 CHAPTER XII. The second of her Thursday evenings found Miss March Banks, though secure, perhaps more anxious than on the former occasion. The charm of the first novelty was gone, and Lucilla did not feel quite sure that her subjects had the good sense to recognize all the benefits which she was going to confer upon them. It is the second time that counts, she said in confidence to Mrs. Chiley. Last Thursday they wanted to see the drawing-room, and they wanted to know what sort of thing it was to be. Dear Mrs. Chiley, it is tonight that is the test, said Lucilla, giving a nervous pressure to her old friend's hand. At least a pressure that would have betoken to the existence of nerves in anyone else but Miss March Banks, whose magnificent organization was beyond any suspicion of such weakness. But nevertheless Mrs. Chiley, who watched her with grandmotherly interest, was comforted to perceive that Lucilla, as on the former occasion, had strength of mind to eat her dinner. She wants a little support, poor dear, the old lady said in her heart, for she was a kinder critic than the younger matrons, who felt instinctively that Miss March Banks was doing what they ought to have done. She took her favorite's arm in hers, as they went upstairs, and gave Mr. Cavendish a kindly nod as he opened the door for them. He will come and give you his assistance as soon as ever he can get away from the gentleman, said Mrs. Chiley in her consolatory tone. But good gracious, Lucilla, what is the matter? Because of this exclamation was a universal hum, and a wrestle, as of many dresses and many voices, and, to tell the truth, when Miss March Banks and her companion reached the top of the stairs, they found themselves lost in a laughing crowd, which had taken refuge on the landing. There is no room, Lucilla! Lucilla! Everybody in Carlingford is here! Do make a little room for us in the drying room, cried this over-plus of society. If there was an enviable woman in Carlingford at that moment, it certainly was Miss March Banks, standing on the top of her own stairs, scarcely able to penetrate through the throng of her guests. Her self-possession did not forsake her at this supreme moment. She grasped Mrs. Chiley once again with a little significant gesture, which pleased the old lady, for she could not but feel that she was Lucilla's only confidant in her brilliant but perilous undertaking. They will not be able to get in when they come upstairs, said Miss March Banks. And whether the faint inflection in her voice meant exaltation or disappointment, her old friend could not make up her mind. But the scene changed when the rightful sovereign entered the gay but disorganized dominion where her subjects attended her. Before anyone knew how it was done, Miss March Banks had re-established order, and what was still more important, made room. She said, you girls have no business to get into corners. The corners are for the people that can talk. It is one of my principles, always to flirt in the middle of the company, said Lucilla, and again, as it happened so often, ignorant people laughed and thought it a bon mot. But it is needless to inform the more intelligent persons who understand Miss March Banks that it was by no means a bon mot, but express Lucilla's convictions with the utmost sincerity. Thus it happened that the second Thursday was more brilliant and infinitely more gratifying than the first had been. For one thing she felt sure that it was not to see the new furniture nor to criticize this new sort of entertainment, but with the sincerest intention of enjoying themselves that all the people had come. And there are moments when the egotism of the public conveys the highest compliment that can be paid to the great minds which take in hand to rule and to amuse it. The only drawback was that Barbara Lake did not show the same modesty and reticence as on the former occasion. Far from being sensibly silent, which she had been so prudent as to be on Miss March Banks's first Thursday, she forgot herself so far as to occupy a great deal of Mr. Cavendish's valuable time, which she might have employed much more usefully. She not only sang by herself when he asked her, having brought some music with her unseen by Lucilla, but she kept sitting upon the stool before the piano ever so long afterwards, detaining him, and, as Miss March Banks had very little doubt, making an exhibition of herself, for the fact was that Barbara, having received one good gift from nature, had been refused the other, and could not talk. When Lucilla, arrested in the midst of her many occupations, heard her protégé's voice rising alone, she stopped quite short with an anxiety which it was touching to behold. It was not the jealousy of a rival Quintatris, which inspired Miss March Banks's countenance, but the far broader and grander anxiety of an accomplished statesman, who sees a rash and untrained hand meddling with his most delicate machinery. Lucilla ignored everything for the moment, her own voice, and Mr. Cavendish's and every merely secondary and personal emotion. All these details were swallowed up in the fear that Barbara would not acquit herself as it was necessary for the credit of the house that she should acquit herself, that she should not sing well enough, or that she should sing too much. Once more Miss March Banks put her finger upon the pulse of the community, as she and they listened together. Fortunately, things went so far well that Barbara sang her very best, and kept up her prestige. But it was different in the second particular. For unluckily the Contralto knew a great many songs, and showed no inclination to stop. Nothing remained for it but a bold coup which Lucilla executed with all her natural coolness and talent. My dear Barbara, she said, putting her hands on the singer's shoulders as she finished her strain. That is enough for tonight. Mr. Cavendish will take you downstairs and get you a cup of tea, for you know there is no room tonight to serve it upstairs. Thus Miss March Banks proved herself capable of preferring her great work to her personal sentiments, which is generally considered next to impossible for a woman. She did what perhaps nobody else in the room was capable of doing. She sent away the gentleman who was paying attention to her, in company with the girl who was paying attention to him. And at that moment, as was usual when she was excited, Barbara was splendid with her crimson cheeks and the eyes blazing out from under her level eyebrows. This Miss March Banks did, not in ignorance, but with a perfect sense of what she was about. It was the only way of preventing her evening from losing its distinctive character. It was the lamp of sacrifice which Lucilla had now to employ, and she proved herself capable of the exertion. But it would be hopeless to attempt to describe the indignation of old Mrs. Chiley, or the unmitigated amazement of the company in general, which was conscious at the same time that Mr. Cavendish was paying attention to Miss March Banks, and that he had been flirting in an inexcusable manner with Miss Lake. My dear, I would have nothing to do with that bold girl, Mrs. Chiley said in Lucilla's ear. I will go down and look after them if you like. A girl like that always leads the gentleman astray, you know. I never liked the looks of her. Let me go downstairs and look after them, my dear. I am sure I want a cup of tea. You shall have a cup of tea, dear Mrs. Chiley, said Miss March Banks. Some of them will bring you one. But I can't let you take any trouble about Barbara. She had to be stopped, you know, or she would have turned us into a musical party. And as for Mr. Cavendish, he is the best assistant I have. There are so few men in Carlingford who can flirt, said Lucilla regretfully. Her eyes fell as she spoke, upon young Osmond Brown, who was actually at that moment talking to Mr. Burry's curate, with a disregard of his social duties painful to contemplate. Poor Osmond started when he met Miss March Banks's reproachful eye. But then I don't know how, said the disconcerted youth, and he blushed, poor boy, being only eighteen, and not much more than a schoolboy. As for Lucilla, who had no intention of putting up with that sort of thing, she sent off the curate summarily for Mrs. Chiley's cup of tea. I did not mean you, my dear Ozzie, she said, in her motherly tone. When you are a little older, we shall see what you can do. But you are not at all disagreeable for a boy, she added, encouragingly, and took Osmond's arm as she made her progress down the room, with an indulgence worthy of her mature years. And even Mrs. Sentom and Mrs. Woodburn, and the Miss Browns, who were, in a manner Lucilla's natural rivals, could not but be impressed with this evidence of her powers. They were like the Tuscan chivalry in the ballad, who could scarce for bear a cheer at the sight of their opponent's prowess. Perhaps nothing that she could have done would have so clearly demonstrated the superiority of her genius to her female audience as that bold step of stopping the music, which began to be too much, by sending off the singer downstairs under charge of Mr. Cavendish. To be sure, the men did not even find out what it was that awoke the ladies' attention, but then, in delicate matters of social politics, one never expects to be understood by them. Barbara Lake, as was to be expected, took a very long time over her cup of tea, and even when she returned upstairs, she made another pause on the landing, which was still kept possession of by a lively stream of young people coming and going. Barbara had very little experience, and she was weak enough to believe that Mr. Cavendish lingered there to have a little more of her society all to himself. But to tell the truth, his sentiments were of a very different description, for by this time it must be owned that Barbara's admirer began to feel a little ashamed of himself. He could not but be conscious of Lucilla's magnanimity, and at the same time he was very well aware that his return with his present companion would be watched, and noted, and made the subject of comment a great deal more amusing than agreeable. When he did take Barbara in at last, it was with a discomforted air which tickled the spectators beyond measure, and, as his evil luck would have it, not withstanding the long pause he had made on the landing to watch his opportunity of entering unobserved, Miss Marchbanks was the first to encounter the returning couple. They met full on a face, a few paces from the door, exactly as Miss Charley said, as if it had been Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish on their wedding visit, and the lady of the house had gone to meet them. As for the unfortunate gentleman, he could not have looked more utterly disconcerted and guilty if he had been convicted of putting the spoons in his pocket, or of having designs upon the silver tea-service. He found a seat for his companion with all the haste possible, and instead of lingering by her side as she had anticipated, made off on the instant and hid himself like a criminal in the dark depths of a group of men who were talking together near the door. These were men who were hopeless, and good for nothing but to talk to each other, and whom Miss Marchbanks tolerated in her drawing-room partly because their wives, with an excusable weakness, insisted on bringing them, and partly because they made a foil to the brighter part of the company, and served as a butt when anybody wanted to be witty. As for Lucilla, she made no effort to recall the truant from the ranks of the incurables. It was the only vengeance she took upon his desertion. When he came to take leave of her, she was standing with her hand in that of Mrs. Charley, who was also going away. I confess, I was a little nervous this evening, Miss