 1 Miss March Banks lost her mother when she was only fifteen and when, to add to the misfortune, she was absent at school and could not have it in her power to soothe her dear mama's last moments, as she herself said. Words are sometimes very poor exponents of such an event, but it happens now and then, on the other hand, that a plain intimation expresses too much, and suggests emotion and suffering which, in reality, have but little if any existence. Mrs. March Banks, poor lady, had been an invalid for many years. She had grown a little peevish in her loneliness, not feeling herself of much account in this world. There are some rare natures that are content to acquiesce in the general neglect, and forget themselves when they find themselves forgotten. But it is unfortunately much more usual to take the plan adopted by Mrs. March Banks, who devoted all her powers during the last ten years of her life to the solacement and care of that poor self which other people neglected. The consequence was that when she disappeared from her sofa, except from the mere physical fact that she was no longer there, no one, except her maid, whose occupation was gone, could have found out much difference. Her husband, it is true, who had somewhere hidden deep in some secret corner of his physical organization the remains of a heart, experienced a certain sentiment of sadness when he re-entered the house, from which she had gone away forever. But Dr. March Banks was too busy a man to waste his feelings on mere sentiment. His daughter, however, was only fifteen, and had floods of tears at her command, as was natural at that age. All the way home she revolved the situation in her mind, which was considerably enlightened by novels and popular philosophy, for the lady at the head of Miss March Banks' school was a devoted admirer of friends and counsel, and was fond of bestowing that work as a prize, with pencil marks on the margin, so that Lucilla's mind had been cultivated and was brimful of the best sentiments. She made up her mind on her journey to a great many virtuous resolutions, for in such a case as hers it was evidently the duty of an only child to devote herself to her father's comfort and become the sunshine of his life as so many young persons of her age have been known to become in literature. Miss March Banks had a lively mind, and was capable of grasping all the circumstances of the situation at a glance. Thus, between the outbreaks of her tears for her mother, it became apparent to her that she must sacrifice her own feelings and make a cheerful home for papa, and that a many great changes would be necessary in the household, changes which went so far as even to extend to the furniture. Miss March Banks sketched to herself as she lay back in the corner of the railway carriage, with her veil down, how she would wind herself up to the duty of presiding at her papa's dinner parties, and charming everybody by her good humor and brightness and devotion to his comfort, and how, when it was all over, she would withdraw and cry her eyes out in her own room, and be found in the morning, languid and worn out, but always heroical, ready to go downstairs and assist at her dear papa's breakfast, and keep up her smiles for him till he had gone out to his patients. All together the picture was a very pretty one, and considering that a great many young ladies in deep morning put force upon their feelings and novels, and maintain a smile for the benefit of the observant male creatures of whom they have the charge, the idea was not at all extravagant, considering that Miss March Banks was but fifteen, she was not, however, exactly the kind of figure for this Miss Sun Singh. When her school fellows talked of her to their friends, for Lucilla was already an important personage at Mount Pleasant, the most common description they gave of her was that she was a large girl, and then there was great truth in the adjective. She was not to be described as a tall girl, which conveys an altogether different idea, but she was large in all particulars, full and well developed, with somewhat large features, not at all pretty as yet, though it was known in Mount Pleasant that somebody had said that such a face might ripen into beauty and become grandiose, for anything anybody could tell. Miss March Banks was not vain, but the world had taken possession of her imagination as was natural, and solaced her much when she made the painful discovery that her gloves were half a number larger, and her shoes a hair breadth broader than those of any of her companions. But the hands and the feet were both perfectly well-shaped, and being at the same time well-clothed and plump, were much more presentable and pleasant to look upon than the lean, rudimentary schoolgirl hands with which they were surrounded. To add to these excellences, Lucilla had a mass of hair, which, if it could but have been cleared a little in its tint, would have been golden, though at present it was nothing more than tawny, and curly to exasperation. She wore it in large, thick curls which did not, however, float or wave, or do any of the graceful things which curls ought to do, for it had this aggravating quality that it would not grow long, but would grow ridiculously unmanageably thick to the admiration of her companions, but to her own despair, for there was no knowing what to do with those short but ponderous locks. These were the external characteristics of the girl who was going home to be a comfort to her widowed father, and meant to sacrifice herself to his happiness. In the course of her rapid journey, she had already settled upon everything that had to be done, or rather, to speak more truly, had rehearsed everything according to the habit already acquired by a quick mind, a good deal occupied with itself. First, she meant to fall into her father's arms, forgetting with that singular facility for overlooking the peculiarities of others which belongs to such a character, that Dr. Marchbanks was very little given to embracing, and that a hasty kiss on her forehead was the warmest caress he had ever given his daughter. And then, to rush up to the chamber of death and weep over her dear mama, and to think I was not there to soothe her last moments, Lucilla said to herself with a sob, and with feelings sufficiently real in their way. After this, the devoted daughter made up her mind to come downstairs again, pale as death, but self-controlled, and devote herself to papa. Perhaps, if great emotion should make him tearless, as such cases had been known, Ms. Marchbanks would steal into his arms unawares, and so surprise him into weeping. All this went briskly through her mind, undeterred by the reflection that tears were as much out of the doctor's way as embraces. And in this mood she sped swiftly along in the inspiration of his first sorrow as she imagined, but in reality to suffer her first disappointment, which was of a less soothing character than that mild and manageable grief. When Ms. Marchbanks reached home, her mother had been dead for twenty-four hours, and her father was not at the door to receive her as she had expected. But by the bedside of a patient in extremity, who could not consent to go out of the world without the doctor. This was a sad reversal of her intentions, but Lucilla was not the woman to be disconcerted. She carried out the second part of her program without either interference or sympathy, except for Mrs. Marchbanks' maid, who had some hopes from the moment of her arrival. I can't bear to think of as imparted from you all, Miss," sobbed the faithful attendant, "'I've lost the best Mrs. as ever was, and I shouldn't mind going after her. Whenever anyone gets a good friend in this world or the first to be took away,' said the weeping handmaiden, who naturally saw her own loss in the most vivid light. Ah, Ellis cried Ms. Marchbanks, reposing her sorrow in the arms of this anxious attendant. We must try to be a comfort to poor papa." With this end, Lucilla made herself very troublesome to the sober-minded doctor during those few dim days before the faint and daily listening shadow of poor Mrs. Marchbanks was removed altogether from the house. When that sad ceremony had taken place, and the doctor returned, serious enough, have a nose to the great house where the faded helpless woman, who had not withstanding been his love and his bride in other days, lay no longer on the familiar sofa, the crisis arrived, which Ms. Marchbanks had rehearsed so often, but after quite a different fashion. The widower was tearless, indeed, but not from excess of emotion. On the contrary, a painful heaviness possessed him when he became aware how little real sorrow was in his mind, and how small an actual loss was this loss of his wife, which bulked before the world as an event of just as much magnitude as the loss, for example, which poor Mr. Lake, the drawing master, was at the same moment suffering. It was even sad, in another point of view, to think of a human creature passing out of the world and leaving so little trace that she had ever been there. As for the pretty creature whom Dr. Marchbanks had married, she had vanished into thin air years and years ago. These thoughts were heavy enough, perhaps even more overwhelming, than that grief which develops love to its highest point of intensity. But such were not precisely the kind of reflections which could be solaced by paternal Andries-Ment over a weeping and devoted daughter. It was May, and the weather was warm for the season, but Lucilla had caused the fire to be lighted in the large gloomy library where Dr. Marchbanks always sat in the evenings with the idea that it would be a comfort to him. And for the same reason, she had ordered tea to be served there instead of the dinner, for which her father, as she imagined, could have little appetite. When the doctor went in to his favorite seclusion, tired and heated and sad, for even on the day of his wife's funeral the favorite doctor of Carlingford had patience to think of. The very heaviness of his thoughts gave warmth to his indignation. He had longed for the quiet and the coolness and the solitude of his library, apart from everybody. And when he found it radiant with firelight, tea set on the table and Lucilla crying by the fire in her new crepe, the effect upon a temper by no means perfect may be imagined. The unfortunate man threw both the windows wide open and rang the bell violently and gave instant orders for the removal of the unnecessary fire and the tea service. Let me know when dinner is ready, he said in a voice like thunder, and if Miss Marchbanks wants a fire, let it be lighted in the drawing room. Lucilla was so much taken by surprise by the sudden overthrow of her program that she submitted, as a girl of much less spirit might have done, and suffered herself and her fire and her tea things to be dismissed upstairs, where she wept still more at sight of Dear Mama's sofa, and where Ellis came to mingle her tears with those of her young mistress, and to beg Dear Miss Lucilla for the sake of her precious health and her dear papa to be persuaded to take some tea. On the whole, master stood lessened in the eyes of all the household by his ability to eat his dinner and his resentment at having his habitudes disturbed. Them men would eat and drink if we was all in our graves, said the indignant cook, who indeed had a real grievance, and the outraged sentiment of the kitchen was avenged by a bad and hasty dinner, which the doctor, though generally very particular, swallowed without remark. About an hour afterwards he went upstairs to the drawing room where Miss Marchbanks was waiting for him, much less at ease than she had expected to be. Though he gave a little sigh at the sight of his wife's sofa, he did not hesitate to sit down upon it, and even to draw it a little out of its position, which, as Lucilla described afterwards, was like a knife going into her heart. Though, indeed, she had herself decided already, in the intervals of her tears, that the drawing room furniture had got very faded and shabby, and that it would be very expedient to have it renewed for the new reign of youth and energy which was about to commence. As for the doctor, though Miss Marchbanks thought him insensible, his heart was heavy enough. His wife had gone out of the world without leaving the least mark of her existence, except in that large girl whose spirits and forces were unbounded, but whose discretion, at the present moment, did not seem much greater than her mother's. Instead of thinking of her as a comfort, the doctor felt himself called upon to face a new and unexpected embarrassment. It would have been a satisfaction to him just then to have been left to himself and permitted to work quietly at his profession and to write his papers for the Lancet, and to see his friends now and then when he chose, for Dr. Marchbanks was not a man who had any great need of sympathy by nature, or who was at all addicted to demonstrations of feeling. Consequently, he drew his wife's sofa a little further from the fire and took his seat on it soberly, quite unaware that by doing so he was putting a knife into his daughter's heart. I hope you have had something to eat, Lucilla," he said. Don't get into that foolish habit of flying to tea as a man flies to a dram. It's a more innocent stimulant, but it's the same kind of intention. I am not so much against a fire. It has always a kind of cheerful look. Oh, papa! cried his daughter with a flood of indignant tears. You can't suppose I want anything to look cheerful this dreadful day. I am far from blaming you, my dear," said the doctor. It is natural you should cry. I am sorry I did not write for my sister to come, who would have taken care of you. But I dislike strangers in the house at such a time. However, I hope, Lucilla, you will soon feel yourself able to return to school. Occupation is always