The Doctor laughed, but at the same time he sighed. There was nothing to

be said against Mrs Chiley, who had, on the whole, as women go, a very

superior training, and knew what a good dinner was; but it was the

beginning of the revolution of which Dr Marjoribanks, vaguely oppressed

with the idea of new paper, new curtains, and all that was involved in

the entrance of Mr Holden the upholsterer into the house, did not see

the end. He acquiesced, of course, since there was nothing else for it:

but it must be confessed that the spectre of Mrs Chiley sitting at his

right hand clouded over for the Doctor the pleasant anticipation of the

evening. If it had been possible to put her at the head of the table

beside Lucilla, whom she was to come to take care of, he could have

borne it better--and to be sure it would have been a great deal more

reasonable; but then that was absolutely out of the question, and the

Doctor gave in with a sigh. Thus it was that he began to realise the

more serious result of that semi-abdication into which he had been

beguiled. The female element, so long peacefully ignored and kept at a

distance, had come in again in triumph and taken possession, and the

Doctor knew too well by the experience of a long life what a restless

and troublesome element it was. He had begun to feel that it had ceased

to be precisely amusing as he took his place in his brougham. It was

good sport to see Lucilla make an end of Tom, and put her bridle upon

the stiff neck of Nancy; but when it came to changing the character of

the Doctor's dinners, his intellect naturally got more obtuse, and he

did not see the joke.

As for Tom, he had to be disposed of summarily. "Do go away," Miss

Marjoribanks said, in her straightforward way. "You can come back to

luncheon if you like;--that is to say, if you can pick up anybody that

is very amusing, you may bring him here about half-past one, and if any

of my friends have come to call by that time, I will give you lunch; but

it must be somebody very amusing, or I will have nothing to say to you,"

said Lucilla. And with this dismissal Tom Marjoribanks departed, not

more content than the Doctor; for, to be sure, the last thing in the

world which the poor fellow thought of was to bring somebody who was

amusing, to injure his chances with Lucilla. Tom, like most other

people, was utterly incapable of fathoming the grand conception which

inspired Miss Marjoribanks. When she told him that it was the object of

her life to be a comfort to papa, he believed it to a certain extent,

but it never occurred to him that filial devotion, though beautiful to

contemplate, would preserve Lucilla's heart from the ordinary dangers of

youth, or that she was at all in earnest in postponing all matrimonial

intentions until she was nine-and-twenty, and had begun to "go off" a

little. So he went away disconsolate enough, wavering between his

instinct of obedience and his desire of being in Lucilla's company, and

a desperate determination never to be the means of injuring himself by

presenting to her anybody who was very amusing. All Miss Marjoribanks's

_monde_, as it happened, was a little out of humour that day. She had

gone on so far triumphantly that it had now come to be necessary that

she should receive a little check in her victorious career.

When Tom was disposed of, Miss Marjoribanks put on her hat and went down

Grange Lane to carry her invitation to Mrs Chiley, who naturally was

very much pleased to come. "But, my dear, you must tell me what to put

on," the old lady said. "I don't think I have had anything new since you

were home last. I have heard so much about Dr Marjoribanks's dinners

that I feel a little excited, as if I was going to be made a freemason

or something. There is my brown, you know, that I wear at home when we

have anybody--and my black velvet; and then there is my French gray that

I got for Mary Chiley's marriage."

"Dear Mrs Chiley," said Lucilla, "it doesn't matter in the least what

you wear; there are only to be gentlemen, you know, and one never

dresses for gentlemen. You must keep that beautiful black velvet for

another time."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs Chiley, "_I_ am long past that sort of

thing--but the men think, you know, that it is always for them we

dress."

"Yes," said Miss Marjoribanks, "their vanity is something dreadful--but

it is one of my principles _never_ to dress unless there are ladies. A

white frock, high in the neck," said Lucilla, with sweet simplicity--"as

for anything else, it would be bad style."

Mrs Chiley gave her young visitor a very cordial kiss when she went

away. "The sense she has!" said the old lady; but at the same time the

Colonel's wife was so old-fashioned that this contemptuous way of

treating "The Gentlemen" puzzled her unprogressive intelligence. She

thought it was superhuman virtue on Lucilla's part, nearly incredible,

and yet established by proofs so incontestable that it would be a shame

to doubt it; and she felt ashamed of herself--she who might have been a

grandmother, had such been the will of Providence--for lingering five

minutes undecided between her two best caps. "I dare say Lucilla does

not spend so much time on such vanity, and she only nineteen," said the

penitent old lady. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she returned up Grange Lane

with a mind at ease, and that consciousness of superior endowments

which gives amiability and expansion even to the countenance. She did

not give any money to the beggar who at that period infested Grange Lane

with her six children, for that was contrary to those principles of

political economy which she had studied with such success at Mount

Pleasant; but she stopped and asked her name, and where she lived, and

promised to inquire into her case. "If you are honest and want to work,

I will try to find you something to do," said Miss Marjoribanks; which,

to be sure, was a threat appalling enough to keep her free from any

further molestation on the part of that interesting family. But Lucilla,

to do her justice, felt it equally natural that beneficence should issue

from her in this manner as in that other mode of feeding the hungry

which she was willing to adopt at half-past one, and had solemnly

engaged herself to fulfil at seven o'clock. She went up after that to Mr

Holden's, and had a most interesting conversation, and found among his

stores a delicious damask, softly, spiritually green, of which, to his

great astonishment, she tried the effect in one of the great mirrors

which ornamented the shop. "It is just the tint I want," Lucilla said,

when she had applied that unusual test; and she left the fashionable

upholsterer of Carlingford in a state of some uncertainty whether it was

curtains or dresses that Miss Marjoribanks meant to have made.

Perhaps this confusion arose from the fact that Lucilla's mind was

occupied in discussing the question whether she should not go round by

Grove Street, and try that duet again with Barbara, and invite her to

Grange Lane in the evening to electrify the little company; or whether,

in case this latter idea might not be practicable, she should bring

Barbara with her to lunch by way of occupying Tom Marjoribanks. Lucilla

stood at Mr Holden's door for five seconds at least balancing the

matter; but finally she gave her curls a little shake, and took a quick

step forward, and without any more deliberation returned towards Grange

Lane; for, on the whole, it was better not to burst in full triumph all

at once upon her constituency, and exhaust her forces at the beginning.

If she condescended to sing something herself, it would indeed be a

greater honour than her father's dinner-party, in strict justice, was

entitled to; and as for the second question, though Miss Marjoribanks

was too happy in the confidence of her own powers to fear any rivals,

and though her cousin's devotion bored her, still she felt doubtful how

far it was good policy to produce Barbara at luncheon for the purpose of

occupying Tom. Other people might see her besides Tom, and her own grand

_coup_ might be forestalled for anything she could tell; and then Tom

had some title to consideration on his own merits, though he was the

unlucky member of the family. He might even, if he were so far left to

himself (though Miss Marjoribanks smiled at the idea), fall in love with

Barbara; or, what was more likely, driven to despair by Lucilla's

indifference, he might _pretend_ to fall in love; and Lucilla reflected,

that if anything happened she could never forgive herself. This was the

point she had arrived at when she shook her tawny curls and set out

suddenly on her return home.

It was now nearly one o'clock, and it was quite possible that Tom, as

well as herself, might be on the way to Grange Lane; but Lucilla, who,

as she said, made a point of never going against the prejudices of

society, made up her mind to remain sweetly unconscious of the hour of

luncheon, unless some lady came to keep her company. But then Miss

Marjoribanks was always lucky, as she said. A quarter of an hour before

Tom applied for admission, Miss Bury came to pay Lucilla a visit. She

had been visiting in her district all the morning, and was very easily

persuaded to repose herself a little; and then, naturally, she was

anxious about her young friend's spiritual condition, and the effect

upon her mind of a year's residence abroad. She was asking whether

Lucilla had not seen something soul-degrading and dishonouring to

religion in all the mummeries of Popery; and Miss Marjoribanks, who was

perfectly orthodox, had replied to the question in the most satisfactory

manner; when Tom made his appearance, looking rather sheepish and

reluctant, and followed by the "somebody amusing" whom Lucilla had

commissioned him to bring. He had struggled against his fate, poor

fellow! but when it happens to be a man's instinct to do what he is

told, he can no more resist it than if it was a criminal impulse. Tom

entered with his amusing companion, who had been chosen with care, and

was very uninviting to look at; and by and by Miss Bury, with the most

puzzled looks, found herself listening to gossip about the theatres and

all kinds of profane subjects. "I think they are going to hang that

fellow that killed the tailor," said the amusing man; "that will stir

you up a little in Carlingford, I should suppose. It is as good as a

play for a country town. Of course, there will be a party that will get

up a memorial, and prove that a man so kind-hearted never existed out of

paradise; and there will be another party who will prove him to be

insane; and then at the end all the blackguards within a hundred miles

will crowd into Carlingford, and the fellow will be hanged, as he

deserves to be; but I assure you it's a famous amusement for a country

town."

"Sir," said Miss Bury, with a tremulous voice, for her feelings had

overcome her, "when you speak of amusement, does it ever occur to you

what will become of his miserable soul?"

"I assure you, wretches of that description have no souls," said the

young barrister, "or else, of course, I would not permit myself to speak

so freely. It is a conclusion I have come to not rashly, but after many

opportunities of observing," the young man went on with solemnity; "on

the whole, my opinion is, that this is the great difference between one

portion of mankind and the other: that description of being, you may

take my word for it, has no soul."

"I never take anybody's word for what is so plainly stated in the Holy

Scriptures," said Miss Bury; "I never heard any one utter such a

terrible idea. I am sure I don't want to defend a--a murderer," cried

the Rector's sister, with agitation; "but I have heard of persons in

that unfortunate position coming to a heavenly frame of mind, and giving

every evidence of being truly converted. The law may take their lives,

but it is an awful thing--a truly dreadful thing," said Miss Bury,

trembling all over, "to try to take away their soul."

"Oh, nonsense, Lucilla. By Jove! he does not mean that, you know," said

Tom, interposing to relieve his friend.

"Do you believe in Jove, Mr Thomas Marjoribanks," said Miss Bury,

looking him in an alarming manner full in the face.

The unfortunate Tom grew red and then he grew green under this question

and that awful look. "No, Miss Bury, I can't say I do," he answered

humbly; and the amusing man was so much less brotherly than Tom that he

burst into unsympathetic laughter. As for Lucilla, it was the first real

check she had sustained in the beginning of her career. There could not

have been a more unfortunate _contretemps_, and there is no telling how

disastrous the effect might have been, had not her courage and

coolness, not to say her orthodoxy, been equal to the occasion. She gave

her cousin a look which was still more terrible than Miss Bury's, and

then she took affairs into her own hands.

"It is dreadful sometimes to see what straits people are put to, to keep

up the conversation," said Lucilla; "Tom in particular, for I think he

has a pleasure in talking nonsense. But you must not suppose I am of

that opinion. I remember quite well there was a dreadful man once here

in jail for something, and Mr Bury made him the most beautiful

character! Every creature has a soul. I am sure we say so in the Creed

every day of our lives, and especially in that long creed where so many

people perish everlastingly. So far from laughing, it is quite dreadful

to think of it," said Lucilla. "It is one of my principles never to

laugh about anything that has to do with religion. I always think it my

duty to speak with respect. It has such a bad effect upon some minds.

Miss Bury, if you will not take anything more, I think we had better go

upstairs."

To think that Tom, whose luck, as usual, had betrayed him to such an

unlooked-for extent, should have been on the point of following to the

drawing-room, was more than Miss Marjoribanks could comprehend; but

fortunately his companion had more sense, and took his leave, taking his

conductor with him. Miss Bury went upstairs in silence, sighing heavily

from time to time. The good woman was troubled in her spirit at the

evident depravity of the young men with whom circumstances had

constrained her to sit down at table, and she was sadly afraid that such

companionship must have a debasing effect upon the mind of that lamb of

the flock now standing before her. Miss Bury bethought herself of Dr

Marjoribanks's profane jokes, and the indifference he had shown to many

things in which it was his duty to have interested himself, and she

could not but look with tender pity in her young friend's face.

