 48. As the election approached, it became gradually the one absorbing object of interest in Carlingford. The contest was so equal that everybody took a certain share in it and became excited as the decisive moment drew nigh. Most of the people in Grange Lane were for Mr. Ashburton, but then the rector, who was a host in himself, was for Mr. Cavendish, and the coquettting of the dissenting interest, which was sometimes drawn towards the liberal sentiments of the former candidate, but sometimes could not help reflecting that Mr. Ashburton dealt in George Street, and the fluctuations of the bargemen who were many of them free men, and a very difficult part of the population excited the most vivid interest. Young Mr. Wentworth, who had but lately come to Carlingford, had already begun to acquire a great influence at Worfside, where most of the bargees lived, and the steady ones, who no doubt have been largely swayed by him, had his inclinations been the same as directors. But Mr. Wentworth, perversely enough, had conceived that intuitive repugnance for Mr. Cavendish, which a high-principled and not very tolerant young man often feels, for the middle-aged individual who still conceives himself to have some right to be called young, and whose antecedents are not entirely beyond suspicion. Mr. Wentworth's disinclination, and he was a man rather apt to take his own way, lay like a great boulder across the stream of directors' enthusiasm, and unquestionably interrupted it a little. Both the candidates and both the committees had, accordingly, work enough to do up to the last moment. Mr. Cavendish all at once became a connoisseur in hams, and gave a magnificent order in the most complimentary way to Tozer, who received it with a broad smile, and booked it, as he said. It ain't ham he's awanting, the butterman said, not without amusement, for Tozer was well to do, and accept that he felt the honour of a mark of confidence, was not to be moved one way or another by one order. If he dealt regular, it might be different, thems the sort of folks as a man feels drawn to, said the true philosopher. Mr. Ashburton on the other side did not make the impression which his friends thought he ought to have made in Prickett's Lane, but at least nobody could say that he did not stick very close to his work. He went at it like a man, night and day, and neglected no means of carrying it to a successful issue, whereas, as Mr. Sentiment, Mr. Woodburn, mourned in secret to each other, Cavendish required perpetual egging on. He did not like to get up in the morning and get early to his work. It went against all his habits, as if his habits mattered in the face of so great an emergency. And in the afternoon it was hard to prevent him from lounging into some of his haunts, which were utterly out of the way of business. He would stay in masters for an hour at a time, though he knew Mr. Wentworth, who was master's great patron, did not care for him, and that his favour for such a tractarian sort of place was bitter to the rector. Anything for a little idleness and waste of time, poor Mr. Sentiment said, who was too stone lighter on the eve of the election than when the canvas began. Such a contrast would make any man angry. Mr. Cavendish was goaded into more activity as the decisive moment approached, and performed what seemed to himself unparalleled feats. But it was only two days before the moment of fate, when the accident happened to him, which brought such dismay to all his supporters. Our own opinion is that it did not materially affect the issue of the contest one way or the other, but that was the reverse of the feeling which prevailed in Grange Lane. It was just two days before the election, and all seemed going on sufficiently well. Mr. Cavendish had been meeting a dissenting committee, and it was on leaving them that he found himself at the corner of Grove Street, where, under ordinary circumstances, he had no occasion to be. At a later period he was rather fond of saying that it was not of his own motion that he was there at all, but only in obedience to the committee, which ordered him about like a nigger. The spring afternoon was darkening, and the dissenters almost wholly unimpressed by his arguments, and remarking more strongly than ever where Mr. Ashburton dealt, and how thoroughly everybody knew all about him, had all dispersed. It was but natural when Mr. Cavendish came to the corner of Grove Street, where in other days he had played a very different part, that certain softening influences should take possession of his soul. What a voice she had, by Grove! He said to himself, very different from that shrill pipe of Lucila's. To tell the truth, if there was one person in Carlingford whom he felt a resentment against, it was Lucila. She had never done him any harm to speak of, and once she had unquestionably done him a great deal of good. But on the other hand it was she who first was candidly conscious that he had grown stout, and who all along had supported and encouraged his rival. It was possible, no doubt, that this might be peak, and mixed with his anger for her sins against him, Mr. Cavendish had, at the same time, a counterbalancing sense that there still remained to him in his life one supereminently wise thing that he still could do. And that was, to go down Grangelame instantly, to the Doctor's silenced house, and go down on his knees, or do any other absurdity that might be necessary to make Lucila marry him, after which act he would henceforward be, pecuniarily, and otherwise, notwithstanding that she was poor, a saved man. It did not occur to him that Lucila would never have married him, even had he gone down on his knees. But perhaps that would be too much to ask any man to believe of any woman, and his feeling that this was the right thing to do, rather strengthened than otherwise the revolt of his heart against Lucila. It was twilight as we have said, and he had done a hard day's work, and there was still an