilla,”
