 CHAPTER 39 LIFE WITH MOST PEOPLE is little more than a succession of high and low tides. There are times when the stream runs low, and when there is nothing to be seen but the dull sand banks or even mud banks for months or even years together, and then all at once the waters swell and come rushing twice a day like the sea, carrying life and movement with them. Ms. March Banks had been subject to the oomorts for a long time, but now the spring tides had rushed back. A day or two after Mr. Ash Burton had been revealed to her as the predestined member, something occurred, not in itself exciting, but which was not without its ultimate weight upon the course of affairs. It was the day when Aunt Jemima was expected in Grange Lane. She was Aunt Jemima to Lucilla, but the doctor called her Mrs. John, and was never known to address her by any more familiar title. She was, as she herself described it, a widow-lady and wore the dress of her order, and was the mother of Tom March Banks. She was not a frequent visitor at Carlingford, for she and her brother-in-law had various points on which they were not of accord. The doctor, for his part, could not but feel perennially injured that the boy had fallen to the lot of Mrs. John, while he had only a girl, even though that girl was Lucilla. Even Aunt Jemima could not forgive him for the rude way in which he treated her health, which was so delicate, and his want of sympathy for many other people who were delicate too. Even when she arrived and was being entertained with a usual cup of tea, fears of her brother-in-law's robustness and unsympathetic ways had begun to overpower her. "'I hope your papa does not ask too much from you, Lucilla,' she said, as she sat in her easy chair, and took her tea by the fire in the cozy room which had been prepared for her. "'I hope he does not make you do too much, for I am sure you are not strong, my dear. You're poor mama, you know.' And Mrs. John looked with a certain pathos at her knees, as though she saw signs of evil in Lucilla's fresh complexion and substantial frame. "'I am pretty well, thank you, Aunt Jemima,' said Miss March Banks, and papa lets me do pretty much what I like. "'I am too old now, you know, to be told what to do.' "'Don't call yourself old, my dear,' said Aunt Jemima, with a passing gleam of worldly wisdom. "'One gets old quite soon enough. Are you subject to headaches, Lucilla, or pains in the limbs, your poor mama?' "'Dear Aunt Jemima, I am well as I ever can be,' said Miss March Banks. "'Tell me when you heard from Tom, and what he is doing. Let me see. It is ten years since he went away. I used to write to him, but he did not answer my letters, not as he ought, you know. I suppose he has found friends among the Calcutta ladies,' said Lucilla, with a slight but not an apparent sigh. "'He never says anything to me about Calcutta ladies,' said Tom's mother. To tell the truth, I always thought before he went away that he was fond of you. I must have been mistaken, as he never said anything, and that was very fortunate at all events. "'I am sure I am very thankful he was not fond of me,' said Lucilla, with a little natural irritation, for I never could have returned it. But I should like to know why that was so fortunate. I can't see that it would have been such a very bad thing for him, for my part.' "'Yes, my dear,' said Aunt Jemima, placidly, it would have been a very bad thing, for you know, Lucilla, though you get on very nicely here, you never could have done for a poor man's wife.' Mrs. Marchbank's bosoms welled when she heard these words. It's welled with that profound sense of being unappreciated and misunderstood, which is one of the hardest trials in the way of genius, but naturally she was not going to let her aunt see her mortification. "'I don't mean to be any man's wife just now,' she said, making a gulp of it. "'I am too busy electioneering. We are going to have a new member in dear old Mr. Chiltern's place. Perhaps he will come in this evening to talk things over, and you shall see him.' Lucilla added graciously. She was a little excited about the candidate, as was not unnatural, more excited perhaps, than she would have been ten years ago, when life was young, and then it was not to be expected that she could be pleased with Aunt Jemima for thinking it was so fortunate, though even that touch of wounded pride did not lead Mrs. Marchbanks to glorify herself by betraying Tom. "'My brother-in-law used to be a dreadful radical,' said Aunt Jemima. "'I hope it is not one of those revolutionary men. I have seen your poor uncle sit up arguing with him till I thought they never would be done. If that is the kind of thing, I hope you will not associate yourself with it, Lucilla. Your papa should have more sense than to let you. It does not do a young woman any good. I should never have permitted it if you had been my daughter,' added Mrs. John, with a little heat, for to tell the truth, she too felt a slight vexation on her part that the doctor had a girl when she had none, even though not for twenty girls which she have given up Tom. Miss Marchbanks looked upon the weak woman who thus ventured to address her with indescribable feelings, but after all she was not so much angry as amused and compassionate. She could not help thinking to herself if she had been Mrs. John's daughter, how perfectly docile Aunt Jemima would have been by this time, and how little she would have really ventured to interfere. "'It would have been very nice,' she said, with a meditative realization of the possibility, though it is very odd to think how one could have been one's own cousin, I should have taken very good care of you, I am sure.' "'You would have done no such thing,' said Mrs. John. "'You would have gone off and married, I know how girls do. You have not married here because you have been too comfortable, Lucilla. You have had everything your own way, and all that you wanted. Without any of the bother, it is very strange how differently people's lots are ordered. I was married at seventeen, and I am sure I have not known what it was to have a day's health.' "'Dear Aunt Jemima,' said her affectionate niece, kissing her, "'but papa shall see if he cannot give you something, and we will take such care of you while you are here.' Mrs. John was softened in spite of herself, but still she shook her head. "'It is very nice of you to say so, my dear,' she said, and it's pleasant to feel that one has somebody belonging to one, but I have not much confidence in your papa. He never understood my complaints. I used to be very sorry for your poor mama. He never showed that sympathy. But I did not mean to blame him to you, Lucilla. I am sure he is a very good father to you.' "'He has been a perfect old angel,' said Miss Marchbanks, and then the conversation came to a pause, as it was time to dress for dinner. Mrs. John Marchbanks had a very nice room and everything that was adapted to make her comfortable, but she too had something to think of when the door closed upon Lucilla, and she was left with her maid and her hot water and her black velvet gown. Perhaps it was a little inconsistent to wear a black velvet gown with her widow's cap. It was a question which she had long debated in her mind before she resigned herself to the temptation, but then it always looked so well and was so very profitable, and Mrs. John felt that it was incumbent upon her to keep up a respectable appearance for Tom's sake. Tom was very much in her mind at that moment, as indeed he always was. For though it was a long time ago, she could not get the idea out of her head that he must have said something to Lucilla before he went off to India, as he had a way of asking about his cousin in his letters, and though she would have done anything to secure her boy's happiness, and was on the whole rather fond of her niece, yet the idea of the objections her brother-in-law would have to such a match, excited to the uttermost, the smoldering pride which existed in Aunt Jemima's heart. He was better off and had always been better off than her poor John, and he had robust health and an awful scorn of the coddling to which, as he said, she had subjected his brother, and he had money enough to keep his child luxuriously and make her the leader of Carlingford Society, while her poor boy had to go to India and put himself in the way of all kinds of unknown diseases and troubles. Mrs. John was profoundly anxious to promote her son's happiness, and would gladly have given every penny she had to get him married to Lucilla, if that was what he wanted, as she justly said. But to have the brother-in-law object to him, and suggest that he was not good enough, was the one thing she could not bear. She was thinking about this, and whether Tom really had not said anything, and whether Lucilla cared for him, and what, amid all these perplexities she should do, while she dressed for dinner, and at the same time she felt her palpitation worse than usual, and knew Dr. Marchbanks would smile his grim smile if she complained, so that her visit to Grange Lane, though Lucilla meant to take such care of her, was not altogether unmingled delight to Mrs. John. But nevertheless Dr. Marchbanks's dinner table was always a cheerful sight, even when it was only a dinner party of three, for then naturally they used the round table, and were as snug as possible. Lucilla wore her knot of green and violet ribbons on her white dress, to her aunt's great amazement, and the doctor had all the air of a man who had been out in the world all day, and returned in the evening with something to tell, which is a thing which gives great animation to a family party. Mrs. John Marchbanks had been out of all that sort of thing for a long time. She had been living quite alone in a widowed forlorn way, and had half forgotten how pleasant it was to have somebody coming in with a breath of fresh air about him, and the day's budget of news, and it had an animating effect upon her, even though she was not fond of her brother-in-law. Dr. Marchbanks inquired about Tom in the most fatherly way, and what he was about, and how things were looking for him, and whether he intended to come home. Much better not, the doctor said. I should certainly advise him not, if he asked me. He has got over all the worst of it, and now is his time to do something worthwhile. Tom is not one to think merely of worldly advantages, said his mother, with a fine instinct of opposition which she could not restrain. I don't think he would care to waste all the best part of his life making money. I'd rather see him come home and be happy for my part, even if he were not so rich. If all men were happy that came home, said the doctor, and then he gave a rather grim chuckle. Somebody has come home that you did not reckon on, Lucila. I am sorry to spoil sports, but I don't see how you are to get out of it. There is another address on the walls today besides that one of yours. Oh, I hope there will be six addresses, cried Miss Marchbanks. If we had it all our own way, it would be no fun. A Tory and a Wig and, uh, did you say Radical Aunt Jemima? And then what is a Conservative? asked Lucila, though certainly she had a very much better notion of political matters than Aunt Jemima had to say the least. I wonder how you can encourage any poor man to go into Parliament, said Mrs. John, so trying for the health as it must be, and an end to everything like domestic life. If it was my Tom, I would almost rather he stayed in India. He looks strong, but there is never any confidence to be put in young men looking strong. Oh, I know you do not agree with me, doctor, but I have had sad reason for my way of thinking, said the poor lady. As for the doctor, he did not accept the challenge, thus thrown to him. Tom Marchbanks was not the foremost figure in the world in his eyes, as the absent wanderer was in that of his mother, and he had not yet unburdened himself of what he had to say. I am not saying anything in favour of going into Parliament, said the doctor. I'd sooner be a bargeman on the canal if it was me. I am only telling Lucila what she has before her. I don't know when I have been more surprised. Of course you were not looking for that, said Dr. Marchbanks. He had kept back until