the best remedy, and you will have your friends and companions. Papa! cried Miss Marchbanks, and then she summoned courage, and rushed up to him, and threw herself and her clouds of crepe on the carpet at his side. And it may be here mentioned that Lucilla had seized the opportunity to have her morning made long, which had been the desire of her heart baffled by mama in governess for at least a year. Papa! she exclaimed with fervor, raising to him her tear-stained face, and clasping her fair plump hands. Oh, don't send me away! I was only a silly girl the other day, but this has made me a woman. Though I can never, never hope to take dear mama's place and be all that she was to you, still I feel I can be a comfort to you if you will let me. You shall not see me cry any more, cried Lucilla with energy, rubbing away her tears. I will never give way to my feelings. I will ask for no companions, nor anything. As for pleasure, that is all over. Oh, Papa, you shall never see me regret anything or wish for anything. I will give up everything in the world to be a comfort to you. This address, which was utterly unexpected, drove Dr. Marchbanks to despair. He said, Get up, Lucilla! But the devoted daughter knew better than to get up. She hid her face in her hands, and rested her hands upon her mother's sofa where the doctor was sitting. And the sobs of that emotion which she meant to control hence-forward echoed through the room. It is only for this once I cannot help it, she cried. When her father found that he could neither soothe her, nor succeed in raising her, he got up himself, which was the only thing left to him, and began to walk about the room with hasty steps. Her mother, too, had possessed this dangerous faculty of tears, and it was not wonderful if the sober-minded doctor, roused for the first time to consider his little girl as a creature possessed of individual character, should recognize, with a thrill of dismay, the appearance of the same qualities which had wearied his life out, and brought his youthful affections to an untimely end. Lucilla was, it is true, as different from her mother as summer for winter. But Dr. Marchbanks had no means of knowing that his daughter was only doing her duty by him in his widowhood, according to a program of filial devotion resolved upon, in accordance with the best models some days before. Accordingly, when her sobs had ceased, her father returned and raised her up not unkindly, and placed her in her chair. In doing so, the doctor put his finger by instinct upon Lucilla's pulse, which was sufficiently calm and well-regulated to reassure the most anxious parent, and then a furtive momentary smile gleamed for a single instant around the corners of his mouth. "'It is very good of you to propose sacrificing yourself for me,' he said, and if you would sacrifice your excitement in the meantime, and listen to me quietly, it would really be something. But you are only fifteen, Lucilla, and I have no wish to take you from school just now. Wait till I have done.' Your poor mother is gone, and it is very natural you should cry. But you were a good child to her on the whole, which will be a comfort to you. We did everything that could be thought of to prolong her days, and when that was impossible to lessen what she had to suffer. "'And we have every reason to hope,' said the doctor, as indeed he was accustomed to say in the exercise of his profession to mourning relatives, that she is far better off now than if she had been with us. When that is said, I don't know that there is anything more to add. I am not fond of sacrifices, either one way or another, and I have a great objection to anyone making a sacrifice for me. But, oh, papa, it would be no sacrifice,' said Lucilla, if you would only let me be a comfort to you. "'That is just where it is, my dear,' said the study doctor. "'I have been used to be left a great deal to myself, and I am not prepared to say that the responsibility of having you here without a mother to take care of you and all your lessons interrupted would not neutralize any comfort you might be. "'You see,' said Dr. Marchbanks, trying to soften matters a little. "'A man is what his habits make him, and I have been used to be left a great deal to myself. It answers in some cases, but I doubt if it would answer with me.' And then there was a pause, in which Lucilla wept and stifled her tears in her handkerchief, with a warmer flood of vexation and disappointment than even her natural grief had produced. "'Of course, papa, if I can't be any comfort, I will go back to school,' she saw, with a touch of sullenness, which did not escape the doctor's ear. "'Yes, my dear, you will certainly go back to school,' said the peremptory father. "'I never had any doubt on that subject. "'You can stay over Sunday and rest yourself. Monday or Tuesday will be time enough to go back to Mount Pleasant. "'And now you had better ring the bell and get somebody to bring you something. "'Or I'll see to that when I go downstairs. "'It's getting late, and this has been a fatiguing day. "'I'll send you up some negus, and I think you had better go to bed.'" And with these commonplace words, Dr. Marchbanks withdrew in calm possession of the field. As for Lucilla, she obeyed him and betook herself to her own room, and swallowed her negus with a sense not only of defeat, but of disappointment and mortification, which was very unpleasant. To go back again and be an ordinary schoolgirl after the pomp of woe in which she had come away was naturally a painful thought. She, who had ordered her morning to be made long, and contemplated new furniture in the drawing-room, and expected to be mistress of her father's house, not to speak of the still-dearer privilege of being a comfort to him, and now, after all, her active mind was to be condemned over again to verbs and chromatic scales, though she felt within herself capacities so much more extended. Ms. Marchbanks did not by any means learn by this defeat to take the characters of the other personate in her little drama into consideration when she rehearsed her pet scenes hereafter, for that is a knowledge slowly acquired, but she was wise enough to know when resistance was futile. And, like most people of lively imagination, she had a power of submitting to circumstances when it became impossible to change them. Thus she consented to postpone her reign, if not with a good grace, yet still without foolish resistance, and retired with the full honors of war. She had already rearranged all the details, and settled upon all the means possible of preparing herself for what she called the charge of the establishment when her final emancipation took place, before she returned to school. Papa thought me too young, she said, when she reached Mount Pleasant, though it was dreadful to come away and leave him alone with only the servants. But, dear Ms. Martha, you will let me learn all about political economy and things to help me manage everything, for now that dear Mama is gone, there is nobody but me to be a comfort to Papa. And by this means, Ms. Marchbanks managed to influence the excellent woman who believed in friends and counsel, and to direct the future tenor of her own education, while at least, in that one moment of opportunity, she had achieved long dresses, which was a visible mark of womanhood, and a step which could not be retraced. Chapter 2 of Ms. Marchbanks This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michelle Crandall. Ms. Marchbanks by Mrs. Oliphant. Chapter 2 Dr. Marchbanks was so far from feeling the lack of his daughter's powers of consolation, that he kept her at Mount Pleasant for three years longer, during which time it is supposed he managed to be comfortable after a benighted fashion, good enough for a man of fifty who had come to an end of his illusions. To be sure, there were in the world, and even in Carlingford, kind women who would not have objected to take charge of the doctor in his establishment, and be a comfort to him. But on the whole, it was undeniable that he managed tolerably well in external matters, and gave very good men's dinners, and kept everything in perfect order, so far as it went. Naturally, the fairer part of existence was left out altogether in that grim, the well-ordered house. But then he was only a man and a doctor, and knew no better. And, while the feminine part of Grange Lane regarded him with natural pity, not only for what he lacked, but for a still more sad defect, his total want of perception on this subject, their husbands and fathers rather liked to dine with the doctor, and brought home accounts of sauces which were enough to drive any woman to despair. Some of the ladies of Grange Lane, Mrs. Chiley, for example, who was fond of a good living herself, and liked, as she said, a little variety, laid siege to the doctor, and did their best to coax his receipts out of him. But Dr. Marchbanks knew better than that. He gave all the credit to his cook, like a man of sense. And, as that functionary was known in Carlingford, to be utterly regardless and unprincipled in respect to gravy beef, and the materials for stock or consomme, as some people called it, society was disinclined to exert its extraordinary arts to seduce so great an artist from the kitchen of her indulgent master. Then there were other ladies who took a different tone. Dr. Marchbanks, poor man, has nothing but his table to take up his mind, said Mrs. Sentom, who had six children. I never heard that the heart could be nourished upon sauces, for my part, and for a man who has his children's future to think of. I must say, I am surprised at you, Mr. Sentom. As for young Mrs. Woodburn, her reply was still more decisive, though milder in its tone. Poor cook, I am so sorry for her, said the gentle young matron. You know, you always like something for breakfast, Charles, and then there is the children's dinner, and our lunch, and the servant's dinner, so that the poor thing is worn out before she comes to what you call the great event of the day, and you know how angry you were when I asked for a kitchen maid for her poor soul. The consequence of all this was that Dr. Marchbanks remained unrivaled and grange lane in this respect at least. When rumors arose in Carlingford of a possible second marriage for the doctor, and such rumors naturally arose three or four times in the course of three years, the men of Grange Lane said, heaven forbid, no wife in the world could replace Nancy, said Colonel Chiley, after that fervent aspiration, and none could put up with her. While on the other side there were curious speculations afloat as to the effect upon the house, and especially upon the table of the daughter's return. When a young woman comes to be eighteen, it is difficult to keep her at school, and though the doctor had staved off the danger for the moment, by sending Lucilla off along with one of her school fellows, whose family was going abroad, to make orthodox acquaintance with all the Swiss mountains and all the Italian capitals, still that was plainly inexpedient for the moment, and a new mistress to the house, which had got along so well without any mistress, was inevitable. So that it cannot be denied, Miss Marchbank's advent was regarded in Carlingford with as much interest and curiosity as she could have wished, for it was already known that the doctor's daughter was not a mild young lady, easy to be controlled, but on the contrary, had all the energy and determination to have her own way, which naturally belonged to a girl who possessed a considerable chin, and a mouth which could shut and tightly curling tawny tresses, which were still more determined than she was to be arranged only according to their inclination. It was even vaguely reported that some passage of arms had occurred between Miss Marchbank's and the redoubtable Nancy during the short and uncertain opportunities which were afforded by holidays, and the community, accordingly, regarded as an affair of almost municipal importance, Lucila's final return home. As for the young lady herself, though she was at school, she was conscious of having had a career not without importance, even during these three years of pupillage. Since the day when she began to read political economy with Miss Martha Blent, who, though the second sister, was the directing spirit of the establishment, Lucila had exercised a certain influence upon the school itself which was very satisfactory. Perhaps her course might be a little deficient in grace, but grace, after all, is but a secondary quality, and at all events, Miss Marchbank's went straight forward, leaving an unquestionable wake behind her, and running down with indifference the little skiffs in her way. She was possessed by a nature of that kind of egotism, or rather egoism, which is predestined to impress itself by its perfect reality and good faith upon the surrounding world. These are people who talk of themselves and think of themselves as it were under protest, and with deprecation, not actually able to convince themselves that anybody cares, but Lucila, for her part, had the calmest and most profound conviction that when she discussed her own doings and plans and clevernesses, she was bringing forward the subject most interesting to her audience as well as to herself. Such a conviction is never without its fruits. To be sure, there were always one or two independent spirits who revolted, but for the crowd, it soon became impressed with the profound belief in the creed which Miss Marchbank supported so firmly. This conviction of the importance and value of her own proceedings made Lucila, as she grew older, a copious and amusing conversationalist, a rank which few people who are indifferent to or do not believe in themselves can attain to, one thing she had made up her mind to as soon as she could return home, and that was to revolutionize society in Carlingford. On the