"Oh, bother his honourable intentions!" said the Rector. Such an

exclamation from him was as bad as the most dreadful oath from an

ordinary man, and very nearly made Miss Bury drop from her chair in

amazement. Things must have gone very far indeed when the Rector himself

disregarded all proprieties and the sacredness of the day in such a

wildly-daring fashion. For, to tell the truth, in his secret heart Mr

Bury was himself a little of the way of thinking of the people in Grove

Street. Strictly speaking, if a man has done anything to make a young

woman be talked about, every well-principled person ought to desire that

he should make her amends; but at the same time, at such a crisis there

was little consolation in the fact that the candidate one was supporting

and doing daily battle for had honourable intentions in respect to

Barbara Lake. If it had been Rose Lake, it would still have been a blow;

but Rose was unspeakably respectable, and nobody could have said a

syllable on the subject: while Barbara, who came to church in a tin

gown, and rustled up the middle aisle in it, attracting all eyes, and

took such a second in the canticles that she overwhelmed the choir

itself--Barbara, who had made people talk at Lucilla's parties, and had

been ten years away, wandering over the face of the earth, nobody could

tell where--governessing, singing, play-acting, perhaps, for anything

that anybody could tell! A clergyman, it is true, dared not have said

such a thing, and Mr Bury's remorse would have been bitter could he have

really believed himself capable even of thinking it; but still it is

certain that the unconscious, unexpressed idea in his mind was, that the

honourable intentions were the worst of it--that a candidate might be a

fool, or even an unrepentant sinner, and after all it would be chiefly

his own concern; but that so much as to dream of making Barbara Lake the

Member's wife, was the deepest insult that could be offered to

Carlingford. The Rector carried his burden silently all day, and

scarcely opened his lips, as all his sympathetic following remarked; but

before he went to bed he made a singular statement, the complete

accuracy of which an impartial observer might be disposed to doubt, but

which Mr Bury uttered with profound sincerity, and with a sigh of

self-compassion. "_Now_ I understand Lucilla Marjoribanks," was what the

good man said, and he all but puffed out the candle he had just lighted,

with that sigh.

Lucilla, however, in her own person took no part in it at all, one way

or other. She shook hands very kindly with Barbara, and hoped she would

come and see her, and made it clearly apparent that _she_ at least bore

no malice. "I am very glad I told Thomas to say nothing about it," she

said to Aunt Jemima, who, however, did not know the circumstances, and

was very little the wiser, as may be supposed.

And then the two ladies walked home together, and Miss Marjoribanks

devoted herself to her good books. It was almost the first moment of

repose that Lucilla had ever had in her busy life, and it was a repose

not only permitted but enjoined. Society, which had all along expected

so much from her, expected now that she should not find herself able for

any exertion; and Miss Marjoribanks responded nobly, as she had always

done, to the requirements of society. To a mind less perfectly

regulated, the fact that the election which had been so interesting to

her was now about, as may be said, to take place without her, would have

been of itself a severe trial; and the sweet composure with which she

bore it was not one of the least remarkable phenomena of the present

crisis. But the fact was that this Sunday was on the whole an oppressive

day. Mr Ashburton came in for a moment, it is true, between services;

but he himself, though generally so steady, was unsettled and agitated.

He had been bearing the excitement well until this last almost

incredible accident occurred, which made it possible that he might not

only win, but win by a large majority. "The Dissenters have all held out

till now, and would not pledge themselves," he said to Lucilla, actually

with a tremble in his voice; and then he told her about Mr Tufton's

sermon and the wickedness in high places, and the hand imbrued

metaphorically in his sister's blood.

"I wonder how he could say so," said Lucilla, with indignation. "It is

just like those Dissenters. What harm was there in going to see her? I

heard of it last night, but even for your interest I would never have

spread such mere gossip as that."

"No--certainly it is mere gossip," said Mr Ashburton; "but it will do

him a great deal of harm all the same," and then once more he got

restless and abstracted. "I suppose it is of no use asking you if you

would join Lady Richmond's party at the Blue Boar? You could have a

window almost to yourself, you know, and would be quite quiet."

Lucilla shook her head, and the movement was more expressive than words.

"I did not think you would," said Mr Ashburton; and then he took her

hand, and his looks too became full of meaning. "Then I must say adieu,"

he said--"adieu until it is all over. I shall not have a moment that I

can call my own--this will be an eventful week for me."

"You mean an eventful day," said Lucilla; for Mr Ashburton was not such

a novice as to be afraid of the appearance he would have to make at the

nomination. He did not contradict her, but he pressed her hand with a

look which was equivalent to kissing it, though he was not romantic

enough to go quite that length. When he was gone, Miss Marjoribanks

could not but wonder a little what he could mean by looking forward to

an eventful week. For her own part, she could not but feel that after so

much excitement things would feel rather flat for the rest of the week,

and that it was almost wrong to have an election on a Tuesday. Could it

be that Mr Ashburton had some other contest or candidateship in store

for himself which he had not told her about? Such a thing was quite

possible; but what had Lucilla in her mourning to do with worldly

contingencies? She went back to her seat in the corner of the sofa and

her book of sermons, and read fifty pages before tea-time; she knew how

much, because she had put a mark in her book when Mr Ashburton came in.

Marks are very necessary things generally in sermon-books; and Lucilla

could not but feel pleased to think that since her visitor went away she

had got over so much ground.

To compare Carlingford to a volcano that night (and indeed all the next

day, which was the day of nomination) would be a stale similitude; and

yet in some respects it was like a volcano. It was not the same kind of

excitement which arises in a town where politics run very high--if there

are any towns nowadays in such a state of unsophisticated nature.

Neither was it a place where simple corruption could carry the day; for

the freemen of Wharfside were, after all, but a small portion of the

population. It was in reality a quite ideal sort of contest--a contest

for the best man, such as would have pleased the purest-minded

philosopher. It was the man most fit to represent Carlingford for whom

everybody was looking, not a man to be baited about parish-rates and

Reform Bills and the Irish Church;--a man who lived in, or near the

town, and "dealt regular" at all the best shops; a man who would not

disgrace his constituency by any unlawful or injudicious sort of

love-making--who would attend to the town's interests and subscribe to

its charities, and take the lead in a general way. This was what

Carlingford was looking for, as Miss Marjoribanks, with that intuitive

rapidity which was characteristic of her genius, had at once remarked;

and when everybody went home from church and chapel, though it was

Sunday, the whole town thrilled and throbbed with this great question.

People might have found it possible to condone a sin or wink at a mere

backsliding; but there were few so bigoted in their faith as to believe

that the man who was capable of marrying Barbara Lake could ever be the

man for Carlingford; and thus it was that Mr Cavendish, who had been

flourishing like a green bay-tree, withered away, as it were, in a

moment, and the place that had known him knew him no more.

The hustings were erected at that central spot, just under the windows

of the Blue Boar, where Grange Lane and George Street meet, the most

central point in Carlingford. It was so near that Lucilla could hear the

shouts and the music and all the divers noises of the election, but

could not, even when she went into the very corner of the window and

strained her eyes to the utmost, see what was going on, which was a very

trying position. We will not linger upon the proceedings or excitement

of Monday, when the nomination and the speeches were made, and when the

show of hands was certainly thought to be in Mr Cavendish's favour. But

it was the next day that was the real trial. Lady Richmond and her party

drove past at a very early hour, and looked up at Miss Marjoribanks's

windows, and congratulated themselves that they were so early, and that

poor dear Lucilla would not have the additional pain of seeing them go

past. But Lucilla did see them, though, with her usual good sense, she

kept behind the blind. She never did anything absurd in the way of early

rising on ordinary occasions; but this morning it was impossible to

restrain a certain excitement, and though it did her no good, still she

got up an hour earlier than usual, and listened to the music, and heard

the cabs rattling about, and could not help it if her heart beat

quicker. It was perhaps a more important crisis for Miss Marjoribanks

than for any other person, save one, in Carlingford; for of course it

would be foolish to attempt to assert that she did not understand by

this time what Mr Ashburton meant; and it may be imagined how hard it

was upon Lucilla to be thus, as it were, in the very outside row of the

assembly--to hear all the distant shouts and sounds, everything that was

noisy and inarticulate, and conveyed no meaning, and to be out of reach

of all that could really inform her as to what was going on.

She saw from her window the cabs rushing past, now with her own

violet-and-green colours, now with the blue-and-yellow. And sometimes it

seemed to Lucilla that the blue-and-yellow predominated, and that the

carriages which mounted the hostile standard carried voters in larger

numbers and more enthusiastic condition. The first load of bargemen that

came up Grange Lane from the farther end of Wharf side were all Blues;

and when a spectator is thus held on the very edge of the event in a

suspense which grows every moment more intolerable, especially when he

or she is disposed to believe that things in general go on all the worse

for his or her absence, it is no wonder if that spectator becomes

nervous, and sees all the dangers at their darkest. What if, after all,

old liking and friendship had prevailed over that beautiful optimism

which Lucilla had done so much to instil into the minds of her

townsfolk? What if something more mercenary and less elevating than the

ideal search for the best man, in which she had hoped Carlingford was

engaged, should have swayed the popular mind to the other side? All

these painful questions went through Lucilla's mind as the day crept on;

and her suspense was much aggravated by Aunt Jemima, who took no real

interest in the election, but who kept saying every ten minutes--"I

wonder how the poll is going on--I wonder what that is they are

shouting--is it 'Ashburton for ever!' or 'Cavendish for ever!' Lucilla?

Your ears should be sharper than mine; but I think it is Cavendish."

Lucilla thought so too, and her heart quaked within her, and she went

and squeezed herself into the corner of the window, to try whether it

was not possible to catch a glimpse of the field of battle; and her

perseverance was finally rewarded by the sight of the extremity of the

wooden planks which formed the polling-booth; but there was little

satisfaction to be got out of that. And then the continual dropping of

Aunt Jemima's questions drove her wild. "My dear aunt," she said at

last, "I can see nothing and hear nothing, and you know as much about

what is going on as I do"--which, it will be acknowledged, was not an

answer such as one would have expected from Lucilla's perfect temper and

wonderful self-control.

The election went on with all its usual commotion while Miss

Marjoribanks watched and waited. Mr Cavendish's committee brought their

supporters very well up in the morning--no doubt by way of making sure

of them, as somebody suggested on the other side; and for some time Mrs

Woodburn's party at Masters's windows (which Masters had given rather

reluctantly, by way of pleasing the Rector) looked in better spirits and

less anxious than Lady Richmond's party, which was at the Blue Boar.

Towards noon Mr Cavendish himself went up to his female supporters with

the bulletin of the poll--the same bulletin which Mr Ashburton had just

sent down to Lucilla. These were the numbers; and they made Masters's

triumphant, while silence and anxiety fell upon the Blue Boar:--

Cavendish 283

Ashburton 275

When Miss Marjoribanks received this disastrous intelligence, she put

the note in her pocket without saying a word to Aunt Jemima, and left

her window, and went back to her worsted-work; but as for Mrs Woodburn,

she gave her brother a hug, and laughed, and cried, and believed in it,

like a silly woman as she was.

"It is something quite unlooked-for, and which I never could have

calculated upon," she said, thrusting her hand into an imaginary

waistcoat with Mr Ashburton's very look and tone, which was beyond

measure amusing to all the party. They laughed so long, and were so gay,

that Lady Richmond solemnly levelled her opera-glass at them with the

air of a woman who was used to elections, but knew how such _parvenus_

have their heads turned by a prominent position. "That woman is taking

some of us off," she said, "but if it is me, I can bear it. There is

nothing so vulgar as that sort of thing, and I hope you never encourage

it in your presence, my dears."