Marchbanks was saying. You know it is always the second that is the test. But I think on the whole it has gone off very well. Mr. Cavendish, you promised to tell me the truth. For you know I have great confidence in your judgment. Tell me sincerely, do you think it has been a pleasant evening? Lucilla said, with a beautiful earnestness, looking him in the face. The guilty individual to whom this question was addressed, felt disposed to sink into the earth, if the earth in the shape of Mr. Holden's beautiful new carpet would but have opened to receive him. But after all, that was perhaps not a thing to be desired under the circumstances. Mr. Cavendish, however, was a man of resources, and not disposed to give up the contest without striking a blow in his own defense. Not so pleasant as last Thursday, he said, I am not fit to be a lady's advisor, for I am too sincere. But I inclined to think it is the third that is the test, said the future MP. And Lucilla made him, as Mrs. Chiley remarked, the most beautiful curtsy. But then nothing could be more delightful than the manner in which that dear girl behaved through the whole affair. If everybody would only help me as you do, said Miss Marchbanks, good night, I am so sorry you have not enjoyed yourself. But then it is such a consolation to meet with people that are sincere. And I think, on the whole, it has gone off very well for the second, said Lucilla, though I say it that should not say it. The fact was, it had gone off so well that the house could hardly be cleared of the amiable and satisfied guests. A series of the most enthusiastic compliments were paid to Lucilla as she stood in state in the middle of the room and bad everybody could buy. Next Thursday she said with the benevolent grace of an acknowledged sovereign. And when they were all gone, Miss Marchbanks' reflections, as she stood alone, in a center of her domains, were of a nature very different from the usual reflections which the giver of a feast is supposed to make when all is over. But then, as everybody is aware, it was not a selfish desire for personal pleasure, nor any scheme of worldly ambition which moved the mind of Lucilla. With such motives it is only natural that the conclusion, all as vanity, should occur to the weary entertainer in the midst of his withered flowers and extinguished lights. Such ideas had nothing in common with the enlightened conceptions of Miss Marchbanks. Perhaps it would be false to say that she had suffered in the course of this second Thursday, or that a superior intelligence like Lucilla's could permit itself to feel any jealousy of Barbara Lake, but it would be vain to deny that she had been surprised. And anyone who knows Miss Marchbanks will acknowledge that a great deal was implied in that confession. But then she had triumphed over the weakness, and triumphantly proved that her estimate of the importance of her work went far beyond the influence of mere personal feeling. In these circumstances Lucilla could contemplate her withered flowers with perfect calmness, without any thought that all was vanity. But then the fact was Miss Marchbanks was accomplishing a great public duty, and at the same time had the unspeakable consolation of knowing that she had proved herself a comfort to her dear papa. To be sure the doctor, after looking on for a little with a half-amused consciousness that his own assistance was totally unnecessary, had gradually veered into a corner, and, from thence, had finally managed to escape downstairs to his beloved library. But then the sense of security and tranquility with which she established himself at the fire, undisturbed by the gay storm that ranged outside, gave certain charm to his retirement. He rubbed his hands and listened, as a man listens to the wind howling out of doors, when he is in shelter and comfort. So that, after all, Lucilla's sensation of having accomplished her filial duties in the most effective manner was, to a certain extent, justified, while at the same time it is quite certain that nobody missed Dr. Marchbanks from the pleasant assembly upstairs. It was thus that the reign of Miss Marchbanks became gradually established and confirmed in Carlingford. It would be unnecessary to enter into detail, or to redouble instances of that singular genius which made itself so fully felt to the farthest limits of society, and which even indeed extended those limits miraculously beyond the magic circle of Grange Lane. Lucilla's powers beguiled not only the Powell's and Sir John Richman's family, who were, as everybody knows, fully entitled to be called county people, and came only on the Thursdays when there was moonlight to light them home, which was not so much to be wondered at since county society in these parts was unusually heavy at that period. But even, what was more extraordinary, Miss Marchbanks made a lodgement in the enemy's country on the other side, and made a capture of all people in the world of John Brown, who lived in his father's big old house at the town end of George Street, and had always laughed in his cynical way at the pretensions of Grange Lane. But then Lucilla had, as all the ladies admitted, an influence over the gentlemen, of which, as was natural, they were slightly contemptuous, even if perhaps envious, to some extent of the gift. For to be sure, everybody knows that it requires so little to satisfy the gentlemen, if a woman will only give her mind to it. As for Miss Marchbanks herself, she confessed frankly that she did her best to please them. For you know, after all, in Carlingford, one is obliged to take them into consideration, she said with a natural apology. So many of you poor dear people have to go where they like, and see the people they want you to see, Miss Marchbanks added, fluttering her maiden plumes with a certain disdainful pity in the very eyes of Mrs. Sentom and Mrs. Woodburn, who were well aware, both of them, at the bottom of their hearts, that but for Dr. Marchbanks's dinners their selfish mates would find infinite objections to the Thursday evening, which was now an institution in Carlingford. And Lucilla knew it just as well as they did, which gave a certain sense of condescension and superiority to her frankness. I never pretend I don't try to please them, Miss Marchbanks said, and the matrons found themselves worsted as usual. For, to be sure, it was not for them, but for the good of the community in general, that Lucilla exerted herself so successfully. Nothing indeed could have proved more completely the disinterested character of Miss Marchbanks's proceedings than her behaviour in respect to Mr. Cavendish, which filled everybody with admiration. After the bold and decisive action taken by Lucilla on the first occasion, when the flirtation between him and Barbara Lake became apparent, the misguided young man returned to a better frame of mind, perhaps out of admiration for her magnanimity, perhaps attracted by her indifference, as is the known and ascertained weakness of the gentleman. And perhaps also Mr. Cavendish was ashamed of himself, as, in Mrs. Chiley's opinion at least, he had so much reason to be. Anyhow, whatever the cause, he behaved himself with the profoundest decorum for several Thursdays in succession, and treated the contralto with such overwhelming politeness as reduced poor Barbara out of her momentary exultation into the depths of humiliation and despair. Mr. Cavendish was Lucilla's right hand for that short but virtuous period, and fully justified Miss Marchbanks's opinion, which was founded at once upon reflection and experience that to have a man who can flirt is next thing to indispensable to a leader of society. That is to say, if he is under efficient discipline and capable of carrying out a grand conception. Everything went on delightfully so long as this interval lasted, and Lucilla herself did not disdain to recompense her faithful assistant by bestowing upon him various little privileges, such as naturally appertained to a subject whose place is on the steps of the throne. She took him into her confidence, and made him to a certain extent a party to her large and philanthropic projects, and, even now and then, accepted a suggestion from him with that true candor and modesty which so often accompanied administrative genius. While this continued, kind old Mrs. Chiley kept caressing them both in her old womanly way. She even went so far as to call Mr. Cavendish my dear, as if he had been a grandson of her own, and took her afternoon drive in her little rogum past his house with a genial sense of prospective property through Lucilla, which was wonderfully pleasant. To be sure, there was not very much known in Carlingford about his connections, but then everybody was aware that he was one of the Cavendishes, and the people who are not content with that must be hard indeed to please. As for Mrs. Woodburn, she, it was true, continued to take off Miss Marchbanks, but then, as Mrs. Chiley justly remarked, she was a woman who would take off the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Virgin Mary if she had the opportunity, and there was no fear but Lucilla, if once married, would soon bring her to her senses. And then Mr. Chiltern grew more and more feeble, and was scarcely once in a fortnight in his place in Parliament, which was a sacrifice of the interests of the borough dreadful to contemplate. And thus it was in the interest of Lucilla, not withstanding that ladies are not eligible for election under such circumstances, that Mrs. Chiley carried on a quiet little canvas for the future MP. All this lasted, alas, only too short a time. After a while, the level eyebrows and flashing eyes and magnificent contralto of Barbara Lake began to reassert their ancient power. Whatever may be the predisposition of the Cavendishes in general, this particular member of the race was unable to resist these influences. Barbara had managed to persuade Rose, to persuade her father, that it was necessary for her to have a new dress, and Mr. Lake was more persuadable than usual, being naturally pleased to be complimented when he went to give his lessons on his daughter's beautiful voice. Our talent has taken another development from ours, he said, with his little air of dignity, but still she has the artist's temperament. All my children have been brought up to love the beautiful, and this argument had, of course, all the more effect upon him when repeated by his favourite daughter. And when Barbara has such a noble head, said Rose, when nobody is looking at her she always makes a fine composition. To be sure, when she has observed she gets awkward and puts herself out of drawing, but that is not to be wondered at. I don't want her to be fine, or to imitate the Grange Lane people. But then you know, papa, you always say that we have a rank of our own, being a family of artists, said Rose, holding up her little head with a pretty arrogance, which delighted the father both in a paternal, and a professional point of view. If one could only have made a study of her at that moment, he said to himself regretfully, and he consented to Barbara's As for the contralto, his sentiments were very far different from those of her father and sister. She watched over the making of the robe, thus procured with a certain jealous care, which nobody unacquainted with the habits of a family of artists could understand. Barbara's talent was not sufficiently developed to permit of her making the dress herself, but she knew already by sad experience that Rose's views of what was picturesque in costume were peculiar and not always successful. And then it was only a new dress to Rose, whereas to Barbara it was a supreme effort of passion and ambition and jealousy and wounded a more prope. Mr. Cavendish had paid a great deal of attention to her, and she had