hour before dinner, which he seemed to have a right to dispose of in his own way, and he did hesitate at the corner of Grove Street, laying himself open, as it were, to any temptation that might offer itself. Questions come, as a general rule, when they are sought, and thus, on the very eve of the election, a grievous accident happened to Mr. Cavendish. It might have happened at any time, to be sure, but this was the most inopportune moment possible, and it came accordingly now. For as he made that pause, someone passed him whom he could not but look after with a certain interest. She went past him with a whisk, as if she too was not without reminiscences. It was not such a figure as a romantic young man would be attracted by on such a sudden meeting, and it was not attraction but recollection that moved Mr. Cavendish. It was the figure of a large woman in a large shawl, not very gracefully put on, and making her look very square about the shoulders, and bunchy at the neck, and the robe that was whisked past him was that peculiar kind of faded silk gown, which looks and rustles like tin or some other thin metallic substance. He made that momentary pause at the street corner, and then he went on slowly, not following her to be sure, but merely as he said to himself, pursuing his own course, for it was just as easy to get into Grange Lane by the farther end as by this end. He went along very slowly, and the lady before him walked quickly, even with something like a bounce of excitement, and went in at Mr. Lake's door long before Mr. Cavendish had reached it. Then he came up on the level with the parlor window, which was partially open though the evening was so cold, Mr. Cavendish positively started, notwithstanding the old associations which had been rising in his mind, for there was pouring forth from the half open window such a volume of melody as had not been heard for years in Grove Street. Perhaps the voice had lost some of its freshness, but in the surprise of the moment the hearer was not critical, and its volume and force seemed rather increased than otherwise. It has been already mentioned in this history, that a Contralto had a special charm for Mr. Cavendish. He was so struck that he stood stock still for the moment, not knowing what to make of it, and then he wavered for another moment, with a sudden sense that the old allegorical crisis had occurred to him, and that pleasure in a magnificent gush of song wooed him on one side, while duty, with still small voice, called him at the other. He stood still, he wavered. For fifty seconds perhaps the issue was uncertain, and the victim was still within reach of salvation, but the result in such a case depends very much upon whether a man really likes doing his duty, which is by no means an invariable necessity. Mr. Cavendish had in the abstract no sort of desire to do his, unless when he could not help it, and consequently his resistance to temptation was very feeble. He was standing knocking at Mr. Lake's door before half the thoughts appropriate to the occasion had got through his mind, and found himself sitting on the little sofa in Mr. Lake's parlor as he used to do ten years ago, before he could explain to himself how he came there. It was all surely a kind of enchantment altogether. He was there. He who had been so long away from Carlingford. He who had been so deeply offended by hearing his name seriously coupled with that of Barbara Lake. He who ought to have been anywhere in the world rather than here upon the eve of his election, when all the world was keeping watch over his conduct. And it was Barbara who sat at the piano singing, singing one of the same songs as if she had spent the entire interval in that occupation, and never had done anything else all these years. The sensation was so strange that Mr. Cavendish may be excused for feeling a little uncertainty as to whether or not he was dreaming, which made him unable to answer himself the graver question whether or not he was doing what he ought to do. He did not seem to be able to make out whether it was now or ten years ago, whether he was a young man free to amuse himself or a man who was getting stout and upon whom the eyes of an anxious constituency were fixed. Then after being so virtuous for a length of time, a forbidden pleasure was sweet. Mr. Cavendish's ideas, however, gradually arranged themselves as he sat in the corner of the little-hair cloth sofa, and began to take in the differences as well as the bewildering resemblances of the present and past. Barbara like himself had changed. She did not insult him as Lucilla had done by fresh looks in mischievous candor about going off. Lucilla had gone off, like himself, and, like himself, did not mean to acknowledge it. She had expanded all over, as was natural to a contralto. Her eyes were blacker and more brilliant in a way, but they were eyes which owned an indescribable amount of usage, and her cheeks, too, wore the deep roses of old, deepened and fixed by wear and tear. Instead of feeling ashamed of himself in her presence, as he had done in Lucilla's, Mr. Cavendish felt somehow consoled and justified and sympathetic. Poor soul! He said to himself, as he sat by, while she was singing. She, too, had been in the wars, and had not come out scatheless. She did not reproach him nor commiserate him, nor look at him with that mixture of wonder and tolerance and pity which other people had manifested. She did not even remark that he had grown stout. She was not a man fallen, fallen, fallen, from his high estate to Barbara. She herself had fallen from the pinnacles of youth, and Mr. Cavendish was still a great man in her eyes. She sang for him as she had sung ten years ago, and received him with a flutter of suppressed delight, and in her satisfaction was full of excitement. The hard-worked candidate sank deeper and deeper into the corner of the sofa, and listened to the music, and felt it very soothing and pleasant, for everybody had united