Just at that moment, however, an incident occurred which took up the

attention of the ladies at the windows, and eclipsed even the interest

of the election. Poor Barbara Lake was interested, too, to know if her

friend would win. She was not entertaining any particular hopes or plans

about him. Years and hard experiences had humbled Barbara. The Brussels

veil which she used to dream of had faded as much from her memory as

poor Rose's Honiton design, for which she had got the prize. At the

present moment, instead of nourishing the ambitious designs which

everybody laid to her charge, she would have been content with the very

innocent privilege of talking a little to her next employers about Mr

Cavendish, the member for Carlingford, and his visits to her father's

house. But at the same time, she had once been fond of him, and she took

a great interest in him, and was very anxious that he should win. And

she was in the habit, like so many other women, of finding out, as far

as she could, what was going on, and going to see everything that there

might be to see. She had brought one of her young brothers with her,

whose anxiety to see the fun was quite as great as her own; and she was

arrayed in the tin dress--her best available garment--which was made

long, according to the fashion, and which, as Barbara scorned to tuck it

up, was continually getting trodden on, and talked about, and reviled

at, on that crowded pavement. The two parties of ladies saw, and even it

might be said heard, the sweep of the metallic garment, which was

undergoing such rough usage, and which was her best, poor soul. Lady

Richmond had alighted from her carriage carefully tucked up, though

there were only a few steps to make, and there was no _lady_ in

Carlingford who would have swept "a good gown" over the stones in such

a way; but then poor Barbara was not precisely a lady, and thought it

right to look as if it did not matter. She went up to read the numbers

of the poll--in the sight of everybody; and she clasped her hands

together with ecstatic satisfaction as she read; and young Carmine, her

brother, dashed into the midst of the fray, and shouted "Cavendish for

ever! hurrah for Cavendish!" and could scarcely be drawn back again to

take his sister home. Even when she withdrew, she did not go home, but

went slowly up and down Grange Lane with her rustling train behind her,

with the intention of coming back for further information. Lady Richmond

and Mrs Woodburn both lost all thought of the election as they watched;

and lo! when their wandering thoughts came back again, the tide had

turned.

The tide had turned. Whether it was Barbara, or whether it was fate, or

whether it was the deadly unanimity of those Dissenters, who, after all

their wavering, had at last decided for the man who "dealt" in George

Street--no one could tell; but by two o'clock Mr Ashburton was so far

ahead that he felt himself justified in sending another bulletin to

Lucilla--so far that there was no reasonable hope of the opposite

candidate ever making up his lost ground. Mrs Woodburn was not a woman

to be content when reasonable hope was over--she clung to the last

possibility desperately, with a pertinacity beyond all reason, and swore

in her heart that it was Barbara that had done it, and cursed her with

her best energies; which, however, as these are not melodramatic days,

was a thing which did the culprit no possible harm. When Barbara herself

came back from her promenade in Grange Lane, and saw the altered

numbers, she again clasped her hands together for a moment, and looked

as if she were going to faint; and it was at that moment that Mr

Cavendish's eyes fell upon her, as ill fortune would have it. They were

all looking at him as if it was his fault; and the sight of that

sympathetic face was consoling to the defeated candidate. He took off

his hat before everybody; probably, as his sister afterwards said, he

would have gone and offered her his arm had he been near enough. How

could anybody wonder, after that, that things had gone against him, and

that, notwithstanding all his advantages, he was the loser in the fight?

As for Lucilla, she had gone back to her worsted-work when she got Mr

Ashburton's first note, in which his rival's name stood above his own.

She looked quite composed, and Aunt Jemima went on teasing with her

senseless questions. But Miss Marjoribanks put up with it all; though

the lingering progress of these hours from one o'clock to four, the

sound of cabs furiously driven by, the distant shouts, the hum of

indefinite din that filled the air, exciting every moment a keener

curiosity, and giving no satisfaction or information, would have been

enough to have driven a less large intelligence out of its wits. Lucilla

bore it, doing as much as she could of her worsted-work, and saying

nothing to nobody, except, indeed, an occasional word to Aunt Jemima,

who would have an answer. She was not walking about Grange Lane

repeating a kind of prayer for the success of her candidate, as Barbara

Lake was doing; but perhaps, on the whole, Barbara had the easiest time

of it at that moment of uncertainty. When the next report came,

Lucilla's fingers trembled as she opened it, so great was her emotion;

but after that she recovered herself as if by magic. She grew pale, and

then gave a kind of sob, and then a kind of laugh, and finally put her

worsted-work back into her basket, and threw Mr Ashburton's note into

the fire.

"It is all right," said Lucilla. "Mr Ashburton is a hundred ahead, and

they can never make up that. I am so sorry for poor Mr Cavendish. If he

only had not been so imprudent on Saturday night!"

"I am sure I don't understand you," said Aunt Jemima. "After being so

anxious about one candidate, how can you be so sorry for the other? I

suppose you did not want them both to win?"

"Yes, I think that _was_ what I wanted," said Lucilla, drying her eyes;

and then she awoke to the practical exigencies of the position. "There

will be quantities of people coming to have a cup of tea, and I must

speak to Nancy," she said, and went downstairs with a cheerful heart. It

might be said to be as good as decided, so far as regarded Mr Ashburton;

and when it came for her final judgment, what was it that she ought to

say?

It was very well that Miss Marjoribanks's unfailing foresight led her to

speak to Nancy; for the fact was, that after four o'clock, when the

polling was over, everybody came in to tea. All Lady Richmond's party

came, as a matter of course, and Mr Ashburton himself, for a few

minutes, bearing meekly his new honours; and so many more people

besides, that but for knowing it was a special occasion, and that "our

gentleman" was elected, Nancy's mind never could have borne the strain.

And the tea that was used was something frightful. As for Aunt Jemima,

who had just then a good many thoughts of her own to occupy her, and did

not care so much as the rest for all the chatter that was going on, nor

for all those details about poor Barbara and Mr Cavendish's looks, which

Lucilla received with such interest, she could not but make a

calculation in passing as to this new item of fashionable expenditure

into which her niece was plunging so wildly. To be sure, it was an

occasion that never might occur again, and everybody was so excited as

to forget even that Lucilla was in mourning, and that such a number of

people in the house so soon might be more than she could bear. And she

was excited herself, and forgot that she was not able for it. But still

Aunt Jemima, sitting by, could not help thinking, that even five-o'clock

teas of good quality and unlimited amount would very soon prove to be

impracticable upon two hundred a year.

_Chapter XLIX_

Mr Ashburton, it may be supposed, had but little time to think on that

eventful evening; and yet he was thinking all the way home, as he drove

back in the chilly spring night to his own house. If his further course

of action had been made in any way to depend upon the events of this

day, it was now settled beyond all further uncertainty; and though he

was not a man in his first youth, nor a likely subject for a romantic

passion, still he was a little excited by the position in which he found

himself. Miss Marjoribanks had been his inspiring genius, and had

interested herself in his success in the warmest and fullest way; and if

ever a woman was made for a certain position, Lucilla was made to be the

wife of the Member for Carlingford. Long, long ago, at the very

beginning of her career, when it was of Mr Cavendish that everybody was

thinking, the ideal fitness of this position had struck everybody.

Circumstances had changed since then, and Mr Cavendish had fallen, and a

worthier hero had been placed in his stead; but though the person was

changed, the circumstances remained unaltered. Natural fitness was

indeed so apparent, that many people would have been disposed to say

that it was Lucilla's duty to accept Mr Ashburton, even independent of

the fact that he was perfectly eligible in every other respect.

But with all this the new Member for Carlingford was not able to assure

himself that there had been anything particular in Lucilla's manner to

himself. With her as with Carlingford, it was pure optimism. He was the

best man, and her quick intelligence had divined it sooner than anybody

else had done. Whether there was anything more in it, Mr Ashburton could

not tell. His own impression was that she would accept him; but if she

did not, he would have no right to complain of "encouragement," or to

think himself jilted. This was what he was thinking as he drove home;

but at the same time he was very far from being in a desponding state of

mind. He felt very nearly as sure that Lucilla would be his wife, as if

they were already standing before the Rector in Carlingford Church. He

had just won one victory, which naturally made him feel more confident

of winning another; and even without entertaining any over-exalted

opinion of himself, it was evident that, under all the circumstances, a

woman of thirty, with two hundred a year, would be a fool to reject such

an offer. And Lucilla was the very furthest in the world from being a

fool. It was in every respect the beginning of a new world to Mr

Ashburton, and it would have been out of nature had he not been a little

excited. After the quiet life he had led at the Firs, biding his time,

he had now to look forward to a busy and important existence, half of it

spent amid the commotion and ceaseless stir of town. A new career, a

wife, a new position, the most important in his district--it was not

much wonder if Mr Ashburton felt a little excited. He was fatigued at

the same time, too much fatigued to be disposed for sleep; and all these

united influences swayed him to a state of mind very much unlike his

ordinary sensible calm. All his excitement culminated so in thoughts of

Lucilla, that the new Member felt himself truly a lover; and late as the

hour was, he took up a candle and once more made a survey all alone of

his solitary house.

Nothing could look more dismal than the dark rooms, where there was

neither light nor fire--the great desert drawing-room, for example,

which stood unchanged as it had been in the days of his grand-aunts, the

good old ladies who had bequeathed the Firs to Mr Ashburton. He had made

no change in it, and scarcely ever used it, keeping to his library and

dining-room, with the possibility, no doubt, always before him of

preparing it in due course of time for his wife. That moment had now

arrived, and in his excitement he went into the desolate room with his

candle, which just made the darkness visible, and tried to see the dusky

curtains and faded carpet, and the indescribable fossil air which

everything had. There were the odd little spider-legged stands, upon

which the Miss Penrhyns had placed their work-boxes, and the old sofas

on which they had sat, and the floods of old tapestry-work with which

they had decorated their favourite sitting-room. The sight of it chilled

the Member for Carlingford, and made him sad. He tried to turn his

thoughts to the time when this same room should be fitted up to suit

Lucilla's complexion, and should be gay with light and with her

presence. He did all he could to realise the moment when, with a

mistress so active and energetic, the whole place would change its

aspect, and glow forth resplendent into the twilight of the county, a

central point for all. Perhaps it was his fatigue which gained upon him

just at this moment, and repulsed all livelier thoughts; but the fact

is, that however willing Lucilla might turn out to be, her image was

coy, and would not come. The more Mr Ashburton tried to think of her as

in possession here, the more the grim images of the two old Miss

Penrhyns walked out of the darkness and asserted their prior claims.

They even seemed to have got into the library before him when he went

back, though there his fire was burning, and his lamp. After that there

was nothing left for a man to do, even though he had been that day

elected Member for Carlingford, but to yield to the weakness of an

ordinary mortal, and go to bed.