the things were taken off the table, for he had a benevolent disinclination to spoil anybody's dinner. Now when all the serious part of the meal was over, he tossed the Carlingford Gazette across the table, folded so as she could not miss what he wanted her to see. Lucila took it up lightly between her finger and thumb, for the Carlingford papers were inky and badly printed, and soiled a lady's hand. She took it up delicately without either alarm or surprise, knowing very well that the blues and the yellows were not likely without a struggle to give up to the new standard, which was violet and green. But what she saw on that inky broadsheet overwhelmed in an instant Ms. Marchbanks' self-possession. She turned pale, though her complexion was, if possible, fresher than ever, and even shivered in her chair, though her nerves were so steady. Could it be a trick to thwart and startle her, or could it be true? She lifted her eyes to her father with a look of horror-stricken inquiry, but all that she met in return was a certain air of amusement and triumph, which struck her at the tenderest point. He was not sorry nor sympathetic, nor did he care at all for the sudden shock she had sustained. On the contrary he was laughing within himself at the utterly unexpected complication. It was cruel, but it was salutary, and restored her self-command in a moment. She might have given way under kindness, but this look of satisfaction over her disconfiture brought Lucilla to herself. Yes, I thought you would be surprised, said Dr. Marchbanks dryly, and he took his first glass of claret with a slow relish and enjoyment, which roused every sentiment of self-respect and spark of temper existing in his daughter's mind. If you had kept your own place it would not have mattered, but I don't see how you are to get out of it. You see, young lady should let these sorts of things alone, Lucilla. This was all the feeling he showed for her in her unexpected dilemma. Ms. Marchbanks' heart gave one throb, which made the green and violet ribbons jump and thrill, and then she came to herself and recognized, as she had so often done before, that she had to fight her way by herself, and had nobody to look to. Such a thought is dreary enough sometimes, and there are minds that sink under it, but at other times it is like the touch of Mother Earth, which gave the giant back his strength, and Lucilla was of the latter class of intelligence. When she saw the triumph with which her embarrassment was received, and that she had no sympathy nor aid to look for, she recovered herself as if by magic. Let what would come in her way, nothing could alter her certainty that Mr. Ashburton was the man for Carlingford, and that determination not to be beaten, which is the soul of British Valor sprang up in an instant in Ms. Marchbanks' mind. There was not even the alternative of Victory or Westminster Abbey for Lucilla. If she was ever to hold up her head again, or have any real respect for herself, she must win. All this passed through her head in one bewildering moment, while her father's words were still making her ears tingle, and that name, printed in big inky letters, seemed to flutter in all the air around her. It was hard to believe the intelligence thus conveyed, and harder still to go on in the face of old friendships and the traditions of her youth. But still duty was dearer than tradition, and it was now a necessity to fight the battle to the last, and at all risks to win. Thank you all the same, papa, for bringing me the paper, said Lucilla. It would have been a great deal worse if I had not known of it before I saw him. I am sure, I am very glad for one thing. He can't be married or dead, as people used to say. I am quite ashamed to keep you so long downstairs on Jemima, when I know you must be longing for a cup of tea. But it is somebody come back whom nobody expected. Tell him I shall be so glad to see him, papa, though I have no reason to be glad, for he was one of my young friends, you know, and he is sure to think I have gone off. As she spoke, Lucilla turned on Jemima, to whom she had given her arm, quite round, that she might look into the great glass over the mantelpiece. I don't think I am quite so much gone off as I expected to be, said Miss Marchbanks, with candid impartiality, though, of course, he will think me stouter, but it does not make any difference about Mr. Ashburton being the right man for Carlingford. She said the words with a certain solemnity, and turned Mrs. John, who was so much surprised as to be speechless, round again and let her upstairs. It was as if they were walking in a procession of those martyrs and renouncers of self, who build up the foundations of society, and it would not be too much to say that under her presence or circumstances, and in the excitement of this singular and unexpected event, such was the painful but sublime consciousness which animated Lucilla's breast. As for Dr. Marchbanks, his triumph was taken out of him by that spectacle. He closed the door after the ladies had gone, and came back to his easy chair by the side of the fire, and could not but feel that he had had the worst of it. It was actually Mr. Cavendish who had come home, and whose address to the electors of Carlingford dated from Dover on his return to England the doctor had just put into his daughter's hand. But wonderful and unlooked for as was the event, Lucilla, though taken unawares, had not given in, nor shown any signs of weakness. And the effect upon her father of her last utterance and confession was such that he took up the paper again and read both addresses, which were printed side by side. In other days Mr. Cavendish had been the chosen candidate of Grange Lane, and the views which he expressed, and he expressed his views very freely, were precisely those of Dr. Marchbanks. Yet when the doctor turned to Mr. Ashburton's expression of his conviction that he was the right man for Carlingford, it cannot be denied that the force of that simple statement had a wonderful effect upon his mind. An effect all the greater perhaps in comparison with the political exposition made by the other unexpected candidate. The doctor's meditations possibly took a slumberous tone from the place in the moment at which he pursued them. For the fact was that the words he had just been hearing ran in his head all through the reading of the two addresses. Mr. Cavendish would think Lucilla had gone off, but yet she had not gone off so much as might have been expected, and Mr. Ashburton was the man for Carlingford. Dr. Marchbanks laughed quietly by himself in his easy chair, and then went back to Mr. Cavendish's opinions, and ended again without knowing it in a kind of odd incipient agreement with Lucilla. The new candidate was right in politics, but after all, Mr. Ashburton was a more satisfactory sort of person. He was a man whom people knew everything about and a descendant of old Penrin, and had the furs and lived in it, and spent about so much money every year honestly in the face of the world. When a man conducts himself in this way, his neighbors can afford to be less exacting as to his political opinions. This comparison went on in the doctor's thoughts until the distinction between the two grew confused and faint in that ruddy and genial glow of fire-light and lamp-light, and personal well-being, which is apt to engross a man's mind after he has come in out of the air, as people say, and has eaten a good dinner, and feels himself comfortable, and at last all that remained in Dr. Marchbanks' mind was that Mr. Cavendish would think Lucilla had gone off, though she had not gone off nearly so much as might have been expected. At which he laughed with an odd sound, which roused him, and might have induced some people to think he had been sleeping, if indeed anybody had been near to hear. But this news was naturally much more serious to Ms. Marchbanks when she had got upstairs and had time to think of it. She would not have been human if she had heard, without emotion, of the return of the man whom she had once dreamed of as member for Carlingford, with the addition of other dreams which had not been altogether without their sweetness. He had returned now and then for a few days, but Lucilla knew that he had never held up his head in Grangelane since a day when she advised him to marry Barbara Lake, and now when he had bethought himself of his old ambition, had he possibly bethought himself of other hopes as well, and the horrible thing was that she had plunged herself to another, and put her seal upon it that Mr. Ashburton was the man for Carlingford. It may be supposed that, with such a complication in her mind, Ms. Marchbanks was very little capable of supporting Aunt Jemima's questions as to what it was about, and who was Mr. Cavendish, and why was his return of consequence to Lucilla? Mrs. John was considerably alarmed and startled, and began to think in earnest that Tom was fond of his cousin, and would never forgive his mother for letting Lucilla perhaps marry someone else, and settle down before her very eyes. If it is a very particular friend, I can understand it, Mrs. John said, with a little asperity, but that was after she had made a great many attempts, which were only partially successful to find it all out. Dear Aunt Jemima, said Lucilla, we are all particular friends in Carlingford, society is so limited, you know, and Mr. Cavendish has been a very long time away. He used to be of such use to me, and I am so fond of him. Ms. Marchbanks said, with a sigh, and it may be supposed that Mrs. John's curiosity was not lessened by such a response. If you are engaged to any one, Lucilla, I must say, I think I ought to have been told, said Tom's mother, with natural indignation. Though I ought not to blame you for it, perhaps, it is a sad thing when a girl is deprived of a mother's care, but still I am your nearest relation. My dear Aunt, it is something about the election, said Ms. Marchbanks. How could I be engaged to a man who has been away ten years? Tom has been away ten years, said Mrs. John impetuously, and then she blushed, though she was past the age of blushing, and made haste to cover her imprudence. I don't see what you can have to do with the election, she said, with suspicion, but some justice. And I don't feel, Lucilla, as if you were telling me all. I have the favours to make, Aunt Jemima, said Lucilla. Green and violet. You used to be so clever at making bows, and I hope you will help me. Papa, you know, will have to be on Mr. Ashburton's committee. Ms. Marchbanks added, and then, in spite of herself, a sigh of doubt and anxiety escaped her bosom. It was easy to say that Papa would be on Mr. Ashburton's committee, you know. But nobody had known that Mr. Cavendish was coming to drive everything topsy-turvy, and Lucilla, though she professed to know only who was the man for Carlingford, had at the same time sufficient political information to be aware that the sentiments propounded in Mr. Cavendish's address were also Dr. Marchbanks' sentiments, and she did not know the tricks which some green and violet spirit in the dining room was playing with a doctor's fancy. Perhaps it might turn out to be Mr. Cavendish's committee, which her father would be on, and after she had pledged herself that the other was the man for Carlingford. Lucilla felt that she could not be disloyal and go back from her word. Neither could she forget the intimation which had so plainly indicated to her that Mr. Ashburton was the man, and yet, at the same time, she could not but sigh as she thought of Mr. Cavendish. Perhaps he had grown course, as men do at that age, just as Lucilla herself was conscious that he would find her stouter. Perhaps he had ceased to flirt, or be of any particular use of an evening. Possibly even he might have forgotten Ms. Marchbanks, but naturally that was a thing that seemed unlikely to Lucilla. If he had but come a little earlier, or forever stayed away. But while all these thoughts were going through her mind, her fingers were still busy with the violet and green coquets, which aunt Jemima, after making sure that Mr. Ashburton was not a radical, had begun to help her with. As they sat and talked about Mrs. John's breathing which was so bad, and