in goading him on, rather than petting him for the last month or two of his life. Now, tell me something about yourself. He said, when the song was over, and Barbara had turned round as she used to do in old times, on her music's tour. I hear you have been away, like me. Not like you, said Barbara. Or you went, because you pleased, and I went. Why did you go? asked Mr. Cavendish. Because I could not stay here any longer, said Barbara, with her old vehemence. Because I was talked about, and looked down upon, and, well, never mind, that's all over now, and I am sure I am very glad to see you, Mr. Cavendish, as a friend. And with that something like a tear came into her eye. She had been knocked about a good deal in the world, and though she had not learned much, still she had learned that she was young no longer, and could not indulge in the caprices of that past condition of existence. Mr. Cavendish, for his part, could not but smile at this intimation, that he was to be received as a friend, and consequently need not have any fear of Barbara's fascinations, as if a woman of her age, worn and gone off as she was, could be supposed dangerous, but still he was touched by her tone. We were once very good friends, Barbara, said the inconsistent man. We have lost sight of each other for a long time, as people do in this world, but we were once very good friends. Yes, she said, with a slight touch of annoyance in her voice. But since we have lost sight of each other for so long, I don't see why you should call me Barbara. It would be much more becoming to say Miss Lake. Mr. Cavendish was amused, and he was touched and flattered. Most people had been rather forbearing to him since he came back putting up with him for old friendship's sake, or supporting his cause as that of a reformed man, and giving him on the whole a sort of patronizing, humiliating countenance, and to find somebody in whose eyes he was still the paladin of old times, the Mr. Cavendish, whom people in great slain were proud of, was bombed to his wounded soul. I don't know how I am to learn to say Miss Lake, when you are just as good to me as ever, and sing as you have just been doing, he said. I suppose you say so, because you find me so changed. Upon which Barbara lifted her black eyes and looked at him as she had scarcely done before. The eyes were as bright as ever, and they were softened a little for the moment out of the stare that seemed to have grown habitual to them, and her crimson cheeks glowed as of old, and though she was untidy, and looked worn, and like a creature much buffeted about by wind and waves, she was still what connoisseurs in that article call a fine woman. She looked full at Mr. Cavendish, and then she cast down her eyes, as if the sight was too much for her. I don't see any difference, she said, with a certain tremor in her voice, for he was a man of whom, in the days of her youth, she had been fond in her way. And naturally Mr. Cavendish was more touched than ever. He took her hand and called her Barbara again without any reproof, and he saw that she trembled, and that his presence here made to the full as great an impression as he had ever done in his palmious days. Perhaps a greater impression, for their old commerce had been stormy, and interrupted by many a hurricane, and Barbara then had, or thought she might have, many strings to her bow, and did not believe that there was only one Mr. Cavendish in the world. Now all that was changed, and if this old hope should revive again, it would not be allowed to die away for any gratification of temper. Mr. Cavendish did not remember ever to have seen her tremble before, and he too was fond of her in his way. This curious revival did not come to anything of deeper importance, for of course just then Rose came in from her household affairs, and Mr. Lake to tea, and the candidate recollected that it was time for dinner. But father and sister also gave him, in their different ways, a rather flattering reception. Mr. Lake had already pledged him his vote, and was full of interest as to how things were going on, and enthusiastic for his success, and Rose scowled upon him as of old, as on a dangerous character whose comings and goings could not be seen without apprehension, which was an unexpected pleasure to a man who had been startled to find how very little commotion his presence made in Grange Lane. He pressed Barbara's hand as he went away, and went to his dinner with a heart which certainly beat lighter, and a more pleasant sense of returning self-confidence than he had felt for a long time. When he was coming out of the house, as a matter of course he met with the chief of his dissenting supporters, accompanied, for Mr. Berry, as has been said, was very low church, and loved wherever he could do it, to work in unison with his dissenting brethren. By the rector's church warden, both of whom stopped with a curiously critical air to speak to the candidate, who had to be every man's friend for the time being. The look in their eyes sent an icy chill through and through him, but still the forbidden pleasure had been sweet. As he walked home, he could not help thinking it over, and going back ten years, and feeling a little doubtful about it, whether it was then or now. And as he mused, Miss March Banks, whom he could not help continually connecting and contrasting with the other, appeared to him as a kind of jealous Queen Eleanor, who had a right to him, and could take possession at any time should she make the effort, while Barbara was a rosiment, dilapidated indeed, but always ready to receive and console him in her bower. This was the kind of unconscious sentiment he had in his mind, feeling sure, as he mused, that Lucilla would be very glad to marry him, and that it would be very wise on his part to ask her, and was a thing which might still probably come to pass. Of course he could not see into Miss March Banks' mind, which had travelled such a long way beyond him. He gave