naturally entertained dreams of the wildest and most magnificent character, of writing in her carriage as she would herself have said, and dressing as nobody else dressed in Carlingford, and becoming the great lady of the town, and eclipsing utterly Lucilla March banks, who had been so impertinent as to patronize her. Such had been Barbara's delicious dreams for a whole fortnight, and then Mr. Cavendish, who had taken her up, put her down again, and went away from her side, and delivered himself over heart and soul to the service of Lucilla. Barbara had no intellect to speak of, but she had what she called a heart, that is to say a vital center, formed by passions, all of which were set in motion by that intense force of self-regard which belongs to some of the lower organizations. Thus she arrayed herself, not in simple muslin, but in all the power of fascination which a strong will and fixed purpose can add to beauty. And in her excitement, and with the sense she had that this was her opportunity, and that advancement and grandeur depended upon the result of her night's work, her level eyebrows and fleshing cheeks, and black intense eyes rose almost into positive beauty. There was nobody in the room to compare with her when she stood up to sing that memorable evening. The Miss Browns, for example, were very pretty, especially Lydia, who was afterwards married to young Richmond, Sir John's eldest son, and they were much nicer girls and far more engaging than Barbara Lake, who was not even a lady, Mrs. Chiley said. But then her determination, though it was a poor enough thing in itself, gave a certain glow and passion to her coarser beauty, which it would have been very difficult to explain. When she stood up to sing, the whole room was struck with her appearance. She had her new dress on, and though it was only white muslin like other peoples, it gave her the air of a priestess, inspired by some approaching crisis, and sweeping forward upon the victim who was ready to be sacrificed. And yet the victim that night was far from being ready for the sacrifice. On the contrary, he had been thinking it all over, and had concluded that prudence in every other reasonable sentiment pronounced on the other side, and that in many ways it would be a very good thing for him if he could persuade Miss Marchbanks to preside over and share his fortunes. He had made up his mind to this with all the more certainty that he was a man habitually prone to run off after everything that attracted him in direct opposition to prudence, an inclination which he shared with his sister who, as everybody knew, had ruined poor Mr. Woodburn's fortunes by taking off before his very face the only rich uncle in the Woodburn family. Mr. Cavendish, with this wise resolution in his mind, stood up in the very path of the Contralto as she followed Miss Marchbanks to the piano, and confident in his determination even allowed himself to meet her eye, which was rash to say the least of it. Barbara flashed upon him as she passed, a blaze of intense oblique lightning from under her love-all brows, or perhaps it was only that straight black line which made it look oblique, and then went on to her place. The result was such as might have been anticipated from the character of the man, and indeed, from that hour the history of his perversion could be clearly traced by the interested spectators. Barbara was in richer voice than ever before, and all but obliterated even Lucilla, though she too was singing her best, and thus poor Mr. Cavendish again fell into the snare. That very night the flirtation, which had already created so much talk, was resumed with more energy than ever, and Barbara took Miss Marchbanks' place at the piano, and sang song after song in a kind of intoxication of triumph. This to be sure was visible only to a small portion of the guests who crowded Lucilla's drawing room, but the result was soon so visible that all Carlingford became aware of it. To be sure, the hero wavered so much that the excitement was kept up for many weeks, but still from the first, nobody could have any reasonable doubt as to how it was to end. And it was while this process of seduction was going on that the character of Miss Marchbanks revealed itself in all its native grandeur. Lucilla had various kind friends round her to advise her, and especially old Mrs. Chiley, whose indignation went beyond all bounds. My dear, I would never let her enter my door again. Never! cried the old lady. I told you long ago I never could bear her looks. You know I warned you, Lucilla. As for her singing, what does it matter? You have a much prettier voice than she has. Everybody knows that a soprano is perfect by itself, but a contralto is only a second, Mrs. Chiley said, with mingled wrath and satisfaction. And my dear, I should never let her enter my house again if it was me. Dear Mrs. Chiley, said Lucilla, who is now, as usual, equal to the occasion. It is so nice of you to be vexed. You know I would do anything to please you. But after all, there are thousands and thousands of gentlemen, and it is not so easy to find a voice that goes with mine. All my masters always said it was a quite peculiar second that I wanted, and suppose Barbara is foolish. That is not to say I should forget my duties, Miss Marchbanks added, with a certain solemnity. And then you know she has no mother to keep her right. And neither have you, my poor dear, said Mrs. Chiley, kissing her protégé. As for Lucilla, she accepted the kiss, but repressed the enthusiasm of partisanship with which her cause was being maintained. I have you, she said, with artless gratitude. And then I am different, added Lucilla. Nothing but modesty of the most delicate description could have expressed the fact with such a fine reticence. No doubt Miss Marchbanks was different, and she proved her superiority, if anybody could have doubted it, by the most beautiful behavior. She took no more notice of the unprincipled flirtation, thus set a going under her very eyes, than if Mr. Cavendish and Barbara Lake had been two figures in gingerbread. So far as anybody knew, not even a flying female shaft from Lucilla's bow, one of those dainty projectiles which the best of women cast forth by times, had ever been directed against the ungrateful young person, who had made so unprincipled a use of her admittance into Grange Lane. And the faithless gallant had not even the gratification of feeling that Lucilla was cool to him. Whether this singular self-denial cost Miss Marchbanks any acute sufferings, to be sure nobody could tell. But Mrs. Chiley still marked with satisfaction that Lucilla, poor dear, was able to eat her dinner, of which she had so much need to support her strength. And after she had eaten her dinner, Miss Marchbanks would go upstairs and show herself just as usual. She was in perfect voice, and neither lost her color nor grew thin, nor showed any of those external signs of a disappointment in love, with which most people are familiar. It might have been different, you know, if my affections had been engaged, she said to her soul and sympathizing counselor, and Mrs. Chiley, who had had a great deal of experience in girls, became more and more of opinion that such sense was all but superhuman. Meantime, the tide of public opinion ran very high in Carlingford against Mr. Cavendish, who had been so popular a little while before. If it had been one of Miss Browns, or a niece of the colonels, or indeed anybody in Grange Lane, people might have passed over it. But one of Mr. Lake, the drawing master's daughters, the only person indifferent was Mrs. Woodburn, who ought to have known better. But then she was thoughtless like her brother, and thought it all the better on the whole that he should transfer those attentions which he had been paying to Miss Marchbanks, and which in that quarter must have come to something to a little harmless amusement with Barbara, who after all was very handsome, and had by times a little air of obdurate stupidity which captivated the mimic. As for anything coming of that, Mrs. Woodburn rejected the idea with the simplicity which was perfectly consistent with her insight into other people's weaknesses. She could put on Barbara's stolid, defiant look, and even make her eyebrows square, and give something of an oblique gleam to her eyes with the most perfect skill and mastery of the character, and at the same time be just as solid as Barbara in respect to what was going on at her very hand, and to the consequences which must follow. She did not want her brother to marry Miss Marchbanks, and yet she could not have said a word against so unexceptionable a match, and accordingly it was quite a satisfaction to her to see him turned aside in so perfectly legitimate a manner. She added to her repertory a sketch of Barbara. At the moment when, yielding to Mr. Cavendish's entreaties, she seated herself at the piano for just one song, and being perfectly successful in the representation, Mrs. Woodburn took no for the care about the matter. To be sure, the hero was sufficiently experienced in such matters to know how to get out of it when it should be the proper time. As the affair progressed, which was to have far more serious consequences than those thoughtless persons dreamed of, Barbara ascended again to the heights of exaltation and enchantment. Perhaps she was even a little in love, for after all she was young and grateful to the man who thus distinguished her from the world. Yet on the whole it is to be feared that his house and his position in society and the prospect of unlimited millinery were more to her than Mr. Cavendish. All these details were not perhaps contemplated by himself, as he devoted himself to the handsome controlto. He had not begun to dream, as Barbara had done for a long time, of the wedding breakfast and the orange blossoms, or even of furnishing a new drawing room handsomer than Miss Marchbanks's, and giving parties which should be real parties and not mere Thursdays. None of these imaginations occupied Mr. Cavendish as he followed Barbara's glowing cheeks and flashing eyes to his undoing. But then, if he did not mean it, she meant it, and after all, there are occasions in which the woman's determination is the more important of the two. So that, taking everything into consideration, there can be no doubt that it was very fortunate that Lucilla's affections were not engaged. She behaved as nobody else in Carlingford was capable of behaving, and very few people anywhere according to Mrs. Chiley's admiring belief. It was not for a vulgar antagonist like Barbara Lake to touch Lucilla. The way in which she asked her to lunch and went on practicing duets with her was angelical. It brought the tears to Mrs. Chiley's eyes, and asked for the domestic trader who Miss Marchbanks thus contrived to warm in her magnanimous bosom. She was sometimes so full of spite and disappointment that she could neither eat her lunch nor go on with her singing. For, to be sure, the dearest climax of her triumph was wanting, so long as Lucilla took no notice. And so far from taking any notice, Miss Marchbanks was sweeter and more friendly than usual in her serene unconsciousness. I am so afraid you have caught cold, Lucilla would say. If you don't feel clear in your lower notes, we can pass over this passage you know for today. You must see Papa before you go away, and he will order you something. But my dear Barbara, you must take care. And then Barbara could have eaten her fingers instead of the gloves which she kept biting in her vexation. For to tell the truth, if Miss Marchbanks was not jealous, the victory was but half a victory after all. CHAPTER XIV of Miss Marchbanks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER XIV It was thus that Miss Marchbanks went through all the preliminary