"Poor dear," said Miss Bury, "it is dreadful indeed if this is the sort

of society you are subjected to. I could recommend to Dr Marjoribanks a

most admirable woman, a true Christian, who would take charge of things

and be your companion, Lucilla. It is not at all nice for you, at your

age, to be obliged to receive young men like these alone."

"I had you!" said Lucilla, taking both Miss Bury's hands. "I felt it was

such a blessing. I would not have let Tom stay for luncheon if you had

not been there; and now I am so glad, because it has shown me the danger

of letting him bring people. I am quite sure it was a special providence

that made you think of coming here to-day."

"Well, my dear," said Miss Bury, who was naturally mollified by this

statement of the question, "I am very glad to have been of use to you.

If there is anything I desire in this life, it is to be useful to my

fellow-creatures, and to do my work while it is called day. I should not

think the time lost, my dear Lucilla, if I could only hope that I had

impressed upon your mind that an account must be given of every careless

word----"

"Oh, yes," said Lucilla, "that is _so_ true; and besides, it is quite

against my principles. I make it a point never to speak of anything

about religion except with the greatest respect; and I am quite sure it

was a special providence that I had _you_."

Miss Bury took her farewell very affectionately, not to say effusively,

after this, with her heart melting over the ingenuous young creature who

was so thankful for her protection; but at the same time she left Miss

Marjoribanks a prey to the horrible sensation of having made a failure.

To be sure, there was time to recover herself in the evening, which was,

so to speak, her first formal appearance before the public of

Carlingford. Tom was so ill-advised as to come in when she was having

her cup of tea before dinner to fortify her for her exertions; and the

reception he met with may be left to the imagination. But, after all,

there was little satisfaction in demolishing Tom; and then Lucilla had

known from the beginning that the success of her undertaking depended

entirely on herself.

_Chapter VIII_

The evening passed off in a way which, if Miss Marjoribanks had been an

ordinary woman, would have altogether obliterated from her mind all

recollection of the failure at lunch. To speak first of the most

important particular, the dinner was perfect. As for the benighted men

who had doubted Lucilla, they were covered with shame, and, at the same

time, with delight. If there had been a fault in Dr Marjoribanks's table

under the ancient régime, it lay in a certain want of variety, and

occasional over-abundance, which wounded the feelings of young Mr

Cavendish, who was a person of refinement. To-night, as that

accomplished critic remarked, there was a certain air of feminine grace

diffused over everything--and an amount of doubt and expectation,

unknown to the composed feastings of old, gave interest to the meal. As

for the Doctor, he found Mrs Chiley, at his right hand, not so great a

bore as he expected. She was a woman capable of appreciating the

triumphs of art that were set before her; and had indeed been trained to

as high a pitch of culture in this respect as perhaps is possible to the

female intelligence; and then her pride and delight in being admitted to

a participation in those sacred mysteries was beyond expression. "My

dear Lucilla, I feel exactly as if I was going to be made a freemason;

and as if your dear good papa had to blindfold me, and make me swear all

sorts of things before he took me downstairs," she said, as they sat

together waiting for the commencement of the ceremony; and when the two

ladies returned to the drawing-room, Mrs Chiley took Lucilla in her arms

and gave her a kiss, as the only way of expressing adequately her

enthusiasm. "My love," said the Colonel's wife, "I never realised before

what it was to have a genius. You should be very thankful to Providence

for giving you such a gift. I have given dinners all my life--that is,

all my married life, my dear, which comes to almost the same thing, for

I was only a baby--but I never could come up to anything like that,"

said Mrs Chiley, with tears in her eyes. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she

was so satisfied with her success that she felt at liberty to

tranquillise her old friend.

"I am sure you always give very nice dinners," she said; "and then, you

know, the Colonel has his favourite dishes--whereas, I must say for

papa, he is very reasonable for a man. I am so glad you are pleased. It

is very kind of you to say it is genius, but I don't pretend to anything

but paying great attention and studying the combinations. There is

nothing one cannot manage if one only takes the trouble. Come here to

this nice easy-chair--it is so comfortable. It is so nice to have a

little moment to ourselves before they come upstairs."

"That is what I always say," said Mrs Chiley; "but there are not many

girls so sensible as you, Lucilla. I hear them all saying it is so much

better French fashion. Of course, I am an old woman, and like things in

the old style."

"I don't think it is because I am more sensible," said Miss

Marjoribanks, with modesty. "I don't pretend to be better than other

people. It is because I have thought it all over, you know--and then I

went through a course of political economy when I was at Mount

Pleasant," Lucilla said tranquilly, with an air of having explained the

whole matter, which much impressed her hearer. "But for all that,

something dreadful happened to-day. Tom brought in one of his friends

with him, you know, and Miss Bury was here, and they talked--I want to

tell you, in case she should say something, and then you will know what

to believe. I never felt so dreadfully ashamed in my life--they

talked----"

"My dear! not anything improper, I hope," cried the old lady, in dismay.

"Oh, no," said Lucilla; "but they began laughing about some people

having no souls, you know--as if there could be anybody without a

soul--and poor Miss Bury nearly fainted. You may think what a dreadful

thing it was for me."

"My dear child, if that was all," said Mrs Chiley, reassured--"as for

everybody having a soul, I am sure I cannot say. You never were in

India, to be sure; but Miss Bury should have known better than to faint

at a young man's talk, and frighten you, my poor dear. She ought to be

ashamed of herself, at her age. Do you think Tom has turned out clever?"

the old lady continued, not without a little finesse, and watching

Lucilla with a curious eye.

"Not in the very least," said Miss Marjoribanks calmly; "he is just as

awkward as he used to be. It is dreadful to have him here just now, when

I have so many things to do--and then he would follow me about

everywhere if I would let him. A cousin of that sort is always in the

way."

"I am always afraid of a cousin, for my part," said Mrs Chiley; "and

talking of that, what do you think of Mr Cavendish, Lucilla? He is very

nice in himself, and he has a nice property; and some people say he has

a very good chance to be member for Carlingford when there is an

election. I think that is just what would suit you."

"I could not see him for the lamp," said Lucilla; "it was right between

us, you know--but it is no use talking of that sort of thing just now.

Of course, if I had liked, I never need have come home at all," Miss

Marjoribanks added, with composure; "and, now I have come home, I have

got other things to think of. If papa is good, I will not think of

leaving him for ten years."

"Oh, yes; I have heard girls say that before," said Mrs Chiley; "but

they always changed their minds. You would not like to be an old maid,

Lucilla; and in ten years----"

"I should have begun to go off a little, no doubt," said Miss

Marjoribanks. "No, I can't say I wish to be an old maid. Can they be

coming upstairs already, do you think? Oh, it is Tom, I suppose," said

Lucilla, with a little indignation. But when _They_ did make their

appearance, which was at a tolerably early period--for a return to the

drawing-room was quite a novelty for Dr Marjoribanks's friends, and

tempted them accordingly--Miss Marjoribanks was quite ready to receive

them. And just before ten o'clock, when Mrs Chiley began to think of

going home, Lucilla, without being asked, and without indeed a word of

preface, suddenly went to the piano, and before anybody knew, had

commenced to sing. She was a great deal too sensible to go into high art

on this occasion, or to electrify her father's friends with her

newly-acquired Italian, or even with German, as some young ladies do.

She sang them a ballad out of one of those treasures of resuscitated

ballads which the new generation had then begun to dig out of the bowels

of the earth. There was not, to tell the truth, a great deal of music

in it, which proved Lucilla's disinterestedness. "I only sang it to

amuse you," she said, when all the world crowded to the piano; and for

that night she was not to be persuaded to further exertions. Thus Miss

Marjoribanks proved to her little public that power of subordinating her

personal tastes and even her vanity to her great object, which more than

anything else demonstrates a mind made to rule. "I hope next time you

will be more charitable, and not tantalise us in this way," Mr Cavendish

said, as he took his leave; and Lucilla retired from the scene of her

triumph, conscious of having achieved entire success in her first

appearance in Carlingford. She laid her head upon her pillow with that

sweet sense of an approving conscience which accompanies the footsteps

of the benefactors of their kind. But even Miss Marjoribanks's

satisfaction was not without its drawbacks. She could not get out of her

mind that unhappy abortive luncheon and all its horrors; not to speak of

the possibility of her religious principles being impugned, which was

dreadful in itself ("for people can stand a man being sceptical, you

know," Miss Marjoribanks justly observed, "but everybody knows how

unbecoming it is in a woman--and me who have such a respect for

religion!"); there remained the still more alarming chance that Miss

Bury, who was so narrow-minded, might see something improper in the

presence of the two young men at Lucilla's maidenly table; for, to be

sure, the Rector's sister was altogether incapable of grasping the idea

that young men, like old men and the other less interesting members of

the human family, were simple material for Miss Marjoribanks's genius,

out of which she had a great result to produce. This was the dread that

overshadowed the mind of Lucilla as she composed herself to rest after

her fatigues. When she slept the sleep of the innocent, it still pursued

her into her dreams. She dreamed that she stood at the altar by the side

of the member for Carlingford, and that Mr Bury, with inflexible

cruelty, insisted upon marrying her to Tom Marjoribanks instead; and

then the scene changed, and instead of receiving the salutations of Mr

Cavendish as M.P. for the borough, it was the amusing man, in the

character of the defeated candidate, who grinned and nodded at her, and

said from the hustings that he would never forget the luncheon that had

been his first introduction to Carlingford. Such was the nightmare that

pursued Lucilla even into the sphere of dreams.

When such a presentiment takes possession of a well-balanced mind like

that of Miss Marjoribanks, it may be accepted as certain that something

is likely to follow. Lucilla did her best to disarm fate, not only by

the sweetest submission and dutifulness to the Doctor and his wishes,

but by a severe disregard of Tom, which drove that unhappy young man

nearly desperate. Far from saying anything about luncheon, she even

ignored his presence at breakfast, and remained calmly unconscious of

his empty cup, until he had to ask for some coffee in an injured and

pathetic voice, which amused Dr Marjoribanks beyond description. But

even this did not prove sufficient to propitiate the Fates. When They

were gone--and it may be well to say that Lucilla used this pronoun to

signify _the gentlemen_, in greater or smaller number as it might

happen--and she had finished all her arrangements, Miss Marjoribanks

decided upon going to Grove Street to pay Barbara Lake a visit, and

practise some duets, which was certainly as innocent an occupation for

her leisure as could be desired. She was putting on her hat with this

object when the bell in the garden rang solemnly, and Lucilla, whose

curiosity conquered her good manners for the moment, hastening to the

window, saw Mr Bury himself enter the garden, accompanied by a black

figure in deep and shabby mourning. All the tremors of the night rushed

back upon her mind at the sight. She felt that the moment had arrived

for a trial of her courage very different from the exertions which had

hitherto sufficed her. Nothing but the most solemn intentions could have

supported the Rector in that severe pose of his figure and features,

every line in which revealed an intention of being "faithful"; and the

accompanying mute in black, whose office the culprit could not divine,

had a veil over her face, and wore a widow's dress. Miss Marjoribanks,

it is true, was not a woman to be discouraged by appearances, but she

felt her heart beat as she collected all her powers to meet this

mysterious assault. She took off her hat with an instinctive certainty

that, for this morning at least, the duet was impracticable, when she

heard Mr Bury's steady step ascending the stairs; but, notwithstanding,

it was with a perfectly cheerful politeness that she bade him welcome

when he came into the room. "It is so good of you to come," Lucilla

said; "you that have so much to do. I scarcely could believe it when I

saw you come in: I thought it must be for papa."