a glance up at the windows as he passed her door, and felt a kind of disagreeable satisfaction in seeing how diminished the lights were in the once radiant house, and Lucilla was so fond of a great deal of light, but she could not afford now to spend as much money upon wax as a continental church might do. Mr. Cavendish had so odd a sense of Lucilla's power over him, that it gave him a certain pleasure to think of the coming down of her pride and diminution of her lights. But the fact was that not more than ten minutes after he had passed her door with this reflection, Lucilla sitting with her good book on the table, and her work in her hand, in the room which was not so well lighted as it used to be, heard that Mr. Cavendish had been met with coming out of Mr. Lakes, and that Barbara had been singing to him, and that there was no telling what might have happened. A man ain't the man for a carling fur does takes up with that sort, Thomas said indignantly, who had come to pay his former mistress a visit, and to assure her of his brother-in-law's vote. He was a little more free-spoken than of old, being now set up, and an independent householder, and calling no man master. And he was naturally indignant as an occurrence which, regarded in the light of past events, was an insult not only to Carlingford, but to Lucilla. Ms. Marchbanks was evidently startled by the news. She looked up quickly as if she had been about to speak, and then stopped herself and turned her back upon Thomas, and poked the fire in the most energetic way. She had even taken the hearth brush in her hand to make all tidy after this onslaught, but that was a thing that went to Thomas' heart. I could not stand by and see it, Ms. Lucilla, said Thomas. It don't feel natural. And there was actually a kind of moisture in his eye as he took that domestic implement out of her hand. Mr. Cavendish pitied Lucilla for having less light than of old, and Thomas for being reduced so low as to sweep her own hearth. But Lucilla was very far from pitting her own case. She had been making an effort over herself, and she had come out of it triumphant. After reading so many good books, it is not to be wondered that if she felt herself a changed and softened and elevated character. She had the means in her hands of doing her candidate's rival a deadly mischief, and yet for old friendship's sake, Lucilla made up her mind to forbear. I will give it to you, Thomas, she said with dignity, holding the hearth brush, which was in such circumstances elevated into something sublime. If you will promise never until after the election, never to say a word about Mr. Cavendish and Ms. Lake, it was quite right to tell me, and you are very kind about the hearth, but you must promise never to say a syllable about it, not even to Nancy, until the election is over, or I will never give it to you, nor ask you to do a single thing for me again. Thomas was so much struck with this address that he said, Good Lord, in sheer amazement, and then he made the necessary vow, and took the hearth brush out of Lucilla's hand. No doubt he was asking for Mr. Lake's vote, said Ms. Marchbanks. They say everybody is making great exertions, and you know they are both my friends. I ought to be pleased to ever win, but it is impressed on my mind that Mr. Ashburton will be the man, Lucilla added, with a little solemnity, and Thomas, we must give them fair play. It would be vain to assert that Thomas understood this romantic generosity, but he was taken by surprise, and had relinquished his own liberty in the matter, and had nothing further to say. Indeed, he had so little to say downstairs, that Nancy, who was longing for a little gossip, insulted and reviled him, and declared that since he took up with that petty, there never was a sensible word to be got out of his head, and all the time the poor man was burning with this bit of news. Many a man has bartered his free will under the influence of female wiles, or so at least history would have us believe, but few have done it for so poor a compensation as that hearthbrush. Thomas withdrew sore at heart, longing for this election to be over, and kept his word like an honest man, but not withstanding, before the evening was over, the fatal news was spreading like fire to every house in Grange Lane. CHAPTER 49 It is probable that Mr. Cavendish considered the indulgence above-recorded all the more excusable in that it was Saturday night. The nomination was to take place on Monday, and if a man was not supposed to be done with his work on the Saturday evening, when could he be expected to have a moment of repose? He had thought as he went home, for naturally, while putting himself so skillfully in the way of temptation, such questions had not entered into his mind, that the fact of tomorrow being Sunday would effectually neutralize any harm he could have been supposed to have done by a visit so simple and natural, and that neither his sister nor his committee, the two powers of which he stood in a certain awe, could so much as hear of it until the election was over, and all decided for good or for evil. This had been a comfort to his mind, but it was the very falsest and most deceitful consolation. That intervening Sunday was a severe calamity for Mr. Cavendish than half a dozen ordinary days. The general excitement had risen so high, and all the chances on both sides had been so often discussed and debated that something new was as water in the desert to the thirsting constituency. The story was all through Grange Lane that very night, but Carlingford itself, from St. Roakes to the wilderness of the North End, tingled with it next morning. It is true, the rector made no special allusion to it in his sermon, though the tone of all his services was so sad, and his own fine countenance looked so melancholy that Mr. Burry's devoted followers could all see that he had something on his mind. But Mr. Tofton at Salem Chapel was not so reticent. He was a man quite