Thoughts very different, but even more disturbing, were going on at the

same time in Grange Lane. Poor Mr Cavendish, for one thing,--upbraided

by everybody's looks, and even by some people's words--feeling himself

condemned, censured, and despised on all sides--smarting under his

sister's wild reproaches and her husband's blunt commentary

thereupon,--had slunk away from their society after dinner, not seeing

_now_ why he should bear it any longer. "By Jove! if it had only been

for _her_ sake, you might have left over your philandering for another

night," Mr Woodburn had said, in his coarse way; and it was all Mr

Cavendish could do to refrain from saying that one time and another he

had done quite enough for _her_ sake, but he did not see any reason why

he should put up with it any longer. He strolled out of doors, though

the town was still in commotion, and could not but think of the

sympathetic countenance which had paled to-day at sight of the numbers

of the poll. She, by Heaven! might have had reason to find fault with

him, and she had never done so; _she_ had never perceived that he was

stout, or changed from old times. As he entertained these thoughts, his

steps going down Grange Lane gradually quickened, but he did not say to

himself where he was going. He went a very roundabout way, as if he did

not mean it, as far as St Roque's, and then up by the lane to the

far-off desert extremity of Grove Street. It was simply to walk off his

excitement and disappointment, and free himself from criticism for that

evening at least; but as he walked he could not help thinking that

Barbara, if she were well dressed, would still be a fine woman, that her

voice was magnificent in its way, and that about Naples, perhaps, or the

baths of Lucca, or in Germany, or the south of France, a man might be

able to get on well enough with such a companion, where society was not

so exacting or stiff-starched as in England. And the end was, that the

feet of the defeated candidate carried him, ere ever he was aware, with

some kind of independent volition of their own, to Mr Lake's door--and

it may be here said, once for all, that this visit was decisive of Mr

Cavendish's fate.

This will not be regarded as anything but a digression by such of

Lucilla's friends as may be solicitous to know what she was making up

her mind to under the circumstances; but the truth is that Lucilla's

historian cannot, any more than Miss Marjoribanks herself could, refrain

from a certain regret over Mr Cavendish. That was what he came to, poor

man! after all his experiences; a man who was capable of so much better

things--a man even who, if he had made a right use of his opportunities,

might once have had as good a chance as any other of marrying Lucilla

herself. If there ever was an instance of chances thrown away and lost

opportunities, surely here was that lamentable example. And thus, poor

man! all his hopes and all his chances came to an end.

As for Miss Marjoribanks herself, it would be vain to say that this was

not a very exciting moment for her. If there ever could be said to be a

time when she temporarily lost the entire sway and control of herself

and her feelings, it would be at this crisis. She went about all that

evening like a woman in a dream. For the first time in her life she not

only did not know what she would do, but she did not know what she

wanted to do. There could now be no mistaking what Mr Ashburton's

intentions were. Up to a very recent time Lucilla had been able to take

refuge in her mourning, and conclude that she had no present occasion to

disturb herself. But now that calm was over. She could not conceal from

herself that it was in her power by a word to reap all the advantages of

the election, and to step at once into the only position which she had

ever felt might be superior to her own in Carlingford. At last this

great testimonial of female merit was to be laid at her feet. A man

thoroughly eligible in every way--moderately rich, well connected, able

to restore to her all, and more than all, the advantages which she had

lost at her father's death--a man, above all, who was Member for

Carlingford, was going to offer himself to her acceptance, and put his

happiness in her hands; and while she was so well aware of this, she was

not at all so well aware what answer she would make him. Lucilla's mind

was in such a commotion as she sat over her embroidery, that she thought

it strange indeed that it did not show, and could not understand how

Aunt Jemima could sit there so quietly opposite her, as if nothing was

the matter. But, to tell the truth, there was a good deal the matter

with Aunt Jemima too, which was perhaps the reason why she saw no signs

of her companion's agitation. Mrs John Marjoribanks had not been able

any more than her niece to shut her eyes to Mr Ashburton's evident

meaning, and now that matters were visibly coming to a crisis, a sudden

panic and horror had seized her. What would Tom say? If she stood by and

saw the prize snapped up under her very eyes, what account could she

give to her son of her stewardship? how could she explain her silence as

to all _his_ wishes and intentions, her absolute avoidance of his name

in all her conversations with Lucilla? While Miss Marjoribanks marvelled

that the emotion in her breast could be invisible, and at Aunt Jemima's

insensibility, the bosom of that good woman was throbbing with equal

excitement. Sometimes each made an indifferent remark, and panted after

it, as if she had given utterance to the most exhausting emotions; but

so great was the preoccupation of both that neither observed how it was

faring with the other.

But perhaps, on the whole, it was Aunt Jemima that suffered the most;

for her there was nothing flattering, nothing gratifying, no prospect of

change or increased happiness, or any of the splendours of imagination

involved. All that could happen to her would be the displeasure of her

son and his disappointment; and it might be her fault, she who could

have consented to be chopped up in little pieces, if that would have

done Tom any good; but who, notwithstanding, was not anxious for him to

marry his cousin, now that her father's fortune was all lost and she had

but two hundred a year. They had a silent cup of tea together at eight

o'clock, after that noisy exciting one at five, which had been shared by

half Carlingford, as Aunt Jemima thought. The buzz of that impromptu

assembly, in which everybody talked at the same moment, and nobody

listened, except perhaps Lucilla, had all died away into utter

stillness; but the excitement had not died away; _that_ had only risen

to a white heat, silent and consuming, as the two ladies sat over their

tea.

"Do you expect Mr Ashburton to-morrow, Lucilla?" Aunt Jemima said, after

a long pause.

"Mr Ashburton?" said Lucilla, with a slight start; and, to tell the

truth, she was glad to employ that childish expedient to gain a little

time, and consider what she should say. "Indeed I don't know if he will

have time to come. Most likely there will be a great deal to do."

"If he does come," said Mrs John, with a sigh--"or _when_ he does come,

I ought to say, for you know very well he _will_ come, Lucilla--I

suppose there is no doubt that he will have something very particular to

say."

"I am sure I don't know, Aunt Jemima," said Miss Marjoribanks; but she

never raised her eyes from her work, as she would have done in any other

case. "Now that the election is over, you know----"

"I hope, my dear, I have been long enough in the world to know all about

that," Aunt Jemima said severely, "and what it means when young ladies

take such interest in elections;" and then some such feeling as the dog

had in the manger--a jealousy of those who sought the gift though she

herself did not want it--came over Mrs John, and at the same time a

sudden desire to clear her conscience and make a stand for Tom. She did

it suddenly, and went further than she meant to go; but then she never

dreamt it would have the least effect. "I would not say anything to

disturb your mind, Lucilla, if you have made up your mind; but when you

receive your new friends, you might think of other people who perhaps

have been fond of you before you ever saw them, or heard their very

name."

She was frightened at it herself before the words were out of her mouth,

and the effect it had upon Miss Marjoribanks was wonderful. She threw

her embroidery away, and looked Tom's mother keenly in the face. "I

don't think you know anybody who is fond of me, Aunt Jemima," she said;

"I don't suppose anybody is fond of me. Do you?" said Lucilla. But by

that time Aunt Jemima had got thoroughly frightened, both at herself and

her companion, and had nothing more to say.

"I am sure all these people to-day have been too much for you," she

said. "I wonder what they could all be thinking of, for my part,

flocking in upon you like that, so soon after----I thought it was very

indelicate of Lady Richmond. And Lucilla, my dear, your nerves are quite

affected, and I am sure you ought to go to bed."

Upon which Miss Marjoribanks recovered herself in a moment, and folded

up her worsted-work. "I do feel tired," she said sweetly, "and perhaps

it _was_ too much. I think I will take your advice, Aunt Jemima. The

excitement keeps one up for the moment, and then it tells after. I

suppose the best thing is to go to bed."

"Much the best, my dear," Aunt Jemima said, giving Lucilla a kiss; but

she did not take her own advice. She took a long time to think it all

over, and sat up by the side of the decaying fire until it was

midnight--an hour at which a female establishment like this should

surely have been all shut up and at rest. And Lucilla did very much the

same thing, wondering greatly what her aunt could tell her if she had a

mind, and having the greatest inclination in the world to break into her

chamber, and see, at any risk, what was in Tom's last letter. If she

could have seen that, it might have thrown some light on the problem

Lucilla was discussing, or given her some guidance through her

difficulties. It was just then that Mr Ashburton was inviting her image

into the fossil drawing-room, and finding nothing but the grim shades of

the Miss Penrhyns answer to his call. Perhaps this was because Lucilla's

image at that moment was called upon more potently from another quarter

in a more familiar voice.

But after this exhausting day and late sitting-up, everybody was late in

the morning, at least in Grange Lane. Miss Marjoribanks had slept

little all night, and she was not in a more settled state of mind when

the day returned which probably would bring the matter to a speedy

decision. Her mind was like a country held by two armies, one of which

by turns swept the other into a corner, but only to be driven back in

its turn. After the unaccountable stupidity of the general public--after

all the Cavendishes, Beverleys, and Riders who had once had it in their

power to distinguish themselves by at least making her an offer, and who

had not done it--here at last, in all good faith, honesty, and

promptitude, had appeared a man superior to them all--a man whom she

would have no reason to be ashamed of in any particular, sensible like

herself, public-spirited like herself--a man whose pursuits she could

enter into fully, who had a perfectly ideal position to offer her, and

in whose person, indeed, all sorts of desirable qualities seemed to

meet. Miss Marjoribanks, when she considered all this, and thought over

all their recent intercourse, and the terms of friendship into which the

election had brought them, felt, as any other sensible person would have

felt, that there was only one answer which could be given to such a man.

If she neglected or played with his devotion, then certainly she never

would deserve to have another such possibility afforded to her, and

merited nothing better than to live and die a single woman on two

hundred a year. But then, on the other hand, there would rush forth a

crowd of quick-coming and fantastic suggestions which took away

Lucilla's breath, and made her heart beat loud. What if there might be

"other people" who had been fond of her before she ever heard of Mr

Ashburton's name? What if there might be some one in the world who was

ready, not to offer her his hand and fortune in a reasonable way, as Mr

Ashburton no doubt would, but to throw himself all in a heap at her

feet, and make the greatest fool of himself possible for her sake? Miss

Marjoribanks had been the very soul of good sense all her days, but now

her ruling quality seemed to forsake her. And yet she could not consent

to yield herself up to pure unreason without a struggle. She fought

manfully, womanfully against the weakness which hitherto must have been

lying hidden in some out-of-the-way corner in her heart. Probably if Mr

Ashburton had asked her all at once amid the excitement of the election,

or at any other unpremeditated moment, Lucilla would have been saved all

this self-torment; but it is hard upon a woman to have a proposal

hanging over her head by a hair, as it were, and to look forward to it

without any uncertainty or mystery, and have full time to make up her

mind. And there was no accounting for the curious force and vividness

with which that strange idea about "other people," upon which Aunt

Jemima would throw no light, had come into Lucilla's head.

She was still in the same frightful chaos of uncertainty when Mr

Ashburton was shown into the drawing-room. She had not even heard him

ring, and was thus deprived of the one possible moment of coming to a

decision before she faced and confronted her fate. Miss Marjoribanks's

heart gave a great jump, and then she recovered herself, and rose up

without faltering, and shook hands with him. She was all alone, for Aunt

Jemima had not found herself equal to facing the emergency; and there

was not the least possibility of evading or postponing, or in any way

running away from it now. Lucilla sat down again upon her sofa where she

had been sitting, and composed herself with a certain despairing

tranquillity, and trusted in Providence. She had thrown herself on other

occasions, though never at an equally important crisis, upon the

inspiration of the moment, and she felt it would not forsake her now.

"I should be sorry the election was over," said Mr Ashburton, who was

naturally a little agitated too, "if I thought its privileges were over,

and you would not let me come----I shall always think I owe my success

to you; and I would thank you for being so kind--so very kind to me,

if----"

"Oh, dear, no; pray don't say so," cried Lucilla. "I only felt sure that

you were the best man--the only man--for Carlingford."

"I wish I might but prove the best man for something else," said the

candidate nervously; and then he cleared his throat. "I would say you

had been kind if I did not hope--if I was not so very anxious that you

should be something more than kind. It may be vain of me, but I think we

could get on together. I think I could understand you, and do you

justice----Lucilla! what is the matter? Good heavens! is it possible

that I have taken you quite by surprise?"