stages, and succeeded finally in making a triumph out of what would certainly have been a defeat, and a humbling defeat, for anybody else. She was much too sensible to deceive herself on the subject, or, not to be aware, that to have a gentleman who was paying attention to her, withdrawn from her side in this open manner, in the sight of all the world, was as trying an accident as can happen to a woman. Fortunately, as Lucilla said, her affections were not engaged. But then, apart from the affections, there are other sentiments which demand consideration. Everybody in Carlingford, that is to say, everybody who was anybody, knew that Mr. Cavendish had been paying her a great deal of attention, and the situation was one which required the most delicate skill to get through it successfully. Besides, Miss Marchbanks' circumstances were all the more difficult, since up to this moment, she had been perfectly sincere and natural in all her proceedings. Policy had been constantly inspired and backed by nature in the measures Lucilla had taken for the organization and welfare of her kingdom. And even what people took for the cleverest calculation was in reality a succession of happy instincts, by means of which, with the sovereignty of true genius, Miss Marchbanks managed to please everybody by having her own way. A little victory is almost necessary to begin with, and it is a poor nature that does not expand under the stimulus of victory. But now the young reformer had come to the second stage, for to be sure, that sort of thing cannot last forever, and this, Lucilla, with the natural provision of a ruling mind, had foreseen from the beginning. The shape in which she had feared defeat, if a nature so full of resources could ever be said to fear, was in that of a breakdown, when all the world was looking to her for amusement, or the sudden appearance of a rival entertainer in Carlingford with superior powers, though the last was but a dim and improbable danger. The first was quite possible, and might have arrived at any moment. Miss Marchbanks was much too sensible not to have foreseen this danger in all its shapes, and even in a kind of way, to have provided against it. But Providence, which had always taken care of her, as Lucilla piously concluded, had spared her the trial in that form. Up to this moment it had always providentially happened that all the principal people in Carlingford were quite well and disengaged on the Thursdays. To be sure, the ladies had headaches, and the married gentlemen now and then were out of temper in Grange Lane, as in other less-favored places. But these social accidents had been mercifully averted on Thursdays, perhaps by means of some special celestial agency, perhaps only through that good luck which had been born with Lucilla. Not in this vulgar and likely manner was the trial of her strength to come. When she was at the height of her success, and full in the eye of the world, and knew that everybody was remarking her, and that from the sauces for which the doctor's table was once so famed, but which even Colonel Chiley no longer thought of identifying as Dr. Marchbanks's, to the fashion of the high white frock in which Lucilla had taught the young ladies of Carlingford to appear of an evening, she was being imitated on every hand. At that moment, when an ordinary person would have had her head turned and gone wild with too much success, Ms. Marchbanks suddenly saw her dragon approaching her. Just then, when she could not put on a new ribbon, or do her hair in a different style, without all Carlingford knowing of it, at that epoch of intoxication and triumph the danger came, sudden appalling and unlooked for. If Lucilla was staggered by the encounter, she never showed it, but met the difficulty like a woman of metal, and scorned to flinch. It had come to be summer weather when the final evening arrived upon which Mr. Cavendish forgot himself altogether, and went over to the insidious enemy, who Ms. Marchbanks had been nourishing in her bosom. Fifty eyes were upon Lucilla, watching her conduct at that critical moment. Fifty ears were on the strain to divine her sentiments in her voice, and to catch some intonation at least which should betray her consciousness of what was going on. But if Ms. Marchbanks's biographer has fitly discharged his duty, the readers of this history will have no difficulty in divining that the curiosity of the spectators got no satisfaction from Lucilla. Many people even supposed she had not remarked anything, her composure was so perfect. No growing red or growing pale, no harsh notes in her voice, nor evidence of distracted attention, betrayed that her mind was elsewhere while she was attending to her guests. And yet, to be sure, she saw, just as other people did, that Barbara, all fleshed and crimson, with her eyes blazing under their sullen brows, stood in a glow of triumph at the open window with Mr. Cavendish in devoted attendance, a captive at her chariot wheels. Matters had been progressing to this point for some time, but yet the two culprits had never before showed themselves so lost to all sense of propriety. Instead of fainting, or getting pale, or showing any other symptoms of violent despite, Lucilla went upon her airy way, indirectly approaching this point of interest. When she came up to that group, which Mrs. Chiley kept regarding as if her kind old countenance garlanded in her prettiest cap was a medusahed, Ms. Marchbanks made a pause, and all Carlingford drew a long breath, and felt its heart stand still to observe the conflict. But then the conflict was an utterly unequal one, and few people could have any doubt of the result. Barbara, said Lucilla, do put your shawl on when you go to the window. You will lose your voice, and then what shall we all do? Mr. Cavendish, please to take her away from the window, take her out of the draft. I wonder what you can be thinking of to let her stand there. I should like to know what you would all say if she were to lose her voice. And when she had said this, Lucilla plunged once more into the vortex of her guests. If she was affronted, or if she was wounded, nobody found it out, and when Mrs. Chiley offered the tribute of her indignation and sympathy, it has already been recorded how her young friend responded to her. Fortunately, my affections never were engaged, Lucilla said, and no doubt that was a great advantage. But then, as we have said, there are other things besides affections to be taken into account, when the woman who you have been kind to snaps up the man who has been paying attention to you, not only before your eyes, but before the eyes of all the world. The result of her masterly conduct on this occasion was that her defeat became, as we have said, a triumph for Miss March Banks. To be sure, it is to be hoped that, in the sweets of their mutual regard, the two criminals found compensation for the disapproval of the spectators, but nothing could be more marked than the way in which Carlingford turned its cold shoulder on its early favourite. I never imagined Cavendish was such a fool, Mr. Sentom said, who was a man of few words. If he likes that style of flandering, it is nothing to me, but he need not make an idiot of himself. As for Mr. Woodburn, he, as was natural, inflicted vicarious punishment upon his wife. It must be all your fault, he growled, when he was taking her home, and had her at his mercy with that logic peculiar to a married man. You ought to tell him he's making an ass of himself. Why the deuce do you let him go on with that tomfoolery? He'll lose all his chances in life, and then I hope you'll be satisfied. You women can never see an inch before your own noses, cried the uncivil husband. Which it must be confessed was rather hard upon poor Mrs. Woodburn, who had nothing to do with it, and had indeed calculated upon perfecting her sketch of Barbara in the quietness of the walk home. For, as everybody lived in Grange Lane, carriages were not necessary for Miss March Banks's guests. They flitted out and in in the moonlight, with pretty scarves thrown over their heads and lace tanker-chiffs tied under their chins, and made Grange Lane between the two straight lines of garden wall, like a scene in a masquerade on the Thursday evenings. And while Mr. Cavendish was thus suffering by deputy the contempt of his former admirers, Lucilla, by herself in the abandoned drawing-room, was thinking over the evening with a severe, but on the whole satisfactory, self-examination. After the first shock, which she had encountered with so much courage, Miss March Banks was rather grateful than otherwise to Providence, which had brought the necessary trial upon her in this form. If it had been a breakdown in humiliating failure instead, how different would her sensations have been? And Lucilla was quite conscious that such a thing might have occurred. It might have occurred to her, as it had done to so many people, to see Thursday come round with a failure of all that made Thursday agreeable. Lady Richmond might have had her influence of that day, and little Henry Sentom has said an attack, which had kept his mother in conversation ever since, and Mrs. Woodburn one of her bad headaches. As for the Miss Browns, there was nothing in the world but Lucilla's habitual good fortune which prevented them from having blacked their fingers with their photography to such an extent as to make them perfectly un-presentable. Or to turn to another chapter of accidents, the last duet which Barbara had insisted upon singing without proper practice might have broken down utterly. None of these things had happened, and Lucilla drew a long breath of gratitude as she thought how fortunate she had been in all these particulars. To be sure, it was necessary to have a trial of one kind or other, and the modest but intense gratification of having stood the test diffused itself like a balm through her bosom. No doubt she would have felt, like most people, a certain pleasure in snubbing Barbara, but then there is, on the other hand, a sweetness in sacrificing such impulses to the sacred sense of duty and the high aims of genius which is still more attractive to a well-regulated mind. The smarch banks herself put out the candles, and went to her own room with that feeling of having acquitted herself satisfactorily, which many people think is the highest gratification of which the mind is capable. After all, it was by no means certain that Mr. Cavendish would be MP for Carlingford. Mr. Chilton might live for twenty years, or he even might get better, which was more unlikely. Or supposing him to be comfortably disposed of, nobody could say with any certainty that some man unknown at present in Carlingford might not start up all of a sudden and gain the most sweet voices of the shopkeepers, who were, to be sure, the majority of the community, and quite outnumbered Grange Lane. It was thus that Lucila consoled herself as she went to her maiden retirement, and it will be seen that in all this she made very small account of Barbara, who was at that moment hoping that Miss March Banks hated her, and making fancy pictures of her rivals to spare. But then there could not be a moment's doubt that Barbara Lake was a faux man quite unworthy of Lucila's steel. While all this was going on, Dr. March Banks remained an amused spectator, and chuckled a little quietly, without saying anything to anybody over the turn affairs had taken. The doctor knew all about everybody in Carlingford, and he had never been an enthusiast in favor of Mrs. Woodburn's brother, notwithstanding that the young man had been received so warmly into society as one of the Cavendishes. Perhaps Dr. March Banks, being scotch and having a turn for genealogy, found the description a little vague. But at all events there can be no doubt that he