"I did hope to find Dr Marjoribanks," said the Rector, "but as he is not

at home, I thought it best to come to you. This is Mrs Mortimer," said

Mr Bury, taking the chair Lucilla had indicated with a certain want of

observance of his companion which betrayed to the keen perceptions of

Miss Marjoribanks that she was a dependant of some kind or other. The

Rector was a very good man, but was Evangelical, and had a large female

circle who admired and swore by him; and, consequently, he felt it in a

manner natural that he should take his seat first, and the place that

belonged to him as the principal person present; and then, to be sure,

his mission here was for Mrs Mortimer's as well as Miss Marjoribanks's

"good." After this introduction, the figure in black put up its veil,

and revealed a deprecating woman, with a faint sort of pleading smile on

her face. Probably she was making believe to smile at the position in

which she found herself; but anyhow she took her seat humbly on another

chair at a little distance, and waited, as Lucilla did, for the next

golden words that it might please the Rector to say.

"My sister told me what happened yesterday," said Mr Bury. "She is very

sorry for you, Miss Marjoribanks. It is sad for you to be left alone so

young, and without a mother, and exposed to--to temptations which it is

difficult to withstand at your age. Indeed, at all ages, we have great

occasion to pray not to be led into temptation; for the heart of man is

terribly deceitful. After hearing what she had to say, I thought it best

to come up at once this morning and talk to Dr Marjoribanks. I am sure

his natural good sense will teach him that you ought not to be left

alone in the house."

"I do not see how papa can help it," said Lucilla. "I am sure it is very

sad for him as well; but since dear mamma died there has been nobody but

me to be a comfort to him. I think he begins to look a little cheerful

now," Miss Marjoribanks continued, with beautiful simplicity, looking

her adversary in the face. "Everybody knows that to be a comfort to him

is the object of my life."

"That is a very good feeling," said the Rector, "but it does not do to

depend too much upon our feelings. You are too young to be placed in a

position of so much responsibility, and open to so much temptation. I

was deeply grieved for Dr Marjoribanks when his partner in life was

taken from him; but my dear Miss Lucilla, now you have come home, who

stand so much in need of a mother's care, we must try to find some one

to fill her place."

Lucilla uttered a scream of genuine alarm and dismay; and then she came

to herself, and saw the force of her position. She had it in her power

to turn the tables on the Rector, and she did not hesitate, as a weaker

woman might have done, out of consideration for anybody's feelings. "Do

you mean you have found some one for him to marry?" she asked, with a

look of artless surprise, bending her earnest gaze on Mr Bury's face.

As for the Rector, he looked at Lucilla aghast, like a man caught in a

trap. "Of course not, of course not," he stammered, after his first

pause of consternation; and then he had to stop again to take breath.

Lucilla kept up the air of amazement and consternation which had come

naturally at the first, and had her eyes fixed on him, leaning forward

with all the eager anxiety natural to the circumstances, and the

unfortunate clergyman reddened from the edge of his white cravat to the

roots of his gray hair. He was almost as sensitive to the idea of having

proposed something improper as his sister could have been, though

indeed, at the worst, there would have been nothing improper in it had

Dr Marjoribanks made up his mind to another wife.

"It is very dreadful for me that am so young to go against _you_" said

Lucilla; "but if it is _that_, I cannot be expected to take any part in

it--it would not be natural. It is the great object of my life to be a

comfort to papa; but if that is what you mean, I could not give in to

it. I am sure Miss Bury would understand me," said Miss Marjoribanks;

and she looked so nearly on the point of tears, that the Rector's

anxious disclaimer found words for itself.

"Nothing of the kind, my dear Miss Lucilla--nothing of the kind," cried

Mr Bury; "such an idea never came into my mind. I cannot imagine how I

could have said anything--I can't fancy what put such an idea----Mrs

Mortimer, you are not going away?"

Lucilla had already seen with the corner of her eye that the victim had

started violently, and that her heavy veil had fallen over her face--but

she had not taken any notice, for there are cases in which it is

absolutely necessary to have a victim. By this time, however, the poor

woman had risen in her nervous, undecided way.

"I had better go--I am sure I had better go," she said hurriedly,

clasping together a pair of helpless hands, as if they could find a

little strength in union. "Miss Marjoribanks will understand you better,

and you will perhaps understand Miss Marjoribanks----"

"Oh, sit down, sit down," said Mr Bury, who was not tolerant of

feelings. "Perhaps I expressed myself badly. What I meant to say was,

that Mrs Mortimer, who has been a little unfortunate in

circumstances--sit down, pray--had by a singular providence just applied

to me when my sister returned home yesterday. These things do not happen

by chance, Lucilla. We are taken care of when we are not thinking of it.

Mrs Mortimer is a Christian lady for whom I have the greatest respect. A

situation to take the superintendence of the domestic affairs, and to

have charge of you, would be just what would suit her. It must be a

great anxiety to the Doctor to leave you alone, and without any control,

at your age. You may think the liberty is pleasant at first, but if you

had a Christian friend to watch over and take care of you----What is the

matter?" said the Rector, in great alarm. It was only that the poor

widow who was to have charge of Lucilla, according to his benevolent

intention, looked so like fainting, that Miss Marjoribanks jumped up

from her chair and rang the bell hastily. It was not Lucilla's way to

lose time about anything; she took the poor woman by the shoulders and

all but lifted her to the sofa, where she was lying down with her bonnet

off when the Rector came to his senses. To describe the feelings with

which Mr Bury contemplated this little _entr'acte_, which was not in his

programme, would be beyond our powers. He went off humbly and opened the

window when he was told to do so, and tried to find the eau-de-Cologne

on the table; while Thomas rushed downstairs for water at a pace very

unlike his usual steady rate of progress. As for Lucilla, she stood by

the side of her patient quite self-possessed, while the Rector looked so

foolish. "She will be all right directly," Miss Marjoribanks was saying;

"luckily she never went right off. When you don't go right off, lying

down is everything. If there had been any one to run and get some water

she would have got over it; but luckily I saw it in time." What possible

answer Mr Bury could make to this, or how he could go on with his

address in sight of the strange turn things had taken, it would have

been hard to say. Fortunately for the moment he did not attempt it, but

walked about in dismay, and put himself in the draught (with his

rheumatism), and felt dreadfully vexed and angry with Mrs Mortimer, who,

for her part, now she had done with fainting, manifested an inclination

to cry, for which Mr Bury in his heart could have whipped her, had that

mode of discipline been permitted in the Church of England. Lucilla was

merciful, but she could not help taking a little advantage of her

victory. She gave the sufferer a glass of water, and the eau-de-Cologne

to keep her from a relapse, and whispered to her to lie quiet; and then

she came back and took her seat, and begged the Rector not to stand in

the draught.

"I don't think she is strong," said Miss Marjoribanks confidentially,

when she had wiled the disconcerted clergyman back to her side, "her

colour changes so; she never would be able for what there is to do here,

even if papa would consent to think of it. For my part I am sure I

should be glad of a little assistance," said Lucilla, "but I never like

to give false hopes, and I don't think papa would consent;--she looks

nice if she was not so weak, poor thing!--and there are such quantities

of things to be done here: but if you wish it, Mr Bury, I will speak to

papa," said Miss Marjoribanks, lifting her eyes, which were so open and

straightforward, to the Rector's face.

To tell the truth, he did not in the least know what to say, and the

chances are he would not have been half so vexed and angry, nor felt in

so unchristian a disposition with the poor woman on the sofa, had he

meant to do her harm instead of good. "Yes, I should be glad if you

would mention it to Dr Marjoribanks," he said, without very well knowing

what he said; and got up to shake hands with Lucilla, and then

recollected that he could not leave his protégée behind him, and

hesitated, and did not know what to do. He was really grateful, without

being aware of it, to Miss Marjoribanks, when once again she came to his

aid.

"Please, leave her a little," said Lucilla, "and I can make acquaintance

with her, you know, in case papa should be disposed to think of it;--she

must lie still till it quite wears off. I would ask you to stay to lunch

if I was not afraid of wasting your precious time----"

Mr Bury gave a little gasp of indignation, but he did not say anything.

On the whole, even though smarting under the indignity of being asked to

lunch, as his sister had been, when probably there might be a repetition

of the scene of yesterday, he was glad to get safely out of the house,

even at the risk of abandoning his enterprise. As for a woman in want of

a situation, who had so little common sense as to faint at such a

critical moment, the Rector was disposed to wash his hands of her; for

Mr Bury, "like them all," as Lucilla said, was horribly frightened by a

faint when he saw one, and afterwards pretended to disbelieve it, and

called it one of the things which a little self-command could always

prevent. When he was gone Miss Marjoribanks felt the full importance of

her victory; and then, though she had not hesitated to sacrifice this

poor woman when it was necessary to have a victim, that moment was over,

and she had no pleasure in being cruel; on the contrary, she went and

sat by her patient, and talked, and was very kind to her; and after a

while heard all her story, and was more comforting than the Rector could

have been for his life.

"I knew it would hurt your feelings," Miss Marjoribanks said candidly,

"but I could not do anything else--and you know it was Mr Bury's fault;

but I am sure if I can be of any use to you----" It was thus that

Lucilla added, without knowing it, another complication to her fortunes;

but then, to be sure, clear-sighted as she was, she could not see into

the future, nor know what was to follow. She told the Doctor in the

evening with the greatest faithfulness, and described how Mr Bury

looked, and that she had said she did not think papa would be disposed

to think of it; and Dr Marjoribanks was so much entertained that he came

upstairs to hear the end, and took a cup of tea. It was the third night

in succession that the Doctor had taken this step, though it was against

his principles; and thus it will be seen that good came out of evil in a

beautifully distinct and appropriate way.

_Chapter IX_

It was not till Miss Marjoribanks had surmounted to a certain extent the

vexation caused her by her unlucky confidence in Tom, that that unhappy

young man took the step which Lucilla had so long dreaded, but which she

trusted to her own genius to hinder him from carrying into execution.

Miss Marjoribanks had extricated herself so triumphantly from the

consequences of that unhappy commencement of her very charming

luncheon-parties, that she had begun to forget the culpability of her

cousin. She had defeated the Rector in his benevolent intentions, and

she had taken up his protégée just at the moment when Mr Bury was most

disgusted with the unfortunate woman's weakness. Poor Mrs Mortimer, to

be sure, had fainted, or had been near fainting, at the most inopportune

moment, and it was only natural that the Rector should be annoyed; but

as for Lucilla, who was always prompt in her actions, and whose good

nature and liberality were undoubted, she found her opportunity in the

failure of Mr Bury's scheme. After the Rector had gone away, Miss

Marjoribanks herself conducted the widow home; and by this time Mrs

Mortimer's prospects were beginning to brighten under the active and

efficient patronage of her new friend. This being the case, Lucilla's

good humour was perfectly restored, and she had forgiven Tom his

maladroitness. "He cannot help it, you know," she said privately to old

Mrs Chiley: "I suppose some people are born to do ridiculous things."

And it was indeed as if he had intended to give a practical illustration

of the truth of this conclusion that Tom chose the particular moment he

did for driving Miss Marjoribanks to the extremity of her patience. The

upholsterers were in the house, and indeed had just finished putting up

the pictures on the new paper in the drawing-room (which was green, as

Lucilla had determined it should be, of the most delicate tint, and

looked, as she flattered herself, exactly like silk hangings); and Mr

Holden himself waited with a certain complaisance for Miss

Marjoribanks's opinion of the effect. He had no doubt on the subject

himself; but he was naturally impressed, as most people were, with that

confidence in Lucilla's judgment which so much facilitates the

operations of those persons who are born to greatness. It was precisely

at this moment that his evil genius persuaded Tom Marjoribanks to

interrupt Thomas, who was carrying Mr Holden's message to his young

mistress, and to shut the library door upon the external world. Lucilla

had taken refuge in the library during the renovation of the

drawing-room; and she was aware that this was Tom's last day at

Carlingford, and had no intention of being unkind to him. To tell the

truth, she had at the bottom of her heart a certain regard and impulse

of protection and patronage towards Tom, of which something might have

come had the unlucky fellow known how to manage. But, at the same time,

Miss Marjoribanks was aware that things must be approaching a crisis

upstairs, and was listening intently to the movements overhead, and

wondering why she was not sent for. This was the moment of all others at

which Tom thought fit to claim a hearing; and the state of Lucilla's

feelings may be easily imagined when she saw him plant himself by her

side, with his face alternately red and white, and all the signs of a

desperate resolution in his countenance. For the first time in her life

a certain despair took possession of Miss Marjoribanks's mind. The

sounds had suddenly ceased upstairs, as if the artists were making a

pause to contemplate the effect of their completed work--which indeed

was precisely the case--and at the same time nobody came to call her,

important though the occasion was. She made a last effort to emancipate

herself before it was too late.