What caused this question was that Miss Marjoribanks had all at once

changed colour, and given a great start, and put her hand to her breast,

where her heart had taken such a leap that she felt it in her throat.

But it was not because of what Mr Ashburton was saying; it was because

of one of the very commonest sounds of everyday existence--a cab

driving down Grange Lane; but then it was a cab driving in such a way

that you could have sworn there was somebody in it in a terrible hurry,

and who had just arrived by the twelve o'clock train.

"Oh, no, no," said Miss Marjoribanks; "I know you have always done me

more than justice, Mr Ashburton, and so have all my friends; and I am

sure we always will get on well together. I wish you joy with all my

heart, and I wish you every happiness; and I always thought, up to this

very last moment----"

Lucilla stopped again, and once more put her hand to her breast. Her

heart gave another jump, and, if such a thing were possible to a heart,

went off from its mistress altogether, and rushed downstairs bodily to

see who was coming. Yet, with all her agitation, she had still enough

self-control to lift an appealing look--a look which threw herself upon

his mercy, and implored his forbearance--to Mr Ashburton's face.

As for the Member for Carlingford, he was confounded, and could not tell

what to make of it. What was it she had thought up to the very last

moment? Was this a refusal, or was she only putting off his claim, or

was it something altogether independent of him and his intentions that

agitated Lucilla to such an unusual extent? While he sat in his

confusion trying to make it out, the most startling sound interrupted

the interview. The old disused bell that had so often called Dr

Marjoribanks up at night, and which hung near the door of the old

Doctor's room, just over the drawing-room, began to peal through the

silence, as if rung by a hand too impatient to notice what it was with

which it made its summons.

"Papa's bell!" Miss Marjoribanks cried, with a little shriek; and she

got up trembling, and then dropped upon her seat again, and in her

agitated state burst into tears. And Mr Ashburton felt that, under these

most extraordinary circumstances, even so sensible a woman as Lucilla

might be justified in fainting, embarrassing and uncomfortable as that

would be.

"I will go and see what it means," he said, with still half the air of a

man who had a right to go and see, and was, as it were, almost in his

own house. As he turned round, the door bell pealed wildly below in

correction of the mistake. It was evident that somebody wanted admission

who had not a moment to lose, and who was in the habit of pulling wildly

at whatever came in his way. Mr Ashburton went out of the room to see

who it was, a little amused and a little alarmed, but much annoyed at

bottom, as was only natural, at such an interruption. He did not very

well know whether he was accepted or rejected; but it was equally his

duty in either case to put a stop to the ringing of that ghostly bell.

He went away, meaning to return immediately and have it out and know his

fate. And Lucilla, whose heart had come back, having fully ascertained

who it was, and was now choking her with its beating, was left to await

the new event and the new-comer alone.

_Chapter L_

Mr Ashburton went away from Lucilla's side, thinking to come back again,

and clear everything up: but he did not come back. Though he heard

nothing, and saw nothing, that could throw any distinct light on the

state of her mind, yet instinct came to his aid, it is to be supposed,

in the matter. He did not return: and Lucilla sat on her sofa with her

hands clasped together to support her, and her heart leaping in her very

mouth. She was in a perfect frenzy of suspense, listening with her whole

heart and soul; but that did not prevent the same crowd of thoughts

which had been persecuting her for twenty-four hours from keeping up

their wild career as before. What reason had she to suppose that "any

one" had arrived? Who could arrive in that accidental way, without a

word of warning? And what possible excuse had she to offer to herself

for sending the new member for Carlingford--a man so excellent and

honourable and eligible--away? The minutes, or rather the seconds,

passed over Miss Marjoribanks like hours, as she sat thus waiting, not

daring to stir lest the slightest movement might keep from her ears some

sound from below, till at last the interval seemed so long that her

heart began to sink, and her excitement to fail. It could not be any

one--if it had been any one, something more must have come of it before

now. It must have been Lydia Richmond coming to see her sister next

door, or somebody connected with the election, or----

When she got as far as this, Lucilla's heart suddenly mounted up again

with a spring into her ears. She heard neither words nor voice, but she

heard something which had as great an effect upon her as either could

have had. On the landing half-way up the stairs, there had stood in Dr

Marjoribanks's house from time immemorial a little old-fashioned table,

with a large china bowl upon it, in which the cards of visitors were

placed. It was a great bowl, and it was always full, and anybody rushing

upstairs in a reckless way might easily upset table and cards and all in

their progress. This was what happened while Lucilla sat listening.

There was a rumble, a crash, and a sound as of falling leaves, and it

made her heart, as we have said, jump into her ears. "It is the table

and all the cards," said Lucilla--and in that moment her composure came

back to her as by a miracle. She unclasped her hands, which she had been

holding pressed painfully together by way of supporting herself, and she

gave a long sigh of unutterable relief, and her whirl of thought stopped

and cleared up with an instantaneous rapidity. Everything seemed to be

explained by that sound; and there never was a greater change upon the

looks and feelings of any one in this world than that which passed upon

the looks and feelings of Lucilla, in the interval between the drawing

up of that cab and the rush of Tom Marjoribanks at the drawing-room

door.

For after the commotion on the staircase Lucilla had no further doubt on

the subject. She even had the strength to get up to meet him, and hold

out her hands to him by way of welcome--but found herself, before she

knew how, in the arms of a man with a beard, who was so much changed in

his own person that he ventured to kiss her, which was a thing Tom

Marjoribanks, though her cousin, had never dared to do before. He kissed

her--such was his audacity; and then he held her at arm's length to have

a good look at her; and then, according to all appearance, would have

repeated his first salutation, but that Lucilla had come to herself, and

took the reins at once into her hand.

"Tom!" she said, "of course it is you; nobody else would have been so

impertinent. When did you come? Where did you come from? Who could ever

have thought of your appearing like this, in such an altogether

unexpected----?"

"Unexpected!" said Tom, with an astonished air. "But I suppose you had

other things to think of. Ah, Lucilla, I could not write to you. I felt

I ought to be beside you, trying if there was not something I could do.

My mother told you, of course; but I could not trust myself to write to

_you_."

Then Lucilla saw it all, and that Aunt Jemima had meant to do Mr

Ashburton a good turn. And she was not grateful to her aunt, however

kind her intentions might have been. But Tom was holding her hand, and

looking into her face while this thought passed through her mind, and

Miss Marjoribanks was not the woman, under any circumstances, to make

dispeace.

"I am sure I am very glad," said Lucilla. "I would say you were changed,

but only of course that would make you think how I am changed; and

though one knows one has gone off----"

"I never saw you look so nice all your life," cried Tom energetically;

and he took hold of both her hands, and looked into her face more and

more. To be sure he had a kind of right, being a cousin, and newly

returned after so long an absence; but it was embarrassing all the same.

"Oh, Tom, don't say so," cried Lucilla; "if you but knew how different

the house is, and everything so altered--and dear papa!"

It was natural, and indeed it was only proper, that Miss Marjoribanks

should cry--which she did abundantly, partly for grief, and partly

because of the flutter of agitation, and something like joy, in which

she was, and which, considering that she had always frankly owned that

she was fond of Tom, was quite natural too. She cried with honest

abandonment, and did not take much notice what her cousin was doing to

comfort her, though indeed he applied himself to that benevolent office

in the most anxious way.

"Don't cry, Lucilla," he said, "I can't bear it. It don't look natural

to see you cry. My poor uncle was an old man, and you were always the

best daughter in the world----"

"Oh, Tom! sometimes I don't think so," sobbed Lucilla; "sometimes I

think if I had sat up that last night----And you don't know how good he

was. It was me he was thinking of, and never himself. When he heard the

money was lost, all that he said was, Poor Lucilla! You rang his bell

though it is the night-bell, and nobody ever touches it now; I knew it

could be nobody but you; and to see you again brings up everything so

distinctly. Oh, Tom! he was always very fond of you."

"Lucilla," said Tom Marjoribanks, "you know I always had a great regard

for my uncle. But it was not for him I came back. He was never half so

fond of me as I am of you. You know that as well as I do. There never

was a time that I would not have gone to the other end of the world if

you had told me; and I have done it as near as possible. I went to India

because you sent me away. And I have come back----"

"You have not come back only for an hour, I hope?" said Miss

Marjoribanks, with momentary impatience; "you are not obliged to talk of

everything all in a moment--and when one has not even got over one's

surprise at seeing you. When _did_ you come back? When did you have

anything to eat? You want your breakfast or your lunch or something;

and, Tom! the idea of sitting here talking to me, and talking nonsense,

when you have not seen your mother. She is in her own room, you

unnatural boy--the blue room, next to what used to be yours. To think

Aunt Jemima should be in the house, and you should sit here talking

nonsense to me!"

"This minute," said Tom apologetically; but he drew his chair in front

of Miss Marjoribanks, so that she could not get away. "I have come back

to stay as long as you will let me," he said; "don't go away yet. Look

here, Lucilla--if you had married, I would have tried to bear it; but as

long as you are not married, I can't help feeling as if there might be a

chance for me yet. And that is why I have come home. I met somebody

coming downstairs."

"Tom," said Miss Marjoribanks, "it is dreadful to see that you have come

back just as tiresome as ever. I always said I would not marry for ten

years. If you mean to think I have never had any opportunities----"

"Lucilla," said Tom, and there was decision in his eye, "somebody came

downstairs as I came in. I want to know whether it is to be him or me!"

"Him--or you!" said Lucilla, in dismay. Blunderer as he was, he had gone

direct to the very heart of the question, and it was impossible not to

tremble a little in the presence of such straightforward

clear-sightedness. Miss Marjoribanks had risen up to make her escape as

soon as it should be possible, but she was so much struck by Tom's

unlooked-for perspicuity, that she sat down again in her consternation.

"I think you are going out of your mind," she said. "What do you know

about the gentleman who went downstairs? I am not such a wonderful

beauty, nor such a witch, that everybody who sees me should want to--to

marry me. Don't talk any more nonsense, but let me go and get you

something to eat."

"They would if they were of my way of thinking," said the persistent

Tom. "Lucilla, you shan't go. This is what I have come home for. You may

as well know at once, and then there can be no mistake about it. My poor

uncle is gone, and you can't be left by yourself in the world. Will you

have him or me?"

"I am not going to be tyrannised over like this," said Lucilla, with

indignation, again rising, though he still held her hands. "You talk as

if you had just come for a call, and had everything to say in a moment.

When a man comes off a long journey it is his breakfast he wants, and

not a--not anything else that I know of. Go up to your mother, and let

me go."

"Will you have him or me?" repeated Tom. It was not wisdom, is was

instinct, that made him thus hold fast by his text; and as for Lucilla,

nothing but the softened state in which she was, nothing but the fact

that it was Tom Marjoribanks who had been ten years away, and was always

ridiculous, could have kept her from putting down at once such an

attempt to coerce her. But the truth was, that Miss Marjoribanks did not

feel her own mistress at that moment, and perhaps that was why he had

the audacity to repeat, "Will you have him or me?"

Then Lucilla found herself fairly driven to bay. "Tom!" she said, with a

solemnity that overwhelmed him for the moment, for he thought at first,

with natural panic, that it was himself who was being rejected, "I would

not have _him_ if he were to go down on his knees. I know he is very

nice and very agreeable, and the best man----And I am sure I ought to do

it," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a mournful sense of her own weakness;

"and everybody will expect it of me; but I am not going to have him, and

I never meant it, whatever you or anybody may say."