laughed to himself as he retired from the scene of his daughter's trial. Perhaps the doctor thought, in a professional point of view, that a little discipline of this description would be useful to Lucila. Perhaps he thought it would be good for her to find out that, though she had managed to slip the reins out of his hands, and get the control of affairs with a skill which amused the doctor, and made him a little proud of her abilities, even though he was himself the victim, she could not go on always unchecked in her triumphant career, but must endure like other people an occasional defeat. No doubt had Lucila been really worsted, paternal feeling would have interposed, and Dr. March Banks would, to some extent, have suffered in her suffering. But then the case was different, and nobody required, as it turned out, to suffer for Lucila. The doctor was pleased she had shown so much spirit, and pleased also to see how entirely she had discomfited her antagonists, and turned the tables upon the young puppy in whom he had no confidence. And with all, Dr. March Banks chuckled, a little in his secret heart, over the event itself, and concluded it would do Lucila good. She had vanquished Nancy, and by a skillful jerk taken the reins out of his own experienced hands. It is true that notwithstanding all this, the doctor was conscious that he had been on the whole, very wisely governed since his abdication. But yet he was not sorry that the young conqueror should feel herself human, so that nobody except Mrs. Chiley felt that mingled rage and disappointment with which Barbara Lake had hoped to inspire Lucila's bosom. And Mrs. Chiley, so to speak, had nothing to do with it. As for Barbara herself, she returned home in a state of mingled spite and exaltation, and disgust, which filled her sister with amazement. She is such an actor, you know, Barbara said. She never will give in to let you know how she is feeling, not if she can help it. But for all that she must have felt it. Nobody could help feeling it, though she carried it off so well. I knew how it would be, as soon as I had on a dress that was fit to be seen. What is it that she could not help feeling, said Rose? I suppose it is Lucila, you mean? I should like to know what right she had to be kind to me, cried Barbara, all glowing in her sullen but excited beauty, and invite me there and introduce me in her grand way as if she was any better than I am. And then to look at all her Indian muslims. But I knew it would be different as soon as I had a decent dress, said the Contralto, rising up to contemplate herself in the little mirror over the mantelpiece. This conversation took place in Mr. Lake's Little Parlor, where Rose had been waiting for her sister, and where Barbara's white dress made an unusual radiance in the dim and partially lighted room. Rose herself was all shrouded up in her morning dress, with her pretty round arms and shoulders lost to the common view. She had been amusing herself as she waited, by working at a corner of that great design, which was to win the prize on a later occasion. Readers of this history, who have studied the earlier chapters, will remember that Rose's tastes in ornamentation were very clearly defined for so young a person. Instead of losing herself in vague garlands of impossible flowers, the young artist clung with the tenacity of first love to the thistle leaf, which had been the foundation of her early triumphs. Her mind was full of it even while she received and listened to Barbara. Whether to treat it in a national point of view, bringing in the rose and a shamrock, which was a perfectly allowable proceeding, though perhaps not original, or whether she should yield to the sweet feeling which had been so conspicuous in her flounce, in the opinion of the Marlboro House gentlemen, or whether on the contrary she should handle the subject in a boldly naturalistic way, and use her spikes with freedom, was a question which occupied at that moment all Rose's faculties. Even while she asked Barbara what the subject was on which Lucilla might be supposed to be excited, she was within herself thinking out this difficult idea, all the more difficult perhaps, considering the nature of the subject, since the design in this case was not for a flounce, in which broad handling is practicable, but for a veil. I wish you would not talk in that foolish way, said Rose. Nobody need be any better than you, as you say. To be sure we don't live in grange lane, nor keep a carriage, but I wish you would recollect that these are only accidental circumstances. As for dress, I don't see that you require it. Our position is so clearly defined. We are a family of— Oh, for goodness gracious sake, do be quiet with your family of artists, cried Barbara. Speak for yourself, if you please. I am not an artist, and never will be, I can tell you. There are better places to live than grange lane, and as for keeping a carriage, I would never call a little bit of Brogum a carriage, if it was me. Lucilla made believe to take no notice, but she did not deceive me with that. She was as disappointed as ever she could be. I daresay now she's sitting crying over it. I never would have cared one straw if I had not wanted to serve Lucilla out, cried the Contralto with energy. She was still standing before the glass, pulling her black hair about into new combinations, and studying the effect. And as for Rose, she too looked up, and seeing her sister's face reflected in the glass, made the discovery that there was something like grimace in the countenance, and paused in the midst of her meditations with her pencil in her hand. Don't put yourself out of drawing, said Rose. I wish you would not do that so often, when the facial angle is disturbed to that extent. But about Lucilla, I think you are excessively ungrateful. Gratitude is not a servile sentiment, said the little pre-Raphaelite, with a rising color. It is a slavish sort of idea, to think anyone has done you an injury by being kind to you. If that is the sort of thing you are going to talk of, I think you had better go to bed. Then I will, and I shan't tell you anything, said Barbara angrily. You are so poor-spirited. For my part, do you think I'd ever have gone to help Lucilla and sing for her, and all that sort of thing, if it had not been to better myself? Nor I wouldn't have thought of him just at first, if it hadn't been despite her. And I've done it too. I'd just like to look in her room window and see what she's about. I daresay she is crying her eyes out, for all her looking as if she took no notice. I know better than to think she doesn't care. And Rose, he's such a dear, said Barbara, with a laugh of excitement, to be sure what she wanted was to be Mrs. Cavendish, and to have a handsome house and a great many nice dresses. But at the same time she was young, and Mr. Cavendish was good-looking, and she was a little in love in her way as well. I don't want to hear any more about it, said Rose, who was so much moved as to forget even her design. I can't think how it is you have no sense of honour, and you, one of the lakes. I would not be a traitor for a dozen Mr. Cavendish's, cried Rose, in the force of her indignation. He must be a cheat, since you are a traitor. If he was a true man he would have found you out. You had better be quiet, Rose, said Barbara. You may be sure I shall never do anything for you after we are married, if you talk like that. And then you'll be sorry enough. After you are married has he asked you to marry him? cried Rose. She pushed away her design with both her hands in the vehemence of her feelings, and regarded her sister with eyes which blazed, but which were totally different in their blazing, from those which burned under Barbara's level eyebrows. It was too plain a question to have a plain answer. Barbara only lighted her candle in reply, and smiled and shook her head. You don't suppose I am going to answer after your insulting ways, she said, taking up her candle, and she swept out of the room in her white dress with a sense of pleasure in leaving this point unsettled. To be sure Mr. Cavendish should not yet ask that important question, but then the future was all before them and the way clear. As for Rose, she clenched her little fists with a gesture that would have been too forcible for anyone who was not an artist, and a member of a family of artists, to think she should be one of us, and not to know what honour means, said Rose, and as for this man he must be a cheat himself, or he would find her out. This was how Mr. Cavendish's defection from Lucila took place, and at the same time it is a satisfaction to know that the event was received by everybody, very much as little Rose Lake received it, and as for Miss March Banks. If Barbara could have had the malicious satisfaction of looking in at the window, she would have been mortified to find that right-minded young woman sleeping the sleep of the just and innocent, and enjoying repose as profound and agreeable as if there had been no Mr. Cavendish in the world, not to speak of Carlingford, which, to be sure, was a result to be greatly attributed to Lucila's perfect health and entire satisfaction with herself. End of Chapter 14. Recorded by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, CA, November 2009. This event was of far too much importance in the limited world of Grange Lane, to pass over without some of the many commentaries which were going on upon the subject coming to the ears of Miss March Banks, who was the person principally concerned. As for the doctor, as we have already said, he was so far lost to a sense of his paternal duties as to chuckle a little within himself over the accident that had happened to Lucila. It had done her no harm, and Dr. March Banks permitted himself to regard the occurrence, in a professional point of view, as supplying a little alternative which he could scarcely administer himself, for it is well known that physicians are seldom successful in the treatment of their own families. He was more jacose than usual at breakfast for some days following, and on the morning of the next Thursday asked if everybody was to come as usual, with the significance which did not escape the young mistress of the house. You know best, papa, she said cheerfully as she poured him out his coffee, if there is anybody who is ill and can't come, it must be your fault, but I did not hear that anyone was ill. Nor I, said the doctor with a quiet laugh, and he could not help thinking it would be a good sport to see Cavendish come into the drawing-room all by himself without any support and make his appearance before Miss March Banks, and do his best to be agreeable, and with an awful consciousness of his bad behavior, and nobody sufficiently benevolent to help him out. The doctor thought it would serve him right, but yet he was not sufficiently irritated, nor sufficiently sympathetic to lose any of the humor of the situation, and it was with a little zest, as for something especially bequant, that he looked forward to the evening. As for Miss March Banks, she too recognized the importance of the occasion. She resolved to produce that evening a new plat, which had occupied a corner of her busy mind for some time past. It was an era which called for a new step in advance. She sat down by the window to wait the appearance of Nancy, with various novel combinations floating in her creative brain. Her first chapter seemed to Lucilla's eyes to be achieved and concluded. She had had much success, in which a mind of correct sentiments could not but find cause of satisfaction, and now was the time to enter upon a second and still more important stage. While she was revolving these ideas in her mind, Nancy came in with more than her usual briskness. It is true that Lucilla had her household well in