famous for his extemporary gifts, and who rather liked to preach about any very recent public event, which it was evident to all hearers could not have found place in a prepared discourse, and his sermon that morning was upon wickedness in high places, upon men who sought the confidence of their fellows only to betray it, and offered to the poor man a hand read with his sister's metaphorical blood. But it would be wrong to say that this was the general tone of public opinion in Grove Street. Most people, on the contrary, thought of Mr. Cavendish not as a wolf thirsting for the lamb's blood, but rather himself as a kind of lamb, caught in the thicket and about to be offered up in sacrifice. Such was the impression of a great many influential persons who had been wavering hit here too, and inclining on the whole to Mr. Cavendish's liberal principles and supposed low church views. A man whose hand is read metaphorically with your sister's blood is no doubt a highly objectionable personage, but it is doubtful whether, under the circumstances, an enlightened constituency might not consider the man who had given a perfectly unstained hand to so thoroughly unsatisfactory a sister as more objectionable still, and the indignation of Grange Lane at Barber's reappearance was nothing to the fury of George Street and even of Warfside, where the Bargees began to scoff openly. Society had nothing worse to say than to quote Mrs. Chiley and assert that these artist people were all adventurers, and then Grange Lane in general could not forget that it had met Barbara, nor dismissed from its consideration her black eyes, her level brows, and her magnificent contralto, whereas in the other region, the idea of the member for Carlingford marrying that sort cast all the world into temporary delirium. It was a still more deadly offense to the small people than to the great. And the exceptional standing which poor Mr. Lake and his daughter Rose used to lay claim to, the rank of their own which they possess as artists, was a pretension much more disagreeable to the shopkeepers than to society in general. Thus in every sense, Mr. Cavendish had done the very worst for himself by his ill-timed indulgence, and his guilt was about the same with most of his critics, whether he meant perfectly well and innocently, or entertained the most guilty intentions ever conceived by man. And all his misfortunes were increased by the fact that the intervening day was a Sunday. Barbara Lake herself, who did not know what people were saying, and who if she had known, would not have cared come to church as was natural in the morning, and under pretense that the family pew was full, had the assurance as people remarked to come to the Middle Isle in that same silk dress which rustled like tin, and made more demonstration than the richest draperies. The pew opener disapproved of her as much as everybody else did, but she could not turn the intruder out, and though Barbara had a long time to wait, and was curiously inspected by all the eyes near her, while she did so. The end was that she got a seat in her rustling silk, not very far from where Lucilla sat in deep morning, a model of every righteous observance. As for poor Barbara, she too was very exemplary in church. She meant nobody any harm, poor soul. She could not help the flashing of those big black eyes to which the level line above them gave such a curious appearance of obliqueness. Nor was it to be expected that she should deny herself the use of her advantages, or omit to take the second in all the canticles with such melodious liquid tones as made everybody stop and look around. She had a perfect right to do it. Indeed, it was her duty, as it is everybody's duty, to aid to the best of their ability in the church music of their parish, which was what Lucilla March Banks persisted in saying in answer to all objections. But the effect was great in the congregation, and even the rector himself was seen to change color as his eye fell upon the unlucky young woman. Mr. Cavendish, for his part, knew her voice the moment he heard it, and gave a little start, and received such a look from his sister, who was standing by him as turned him to stone. Mrs. Woodburn looked at him, and so did her husband, and Mr. Sentom turned a solemnly inquiring, reproachful gaze upon him from the other side of the aisle. Oh, Harry, you will kill me with vexation. Why, for goodness' sake, did you let her come? His sister whispered when they had all sat down again. Good heavens, how could I help it? Cried poor Mr. Cavendish, almost loud enough to be heard, and then by the slight almost imperceptible hum around him, he felt that not only his sister and his committee, but the rector and all Carlingford had their eyes upon him, and was thankful to look up the lesson, poor man, and bury his face in it. It was a hard punishment for the indiscretion of an hour. But perhaps of all the people concerned, it was the rector who was the most to be pitied. He had saked his honour upon Mr. Cavendish's repentance, and here was he going back publicly to wallow in the mire, and it was Sunday when such a worldly subject ought not to be permitted to enter a good man's mind, much less to be discussed and acted upon as it ought to be if anything was to be done. For there was little more than this sacred day remaining in which to undo the mischief which too great a confidence in human nature had wrought, and then, to tell the truth, the rector did not know how to turn back. It would have been hard, very hard, to have told all the people who confided in him that he had never had any stronger evidence for Mr. Cavendish's repentance than he now had for his backsliding, and to give in and let the other side have it all their own way, and throw over the candidate with whom he had identified himself was as painful to Mr. Barry as if, instead of being very low-church, he had been the most muscular of Christians. Being in this state of mind, it may be supposed