When Lucilla had made this decisive utterance she turned away with a

certain melancholy majesty to go and see after lunch--for he had loosed

her hand and fallen back in consternation, thinking for the moment that

it was all over. Miss Marjoribanks sighed, and turned round, not

thinking of Tom, who was safe enough, but with a natural regret for the

member for Carlingford, who now, poor man, was as much out of the

question as if he had been dead and buried. But before she reached the

door Tom had recovered himself. He went up to her in his ridiculous way

without the slightest regard either for the repast she was so anxious to

prepare for him, or for his mother's feelings, or indeed for anything

else in the world, except the one thing which had brought him, as he

said, home.

"Then, Lucilla, after all, it is to be me," he said, taking her to him,

and arresting her progress as if she had been a baby; and though he had

such a beard, and was twice as big and strong as he used to be, there

were big tears in the great fellow's eyes. "It is to be me after all,"

said Tom, looking at her in a way that startled Lucilla. "Say it is to

be me!"

Miss Marjoribanks had come through many a social crisis with dignity and

composure. She had never yet been known to fail in an emergency. She had

managed Mr Cavendish, and, up to the last moment, Mr Ashburton, and all

the intervening candidates for her favour, with perfect self-control and

command of the situation. Perhaps it was because, as she had herself

said, her feelings had never been engaged. But now, when it was only

Tom--he whom, once upon a time, she had dismissed with affectionate

composure, and given such excellent advice to, and regarded in so

motherly a way--all Lucilla's powers seemed to fail her. It is hard to

have to wind up with such a confession after having so long entertained

a confidence in Lucilla which nothing seemed likely to impair. She broke

down just at the moment when she had most need to have all her wits

about her. Perhaps it was her past agitation which had been too much for

her. Perhaps it was the tears in Tom Marjoribanks's eyes. But the fact

was that Lucilla relinquished her superior position for the time being,

and suffered him to make any assertion he pleased, and was so weak as to

cry, for the second time, too--which, of all things in the world, was

surely the last thing to have been expected of Miss Marjoribanks at the

moment which decided her fate.

Lucilla cried, and acquiesced, and thought of her father and of the

Member for Carlingford, and gave to each a tear and a regret; and she

did not even take the trouble to answer any question, or to think who it

was she was leaning on. It was to be Tom after all--after all the

archdeacons, doctors, generals, members of Parliament--after the ten

years and more in which she had not gone off--after the poor old

Doctor's grudge against the nephew whom he did not wish to inherit his

wealth, and Aunt Jemima's quiet wiles, and attempt to disappoint her

boy. Fate and honest love had been waiting all the time till their

moment came; and now it was not even necessary to say anything about it.

The fact was so clear that it did not require stating. It was to be Tom

after all.

To do him justice, Tom behaved at this moment, in which affairs were

left in his hands, as if he had been training for it all his life.

Perhaps it was the first time in which he had done anything absolutely

without a blunder. He had wasted no time, and no words, and left no room

for consideration, or for that natural relenting towards his rival which

was inevitable as soon as Mr Ashburton was off the field. He had

insisted, and he had perceived that there was but one alternative for

Lucilla. Now that all was over, he took her back to her seat, and

comforted her, and made no offensive demonstrations of triumph. "It is

to be me after all!" he repeated; and it was utterly impossible to add

anything to the eloquent brevity of this succinct statement of the case.

"Tom," said Miss Marjoribanks, when she had a little recovered, "if it

is to be you, that is no reason why you should be so unnatural. Go up

directly and see your mother. What will Aunt Jemima think of me if she

knows I have let you stay talking nonsense here?"

"Yes, Lucilla--this moment," said Tom; but all the same he showed not

the slightest inclination to go away. He did not quite believe in it as

yet, and could not help feeling as if, should he venture to leave her,

the whole fabric of his incredible good fortune must dissolve and melt

away. As for Lucilla, her self-possession gradually came back to her

when the crisis was over, and she felt that her involuntary abdication

had lasted long enough, and that it was full time to take the management

of affairs back into her own hands.

"You shall go _now_," she said, drying her eyes, "or else you cannot

stay here. I thought of letting you stay in the house, as Aunt Jemima is

with me; but if you do not mean to go and tell your mother, I will tell

Nancy to send your things up to the Blue Boar. Ring the bell, please; if

you will not ring the bell, I will do it myself, Tom. You may say what

you like, but I know you are famishing; and Aunt Jemima is in the blue

room, next door to----Oh, here is Nancy. It is Mr Tom, who has come

home," said Lucilla hastily, not without a rising colour; for it was

hard to explain why, when his mother was in the blue room all this

time, he should have stayed here.

"Yes, Miss Lucilla--so I heard," said Nancy, dropping a doubtful

curtsey. And then only Tom was persuaded, and bethought himself of his

natural duty, and rushed upstairs. He seized Nancy's hand, and shook it

violently, as he passed her, to her great consternation. The moment of

his supremacy was over. It was to be Tom after all; but Lucilla had

recovered her self-possession, and taken the helm in her hand again, and

Tom was master of the situation no more.

"Yes, it is Mr Tom," said Lucilla, shaking her head with something

between a smile and a sigh. "It could be nobody but him that would ring

_that_ bell, and upset all the cards. I hope he has not broken dear

papa's punch-bowl that he used to be so fond of. He must have something

to eat, Nancy, though he is such an awkward boy."

"I don't see nothing like a boy in him," said Nancy; "he's big and

stout, and one o' them awful beards. There's been a deal of changes

since he went away; but if he's new comed off that terrible long

journey, it is but natural, as you say, Miss Lucilla, that he should

want something to eat."

And then Miss Marjoribanks made various suggestions, which were received

still doubtfully by her prime minister. Nancy, to tell the truth, did

not like the turn things were taking. Lucilla's maiden household had

been on the whole getting along very comfortably, and there was no

telling how long it might have lasted without any new revolution. To be

sure, Mr Ashburton had looked dangerous, but Nancy had seen a great many

dangers of that kind blow over, and was not easily alarmed. Mr Tom,

however, was a very different person; and Nancy was sufficiently

penetrating to see that something had happened. Therefore, she received

very coldly Lucilla's suggestions about lunch. "It ain't like the old

times," she said at last, "when there was always something as one could

put to the fire in a hurry;" and Nancy stood turning round the handle of

the door in her hand, and contemplating the changed state of affairs

with a sigh.

"That would be all very true if you were like anybody else," said

Lucilla; "but I hope you would not like to send Mr Tom off to the Blue

Boar. After all, perhaps it is better to have a--a gentleman in the

house. I know you always used to think so. They are a great deal of

trouble; but--for some things, you know----" said Lucilla; "and then Mr

Tom is not just like other people; and whatever happens, Nancy, you are

an old dear, and it shall never make any difference between you and me."

When she had said these words, Lucilla gave her faithful servant a hug,

and sent her off to look after Tom Marjoribanks's meal; and then she

herself went half-way downstairs and picked up the cards that were still

scattered about the landing, and found with satisfaction that the

Doctor's old punch-bowl was not broken. All Tom's things were lying

below in the hall--heaps of queer Indian-looking baggage--tossed down

anyhow in a corner, as if the owner had been in much too great a hurry

to think of any secondary circumstances. "And it was there he met poor

Mr Ashburton," said Lucilla to herself, with a certain pathos. There it

was indeed that the encounter had taken place. They had seen each other

but for a moment, but that moment had been enough to send the Member for

Carlingford away dejected, and to impress upon Tom's mind the

alternative that it was either to be "him or me." Miss Marjoribanks

contemplated the spot with a certain tender sentimental interest, as any

gentle moralist might look at a field of battle. What feelings must have

been in the minds of the two as they met and looked at each other! What

a dread sense of disappointment on the one side; what sharp stimulation

on the other! Thus Lucilla stood and looked down from her own landing

upon the scene of that encounter, full of pensive interest. And now it

was all over, and Mr Ashburton had passed away as completely as Mr

Chiltern, who was in his grave, poor man; or Mr Cavendish, who was going

to marry Barbara Lake. The thought of so sudden a revolution made

Lucilla giddy as she went thoughtfully upstairs. Poor Mr Ashburton! It

hardly seemed real even to Miss Marjoribanks when she sat down again in

the drawing-room, and confessed to herself that, after all, it was to be

Tom.

But when he came downstairs again with his mother, Lucilla was quite

herself, and had got over all her weakness. Aunt Jemima, for her part,

was in a very agitated state of mind. Tom had come too soon or Mr

Ashburton too late, and all the fruits of her little bit of treachery

were accordingly lost, and at the same time, the treachery itself

remained, revealed at least to one person in the very clearest light.

It did not seem possible to Aunt Jemima that Lucilla would not tell. If

she had not done it now, in the excitement of the moment, at least it

would come out some time when she was least expecting it, and her son's

esteem and confidence would be lost. Therefore it was with a very blank

countenance that Mrs John Marjoribanks came downstairs. She dared not

say a word, and she had to kiss her niece, and take her to her maternal

bosom, Tom looking on all the while; but she gave Lucilla a look that

was pitiful to see. And when Tom finally was dismissed to his room, to

open his trunks, and show the things he had brought home, Aunt Jemima

drew near her future daughter with wistful guiltiness. There was no

comfort to her in the thought of the India shawl, which her son had gone

to find. Any day, any hour, Lucilla might tell; and if the unlucky

mother were put on her defence, what could she say?

"Lucilla," said the guilty woman, under her breath, "I am sure you think

it very strange. I don't attempt to deceive _you_. I can't tell you how

thankful and glad I am that it has all ended so well; but you know,

Lucilla, in the first place, I did not know what your feelings were; and

I thought, perhaps, that if anything would tell, it would be a surprise,

and then----"

"Did you, Aunt Jemima?" said Miss Marjoribanks, with gentle wonder. "I

thought you had been thinking of Mr Ashburton, for my part."

"And so I was, Lucilla," said the poor lady, with great relief and

eagerness. "I thought he was coming forward, and of course he would have

been a far better match than my Tom. I had to think for you both, my

dear. And then I never knew what your feelings were, nor if you would

care; and then it was not as if there had been a day fixed----"

"Dear Aunt Jemima," said Miss Marjoribanks, "if you are pleased now,

what does it matter? but I do hope you are pleased now?"

And Mrs John took her niece into her arms again this time with better

will, and cried. "I am as happy as ever I can be," said the inconsistent

mother. "I always knew you were fond of each other, Lucilla; before you

knew it yourselves, I saw what would come of it. But my poor

brother-in-law----And you will make my boy happy, and never turn him

against his mother," cried the repentant sinner. Lucilla was not the

woman to resist such an appeal. Mrs John had meant truly enough towards

her in other ways, if not in this way; and Miss Marjoribanks was fond of

her aunt, and it ended in a kiss of peace freely bestowed, and a vow of

protection and guidance from the strong to the weak, though the last was

only uttered in the protectress's liberal heart.

_Chapter LI_

When Miss Marjoribanks had time to consider the prospect which had thus

so suddenly opened before her, it also had its difficulties, like

everything else in the world. Her marriage now could not be the

straightforward business it might have been had it been Mr Ashburton

instead of Tom. In that case she would have gone to an established house

and life--to take her place in the one and her share in the other, and

to find the greater part of her surroundings and duties already fixed

for her, which was a thing that would have very greatly simplified the

matter. But Tom, who had dashed home from India at full speed as soon as

he heard of his uncle's death, had left his profession behind him at

Calcutta, and had nothing to do in England, and was probably too old to

resume his (non) practice at the bar, even if he had been in the least

disposed to do so; while, at the same time, an idle man--a man to be

found everlastingly at home--would have been insupportable to Lucilla.

