 CHAPTER 52 When Miss March Banks 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 which 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 March Banks 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 vigor from the strange world which it had been in. Her intelligence had suspended, so to speak, all its ordinary operations for 24 hours at least, while it was busy investigating the purely personal question, from the moment when the member of her carlingford was finally elected until Tom March Banks rung the nightbell at the old doctor's door, Lucilla's thoughts had been in that state of overstimulation, 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 March Banks' active mind sprang up as with redoubled energy. It was not only a new beginning, but there was everything to settle. Her mind was full of it while her hands were busy putting away all the Indian presence, 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 nobler, practical kind, her thoughts it set 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 appoint 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 tomorrow if he could have had his way, but the fact was that, having once given into 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 Marchbanks was revolving all these important questions when she laid her hands 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 afterwards 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. 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 us 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 fervor of the moment, nobody else being present, she could not refrain from shaking hands with herself, and giving vent to 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. This 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. The only thing in which worth 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 a matter of form? 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, Ms. Marge Banks 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. What should you have to do? Ms. Marge Banks 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 around 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 Marchbanks 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 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 anyone were to examine into it, where is it all now? They have only got into the way of looking to me for everything, and I do believe if you were to go up and down from elsewhere these to St. Brookes, 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 lame. Lucilla paused, for naturally her feelings were moved, and Tom bent over her with tender and respectful devotion, and a single tear, a tear of compassion for her fellow creatures, and sympathy for herself, filled Ms. March Banks' eye. 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 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 forthwith, for being so intensible to his Lucilla's devotion and cherishing maternal care. But if it had been the poor, said Ms. March Banks, recovering her spirits a little, they could not have helped being 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 realize 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 on living 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 Marchbanks, 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 Marchbanks of Marchbank, like our great-great-grand-papa. And that is what I want you to do. Lucilla's proposition, as it thus unfolded itself, took away Tom Marchbank'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 any 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. The 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 Ms. Marchbank's splines 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 that 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 Lucila, 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 Lucila'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 Lucila, it should be he and no other who would give this coveted possession to his cousin. Had Marchbank been in the market in Dr. Marchbank's time, it was he, as Lucila herself said, who 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 Lucila'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. Marchbank's 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 Lucila, and withholding from him the boy. As for Ms. Marchbank's, 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 over much, or display any feverish anxiety about Marchbank, but left her suggestion to work, and had faith in Tom. At the same time, the tranquilizing sense of now knowing, to a certain extent, what lay before her came into Lucila'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 Lucila 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 Lucila was neither of the one way of thinking nor 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 clear away the rubbish, and set everything, as she said, on a sound foundation. If it had been a model village, with prized flower gardens and clean as Arcadia, the thought of it would not have given Ms. Marchbank's have so much pleasure. The thought 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 Lucila as actuated by lofty sentiments of philanthropy, but to persons acquainted with Ms. Marchbank's character, her biographer would scorn to make any pretense. 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? Lucila had been effused 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 benefiting her country, 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 Lucila, for such a beautiful way of helping her neighbor 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 Ms. Marchbank'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 steps she had taken. Most of them, to tell the truth, had forgotten all about Tom Marchbank's. It is true that when Lucila's intentions and prospects were discussed in Grangelane, 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 Lucila went to tell Mrs. Chiley of what had happened, she was but inadequately prepared for the surprise with which her intelligence would be received. For it all seemed natural enough to Ms. Marchbank's. 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 weary, 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 Lucila's heart. You have something to tell me, Lucila, said old Mrs. Chiley. You need not say no, for I can see 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 Lucila, 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 Lucila down upon a low chair that had been placed by the side of her sofa. She kept Mrs. March Banks' 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, Lucila. 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 afternoon. 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 Lucila 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 Ms. March Banks 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 Lucila. 