that his sisters mild wonder and trembling speculations at lunch, when they were alone together, were well qualified to raise some sparks of that old Adam who, though well kept under, still existed in directors as in most other human breasts. But dear Edward, I would not quite condemn him, Miss Barry said. He has been the cause of a good deal of remark, you know, and the poor girl has been talked about. He may think it is his duty to make her a mens. For anything we can tell, he may have the most honorable intentions— Oh, bother his honorable intentions, said the rector. Such an exclamation from him was as bad as the most dreadful old from an ordinary man, and very nearly made Miss Barry drop from her chair in amazement. This 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. Barry 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 a mens. But at the same time, at such a crisis, there was a little consolation in the fact that the candidate one was supporting and doing daily battle for had honorable 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 wrestled 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. Accurgiment, it is true, dared not have said such a thing, and Mr. Barry's remorse would have been better, 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 honorable 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 the dream of making Barbara Lake, the member's wife, was the deepest insult that could be offered to Carlingford. Director 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. Barry uttered with profound sincerity, and with a sigh of self-compassion. Now, I understand Lucilla March Banks, 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, not knowing the circumstances, was at a loss to understand what it signified, and then the two ladies walked home together, and Miss March Banks 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 could not find herself able for any exertion, and Miss March Banks 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 braving the excitement well enough 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 Sermon, and the wickedness in high places, and the hand imbued 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 interests 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 thence 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 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, Ms. Marchbanks 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 candid ship in store for himself, which he had not told her about? Such a thing was quite possible. But what had Lucilla in her morning 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. Books 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 calling for to a volcano that night, and indeed all the next day, which was a day of nomination, would be a stale similitude, and yet in some respect 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 freedmen of Warfside 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 a purist-minded philosopher. It was the man most fit to represent Carlingford for whom everybody was looking, not a man to be baited about parish raids, 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 for 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 Marge Banks, with that intuitive rapidity, which was characteristic of her genius, had once remarked, and when everybody went home from church and chapel, though it was Sunday, the whole town thrilled and frapped 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 at 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 in the music, and all the diverse 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 a real trial. Lady Richmond and her party drove past at a very early hour, and looked up at Miss March Banks'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 camps rambling about, and could not help it if her heart beat quicker. It was perhaps a more important crisis for Miss March Banks, and 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 distance 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 violets and green collars, 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 further end of Warfside were all blues, and when the 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, the 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 instill 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 a 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 Forever, or Cavendish Forever? Lucilla, your ear 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 continued 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 its usual commotion, while Ms. Marchbanks 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' 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 pole, the same bulletin which Mr. Ashburton had just sent down to Lucilla. These were the numbers, and they made Masters triumphant, while silence and anxiety fell upon the Blue Boar. Cavendish, 283, Ashburton, 275. When Ms. Marchbanks 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 parvenues 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.� 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 Vale, which he 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 Carlinford, 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 Carlinford 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 pole, 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, forever, hurrah for a 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 these dissenters, who, after all their wavering, had at last decided for the man who dealt in George Street, no one could tell. 