about her headaches, while Lucilla by snatches discussed the situation in her mind. Perhaps on the whole, embarrassment and perplexity are a kind of natural accompaniment to life and movement, and it is better to be driven out of your senses with thinking which of two things you ought to do, than to do nothing whatever, and be utterly uninteresting to all the world. This at least was how Lucilla reasoned to herself in her dilemma, and while she reasoned she used up yard upon yard of her green ribbon for naturally the violet bore but a small proportion to the green. Whatever she might have to do or to suffer, however her thoughts might be disturbed or her heart distracted, it is unnecessary to add that it was impossible to Lucilla either to betray or to yield. CHAPTER 40 It was a very good thing for Lucilla that Mrs. John was so much of an invalid, notwithstanding that the doctor made little of her complaints. All that Dr. Marchbank said was, with that remnant of scotch which was often perceptible in his speech, that her illness were a fine thing to occupy her, and he did not know what she would do without them. A manner of speaking which naturally lessened his daughter's anxiety, though her sympathetic care and solicitude were undiminished, and no doubt, when she had been once assured that there was nothing dangerous in her aunt's case, it was a relief to Ms. Marchbank's at the present juncture that Mrs. John got up late and always breakfasted in her own room. Lucilla went into that sanctuary after she had given her father his breakfast, and heard all about the palpitation in the bad night Aunt Jemima had passed, and then when she had consoled her suffering relative by the reflection that one never sleeps well the first night or two, Ms. Marchbank's was at liberty to go forth and attend a little to her own affairs, which stood so much in need of being attended to. She had had no further talk with the doctor on the subject, but she had read over Mr. Cavendish's address, and could not help seeing that it went dead against her candidate. Neither could Lucilla remain altogether unaffected by the expression of feeling in respect to a place in which I have spent so many pleasant years, and which has so many claims on my affections, and the touching haste with which the exile had rushed back as soon as he heard of the old member's death. If it touched Ms. Marchbank's, who was already pledged to support another interest, what might it not do to the gentleman in Grange Lane, who were not pledged, and who had a friendship for Mr. Cavendish? This was the alarming thought that had disturbed her sleep all night, and returned to her mind with her first awakening. And when she had really her time to herself, and the fresh morning hours before her, Lucilla began as everybody ought to do by going to the very root and foundation, and asking herself what, beyond all secondary considerations, it was right to do. To change from one side to the other and go back from her word was a thing abhorrent to her, but still Ms. Marchbank's was aware that there are certain circumstances in which honesty and truth themselves demand what, in most cases, is considered an untruthful and dishonest proceeding. In order to come to a right decision, and with a sense of the duty she owed to her country, which would have shamed half the electors in England, not to say Carlingford, Lucilla, who naturally had no vote, read the two addresses of the two candidates, and addressed herself candidly and impartially to the rights of the subject. Mr. Cavendish was disposed, as we have said, to be pathetic and sentimental, and to speak of the claims the borough had upon his affections, and the eagerness with which he had rushed home at the earliest possible moment to present himself to them. If poor Mr. Chiltern had been King Bomba, or a gloomy Oriental tyrant, keeping all possible reformers and successors banished from his dominions, the new candidates could not have spoken with more pathos. It was a sort of thing which tells among the imaginative part of the community, or so at least most people think, and Ms. Marchbanks was moved by it for the first moment, but then her enlightened mind asserted its rights. She said to herself that Mr. Cavendish might have come home at any hour by any steamboat, that Caleus and Boulon and even Dieppe were as open to him as if he had been an actual refugee, and that consequently there was nothing particular to be pathetic about, and then if the town had such claims on his affections, why had he stayed so long away? These two rationalistic questions dispersed the first attendress's mind, which had begun to steal over Lucilla's mind. When she came to this conclusion her difficulties began to clear. She had no reason to go back from her engagements and reject that intimation which had so impressed it on her that Mr. Ashburton was the man. It was a sacrifice which ancient truth and friendship did not demand, for Verity was not in the document she had just been reading, and that appeal to sentiment was nothing more than what is generally called humbug. He might have been living here all the time, Lucilla said to herself. He might have had much stronger claims upon our affections if he had wanted. He might have come back ages ago and not let people struggle on alone. When this view of the subject occurred to her, Lucilla felt more indignation than sympathy. And then as Dr. Marchbanks had done, she turned to the calm utterance of her own candidate, the man who was the only man for Carlingford, and that sweet sense of having given sound counsel, and of having at last met with someone capable of carrying it out, which makes up for so many failures, came like a bomb to Lucilla's bosom. There was nothing more necessary. The commotion in her mind calmed down, and the tranquility of undisturbed conviction came in its place, and it was with this sense of certainty that she put on her bonnet, and issued forth, though it snowed a little, and was a very wintery day, on Mr. Ashburton's behalf to try her fortune in Grange Lane. She went to Mrs. Chiles, who was now very old, poor old lady, and feeble, and did not like to leave her sofa. Not but what she could leave the sofa, she said to her friends, but at that time of the year, and at her time of life, it was comfortable. The sofa was wheeled to the side of the fire, and Mrs. Chiles reclined upon it, covered with knitted rugs of the brightest colors, which her young friends all worked for her. The last one arrived was what used to be called an Afghanistan blanket, done in stripes of all sorts of pretty tints, which was a present from Mrs. Beverly. Her work, she says, Lucilla, said the old lady. But we know what sort of soft dawdling woman she is, and it must have been the Archdeacon's nieces, you know, but still it had the place of honor at present, covering Mrs. Chiles' feet and affording something to talk about when any one came in, and by her side was a little table, upon which stood one china rose in a glass of water, a pale rose, almost as pale as her soft old cheeks, and chilled like them by the approaching frost, and the fire burned with an officious cheerfulness at her elbow, as if it thought nothing of such accidental circumstances as winter and old age. To be sure, this was a reflection which never came into Mrs. Chiles' head, who was, on the contrary, very thankful for the fire, and said it was like a companion. And I often think, my dear, how do the poor people get on, especially if they are old and sick, that have no fires to keep them cheerful in this dreadful weather? The kind old lady would say, she did say so now when Lucilla came in, glowing with cold in her rapid walk, and with a flake or two of snow, slowly melting on her seal's skin cloak. Perhaps it was not a sentiment, the Colonel agreed with, for he gave a humph and a little hoist of his shoulders, as if in protest, being himself a good deal limited in his movements, and not liking to own it, by the wintry torpor within his big old frame, and the wintry weather outside. Come and tell us all the news, Lucilla, my darling. Mrs. Chiles said, as she drew down her young friend's glowing face to her own, and gave her one of her lingering kisses. I felt sure you would come and tell us everything. I said it would not be like Lucilla if she didn't. We know nothing but the fact, you know, not another word. Make haste and tell us everything, my dear. But I don't know anything, said Miss Marge Banks. Of course you mean about Mr. Cavendish. I saw it in the papers, like everybody else. But I don't know anything more. And then Mrs. Chiles' countenance fell. She was not very strong, poor old lady, and she could have cried, as she said afterwards. Ah, well, I suppose there is not time, she said, after a little pause. I suppose he has not got here from D'Aubre yet. One always forgets the distance. I calculated it all over last night, and I thought he would get home by the eleven train. But these trains are never to be calculated upon, you know, my dear. I am a little disappointed, Lucilla, poor dear, to think how he must have rushed home the first moment. I could have cried when I read that address. I don't see why anyone should cry, said Lucilla. I think he makes a great deal too much of that. He might have come ever so many years ago if he had liked. Poor Mr. Chiltern did not banish him, poor old man. He might have been here for years. On which the Colonel himself drew a little nearer and poked the fire. I am glad to see you are so sensible, Lucilla, he said. It's the first rational word I have heard on the subject. She thinks he's kind of a saint and martyr, a silly young fellow that runs off among set of Frenchmen, because he can't get everything his own way, and then he expects that we are all to go into transports of joy and give him our votes. Colonel Chiley added, smashing a great piece of coal with a poker, with a blow full of energy, yet showing a slight unsteadiness in it, which sent a host of blazing splinters into the hearth. He was a man who wore very well, but he was not so steady as he once was, and nowadays was apt by some tremulous movement to neutralize the strength which he had left. Mrs. Chiley, for her part, was apt to be made very nervous by her husband's proceedings. She was possessed by a terror that the splinters some day would jump out of the hearth onto the carpet and fly into the corners, and perhaps burn us all up in our beds, as she said. She gave a little start among her cushions, and stooped down to look over the floor. He will never learn that he is old. She said in Lucilla's ear, who instantly came to her side to see what she wanted, with us the two old people kept watch upon each other, and noted with a curious mixture of vexation and sympathy each other's declining strength. For my part I would give him all my votes, if I had a hundred, said Mrs. Chiley, and so will you, too, when you hear the rites of it. Lucilla, my dear, tell him, I hope you are not going to forsake old friends. No, said Miss Marchbanks, but she spoke with a gravity and hesitation which did not fail to reach Mrs. Chiley's ear. I hope I shall never desert my old friends, but I think all the same that it is Mr. Ash Burton, who is the right man for Carlingford, she said slowly. She said it with reluctance, for she knew it would shock her audience, but at the same time she did not shrink from her duty, and the moment had now arrived when Lucilla felt concealment was impossible, and that the truth must be said. As for Mrs. Chiley, she was so distressed that the tears came to her eyes, and even the Colonel laughed, and did not understand it. Colonel Chiley, though he was by no means as yet on Mr. Cavendish's side, was not any more capable than his neighbors of understanding Miss Marchbanks' single-minded devotion to what was just and right, and why she should transfer her support to Ash Burton, who was not a lady's man, nor, in the Colonel's opinion, a marrying man, nor anything at all attractive, now that the other had come back romantic and repentant to throw his honors at her feet, was beyond his powers of explanation. He contented himself with saying, hmm, but his wife was not so easily satisfied. She took Lucilla by the hand, and poured forth a flood of