Part 21 (2/2)
”If you were to read it to me,” said Miss Marjoribanks, ”I should be sure to be convinced that you were quite right, and to go in with you for everything; and then I should be no good, you know. If it were to drive papa and Sir John and the Colonel all to their own ways of thinking, we never should make any progress. I would never mind about anybody's ways of thinking, if I were you. After all,” said Lucilla, with fine satire, of which she was unconscious, ”what does it matter what people think? I suppose when it comes to doing anything, the Whigs and the Tories are just the same. Mr Ashburton, it is the Man that is wanted,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with all the warmth of sudden conviction. She felt a little like Joan of Arc as she spoke. When an army has the aid of a sacred maiden to bring inspiration to its counsels, the idea of going on in the old formal way is no longer to be tolerated. And such was the force of Lucilla's conviction, that Mr Ashburton, though he felt a little affronted, and could not but look with fond and compunctious regret upon his address, yet began more and more to feel that there was justice in what she said.
”I will think over what you say,” he said, rather stiffly, and put up his address--for it was natural, when he had done her such an honour as to offer to read it to her, that he should be affronted by her refusal.
It was a bold experiment on Lucilla's part, but then she was carried out of herself at the moment by this singular flash of inspiration. ”I will think over what you say,” Mr Ashburton continued; ”and if my judgment approves----At all events I shall not issue _this_ till I have thought it all over. I am sure I am extremely obliged to you for your interest.”
And here he stopped short, and looked as if he were going to get up and go away, which would have spoiled all.
”You are going to stop to lunch,” said Lucilla; ”somebody is sure to come in. And you know you must not lose any opportunity of seeing people. I am so glad to-night is Thursday. Tell me just one thing, Mr Ashburton, before any one comes. There is one thing that is really important, and must be fixed upon. If we were to make any mistake, you know----”
”What?” said the candidate eagerly--”about Reform? I have expressed myself very clearly----”
Lucilla smiled compa.s.sionately, and with the gentlest tolerance, at this wild suggestion. ”I was not thinking of Reform,” she said, with that meekness which people a.s.sume when it is of no use being impatient. ”I was thinking what your colours were to be. I would not have anything to do with the old colours, for my part--they would be as bad as opinions, you know. You may laugh, but I am quite in earnest,” said Miss Marjoribanks. As for Mr Ashburton, he did not begin to laugh until he had fixed upon her that gaze of utter amazement and doubt with which on many similar occasions ordinary people had regarded Lucilla--thinking she was joking, or acting, or doing something quite different from the severe sincerity which was her leading principle. She was so used to it, that she waited with perfect patience till her companion's explosion of amus.e.m.e.nt was over. He was thinking to himself what a fool she was, or what a fool he was to think of taking a woman into his counsels, or what curious unintelligible creatures women were, made up of sense and folly; and all the time he laughed, which was a relief to his feelings. Miss Marjoribanks laughed a little too, to keep him in countenance, for she was always the soul of good nature; and then she repeated, ”Now you must tell me what our colours are to be----”
”I am sure I don't know anything about colours,” said the candidate, ”any more than you do about opinions. I think they are equally unimportant, to say the least. I shall adopt the colours of my fair counsellor,” Mr Ashburton added, laughing, and making a mock bow to her, and getting his hat as he did so--for he had naturally calmed down a little from the first enthusiasm with which he had hailed the woman who divined him, and he did not mean to stay.
”Blue and yellow are the old colours,” said Lucilla thoughtfully, ”and you are the new man, you know, and we must not meddle with these antiquated things. Do you think this would do?” As she spoke she took up a handful of ribbons which were lying by, and put them up to her face with an air of serious deliberation which once more disturbed Mr Ashburton's gravity. And yet, when a young woman who is not at all bad-looking puts up a rustling, gleaming knot of ribbons to her hair and asks a man's opinion of the same, the man must be a philosopher or a wretch indeed who does not give a glance to see the effect. The candidate for Carlingford looked and approached, and even, in the temptation of the moment, took some of the long streamers in his hand.