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 Lucila's surprise, rose up upon her pillows, and threw her arms around her, and kissed her over again and fell a-crying. I always said how generous you were, Lucila, 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. Lucila, other people may say what they like, but it is just what I always expected of you. This, unlooked for, burst of enthusiasm, took Lucila 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 Ms. March Banks 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. Lucila, who is it? Said Mrs. Chiley, growing pale, for she generally was a little bit of an idiot. She surely 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 Lucila, 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 Lucila'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. Beverly had sent, and put her tottering feeble old feet to the floor, and then she took her young friend solemnly by both her hands. Oh Lucila, 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, Lucila. And many a girl marries very well, better than common, long after she is 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, Lucila. He as good as said, as soon as the election was over, and now you have gone and got impatient and thrown yourself away. Ms. March Banks 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 a just penalty for the disappointment she was causing to everybody. She let Mrs. Childey 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, Lucila took no notice. She wrapped her old friend up, and put her pillows just as she liked them, and sat down again on her 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 Ms. March Banks. I knew you would be surprised, and if it would be any comfort to you, dear Mrs. Childey, to know that Mr. Ashburton did. And you refused him, Lucila? Mrs. Childey asked, with horror in her face. Autide to have accepted him when there was somebody I liked better, said Lucila, with the force of conscious virtue. 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 Ms. March Banks, 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. Childey turned round with an unaffected surprise, which was not unmingled with awe. Up to this moment she had been under the impression that it was blindness and folly and stupidity of the gentleman which had kept it from ever coming to anything. It was altogether a new light that broke upon her, 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, lately, said Ms. March Banks, with confidential tenderness. And I don't think I could tell it to anyone but you, dear Mrs. Childey, 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, never, till the other day. Mrs. Childey was still so much confounded by this unexpected revelation that it was some time before she could find her voice, and even then the light penetrated slowly into her mind, and it was only by the grease that she accepted the new fact thus presented to her, that it was not the gentleman who were to blame, that it was all Lucillas, or rather Tom March Banks' fault. And Mr. Ashburton, Lucilla? She asked faintly. I am very sorry, said Ms. March Banks. 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 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 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 with all at once. It seems so strange that you should be setting your heart on someone all these ten years, and never saying a word. I wonder how you could do it. And when people were always in hopes you would marry at home, as it were, and remain 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 first would almost have been as good as Grange Lane, she said, and a member for Carlingford, Lucilla. As for Mrs. Marchbanks, she knelt down by the side of the sofa and took her old friend, as well as the blankets and pillows with 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. Ms. Marchbank said in her excitement, it was an exclamation 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 open 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 low beginnings of content. But Lucilla, said the old lady 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 53 This was the hardest personal encounter which Ms. Marchbank 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 dwelling places 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 find 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 demeanor, which this denouement 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, said the county lady, 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. Whitburn, 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 March Banks 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 soften Lucilla's glory, and bring her to the level of ordinary humanity, was pleasant to most people. If she had married Mr. Ashburton, it would have been, so far as anything connected with Miss March Banks 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, but 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 had been said, and exercised some kind of magnetic influence upon all the little tables and unsteady articles of furniture around him, which somehow seemed to fall if he butt-licked 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 Lucila's complexion. It was perhaps a little hazardous to repeat the experiment, for green, as everybody knows, is a very trying color. But it was a most touching and triumphant proof that to Tom, at least, Lucila 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 this reposed in him, and formed the very highest opinion of his customer, and it was probably from his enthusiasm on the subject that might be traced originally that singular revolution of sentiment in Grange Lane, which suddenly woke up all in an instant without knowing how, to recognize the existence of Mr. Marchbanks, and to forget the undue familiarity which had ventured upon the name Tom. When Lucila 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 Marchbanks was sweet to her eyes, that it was not by any means sweet to any other sense did, but enhance Ms. Marchbanks's satisfaction. A year after this, she said to herself, and her bosom swelled, for to realize 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 then the kitchen, which she inspected for the information of Nancy, for at that time the drawing-room was not fitted up. Lucila's eyes went over the moral wilderness, with a 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. This 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 which, considering the good fortune which Providence had so long reserved for him, made his character as near-perfect as humanity permits. Lucila 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 treasures of her spirit. As the carriage passed the first, 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, Lucila 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 reorganized, and a triumphant election at the end, the recompense and crown of all, which should put the government of the county itself to a certain extent into competent hands. This was the celestial vision which floated before Miss March Banks' 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 a 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 Lucila 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 Lucila 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 March Banks 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 Lucila 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 we looked for that Miss March Banks's spirit 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 Lucila took heart to show Mrs. Rider all over her childhood's home, 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 March Banks 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 Lucila, 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, Lucila said, and if they were taken up, they would be spoiled, and besides, we could have no use for them at March Bank. 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 Lucila's sleeve, and mutter indistinct remarks about evaluation, 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. Lucila 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 Lucila March Banks. 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 mind, in the thought that Lucila 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 Lucila's happiness can reconcile to the fact that, after all, it was Tom.