remonstrances and prayers. I do not understand you, Lucilla, said Mrs. Chiley, he whom we know so little about, whom, I am sure, you have no reason to care for, and where could you find anybody nicer than Mr. Cavendish, and he to have such faith in us, and to come rushing back as soon as he was able. I am sure you have not taken everything into consideration, Lucilla. He might not perhaps do exactly as could have been wished before he went away, but he was young, and he was led astray, and I do think you were a little hard upon him, my dear, but I have always said I never knew anybody nicer than Mr. Cavendish, and what possible reason you can have to care about that other man. It was like a special intimation, said Lucilla, with solemnity. I don't see how I could neglect it, for my part. The day the news came about poor old Mr. Chiltern's death, I was out, you know, and heard it, and just at one spot upon the pavement opposite Mr. Holden's, it came into my mind like a flash of lightning that Mr. Ashburton was the man. I don't care in the least for him, and I had not been thinking of him or anything. It came into my head all in a moment, if I had been very intimate with poor dear old Mr. Chiltern, or if I believed in spirit-wrapping, I should think it was a message from him. Lucilla spoke with great gravity, but she did not impress her audience, who were people of skeptical minds. Mrs. Chiley, for her part, was almost angry, and could scarcely forgive Lucilla for having made her give grave attention to such a piece of nonsense. If it had been him, she said with some wrath, I don't see how having been dead for a few hours would make his advice worth having. It never was good for anything when he was alive, and you don't believe in spirit-wrapping, I hope. I wonder how you can talk such nonsense, the old lady said severely, and Colonel Chiley, who had been a little curious, too, laughed and cuffed over the joke, for the two old people were of the old school and of a very unbelieving frame of mind. I knew you would laugh, said Miss Marchmanx, but I cannot help it. If it had been impressed upon your mind like that, you would have been different. And of course I, like Mr. Cavendish, much the best. I am so glad I have no vote, said Lucilla. It does not matter to anybody what I think, but if I had anything to do with it, you know I could not stand up for Mr. Cavendish, even though I am fond of him, when I felt sure that Mr. Ashburton is the man for Carlingford, nobody could ask me to do that. There followed a pause upon this declaration for Miss Marchmanx, though she had no vote, was a person of undoubted influence, and such a conviction on her part was not to be laughed at, even Colonel Chiley, who was undecided in his own mind, was moved by it a little. What does the doctor think? He asked. Ashburton doesn't say a word about his principles that I can see, and the other, you know. Dear Colonel Chiley, cried Lucilla, he is not going to be prime minister, and I have always heard you say, as long as I can remember, that it was not opinions, you know, but a good man that people wanted. I have heard people talking politics for hours, and I always remember you saying that, and thinking it was the only sense. But of course I don't understand politics, Lucilla added, with humility. As for the Colonel, he took up the poker, perhaps to hide a little pleasant confusion, and again drew near the fire. By George, I believe Lucilla is in the right, he said, with a certain agreeable consciousness. Perhaps he did not quite recollect at what moment of his life he had originated that sentiment, but he thought he could recollect, having said it, and it was with a view of carrying off the bashfulness of genius, and not because the Coles had any need of it, that he took up the poker, a proceeding which was always regarded with alarm and suspicion by his wife. The fire is very nice, said Mrs. Chiley. I hate to have the fire poked when it does not want it. Lucilla, if you make him go over to that Mr. Ashburton side, you will have a great deal to answer for, and I will never forgive you. My dear, you must be dreaming, a man that is as dry as a stick, and not one hundred nor one thousand parts so nice. I shan't say another word, said Lucilla. I shan't stay any longer, for I can't help it, and you would be angry with me. People can't help what they believe, you know. There is poor little Oswald Brown, who has doubts, and can't go into the church, and will ruin all his prospects, and nobody can help it. If I were his mother, I should help it, cried Mrs. Chiley. I promise you, he should not talk of his doubts to me. A bit of a lad, and what is good enough for all the bishops, and everybody in their senses, is not good enough for him. If that is the kind of example you are going to follow, Lucilla. Dear Mrs. Chiley, said Ms. Marchbanks, everybody knows what my church principles are, and perhaps you will come round to think with me, but I am not going to say any more about it now. I am so glad your rheumatism is better this morning, but you must wrap up well, for it is so cold, oh, so cold, out of doors. When Lucilla had thus dismissed the subject, she came to her old friend's side and bent over her in her sealed skin cloak to say good-bye. Mrs. Chiley took her by both hands, as she thus stood with her back to the old colonel, and drew her down close, and looked, searchingly, into her eyes. If you have any particular reason, Lucilla, you ought to tell me that would make such a difference, said the old lady. I always tell you everything, said Ms. Marchbanks, with evasive fondness, as she kissed the soft, old-withered cheek, and naturally, with a colonel behind, who was standing up before the fire, shadowing over them both, and quite unaware of this little whispered episode, it would have been impossible to say more, had there been ever so much to say. But it had been a close encounter in its way, and Lucilla was rather glad to get off without any further damage. She did not feel quite successful as she went out, but still she had left a very wholesome commotion behind her. For Colonel Chiley could not but feel that the sentiment which she had quoted from himself, was a very just sentiment. By George, Lucilla was in the right of it, he said again, after she was gone, and in fact went through a process very similar to that, which had modified the sentiments of Dr. Marchbanks on the previous night. Mr. Cavendish was a young fellow who had rushed off among a set of Frenchmen, because Lucilla Marchbanks would not have him, or because he could not marry Barbara Lake in addition, or at least somehow because he failed of having his own way. It was all very well for him to come back and make a commotion, and be sentimental about it. But what if, after all, Ashburton, who had the furs, and lived there, and spent his money like a Christian, was the man for Carlingford? The Colonel's mind still wavered and veered about, yet it had received an impulse, which was by no means unworthy of consideration. As for Mrs. Chiley, she laid back her head upon her pillows, and painfully questioned with herself whether Lucilla could have any particular reason for taking Mr. Ashburton's part so warmly. She thought with justice that Ms. Marchbanks was looking brighter and better, and had more of her old animation than she had shown for a long time, which arose from the simple fact that she had something in hand, though the old lady thought it might have a more touching and delicate motive. If that was the case, it would make a great difference. Mrs. Chiley was no longer able to go out in the evening, and had to be dependent on other people's observation for a knowledge of what happened, and she was wounded by a sense that her young friend had not been appreciated as her worth deserved. If Mr. Ashburton had the sense to see what was for his own advantage, it would be a frightful thing, as Mrs. Chiley said to herself, if Lucilla's friends should fly in his face, and though it was a hard trial to give up Mr. Cavendish, still if anything of the kind had happened, thus it will be evident that Lucilla's visit, though it was not a long one, nor the least in the world an argumentative visit, was not without its fruit. She went up Grangelane again, cheerful and warm in her seal-skin coat. It was a sing that suited her remarkably well, and corresponded with her character, and everybody knows how comfortable they are. The snowflakes fell softly one at a time, and melted away to nothing upon her sleeves and her shoulders, without leaving any trace, and Lucilla, with the chill air blowing in her face, and those feathery messengers in the air, could not but feel that her walk, and the general readiness which she felt to face all kinds of objections and difficulties, and to make a sacrifice of her own feelings, had in them a certain magnanimous and heroic element, for after all she had no particular reason, as Mrs. Chiley said. Mr. Ashburton was a dry man, and of very little use in a social point of view, and had never paid her any attention to speak of, nor at all put himself forth as a candidate for her favor. If he had done so, she would not have felt that thrill of utter disinterestedness which kept her as warm within as her seal-skin did without. There was not a soul to be seen in Grange Lane at that moment in the snow, which came on faster and faster, but one of Mr. Wentworths, who at that time was new in St. Rokes, Gray Sisters, and another lady who was coming down as quickly as Lucilla was going up, by the long line of garden walls. The gentlemen were either at business or at their club, or keeping themselves snug indoors, and it was only those devoted women who braved the elements outside. The figure in the gray cloak was occupied simply with the poor people, and that is not our present business, but the other two were otherwise inspired. Mr. Cavendish, who had lately arrived, had not been able to make up his mind to face the weather, but his sister was of a different way of thinking. She was not of half the capacity of Lucilla, but still she felt that something ought to be done, and that there was not a moment to be lost. When she saw it was Ms. Marchbanks that was advancing to meet her, a momentary chill came over Mrs. Woodburn. She was thinking so much of her own errand that she could not but jump at the idea that nothing less important could have induced Lucilla to be out of doors on such a day, and her heart beat loud as the two drew near each other. Was it an unexpected and generous auxiliary, or was it a foe accomplished and formidable? For one thing she was not coming out of Mr. Sentums, where Mrs. Woodburn herself was going, which at least was a relief. As they came nearer, the two ladies instinctively looked to their weapons. They had met already in many a little passage of arms, but nothing like this had ever occurred to them before. If they were to work in union, Mrs. Woodburn felt that they would carry all before them, and if not, then it must be a struggle unto the death. Is it really you, Lucilla, she said? I could not believe my eyes. What can have brought you out of doors on such a day? You that have everything your own way, and no call to exert yourself. I have been to see Mrs. Chiley, said Lucilla sweetly. When the weather is bad she sees nobody, and she is always so pleased to have me. Her rheumatism is not so bad, thank you, though I am sure if this weather should last. You would see Mrs. Beverly's blanket, said Mrs. Woodburn, who was a little nervous, though perhaps that might only be the cold. But we know what sort of woman she is, and it must have been the Archdeacon's nieces, my dear. Do turn back with me a moment, Lucilla, or I shall go with you. I want to speak to you. Of course you have heard of Harry's coming home. I saw it in the papers, said Miss Marchbanks, whose perfect serenity offered a curious contrast to her companion's agitation. I am sure I shall be very glad to see him again. I hope he will come to dinner on Thursday as he used to do. It will be quite nice to see him in his old place. Yes, said Mrs. Woodburn, but that was not what I was thinking of. You know you used always to say he ought to be in Parliament, and he has always kept thinking of it since he went away, and