And he began to think Miss Marjoribanks was very clever, and the most amusing companion he had met with for a long time. And her interest in him touched his heart; and, after all, it is no drawback to a woman to be absurd by moments. His voice grew quite soft and caressing as he took the end of ribbon into his hand.
”If they are your colours they shall be mine,” he said, with a sense of patronage and protection which was very delightful; and the two were still talking and laughing over the silken link thus formed between them, when the people came in whom Lucilla was expecting to lunch, and who were naturally full of Mr Chiltern's death, which, poor old man! was so sudden at the last. Mr Ashburton stayed, though he had not intended it, and made himself very pleasant. And Lucilla took no pains to conceal her opinion that the thing was neither to consider Whigs nor Tories, but a good _Man_. And Major Brown, who had come with his daughters, echoed this sentiment so warmly that Mr Ashburton was entirely convinced of the justice of Miss Marjoribanks's ideas. ”We can't have a tip-topper, you know,” Major Brown said, who was not very refined in his expressions; ”and what I should like to see is a man that knows the place and would look after Carlingford. That's what we're all looking for.” Mr Ashburton did not declare himself to Major Brown, but he dashed off his new address ten minutes after he had taken leave of Miss Marjoribanks, and put the other one in the fire like a Christian, and telegraphed for his agent to town. Lucilla, for her part, made an effort equally great and uncompromising. She took the ribbon Mr Ashburton had played with, and cut it up into c.o.c.kades of all descriptions. It was an early moment, but still there was no time to be lost in a matter of such importance. And she wore one on her breast and one in her hair when Mr Ashburton's address was published, and all the world was discussing the new candidate.
”Of course they are his colours--that is why I wear them,” said Lucilla.
”I shall always think there was something very strange in it. Just after I had heard of poor old Mr Chiltern's death, as I was pa.s.sing Holden's--when I was not in the least thinking of him--he came into my mind like a flash of lightning, you know. If I had been very intimate with poor old Mr Chiltern, or if I believed in spirit-rapping, I should think _that_ was it. He came into my head without my even thinking of him, all in a moment, with his very hat on and his umbrella, like Minerva--wasn't it Minerva?” said Miss Marjoribanks. And she took up Mr Ashburton's cause openly, and unfurled his standard, and did not even ask her father's opinion. ”Papa knows about politics, but he has not had an intimation, as I have,” said Lucilla. And, naturally, she threw all the younger portion of Grange Lane, which was acquainted with Mr Ashburton, and looked forward eagerly to a little excitement, and liked the idea of wearing a violet-and-green c.o.c.kade, into a flutter of excitement. Among these rash young people there were even a few individuals who took Lucilla's word for it, and knew that Mr Ashburton was very _nice_, and did not see that anything more was necessary. To be sure, these enthusiasts were chiefly women, and in no cases had votes; but Miss Marjoribanks, with instinctive correctness of judgment, decided that there were more things to be thought of than the electors.
And she had the satisfaction of seeing with her own eyes and hearing with her own ears the success of that suggestion of her genius.
Carlingford had rarely been more excited by any public event than it was by the address of the new candidate, who was in the field before anybody else, and who had the boldness to come before them without uttering any political creed. ”The enlightened electors of Carlingford do not demand, like other less educated const.i.tuencies, a system of political doctrines cut and dry, or a representative bound to give up his own judgment, and act according to arbitrary promises,” said the daring candidate: ”what they want is an honest man, resolved to do his duty by his country, his borough, and his const.i.tuency; and it is this idea alone which has induced me to solicit your suffrages.” This was what Mr Ashburton said in his address, though at that moment he had still his other address in his pocket, in which he had entered at some length into his distinctive personal views. It was thus that an independent candidate, unconnected with party, took the field in Carlingford, with Miss Marjoribanks, like another Joan of Arc, wearing a knot of ribbons, violet and green, in her hair, to inspire and lead him on.