"Ring, please, Tom," she said; "I want to know if they have finished

upstairs. I am so sorry you are going away; but you know it is one of my

principles never to neglect my duty. I am sure they must be waiting for

me--if you would only be kind enough to ring."

"Lucilla," said Tom, "you know I would do anything in the world you

liked to tell me; but don't ask me to ring just now: I am going to leave

you, and there is something I must say to you, Lucilla," said the young

man, with agitation. Miss Marjoribanks was seated near the window, and

she had a moral certainty that if any of the Browns happened to be in

that ridiculous glass-house where they did their photography, they must

have a perfectly good view of her, with Tom in the background, who had

placed himself so as to shut her into the recess of the window. This,

coupled with the evidence of her senses that the workmen up stairs had

ceased their work, and that a slow footstep traversing the floor now and

then was all that was audible, drove Lucilla to despair.

"Yes," she said, temporising a little, which was the only thing she

could do, "I am sure I am very sorry; but then, you know, with the house

in such a condition! Next time you come I shall be able to enjoy your

society," said the designing young woman; "but at present I am _so_

busy. It is one of my principles, you know, that things are never

rightly done if the lady of the house does not pay proper attention.

They are sure to make some dreadful mistake upstairs if I don't look

after them. I shall see you again before you go."

"Lucilla, don't be so cruel!" cried the unlucky Tom, and he caught her

hand though they were at the window; "do stop a moment and listen to me.

Lucilla! what does it matter about furniture and things when a man's

heart is bursting?" cried the unfortunate lover; and just at that moment

Miss Marjoribanks could see that the curtain was drawn aside a

little--ever so little--in the glass-house. She sat down again with a

sigh, and drew her hand away, and prepared herself to meet her fate with

heroism at least.

"What in the world can you have been doing?" said Lucilla innocently;

"you used always to tell me, you know, when you got into any difficulty,

and I am sure if I can be of any use to you, Tom----But as for furniture

and things, they matter a great deal, I assure you, to people's

happiness; and then, you know, it is the object of my life to be a

comfort to dear papa."

When she said this, Miss Marjoribanks settled herself again in the

recess of the window, so that the Miss Browns could command a full view

if they chose; for Lucilla's courage was of the highest order, and

nothing, except, perhaps, a strategical necessity of profound

importance, would have moved her to retreat before an enemy. As for Tom,

he was bewildered, to start with, by this solemn repetition of her great

purpose.

"I know how good you are, Lucilla," he said, with humility; "but then my

uncle, you know--I don't think he is a man to appreciate----Oh,

Lucilla! why should you go and sacrifice to him the happiness of your

life?"

"Tom," said Miss Marjoribanks, with some solemnity, "I wish you would

not talk to me of happiness. I have always been brought up to believe

that duty was happiness; and everybody has known for a long time what

was the object of my life. As for poor papa, it is the worse for him if

he does not understand; but that does not make any difference to my

duty," said the devoted daughter. She gave a little sigh as she spoke,

the sigh of a great soul, whose motives must always remain to some

extent unappreciated; and the sight of her resignation and beautiful

perseverance overwhelmed her unlucky suitor; for indeed, up to this

moment, Lucilla still entertained the hope of preventing Tom from, as

she herself described it, "saying the very words," which, to be sure,

are awkward words to hear and to say.

"Lucilla, when you are so good to my uncle, you ought to have a little

pity on me," said Tom, driven to the deepest despondency. "How do you

think I can bear it, to see you getting everything done here, as if you

meant to stay all your life--when you know I love you?" said the

unfortunate young man; "when you know I have always been so fond of you,

Lucilla, and always looked forward to the time----; and now it is very

hard to see you care so little for me."

"Tom," said Miss Marjoribanks, with indignant surprise, "how _can_ you

say I care little for you? you know I was always very fond of you, on

the contrary. I am sure I always stood your friend at home, whatever

happened, and never said a word when you broke that pretty little pearl

ring I was so fond of, and tore the scarf that my aunt gave me. I

wonder, for my part, how you can be so unkind as so say so. We have

always been the very best friends in the world," said Lucilla, with an

air of injury. "I always said at school I liked you the best of all my

cousins; and I am very fond of all my cousins." Miss Marjoribanks

concluded, after a little pause, "It is so unkind to tell me that I

don't care for _you_."

Poor Tom groaned within himself as he listened. He did not know what to

answer to Lucilla's aggrieved yet frank confession. Naturally it would

have been much less displeasing to Tom to understand that she hated him,

and never desired to see him any more. But Miss Marjoribanks was far

from entertaining any such unchristian sentiments. She even began to

forget her anxiety about what was going on upstairs in that delightful

sense of power and abundant resources with which she was mastering the

present difficulty. She reflected in herself that though it was

excessively annoying to be thus occupied at such a moment, still it was

nearly as important to make an end of Tom as to see that the pictures

were hung rightly; for, to be sure, it was always easy to return to the

latter subject. Accordingly, she drew her chair a little nearer to the

window, and regarded Tom with a calm gaze of benevolent interest which

was in perfect accordance with the sentiments she had just expressed; a

look in which a gentle reproach was mingled. "I have always been like a

sister to you," said Lucilla; "how can you be so unkind as to say I

don't care?"

As for the unhappy Tom, he got up, as was natural, and took a little

walk in front of the table, as a young man in trouble is apt to do. "You

know very well that is not what I mean, Lucilla," he said

disconsolately. "It is you who are unkind. I don't know why it is that

ladies are so cruel; I am not such a snob as to persecute anybody. But

what is the good of pretending not to know what I mean?"

"Tom, listen!" cried Miss Marjoribanks, rising in her turn; "I feel sure

they must have finished. There is Mr Holden going through the garden.

And everybody knows that hanging pictures is just the thing of all

others that requires a person of taste. If they have spoiled the room,

it will be all your fault."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake never mind the room!" said Tom. "I never thought

you would have trifled with a man, Lucilla. You know quite well what I

mean; you know it isn't a--a new thing," said the lover, beginning to

stammer and get confused. "You know that is what I have been thinking of

all along, as soon as ever I had anything to live on. I love you,

Lucilla; you know I love you! how can you trifle with me so?"

"It is you who are trifling," said Miss Marjoribanks, "especially when

you know I have really something of importance to do. You can come

upstairs with me if you like. Of course we all love each other. What is

the good of being relations otherwise?" said Lucilla calmly; "it is such

a natural thing, you know. I suppose it is because you are going away

that you are so affectionate to-day. It is very nice of you, I am sure;

but, Tom, I feel quite certain you have not packed your things," Miss

Marjoribanks added, in an admonitory tone. "Come along with me

upstairs."

And by this time Lucilla's curiosity was beginning again to get the

upper hand. If she only could have escaped, it would have been

impossible for her cousin to have renewed the conversation; and luckily

he was to leave Carlingford the same evening; but then a man is always

an inconsequent creature, and not to be calculated on. This time,

instead of obeying as usual, Tom--having, as Miss Marjoribanks

afterwards described (but only in the strictest confidence), "worked

himself up to it"--set himself directly in her way, and seized upon both

her hands.

"Lucilla," cried the unlucky fellow, "is it possible that you really

have misunderstood me all this time? Do you mean to say that you don't

know? Oh, Lucilla, listen just five minutes. It isn't because I am your

cousin. I wish to Heaven I was not your cousin, but some one you had

never seen before. I mean I want you to consent to--to--to--marry me,

Lucilla. That is what I mean. I am called to the bar, and I can work for

you, and make a reputation. Lucilla, listen to what I have to say."

Miss Marjoribanks left her hands in his with a calmness which froze poor

Tom's heart in his breast. She did not even take the trouble to draw

them away. "Have you gone out of your senses, Tom?" she asked, in her

sensible way; and she lifted her eyes to the face of the poor young

fellow who was in love, with an inquiring look, as if she felt a little

anxious about him. "If you have any feeling as if fever was coming on,"

said Lucilla, "I think you should go upstairs and lie down a little till

papa comes in. I heard there had been some cases down about the canal. I

hope it is not the assizes that have been too much for you." When Miss

Marjoribanks said this, she herself took fast hold of Tom's hands with a

motherly grasp to feel if they were hot, and looked into his eyes with a

certain serious inspection, which, under the circumstances, poor fellow!

was enough to drive him out of the little rationality he had left.

Tom was so far carried away by his frenzy, that he gave her a little

shake in his impatience. "You are trying to drive me mad, Lucilla!"

cried the young man. "I have got no fever. It is only you who are

driving me out of my senses. This time you must hear me. I will not let

you go till you have given me an answer. I am called to the bar, and I

have begun my Career," said Tom, making a pause for breath. "I knew you

would have laughed at me when I was depending on my mother; but now all

that is over, Lucilla. I have loved you as long as I can remember; and I

always thought--that you--cared for me a little. If you will have me,

there is nothing I could not do," said Tom, who thoroughly believed what

he was saying; "and if you will not have me, I will not answer for the

consequences. If I go off to India, or if I go to the bad----"

"Tom," said Lucilla solemnly, and this time she drew away her hands, "if

you ever want to get married, I think the very best thing you can do is

to go to India. As for marrying just now at your age, you know you might

as well jump into the sea. You need not be vexed," said Miss

Marjoribanks, in her motherly way. "I would not speak so if I was not

your best friend. As for marrying me, you know it is ridiculous. I have

not the least intention of marrying anybody. If I had thought of that, I

need never have come home at all. As for your going to the bad, I am not

afraid of that. If I were to let you carry on with such a ridiculous

idea, I should never forgive myself. It would be just as sensible to go

into a lunatic asylum at once. It is very lucky for you that you said

this to _me_," Lucilla went on, "and not to one of the girls that think

it great fun to be married. And if I were you, Tom, I would go and pack

my things. You know you are always too late; and don't jump on your

portmanteau and make such a dreadful noise if it won't shut, but ring

the bell for Thomas. You know we are to dine at half-past five to-day,

to give you time for the train."

These were the last words Tom Marjoribanks heard as Lucilla left the

room. She ran up to the drawing-room without losing a minute, and burst

in upon the vacant place where Mr Holden had stood so long waiting for

her. To be sure, Miss Marjoribanks's forebodings were so far fulfilled

that the St Cecilia, which she meant to have over the piano, was hung

quite in the other corner of the room, by reason of being just the same

size as another picture at the opposite angle, which the workmen,

sternly symmetrical, thought it necessary to "match." But, after all,

that was a trifling defect. She stood in the middle of the room, and

surveyed the walls, well pleased, with a heart which kept beating very

steadily in her bosom. On the whole, perhaps, she was not sorry to have

had it out with Tom. So far as he was personally concerned, Miss

Marjoribanks, being a physician's daughter, had great faith in the _vis

medicatrix_, and was not afraid for her cousin's health or his morals,

as a less experienced woman might have been. If she was angry with

anybody, it was with herself, who had not taken sufficient precautions

to avoid the explanation. "But, after all, everything is for the best,"

Lucilla said to herself, with that beautiful confidence which is common

to people who have things their own way; and she devoted her mind to the

St Cecilia, and paid no more attention to Tom. It was not till more than

an hour after that a succession of dreadful thumps was not only heard

but felt throughout the house. It was Tom, but he was not doing any harm

to himself. He was not blowing out his brains or knocking his head

against the wall. He was only jumping on his portmanteau,

notwithstanding that Lucilla had warned him against such a

proceeding--and in his state of mind the jumps were naturally more

frantic than usual. When Lucilla heard it, she rang the bell, and told

Thomas to go and help Mr Tom with his packing; from which it will be

seen that Miss Marjoribanks bore no grudge against her cousin but was

disposed to send him forth in friendship and peace.