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, and with a personacity 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? The things had gone against him, and that, not withstanding 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 names stood above his own. She looked quite composed, and Aunt Jemima went on teasing with her senseless questions. But Miss Marchbanks put up with it all, though the lingering progress of these hours from one o'clock to four, the sound of Cavs 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 saying 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 Marchbanks'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 into tea. All Lady Richmond's party came, as a matter of course, and Mr. Ashburton himself, for a few minutes, bearing meekly his new honors, and so many more people besides, that but for knowing it was a special occasion and that our gentleman was elected, Nancy's mind could never 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 these 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 FIFTY 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. His march-bangs 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 in other respects also he was perfectly eligible. 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 nearly assured 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 first, 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. 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. As 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 first to Mr. Ashburton. He had made no change in it, and scarcely ever used it, keeping to his library and the dining-room, with a possibility, no doubt, always before him of preparing it in due course of time for his wife. The 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 was the odd little spider-legged stands, upon which the Miss Penlins had placed their work-boxes, and the old sofas in which they had sat, and the floods of old tapestry-work, with which they had decorated their favorite 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 realize 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-penrins 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 they 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, abraded 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 the sight of the numbers of the pole. 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. Rokes, 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 bass 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 feat 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. Cabin Dish'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 Ms. Marchbank's herself could, refrain from a certain regret over Mr. Cabin Dish. 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 Ms. Marchbank's 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 answers she would make him. Lucilla's mind was in such a commotion as she sacked 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 March Banks 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 price snapped up under her very eyes, what account could she give to her son of first 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 Mrs. March Banks marveled 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. Perhaps on the whole it was Aunt Jemima that suffered the most. For her there was nothing flattering, nothing gratifying, no prospects of change or increased happiness, or any of the splendors 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 have been 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 moral, 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 expedience to gain a little time and consider what she would 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 March Banks, 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 Ms. Marchbanks was wonderful. She threw her embroidery away, and looked to 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 today 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 Ms. Marchbanks 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 to do 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 Penrins' 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 March Banks 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, bevelies, 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 March Banks, 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 quickcoming 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 Mr. Ashburton's name? What if there might be someone in the world who was ready not to offer her his hand in 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? Mrs. March Banks 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 unprimiditated 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 March Banks'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 tranquility, 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 prove the best man for something else, said the candidate nervously, and then he cleared his throat. I would say you have 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? What heavens? Is it possible that I have taken you quite by surprise? What caused this question was that Miss Marchbanks 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 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 Marchbanks. I know you have always done me more than justice, Mr. Ashburton, and so have all my friends, and I am sure we will always 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 for-parents 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. Marchbanks up at night, and which hung near the door of the old doctor's room, just over at the drawing-room, began to peel through the silence, as if wrung by a hand too impatient to notice what it was with which it made its summons. Papa's bell! Ms. Marchbanks 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 night-bell peeled wildly below in correction of a 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 his speaking, was left to await the new event and the newcomer, alone. CHAPTER XVI OF MISS MARCHBANKS 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 honorable and eligible, away? The minutes, or rather the seconds, passed over Miss Marchbanks like hours as she sat thus waiting, not daring to stir, lest the slightest motion 