whole, she was pleased with the success of the doctor's dinner, though a little peaked to think that they owed nothing to herself. But Lucila, whose instinct of government was of the true despotic order, and who had no objection to stoop if by that means she could conquer, had no such designs against Nancy as were attributed to her by the expectant audience in Carlingford. On the contrary, she was quite as much disposed as her father was to take Nancy for prime minister. For Miss Marchbank's, though too much occupied with herself to divine the characteristic points of other people, had a sensible and thorough belief in those superficial, general truths which most minds acquiesce in without taking the trouble to believe. She knew, for example, that there was a great difference between the brilliant society of London or of Paris, which appears in books, where women have generally the best of it and can rule in their own right, and even the very best society of a country town, where husbands are very commonly unmanageable and have a great deal more of their own way in respect to the houses they will or will not go to than is good for that inferior branch of the human family. Miss Marchbank's had the good sense to see and appreciate these details, and she knew that a good dinner was a great attraction to a man, and that in Carlingford at least, when these refractory mortals were secured, the wives and daughters would necessarily follow. Besides, as is not uncommon with women who are clever women and aware of the fact, Miss Marchbank's preferred the society of men and rather liked to say so. With all these intentions in her mind, it may be imagined that she received coolly enough the invitation of her friend to join in the grand tour, and the ready consent given by her father when he heard of it. But even the grand tour was a tool which Lucilla saw how to make use of. Nowadays, when people go everywhere, an untraveled woman would find it so much the harder to keep up the role of a leader of society to which she had devoted herself, and she felt to the depth of her heart the endless advantage to her future conversation of the experiences to be acquired in Switzerland and Italy, but she rejected with scorn the insinuation of other accidents that might occur on the way. You will never come back again Lucilla, said one of her companions. You will marry some enchanting Italian with a beautiful black beard, and a voice like an angel, and he'll sing serenades to you and do all sorts of things. Oh, how I wish I was you! That may be, said Miss Marchbank's, but I shall never marry an Italian, my dear. I don't think I shall marry anybody for a long time. I want to amuse myself. I wonder, by the way, if it would improve my voice to take lessons in Italy. Did I ever tell you of the Italian nobleman that was so very attentive to me that Christmas I spent at Sissy Vernon's? He was very handsome. I suppose they really are all very handsome, except of course the Italian masters. But I did not pay any attention to him. My object, dear, and you know it is, is to return home as well educated as possible to be a comfort to dear papa. Yes, dear Lucilla, said the sympathetic girl, and it is so good of you. But do tell me about the Italian nobleman. What did he look like? What did he say? Oh, as for what he said, that is quite a different matter, said Lucilla. But it is not what they say, but the way that they say it, that is the fun. I did not give him the least encouragement. As for that, I think a girl can always stop a man when she does not care for him. It depends on whether you intend him to commit himself or not. Miss March Banks continued, and fixed her eyes meditatively, but intently, upon her friend's face. Whether I intend—oh, goodness Lucilla, how can you speak so? As if I ever intended anything, said her companion, confused yet flattered by the possibility, to which the Elder Sage answered calmly with all the composure in the world. No, I never supposed you did. I was thinking of myself, said Lucilla, as if indeed that was the only reasonable subject of thought. You know I have seen a good deal of the world, one way and another, with going to spend the holidays, and I could tell you quantities of things. It is quite astonishing how much experience one gets. When I was at Midhurst, at Easter, there was my cousin Tom, who was quite ridiculous. I declare he nearly brought things to an explanation, Fanny, which, of course, of all things in the world I most wanted to avoid. Oh, but why, Lucilla, cried Fanny, full of delight and wonder. I do so want to know what they say when they make explanations as you call them. Oh, do tell me, Lucilla, why? My dear, said Miss March Banks, a cousin of my own, and only twenty-one and reading for the bar? In the first place, my aunt would never have forgiven me, and I am very fond of my aunt. It's so nice to like all one's relations. I know some girls who can't bear theirs, and then a boy not much older than myself, with nothing but what his mother pleases. Fortunately, he did not just say the words, so I escaped that time. But, of course, I could understand perfectly what he meant. But oh, Lucilla, tell me the words! cried the persistent questioner. Dude, there's a darling. I am quite sure you have heard them, and I should so like to know exactly what they say. Do they go down on their knees? Or do they try to take your hand as they always do in novels? Or what do they do? Oh, Lucilla, tell me, there's a dear. Nonsense, said Lucilla. I only want you to understand that I am not likely to fall into any danger of that sort. My only ambition, Fanny, as I have told you often, is to go home to Carlingford and be a comfort to dear Papa. Yes, said Fanny, kissing her devoted companion, and it is so good of you, dear. But then you cannot go on all your life being a comfort to dear Papa, said the intelligent girl, but thinking herself, and looking again with some curiosity in Lucilla's face. We must leave that to Providence, said Miss March Banks, with a sense of paying a compliment to Providence, in entrusting it with such a responsibility. I have always been guided for the best hitherto, she continued with an innocent and unintentional profanity, which sounded solemn to her equally innocent companion, and I don't doubt I shall be so till the end. From which it will be perceived that Miss March Banks was of the numerous class of religionists who keep up civilities with heaven and pay all the proper attentions and show their respect for the divine government in a manner befitting persons who know the value of their own approbation. The conversation dropped at this point, or Lucilla was too important a person to be left to the undivided possession of an inquisitive innocent like Fanny Middleton, who was only sixteen, and had never even had a flirtation in her own person. There were no Carlingford girls at Mount Pleasant, except poor little Rose Lake, the drawing master's second daughter, who had been received on Dr. March Banks's recommendation, and who heard the little children their geography and reading, and gave them little lessons in drawing by way of paying for her own education. But then Rose was entirely out of Miss March Banks's way, and could never count for anything in her designs for the future. The girls at Mount Pleasant were good girls on the whole, and were rather improved by the influence of Lucilla, who was extremely good-natured, and so long as her superiority was duly acknowledged, was ready to do anything for anybody, so that Rose Lake was not at all badly off in her inferior position. She could be made useful too, which was a great point in her favor, and Miss March Banks, who possessed by nature some of the finest qualities of a ruler, instinctively understood and appreciated the instruments that came to her hand. As for Rose, she had been brought up at the School of Design in Carlingford, of which, under the supervision of the authorities who, in those days, inhabited Marlboro House, Mr. Lake was the master. Rose was the pride of the school, in the peaceable days before her mother died. She did not know much else, poor child, except novels. But her copies from the round filled her father with admiration, and her design for a honniton lace flounce, a spirited composition of dragon's tails in the striking plant called Teasel, which flourishes in the neighborhood of Carlingford. For Mr. Lake had leanings towards pre-Raphaelitism, was thought by the best judges to show a wonderful amount of feeling for art, and just missed being selected for the prize. A girl with such talent was naturally much appreciated at Mount Pleasant. She made the most charming design for Miss March Banks' handkerchief. Lucilla and Gothic characters enclosed in a wreath of forget-me-nots, skillfully combined with thistle leaves, which Rose took great pains to explain, were so much better adapted to ornamentation than foliage of a less distinct character. And the young draftswoman was so charmed by Lucilla's enthusiastic admiration that she volunteered to work the design in the cambrick, which was a much more serious matter. This was on the eve of Miss March Banks' final departure from school. She was to spend a year abroad to the envy of all whom she left behind. But for herself, Lucilla was not elated. She thought it very probable that she would ascend Mount Blanc, as far as the Grand Moulay, at least. And of course, in spring, go up Vesuvius, having got through the carnival in Misrère, and all the balls in Rome. But none of these things moved her out of her usual composure. She took it all in the way of business as she had taken her French and her German, and her singing, and her political economy. As she stepped into the steamboat at Dover, which was to convey her to scenes so new, Lucilla felt more and more that she who held the reorganization of society at Carlingford in her hands was a woman with a mission. She was going abroad as the heir apparent went to America and the Holy Land to complete her education and fit herself by an examination of the peculiarities of other nations for an illustrious and glorious reign at home. MISS MARCHBANKS by Mrs. Oliphant. CHAPTER III It may be well to seize the opportunity of Miss March Banks's travels, through which it is unnecessary to follow her, as they have nothing particular to do with the legitimate history of her great undertaking, to explain a little the state of affairs in Carlingford before the distinguished revolutionary began her labours. It is something like going back into the prehistoric period, those ages of the flint, which only ingenious quarrymen and learned geologists can elucidate, to recall the social condition of the town before Miss March Banks began her Thursday evenings, before St. Roque's chapel was built or thought of, while Mr. Burry, the evangelical rector, was still in full activity, and before old Mr. Tefton at Salem Chapel, who sometimes drank tea at the rectory, and thus had a kind of clandestine entrance into the dim outskirts of that chaos, which was then called society, had his first stroke. From this latter circumstance alone, the entirely disorganized condition of affairs will be visible at a glance. It is true, Mr. Vincent, who succeeded Mr. Tefton, was received by Lady Western in days when public opinion had made great advances. But then Lady Western was the most good-natured creature in the world, and gave an invitation when it happened to come into her head, without the least regard for the consequences. And after all, Mr. Vincent was very nice-looking and clever, and quite presentable. Fortunately, however, the period to which we allude was prior to the entrance of Lady Western into Grange Lane. She was a very pretty woman, and knew how to look like a lady of fashion, which is always of importance. But she was terribly inconsequent, as Miss Marchbank said, and her introductions were not in the least to be depended upon. She was indeed quite capable of inviting a family of retired drapers to meet the best people in Grange Lane, for no better reason than to gratify her protégé, which, of course, was a proceeding calculated to strike at the roots of all society. Fortunately for Carlingford, its reorganization was an abler hands. Affairs were in an utterly chaotic state at the period when this record commences. There was nothing which could be properly called a center in the entire town. To be sure, Grange Lane was inhabited, as at present, by the best families in Carlingford. But then, without organization, what good does it do to have a number of people together? For example, Mr. Burry was utterly unqualified to take any lead. Mrs. Burry had been dead a long time, and the daughters were married, and the rector's maiden sister, who lived with him, was entirely of his own way of thinking, and asked people to tea parties which were like Methodist class meetings, and where Mr. Tufton was to be met with, and sometimes other dissenters, to whom the rector gave what he called the right hand of fellowship. But he never gave anything else to society, except weak tea and thin bread and butter, which was fair, the ladies said, which the gentleman did not relish. I never can induce Charles to go out to tea, said young Mrs. Woodburn piteously. He won't, and there is an end of it. After dinner he thinks of nothing but an easy chair in the papers. And, my dear Miss Burry, what can I do? It is a great pity, my dear, that your husband's carelessness should deprive you of the benefit of Christian conversation. But, to be sure, it is your duty to stay with him, and I hope it will be made up to you at home, Miss Burry would say. As for the rector, his favourites were devoted to him, and, as he always saw enough of familiar faces at his sister's tea parties, he took no account of the defaulters. Then there was Dr. March Banks, who gave only dinners, to which naturally, as there was no lady in the