_Chapter X_

It was nearly six weeks after this before all Miss Marjoribanks's

arrangements were completed, and she was able with satisfaction to

herself to begin her campaign. It was just before Christmas, at the time

above all others when society has need of a ruling spirit. For example,

Mrs Chiley expected the Colonel's niece, Mary Chiley, who had been

married about six months before, and who was not fond of her husband's

friends, and at the same time had no home of her own to go to, being an

orphan. The Colonel had invited the young couple by way of doing a kind

thing, but he grumbled a little at the necessity, and had never liked

the fellow, he said--and then what were two old people to do to amuse

them? Then Mrs Centum had her two eldest boys home from school, and was

driven out of her senses by the noise and the racket, as she confided to

her visitors. "It is all very well to make pretty pictures about

Christmas," said the exasperated mother, "but I should like to know how

one can enjoy anything with such a commotion going on. I get up every

morning with a headache, I assure you; and then Mr Centum expects me to

be cheerful when he comes in to dinner; men are so unreasonable. I

should like to know what _they_ would do if they had what we have to go

through: to look after all the servants--and they are always out of

their senses at Christmas--and to see that the children don't have too

much pudding, and to support all the noise. The holidays are the hardest

work a poor woman can have," she concluded, with a sigh; and when it is

taken into consideration that this particular Christmas was a wet

Christmas, without any frost or possibility of amusement out of doors,

English matrons in general will not refuse their sympathy to Mrs Centum.

Mrs Woodburn perhaps was equally to be pitied in a different way. She

had to receive several members of her husband's family, who were, like

Miss Marjoribanks, without any sense of humour, and who stared, and did

not in the least understand her when she "took off" any of her

neighbours; not to say that some of them were Low-Church, and thought

the practice sinful. Under these circumstances it will be readily

believed that the commencement of Lucilla's operations was looked upon

with great interest in Carlingford. It was so opportune that society

forgot its usual instincts of criticism, and forgave Miss Marjoribanks

for being more enlightened and enterprising than her neighbours; and

then most people were very anxious to see the drawing-room, now it had

been restored.

This was a privilege, however, not accorded to the crowd. Mrs Chiley had

seen it under a vow of secrecy, and Mr Cavendish owned to having made a

run upstairs one evening after one of Dr Marjoribanks's little dinners,

when the other _convives_ were in the library, where Lucilla had erected

her temporary throne. But this clandestine inspection met with the

failure it deserved, for there was no light in the room except the

moonlight, which made three white blotches on the carpet where the

windows were, burying everything else in the profoundest darkness; and

the spy knocked his foot against something which reduced him to sudden

and well-merited agony. As for Mrs Chiley, she was discretion itself,

and would say nothing even to her niece. "I mean to work her a footstool

in water-lilies, my dear, like the one I did for you when you were

married," the old lady said; and that was the only light she would throw

on the subject. "My opinion is that it must be in crimson," Mrs Woodburn

said, when she heard this, "for I know your aunt's water-lilies. When I

see them growing, I always think of you. It would be quite like Lucilla

Marjoribanks to have it in crimson--for it is a cheerful colour, you

know, and quite different from the old furniture; and that would always

be a comfort to her dear papa." From this it will be seen that the

curiosity of Carlingford was excited to a lively extent. Many people

even went so far as to give the Browns a sitting in their glass-house,

with the hope of having a peep at the colour of the hangings at least.

But Miss Marjoribanks was too sensible a woman to leave her virgin

drawing-room exposed to the sun when there was any, and to the

photographers, who were perhaps more dangerous. "I think it is blue, for

my part," said Miss Brown, who had got into the habit of rising early in

hopes of finding the Doctor's household off its guard. "Lucilla was

always a great one for blue; she thinks it is becoming to her

complexion;" which, indeed, as the readers of this history are aware,

was a matter of fact. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she did her best to

keep up this agreeable mystery. "For my part, I am fond of neutral

tints," she herself said, when she was questioned on the subject;

"anybody who knows me can easily guess my taste. I should have been born

a Quaker, you know, I do so like the drabs and grays, and all those soft

colours. You can have as much red and green as you like abroad, where

the sun is strong, but here it would be bad style," said Lucilla; from

which the most simple-minded of her auditors drew the natural

conclusion. Thus all the world contemplated with excitement the first

Thursday which was to open this enchanted chamber to their admiring

eyes. "Don't expect any regular invitation," Miss Marjoribanks said. "I

hope you will all come, or as many of you as can. Papa has always some

men to dinner with him that day, you know, and it is so dreadfully slow

for me with a heap of men. That is why I fixed on Thursday. I want you

to come every week, so it would be absurd to send an invitation; and

remember it is not a party, only an Evening," said Lucilla. "I shall

wear a white frock high, as I always do. Now be sure you come."

"But we can't all go in high white frocks," said Mrs Chiley's niece,

Mary, who, if her trousseau had been subtracted from the joys of

marriage, would not, poor soul! have found very much left. This

intimation dismayed the bride a little; for, to be sure, she had decided

which dress she was to wear before Lucilla spoke.

"But, my dear, you are married," said Miss Marjoribanks; "that makes it

quite different: come in that pretty pink that is so becoming. I don't

want to have any dowdies, for my part; and don't forget that I shall

expect you all at nine o'clock."

When she had said this, Miss Marjoribanks proceeded on her way, sowing

invitations and gratification round her. She asked the youngest Miss

Brown to bring her music, in recognition of her ancient claims as the

songstress of society in Carlingford; for Lucilla had all that regard

for constituted rights which is so necessary to a revolutionary of the

highest class. She had no desire to shock anybody's prejudices or wound

anybody's feelings. "And she has a nice little voice," Lucilla said to

herself, with the most friendly and tolerant feelings. Thus Miss

Marjoribanks prepared to establish her kingdom with a benevolence which

was almost Utopian, not upon the ruins of other thrones, but with the

goodwill and co-operation of the lesser powers, who were, to be sure,

too feeble to resist her advance, but whose rights she was quite ready

to recognise, and even to promote, in her own way.

At the same time it is necessary here to indicate a certain vague and

not disagreeable danger, which appeared to some experienced persons to

shadow Lucilla's conquering way. Mr Cavendish, who was a young man of

refinement, not to say that he had a very nice property, had begun to

pay attention to Miss Marjoribanks in what Mrs Chiley thought quite a

marked manner. To be sure, he could not pretend to the honour of taking

her in to dinner, which was not his place, being a young man; but he did

what was next best, and manoeuvred to get the place on her left hand,

which, in a party composed chiefly of men, was not difficult to manage.

For, to tell the truth, most of the gentlemen present were at that

special moment more interested in the dinner than in Lucilla. And after

dinner it was Mr Cavendish who was the first to leave the room; and to

hear the two talking about all the places they had been to, and all the

people they had met, was as good as a play, Mrs Chiley said. Mr

Cavendish confided to Lucilla his opinions upon things in general, and

accepted the reproofs which she administered (for Miss Marjoribanks was

quite unquestionable in her orthodoxy, and thought it a duty, as she

said, always to speak with respect of religion) when his sentiments were

too speculative, and said, "How charming is divine philosophy!" so as,

for the moment, to dazzle Lucilla herself, who thought it a very pretty

compliment. He came to her assistance when she made tea, and generally

fulfilled all the duties which are expected of a man who is paying

attention to a young lady. Old Mrs Chiley watched the nascent regard

with her kind old grandmotherly eyes. She calculated over in her own

mind the details of his possessions, so far as the public was aware of

them, and found them on the whole satisfactory. He had a nice property,

and then he was a very nice, indeed an unexceptionable young man; and to

add to this, it had been agreed to between Colonel Chiley and Mr Centum,

and several other of the leading people in Carlingford, that he was the

most likely man to represent the borough when old Mr Chiltern, who was

always threatening to retire, fulfilled his promise. Mr Cavendish had a

very handsome house a little out of town, where a lady would be next

thing to a county lady--indeed, quite a county lady, if her husband was

the Member for Carlingford.

All these thoughts passed through Mrs Chiley's mind, and, as was

natural, in the precious moments after dinner, were suggested in

occasional words of meaning to the understanding ear of Miss

Marjoribanks. "My dear Lucilla, it is just the position that would suit

you--with your talents!" the old lady said; and Lucilla did not say No.

To be sure, she had not at the present moment the least inclination to

get married, as she truly said; it would, indeed, to tell the truth,

disturb her plans considerably; but still, if such was the intention of

Providence, and if it was to the Member for Carlingford, Lucilla felt

that it was still credible that everything might be for the best.

"But it is a great deal too soon to think of anything of that sort,"

Miss Marjoribanks would reply. "If I had thought of that, I need never

have come home at all; and especially when papa has been so good about

everything." Yet for all that she was not ungracious to Mr Cavendish

when he came in first as usual. To marry a man in his position would

not, after all, be deranging her plans to any serious extent. Indeed, it

would, if his hopes were realised, constitute Lucilla a kind of queen in

Carlingford, and she could not but feel that, under these circumstances,

it might be a kind of duty to reconsider her resolution. And thus the

time passed while the drawing-room was undergoing renovation. Mr

Cavendish had been much tantalised, she said, by the absence of the

piano, which prevented them from having any music, and Lucilla had even

been tempted into a few snatches of song, which, to tell the truth, some

of the gentlemen present, especially the Doctor himself and Colonel

Chiley, being old-fashioned, preferred without the accompaniment. And

thus it was, under the most brilliant auspices, and with the full

confidence of all her future constituency, that Miss Marjoribanks

superintended the arrangement of the drawing-room on that momentous

Thursday, which was to be the real beginning of her great work in

Carlingford.

"My dear, you must leave yourself entirely in my hands," Lucilla said to

Barbara Lake on the morning of that eventful day. "Don't get impatient.

I dare say you don't know many people, and it may be a little slow for

you at first; but everybody has to put up with that, you know, for a

beginning. And, by the bye, what are you going to wear?"

"I have not thought about it," said Barbara, who had the painful pride

of poverty, aggravated much by a sense that the comforts of other people

were an injury to her. Poor soul! she had been thinking of little else

for at least a week past; and then she had not very much choice in her

wardrobe; but her disposition was one which rejected sympathy, and she

thought it would look best to pretend to be indifferent. At the same

time, she said this with a dull colour on her cheeks, the colour of

irritation; and she could not help asking herself why Lucilla, who was

not so handsome as she was, had the power to array herself in gorgeous

apparel, while she, Barbara, had nothing but a white frock. There are

differences even in white frocks, though the masculine mind may be

unaware of them. Barbara's muslin had been washed six times, and had a

very different air from the vestal robes of her patroness. To be sure,

Lucilla was not taken in, in the least, by her companion's look of

indifference, and would even have been delighted to bestow a pretty

dress upon Barbara, if that had been a possible thing to do.