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. Nothing 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, Lucila'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. Marchbanks'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 Lucila sat listening. There was a rumble, a crash, and a sound as a falling leaves, and it made her heart, as we have said, jump into her ears. It is the table and all the cards," said Lucila, 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 sporting herself, and she gave a long sigh of unutterable relief, and her whirl of thoughts stopped and cleared up with an instantaneous rapidity. Everything seemed to be explained by that sound, and nothing could be more wonderful than the change which passed upon the looks and feelings of Lucila in the interval between the drawing up of that cab and the rush of Tom Marchbanks at the drawing-room door. For after the commotion on the staircase, Lucila 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 Marchbanks, 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 Lucila had come to herself and took the guidance of affairs at once into her own 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, Lucila, 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 Lucila 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 Ms. March Banks was not the woman, under any circumstances, to make this peace. I am sure I am very glad, said Lucila. 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 Lucila, if you but knew how different the house is, and everything so altered, and dear papa! It was only natural, and it was only proper that Ms. March Bank should cry, which indeed she did with good will, partly for grief and partly because of the flutter of agitation, and something like joy in which she was, in 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, Lucila, 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 Lucila. 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 Lucila. You rang his bell, though it is a 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. Lucila, said Tom March Banks, 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 March Banks, 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 own mother, she is in her 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 March Banks 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 March Banks, 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 March Banks 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 tyrannized 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 to—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. It 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 Marchbanks 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 Marchbanks 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 Marchbanks 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 Marchbanks 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 had 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 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 Marchbanks 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 set herself, 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 had 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 Miss Marchbanks, 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 Marchbanks' 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 Marchbanks 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 doctors grudge against the nephew, whom he did not wish to inherit his wealth, and Aunt Jemima's quiet wiles, an 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. After all, it is to be me. He repeated, and it was utterly impossible to add anything to the eloquent brevity of this succinct statement of the case. Tom, said Miss March Banks, 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 for a moment, 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 resume the management of affairs. You shall go now, she said, drying her eyes, or else you cannot stay here. I did think of letting you stay in the house, as Aunt Jemima is with me, but if you do not mean to go and see 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 can 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 color, 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 curtsy, 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 Papaz's punch-ball 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 of them awful beards. There's been a deal of changes since he went away, but if he's new come doth that terrible journey it is but natural, as you say, Miss Lucilla, that he should want something to eat. And then Miss March Banks 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 seemed like the old times, she said at last, when there was always something one could put to the fire in 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 all be 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 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. Thomas, not just like other people, and whatever happens, Nancy, you are an old deer, 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 March Banks'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 carling for the way dejected, and to impress upon Tom's mind the alternative that it was either to be him or me. Miss March Banks 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 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 March Banks. 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, on 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 March Banks 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 she were to 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 March Banks, 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 March Banks, "'if you are pleased now, what does it matter? But I do hope you are pleased now.' And Mrs. John took her knees 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 March Banks 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.