house, ladies could not be invited, and who, besides, was rather a drawback than a benefit to society, since he made the men quite intolerable, and filled them with such expectations in the way of cookery that they never were properly content with a good family dinner after. Then the ladies, from whom something might justly have been expected in the way of making society pleasant, such as Mrs. Sentom and Mrs. Woodburn, for example, who had everything they could desire, and the most liberable housekeeping allowances, were either incapacitated by circumstances, which was a polite term in use at Carlingford and meant babies, or by character. Mrs. Woodburn liked nothing so well as to sit by the fire and read novels, and take off her neighbours, when anyone called on her, and, of course, the lady who was her audience on one occasion, left with the comfortable conviction that next time she would be the victim, a circumstance which, indeed, did not make the offender unpopular, for there were very few people in Carlingford who could be amusing, even at the expense of their neighbours. But it made quite impossible that she should ever do anything in the way of knitting people together, in making a harmonious whole out of the scraps and fragments of society. As for Mrs. Chiley, she was old, and had not energy enough for such an undertaking, and, besides, she had no children, and disliked bustle and trouble, and was of the opinion that the Colonel never enjoyed his dinner if he had more than four people to help him to eat it. And, in short, you might have gone over Grange Lane, house by house, finding a great deal of capital material, but without encountering a single individual capable of making anything out of it. Such was the lamentable condition at the moment this history commences of society in Carlingford. And yet nobody could say that there were not very good elements to make society with. When you add to a man capable of giving excellent dinners, like Dr. March Banks, another man like young Mr. Cavendish, Mrs. Woodburn's brother, who was a wit and a man of fashion, and belonged to one of the best clubs in town, and brought down gossip with the bloom on it to Grange Lane. And when you joined to Mrs. Sentom, who was always so good and so much out of temper, that it was safe to calculate on something amusing from her the languid but trenchant humor of Mrs. Woodburn, not to speak of their husbands, who were perfectly available for the background, and all the nephews and cousins and grandchildren, who constantly paid visits to old Mr. Western and Colonel Chiley, and the Browns, when they were at home, with their floating suite of admirers, and the young ladies who sang, and the young ladies who sketched, and the men who went out with the hounds when business permitted them, and the people who came about the town when there was an election, and the barristers who made the circuit, and the gay people who came to the races, not to speak of the varying chances of curates, who could talk or play the piano, with which Mr. Burry favored his parishioners, for he changed his curates very often, and the occasional visits of the lesser country people, and the country clergymen. It will be plainly apparent that all that was wanting to Carlingford was a master hand to blend these different elements. There had even been a few feeble preliminary attempts at this great work, which had failed, as such attempts always fail when they are premature, and when the real agent of the change is already on the way. But preparations and pre-sentiments had taken vague possession of the mind of the town, as has always been observed to be the case before a great revolution, or when a man destined to put his mark on his generation, as the newspapers say, is about to appear. To be sure it was not a man this time, but Miss Marchbanks. But the atmosphere thrilled and trembled to the advent of the new luminary all the same. Yet at the same time the world of Carlingford had not the least idea of the real quarter, from which the sovereign intelligence which was to develop it from chaos into order and harmony was, effectively, to come. Some people had hoped in Mrs. Woodburn before she fell into her present languor of appearance and expression, and a great many people hoped in Mr. Cavendish's wife if he married, as he was said to intend to do. For this gentleman, who was in the habit of describing himself no doubt very truthfully, as one of the Cavendish's, was a person of great consideration in Grange Lane, and some hoped in a new rector, for it was apparent that Mr. Burry could not last very long. Thus, with the ordinary shortsightedness of the human species, Carlingford blinded itself and turned its eyes in every direction in the world rather than in that of the Swiss mountains, which were being climbed at that moment by a large and blooming young woman, with tawny short curls, and alert decided movements. So little do we know what momentous issues may hang upon the most possible accident. Had that energetic traveller slipped but an inch further upon the mer de glace, had she taken that other step which she was with difficulty persuaded not to take on the western alp, there would have been an end of all the hopes of social importance for Carlingford. But the good fairies took care of Lucilla and her mission, and saved her from the precipice and the crevasses, and instinctively the air at home got note of what was coming, and whispered the news mysteriously through keyholes, Miss Marchbanks is coming home, the unsuspecting male public said to itself, as it returned from Dr. Marchbanks's dinners, with a certain distressing, but mistaken pre-sentiment that these delights were to come to an end. And the ladies repeated the same piece of news, conjoining with it benevolent intimations of their intention to call upon her and make the poor thing feel herself at home. Perhaps she may be amusing, Mrs. Woodburn was good enough to add, but these words meant only that perhaps Lucilla, who was coming to set them all right, was worthy of being placed in the satirist's collection, along with Mrs. Sentom and Mrs. Chiley. Thus, while the town ripened more and more for her great mission, and the ignorant human creatures, who were to be her subjects, showed their usual blindness and ignorance, the time drew nearer and nearer for Miss Marchbanks's return. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michelle Crandall. Miss Marchbanks by Mrs. Oliphant. Chapter 4 My daughter is coming home, Nancy, said Dr. Marchbanks. You will have to make preparations for her immediately. So far, as I can make out from this letter, she will arrive tomorrow by the half-past five train. Well, sir, said Nancy, with the tone of a woman who makes the best of a misfortune, it ain't every young lady as would have the sense to fix an hour like that. Ladies is terrible tiresome in that way. They'll come in the middle of the day, when a body don't know in the world what to have for them, or they'll come at night when a body's tired and ain't got the heart to go into a supper. There was always a deal of sense in Miss Lucilla when she hadn't got nothing in her head. Just so, said Dr. Marchbanks, who was rather relieved to have got through the announcement so easily, you will see that her room is ready and everything comfortable, and of course, tomorrow she and I will dine alone. Yes, sir, said Nancy, but this assent was not given in the decisive tone of a woman whose audience was over. And then she was seized with a desire to arrange in a more satisfactory manner the cold beef on the sideboard. When she had secured this little interval for thought, she returned again to the table where her master ate his breakfast, with a pre-sentiment. If you please, sir, said Nancy, not to give you no vexation or trouble, which everyone knows as it has been the aim of my life to spare you, as has so much on your mind, but it's best to settle before commencing, and then we needn't have no heart-burning. If you please, am I to take my orders of Miss Lucilla or of you as I've always been used to? In the Mrs. time, said Nancy with modest confidence, as was a good Mrs., and never gave no trouble as long as she had her soup and her jelly comfortable, it was always you as said what there was to be for dinner. I don't make no objection to doing up a nice little lynching for Miss Lucilla, and giving a little more thought now and again to the sweets, but it ain't my part to tell you, sir, as a lady's taste, and, more special, a young lady's, ain't to be expected to be the same as yours and mine as has been cultivated like. I'm not when as likes contention, continued the domestic oracle, but I couldn't a bear to see a good master put upon, and if it should be, as Miss Lucilla sets her mind upon messes as ain't got no taste in them, and milk puddings and stuff like the most of the young ladies, I'd just like to know out of your own mouth, before the commencement, what I'm to do. Dr. March Banks was so moved by this appeal, that he laid down his knife and contemplated the alarming future with some dismay. It is to be hoped Miss Lucilla will know better, he said. She has a great deal of good sense, and it is to be hoped that she will be wise enough to consult the tastes of the house. But the doctor was not to be let off so easily. As you say, sir, everything's to be hoped, said Nancy steadily, but there's many ladies as don't seem to me to have got no taste to their mouths, and it ain't as if it was a thing that could be left to hopes. Supposing as it comes to that, sir, what am I to do? Well, said the doctor, who was himself a little puzzled, you know Miss Lucilla is nineteen Nancy and my only child, and the natural mistress of the house. Sir, said Nancy austerely, them is things as ain't needful to name, that ain't the question, as I was asking. Supposing as things come to such a point, what am I to do? Bless me, it's half past nine, said the doctor, and I have an appointment. You can come just as usual when we are at breakfast. That will be the best way, he said as he went out at the door, and chuckled a little to himself when he felt he had escaped. Lucilla is her mother's daughter, it is true, he said to himself, when he had got into the safe seclusion of his Brogum, with a degree of doubt in his tone, which was startling to say the least of it from the lips of a medical man. But she is my child all the same, he added briskly, with returning confidence, and in this conviction there was something which reassured the doctor. He rubbed his hands as he bowled along to his appointment, and thought within himself that if she turned out to be a girl of spirit as he expected, it would be good fun to see Lucilla struggle with Nancy for the veritable reigns of government. If Dr. Marchbanks had entertained any positive apprehensions that his dinners would be spoiled in consequence, his amusement would have come to an abrupt conclusion. But he trusted entirely in Nancy, and a little in Lucilla, and suffered his long upper lip to relax at the thought without much fear. Her father had not returned from the labours of his long day when Lucilla arrived, but he made his last visits on foot in order to be able to send the Brogum for her, which was a great thing for the doctor to do. There was indeed a mutual respect between the two, who were not necessary to each other's comfort, it is true, as such near relations sometimes are, but who, at the same time, except on the sole occasion, of Mrs. Marchbanks's death, had never misunderstood each other as sometimes happens. This time Miss Marchbanks was rather pleased on the whole that the doctor did not come to meet her. At other times she had been a visitor, now she had come into her kingdom, and had no desire to be received like a guest. A sense of coming home, warmer than she remembered to have felt before, came into Lucilla's active mind as she stepped into the Brogum. Not that the words bore any special tender meaning, notwithstanding that it was the desire of her heart, well known to all her friends to live henceforward as a comfort to dear papa, but that now at last she was coming into her kingdom, and entering the domain in which she intended her will to be law. After living for a year with friends whose arrangements, much inferior to those which she could have made had she had the power, she had to acquiesce in, and whose domestic economy could only be criticized up to a certain point, it was naturally a pleasure to Miss Marchbanks to feel that now at length she was emancipated and at liberty to exercise her faculty. There were times during the past year when Lucilla had with difficulty restrained herself from snatching the reins out of the hands of her hosts, and showing them how to manage, but impatient as she was she had to restrain herself and make the best of it. Now all that bondage was over. She felt like a young king entering in secret a capital which awaits him with acclamations. Before she presented herself to the rejoicing public there were arrangements to be made and things to be done, and Miss Marchbanks gave a rapid glance at the shops in George Street as she drove past, and decided which of them she meant to honour with her patronage. When she entered the garden it was with the same rapid glance of reorganising genius that she cast her eyes around it, and Stillmore decided was the look with which she regarded her own room where she was guided by the new housemaid who did not know Miss Lucilla. Nancy who knew no better, being like most gifted persons a woman of one idea, had established her young mistress in the little chamber which had been Lucilla's when she was a child. But Miss Marchbanks, who had no sentimental notions about white dimity, shook her head at the frigid little apartment where, however, she was not at all sorry to be placed at present, for if Dr. Marchbanks had been a man of prevenant class disposed to make all the preparations possible for his daughter and arrange elegant surprises for her, he would have thoroughly disgusted Lucilla, who was meant on making all the necessary improvements in her own person. When she went down to the drawing-room to await her father, Miss Marchbanks' look of disapprobation was mingled with so much satisfaction and content in herself that it was pleasant to behold. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as she paused in the centre of the large faded room, where there was no light but that of the fire, which burned brightly, and kept up a lively play of glimmer and shadow in the tall glass over the fireplace, and even twinkled dimly in the three long windows, where the curtains hung stiff and solemn in their daylight form. It was not an uncomfortable sort of big, dull, faded, respectable drawing-room, and if there had been a family in it, with recollections attached, to every old ottoman in easy chair, no doubt it would have been charming, but it was only a waste and howling wilderness to Lucilla. When she had walked from one end to the other and verified all the plans, she had already long ago conceived for the embellishment of this inner court and centre of her kingdom. Lucilla walked with her unhesitating step to the fire, and took a match and lighted all the candles in the large old-fashioned candlesticks, which had been flickering in grotesque shadows all over the roof. This proceeding threw a flood of light on the subject of her considerations, and gave Miss Marchbanks an idea in passing about the best mode of lighting, which she afterwards acted upon with great success. She was standing in this flood of light, regarding everything around her with the eye of an enlightened critic and reformer, when Dr. Marchbanks came in. Perhaps there arose in the soul of the doctor a momentary thought that the startling amount of a clarage, which he witnessed, was scarcely necessary, for it is certain that he gave a momentary glance at the candles as he went up to greet his daughter, but he was far too well bred a man to suggest such an idea at the moment. On the contrary, he kissed her with a sentiment of real pleasure, and owned to himself that, if she was not a fool and could keep at her own department, it might be rather agreeable on the whole to have a woman in the house. The sentiment was not enthusiastic, and neither were the words of his salutation. Well, Lucilla, so this is you, said the moderate and unexcited father. Yes, papa, it is me, said Miss Marchbanks, and very glad to get home. And so the two sat down and discussed the journey, whether she had been cold and what state the railway was in, till the doctor bethought himself that he had to prepare for dinner. Nancy is always very punctual, and I am sure you are hungry, he said, so I'll go upstairs with your permission, Lucilla, and change my coat. And with this the actual arrival terminated, and the new rain began. But it was only next morning that the young sovereign gave any intimation of her future policy. She had naturally a great deal to tell that first night, and though it was exclusively herself, and her own adventures and achievements, which Miss Marchbanks related, the occasion of her return made that sufficiently natural, and the doctor was not altogether superior to the natural prejudice which makes a man interested, even when they are not in themselves particularly interesting, in the doings of his children. She succeeded in doing what is certainly one of the first duties of a woman, she amused her father. He followed her to the drawing-room for a marvel, and took a cup of tea, though it was against his principles. And on the whole, Lucilla had the satisfaction of feeling that she had made a conquest of the doctor, which, of course, was the grand and most essential preliminary. In the little interval which she spent over his claret, Miss Marchbanks had succeeded in affecting another fundamental duty of woman. She had, as she herself expressed it, harmonized the rooms by the simple method of rearranging half the chairs and covering the tables with trifles of her own, a proceeding which converted the apartment from an abstract English drawing-room of the old school into Miss Marchbanks's drawing-room, an individual spot of ground revealing something of the character of its mistress. The doctor himself was so moved by this that he looked vaguely round when he came in, as if a little doubtful where he was. But that might only be the effect of the sparkling mass of candles on the mantelpiece, which she was too well bred to remark upon the first night. But it was only in the morning that Lucilla unfolded her standard. She was down to breakfast, ready to pour out the coffee before the doctor had left his room. He found her, to his intense amazement, seated at the foot of the table, in the place which he usually occupied himself before the urn and the coffee-pot. Dr. Marchbanks hesitated for one momentous instant, stricken dumb by this unparalleled audacity. But so great was the effect of his daughter's courage and steadiness that after that moment of fate he accepted the seat by the side where everything was arranged for him and to which Lucilla invited him sweetly, though not without a touch of mental perturbation. The moment he had seated himself, the doctor's eyes were opened to the importance of the step he had taken. I am afraid I have taken your seat, papa, said Miss Marchbanks, with ingenuous sweetness. But then I should have had to move the urn and all the things, and I thought you would not mind. The doctor said nothing but, pumph, and even that in an undertone. But he became aware all the same that he had abdicated without knowing it, and that the reins of state had been smilingly withdrawn from his unconscious hands. When Nancy made her appearance, the fact became still more apparent, though still in the sweetest way. It is so dreadful to think papa should have been bothered with all these things so long, said Miss Marchbanks. After this I am sure you and I, Nancy, can arrange it all without giving him the trouble. Perhaps this morning, papa, as I am a stranger, you will say if there is anything you would like, and then I shall have time to talk it all over with Nancy and find out what is best. And Lucilla smiled so sweetly upon her two amazed subjects that the humor of the situation caught the fancy of the doctor, who had a keen perception of the ridiculous. He laughed out, much to Nancy's consternation, who was standing by in open-eyed dismay. Very well, Lucilla, he said, you shall try what you can do. I dare say Nancy will be glad to have me back again before long, but in the meantime I am quite content that you should try. And he went off laughing to his brogum, but came back again before Lucilla could take Nancy in hand, who was an antagonist more formidable. I forgot to tell you, said the doctor, that Tom Marchbanks is coming on circuit, and that I have asked him to stay here, as a matter of course. I suppose he'll arrive tomorrow. Goodbye till the evening. This, though Dr. Marchbanks did not in the least intend it, struck Lucilla like a Parthian arrow, and brought her down for the moment. Tom Marchbanks, she ejaculated in a kind of horror, of all people in the world and at this moment. But when she saw the open eyes and rising color of Nancy, the young dictator recovered herself, for a conqueror in the first moment of his victory has need to be wary. She called Nancy to her in her most affectionate tones as she finished her breakfast. I sent Papa away, said Miss Marchbanks, because I wanted to have a good talk with you, Nancy. I want to tell you my object in life. It is to be a comfort to Papa. Ever since poor Mama died, that is what I have been thinking of. And now I have come home, and I have made up my mind that he is not to be troubled about anything. I know what a good faithful, valuable woman you are, I assure you. You need not think me a foolish girl who is not able to appreciate you. The dinner was charming last night, Nancy, said Lucilla with much feeling, and I never saw anything more beautifully cooked than Papa's cutlets today. Miss Lucilla, I may say as I am very glad I have pleased you, said Nancy, who was not quite conquered as yet. She stood very stiffly upright by the table and maintained her integrity. Master is particular I don't deny, continued the prime minister, who felt herself dethroned. I've always done my best to go in with his little fancies, and I don't mean to say as it isn't right and natural, as you should be the missus. But I ain't used to having a do with ladies, and that's the truth. Ladies is stingy in many things as is the soul of a good dinner to them as knows. I may be valuable or not. It ain't for me to say. But I'm not one as can always be kept to set figure in my gravy-beef and my bacon and them sorts of things. As for the butter, I don't know as I could give nobody an idea. I ain't one as likes changes, but I can't abide to be kept to a set figure. And that's the chief thing, Miss Lucilla, as I've got to say. And quite reasonable, too, said Miss March Banks. You and I will work perfectly well together, Nancy. I am sure we have both the same meaning. And I hope you don't think I am less concerned about dear Papa than about the gravy-beef. He must have been very desolate with no one to talk to, though he has been so good and kind and self-sacrificing in leaving me to get every advantage. But I mean to make it up to him, now I've come home. Yes, Miss, said Nancy, somewhat mystified. Not but what master has had his little parties now and again to cheer him up a bit. And I make bold to say, Miss, as I have heard compliments, which it was Thomas that brought him downstairs, as might go nigh to turn a body's head if it was vanity as I was thinking of. But I ain't one as thinks of anything but the comfort of the family, said Nancy, yielding in spite of herself to follow the leadings of the higher will in presence of which she found herself. And I'm always one as does my best, Miss Lucilla, if I ain't worried nor kept to a set figure with my gravy-beef. I have heard of Papa's dinners, said Lucilla graciously, and I don't mean to let down your reputation, Nancy. Now, we are two women to manage everything. We ought to do still better. I have two or three things in my head that I will tell you after. But in the meantime, I want you to know that the object of my life is to be a comfort to poor Papa. And now let us think what we had better have for dinner, said the new sovereign. Nancy was so totally unprepared for this manner of dethronement that she gave in like her master. She followed Miss Marchbank's humbly into those details in which Lucilla speedily proved herself a woman of original mind and powers quite equal to her undertaking. The doctor's formidable housekeeper conducted her young mistress downstairs afterwards, and showed her everything with the meekness of a saint. Lucilla had won a second victory, still more exhilarating and satisfactory than the first, for to be sure, it is no great credit to a woman of nineteen to make a man of any age throw down his arms. But to conquer a woman is a different matter, and Lucilla was thoroughly sensible of the difference. Now indeed she could feel with a sense of reality that her foundations were laid. Miss Marchbank's had enough of occupation for that day, and for many days. But her mind was a little distracted by her father's parting intelligence, and she had, besides a natural desire to view the country she had come to conquer. When she had made a careful supervision of the house, and shifted her own quarters into the pleasantest of the two best bedrooms, and concluded that the little bear-dimity chamber she had occupied the previous night was quite good enough for Tom Marchbank's, Lucilla put on her hat, and went out to make a little reconnaissance. She walked down to the spot where St. Rokes now stands, on her own side of Grange Lane, and up on the other side into George Street, surveying all the capabilities of the place with a rapid but penetrating glance. Dr. Marchbank's house could not have been better placed as a strategic position, commanding as it did all Grange Lane, of which it was, so to speak the key, and yet affording a base of communication with the profaner public which Miss Marchbank's was wise enough to know a leader of society should never ignore completely. For, indeed, one of the great advantages of that brilliant position is that it gives a woman a right to be arbitrary, and to select her materials according to her judgment. It was more from a disinclination to repeat herself than any other motive that Lucilla, when she had concluded this preliminary survey, went up into Grove Street, meaning to return home that way. At that hour in the morning the sun was shining on the little gardens on the north side of the street, which was the plebeian side, and, as it was the end of October and by no means warm, Lucilla was glad to cross over, and continue her walk by the side of those little enclosures where the straggling chrysanthemums propped each other up, and the cheerful Mickelmas daisies made the best of it in the sunshine that remained to them. Miss Marchbank's had nearly reached Salem Chapel, which pushed itself forward amid the cozy little line of houses, pondering in her mind the unexpected hindrance which was about to be placed in her triumphant path in the shape of Tom Marchbank's, when that singular piece of good fortune occurred to her which had so much effect upon her career in Carlingford. Such happy accidents rarely happen except to great generals or heroes of romance, and it would have been perhaps a presumption on the part of Lucilla to place herself conspicuously in either of these categories. The fact is, however, that at this eventful moment she was walking along under the shade of her pretty parasol, not expecting