"There will be no dress," said Miss Marjoribanks, with solemnity. "I

have insisted upon that. You know it is not a party, it is only an

Evening. A white frock, _high_--that is all I mean to wear; and mind you

don't lose patience. I shall keep my eye on you; and after the first, I

feel sure you will enjoy yourself. Good-bye for the present." When she

had uttered these encouraging words. Miss Marjoribanks went away to

pursue her preparations, and Barbara proceeded to get out her dress and

examine it. It was as important to her as all the complicated

paraphernalia of the evening's arrangements were to Lucilla. It is true

that there were greater interests involved in the case of the leader;

but then Barbara was the soldier of fortune who had to open the oyster

with her sword, and she was feeling the point of it metaphorically while

she pulled out the breadths of her white dress, and tried to think that

they would not look limp at night; and what her sentiments lost in

breadth, as compared with Lucilla's, they gained in intensity, for--for

anything she could tell--her life might change colour by means of this

Thursday Evening; and such, indeed, was her hope. Barbara prepared for

her first appearance in Grange Lane, with a mind wound up to any degree

of daring. It did not occur to her that she required to keep faith with

Miss Marjoribanks in anything except the duet. As regarded other

matters, Barbara was quite unscrupulous, for at the bottom she could not

but feel that any one who was kind to her was taking an unwarrantable

liberty. What right had Lucilla Marjoribanks to be kind to her? as if

she was not as good as Lucilla any day! and though it might be worth her

while to take advantage of it for the moment, it was still an insult, in

its way, to be avenged if an opportunity ever should arise.

The evening came, as evenings do come, quite indifferently whether

people are glad or sorry; and it was with a calmness which the other

ladies regarded as next to miraculous, that Miss Marjoribanks took

Colonel Chiley's arm to go to the dining-room. We say the other ladies,

for on this great occasion Mrs Centum and Mrs Woodburn were both among

the dinner-guests. "To see her eat her dinner as if she had nothing on

her mind!" Mrs Centum said in amazement: "as for me, though nobody can

blame me if anything goes wrong, I could enjoy nothing for thinking of

it. And I must say I was disappointed with the dinner," she added, with

a certain air of satisfaction, in Mrs Woodburn's ear. It was when they

were going upstairs, and Lucilla was behind with Mrs Chiley. "The fuss

the men have always made about these dinners! and except for a few made

dishes that were really nothing, you know, I can't say _I_ saw anything

particular in it. And as for Lucilla, I can't think she has any

feeling," said the banker's wife.

"Oh, my dear, it is because you don't understand," said Mrs Woodburn.

"She is kept up, you know, by a sense of duty. It is all because she has

set her heart on being a comfort to her dear papa!"

Such, it is true, were the comments that were made upon the

public-spirited young woman who was doing so much for Carlingford; but

then Lucilla only shared the fate of all the great benefactors of the

world. An hour later the glories of the furniture were veiled and hidden

by the robes of a radiant flood of society, embracing all that was most

fair and all that was most distinguished in Carlingford. No doubt there

was a world of heterogeneous elements; but then if there had not been

difficulties where would have been the use of Miss Marjoribanks's

genius? Mr Bury and his sister, who had been unconsciously mollified by

the admirable dinner provided for them downstairs, found some stray

lambs in the assembly who were in need of them, and thus had the double

satisfaction of combining pleasure with duty; and though there were

several people in the room whose lives were a burden to them in

consequence of Mrs Woodburn's remarkable gift, even they found it

impossible not to be amused by an occasional representation of an

absent individual, or by the dashing sketch of Lucilla, which she gave

at intervals in her corner, amid the smothered laughter of the audience,

who were half ashamed of themselves. "She is never ill-tempered, you

know," the persons who felt themselves threatened in their turn said to

each other with a certain piteous resignation; and oddly enough it was

in general the most insignificant people about who were afraid of Mrs

Woodburn. It is needless to say that such a dread never entered the

serene intelligence of Miss Marjoribanks, who believed in herself with a

reasonable and steady faith. As for old Mrs Chiley, who had so many

funny little ways, and whom the mimic executed to perfection, she also

was quite calm on the subject. "You know there is nothing to take off in

me," the old lady would say; "I always was a simple body: and then I am

old enough to be all your grandmothers, my dear;" which was a saying

calculated, as Miss Marjoribanks justly observed, to melt a heart of

stone.

Then the Miss Browns had brought their photographs, in which most people

in Grange Lane were caricatured hideously, but with such a charming

equality that the most _exigeant_ forgave the wrong to himself in

laughing at his neighbours. Miss Brown had brought her music too, and

sang her feeble little strain to the applause of her immediate

neighbours, and to the delight of those who were at a distance, and who

could talk louder and flirt more openly under cover of the music; and

there were other young ladies who had also come prepared with a little

roll of songs or "pieces." Lucilla, with her finger as it were upon the

pulse of the company, let them all exhibit their powers with that

enlightened impartiality which we have already remarked in her. When Mr

Cavendish came to her in his ingratiating way, and asked her how she

could possibly let all the sparrows chirp like that when the nightingale

was present, Miss Marjoribanks proved herself proof to the flattery. She

said, "Do go away, like a good man, and make yourself agreeable. There

are so few men, you know, who can flirt in Carlingford. I have always

reckoned upon you as such a valuable assistant. It is always an

advantage to have a man who flirts," said Miss Marjoribanks. This was a

sentiment perhaps too large and enlightened, in the truest sense of the

word, to meet, as it ought to have done, with the applause of her

audience. Most of the persons immediately surrounding her thought,

indeed, that it was a mere _bon-mot_ to which Lucilla had given

utterance, and laughed accordingly; but it is needless to explain that

these were persons quite unable to understand her genius.

All this time she was keeping her eyes upon a figure in the corner of a

sofa, which looked as if it was glued there, and kept staring defiance

at the world in general from under black and level brows. Lucilla, it is

true, had introduced Barbara Lake in the most flattering way to Mrs

Chiley, and to some of the young ladies present; but then she was a

stranger, and an intruder into those regions of the blest, and she could

not help feeling so. If her present companions had not whispered among

themselves, "Miss Lake! what Miss Lake? Good gracious! Lake the

drawing-master's daughter!" she herself would still have reminded

herself of her humble paternity. Barbara sat as if she could not move

from that corner, looking out upon everybody with scared eyes, which

expressed nothing but defiance, and in her own mind making the

reflections of bitter poverty upon the airy pretty figures round her, in

all the variations of that costume which Miss Marjoribanks had announced

as the standard of dress for the evening. Barbara's muslin, six times

washed, was not more different from the spotless lightness of all the

draperies round her, than was her air of fright, and at the same time of

defiance, from the gay babble and pleasant looks of the group which, by

a chance combination, she seemed to form part of. She began to say to

herself that she had much better go away, and that there never could be

anything in common between those frivolous creatures and herself, a poor

man's daughter; and she began to get dreadfully exasperated with

Lucilla, who had beguiled her into this scene, to make game of her, as

poor Barbara said; though, so far from making game of her, nobody took

much notice, after the first unsuccessful attempt at conversation, of

the unfortunate young woman. It was when she was in this unhappy humour

that her eye fell upon Mr Cavendish, who was in the act of making the

appeal to Lucilla which we have already recorded. Barbara had never as

yet had a lover, but she had read an unlimited number of novels, which

came to nearly the same thing, and she saw at a glance that this was

somebody who resembled the indispensable hero. She looked at him with a

certain fierce interest, and remembered at that instant how often in

books it is the humble heroine, behind backs, whom all the young ladies

snub, who wins the hero at the last. And then Miss Marjoribanks, though

she sent him away, smiled benignantly upon him. The colour flushed to

Barbara's cheeks, and her eyes, which had grown dull and fixed between

fright and spite, took sudden expression under her straight brows. An

intention, which was not so much an intention as an instinct, suddenly

sprang into life within her, and, without knowing, she drew a long

breath of eagerness and impotence. He was standing quite near by this

time, doing his duty according to Miss Marjoribanks's orders, and

flirting with all his might; and Barbara looked at him as a hungry

schoolboy might be supposed to look at a tempting apple just out of his

reach. How was she to get at this suitor of Lucilla's? It would have

given her so pure a delight to tear down the golden apple, and tread on

it, and trample it to nothing; and then it came into her head that it

might be good to eat as well.

It was at this moment that Miss Marjoribanks, who was in six places at

once, suddenly touched Barbara's shoulder. "Come with me a minute; I

want to show you something," she said loud out. Barbara, on her side,

looked round with a crimson countenance, feeling that her secret

thoughts must be written in her guilty eyes. But then these were eyes

which could be utterly destitute of expression when they pleased, though

their owner, at present just at the beginning of her experience, was not

quite aware of the fact. She stumbled to her feet with the awkward

motion natural to that form of shyness which her temper and her

temperament united to produce in her. She did all but put her foot

through Miss Brown's delicate skirt, and she had neither the natural

disposition nor the acquired grace which can carry off one of those

trifling offences against society. Nevertheless, as she stood beside

Lucilla at the piano, the company in general owned a little thrill of

curiosity. Who was she? A girl with splendid black hair, with brows as

level as if they had been made with a line, with intense eyes which

looked a little oblique under that straight bar of shadow. Her dress was

limp, but she was not such a figure as could be passed over even at an

evening party; and then her face was a little flushed, and her eyes lit

up with excitement. She seemed to survey everybody with that defiant

look which was chiefly awkwardness and temper, but which looked like

pride when she was standing up at her full height, and in a conspicuous

position, where everybody could see her. Most people concluded she was

an Italian whom Lucilla had picked up somewhere in her travels. As for

Mr Cavendish, he stopped short altogether in the occupation which Miss

Marjoribanks had allotted to him, and drew close to the piano. He

thought he had seen the face somewhere under a shabby bonnet in some

by-street of Carlingford, and he was even sufficiently learned in female

apparel to observe the limpness of her dress.

This preface of curiosity had all been foreseen by Miss Marjoribanks,

and she paused a moment, under pretence of selecting her music, to take

the full advantage of it: for Lucilla, like most persons of elevated

aims, was content to sacrifice herself to the success of her work; and

then all at once, before the Carlingford people knew what they were

doing, the two voices rose, bursting upon the astonished community like

a sudden revelation. For it must be remembered that nobody in

Carlingford, except the members of Dr Marjoribanks's dinner-party, had

ever heard Lucilla sing, much less her companion; and the account which

these gentlemen had carried home to their wives had been generally

pooh-poohed and put down. "Mr Centum never listens to a note if he can

help it," said the banker's wife, "and how could he know whether she had

a nice voice or not?" which, indeed, was a powerful argument. But this

evening there could be no mistake about it. The words were arrested on

the very lips of the talkers; Mrs Woodburn paused in the midst of doing

Lucilla, and, as we have before said, Mr Cavendish broke a flirtation

clean off at its most interesting moment. It is impossible to record

what they sang, for those events, as everybody is aware, happened a good

many years ago, and the chances are that the present generation has

altogether forgotten the duet which made so extraordinary an impression

on the inhabitants of Grange Lane. The applause with which the

performance was received reached the length of a perfect ovation.

Barbara, for her part, who was not conscious of having ever been

applauded before, flushed into splendid crimson, and shone out from

under her straight eyebrows, intoxicated into absolute beauty. As for

Miss Marjoribanks, she took it more calmly. Lucilla had the advantage of

knowing what she could do, and accordingly she was not surprised when

people found it remarkable. She consented, on urgent persuasion, to

repeat the last verse of the duet, but when that was over, was smilingly

obdurate. "Almost everybody can sing," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a

magnificent depreciation of her own gift. "Perhaps Miss Brown will sing

us something; but as for me, you know, I am the mistress of the house."