Miss Marjoribanks might feel disposed (for everybody's good) to assume

the sovereign authority in her own house, but to marry anybody that

would be merely an appendage to her was a thing not to be thought of;

and as soon as the first preliminaries were arranged her active mind

sprang up with redoubled vigour from the maze in which it had been. Her

intelligence had suspended, so to speak, all its ordinary operations for

twenty-four hours at least, while it was busy investigating the purely

personal question: from the moment when the Member for Carlingford was

finally elected until Tom Marjoribanks rang the night-bell at the old

Doctor's door, Lucilla's thoughts had been in that state of

over-stimulation and absorption which is almost as bad as having no

power of thought at all. But as soon as the pressure was removed--as

soon as it was all over, and the decision made, and no further question

was possible--then Miss Marjoribanks's active mind sprang up with

renewed energy. For it was not only a new beginning, but everything had

to be settled and arranged.

Her mind was full of it while her hands were busy putting away all the

Indian presents which Tom had brought--presents which were chronological

in their character, and which he had begun to accumulate from the very

beginning of his exile. It could not but be touching to Lucilla to see

how he had thought of her for all these years; but her mind being, as

everybody is aware, of a nobly practical kind, her thoughts, instead of

dallying with these tokens of the past, went forward with serious

solicitude into the future. The marriage could not take place until the

year was out; and there was, accordingly, time to arrange everything,

and to settle all the necessary preliminaries to a point as near

perfection as is possible to merely human details. Tom, no doubt, was

very urgent and pressing, and would have precipitated everything, and

had the whole business concluded to-morrow, if he could have had his

way. But the fact was that, having once given in to him in the memorable

way which we have already recorded, Lucilla did not now, so far as the

final arrangements were concerned, make much account of Tom's wishes.

Heaven be praised, there was one of the two who knew what was right and

proper, and was not to be moved from the correct path by any absurd

representations. Miss Marjoribanks was revolving all these important

questions when she laid her hand by chance, as people say, upon the

_Carlingford Gazette_, all damp and inky, which had just been laid upon

the library table. It contained, of course, all the news of the

election, but Lucilla was too well acquainted with that beforehand to

think of condescending to derive her information from a newspaper. She

looked at the advertisements with an eye which saw all that was there

without pausing upon anything in particular. She saw the usual notice

about marmalade oranges, and the announcement that young Mr Vincent, who

after that made himself so well known in Carlingford, was to preach the

next Sunday in Salem Chapel, and all the other important novelties in

the place; but naturally she took but a moderate amount of interest in

such details as these.

Suddenly, however, Lucilla's eye, which, if it could ever be said to be

vacant, had been regarding vacantly the list of advertisements, kindled

up, and all its usual energy and intelligence came back to it. Her

thoughtful face woke up as from a dream. Her head, which had been

drooping in pensive meditation, grew erect--her whole figure expanded.

She clasped her hands together, as if in the fervour of the moment,

nobody else being present, she could not refrain from shaking hands with

herself, and giving vent to a self-congratulation. "It is a special

providence," said Lucilla to herself, with her usual piety; and then she

folded up the paper in a little square, with the announcement in the

middle which had struck her so much, and placed it where Tom could not

fail to see it when he came in, and went upstairs with a new and

definite direction given to her thoughts. That was how it must be!

Lucilla, for her part, felt no difficulty in discerning the leadings of

Providence, and she could not but appreciate the readiness with which

her desires were attended to, and the prompt clearing-up of her

difficulties. There are people whose inclinations Providence does not

seem to superintend with such painstaking watchfulness; but then, no

doubt, that must be their own fault.

And when Tom came in, they had what Aunt Jemima called "one of their

discussions" about their future life, although the only thing in it

worthy consideration, so far as Tom was concerned, seemed to be the time

when they should be married, which occupied at present all that hero's

faculties. "Everything else will arrange itself after, you know," he

said, with calm confidence. "Time enough for all the rest. The thing is,

Lucilla, to decide when you will leave off those formalities, and let It

be. Why shouldn't it be now? Do you think my uncle would wish to keep us

unhappy all for an idea?"

"My dear Tom, I am not in the least unhappy," said Lucilla, interrupting

him sweetly, "nor you either, unless you tell dreadful stories; and as

for poor dear papa," Miss Marjoribanks added, with a sigh, "if we were

to do exactly as _he_ wished, I don't think It would ever be. If you

were not so foolish, you would not oblige me to say such things. Tom,

let us leave off talking nonsense--the thing that we both want is

something to do."

"That is what _I_ want," said Tom quickly, "but as for you, Lucilla, you

shall do nothing but enjoy yourself and take care of yourself. The idea

of _you_ wanting something to do!"

Miss Marjoribanks regarded her betrothed with mild and affectionate

contempt as he thus delivered himself of his foolish sentiments. "It is

of no use trying to make him understand," she said, with an air of

resignation. "Do you know that I have always been doing something, and

responsible for something, all my life?"

"Yes, my poor darling," said Tom, "I know; but now you are in my hands I

mean to take care of you, Lucilla; you shall have no more anxiety or

trouble. What is the good of a man if he can't save the woman he is fond

of from all that?" cried the honest fellow--and Lucilla could not but

cast a despairing glance round her, as if appealing to heaven and earth.

What was to be done with a man who had so little understanding of her,

and of himself, and of the eternal fitness of things?

"My dear Tom," she said once more, mildly, "we may have lost some money,

but we are very well off, and Providence has been very kind to us. And

there are a great many poor people in the world who are not so well off.

I have always tried to be of some use to my fellow-creatures," said

Lucilla, "and I don't mean, whatever you may say, to give it up now."

"My dearest Lucilla, if it was the poor you were thinking of----! I

might have known it was something different from my stupid notions,"

cried Tom. This kind of adoration was new to Lucilla, notwithstanding

her many experiences. And he thought it so good of her to condescend to

be good, that she could not help thinking a little better of herself

than ordinary, though that, perhaps, was not absolutely needful; and

then she proceeded with the elucidation of her views.

"I have been of some use to my fellow-creatures in my way," said Miss

Marjoribanks modestly, "but it has been hard work, and people are not

always grateful, you know. And then things are a good deal changed in

Carlingford. A woman may devote herself to putting some life into

society, and give up years of her time, and--and even her opportunities

and all that, and do a great deal of good; but yet if she is put aside

for a moment, there is an end of it. I have been doing the best I could

for Carlingford for ten years," said Lucilla, with a little natural

sadness, "and if any one were to examine into it, where is it all now?

They have only got into the way of looking to me; and I do believe if

you were to go up and down from Elsworthy's to St Roque's, though you

might find people at dinner here and there, you would not find a shadow

of what could really be called society in all Grange Lane!"

Lucilla paused, for naturally her feelings were moved, and while Tom

bent over her with tender and respectful devotion, it was not to be

wondered at if Miss Marjoribanks, in the emotion of her heart, should

wipe away a tear.

"After working at it for ten years!" said Lucilla; "and now, since poor

papa died, who was always full of discrimination----This is what will

come of it, Tom," she added solemnly--"they will go back to their old

ridiculous parties, as if they had never seen anything better; and they

will all break up into little cliques, and make their awful morning

calls and freeze one another to death. That will be the end of it all,

after one has slaved like a--like a woman in a mill," said the

disappointed reformer, "and given up ten years."

"My poor darling!" cried Tom, who would have liked to go and challenge

Carlingford for being so insensible to his Lucilla's devotion and

cherishing maternal care.

"But if it had been the poor," said Miss Marjoribanks, recovering her

spirits a little, "they could not help being the better for what one did

for them. They might continue to be as stupid as ever, and ungrateful,

and all that; but if they were warm and comfortable, instead of cold and

hungry, it would always make a difference. Tom, I will tell you what you

will do if you want to please me. You will take all our money and

realise it, you know, whatever that means, and go off directly, as fast

as the train can carry you, and buy an Estate."

"An estate!" cried Tom, in consternation; and the magnitude of the word

was such, and Lucilla was so entirely in earnest, that he jumped from

his chair and gazed at her as if constrained, notwithstanding his

amazement, to rush off instantly and obey.

"I did not mean just this moment," said Lucilla; "sit down and we can

talk it all over, Tom. You know it would be something for you to do; you

cannot just go living on like this at your age; you could improve the

land, you know, and do all that sort of thing, and the people you could

leave to me."

"But Lucilla," said Tom, recovering a little from his consternation, "it

is not so easy buying an estate. I mean all that I have to be settled

upon you, in case of anything happening. Land may be a safe enough

investment; but you know, very often, Lucilla--the fact is, it doesn't

pay."

"_We_ could make it pay," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a benevolent

smile, "and besides there are estates and estates. I don't want you to

go and throw away your money. It was in the _Carlingford Gazette_ this

morning, and I can't help feeling it was a special providence. Of course

you never looked at it in the paper, though I marked it for you. Tom, it

is Marchbank that I want you to buy. You know how papa used to talk of

it. He used to say it was just a nice little property that a gentleman

could manage. If he had been spared," said Lucilla, putting her

handkerchief to her eyes, "and these wicked dreadful people had not

failed, nor nothing happened, I know he would have bought it himself.

Dear papa! and he would have given it to me; and most likely, so far as

one can tell, it would have come to you at the last, and you would have

been Marjoribanks of Marchbank, like our great-great-grandpapa; and that

is what I want you to do."

Lucilla's proposition, as it thus unfolded itself, took away Tom

Marjoribanks's breath, for notwithstanding that it came from a (young)

lady, and was confused by some slightly unintelligible conditions about

doing good to one's fellow-creatures, it was not a trifling or romantic

suggestion. Tom, too, could remember Marchbank, and his uncle's interest

in it, and the careful way in which he explained to the ignorant that

this was the correct pronunciation of his own name. While Lucilla made

her concluding address, Tom seemed to see himself a little fellow, with

his eyes and his ears very wide open, trotting about with small steps

after the Doctor, as he went over the red-brick house and neglected

gardens at Marchbank: it was only to be let then, and had passed through

many hands, and was in miserable case, both lands and house. But neither

the lands nor the house were bad of themselves, and Tom was, like

Lucilla, perfectly well aware that something might be made of them.

This idea gave a new direction to his thoughts. Though he had been

brought up to the bar, he had never been a lover of town, and was in

reality, like so many young Englishmen, better qualified to be something

in the shape of a country gentleman than for any other profession in the

world; and he had left his profession behind, and was in most urgent

want of something to do. He did not give in at once with a lover's

abject submission, but thought it over for twenty-four hours at all his

spare moments,--when he was smoking his evening cigar in the garden,

and studying the light in his lady's window, and when he ought to have

been asleep, and again in the morning when he sallied forth, before Miss

Marjoribanks's blinds were drawn up or the house had fairly awoke. He

was not a man of brilliant ability, but he had that sure and steady eye

for the real secret of a position which must have been revealed to every

competent critic by the wonderful clear-sightedness with which he saw,

and the wise persistence with which he held to the necessity of an

immediate choice between himself and Mr Ashburton. He had seen that

there was but one alternative, and he had suffered no delay nor

divergence from the question in hand. And it was this same quality which

had helped him to the very pretty addition to his small patrimony which

he had meant to settle on Lucilla, and which would now make the

acquisition of Marchbank an easy thing enough. And though Tom had looked

wise on the subject of investment in land, it was a kind of investment

in every way agreeable to him. Thus Lucilla's arrow went straight to the

mark--straighter even than she had expected; for besides all the other

and more substantial considerations, there was to Tom's mind a sweet

sense of poetic justice in the thought that, after his poor uncle's

failure, who had never thought him good enough for Lucilla, it should be

he and no other who would give this coveted possession to his cousin.