thinking I am sure that it would please you, said the poor woman, faltering, for Lucilla listened with a smile that was quite unresponsive, and did not change continents in the least, even at this tender suggestion. He has come home with that object now, you know, now that poor old Mr. Shiltern is dead, and I hope you are going to help us, Lucilla, said Mrs. Woodburn. Her voice quite vibrated with agitation as she made this hurried, perhaps injudicious appeal, thinking within herself at the same moment what would Harry say if he knew that she was thus committing him. As for Lucilla, she received it all with the same tranquillity as if she expected it, and was quite prepared for everything that her assailant had to say. I am sure I wish I had a vote, said Lucilla, but I have no vote, and what can a girl do? I am so sorry I don't understand about politics. If we are going in for that sort of thing, I don't know what there would be left for the gentleman to do. You have influence, which is a great deal better than a vote, said Mrs. Woodburn, and they all say there is nobody like a lady for electioneering, and a young lady above all. And then you know Harry so well, and can always draw him out to the best advantage. I never thought he looked so nice or showed his talent so much as when he was with you, said the eager advocate. She was only wrapped in a shawl herself, and when she looked at Lucilla's seal-skin coat, and saw how rosy and comfortable she looked, and how serene and immovable poor Mrs. Woodburn was struck with a pang of envy. If Ms. Marchbanks had married ten years ago, it might have been she now who would have had to stand trembling with anxiety and eagerness among the falling snow, knowing sundry reasons why Mr. Cavendish should be disposed to go into Parliament more substantial than that of gratifying a young lady, and feeling how much depended on her ability to secure support for him. This, as it happened, had fallen to his sister's share instead, and Lucilla stood opposite to her, looking at her, attentive and polite and unresponsive. If Harry had only not been such a fool ten years ago, for Mrs. Woodburn began to think now, with Aunt Jemima, that Lucilla did not marry because she was too comfortable, and without any of the bother could have everything her own way. It is so cold, said Ms. Marchbanks, and I do think it is coming on to snow very fast. I don't think it is good to stand talking. Do come into lunch, and then we can have a long chat, for I am sure nobody else will venture out to-day. I wish I could come, said Mrs. Woodburn, but I have to go down to Mary Sentom's, and hear all about her last new housemaid, you know. I don't know what servants are made of, for my part. They will go out in their caps, and talk to the young men, you know, in a night that is enough to give anyone their death. The mimic added, with a feeble exercise of her gift, which it was sad to see. But Harry will be sure to come, to call the first time he goes out, and you will not forget what I have said to you, Lucilla. And with this, Mrs. Woodburn took her young friend's hand, and looked in her face with a pathetic emphasis, which it would be impossible to describe. Oh, no, certainly not, said Ms. Marchbanks, with cheerful certainty, and then they kissed each other in the midst of the falling snow. Mrs. Woodburn's face was cold, but Lucilla's cheek was warm and blooming as only a clear conscience and a seal-skin cloak could have made it, and then they went there several ways through the wintry solitude. If Harry had only not been such a fool ten years ago, Mrs. Woodburn was not an enthusiastic young wife, but knew very well that marriage had its drawbacks, and had come to an age at which she could appreciate the comfort of having her own way without any of the bother. She gave a furtive glance after Lucilla, and could not but acknowledge to herself that it would be very foolish of Ms. Marchbanks to marry and forfeit all her advantages and take somebody else's anxieties upon her shoulders and never have any money except what she asked from her husband. Mrs. Chiley, to be sure, who was more experienced than Mrs. Woodburn and might have been her grandmother, took a different view of the subject, but this was what the middle-aged married woman felt, who had, as may be said, two men to carry on her shoulders, as she went anxiously down the Grange Lane to conciliate Mrs. Sentom, wrapping her shawl about her and feeling the light snow melt beneath her feet, and the cold and discomfort go to her heart. She had her husband to keep in good humour, and her brother to keep up and keep to the mark, and to do what she could to remedy in public the effects of his indolent continental habits, and carry, if it was possible, the election for him, all with the horrid sense upon her mind that if at any time the dinner should be a little less cared for than usual, or the children more noisy, Woodburn would go on like a savage. Under such circumstances the poor woman amid her cares may be excused if she looked back a little wistfully at Lucilla going home, all comfortable and independent and light-hearted, with no cares nor anybody to go on at her in her sealskin coat. This was how Lucilla commenced that effective but decorous advocacy which did Mr. Ashburton so much good in Carlingford. She did not pretend to understand about politics or to care particularly about reform or the income tax, but she expressed with quiet solemnity her conviction that it was not opinions but a good man that was wanted, that it was not a prime minister they were going to elect, and that Mr. Ashburton was the man for Carlingford. By George, Lucilla is in the right of it, Colonel Chiley said. That was always my opinion. And the people in Grange Lane began very soon to echo the Colonel's sentiments. As for Ms. March Banks, nobody had any occasion to go on about any neglect on her part of her household duties. Dr. March Banks' dinners were always excellent, and it was now, as ever, a privilege to be admitted to his table, and nothing could be more exemplary than the care Lucilla took of Aunt Jemima, who had always such bad nights. Even on that snowy morning she went in from her more important cares with a complexion freshened by the cold and coaxed Mrs. John into eating something, and made her as comfortable as possible at the drawing-room fireside. Now tell me all about Tom, Lucilla said, when she had got her work and settled herself comfortably for a quiet afternoon, for the snow had come on heavier than ever, and unless it might be a sister of charity, or such another sister not of charity, as Lucilla had already encountered, nobody was like to stare abroad or to disturb the two ladies in their work and their talk. Lucilla had some very interesting, worsted work in hand for her part, and the drawing-room never looked more cozy with somebody to talk to inside, and the wintry world and driving snow without. And as for Aunt Jemima, such an invitation as Miss Marchbanks had just given lifted her into a paradise of content. She took Lucilla at her word and told her as maybe supposed all about Tom, including many things which she was quite acquainted with and knew by heart, and at the same time there was a something implied all through but never obtrusively set forth, which was not displeasing to the auditor. Miss Marchbanks listened with affectionate satisfaction and asked a great many questions, and supplied a great many reminiscences, and entered quite into the spirit of the conversation. And the two spent a very pleasant afternoon together, so pleasant that Mrs. John felt quite annoyed at the reflection that it must come to an end, like everything else that is good, and that she must get herself once more into her velvet gown and dine with her brother-in-law. If Providence had only given her the girl instead of the doctor, who would no doubt have got on quite well without any children, but then to be sure if Lucilla had been hers to start with, she could never have married Tom. For this was the extravagant hope which had already begun to blossom in his mother's breast. To be sure a woman might marry Tom, who was too comfortable at home to think of marrying just anybody who might make her an offer, but it was not easy to tell how Lucilla herself felt on this subject. Her complexion was so bright with her walk, her sensations so agreeable after that warm, cheerful pleasant afternoon, her positions so entirely everything that was to be desired, and her mind so nobly conscious of being useful to her kind and country that even without any additional argument Miss Marchbanks had her reward and was happy, perhaps a touch more exquisite might have come in to round the full proportions of content, but if so, nobody could make altogether sure of it. For to tell the truth, Lucilla was so well off that it was not necessary to invent any romantic source of happiness to account for the light of well-being and satisfaction that's shown in her eyes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The result of Miss Marchbanks' wise precaution and reticence was that Sir John Richmond and the Doctor and Colonel Chiley were all on Mr. Ashburton's committee. They might not agree with his principles, but then when a man does not state any very distinct principles, it is difficult for anyone, however well-disposed, to disagree with him, and the fact that he was the man for Carlingford was so indisputable that nobody attempted to go into the minor matters. Mr. Ashburton is a gentleman known to us all. Sir John said, with great effect, in his nomination speech, and it was a sentence which went to the hearts of his audience. The other candidate had been a long time from home, and it was longer still since anybody in Carlingford could be said to have benefited by his residence there. He had had all his things down from town, as Mr. Holden, the upholsterer, pithily remarked, and that made a great difference to start with. As for Mr. Ashburton, though it is true, nobody knew what he thought about reform or the income tax. Everybody knew that he lived at the firs, and was supplied in a creditable way by George Street tradesmen. There was no mystery whatever about him. People knew how much he had a year, and how much he paid for everything, and the way in which his accounts were kept, and all about him. Even when he had his wine direct from the growers, for naturally his own county could not supply the actual liquor. It was put in Carlingford bottles, and people knew the kinds he had, and how much, and a hundred agreeable details. And then he was a gentleman as was always ready to give his advice, as some of the people said. All this furnished an immense body of evidence in his favor, and made Sir John's remark eloquent, and then Carlingford as a general rule did not care the least in the world about reform. There were a few people who had once done so, and it was remarked in Grove Street that Mr. Tozer had once been in a dreadful state of mind about it. But he was quite tranquil on the subject now, and so was the community in general, and what was really wanted, as Lucila's genius had seen at a glance, was not this or that opinion, but a good man. But at the same time it would be vain to deny that Ms. Marchbanks looked forward to a possible visit from Mr. Cavendish with a certain amount of anxiety. She was not frightened, for she knew her own powers, but she was a little excited and stimulated by the idea that he might come in at any minute, bringing back a crowd of recollections with him. And it was a perpetual wonder to her how he would take the inevitable difference, whether he would accept it as natural or put on the heirs of an injured man. Lucila did not go out the two afternoons after her meeting with Mrs. Woodburn, partly that she might not miss him if he called, for it was better to have it over, but Mr. Cavendish did not come on either of these days. After that, of course, she did not wait for him any longer, but on the third or fourth day, when she was in Ms. Brown's photographing room, the eldest Ms. Brown was not married, and was a mother to the younger girls, and always enthusiastic about sitters. Mr. Ashburton called about business, and Thomas came to fetch Ms. Marchbanks. She was sitting