anything, but absorbed in many thoughts, and a little cast down in her expectations of success by a consciousness that this unlucky cousin would insist upon making love to her, and perhaps, even as she herself expressed it, saying the words which it had taken all her skill to prevent him from saying before. Not that we would have anyone believe that lovemaking in the abstract was disagreeable to Miss Marchbank's, but she was only nineteen, well-off and good-looking, and with plenty of time for all that, and, at the present moment, she had other matters of more importance in hand. It was while occupied with these reflections, and within three doors of Salem Chapel, in front of a little garden where a great deal of mignonnette had run to seed, and where the Mikkelmas daisies had taken full possession, that Lucilla was roused suddenly out of her musings. The surprise was so great that she stopped short, and stood still before the house in the extremity of her astonishment and delight. Who could it be that possessed that voice which Miss Marchbank's felt by instinct was the very one thing wanting? A round-fold, delicious Contralto precisely adapted to supplement without supplanting her own high-pitched and much cultivated organ. She stopped short before the door, and made a rapid observation, even in the first moment of her surprise. The house was not exactly like the other humble houses in Grove Street. Two little blank squares hung in the center of each of the lower windows, revealing to Lucilla's educated eye the existence of so much feeling for art, as can be satisfied with the transparent porcelain version of a famous Madonna. And she could even catch a glimpse through the curtains of the best room, which, contrary to the want of humble gentility in Carlingford, were well drawn back, and allowed the light to enter fully, of the glimmer of gilt picture frames. And, in the little garden in front, half-buried among the mignonnette, were some remains of plaster casts, originally placed there for ornament, but long since cast down by rain and neglect. Lucilla made her observations with the promptitude of an accomplished warrior, and, before the second bar of the melody indoors was finished, had knocked very energetically. Is Miss Lake at home, she asked with confidence of the little maid-servant who opened the door to her. And it was thus that Lucilla made her first bold step out of the limits of Grange Lane for the good of society, and secured at once several important personal advantages, and the great charm of those Thursday evenings, which made so entire a revolution in the taste and ideas of Carlingford. Fremont, California. October 2008. With her song arrested on her lips, as she had risen hastily from the piano. Is it Rose? said Lucilla, going forward with the most eager cordiality, and holding out both her hands, though to be sure she knew very well it was not Rose, who was about half the height of the singer, and was known to everybody in Mount Pleasant to be utterly innocent of a voice. No, said Miss Lake, who was much astonished and startled and offended, as was unfortunately rather her custom. She was a young woman without any of those instincts of politeness which make some people pleasant in spite of themselves. And she added nothing to soften this abrupt negative, but drew her hands away from the stranger, and stood bolt upright, looking at her with a burning blush, caused by temper much more than by embarrassment on her face. Then, said Lucilla, dropping lately into the most comfortable chair she could get sight of in the bare little parlor, it is Barbara, and that is a great deal better. Rose is a good little thing, but she is different, you know. It is so odd you should not remember me. I thought everybody knew me in Carlingford. You know, I have been a long time away, and now I have come home for good. Your voice is just the very thing to go with mine. Was it not a lucky thing that I should have passed just at the right moment? I don't know how it is, but somehow these lucky chances always happen to me. I am Lucilla Marchbank, you know. Indeed, said Barbara, who had not the least intention of being civil. I did not recognize you in the least. Yes, I remember you were always shortsighted a little, said Miss Marchbank's calmly. I should so like if we could try a duet. I have been having lessons in Italy, you know, and I am sure I could give you a few hints. I always like when I can to be of use. Tell me what songs you have that we could sing together. You know, my dear, it is not as if I was asking you for mere amusement to myself. My grand objective in life is to be a comfort to papa. Do you mean Dr. Marchbank's? said the uncivil Barbara. I am sure he does not care in the least for music. I think you must be making a mistake. Oh no, said Lucilla. I never make mistakes. I don't mean to sing to him, you know. But you are just the very person I wanted. As for the ridiculous idea some people have, that nobody can be called on who does not live in Grange Lane, I assure you, I mean to make an end of that. Of course I cannot commence just all in a moment. But it would always be an advantage to practice a little together. I like to know exactly how far one can calculate upon everybody. Then one can tell, without fear of breaking down, just what one may venture to do. I don't understand in the least, said Barbara, whose pride was up in arms. Perhaps you think I am a professional singer. My dear, a professional singer spoils everything, said Ms. Marchbank's. It changes the character of an evening all together. There are so few people who understand that. When you have a professional singer, you have to give yourself up to the music. And that is not my view in the least. My great aim, as all my friends are aware, is to be a comfort to dear Papa. I wish you would not talk in riddles, said Lucila's amazed and indignant companion in her round-rich contralto. I suppose you really are Ms. Marchbank's. I have always heard that Ms. Marchbank's was a little. There, said Lucila triumphantly. Really, it is almost like a resa to Tavo to hear you speak. I am so glad. What have you got there? Oh, to be sure, it's that duet out of the travatore. Do let us try it. There is nobody here, and everything is so convenient, and you know it would never do to risk a breakdown. Will you play the accompaniment, or shall I? said Ms. Marchbank's, taking off her gloves. As for the drawing master's daughter, she stood aghast, lost in such sudden bewilderment and perplexity that she could find no words to reply. She was not in the least amiable or yielding by nature. But Lucila took it so much as a matter of course that Barbara could not find a word to say, and before she could be sure that it was real, Ms. Marchbank's had seated herself at the piano. Barbara was so obstinate that she would not sing the first part, which ought to have been hers. Bet she was not clever enough for her antagonist. Lucila sang her part by herself gallantly, and when it came to Barbara's turn the second time, Ms. Marchbank's essayed the second in a false voice, which drove the control to off her guard, and then the magnificent volume of sound flowed forth, grand enough to have filled Lucila with envy if she had not been sustained by that sublime confidence in herself, which is the first necessity to a woman with a mission. She paused a moment in the accompaniment to clap her hands after that strophie was accomplished, and then resumed with energy. For to be sure, she knew by instinct what sort of clay the people were made of by whom she had to work, and gave them their reward with that liberality and discrimination, which is the glory of enlightened despotism. Ms. Marchbank's was naturally elated when she had performed this important and successful tour. She got it from the piano and closed it in her open imperial way. I do not want to tire you, you know, she said, that will do for today. I told you your voice was the very thing to go with mine. Give my love to Rose when she comes in, but don't bring her with you when you come to me. She is a good little thing, but then she is different, you know, said the bland Lucilla, and she held out her hand to the captive graciously, and gathered up her parasol, which she had left on her chair. Barbara Lake let her visitor go after this, with a sense that she had fallen asleep and had dreamt at all. But, after all, there was something in the visit which was not disagreeable when she came to think it over. The drawing master was poor, and he had a quantity of children, as was natural, and Barbara had never forgiven her mother for dying just at the moment when she had a chance of seeing a little of what she called the world. At that time, Mr. Lake and his portfolio of drawings were asked out frequently to tea, and when he had pupils in the family, some kind people asked him to bring one of his daughters with him, so that Barbara, who was ambitious, had beheld herself for a month or two almost on the threshold of Grange Lane, and it was at this moment of all others, just at the same time as Mrs. Marchbanks finished her pale career, that poor Mrs. Lake thought it fit to die, to the injury of her daughter's prospects, and to the destruction of her hopes. Naturally, Barbara had never quite forgiven that injury. It was this sense of having been ill-used, which made her so resolute about sending Rose to Mount Pleasant, though the poor little girl did not in the least want to go, and was very happy helping her papa at the School of Design. But Barbara saw no reason why Rose should be happy while she herself had to resign her inclinations and look after a set of odious children. To be sure, it was a little hard upon a young woman of a proper ambition, who knew she was handsome, to fall back into housekeeping, and consent to remain unseen and unheard, for Barbara was also aware that she had a remarkable voice. In these circumstances, it may be imagined that, after the first movement of a passionate temper was over, when she had taken breath and had time to consider the sudden and extraordinary visit, a glimmer of hope and interest penetrated into the bosom of the gloomy girl. She was two years older than Miss March Banks, and as different in style as she was in voice. She was not stout as yet, though it is the nature of a contralto to be stout. But she was tall, with all due opportunity for that development which might come later. And then Barbara possessed a kind of beauty, the beauty of a passionate and somewhat sullen brunette, dark and glowing with straight black eyebrows, very dark and very straight, which gave oddly enough a suggestion of a bleak vision to her eyes. But her eyes were not in the least oblique, and looked at you straight from under that black line of shadow with no doubtful expression. She was shy in a kind of way, as was natural to a young woman who had never seen any society and felt herself on the whole, injured and unappreciated. But no two things could be more different than this shyness which made Barbara look you straight in the face with a kind of scared defiance, and the sweet shyness that pleaded for kind treatment in the soft eyes of little Rose, who was plain, and had the oddest longing to make people comfortable and please them in her way, which to be sure was not always successful. Barbara sat down on the stool before the piano, which Miss March Banks had been so obliging as to close, and thought it all over with growing excitement. No doubt it was a little puzzling to make out how the discovery of a fine contralto and the possibility of getting up unlimited duets could further Lucilla in the great aim of her life, which was to be a comfort to her dear papa. But Barbara was like a young soldier of fortune, ready to take a great deal for granted, and to swallow much that was mysterious in the program of the adventurous general who might lead her on to glory. In half an hour her dreams had gone so far that she saw herself receiving in Miss March Banks's drawing-room the homage, not only of Grange Lane, but even of the county families who would be attracted by rumors of her wonderful performance. And Barbara was, to her own consciousness, walking up the middle aisle of Carlingford Church in a veil of real bristles, before little Mr. Lake came in, hungry and good-tempered from his round. To be sure she had not concluded who was to be the bridegroom, but that was one of those matters of detail which could not be precisely concluded on till the time. Such was the immediate result, so far as the secondary personage was concerned, of Lucilla's masterly impromptu. And it is needless to say that the accomplished warrior, who had her wits always about her, and had made, while engaged in a simple reconnaissance, so brilliant and successful a capture, withdrew from the scene still more entirely satisfied with herself. Nothing, indeed, could have come more opportunity for Lucilla, who possessed imperfection that faculty of throwing herself into the future, and anticipating the difficulties of a position which is so valuable to all who aspire to be leaders of mankind. With a prudence which Dr. Marchbanks himself would have acknowledged to be remarkable in a person of her age and sex, Lucilla had always foreseen that to amuse her guests entirely in her own person would be at once impracticable and bad style. The first objection might have been got over, for Miss Marchbanks had a soul above the ordinary limits of possibility. But the second was unanswerable. This discovery, however, satisfied all the necessities of the position. Lucilla, who was liberal, as genius ought always to be, was perfectly willing that all the young ladies in Carlingford should sing their little songs while she was entertaining her guests. And then, at the right moment, when her ruling mind saw it was necessary, would occur the duet, the one duet which would be the great feature of the