Lucilla went away as she spoke to attend to her guests, but she left

Barbara still crimson and splendid, triumphing over her limp dress and

all her disadvantages, by the piano. Fortunately, for that evening

Barbara's pride and her shyness prevented her from yielding to the

repeated demands addressed to her by the admiring audience. She said to

Mr Cavendish, with a disloyalty which that gentleman thought piquant,

that "Miss Marjoribanks would not be pleased"; and the future Member for

Carlingford thought he could not do better than obey the injunctions of

the mistress of the feast by a little flirtation with the gifted

unknown. To be sure, Barbara was not gifted in talk, and she was still

defiant and contradictory; but then her eyes were blazing with

excitement under her level eyebrows, and she was as willing to be

flirted with as if she had known a great deal better. And then Mr

Cavendish had a weakness for a contralto. While this little by-play was

going on, Lucilla was moving about, the centre of a perfect tumult of

applause. No more complete success could be imagined than that of this

first Thursday Evening, which was remarkable in the records of

Carlingford; and yet perhaps Miss Marjoribanks, like other conquerors,

was destined to build her victory upon sacrifice. She did not feel any

alarm at the present moment; but even if she had, that would have made

no difference to Lucilla's proceedings. She was not the woman to shrink

from a sacrifice when it was for the promotion of the great object of

her life; and that, as everybody knew who knew Miss Marjoribanks, was to

be a comfort to her dear papa.

_Chapter XI_

"You have never told us who your unknown was," said Mr Cavendish. "I

suppose she is professional. Carlingford could not possibly possess two

such voices in private life."

"Oh, I don't know about two such voices," said Miss Marjoribanks; "her

voice suits mine, you know. It is always a great thing to find two

voices that suit. I never would choose to have professional singers, for

my part. You have to give yourself up to music when you do such a thing;

and that is not my idea of society. I am very fond of music," said

Lucilla--"excessively fond of it; but then everybody is not of my

opinion--and one has to take so many things into consideration. For

people who give one party in the year it does very well--but then I hate

parties: the only pleasure in society is when one's friends come to see

one without any ado."

"In white frocks, _high_," said Mrs Woodburn, who could not help

assuming Lucilla's manner for the moment, even while addressing herself;

but as the possibility of such a _lèse-majesté_ did not even occur to

Miss Marjoribanks, she accepted the observation in good faith.

"Yes; I hate a grand toilette when it is only a meeting of friends," she

said--"for the girls, you know; of course you married ladies can always

do what you like. You have your husbands to please," said Lucilla. And

this was a little hard upon her satirist, for, to tell the truth, that

was a particular of domestic duty to which Mrs Woodburn did not much

devote herself, according to the opinion of Grange Lane.

"But about the contralto," said Mr Cavendish, who had come to call on

Miss Marjoribanks under his sister's wing, and desired above all things

to keep the peace between the two ladies, as indeed is a man's duty

under such circumstances. "You are always statesmanlike in your views;

but I cannot understand why you let poor little Molly Brown carry on her

chirping when you had such an astonishing force in reserve. She must

have been covered with confusion, the poor little soul."

"Nothing of the sort," said Mrs Woodburn, pursuing her favourite

occupation as usual. "She only said, 'Goodness me! how high Lucilla

goes! Do you like that dreadfully high music?' and made little

eyebrows." To be sure, the mimic made Miss Brown's eyebrows, and spoke

in her voice, so that even Lucilla found it a little difficult to keep

her gravity. But then Miss Marjoribanks was defended by her mission, and

she felt in her heart that, representing public interest as she did, it

was her duty to avoid all complicity in any attack upon an individual;

and consequently, to a certain extent, it was her duty also to put Mrs

Woodburn down.

"Molly Brown has a very nice little voice," said Lucilla, with most

disheartening gravity. "I like to hear her sing, for my part--the only

thing is that she wants cultivation a little. It doesn't matter much you

know, whether or not you have a voice to begin with. It is cultivation

that is the thing," said Miss Marjoribanks deliberately. "I hope you

_really_ thought it was a pleasant evening. Of course everybody said so

to me; but then one can never put any faith in that. I have said it

myself ever so many times when I am sure I did not mean it. For myself,

I don't give any importance to the first evening. Anybody can do a thing

once, you know; the second and the third, and so on--that is the real

test. But I hope you thought it pleasant so far as it went."

"It was a great deal more than pleasant," said Mr Cavendish; "and as for

your conception of social politics, it is masterly," the future M.P.

added, in a tone which struck Lucilla as very significant; not that she

cared particularly about Mr Cavendish's meaning, but still, when a young

man who intends to go into Parliament congratulates a young lady upon

her statesmanlike views, and her conception of politics, it must be

confessed that it looks a little particular; and then, if that was what

he meant, it was no doubt Lucilla's duty to make up her mind.

"Oh, you know, I went through a course of political economy at Mount

Pleasant," she said, with a laugh. "One of the Miss Blounts was

dreadfully strong-minded. I wonder, for my part, that she did not make

me literary; but fortunately I escaped that."

"Heaven be praised!" said Mr Cavendish. "I think you ought to be Prime

Minister. That contralto of yours is charming raw material; but if I

were you I would put her through an elementary course. She knows how to

sing, but she does not know how to move; and as for talking, she seems

to expect to be insulted. If you make a pretty-behaved young lady out of

that, you will beat Adam Smith."

"Oh, I don't know much about Adam Smith," said Miss Marjoribanks. "I

think Miss Martha thought him rather old-fashioned. As for poor Barbara,

she is only a little shy, but that will soon wear off. I don't see what

need she has to talk--or to move either, for that matter. I thought she

did very well indeed for a girl who never goes into society. Was it not

clever of me to find her out the very first day I was in Carlingford? It

has always been so difficult to find a voice that went perfectly with

mine."

"For my part, I think it was a great deal more than clever," said Mr

Cavendish; for Mrs Woodburn, finding herself unappreciated, was silent

and making notes. "It was a stroke of genius. So her name is Barbara? I

wonder if it would be indiscreet to ask where Mademoiselle Barbara comes

from, or if she belongs to anybody, or lives anywhere. My own impression

is that you mean to keep her shut up in a box all the week through, and

produce her only on the Thursday evenings. I have a weakness for a fine

contralto. If she had been existing in an ordinary habitation like other

people in Carlingford, I should have heard her, or heard of her. It is

clear to me that you keep her shut up in a box."

"Exactly," said Lucilla. "I don't mean to tell you anything about her.

You may be sure, now I have found her out, I mean to keep her for

myself. Her box is quite a pretty one, like what Gulliver had somewhere.

It is just time for lunch, and you are both going to stay, I hope; and

there is poor Mary Chiley and her husband coming through the garden.

What a pity it is he is such a goose!"

"Yes; but you know she never would take her uncle's advice, my dear,"

said the incorrigible mimic, putting on Mrs Chiley's face; "and being an

orphan, what could anybody do? And then she does not get on with _his_

family. By the way," Mrs Woodburn said, falling into her natural

tone--"I wonder if anybody ever does get on with her husband's family?"

The question was one which was a little grave to herself at the moment;

and this was the reason why she returned to her identity--for there was

no telling how long the Woodburns, who had come for Christmas, meant to

stay. "I shall be quite interested to watch _you_, Lucilla, when it

comes to be your turn, and see how you manage," she went on, with a keen

look at Miss Marjoribanks; and Mr Cavendish laughed. He too looked at

her, and Lucilla felt herself in rather a delicate position: not that

she was agitated, as might have been the case had the future M.P. for

Carlingford "engaged her affections," as she herself would have said.

Fortunately these young affections were quite free as yet; but

nevertheless Miss Marjoribanks felt that the question was a serious one,

as coming from the sister of a gentleman who was undeniably paying her

attention. She did not in the least wish to alarm a leading member of a

family into which it was possible she might enter; and then at the same

time she intended to reserve fully all her individual rights.

"I always make it a point never to shock anybody's prejudices," said

Miss Marjoribanks. "I should do just the same with _them_ as with other

people; all you have to do is to show from the first that you mean to be

good friends with everybody. But then I am so lucky: I can _always_ get

on with people," said Lucilla, rising to greet the two unfortunates who

had come to Colonel Chiley's to spend a merry Christmas, and who did not

know what to do with themselves. And then they all went downstairs and

lunched together very pleasantly. As for Mr Cavendish, he was "quite

devoted," as poor Mary Chiley said, with a touch of envy. To be sure,

her trousseau was still in its full glory; but yet life under the

conditions of marriage was not nearly such fun as it had been when she

was a young lady, and had some one paying attention to her: and she

rather grudged Lucilla that climax of existence, notwithstanding her own

superior standing and dignity as a married lady. And Mrs Woodburn too

awoke from her study of the stupid young husband to remark upon her

brother's behaviour: she had not seen the two together so often as Mrs

Chiley had done, and consequently this was the first time that the

thought had occurred to her. She too had been born "one of the

Cavendishes," as it was common to say in Carlingford, with a certain

imposing yet vague grandeur--and she was a little shocked, like any good

sister, at the first idea. She watched Lucilla's movements and looks

with a quite different kind of attention after this idea struck her, and

made a rapid private calculation as to who Dr Marjoribanks's connections

were, and what he would be likely to give his daughter; so that it is

evident that Lucilla did not deceive herself, but that Mr Cavendish's

attentions must have been marked indeed.

This was the little cloud which arose, as we have said, no bigger than a

man's hand, over Miss Marjoribanks's prosperous way. When the luncheon

was over and they had all gone, Lucilla took a few minutes to think it

over before she went out. It was not that she was unduly flattered by Mr

Cavendish's attentions, as might have happened to an inexperienced young

woman; for Lucilla, with her attractions and genius, had not reached the

mature age of nineteen without receiving the natural homage of mankind

on several clearly-defined occasions. But then the present case had

various features peculiar to itself, which prevented Lucilla from

crushing it in the bud, as she had meant to do with her cousin's

ill-fated passion. She had to consider, in the first place, her mission

in Carlingford, which was more important than anything else; but though

Miss Marjoribanks had vowed herself to the reorganisation of society in

her native town, she had not by any means vowed that it was absolutely

as Miss Marjoribanks that she was to accomplish that renovation. And

then there was something in the very idea of being M.P. for Carlingford

which moved the mind of Lucilla. It was a perfectly ideal position for a

woman of her views, and seemed to offer the very field that was

necessary for her ambition. This was the reason, of all others, which

made her less careful to prevent Mr Cavendish from "saying the words"

than she had been with Tom. To be sure, it would be a trial to leave the

drawing-room after it had just been furnished so entirely to her

liking--not to say to her complexion; but still it was a sacrifice which

might be made. It was in this way that Miss Marjoribanks prepared

herself for the possible modifications which circumstances might impose.

She did not make any rash resolution to resist a change which, on the

whole, might possibly be "for the best," but prepared herself to take

everything into consideration, and possibly to draw from it a superior

good: in short, she looked upon the matter as a superior mind, trained

in sound principles of political economy, might be expected to look upon

the possible vicissitudes of fortune, with an enlightened regard to the

uses of all things, and to the comparative values on either side.

Barbara Lake, as it happened, was out walking at the very moment when

Miss Marjoribanks sat down to consider this question. She had gone to

the School of Design to meet Rose, with an amiability very unusual in

her. Rose had made such progress, after leaving Mount Pleasant, under

her father's care, and by the help of that fine feeling for art which

has been mentioned in the earlier part of this history, that the charge

of the female pupils in the School of Design had been confided to her,

with a tiny little salary, which served Mr Lake as an excuse for keeping

his favourite little daughter with him. Nothing could be supposed more

unlike Barbara than her younger sister, who just came up to her

shoulder, and was twice as serviceable and active and "nice," according

to the testimony of all the children. Barbara had led her father a hard

life, poor man! the time that Rose was at Mount Pleasant; but now that

his assistant had come back again, the poor drawing-master had recovered

all his old spirits. She was just coming out of the School of Design,

with her portfolio under her arm, when Barbara met her. There were not

many pupils, it is true, but still there were enough to worry poor Rose,

who was not an imposing personage, and who was daily wounded by the

discovery that after all there are but a limited number of persons in

this world, especially in the poorer classes of the community, and under

the age of sixteen, who have a feeling for art. It was utterly

inconceivable to the young teacher how her girls could be so clever as

to find out each a different way of putting the sublime features of the

Belveder Apollo out of drawing, and she was still revolving this

difficult problem when her sister joined her. Barbara, for her part, was

occupied with thoughts of a hero much more interesting than he of

Olympus. She was flushed and eager, and looking very handsome under her

shabby bonnet; and her anxiety to have a _confidante_ was so great that

she made a dart at Rose, and grasped her by the arm under which she was

carrying her portfolio, to the great discomposure of the young artist.