with the greatest good nature, for half a dozen pictures, knowing in her secret heart all the time that she would look a perfect fright, and that all Carlingford would see her grinning with imbecile amiability out of the hazy background of Ms. Brown's cart. Lucila knew this, and had hid here to avoid the process with success, but now she gave in, and as the major was there, of course they talked of the coming election, which, indeed, at present, was almost the only topic of conversation in Grange Lane. Of course, you are in Mr. Ashburton's committee, said Lucila. You must be, or going to be, after what you said the other day at lunch. What did I say? asked Major Brown, with an air of dismay, for, to tell the truth, his heart inclined a little towards poor Mr. Cavendish, who was an old neighbor, and to whom Major Brown could not but think the Marchbanks and others had behaved rather cruelly. But then, in these electioneering matters, one never knows what one may have done to compromise oneself without meaning it, and the major was a little anxious to find out what he had said. Dear Major Brown, said Lucila seriously, I am so sorry if you did not mean it. I am sure it was that as much as anything. That influenced Mr. Ashburton. He was turning it all over in his mind, you know, and was afraid the people he most esteemed in Carlingford would not agree with him, and did not know what to do. And then you said, what did it matter about opinions if it was a good man? That was what decided him, said Miss Marchbanks, with sad yet gentle reproachfulness. I am so sorry if you did not mean what you said. Good heavens! I don't remember saying anything of the sort, said Major Brown. I am sure I never thought of influencing anybody. It is true enough about a good man, you know, but if I had imagined for an instant that any one was paying attention, by George, it was you that said it, Lucila, I remember now. Please don't make fun of me, said Miss Marchbanks, as if anybody cared what I say about politics. But I know that was what decided poor Mr. Ashburton. Indeed he told me so, and when he finds you did not mean anything. But good heavens! I did mean something, cried the accused with dismay, and he grew quite inarticulate in his confusion, and read in the face, and lost his head all together, while Lucila sat calmly looking on with that air of virtue at once severe and indulgent, which pities and blames and hopes that perhaps there is not so much harm done as might have been expected. This was the position of affairs when Thomas came to say that Miss Marchbanks was wanted, as she had told him to do when her candidate came, for to be sure it was only next door. It was terrible to hear the soft sigh she gave when she shook hands with Major Brown. I hope he will not feel it as much as I think, but I should be afraid to tell him, said Lucila as she went away, leaving the good man in a state of bewilderment and embarrassment and doubt, which would have been much more unpleasant if he had not felt so flattered at the same time. I never meant to influence anybody, I'm sure, he said, with a comical mixture of complacence and dismay when Lucila was gone. I have always said, Papa, that you don't think enough of the weight people give to your opinion. Miss Brown replied, as she gave the final bath to her negatives, and they both left off work with a certain glow of comforted amorpropri and the most benevolent sentiments toward Mr. Ashburton, who, to tell the truth, until he got his lesson from Miss Marchbanks, had never once thought about the opinion of Major Brown. He was sitting with Aunt Jemima when Lucila came in, and talking to her in a steady sort of way. Nothing could have made Mr. Ashburton socially attractive, but still there are many people to whom this steady sort of talk is more agreeable than brilliancy. When a man is brilliant, there is always a doubt in some minds whether he is trustworthy or sincere or to be relied upon, but an ordinary, common-sense sort of talker is free from such suspicion. Mr. Ashburton was very sorry to hear that Mrs. John Marchbanks had bad nights, and suggested that it might be nervous, and hoped that the air of Carlingford would do her good, and was very glad to hear that her son was getting on so well in India, and Aunt Jemima could not help approving of him, and feeling that he was a person of substance and reflection, and not one of those fly-away young men who turn girls' heads and never mean anything. Lucila herself gained something in Mrs. John's eyes from Mr. Ashburton's high opinion, but at the same time it was quite clear that he was not thinking of anything sentimental, but was quite occupied about his election as a man of sense should be. Lucila came in with a fine bloom on her cheeks, but still with a shade of that sadness which had had so great an effect upon Major Brown. She had taken off her hat before she came in, and dropped into her chair with an air of languor and fatigue, which was quite unusual to her. It makes such a difference in life when one has something on one's mind, said Lucila as she sighed, as was but natural. For though that did not affect the energy of her proceedings, she knew and remembered at moments of discouragement how seldom one's most disinterested exertions are appreciated at the end. You want your lunch, my dear, said Mrs. John. Perhaps I do, said Miss March Banks, with a mournfully affectionate smile. I have been sitting to Maria Brown. She has taken six, and I am sure they are every one more hideous than the other, and they will go all over England, you know, for the Browns have hosts of people belonging to them, and everybody will say, so that is Miss March Banks. I don't think I am vain to speak of, said Lucila, but that sort of thing goes to one's heart. These amateurs are terrible people, said Mr. Ashburton in his steady way, and photographs are a regular nuisance, for my part. Don't say that, said Miss March Banks. I know what you are going to say, and you must sit to her please. I have said already she must do one of you, and I will tell you presently about the major. But wait and talk to Aunt Jemima, little, for I am so tired, said Lucila. She was lying back negligently in her seat, with that air of languor which so many young ladies excel in, but which was for her a novel indulgence. Her hand hung over the arm of her chair as if there was no longer any force in it. Her head fell back, her eyes were half closed. It was a moment of abandonment to her sensations, such as a high principled young woman like Miss March Banks seldom gives way to. But Lucila went into it conscientiously, as into everything she did, that she might regain her strength for the necessary duties that were before her. And it was at this moment that Thomas appeared at the door, with a suspicion of a grin appearing at the corners of his sober mouth, and announced Mr Cavendish, who came in before an ordinary woman would have had time to open her eyes. This was the moment he had chosen for his first visit, and yet it was not he who had chosen it but fate, who seemed to have in disrespect a spite against Lucila. It was not only the embarrassing presence of his rival, but the fact that neither of the two people in the room knew or had ever seen Mr Cavendish, that put a climax to the horror of the situation. She alone knew him and had to take upon herself to present and introduce him, and bridge over for him the long interval of absence, and all this with a sense of being in the enemy's interest, and to a certain extent falls to Mr Cavendish. Lucila rose at once, but she was not a woman to make pretenses. She did not throw off all in a moment her fatigue, and dash into spasmodic action. She held out her hand silently to Mr Cavendish, with a look which spoke only affectionate satisfaction in a friend's return. She did not even speak at all for the first moment, but contented herself with a look, which indeed, if he had been younger and less preoccupied, would no doubt have touched his very heart. So you have really come back, she said. I am so glad, after all that people said about your being married and dead, and ever so many stupid things. Oh, don't look at me, please. It doesn't matter with a gentleman, but I know as well as if you had told me that you think me dreadfully gone off. I entertain such a profane idea, said Mr Cavendish, but he was considerably embarrassed, and he was a great deal stouter, and altogether different from what he used to be. And he had not the light hand of his youth for a compliment. And then he sat down on the chair Thomas had given him, and he looked uncomfortable to say the least of it. And he was getting large in dimensions, and a little red in the face, and had by no means the air of thinking that it didn't matter for a gentleman. As for Miss Marge Banks, it would be impossible to say what mists of illusion dropped away from her mind at the sight of him. Even while she smiled upon the newcomer, she could not but ask herself with momentary dismay. Had she really gone off as much in the same time? I have been looking for you, Miss Marge Banks resumed. I waited for you Tuesday and Wednesday, and it is so odd you should have come just at this minute. Aunt Jimaima, this is Mr Cavendish whom you have heard so much about. And don't go please, Mr Ashburton. You too must know each other. You will be hearing of each other constantly, and I suppose you will have to shake hands or something on the hustings, so it will be much the best to begin it here. But the two candidates did not shake hands. They bowed to each other in an alarming way, which did not promise much for their future brotherliness, and then they both stood bolt upright and stared at Miss Marge Banks, who had relapsed in the pleasantest way in the world into her easy chair. Now please sit down and talk a little, said Lucilla. I am so proud of having you both together. There never has been anybody in the world that I have missed so much as you. You knew that when you went away, but you didn't mind. Mr Ashburton is very nice, but he is of no use to speak of in an evening, said Miss Marge Banks, turning a reflective glance upon her own candidate, with a certain sadness, and then they both laughed as if it was a joke, but it was no joke, as one of them at least must have known. Lucilla, said Mrs John, with consternation, I never heard anybody talk as you do. I am sure Mr Ashburton is the very best of society, and as for Mr Cavendish. Dear Aunt Jemima, said Lucilla, Would you mind ringing the bell? I have been sitting to Maria Brown, and I am almost fainting. I wish you gentlemen would sit to her. It would please her, and it would not do you much harm, and then for your constituents, you know. I hope you don't wish me to look like one of Maria Brown's photographs to my constituents, said Mr Cavendish, but then I am happy to say they all know me pretty well. This was said with a slight touch of gentlemanly spite, if there is such a thing, for after all, he was an old power in Carlingford, though he had been so long away. Yes, said Lucilla reflectively, but you are a little changed since then, a little perhaps just a little stouter and gone off, said Mr Cavendish with a laugh, but he felt horribly disconcerted all the same, and savaged with Ms March Banks, and could not think why that fellow did not go away. What had he to do in Lucilla's drawing room? What did he mean by sitting down again and talking in that measured way to the old lady, as if all the ordinary rules of good breeding did not point out to him, that he should have gone away and left the field clear? Oh, you know, it does not matter for a gentleman, said Lucilla, and then she turned to Mr Ashburton. I am sure the major wants to see you, and he thinks that it was he who put it into your head to stand. He was here that day at lunch, you know, and it was something he said, quite true, said Mr Ashburton in his business way. I shall go to see him at once. Thank you for telling me of it, Ms March Banks. I shall go as soon as I leave here. And then Mr Cavendish laughed. This is what I call interesting, he said. I hope Mr Ashburton sees the fun, but it is trying to an old friend to hear of that day at lunch, you know. I remember when these sort of illusions used to be