evening. Thus it will be seen that another quality of the highest order developed itself during Miss Marchbanks' deliberations. For to tell the truth, she said a good deal of store by her voice, and had been used to applause, and had tasted the sweetness of individual success. This, however, she was willing to sacrifice for the enhanced and magnificent effect which she felt could be produced by the combination of the two voices. And the sacrifice was one which a weaker woman would have been incapable of making. She went home past Salem Chapel by the little lane which makes a line of communication between the end of Grove Street and the beginning of Grange Lane, with a sentiment of satisfaction worthy of the greatness of her mission. Dr. Marchbanks never came home to lunch, and indeed had a contempt for that feminine indulgence, which, to be sure, might be accounted for by the fact. That about that time in the day, the doctor very often found himself to be passing close by one or another at the houses in the neighborhood which had a reputation for good sherry or madera, such as exists no more. Lucilla, accordingly, had her lunch alone, served to her with respectful care by Nancy, who was still under the impression of the interview of the morning. And it occurred to Miss Marchbanks, as she sat at table alone, that this was an opportunity too valuable to be left unimproved. For to be sure, there are a few things more pleasant than a little impromptu luncheon party, where everybody comes without being expected, fresh from the outside world and ready to tell all that is going on. Though, on the other hand, it was a little doubtful how it might work in Carlingford, where the men had generally something to do, and where the married ladies took their luncheon when the children had their dinner, and presided at the nursery meal. And as for a party of young ladies, even supposing they had the courage to come with no more solid admixture of the important members of society, Lucilla, to tell the truth, had no particular taste for that. Miss Marchbanks reflected as she ate. And indeed, thanks to her perfect health and her agreeable morning walk, Lucilla had a very pretty appetite and enjoyed her meal in a way that would have been most satisfactory to her many friends. That it must be by way of making his visit, which was aggravating under all circumstances, more aggravating still, that Tom Marchbanks had decided to come now, of all times in the world. If he had waited till things were organized, he might have been of little use, Lucilla said to herself, for at least he could have brought some of the men that come on circuit, and that would have made a little novelty. But of course, just now it would never do to make a rush at people, and invite them all at once. After a moment's consideration, however, Miss Marchbanks, with her usual candor, reflected that it was not in Tom Marchbanks's power to change the time of the Carlingford ass sizes, and that, accordingly, he was not to be blamed in this particular at least. Of course, it is not his fault, she added to herself, but it is astonishing how things happen with some men always at the wrong moment, and it is so like Tom. These reflections were interrupted by the arrival of visitors who Miss Marchbanks received with her usual grace. The first was old Mrs. Chiley, who kissed Lucilla and wanted to know how she had enjoyed herself on the continent, and if she had brought many pretty things home. My dear, you have grown ever so much since the last time I saw you, the old lady said in her grandmotherly way, and stout with it, which is such a comfort with a tall girl. And then your poor dear mama was so delicate. I have always been a little anxious about you on that account, Lucilla, and I am so glad, my dear, to see you looking so strong. Dear Mrs. Chiley, said Miss Marchbanks, who perhaps in her heart was not quite so gratified by this compliment as the old lady intended, the great aim of my life is to be a comfort to dear papa. Mrs. Chiley was very much moved by this filial piety, and she told Lucilla that story about the Colonel's niece, Susan, who was such a good daughter and had refused three excellent offers to devote herself to her father and mother, with which the public in Grange Lane were tolerably acquainted. And one of them was a baronette, my dear, said Mrs. Chiley. Miss Marchbanks did not make any decided response, for she felt that it would be dangerous to commit herself to such a height of self-abnegation as that. But the old lady was quite pleased to hear of her travels and adventures instead, and stayed so long that Mrs. Sentom and Mrs. Woodburn, who happened to arrive at the same moment, found her still there. Mrs. Chiley was a little afraid of Mrs. Woodburn, and she took her leave hastily with another kiss, and Lucilla found herself face to face with the only two women who could attempt a rival enterprise to her own in Carlingford. As for Mrs. Woodburn, she had settled herself in an easy chair by the fire, and was fully prepared to take notes. To be sure, Lucilla was the very person to fall victim to her arts, for that confidence in herself, which, in one point of view, gave grandeur to the character of Miss Marchbanks, gave her also a certain naiveté and openness, which the most simple rustic could not have surpassed. I am sure by her face she has been telling you about my niece Susan, said the mimic, assuming Mrs. Chiley's tone, and almost her appearance for the moment, and that one of them was a baronette, my dear. I always know from her looks what she has been saying, and the Colonel was much as usual, but suffering a little from the cold as he always does in this climate. She must be a good soul, for she always has her favourite little speeches written in her face. I am sure I don't know, said Miss Marchbanks, who felt it was her duty to make an example. There has always been one thing remarked of me all my life, that I never have had a great sense of humour. I know it is singular, but when one has a defect, it is always so much better to confess it. I always get on very well with anything else, but I never had any sense of humour, you know, and I am very fond of Mrs. Chiley. She has always had a fancy for me from the time I was born, and she has such nice manners. But then, it is so odd I should have no sense of humour, said Lucilla, addressing herself to Mrs. Sentom, who was sitting on the sofa by her. Don't you think it is very odd? I am sure it is very nice, said Mrs. Sentom. I hate people that laugh at everything. I don't see much to laugh at myself, I am sure, in this distracting world. Anyone who has a lot of children and servants like me to look after finds very little to laugh at. And she sees the opportunity to enter upon domestic circumstances. Mrs. Woodburn did not answer a word. She made a most dashing, murderous sketch of Lucilla, but that did the future ruler of Carlingford very little harm. And then, by the evening, it was known through all Grange Lane that Miss Marchbanks had snubbed a caricaturist who kept all the good people in terror of their lives. Snubbed her absolutely, and took the words out of her very mouth was the report that flew through Grange Lane. And it may be imagined how Lucilla's prestige rose in consequence, and how much people began to expect of Miss Marchbanks, who had performed such a feat almost on the first day of her return home. End of Chapter 5 Recorded by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, California November 2008 Chapter 6 of Miss Marchbanks This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michelle Crandall. Miss Marchbanks by Mrs. Oliphant. Chapter 6 Tom Marchbanks arrived that night, according to the doctor's expectation. He arrived with that curious want of adaptation to the circumstances which characterized the young man, and an hour which put Nancy entirely out, and upset the equanimity of the kitchen for twenty-four hours at least. He came, if anyone can conceive of such an instance of carelessness, by the nine o'clock train, just as they had finished putting to rights downstairs. After this, Miss Marchbanks' conclusion that the fact of the Carlingford Assays is occurring a day or two after her arrival, when, as yet she was not so fully prepared to take advantage of them, was so like Tom, maybe partially understood. And, of course, he was furiously hungry, and could have managed perfectly to be in time for dinner if he had not missed the train at Didcot Junction, by some wonderful blender of the railway people which never could have occurred, but for his unlucky presence among the passengers. Lucilla took Thomas apart, and sent him downstairs with the most conciliatory message. Tell Nancy not to put herself about, but to send up something cold, the cold pie or anything she can find handy. Tell her I am so vexed, but it is just like Mr. Tom, and he never knows what he is eating, said Miss Marchbanks. As for Nancy, the sweetness did not subdue her in the least. She said, I'll thank Miss Lucilla to mind her own business. The cold pies for master's breakfast. I ain't such a goose as not to know what to send upstairs, and that Thomas can tell her if he likes. In the meantime, the doctor was in the drawing room, much against his will, with the two young people, spinning about the room and looking at Lucilla's books and knickknacks on the tables by way of covering his impatience. He wanted to carry off Tom, who was rather a favorite, to his own den downstairs where the young man's supper was to be served, but at the same time, Dr. Marchbanks could not deny that Lucilla had a right to the greetings and homage of her cousin. He could not help thinking on the whole as he looked at the two, what a much more sensible arrangement it would have been if he had had the boy, instead of his sister, who had been a widow for ever so long, and no doubt had spoiled her son, as women always do. And then Lucilla might have passed under the sway of Mrs. Marchbanks, who no doubt would have known how to manage her. Thus the doctor mused, with that sense of mild amazement at the blenders of Providence, which so many people experience, and without any idea that Mrs. Marchbanks would have found a task, a great deal beyond her powers in the management of Lucilla. As for Tom, he was horribly hungry, having found as was to be expected no possible means of lynching it did cut, but at the same time he was exhilarated by Lucilla's smile, and delighted to think of having a week at least to spend in her society. I don't think I ever saw you looking so well, he was saying, and you know my opinion generally on that subject, to which Lucilla responded in a way to wither all the germs of sentiment in the bud. What subject, she said, my looks? I am sure they can't be interesting to you. You are as hungry as ever you can be, and I can see it in your eyes. Papa, he is famishing, and I don't think he can contain himself any longer. Do take him downstairs, and let him have something to eat. For myself, Lucilla continued in a lower tone, it is my duty that keeps me up. You know it has always been the object of my life to be a comfort to Papa. Come along, Tom, said the doctor. Don't waste your time flandering when your supper is ready. And Dr. Merchbanks led the way downstairs, leaving Tom, who followed him, in a state of great curiosity, to know what secret oppression it might be under, which his cousin was supported by her duty. Naturally his thoughts reverted to a possible rival, someone whom the sensible doctor would have nothing to say to, and his very ears grew red with excitement at this idea. But, notwithstanding, he ate a very satisfactory meal in the library, where he had to answer all sorts of questions. Tom had his tray at the end of the table, and the doctor, who had, according to his hospitable old-fashioned habit, taken a glass of claret to keep him company, sat in his easy chair between the fire and the table, and sipped his wine and admired its color and purity in the light, and watched with satisfaction the excellent meal his nephew was making. He asked him all about his prospects and what he was doing, which Tom replied to with the frankest confidence. He was not very fond of work, nor were his abilities anything out of the common. But, at the present moment, Tom saw no reason why he should not gain the wool sack in time, and Dr. Merchbanks gave something like a sigh as he listened, and wondered much what providence could be thinking of not to give him the boy. Lucilla, meantime, was very much occupied upstairs. She had the new house made up, nominally, to give her instructions about Mr. Tom's room, but really, to take the covers off the chairs, and see how they looked when the room was lighted up. But the progress of decay had gone too far to stand that trial. After all, the chints, though none of the freshest, was the best. When the gentleman came upstairs, which Tom, to the doctors discussed and insisted on doing, Lucilla was found in the act of pacing the room. Pacing, not in the sentimental sense of making a little promenade up and down, but in the homely practical signification, with a view of measuring, that she might form an idea how much carpet was required. Lucilla was tall enough to go through this process without any great drawback in point of grace, the long step giving rather a tragedy queen effect to her handsome but substantial person, and long, sweeping dress. She stopped short, however, when she saw them, and withdrew to the sofa, on which she had established her throne, and there was a little air of conscious pathos on her face as she sat down, which impressed her companions. As for Tom, he instinctively felt that it must have something to do with that mystery under which Lucilla was supported by her duty, and the irrelevant young man conceived immediately of violent desire to knock the fellow down, whereas there was no fellow at all