hand, and possessed the faculty of government to a remarkable extent. But still, under the best of circumstances, it was a serious business to propose a new dish to Nancy. Dr. March Banks's factotum was a woman of genius in her own way, and by no means unenlightened, or an enemy of progress, but then she had a weakness common to many persons of superior intelligence and decided character. When there was anything new to be introduced, Nancy liked to be herself the godmother of the interesting novelty, for, to be sure, it was her place, and Miss Lucilla, though she was very clever, was not to be expected to understand what came in best of the other dishes for a dinner. I ain't one as goes just upon fish and flesh and fowl, like some as call themselves cooks, Nancy said. If I have a feeling, it's for things as suits. When it's brown, make it brown, and don't be mean about the gravy-beef. That's my principle, and when it ain't brown, mind what you are doing of, and don't go and throw a heap of entries and other things at a gentleman's head without no harmony. I always says to Miss Lucilla, as harmony is the thing, and when I've said it all straight in my mind, I ain't one as likes to be put out, Nancy would add with a gleam in her eye, which betokened mischief. Miss March Banks was much too sensible not to be aware of this peculiarity, and, accordingly, she cleared her throat with something as near nervousness as was possible to Lucilla, before she opened her lips to propose the innovation. Miss March Banks, as a general rule, did not show much nervousness in her dealings with her Prime Minister, any more than in her demeanor towards the less important members of society, and consequently, Nancy remarked the momentary timidity, and a flash of sympathy and indignation took the place of the usual impulse of defiance. I heard, as Master said, there was some gentleman as wasn't a coming, said Nancy, not as one makes no difference in a manner, but I always liked to know. I don't like no waste for my part. I ain't as one as calculates too close, but if there's one thing as I hate like poison it's waste. I said as I would ask, for Thomas ain't as correct as could be wished. Is it one less than usual, Miss Lucilla? said Nancy, and it was Lucilla's fault if she did not understand the profound and indignant sympathy in Nancy's voice. Oh, no, it is just the usual number, said Miss March Banks. It was only a joke of papaz, they are all just as usual. And here, Lucilla paused. She was thinking of the dish she wanted, but Nancy thought she was thinking of Mr. Cavendish, who had treated her so badly. She studied the countenance of her young mistress with the interest of a woman who has had her experiences and knows how little they are to be depended upon. Nancy murmured, poor dear, under her breath, almost without knowing it. And then a brilliant inspiration came to her mind. Few people have the gift of interfering successfully in such cases. But then, to offer consolation is a Christian duty, especially when one has the confidence that to give consolation is in one's power. Miss Lucilla, I would say, as you've been doing too much, if anybody was to ask me, said Nancy, moved by this generous impulse, all them practicings and things, they're well enough for young ladies as ain't got nothing else to do, but you as have such a deal in your hands. If there was any little thing as you could fancy for dinner, said Nancy, in her most bland accents, I've said it all down as I thought would be nicest, always if you approve, Miss Lucilla. But if there was any little thing as you could fancy, poor dear, it's all as we can do, she murmured to herself. The faithless could not be brought back again, but Ariadne might at least have any little thing she could fancy for dinner, which, indeed, is a very general treatment of such a case on the part of perplex sympathizers who do not know what to say. Lucilla was so excited for the moment by this unusual evidence of her own good fortune, that she almost spoiled all by sitting straight up and entering with her usual energy into the discussion. But instinct saved Miss March Banks from this mistake. She lost no time in taking advantage of the opportunity, and instead of having a fight with Nancy and getting a reluctant consent, and still more reluctant execution of the novelty, Lucilla felt that she was doing that excellent woman a favour by naming her new dish. Nancy approved so thoroughly as to be enthusiastic. I always said as she had a deal of sense, she said afterwards triumphantly, there ain't one young lady in a hundred who knows what's good for her like Miss Lucilla. But notwithstanding this fervent declaration of approval, Nancy, softened as she was, could not but linger when all was concluded to give a little advice. I wouldn't worry at myself with all them practicing's Miss Lucilla if I was you, said her faithful retainer. For a deal too much for you. I've took the liberty when all was cleaned up, to go on the stair and listen a bit, and there ain't nothing to equal it when you're a singin' by yourself. I don't think nothing of them duets, and as for that bold-faced brazen thing. Oh, Nancy hush, said Lucilla. Miss Lake has a beautiful voice. If she does not look quite like a lady, it is not her fault, poor thing. She has no mamma to set her right, you know. She is the best assistant I have. She and Mr. Cavendish, said Lucilla sweetly, and she gave Nancy a luck which moved the faithful servant almost to tears, though she was not addicted to that weakness. Nancy retired with the most enthusiastic determination to exert herself to the utmost for the preparation of a little dish which Lucilla fancied. But I wouldn't worry about them duets, she said again as she left the room. I wouldn't, not if I was you, Miss Lucilla, asking pardon for the liberty. As for having no mamma, you have no mamma yourself. And you, the young lady, as is most thoughtful upon in Carlingford, and as different from that brazen-faced thing with her red cheeks, hush, oh hush, Nancy, Lucilla said, as she sank back in her chair. But Miss Marchbanks, after all, was only human, and she was not so distressed by these unpolished epithets applied to her collaborature as she might or perhaps ought to have been. Poor Barbara, I wish she could only look a little bit like a lady, she said to herself, and so proceeded with her preparations for the evening. She had all her plans matured, and she felt quite comfortable about that Thursday, which all her friends were thinking would be rather trying to Lucilla. To tell the truth, when a thing became rather trying, Lucilla's spirits rose. Mr. Cavendish's desertion was perhaps on the whole, more than compensated for by the exhilaration of a difficulty to be encountered. She too began to forecast, like her father, the possibilities of the evening, and to think of Mr. Cavendish coming in to dinner when there was nobody to support him, and not even a crowd of people to retire among. Would he run the risk of coming under the circumstances, or, if he came, would he prostrate himself, as he had done on a previous occasion and returned to his allegiance? This question roused Lucilla to a degree of energy unusual, even to her who was always energetic. It was then that the brilliant idea struck her of adjoining to the garden in the evening, a practice which was received with such enthusiasm in Carlingford, where the gardens were so pretty. She put on her hat directly and went downstairs, and called the gardener to consult him about it, and it was thus that she was employed when Mrs. Charley rang the bell at the garden gate. If it had been anybody else in Carlingford, Lucilla would have led her back again to the house, and said nothing about the subject of her conference with the gardener. For it is always best, as all judicious persons are aware, not to forestall these little arrangements which make so agreeable a surprise at the moment. But then Mrs. Charley was Miss Marchbanks's special confidante. The old lady had her face full of business that bright morning. She listened to what her young friend proposed, but without hearing it, and said, Oh yes, my dear, I am sure it will be charming. Without the very least notion what it was, she applauded. Let us go in and sit down a moment, for I have something to say to you, Lucilla, Mrs. Charley said. And when they had reached the drawing-room and shut the door, the Colonel's wife gave her favourite a kiss, and looked anxiously in her face. You have not been to see me since Monday, said Mrs. Charley. I am sure you are not well, or you could not have stayed away so long. But if you did not feel equal to going out, why did you not send for me, Lucilla, my poor dear? Though Miss Marchbanks's thoughts at that moment were full of the garden, and out in the least occupied with those more troublesome matters which procured for her Mrs. Charley's sympathy, she placed the kind old lady in the most easy chair, and sat down by her, as Mrs. Charley liked to see a young creature do. Lucilla's affairs were too important to be trusted to a young confidante of her own age, but even a person of acknowledged genius, like Miss Marchbanks, is the better of someone to whom she can open up her breast. Dear Mrs. Charley, said Lucilla, I am quite well, and I meant to have come to see you today. My poor dear, said Mrs. Charley again, you say you are quite well, for you have such a spirit, but I can see what you have been going through. I don't understand how you can keep on and do so much. But it was not that that brought me here. There is someone coming to Carlingford that I want you to meet, Lucilla. He is a relation of Mary Charley's husband, and as she does not get on very well with them, you know, I think it is our duty to be civil. And as they say, he is a very nice man, and young enough. Good Mrs. Charley with a look of some anxiety, pausing to see the effect produced upon Lucilla by her words. Miss Marchbanks had not, as she once confessed, a very vivid sense of humor, but she laughed a little in spite of herself at the old lady's anxious look. Don't be sorry for me, she said, I told you that fortunately my affections were not engaged. I don't want any new gentleman introduced to me. If that was what I was thinking of, I never need have come home, Lucilla said, with a little dignity. And yet, to be sure, she was naturally curious to know who the new man, who was very nice and young, enough, could be, for such apparitions were not too plentiful in Carlingford. And it did not seem in reason that an individual of this interesting description could come out of Colonel Charley's house. My dear, he is a clergyman, said Mrs. Charley, putting her hand on Miss Marchbanks's arm and speaking in a half whisper. And you know a nice clergyman is always nice, and you need not think of him as a young man unless you like. He has a nice property, and he is rector of basing, which is a very good living, an arch-deacon of Stanmore. He has come here to hold a visitation, you know, and they say that if Carlingford was made into a bishopric, he is almost sure to be the first bishop. And you know a bishop, or even an arch-deacon, has a very nice position. I want to be civil to him for Mary Charley's sake, who is not on such terms as we could wish with her husband's friends. And then I suppose he will have to be a great deal in Carlingford, and I should like him to form a good impression. I want you and your dear good papa to come and meet him. And then after that, but one thing is enough at a time, the old lady said, breaking off with a nod and a smile. She too had brought her bit of consolation to Lucilla, and it was a kind of consolation which, when administered at the right moment, is sometimes of sovereign efficacy, as Mrs. Charley was aware. I am sure papa will be very