pleasant enough, but when one has been banished for a thousand years. Yes, said Lucilla. One leaves all that behind, you know, one leaves ever so many things behind. I wish we could always be twenty for my part. I always said, you know, that I should be gone off in ten years. Was it the only fib you ever told that you repeated so, said Mr Cavendish, and it was with this pretty speech that he took her downstairs to the well-remembered luncheon. But you have gone off in some things when you have to do with a prig like that, he said in her ear, as they went down together, and cast off old friends. It was a thing a fellow did not expect of you. I never cast off old friends, said Ms Marchbanks. We shall look for you on Thursday, you know, all the same. Must you go, Mr Ashburton, when lunch is on the table? But then, to be sure, you will be in time at the browns, said Lucilla sweetly, and she gave the one rival her hand while she held the arm of the other at the door of the dining room in which Mr Ashburton had gallantly deposited Aunt Jemima before saying goodbye. They were both looking a little black, though the gloom was moderate in Mr Ashburton's case. But as for Lucilla, she stood between them a picture of angelic sweetness and goodness, giving a certain measure of her sympathy to both, woman the reconciler, by the side of those other characters of inspire and consolar, of which the world has heard. The two inferior creatures scowled with politeness at each other, but Ms Marchbanks smiled upon them both. Such was the way in which she overcame the difficulties of the meeting. Mr Ashburton went away a little annoyed, but still understanding his instructions and ready to act upon them in that business-like way he had, and Mr Cavendish remained faintly reassured in the midst of his soreness and mortification, by at least having the feel to himself and seeing the last, for the present, of his antagonist, which was a kind of victory in its way. I thought I knew you better than to think you ever would have anything to do with that sort of thing, said Mr Cavendish. There are people, you know, whom I could have imagined, but a prig like that. He became indeed quite violent, as Aunt Jemima said afterwards, and met with that lady's decided disapproval, as may be supposed. Mr Ashburton is very well-bred and agreeable, Mrs John said with emphasis. I wish all the young men I see nowadays were as nice. Young men, said Mr Cavendish, is that what people call young nowadays, and he must be insane, you know, or he would never dream of representing a town, without saying a single word about his principles. I dare say he thinks it is original, said the unhappy man. He thought he was pointing out his rival's weaknesses to the Silla, and he went on with energy. I know you better than to think you can like that milk and water sort of thing. Oh, I don't pretend to know anything about politics, said Lucilla. I hear you gentlemen talk, but I never pretend to understand. If we were not to leave you that all to yourselves, I don't know what you could find to do. Ms Marchbanks added compassionately, and as she spoke she looked so like the Lucilla of old, who had schemed and plotted for Mr Cavendish that he could not believe in her desertion in his heart. That is a delusion like the going off, he said. I can't believe you have gone over to the enemy, when I remember how I have been roving about all these ten years, and how different it might have been, and whose fault it all was. This, Mr Cavendish said in a low voice, but it did not the less horrify Aunt Jemima, who felt prepared for any atrocity after it. She would have withdrawn injustice to her own sense of propriety, but then she thought it was not impossible that he might propose to Lucilla on the spot, or take her hand or something, and for propriety's sake she stayed. Yes, said Lucilla, and her heart did for one little moment give a faint thump against her breast. She could not help thinking what a difference it might have made to him, poor fellow, had he been under her lawful and righteous sway these ten years. But as she looked at him, it became more and more apparent to Ms Marge Banks that Mr Cavendish had gone off, whatever she herself might have done. The outlines of his fine figure had changed considerably, and his face was a little red, and he had the look of a man whose circumstances, spiritual and temporal, would not quite bear a rigid examination. As she looked at him, her pity became tinged by a certain shade of resentment, to think that after all it was his own fault. She could not, notwithstanding her natural frankness of expression, say to him, you foolish soul, why didn't you marry me somehow and make a man of yourself? Lucilla carried honesty very far, but she could not go as far as that. Yes, she said, turning her eyes upon him with a sort of abstract sympathy, and then she added softly, have you ever seen her again, with a lowering of her voice? This interesting question, which utterly bewildered Aunt Jemima, drove Mr Cavendish wild with rage. Mrs John said afterwards that she felt a shiver go through her, as she took up the carving knife, though it was only to cut some cold beef. He grew white all at once, and pressed his lips tightly together, and fixed his eyes on the wall straight before him. I did not think, after what I once said to you, Ms Marchbanks, that you would continue to insult my judgment in that way. He said, with a chill which fell upon the whole table, and took the life out of everything, and dimmed the very fire in the chimney. And after that the conversation was of a sufficiently ordinary description, until they went back again into the drawing room, by which time Mr Cavendish seemed to have concluded that it was best to pocket the affront. I am going to begin my canvas tomorrow, he said. I have not seen anybody yet. I have nobody but my sister to take me in hand, you know. There was once a time when it might have been different. And he gave Lucilla a look, which she thought on the whole it was best to meet. Yes, said Ms Marchbanks, with cruel directness. There was a time when you were the most popular man in Grange Lane. Everybody was fond of you. I remember it as if it had been yesterday, said Lucilla, with a sigh. You don't give a man much encouragement, by Jove, said the unlucky candidate. You remember it like yesterday? It may be vanity, but I flatter myself I shall still be found, the most popular man in Grange Lane. Ms Marchbanks sighed again, but she did not say anything. On the contrary she turned to Aunt Jemima, who kept in the background an alarmed and alert spectator, to consult her about a shade of wool, and just then Mr Cavendish, looking out of the window, saw Major Brown conducting his rival through his garden, and shaking hands with him cordially at the door. This was more than the patience of the other candidate could bear. A sudden resolution, hot and angry, as are the resolutions of men who feel themselves to have a failing cause, came into his mind. He had been badgered and baited to such an extent, as he thought, that he had not time to consider if it was wise or not. He too had sat to Maria Brown, and commanded once the warmest admiration of the household. He thought he would put it to the test, and see if after all his popularity was only a thing to be remembered like yesterday. And it was with this intention that he bade a hurried goodbye to Lucilla, and rushing out, threw himself upon the troubled waves of society, which had once been a smoothest glass to the most popular man in Grange Lane. CHAPTER 42 Mr Cavendish thought, he had been an object of admiration to Maria Brown, as we have said. He thought of it with a little middle-aged complacency, and a confidence that this vague sentiment would stand the test he was about to apply to it, which did honor to the freshness of his heart. With this idea, it was Miss Brown he asked for, as he knocked at the Major's door, and he found them both in the drawing room, Maria with gloves on, to hide the honorable stains of her photography, which made her comparatively useless when she was out of her studio, and her father walking about in a state of excitement which was, indeed, what Mr Cavendish expected. The two exchanged a guilty look when they saw who their visitor was. They looked as people might well look, who had been caught in the fact and did not know how to get over it. They came forward both of them, with a cowardly cordiality and eagerness to welcome him. How very good of you to come to see us so soon, Miss Brown said, and fluttered and looked at her father, and could not tell what more to say. And then a dead pause fell upon them. Such a pause as not unfrequently falls upon people who have got through their mutual greetings almost with an excess of cordiality. They stopped short all at once, and looked at each other and smiled, and made a fatal conscious effort to talk of something. It is so good of you to come so soon, Miss Brown repeated. Perhaps you have been to see Lucilla. And then she stopped again, slightly tremulous, and turned an appealing gaze to her papa. I have come to see you, said Mr Cavendish, thucking up all his courage. I have been a long time gone, you know, but I have not forgotten Carlingford, and you must forgive me for saying that I was very glad to hear I might still come to see Miss Brown. As for Lydia, said the candidate, looking about him with a smile. Ah, Lydia, said her sister, with a sigh. Her eldest is eight, Mr Cavendish. We don't see her so often as we should like. Marriage makes such a difference. Of course, it is quite natural she should be all for her own family now. Quite natural, said Mr Cavendish, and then he turned to the major. I don't think there are quite so many public changes as I expected to see. The old rector always holds out, and the old colonel. And you have not done much that I can see about the new paving. You know what I have come about, Major, and I am sure I can count upon you to support me. The candidate said, with a great deal more confidence than he felt in his voice. Major Brown cleared his throat, his heart was moved by the familiar voice, and he could not conceal his embarrassment. I hope nothing will ever occur, he said, to make any difference in the friendly feelings. I am sure I shall be very glad to welcome you back permanently to Carlingford. You may always rest assured of that. And he held out his hand. But he grew red as he thought of his treachery, and Maria, who was quaking over it, did not even try to say a word to help him. And as for Mr. Cavendish, he took up his position on the arm of the sofa, as he used to do. But he had a slim, youthful figure when he used to do it, and now the attitude was one which revealed a certain dawning rotundity, very different as Maria afterwards said, from one's idea of Mr. Cavendish. He was not aware of it himself, but as these two people looked, their simultaneous thought was how much he had changed. Thank you, you're very kind, said Mr. Cavendish. I have been a little lazy, I am afraid, since I came here, but I expect my agent down to-night, and then I hope you'll come over to my place and have a talk with Woodburn and Centum and the rest about it. I am a poor tactician, for my part. You shall contrive what is best to be done, and I'll carry it out. I suppose I may expect almost to walk over, he said. It was the confidence of despair that moved him. The more he saw that his cause was lost, the more he would make it out that he was sure to win, which is not an unusual state of mind. I don't know, I am sure, said poor Major Brown. To tell the truth, though I can safely say my sympathies are always with you, Cavendish, I have been so unfortunate to commit myself, you know. It was quite involuntary, I am sure, for I never thought my casual expression of opinion, likely to have any weight. Papa never will perceive the weight that is attached to his opinion, said Miss Brown. I was not thinking of it in the least, Maria, said the modest Major. But the fact is, it seems to have been that, that decided Ashburton to stand, and after drawing a man into such a thing, the least one can do is to back him out in it. Nobody had an idea, then, you know, that you were coming back, my dear fellow. I assure