in the case, unless it might be Mr. Holden, the upholsterer, whose visits Miss March Banks would have received with greater enthusiasm at this moment than those of the most eligible eldest son in England, and then she gave a little pathetic sigh. What were you doing, Lucilla? said her father, rehearsing Lady Macbeth, I suppose. At least you looked exactly like it when we came into the room. No, Papa, said Lucilla sweetly, I was only measuring to see how much carpet we should want, and that, you know, and Tom's coming made me think of old times. You are so much downstairs in the library that you don't feel it, but a lady has to spend her life in the drawing room, and then I always was so domestic. It does not matter what is outside, I always find my pleasure at home. I cannot help it if it has a little effect upon my spirits now and then, said Miss March Banks, looking down upon her handkerchief, to be always surrounded with things that have such associations. What associations? said the amazed doctor. To be sure, he had not forgotten his wife, but it was four years ago, and he had got used to her absence from her favourite sofa, and on the whole, in that particular, had acquiesced in the arrangements of providence. Really, Lucilla, I don't know what you mean. No, Papa, said Miss March Banks with resignation. I know you don't. And that is what makes it so sad. But talking of new carpets, you know, I had such an adventure today that I must tell you, quite one of my adventures, the very luckiest thing. It happened when I was out walking. I heard a voice out of a house in Grove Street, just the very thing to go with my voice. That is not a thing that happens every day, said Lucilla, for all the masters have always told me that my voice was something quite by itself. When I heard it, though it was in Grove Street, and all the people about, I could have danced for joy. It was a man's voice, I suppose, suggested Tom March Banks in gloomy tones, and the doctor added in his cynical way. It's a wonderful advantage to be so pleased about trifles. What number was it? For my part, I have not many patients in Grove Street, said Dr. March Banks. I would find a voice to suit you in another quarter, if I were you. Dear Papa, it's such a pity that you don't understand, said Lucilla compassionately. It turned out to be Barbara Lake, for, of course, I went in directly and found out. I never heard a voice that went so well with mine. If Ms. March Banks did not go into raptures over the Contralto on its own merits, it was not for many jealousy, of which, indeed, she wasn't capable. But simply because its adaptation to her own seemed to her by far its most interesting quality, and indeed almost the sole claim it had to consideration from the world. Barbara Lake, said the doctor, there's something in that. If you can do her any good, or get her teaching or anything, I have a regard for poor Lake, poor little fellow. He's kept up wonderfully since his wife died, and nobody expected it of him. Dr. March Banks continued, with a momentary dreary recollection of the time when the poor woman took farewell of her children, which indeed was the next day after that on which his own wife, who had nobody in particular to take farewell of, faded out of her useless life. Yes, said Lucilla, I mean her to come here and sing with me. But then one needs to organize a little first. I am nineteen. How long is it since you were married, papa? Two and twenty years, said the doctor abruptly. He did not observe the strangeness of the question because he had been thinking for the moment of his wife, and perhaps his face was a trifle graver than usual, though neither of his young companions thought of remarking it. To be sure, he was not a young man even when he married, but on the whole, perhaps something more than this perfect comfort and respectability, and those nice little dinners, had seemed to shine on his horizon when he brought home his incapable bride. Two and twenty years, exclaimed Lucilla. I don't mind talking before Tom, for he is one of the family. The things are all the same as they were when Mama came home, though I am sure nobody would believe it. I think it is going against providence for my part. Nothing was ever intended to last so long, except the things the Jews, poor souls, wore in the desert, perhaps. Papa, if you have no objection, I should like to choose the colors myself. There is a great deal in choosing colors that go well with one's complexion. People think of that for their dresses, but not for their rooms, which are of so much more importance. I should have liked blue, but blue gets so soon tawdry. I think, said Miss March Banks, rising and looking at herself seriously in the glass, that I have enough complexion at present to venture upon a pale spring green. This little calculation, which a timid young woman would have taken care to do by herself, Lucilla did publicly, with her usual discrimination. The doctor, who had looked a little grim at first, could not but laugh when he saw the sober look of care and thought, with which Miss March Banks examined her capabilities in the glass. It was not so much the action itself that amused her father, as the consummate ability of the young revolutionary. Dr. March Banks was scotch, and had a respect for talent in every development, as is natural to his nation. He did not even give his daughter the credit for sincerity which she deserved, but said it all to the score of her genius, which was complementary, certainly, in one point of view. But the fact was, that Lucilla was perfectly sincere, and that she did what was natural to her under guidance of her genius, so as always to be in good fortune, just as Tom March Banks, under the guidance of his, brought discredit even upon those eternal ordinances of English government, which fixed the time of the Carlingford ass-sizes. Lucilla was quite in earnest in thinking that the colour of the drawing-room was an important matter, and that a woman of sense had very good reason for suiting it to her complexion, an idea which accordingly she proceeded to develop and explain. For one can change one's dress, said Miss March Banks, as often as one likes, at least as often, you know, as one has dresses to change, but the furniture remains the same. I am always a perfect guy, whatever I wear, when I sit against a red curtain. You men say that a woman always knows when she's good looking, but I am happy to say I know when I look a guy. What I mean is a delicate pale green papa. For my part, I think it wears just as well as any other colour, and all the painters say it is the very thing for pictures. The carpet, of course, would be a darker shade, and as for the chairs, it is not at all necessary to keep to one colour. Both red and violet go beautifully with green, you know. I am sure Mr. Holden and I could settle all about it without giving you any trouble. Who told you Lucilla, said the doctor, that I meant to refurnish the house? He was even a little angry at her boldness, but at the same time he was so much amused and pleased in his heart to have so clever a daughter that all the tones that could produce terror were softened out of his voice. I never heard that was the sort of thing that a man had to do for his daughter, said Dr. March Banks. And I would like to know what I should do with all that finery when you get married, as I suppose you will by and by, and leave me alone in the house? That is the important question, said Tom. As usual it was Tom's luck, but then, when there did happen to be a moment when he ought to be silent, the unfortunate fellow could not help but speak. Perhaps I may marry sometime, said Miss March Banks with composure. It would be foolish, you know, to make any engagements, but that will depend greatly upon how you behave and how Carlingford behaves, papa. I give myself ten years here, if you should be very good. By twenty-nine I shall be going off a little, and perhaps it may be tiring for anything I can tell. Ten years is a long time, and naturally, in the meantime, I want to look as well as possible. Stop a minute, I forgot to put down the number of paces for the length. Tom, please do it over again for me. Of course, your steps are a great deal longer than mine. Tom is tired, said the doctor, and there are no new carpets coming out of my pockets. Besides, he's going to bed, and I'm going downstairs to the library. We may as well bid you good night. These words, however, were addressed to deaf ears. Tom, as was natural, had started immediately to obey Lucilla as he was in duty bound, and the old doctor looked on with a little amazement and a little amusement, recognizing with something of the surprise which that discovery always gives to fathers and mothers, that his visitor cared twenty times more for what Lucilla said than for anything that his superior wisdom could suggest. He would have gone off and left them as a couple of young fools, if it had not occurred to him all at once, that since this sort of thing had begun, the last person in the world that he would choose to see dancing attendance on his daughter was Tom Marchbanks. Oddly enough, though he had just been finding fault with Providence for not giving him a son instead of a daughter, he was not at all delighted nor grateful when Providence put before him this simple method of providing himself with the son he wanted. He took a great deal too much interest in Tom Marchbanks to let him do anything so foolish. And as for Lucilla, the idea that after all her accomplishments and her expensive education and her year on the Continent, she should marry a man who had nothing discussed to the doctor. He kept his seat accordingly, though he was horribly bored by the drawing-room and its claims, and wanted very much to return to the library and get into his slippers and his dressing-gown. It was rather a pretty picture on the whole which she was regarding. Lucilla, perhaps with a view to this discussion, had put on green ribbons on the white dress which she always wore in the evening, and her tawny curls and fresh complexion carried off triumphantly that difficult color. Perhaps a critical observer might have said that her figure was a little too developed and substantial for those vestal robes, but then Miss Marchbanks was young and could bear it. She was standing by, not far from the fire, on the other side of the doctor, looking on anxiously, while Tom measured the room with his long steps. I never said you were to stride, said Lucilla, take moderate steps and don't be so silly. I was doing it myself famously if you had not come in and interrupted me. It is frightful to belong to a family where the men are so stupid, said Miss Marchbanks, with a sigh of real distress. For, to be sure, the unlucky Tom immediately befought himself to take small steps like those of a lady, which all but threw him on his well formed, though meaningless, nose. Lucilla shook her head with an exasperated look, and contracted her lips with disdain as he passed her on his ill-omined career. Of course, he came right up against the little table, on which she had with her own hand arranged a bouquet of geraniums and mignonette. It is what he always does, she said to the doctor calmly, as Tom arrived at that climax of his fate, and the look with which she accompanied these words, as she rang the bell smartly and promptly, mollified the doctor's heart. I can tell you the size of the room if that is all you want, said Dr. Marchbanks. I suppose you mean to give parties and drive me out of my senses with dancing and singing. No, Lucilla, you must wait till you get married. That will never do for me. Dear Papa, said Lucilla sweetly, it is so dreadful to hear you say parties. Everybody knows that the only thing I care for in life is to be a comfort to you, and as for dancing, I saw at once that was out of the question. Dancing is all very well, said Miss Marchbanks thoughtfully, but it implies quantities of young people, and young people can never make what I call society. It is evenings, I mean to have Papa. I am sure you want to go downstairs, and I suppose Tom would think it civil to sit with me, though he is tired. So I will show you a good example, and Thomas can pick up the table and the flowers at his leisure. Good night, Papa, said Lucilla, giving him her roundfreshed cheek to kiss. She went out of the room with a certain triumph, feeling that she had fully signified her intentions, which is always an important matter. And she cans in a condescending way with Tom, who had broken his shins in a headlong rush to open the door. She looked at him with an expression of mild despair, and shook her head again as she accorded him that little sign of amity. If you only would look a little where you are going, said Miss Marchbanks. Perhaps she meant the words to convey an allegorical, as well as a positive meaning, as so many people have been found out to do. And then she pursued her peaceful way upstairs. As for the doctor, he went off to his library, rubbing his hands, glad to be released, and laughing softly at his nephew's abashed looks. She knows how to put him down at least, the doctor said to himself, well pleased, and he was so much amused by his daughter's superiority to the vulgar festivity of parties that he almost gave in to the idea of refurnishing the drawing room to suit Lucilla's complexion. He rubbed his hands once more over the fire, and indulged in a little laugh all by himself over that original idea. So it is evening, she means to have, said the doctor. And to be sure, nothing could be more faded than the curtains. And there were bits of the carpet in which the pattern was scarcely discernible. So that, on the whole, up to this point there seemed to be a reasonable prospect that Lucilla would have everything her own way. End of Chapter 6, recorded by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, California, November 2008