Had Marchbank been in the market in Dr Marjoribanks's time, it was, as

Lucilla herself said, his money that would have bought it; but in such a

case, so far as the Doctor was concerned, there would have been little

chance for Tom. Now all that was changed, and it was in Tom's hands that

the wealth of the family lay. It was he who was the head, and could

alone carry out what Lucilla's more original genius suggested. If the

Doctor could but have seen it, he who had formed plans so very

different--but perhaps by that time Dr Marjoribanks had found out that

Providence after all had not been so ill-advised as he once thought in

committing to his care such a creative intelligence as that of Lucilla,

and withholding from him "the boy."

As for Miss Marjoribanks, after she had made up her mind and stated her

conviction, she gave herself no further trouble on the subject, but took

it for granted, with that true wisdom which is unfortunately so rare

among women. She did not talk about it overmuch, or display any feverish

anxiety about Marchbank, but left her suggestion to work, and had faith

in Tom. At the same time, the tranquillising sense of now knowing, to a

certain extent, what lay before her came into Lucilla's mind. It would

be a new sphere, but a sphere in which she would find herself at home.

Still near enough to Carlingford to keep a watchful eye upon society and

give it the benefit of her experience, and yet at the same time

translated into a new world, where her influence might be of untold

advantage, as Lucilla modestly said, to her fellow-creatures. There was

a village not far from the gates at Marchbank, where every kind of

village nuisance was to be found. There are people who are very tragical

about village nuisances, and there are other people who assail them with

loathing, as a duty forced upon their consciences; but Lucilla was

neither of the one way of thinking nor of the other. It gave her the

liveliest satisfaction to think of all the disorder and disarray of the

Marchbank village. Her fingers itched to be at it--to set all the

crooked things straight, and clean away the rubbish, and set everything,

as she said, on a sound foundation. If it had been a model village, with

prize flower-gardens and clean as Arcadia, the thought of it would not

have given Miss Marjoribanks half so much pleasure. The recollection of

all the wretched hovels and miserable cottages exhilarated her heart.

"They may be as stupid and ungrateful as they like," she said to

herself, "but to be warm and comfortable instead of cold and hungry

always makes a difference." Perhaps it was not the highest motive

possible, and it might be more satisfactory to some people to think of

Lucilla as actuated by lofty sentiments of philanthropy; but to persons

acquainted with Miss Marjoribanks's character, her biographer would

scorn to make any pretence. What would be the good of a spirit full of

boundless activity and benevolent impulses if there was nobody to

help?--what would be the use of self-devotion if the race in general

stood in no need of charitable ministrations? Lucilla had been of use to

her fellow-creatures all her life; and though she was about to

relinquish one branch of usefulness, that was not to say that she should

be prevented from entering into another. The state of the Marchbank

village did her good to the very bottom of her soul. It justified her to

herself for her choice of Tom, which, but for this chance of doing good,

might perhaps have had the air of a merely selfish personal preference.

Now she could regard it in a loftier light, and the thought was sweet

to Lucilla; for such a beautiful way of helping her neighbour would no

doubt have been to a certain extent impracticable amid the many

occupations of the Member's wife.

Perhaps the most difficult thing in Miss Marjoribanks's way at this

otherwise satisfactory moment was the difficulty she found in persuading

society, first of the reality, and then of the justice, of the step she

had taken. Most of them, to tell the truth, had forgotten all about Tom

Marjoribanks. It is true that when Lucilla's intentions and prospects

were discussed in Grange Lane, as they had been so often, it was not

uncommon for people to say, "There was once a cousin, you know"; but

nobody had ever given very much heed to the suggestion. When Lucilla

went to tell Mrs Chiley of what had happened, she was but inadequately

prepared for the surprise with which her intelligence was received. For

it all seemed natural enough to Miss Marjoribanks. She had gone on very

steadily for a long time, without thinking particularly about anybody,

and disposed to accept the most eligible and satisfactory person who

happened to present himself; but all the time there had been a warm

corner in her heart for Tom. And then the eligible person had not come,

and she had been worried and wearied, and had had her losses, like most

other people. And it had always been pleasant to remember that there was

one man in the world who, if she but held out a finger to him----But

then the people in Grange Lane were not capable of discrimination on

such a delicate subject, and had never, as was to be expected, had the

smallest insight into Lucilla's heart.

"You have something to tell me, Lucilla?" said old Mrs Chiley. "You need

not say no, for I can see it in your eyes. And how lucky it is the

Colonel is out, and we can have it all to ourselves! Come here and sit

by me, and tell me all--every word."

"Dear Mrs Chiley," said Lucilla, "you can always see what one means

before one says a word. And it has all happened so suddenly; but the

very first thing I thought of doing was to come and tell you."

Mrs Chiley gave her young friend, who was leaning over her, a hug, which

was the only answer which could be made to so touching a speech, and

drew Lucilla down upon a low chair that had been placed by the side of

her sofa. She kept Miss Marjoribanks's hand in her own, and caressed it,

and looked at her with satisfaction in every line of her face. After

waiting so long, and having so many disappointments, everything was

going to turn out so entirely as it ought to do at last.

"I think I know what you are going to tell me, my dear," said Mrs

Chiley; "and I am so pleased, Lucilla. I only wonder you did not give me

a hint from the very first. You remember I asked you when you came here

that snowy evening. I was a hard-hearted old woman, and I dare say you

were very vexed; but I am so glad to think that the Colonel never stood

out against him, but gave his consent that very day."

This was the moment, if there ever was such a moment, when Lucilla lost

courage. Mrs Chiley was so entirely confident as to what was coming, and

it was something so different that was really coming; and it was hard

upon Miss Marjoribanks to feel that she was about to disappoint

everybody's expectations. She had to clear her throat before she

spoke--she who was generally so ready for every emergency; and she could

not help feeling for the moment as if she was a young girl who had run

away with somebody, and deceived all her anxious friends.

"Dear Mrs Chiley, I am afraid I am not going to say what you expected,"

said Lucilla. "I am very comfortable and happy, and I think it's for the

best; and I am so anxious that you should like him; but it is not the

person you are thinking of. It is----"

Here the old lady, to Lucilla's surprise, rose up upon her pillows and

threw her arms round her, and kissed her over again, and fell a-crying.

"I always said how generous you were, Lucilla," cried Mrs Chiley. "I

knew it from the first. I was always fond of him, you know; and now that

he has been beaten, poor dear, and disappointed, you've gone and made it

up to him! Lucilla, other people may say what they like, but it is just

what I always expected of you!"

This unlooked-for burst of enthusiasm took Lucilla entirely by surprise.

She could not say in reply that Mr Cavendish did not want her to make it

up to him; but the fact that this was the only alternative which

occurred to Mrs Chiley filled Miss Marjoribanks with a sense of

something like positive guilt. She had deceived everybody, and raised

false expectations, and how was she to explain herself? It was with

humility and embarrassment that she spoke.

"I don't know what you will say when you hear who it really is," she

said. "He has been fond of me all this time, though he has been so far

away. He went to India because I sent him, and he came back as soon as

ever he heard about--what had happened. And what could I do? I could not

be so ungrateful or so hard-hearted _again_, as to send him away?"

"Lucilla, who is it?" said Mrs Chiley, growing pale--for she generally

had a little wintry bloom on her cheek like the China roses she was so

fond of. "Don't keep me like this in suspense."

"Dear Mrs Chiley," said Lucilla, with the brevity of excitement, "I

don't see what other person in the world it could be but my cousin Tom."

Poor Mrs Chiley started, so that the sofa and Lucilla's chair and the

very room shook. She said herself afterwards that she felt as if

somebody had discharged a pistol into her breast. She was so shocked and

startled that she threw off all her coverings and the Afghanistan

blanket Mrs Beverley had sent, and put her tottering old feet to the

floor; and then she took her young friend solemnly by both her hands.

"Oh, Lucilla, my poor dear!" she cried, "you have gone and done it

without thinking what you were doing. You have taken it into your head

that it was all over, and that there was nothing more to look for. And

you are only nine-and-twenty, Lucilla; and many a girl marries very

well--better than common--long after she's nine-and-twenty; and I know

for a fact--oh! my poor dear child, I know for a _certain_ fact!--that

Mr Ashburton was coming forward. He as good as said it to Lady Richmond,

Lucilla. He as good as said, as soon as the election was over--and now

you have gone and got impatient, and thrown yourself away!"

Miss Marjoribanks was quite carried away for the moment by this flood of

sorrowful eloquence. She was silenced, and had nothing to answer, and

accepted it as in some respect the just penalty for the disappointment

she was causing everybody. She let Mrs Chiley say out her say, and then

she restored the old lady to her sofa, and made her comfortable, and

covered her up with all her wraps and blankets. Though she ran on in a

feeble strain all the time weeping and lamenting, Lucilla took no

notice. She wrapped her old friend up, and put her pillows just as she

liked them, and sat down again on the low chair; and by that time the

poor old lady had sunk into a faint sob of vexation and disappointment,

and had given her remonstrances up.

"Now, I will tell you all about it," said Miss Marjoribanks. "I knew you

would be surprised; and if it would be any comfort to you, dear Mrs

Chiley, to know that Mr Ashburton _did_----"

"And you refused him, Lucilla?" Mrs Chiley asked, with horror in her

face.

"Ought I to have accepted him when there was somebody I liked better?"

said Lucilla, with the force of conscious virtue, "and you used always

to say just the contrary. One great thing that supported me was, that

_you_ would be sure to understand. I did not know it at the time," said

Miss Marjoribanks, with sweet confidence and simplicity, "but I see it

all now. Why it never came to anything before, you know, was that I

never could in my heart have accepted anybody but Tom."

Mrs Chiley turned round with unaffected surprise, which was not

unmingled with awe. Up to this moment she had been under the impression

that it was the blindness, and folly, and stupidity of the gentlemen

which had kept it from ever coming to anything. It was altogether a new

light that broke upon her now, confusing, though on the whole

satisfactory; but for the moment she was struck dumb, and had no answer

to make.

"I never knew it myself until--quite lately," said Miss Marjoribanks,

with confidential tenderness, "and I don't think I could tell it to any

one but you. Dear Mrs Chiley, you have always taken such an interest in

me! I sent him away, you know, and thought I was only fond of him

because he was my cousin. And then there were all the others, and some

of them were very nice; but always when it came to the point--And it

never came into my head that Tom was at the bottom of it all--never till

the other day."

Mrs Chiley was still so much confounded by this unexpected revelation

that it was some time before she could find her voice; and even now the

light penetrated slowly into her mind, and it was only by degrees that

she accepted the new fact thus presented to her faith--that it was not

the gentlemen who were to blame--that it was all Lucilla's or rather Tom

Marjoribanks's fault.

"And Mr Ashburton, Lucilla?" she asked faintly.

"I am very sorry," said Miss Marjoribanks, "very, very sorry; but I

don't think I can blame myself that I gave him encouragement, you know.

I may have been foolish at other times, but I am sure I was very careful

with him. It was all the election that was to blame. I spoke very

frankly to him," Lucilla added, "for I knew he was a man to do me

justice; and it will always be a comfort to me to think that we had

our--our explanation, you know, before I knew it was Tom."

"Well, Lucilla, it is a great change," said Mrs Chiley, who could not

reconcile herself to the new condition of affairs. "I don't mean to

pretend that I can make up my mind to it all at once. It seems so

strange that you should have been setting your heart on some one all

these ten years, and never saying a word; I wonder how you could do it.