you, if I had known. But if even you had known, you know you never meant it, Papa, said Maria, and Mr. Cavendish sat on the arm of the sofa and put his hands deep into his pockets, and dropped his upper lip, and knit his eyebrows a little, and listened to the anxious people excusing themselves. He did not make any answer one way or another. He was terribly mortified and disappointed, and it went against his pride to make any further remonstrances. When they had done, he got down off his seat and took his right hand out of his bucket, and offered it to Miss Brown, who, putting her own into it, poor soul, with the remembrance of her ancient allegiance, was like to cry. Well, he said, if that is the case, I suppose I need not bother you any longer. You'll give me your good wishes all the same. I used to hear of Ashburton sometimes, but I never had the least idea he was so popular. And to tell the truth, I don't think he's any great things to brag of, though I suppose it's not to be expected, I should appreciate his qualities. Mr. Cavendish added with a laugh. As for Miss Brown, it was all she could do to keep from crying as he went away. She said she could see, by the way he left the drawing-room, that he was a stricken deer, and yet, notwithstanding this sympathetic feeling, she could not but acknowledge, when Miss Marge Banks mentioned it, that to have been such a handsome man, he was inconceivably gone off. Mr. Cavendish went up Grange Lane with his hands in his pockets, and tried to think that he did not care, but he did care all the same, and was very bitter in his mind over the failure of friends and the vanity of expectations. The last time he had walked past those garden walls, he had thought himself sure of the support of Carlingford, and the personal esteem of all the people in all the houses he was passing. It was after the Archdeacon had broken down in his case, against the man whom he called an adventurer, and when Mr. Cavendish felt all the sweetness of being a member of an oligarchy, and entitled to the sympathy and support of his order. Now he went along the same path, with his hat over his ears, and his hands in his pockets, and rage and pain in his heart. Whose fault was it that his friends had deserted him, and Carlingford knew him no more? He might as well have asked whose fault it was that he was getting stout and red in the face, and had not the same grace of figure nor ease of mind as he used to have. He had come very near to settling down and becoming a man of domestic respectability in this quiet place, and he had just escaped in time, and had laughed over it since, and imagined himself with much glee, an old fogey looking after a lot of children. But the fact is that men do become old fogeys even when they have no children to look after, and lose their figure and their elasticity just as soon, and perhaps a little sooner in the midst of what is called life than in any milder scene of enjoyment. And it would have been very handy just now to have been sure of his election without paying much for it. He had been living fast and spending a great deal of money, and this, after all, was the only real ambition he had ever had, and he had thought within himself that if he won he would change his mode of life, and turn over a new leaf, and become all at once a different man. When a man has made such a resolution, and feels not only that a mere success, but the moral reformation depends upon his victory, he may be permitted to consider that he has a right to win, and it may be defined what his state of mind was when he had made the discovery that even his old friends did not see his election to be of any such importance as he did, and could think of a miserable little bit of self-importance or gratified vanity more than of his interests, even the women who had once been so kind to him. He had just got so far in his thoughts when he met Mr. Sentom, who stared for a moment and then burst into one of his great laughs as he greeted him. Good Lord Cavendish is this you? I never expected to see you like that, the banker said in his coarse way. You're stouter than I am, old fellow, in such an adonis as you used to be. Mr. Cavendish had to bear all this without giving way to his feelings, or even showing them any more than he could help it. Nobody would spare him that imbecile suggestion as to how things used to be, to be growing stouter than Sentom without Sentom's excuse of being a well-to-do householder and father of a family, and respectable man from whom stoutness was expected was very bitter to him. But he had to gulp it down, and recollect that Sentom was, as yet, the only influential supporter, except his brother-in-law, whom he had in Carlingford. What have you been doing with yourself since you came that nobody has seen you? said Mr. Sentom. If you are to do any good here, you know, we shall have to look alive. I have been ill, said the unfortunate candidate, with a little natural loss of temper. You would not have a man to trudge about at this time of year in all leathers when he is ill. I would not be ill again, if I were you, till it's all over, said Mr. Sentom. We shall have to fight every inch of our ground, and I tell you, that fellow Ashburton knows what he's about. He goes at everything in a steady sort of way. He's not brilliant, you know, but he's sure. Brilliant, said Mr. Cavendish. I should think not. It is Lucilla Marjabanks who is putting him up to it. You know, she had an old grudge at me. Oh, nonsense about Lucilla, said Mr. Sentom. I can tell you, Ashburton is not at all a contemptible adversary. He's going to work in the cunningest way, not a woman sort of thing. And he's not a lady's man like you, the banker added with a laugh. But I am afraid you can't go in for that sort of thing as you used to do, Cavendish. You should marry and settle and become a steady member of society. Now you've grown so stout. This was the kind of way in which he was addressed, even by his own supporter, who uttered another great laugh as he went off upon his busy way. It was a sort of thing Mr. Cavendish was not used to, and he felt it accordingly. To be sure, he knew that he was ten years older, and that there were several things which he could not do with the same facility as in his youth. But he had saved up Carlingford in his imagination as a spot in which he would always be young, and where nobody should find out the difference. And instead of that, it was precisely in Carlingford that he was fated to hear how changed he was, with a frankness which only old friends would have been justified in using. As for Lucilla Marchbanks, she was rather better looking than otherwise, and absolutely had not gone off. It did not occur to Mr. Cavendish that this might be because Lucilla at present was still not so old as he had been ten years ago, in the period which she now considered his youth. He was rather disposed, on the contrary, to take a moral view, and to consider that it was her feminine incapacity for going too far, which had kept years and amusements from having their due effect upon Ms. Marchbanks. And poor fellow, he had gone too far. He had not been as careful in his life as he might have been had he stayed at Carlingford. And now he was paying the penalty. Such was the edifying state of mind which he had come to when he reached the top of Grove Street, and there a waft of soft recollections came across his mind. In the absence of all sympathy he could not help turning back to the thought of the enchantress of old who used to sing to him and listen to him and storm at him. Probably he would have ended by strolling along the familiar street and canvassing for Mr. Lake's vote, which would have done him no good in Carlingford. But just then Dr. Marchbanks stopped in his Bruem. The doctor was looking very strange that morning, though nobody had particularly remarked it, perhaps because he smoothed his countenance when he was out of the Bruem, which was his refuge when he had anything to think about. But he stopped suddenly to speak to Mr. Cavendish, and perhaps he had not time to perform that ceremony. He looked dark and cloudy and constrained, and as if he forced himself to speak, which to be sure under the circumstances, was not so very strange. I am very glad to see you, the doctor said. Though you were a day too late, you know. Why didn't you give us warning before we all went and committed ourselves, if we had known that you were coming? Ah, that's what old Brown said, said Mr. Cavendish, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, which was imprudent, for the major was not so old as the doctor, and besides was a much less important man in Grange Lane. So you have been to see old Brown, said Dr. Marchbanks, in his dry way. He always was a great admirer of yours. I can't wish you luck, you know, for if you win, we lose. Oh, I don't want you to wish me luck. I don't suppose there can be much comparison between my chance and that of a new man, whom nobody ever heard of in my time, said the candidate for Carlingford. I thought you scotch men, doctor, always like to be on the winning side. Weave a way of making our side the winning side, said Dr. Marchbanks grimly, for he was touchy where his nationality was concerned. Health all right, I hope, he added, looking at Mr. Cavendish with that critical medical glance, which shows that a verbal response is quite unnecessary. This time there was in the look a certain insinuation of doubt on the subject, which was not pleasant. You are getting stout, I see, Dr. Marchbanks added, not laughing, but as if that too was poor Mr. Cavendish's fault. Yes, I'm very well, he answered curtly, but the truth was that he did not feel sure that he was quite well after he had seen the critical look in Dr. Marchbanks' eye. You young men always go too fast, said the doctor, with a strange little smile, but the term at least was consolatory, and after that Dr. Marchbanks quite changed his tone. Have you heard Woodburn talking of that great crash in town, he said? That India house, you know, I suppose it's quite true? Quite true, said Mr. Cavendish promptly, and somehow he felt a pleasure in saying it. I got all the particulars today in one of my letters, and lots of private people involved, which is always the way with these old houses, he added, with a mixture of curiosity and malice, widows and all sorts of superannuated folks. It is a great pity, said the doctor. I knew old Litchfield once, the chief partner, I am very sorry to hear it's true. And then the two shook hands and the broom drove on. As for Mr. Cavendish, he made up his mind at once, that the doctor was involved and was not sorry, and felt that it was a sort of judicial recompense for his desertion of his friends, and he went home to tell his sister of it, who shared in his sentiments. And then it was not worthwhile going out any more that day, for the electioneering agent, who knew all about it, was not coming till the last train. I suppose I shall have to work when he is here, Mr. Cavendish said, and in the meantime he threw himself into an easy chair. Perhaps that was why he was getting so stout. And in the meantime the doctor went on visiting his patients, when he came back to his broam between his visits, and went bowling along in that comfortable way along the familiar roads, there was a certain glumness upon his face. He was not a demonstrative man, but when he was alone, you could tell by certain lines about the well-worn cordage of his countenance, whether all was right with the doctor, and it was easy to see just at this moment, that all was not right with him. But he did not say anything about it when he got home. On the contrary, he was just as usual and told his daughter all about his encounter with Mr. Cavendish. A man at his time of life has no right to get fat, it's a sort of thing I don't like to see, and he'll never be a lady's man no more Lucilla, said the doctor, with a gleam of humor in his eye. He is exactly like George IV's papa, said Ms. Marchbanks, and the doctor laughed as he sat down to dinner. If he had anything on his mind, he bore it like a hero and gave no sign, but then, as Mrs. John very truly remarked, when a man does not disclose his annoyances, they always tell more upon him in the end.