_Chapter x.x.xVIII_
Life with most people is little more than a succession of high and low tides. There are times when the stream runs low, and when there is nothing to be seen but the dull sandbanks, or even mud-banks, for months, or even years together; and then all at once the waters swell, and come rus.h.i.+ng twice a day like the sea, carrying life and movement with them. Miss Marjoribanks had been subject to the _eaux mortes_ for a long time: but now the spring-tides had rushed back. A day or two after Mr Ashburton had been revealed to her as the predestined member, something occurred, not in itself exciting, but which was not without its ultimate weight upon the course of affairs. It was the day when Aunt Jemima was expected in Grange Lane. She was Aunt Jemima to Lucilla; but the Doctor called her Mrs John, and was never known to address her by any more familiar t.i.tle. She was, as she herself described it, a widow lady, and wore the dress of her order, and was the mother of Tom Marjoribanks. She was not a frequent visitor at Carlingford, for she and her brother-in-law had various points on which they were not of accord.
The Doctor, for his part, could not but feel perennially injured that the boy had fallen to the lot of Mrs John, while he had only a girl--even though that girl was Lucilla; and Aunt Jemima could not forgive him for the rude way in which he treated her health, which was so delicate, and his want of sympathy for many other people who were delicate too. Even when she arrived, and was being entertained with the usual cup of tea, fears of her brother-in-law's robustness and unsympathetic ways had begun to overpower her. ”I hope your papa does not ask too much from you, Lucilla,” she said, as she sat in her easy-chair, and took her tea by the fire in the cosy room which had been prepared for her. ”I hope he does not make you do too much, for I am sure you are not strong, my dear. Your poor mamma, you know----” and Mrs John looked with a certain pathos at her niece, as though she saw signs of evil in Lucilla's fresh complexion and substantial frame.
”I am pretty well, thank you, Aunt Jemima,” said Miss Marjoribanks, ”and papa lets me do pretty much what I like: I am too old now, you know, to be told what to do.”
”Don't call yourself old, my dear,” said Aunt Jemima, with a pa.s.sing gleam of worldly wisdom--”one gets old quite soon enough. Are you subject to headaches, Lucilla, or pains in the limbs? Your poor mamma----”
”Dear Aunt Jemima, I am as well as ever I can be,” said Miss Marjoribanks. ”Tell me when you heard from Tom, and what he is doing.
Let me see, it is ten years since he went away. I used to write to him, but he did not answer my letters--not as he ought, you know. I suppose he has found friends among the Calcutta ladies,” said Lucilla, with a slight but not unapparent sigh.
”He never says anything to me about Calcutta ladies,” said Tom's mother; ”to tell the truth, I always thought before he went away that he was fond of _you_--I must have been mistaken, as he never said anything; and _that_ was very fortunate at all events.”
”I am sure I am very thankful he was not fond of me,” said Lucilla, with a little natural irritation, ”for I never could have returned it. But I should like to know why that was so fortunate. I can't see that it would have been such a very bad thing for him, for my part.”
”Yes, my dear,” said Aunt Jemima, placidly, ”it would have been a very bad thing; for you know, Lucilla, though you get on very nicely here, you never could have done for a poor man's wife.”
Miss Marjoribanks's bosom swelled when she heard these words--it swelled with that profound sense of being unappreciated and misunderstood, which is one of the hardest trials in the way of genius; but naturally she was not going to let her aunt see her mortification. ”I don't mean to be any man's wife just now,” she said, making a gulp of it--”I am too busy electioneering; we are going to have a new member in dear old Mr Chiltern's place. Perhaps he will come in this evening to talk things over, and you shall see him,” Lucilla added, graciously. She was a little excited about the candidate, as was not unnatural--more excited, perhaps, than she would have been ten years ago, when life was young; and then it was not to be expected that she could be pleased with Aunt Jemima for thinking it was so fortunate; though even that touch of wounded pride did not lead Miss Marjoribanks to glorify herself by betraying Tom.
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