happy, said Lucilla. And indeed, if you like, I shall be very glad to ask him here. If he is a friend of yours, that is quite enough for me. It is very nice to know a nice clergyman. But as for being a young man, I can't see how that matters. If I had been thinking of that, I need never. But I should think papa would like to meet him, and you know it is the object of my life to please papa. Yes, my poor dear, said the colonel's wife, and he would be hard-hearted indeed if he was not pleased. But still, we must consider you, too, a little Lucilla. You do everything for other people, and you never think of yourself. But I like to see you with nice people round you, for my part, Mrs. Charley added, really nice people, and that these poor-spirited, ungrateful, hush, hush, said Lucilla, I don't know such nice people anywhere as there are in Carlingford. Some people are never pleased with their neighbors, but I always get on so well with everybody. It is my good luck, you know, and so long as I have you, dear Mrs. Charley. Ah, Lucilla, said the old lady, that is very kind of you, and you could not have anybody that is fonder of you than I am. But still, I am an old woman, olden have to be your grandmother, my dear, and we have your future interests to think of. As for all the vexations you have had, I think I could find it in my heart to turn that ungrateful creature to the door. Don't let her come here any more. I like your voice a great deal better when you are singing by yourself, and I am sure the Archdeacon would be of my opinion, said Mrs. Charley, with the confidence which was beautiful to behold. It was true she had not seen her new hero as yet, but that only left her so much more free to take the good of him and his probable sentiments. For to persons of frank and simple imagination, a very little foundation of fact is enough to build upon. No doubt the Archdeacon would be of her opinion when he knew all the features of the case. Here, Mrs. Charley, it is so nice of you to be vexed, said Lucilla, who thought it as well not to enter into any farther argument. Papa will be delighted, I am sure, and I can come in the evening. The Colonel likes to have only six people, and you will be three to start with, so there can't be any room for me at dinner, and you know I don't mind about dinner. I shall come in the evening and make tea for you, and if you think he would like to come next Thursday, said Lucilla graciously. This was how it was eventually settled. Mrs. Charley went home again through Grange Lane and the Sunshine with that little old womanish hobble which Mrs. Woodburn executed with such precision, perfectly satisfied with her success, and indulging herself in some pleasant visions. To be sure, a nice clergyman is always nice to know, even though nothing more was to come of it, and a new man in the field of such distinguished pretensions would be Lucilla's best defense against any sort of mortification. As for Miss Marchbanks herself, she was thinking a great deal more of the new details for the approaching evening than of anything else more distant and consequently less important, but on the whole she was by no means displeased to hear of the Archdeacon. In such a work as hers, a skillful leader is always on the outlook for auxiliaries, and there are circumstances in which a nice clergyman is almost as useful to the lady of the house as a man who can flirt. To be sure, now and then there occurs a rare example in which both these qualities are united in one person, but even in the most modest point of view, if he was not stupid or obstinately low church, there was nothing to despise in the apparition of the Archdeacon, thus suddenly blown to her very door. While she had the seats placed in the garden, not too visibly but shrouded among the shrubs and round the trunks of the trees, and chose the spot for a little illumination, which was not to be universal, like a tea-garden, but concentrated in one spot under the big lime tree, Lucilla permitted herself to speculate a little about this unknown hero. She did not so much ask herself if he would be dark or fair, according to the usage of young ladies, as whether he would be high or broad. But, however, that question, like various others, was still hidden in the surrounding darkness. This was how Mrs. Childley did her best to cheer up Lucilla in the discouragement from which she supposed her young friend to be suffering. It was perhaps a loftier expedient in one way than Nancy's desire that she should have something she would fancy for dinner. But then there could not be any doubt as to the kindness which prompted both suggestions, and, after all, it is not what people do for you, but the spirit in which they do it, which should be taken into consideration, as Lucilla most justly observed. CHAPTER XVI. That Thursday evening was when which all the people in Grange Lane had unanimously concluded would be rather hard upon Ms. Marchbanks. To be sure, when a crisis arrives, there is always a certain excitement which keeps one up. But afterwards, when the excitement is over, then is the time when it becomes really trying. There was, naturally, under these circumstances, a larger assemblage than usual to watch the progress of the little drama, and how Lucilla would behave. For after all, society would be excessively tame if it were not for these personal complications, which are always arising, and which are so much better than a play. As for the doctor himself, the portion of the evening's entertainment which particularly amused him was that which preceded all the rest, the reception given by Lucilla to her guests at dinner, and especially to the culprit who came in quite alone, and found nobody to stand up for him. Mr. Cavendish, who felt to the full the difficulty of his position, and, to tell the truth, was a little ashamed of himself, came late in order to abridge his trial as much as possible. But Lucilla's habitual good fortune was not confined only to her own necessities, but seemed to involve everybody opposed to her in a ceaseless ill luck, which was very edifying to the spectators. Mr. Cavendish was so late that the other guests had formed into groups round the room, leaving a great open space and avenue of approach to the lady of the house in the middle. And the audience, thus arranged, was very impatient and unfavorable to the lingerer who kept them waiting for their dinner. When he came in at last, instead of doing anything to help him, everybody ceased talking, and looked on in stern silence as the wretched culprit walked all the length of the room up to Lucilla, through the unoccupied space which exposed him so unmercifully on every side. They all stopped in the middle of what they were saying, and fixed stony eyes upon him, as the dead sailors did on the ancient mariner. He had a very good spirit, but still there are circumstances which take the courage out of a man. To be sure, Miss March Banks, when he reached her at last, received Mr. Cavendish with the utmost grace and cordiality. But it is easy to imagine what must have been the feelings of the unfortunate young man. The balaclava charge itself, in the face of all the guns, could have been nothing to the sensation of walking through that horrible naked space, through a crowd of reproachful men who were waiting for dinner. And it was only after it was all over, and Mr. Cavendish had safely arrived at Miss March Banks' side, and was being said at his ease, poor wretch, by her incomparable sweetness, that the doctor, with a certain grim smile on his countenance, came in shakans with his unfortunate guest. You are late, Dr. March Banks said, taking out the great watch, by which all the pulses of Grange Lane considered it was their duty to keep time, and, which marked five minutes after seven, as everybody could see. It was ten minutes after seven by the pretty French clock upon the mantelpiece, and at least twenty by the lowering countenances of Dr. March Banks' guest. Mr. Cavendish made the best of his unhappy position, and threw himself upon Lucila's charity, who was the only one who had any compassion upon him, for to see Mrs. Cavendish's forbidding countenance no one could have believed that she had ever called him my dear. Dinner is on the table, Papa, Miss March Banks said, with a little reassuring nod to the culprit, who had made her his refuge. And she got up and shook out her white draperies with a charitable commotion, for which her faithless admirer blessed her in his heart. But the place at her left hand was not vacant for Mr. Cavendish. He had not the spirit to claim it, even had he had the time, and the consequence was that he found himself next to his brother-in-law at table, which was indeed a hard fate. As for Lucila, nobody had ever seen her in better spirits or looks. She was quite radiant when the famous dish made its appearance which Nancy had elaborated to please her, and told the story of its introduction to her two next neighbors in a half whisper to their immense amusement. When the servants are gone I will tell you what we are laughing at. She breathed across the table to Mrs. Chiley, who was more than delighted, as she said, to see her dear Lucila keeping up so well. And when the dessert was put upon the table, and Thomas had finally disappeared, Miss Marchbanks kept her promise. I could not think how I was to get her to consent, Lucila said, but you know she thought I was in low spirits, the dear old soul, and that it would be a comfort to me. Though there was often a great deal of fun at Dr. Marchbanks's table, nothing was ever heard there to compare with the laughter that greeted Lucila's narrative. Chiley was so entirely aware of the supposed cause of the low spirits, and indeed was so conscious of having speculated, like Nancy, upon Miss Marchbanks's probable demeanor at this trying moment, that the laughter was not mere laughter, but conveyed at the same time a confession of guilt and a storm of applause and admiration. As for Mr. Cavendish it was alarming to look at him in the terrible paroxysm of confusion and shame which he tried to shield under the universal amusement. Miss Marchbanks left the dining-room that evening with the soothing conviction that she had adbenistered punishment of the most annihilating kind, without for a moment diverging from the perfect sweetness and amiability with which it was her duty to treat all her father's guests. It was so complete and perfect that there was not another word to be said, either on one side or the other, and yet Lucila had not in the least committed herself or condescended from her maiden dignity. As for Dr. Marchbanks, if he had chuckled over it before in anticipation, it may be supposed how he enjoyed now this perfect vindication of his daughter's capacity for taking care of herself. The sound of the victory was even heard upstairs, where the young ladies at the open windows were asking each other with a little envy what the men could be laughing at. There was, as we have said, a larger assembly than usual that night. For one thing it was moonlight, and all the people from the country were there, and then public curiosity was profoundly concerned as to how Lucila was to conduct herself on so trying an occasion. The laughter even jarred on the sensitive feelings of some people who thought, where a young girl's happiness was concerned, that it was too serious a matter to be laughed at. But then Ms. Marchbanks was not a person who could be classed with ordinary young girls in the general acceptation of the word. It was when things were at this crisis, and all eyes were directed to Lucila, and a certain expectation was diffused throughout the company. And a certain expectation was diffused through the company that Ms. Marchbanks made that proposal of adjourning to the garden, which was received with