She asked, with a little anxiety, "What is the matter? is there anything

wrong at home?" and made a rapid movement to get to the other side.

"Oh, Rose," said Barbara, panting with haste and agitation, "only fancy;

I have just seen him. I met him right in front of Masters's, and he took

off his hat to me. I feel in such a way--I can scarcely speak."

"Met--who?" said Rose--for she was imperfect in her grammar, like most

people in a moment of emergency; and, besides, she shared to some extent

Miss Marjoribanks's reluctance to shock the prejudices of society, and

was disturbed by the idea that somebody might pass and see Barbara in

her present state of excitement, and perhaps attribute it to its true

cause.

"Oh, you stupid little thing!" said Barbara, giving her "a shake" by her

disengaged arm. "I tell you, _him_!--the gentleman I met at Lucilla

Marjoribanks's. He looked as if he was quite delighted to see me again;

and I am sure he turned round to see where I was going. He couldn't

speak to me, you know, the first time; though indeed I shouldn't be the

least surprised if he had followed--at a distance, you know, only to see

where I live," said Barbara, turning round and searching into the

distance with her eager eyes. But there was nobody to be seen in the

street, except some of Rose's pupils lingering along in the sunshine,

and very probably exchanging similar confidences. Barbara turned back

again with a touch of disappointment. "I am quite sure he will find out

before long; and don't forget I said so," she added, with a little nod

of her head.

"I don't see what it matters if he found out directly," said Rose. "Papa

would not let anybody come to our house that he did not approve of; and

then, you know, he will never have anything to say to people who are

patronising. I don't want to hear any more about your fine gentleman. If

you were worried as I am, you would think much more of getting home than

of anybody bowing to you in the street. One of the gentlemen from

Marlborough House once took off his hat to me," said Rose, with a

certain solemnity. "Of course I was pleased; but then I knew it was my

design he was thinking of--my Honiton flounce, you know. I suppose this

other one must have thought you had a pretty voice."

This time, however, it was an angry shake that Barbara gave to her

sister. "I wish you would not be such a goose," she said; "who cares

about your Honiton flounce? He took off his hat because--because he

admired me, I suppose--and then it was a great deal more than just

taking off his hat. He gave me such a look! Papa has no sense, though I

suppose you will blaze up when I say so. He ought to think of us a

little. As for patronising, I should soon change that, I can tell you.

But then papa thinks of nothing but paying his bills and keeping out of

debt, as he says--as if everybody was not in debt; and how do you

suppose we are ever to get settled in life? It would be far more

sensible to spend a little more, and go into society a little, and do us

justice. Only think all that that old Doctor is doing for Lucilla; and

there are four of us when the little ones grow up," said Barbara, in a

tone of injury. "I should like to know what papa is thinking of? If

mamma had not died when she did----"

"It was not poor mamma's fault," said Rose. "I dare say she would have

lived if she could for all our sakes. But then you have always taken a

false view of our position, Barbara. We are a family of _artists_," said

the little mistress of the School of Design. She had pretty eyes, very

dewy and clear, and they woke up under the excitement of this proud

claim. "When papa is appreciated as he deserves, and when Willie has

_made a name_" said Rose, with modest confidence, "things will be

different. But the true strength of our position is that we are a family

of artists. We are everybody's equal, and we are nobody's equal. We have

a rank of our own. If you would only remember this, you would not grudge

anything to Lucilla Marjoribanks; and then I am sure she has been very

kind to you."

"Oh, bother!" said the unfeeling Barbara. "You do nothing but encourage

papa with your nonsense. And I should like to know what right Lucilla

Marjoribanks has to be kind to me? If I am not as good as she, it is a

very strange thing. I should never take the trouble to think about _him_

if it was not that Lucilla believes he is paying her attention--that is

the great fun. It would be delicious to take him from her, and make game

of her and her kindness. Goodness! there he is again. I felt sure that

he would try to find out the house."

And Barbara crimsoned higher than ever, and held Rose fast by the arm,

and called her attention by the most visible and indeed tangible signs

to the elegant apparition, like any other underbred young woman. As for

Rose, she was a little gentlewoman born, and had a horror unspeakable of

her sister's bad manners. When Mr Cavendish made a movement as if to

address Barbara, it was the pretty gray eyes of Rose lifted to his face

with a look of straightforward surprise and inquiry which made him

retire so hastily. He took off his hat again more respectfully than

before, and pursued his walk along Grove Street, as if he had no

ulterior intention in visiting that humble part of the town. As for

Barbara, she held Rose faster than ever, and almost pinched her arm to

make her listen. "I knew he was trying to find out the house," she said,

in an exultant whisper. "And Lucilla thinks he is paying her

attention!" For the fact was, that when Miss Marjoribanks took to being

kind to Barbara, she conferred upon the contralto at the same moment a

palpable injury and grievance, which was what the drawing-master's

daughter had been looking for, for several years of her life. And

naturally Lucilla, who was at this moment thinking it all over under the

soft green shadows from her new hangings, was deprived of the light

which might have been thrown on her reflections, had she seen what was

going on in Grove Street. The conditions of humanity are such that even

a woman of genius cannot altogether overstep them. And Lucilla still

continued to think that Mr Cavendish was paying her attention, which,

indeed, was also the general opinion in Grange Lane.

_Chapter XII_

The second of her Thursday evenings found Miss Marjoribanks, though

secure, perhaps more anxious than on the former occasion. The charm of

the first novelty was gone, and Lucilla did not feel quite sure that her

subjects had the good sense to recognise all the benefits which she was

going to confer upon them. "It is the second time that counts," she said

in confidence to Mrs Chiley. "Last Thursday they wanted to see the

drawing-room, and they wanted to know what sort of thing it was to be.

Dear Mrs Chiley, it is to-night that is the test," said Lucilla, giving

a nervous pressure to her old friend's hand; at least a pressure that

would have betokened the existence of nerves in any one else but Miss

Marjoribanks, whose magnificent organisation was beyond any suspicion of

such weakness. But, nevertheless, Mrs Chiley, who watched her with

grandmotherly interest, was comforted to perceive that Lucilla, as on

the former occasion, had strength of mind to eat her dinner. "She wants

a little support, poor dear," the old lady said in her heart; for she

was a kinder critic than the younger matrons, who felt instinctively

that Miss Marjoribanks was doing what they ought to have done. She took

her favourite's arm in hers as they went upstairs, and gave Mr Cavendish

a kindly nod as he opened the door for them. "He will come and give you

his assistance as soon as ever he can get away from the gentlemen,"

said Mrs Chiley, in her consolatory tone; "but, good gracious, Lucilla,

what is the matter?" The cause of this exclamation was a universal hum

and rustle as of many dresses and many voices; and, to tell the truth,

when Miss Marjoribanks and her companion reached the top of the stairs,

they found themselves lost in a laughing crowd, which had taken refuge

on the landing. "There is no room, Lucilla. Lucilla, everybody in

Carlingford is here. Do make a little room for us in the drawing-room,"

cried this overplus of society. If there was an enviable woman in

Carlingford at that moment, it certainly was Miss Marjoribanks, standing

on the top of her own stairs, scarcely able to penetrate through the

throng of her guests. Her self-possession did not forsake her at this

supreme moment. She grasped Mrs Chiley once again with a little

significant gesture which pleased the old lady, for she could not but

feel that she was Lucilla's only _confidante_ in her brilliant but

perilous undertaking. "_They_ will not be able to get in when they come

upstairs," said Miss Marjoribanks; and whether the faint inflection in

her voice meant exultation or disappointment, her old friend could not

tell.

But the scene changed when the rightful sovereign entered the gay but

disorganised dominion where her subjects attended her. Before any one

knew how it was done, Miss Marjoribanks had re-established order, and,

what was still more important, made room. She said, "You girls have no

business to get into corners. The corners are for the people that can

talk. It is one of my principles always to flirt in the middle of the

company," said Lucilla; and again, as happened so often, ignorant people

laughed and thought it a _bon mot_. But it is needless to inform the

more intelligent persons who understand Miss Marjoribanks, that it was

by no means a _bon mot_, but expressed Lucilla's convictions with the

utmost sincerity.

Thus it happened that the second Thursday was more brilliant and

infinitely more gratifying than the first had been. For one thing, she

felt sure that it was not to see the new furniture, nor to criticise

this new sort of entertainment, but with the sincerest intention of

enjoying themselves, that all the people had come; and there are moments

when the egotism of the public conveys the highest compliment that can

be paid to the great minds which take in hand to rule and to amuse it.

The only drawback was, that Barbara Lake did not show the same modesty

and reticence as on the former occasion. Far from being sensibly

silent, which she had been so prudent as to be on Miss Marjoribanks's

first Thursday, she forgot herself so far as to occupy a great deal of

Mr Cavendish's valuable time, which he might have employed much more

usefully. She not only sang by herself when he asked her, having brought

some music with her unseen by Lucilla, but she kept her seat upon the

stool before the piano ever so long afterwards, detaining him, and, as

Miss Marjoribanks had very little doubt, making an exhibition of

herself: for Barbara, having received one good gift from nature, had

been refused the other, and could not talk. When Lucilla, arrested in

the midst of her many occupations, heard her protégée's voice rising

alone, she stopped quite short with an anxiety which it was touching to

behold. It was not the jealousy of a rival cantatrice which inspired

Miss Marjoribanks's countenance, but the far broader and grander anxiety

of an accomplished statesman, who sees a rash and untrained hand

meddling with his most delicate machinery. Lucilla ignored everything

for the moment--her own voice, and Mr Cavendish's attentions, and every

merely secondary and personal emotion. All these details were swallowed

up in the fear that Barbara would not acquit herself as it was necessary

for the credit of the house that she should acquit herself; that she

should not sing well enough, or that she should sing too much. Once more

Miss Marjoribanks put her finger upon the pulse of the community as she

and they listened together. Fortunately, things went so far well that

Barbara sang her very best, and kept up her prestige: but it was

different in the second particular; for, unluckily, the contralto knew a

great many songs, and showed no inclination to stop. Nothing remained

for it but a bold _coup_, which Lucilla executed with all her natural

coolness and success.

"My dear Barbara," she said, putting her hands on the singer's shoulders

as she finished her strain, "that is enough for to-night. Mr Cavendish

will take you downstairs and get you a cup of tea; for you know there is

no room to-night to serve it upstairs." Thus Miss Marjoribanks proved

herself capable of preferring her great work to her personal sentiments,

which is generally considered next to impossible for a woman. She did

what perhaps nobody else in the room was capable of doing: she sent away

the gentleman who was paying attention to her, in company with the girl

who was paying attention to him; and at that moment, as was usual when

she was excited, Barbara was splendid, with her crimson cheeks, and the

eyes blazing out from under her level eyebrows. This Miss Marjoribanks

did, not in ignorance, but with a perfect sense of what she was about.

It was the only way of preventing her Evening from losing its

distinctive character. It was the Lamp of sacrifice which Lucilla had

now to employ, and she proved herself capable of the exertion. But it

would be hopeless to attempt to describe the indignation of old Mrs

Chiley, or the unmitigated amazement of the company in general, which

was conscious at the same time that Mr Cavendish was paying attention to

Miss Marjoribanks, and that he had been flirting in an inexcusable

manner with Miss Lake. "My dear, I would have nothing to do with that

bold girl," Mrs Chiley said in Lucilla's ear. "I will go down and look

after them if you like. A girl like that always leads the gentlemen

astray, you know. I never liked the looks of her. Let me go downstairs

and look after them, my dear. I am sure I want a cup of tea."