And when people were always in the hopes that you would marry at home,

as it were, and settle in Carlingford. I am sure your poor dear papa

would be as much astonished as anybody. And I suppose now he will take

you away to Devonshire, where his mother lives, and we shall never see

you any more." And once more Mrs Chiley gave a little sob. "The Firs

would almost have been as good as Grange Lane," she said, "and the

Member for Carlingford, Lucilla!"

As for Miss Marjoribanks, she knelt down by the side of the sofa and

took her old friend, as well as the blankets and pillows would permit,

into her arms.

"Dear Mrs Chiley, we are going to buy Marchbank and settle," said

Lucilla, weeping a little for company. "You could not think I would ever

go far away from you. And as for being Member for Carlingford, there are

Members for counties too," Miss Marjoribanks said in her excitement. It

was a revelation which came out unawares, and which she never intended

to utter; but it threw a gleam of light over the new world of ambition

and progress which was opened to Lucilla's far-seeing vision; and Mrs

Chiley could not but yield to the spell of mingled awe and sympathy

which thrilled through her as she listened. It was not to be supposed

that what Lucilla did was done upon mere unthinking impulse; and when

she thought of Marchbank, there arose in Mrs Chiley's mind "the slow

beginnings of content."

"But, Lucilla," the old lady said with solemnity, as she gave her a last

kiss of reconciliation and peace, "if all Grange Lane had taken their

oaths to it, I never could have believed, had you not told me, that,

after all, it was to be Tom!"

_Chapter the Last_

This was the hardest personal encounter which Miss Marjoribanks was

subjected to; but when the news circulated in Grange Lane there was

first a dead pause of incredulity and amazement, and then such a

commotion as could be compared to nothing except a sudden squall at sea.

People who had been going peaceably on their way at one moment, thinking

of nothing, were to be seen the next buffeted by the wind of Rumour and

tossed about on the waves of Astonishment. To speak less metaphorically

(but there are moments of emotion so overwhelming and unprecedented that

they can be dealt with only in the language of metaphor), every

household in Grange Lane, and at least half of the humbler houses in

Grove Street, and a large proportion of the other dwellings in

Carlingford, were nearly as much agitated about Lucilla's marriage as if

it had been a daughter of their own. Now that he was recalled to their

minds in such a startling way, people began to recollect with greater

and greater distinctness that "there was once a cousin, you know," and

to remember him in his youth, and even in his boyhood, when he had been

much in Carlingford. And by degrees the Grange Lane people came to see

that they knew a great deal about Tom, and to remind each other of the

abrupt end of his last visit, and of his going to India immediately

after, and of many a little circumstance in Lucilla's looks and general

demeanour which this _dénouement_ seemed to make plain.

Lady Richmond, though she was a little annoyed about Mr Ashburton's

disappointment, decided at once that it was best to ignore that

altogether, and was quite glad to think that she had always said there

must be somebody. "She bore up a great deal too well against all her

little disappointments," she said, when discussing the matter. "When a

girl does that one may be always sure there is somebody behind--and you

know I always said, when she was not just talking or busy, that there

was a preoccupation in Lucilla's eye." This was a speech which Mrs

Woodburn, as might have been expected, made a great deal of--but,

notwithstanding, it had its effect in Grange Lane. Going back upon their

recollections, most people were able to verify the fact that Miss

Marjoribanks had borne her little disappointments very well, and that

there was sometimes a preoccupation in her eye. The first was beyond

dispute; and as for the second, it was a thing which did not require a

very great stretch of imagination to suppose--and the unexpected

sensation of finding at last a distinct bit of romance to round off

Lucilla's history, was pleasant to most people. If she had married Mr

Ashburton, it would have been (so far as anything connected with Miss

Marjoribanks could be) a commonplace conclusion. But now she had upset

everybody's theories, and made an altogether original and unlooked-for

ending for herself, which was a thing to have been expected from

Lucilla, though nobody could have foreseen the special turn which her

originality would take.

And nothing could have come in more appropriately after the election,

when people felt the blank of ordinary existence just beginning to

settle down upon them again. It kept all Carlingford in conversation for

a longer time than might be supposed in these busy days; for there was

not only the fact itself, but what _they_ were to do, and where they

were to go, to be discussed. And then Tom himself began to be visible

about Grange Lane; and he had heaps of Indian things among his baggage,

and recollected so affectionately the people he used to know, and

dispensed his curiosities with such a liberal hand, that the heart of

Carlingford was touched. He had a way of miscalculating distances, as

has been said, and exercised some kind of magnetic influence upon all

the little tables and unsteady articles of furniture, which somehow

seemed to fall if he but looked at them. But, on the other hand, John

Brown, who had in hand the sale of Marchbank, found him the most

straightforward and clear-headed of clients. The two had all the

preliminaries arranged before any other intending purchaser had time to

turn the matter over in his mind. And Tom had the old brick house full

of workmen before anybody knew it was his. When the summer had fairly

commenced he went over and lived there, and saw to everything, and went

so far as to fit up the drawing-room with the same well-remembered tint

of pale green which had been found ten years ago to suit so well with

Lucilla's complexion. It was perhaps a little hazardous to repeat the

experiment, for green, as everybody knows, is a very trying colour; but

it was a most touching and triumphant proof that to Tom, at least,

Lucilla was as young as ever, and had not even begun to go off. It was

Mr Holden who supplied everything, and he was naturally proud of the

trust thus reposed in him, and formed the very highest opinion of his

customer; and it was probably from his enthusiasm on this subject that

might be traced the commencement of that singular revolution of

sentiment in Grange Lane, which suddenly woke up all in an instant

without knowing how, to recognise the existence of Mr Marjoribanks, and

to forget the undue familiarity which had ventured upon the name of Tom.

When Lucilla went over in the most proper and decorous way, under the

charge of Aunt Jemima, to see her future home, the sight of the village

at Marchbank was sweet to her eyes. That it was not by any means sweet

to any other sense did but enhance Miss Marjoribanks's satisfaction. "A

year after this!" she said to herself, and her bosom swelled; for to

realise clearly how much she had it in her power to do for her

fellow-creatures was indeed a pleasure. It occupied her a great deal

more than the gardens did, which Tom was arranging so carefully, or even

than the kitchen, which she inspected for the information of Nancy; for

at that time the drawing-room was not fitted up. Lucilla's eyes went

over the moral wilderness with the practical glance of a statesman, and,

at the same time, the sanguine enthusiasm of a philanthropist. She saw

of what it was capable, and already, in imagination, the desert

blossomed like a rose before her beneficent steps, and the sweet sense

of well-doing rose in her breast. And then to see Tom at Marchbank was

to see his qualities. He was not a man of original mind, nor one who

would be likely to take a bold initiative. Considering all the

circumstances, that was a gift which was scarcely to be wished for; but

he had a perfect genius for carrying out a suggestion, which, it need

scarcely be added, was a faculty that, considering the good fortune

which Providence had so long reserved for him, made his character as

near perfect as humanity permits. Lucilla felt, indeed, as she drove

away, that approbation of Providence which a well-regulated mind, in

possession of most things which it desires, might be expected to feel.

Other delusive fancies _had_ one time and another swept across her

horizon; but after all there could be no doubt that only thus could she

have been fitly mated, and full development afforded to all the

resources of her spirit. As the carriage passed the Firs she sighed and

put down her veil with a natural sentiment; but still she felt it was

for the best. The Member for Carlingford must be a busy man, occupied

about his own affairs, and with little leisure for doing good to his

fellow-creatures except in a parliamentary way. "And there are members

for counties as well," Lucilla, in the depths of her soul, said to

herself. Then there rose up before her a vision of a parish saved, a

village reformed, a county reorganised, and a triumphant election at the

end, the recompense and crown of all, which should put the government of

the country itself, to a certain extent, into competent hands. This was

the celestial vision which floated before Miss Marjoribanks's eyes as

she drove into Carlingford, and recollected, notwithstanding occasional

moments of discouragement, the successful work she had done, and the

good she had achieved in her native town. It was but the natural

culmination of her career that transferred her from the town to the

county, and held out to her the glorious task of serving her generation

in a twofold way, among the poor and among the rich. If a momentary sigh

for Grange Lane, which was about to lose her, breathed from her lips, it

was sweetened by a smile of satisfaction for the county which was about

to gain her. The lighter preface of life was past, and Lucilla had the

comfort of feeling that its course had been full of benefit to her

fellow-creatures; and now a larger sphere opened before her feet, and

Miss Marjoribanks felt that the arrangements of Providence were on the

whole full of discrimination, and that all was for the best, and she had

not lived in vain.

This being the case, perhaps it is not necessary to go much further into

detail. Mr Ashburton never said anything about his disappointment, as

might have been expected. When he did mention that eventful day at all,

he said that he had happened accidentally to be calling on Miss

Marjoribanks the day her cousin came home, and saw at once the state of

affairs; and he sent her a very nice present when she was married. After

all, it was not her fault. If Providence had ordained that it was to be

Tom, how could Lucilla fly in the face of such an ordinance? and, at the

same time, there was to both parties the consoling reflection, that

whatever might happen to them as individuals, the best man had been

chosen for Carlingford, which was an abiding benefit to all concerned.

Under all the circumstances, it was to be looked for that Miss

Marjoribanks's spirits should improve even in her mourning, and that the

tenacity with which she clung to her father's house should yield to the

changed state of affairs. This was so much the case, that Lucilla took

heart to show Mrs Rider all over it, and to point out all the

conveniences to her, and even, with a sigh, to call her attention to the

bell which hung over the Doctor's bedroom door. "It breaks my heart to

hear it," Miss Marjoribanks said; "but still Dr Rider will find it a

great convenience." It was a very nice house; and so the new Doctor's

wife, who had not been used to anything so spacious, was very willing to

say; and instead of feeling any grudge against the man who was thus in

every respect to take her father's place, so sweet are the softening

influences of time and personal well-being, that Lucilla, who was always

so good-natured, made many little arrangements for their comfort, and

even _left the carpets_, which was a thing nobody could have expected of

her, and which Aunt Jemima did not scruple to condemn. "They are all

fitted," Lucilla said, "and if they were taken up they would be spoiled;

and besides, we could have no use for them at Marchbank." It was a very

kind thing to do, and simplified matters very much for the Riders, who

were not rich. But Aunt Jemima, in the background, could not but pull

Lucilla's sleeve, and mutter indistinct remarks about a valuation, which

nobody paid any particular attention to at the moment, as there were so

many things much more important to think of and to do.

And the presents that came pouring in from every quarter were enough to

have made up for twenty carpets. Lucilla got testimonials, so to speak,

from every side, and all Carlingford interested itself, as has been

said, in all the details of the marriage, as if it had been a daughter

of its own. "And yet it is odd to think that, after all, I shall never

be anything but Lucilla Marjoribanks!" she said, in the midst of all her

triumphs, with a certain pensiveness. If there could be any name that

would have suited her better, or is surrounded by more touching

associations, we leave it to her other friends to find out; for at the

moment of taking leave of her, there is something consoling to our own

mind in the thought that Lucilla can now suffer no change of name. As

she was in the first freshness of her youthful daring, when she rose

like the sun upon the chaos of society in Carlingford, so is she now as

she goes forth into the County to carry light and progress there. And

in this reflection there is surely comfort for the few remaining

malcontents, whom not even his own excellent qualities, and Lucilla's

happiness, can reconcile to the fact that after all it was Tom.

End of Project Gutenberg's Miss Marjoribanks, by Mrs (Margaret) Oliphant