so much applause. Lucila's instinct, or rather her genius, had warned her that something out of the ordinary course of proceedings would be expected from her on that special occasion. She could not get up and make a speech to her excited and curious audience. Neither could she, apropos of nothing, tell over again the story which had been received with such applause downstairs. And yet something was wanting. The ordinary routine did not satisfy Lucila's constituency, who had come with a laudable intention of observing her on a trying occasion, and watching how she got through it. The air is so delicious tonight that I had some seats placed in the garden, Ms. Marchbanks said, and if you all like, we will sing to you up here, and give you as much music as ever as you please. You know I never would consent to be too musical when everybody was in one room. It does not matter so much when there are as sweet. But then, papa, you know, is only a professional man, and I have but one drawing-room, said Lucila with sweet humility. It was Lady Richmond to whom she was addressing herself at the moment, who was a lady who liked to be the great lady of the party. It is only in summer that we can be a little, like you fine people, who have as many rooms as you please. When you are at a little distance, we will sing to you all evening if you like. But my dear, are you sure you feel able for so much exertion, said Lady Richmond, who was one of those people who did not think a young girl's happiness a thing to be trifled with, and she looked with what she described afterwards as a very searching expression in Ms. Marchbanks' face. Dear Lady Richmond, I hope I am always able for my duty, said that gentle martyr, papa would be wretched if he did not think we were all enjoying ourselves, and you know it is the object of my life to be a comfort to papa. This was what the searching expression in Lady Richmond's eyes elicited from Lucilla. The sentiment was perhaps a little different from that which she had conveyed to her delighted auditors in the donning-room, but at the same time it was equally true, for everybody in Carlingford was aware of the grand object of Ms. Marchbanks' existence. Lady Richmond went down to the garden at the head of a bevy of ladies, and seated herself under the drawing-room windows, and placed a chair beside her own for Mrs. Chiley. I am afraid that dear girl is keeping up too well, Lady Richmond said. I never saw such fortitude. All the young people say she does not feel it, but as soon as I fixed my eyes on her I saw the difference. You can always find out what a girl's feelings are when you look into her eyes. Yes, said Mrs. Chiley with a little doubt, for she had been shaken in her convictions by the universal laughter, though she was a little mystified herself by Lucilla's anecdote. And then she never had been gifted with eyes like Lady Richmond, which looked people through and through. She goes through a great deal, and it never seems to do her any harm, the old lady said, with a little hesitation. It is such a comfort that she has a good constitution, especially as her mother was so delicate. And then Lucilla has such a spirit, but one may try a good constitution too far, said Lady Richmond, and I am certain she is full of feeling. It is sure to come out when she sings, and that is why I came to this seat. I should not like to lose a note. But do tell me who is that horrid, flirting, disagreeable girl, added the county lady, drawing her chair a little closer. By this time the garden was full of pretty figures and pleasant voices, and under the lime tree there was a glimmer of yellow light from the lamps. And on the other side the moon was coming up steadily like a ball of silver over the dark outlines of Carlingford. And even the two voices which swelled forth upstairs in the fullest accord, betraying nothing of the personal sentiments of their owners, were not more agreeable to hear than the rustle and murmur of sound which rose all over Dr. March Banks's smooth lawn and pretty shrubbery. Here and there a group of the older people sat, like Lady Richmond and Mrs. Chiley, listening with all their might, and all about them were clusters of girls and their natural attendance, arrested in their progress and standing still breathless, just for this bar, as young people pause in their walks and talks to listen to a chance nightingale. And to be sure whenever anybody was tired of the music there were quantities of corners to retire into, not to speak of that bright spot full of yellow light under the lime tree. Nobody but Lucilla ever could have thought of anything so delicious, somebody said, with an enthusiasm of enjoyment. Most likely the speaker was very young or else very happy and had no temptation to be moderate in her words, but anyhow the sentiment circulated through the assembly and gained everywhere a certain acquiescence. And then the two singers upstairs gave so much scope to curiosity. Do you think they're all by themselves, Lydia Brown was heard to ask, with a little natural anxiety? And then the livelier imaginations among the parties set to work to invent impossible tortures which the soprano might inflict on the contralto. But to tell the truth the two singers were by no means alone. Half the gentlemen of the dinner party, who were past the sentimental age and did not care about moonlight, had gone upstairs according to their use and want, and remained there finding to their satisfaction, room to move about, and comfortable chairs to sit down in. They sat and chatted in the corners in great content and good humor, while Lucilla and Barbara executed the most charming duets. Now and then old Colonel Chiley paused to put his two hands very softly together and cry bravo, but on the whole the gentlemen were not much disturbed by the music. And then there were a few ladies who were subject to neuralgia or apt to take bad colds in the head, who preferred being upstairs, so that if Lucilla had meant to pinch or maltreat her rival, circumstances would have made it impossible. Miss March Banks did nothing to Barbara, except incite her to sing her very best. But no doubt she was the means of inflicting considerable pain on Mr. Cavendish, who stood at a little distance, and looked and listened to both, and perhaps had inward doubts as to the wisdom of his choice. Such was the arrangement of the personages of the social drama. And it was in this way that everybody was occupied when the event occurred, which at a later period awoke so much excitement in Carlingford, and had so much influence upon the future fate of some of the individuals whose history is here recorded. Everything was as calm and cheerful and agreeable as if Carlingford had been a social paradise, and Miss March Banks' drawing room, the seventh heaven of terrestrial harmony. The sky itself was not more peaceful, nor gave less indication of any tempest than did the tranquil atmosphere below, where all the people knew each other, and everybody was friendly. Lucilla had just risen from the piano, and there was a little pause in which cheers were audible from the garden, and Colonel Chiley, in the midst of his conversation, patted his two hands together. And it was just at that moment that the drawing room door opened, and Thomas came in, followed by a gentleman. The gentleman was a stranger who Miss March Banks had never seen before, and she made a step forward as was her duty as mistress of the house. But when she had made that one step, Lucilla suddenly stood still, arrested by something more urgent than the arrival of a stranger. Mr. Cavendish, too, had been standing with his face to the door, and had seen the new arrival. He was directly in front of Lucilla, so near heard that he could not move without attracting her attention. When Miss March Banks took the step in advance, Mr. Cavendish, as if by the same impulse, suddenly and without saying a word, turned right round like a man who had seen something terrible, at which he dared not take a second look. He was too much absorbed at that moment in his own feelings to know that he was betraying himself to Lucilla, or even to be conscious that she was near him. His face was more than pale. It had a green, ghastly look as of a face from which all the blood had suddenly been withdrawn to reinforce the vital center in some failing of nature. His underlip hung down, and two hollows which had never been seen there before appeared in his cheeks. Miss March Banks was so taken by surprise that she stood still, thinking no more of her duties, but regarding an utter dismay and amazement, the look of dead, stupefied terror, which thus appeared so and unexpectedly before her. Mr. Cavendish had turned right round, turning his back upon a lady to whom he had been talking the minute before. But he was as unconscious of that as of the fact that he had presented the spectacle of his miserable surprise and alarm in the most striking way to the one woman present who had a right to entertain a certain grudge against him. He even looked in her face with his hollow and haggard eyes in the intensity of his amazement and panic. During this moment of unusual inaction on Lucilla's part, the stranger had been led up to Colonel Chiley, and had shaken hands with him, and was entering into some explanations which Miss March Banks divined with her usual quick intelligence. And then the old Colonel roused himself up from his easy chair and leaned over to speak to Dr. March Banks and showed symptoms of approaching the lady of the house. All these movements Lucilla followed breathlessly with a strange consciousness that only her presence of mind stood between her faithless suitor and a real stranger. To be sure, Barbara Lake chose that moment of all others to show her power, and made an appeal to Mr. Cavendish in his taste in music, to which the unhappy man made no response. Miss March Banks saw there was no time to lose. With a fearless hand, she threw down a great portfolio of music which happened to be close to her, just at his feet, making a merciful disturbance. And then she turned and made her curtsy and received the homage of Mr. Archdeacon Beverly, who had arrived a day before he was expected, and had come to look after his host since his host had not been at home to receive him. But you have broken your music stand or something, Lucilla, said the Colonel. Oh no, it is only a portfolio. I can't think what could make me so awkward, said Miss March Banks. I suppose it was seeing someone come in whom I didn't know. And then the old gentleman, as was his duty, paid the Archdeacon a compliment on having made such a commotion. We used to have the best of it in our day, said the old soldier, but now you churchmen are the men. Miss March Banks heard the door open again before this little speech was finished. It was Mr. Cavendish, who was going out with a long step, as if he with difficulty kept himself from running, and he never came back again to say good night or made any further appearance either out of doors or indoors. To be sure, the Archdeacon made himself very agreeable, but then one man never quite makes up for another. Miss March Banks said nothing about it, not even when Mrs. Woodburn came up to her with a scared face, and in full possession of her own identity, which of itself was an extraordinary fact, and proved that something had happened. But it would be vain to say that Lucilla was not much excited by the sudden gleam of mystery. It gave the Archdeacon an extraordinary and altogether unexpected attraction. And as for Mr. Cavendish, it was utterly inconceivable that a man in society, whom everybody knew about, should give way to such a panic. The question was, what did it mean? End of chapter 16, recording by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, California, March, 2010.