 7 Miss March Banks had so many things to think of next morning that she found her cousin, who was rather difficult to get rid of, much in her way. Naturally, the young man was briefless and came on circuit for the name of the thing, and was quite disposed to dawdle the first morning and attach himself to the active footsteps of Lucilla, and, for her part, she had things to occupy her so very much more important. For one thing, one of Dr. March Banks's little dinner parties was to take place that evening, which would be the first, under the new regime, and was naturally a matter of some anxiety to all parties. I shall go down and ask Mrs. Chiley to come with the Colonel, said Lucilla. I have always meant to do that. We can't have a full dinner party, you know, as long as the house is so shabby, but I am sure Mrs. Chiley will come to take care of me. To take care of you, in your father's house? Do you think they'll bite? said the Dr. Grimly. But as for Lucilla, she was quite prepared for that. I must have a chaperone, you know, she said. I don't say it is not quite absurd, but then, at first, I always make it a point to give in to the prejudices of society. That is how I have always been so successful, said the experienced Lucilla. I never went in the face of anybody's prejudices. Afterwards, you know, when one is known, the doctor laughed, but at the same time he sighed. There was nothing to be said against Mrs. Chiley, who had, on the whole, as women go, a very superior training, and knew what a good dinner was. But it was the beginning of the revolution, of which Dr. Marchbanks, vaguely oppressed with the idea of a new paper, new curtains, and all that was involved in the entrance of Mr. Holden, the upholsterer, into the house, did not see the end. He acquiesced, of course, since there was nothing else for it. But it must be confessed that the specter of Mrs. Chiley sitting at his right hand clouded over for the doctor the pleasant anticipation of the evening. If it had been possible to put her at the head of the table beside Lucilla, whom she was to come to take care of, he could have borne it better. And to be sure, it would have been a great deal more reasonable. But then that was absolutely out of the question, and the doctor gave in with a sigh. Thus it was that he began to realize the more serious result of that semi-obdication into which he had been beguiled. The female element, so long peacefully ignored and kept at a distance, had come in again in triumph and taken possession, and the doctor knew too well by experience of a long life what a restless and troublesome element it was. He had begun to feel that it had ceased to be precisely amusing as he took his place in his Brogum. It was good sport to see Lucilla make an end of Tom and put her bridle upon the stiff neck of Nancy, but when it came to changing the character of the doctor's dinners, his intellect naturally got more obtuse, and he did not see the joke. As for Tom, he had to be disposed of summarily. "'Do go away,' Miss Marchbank said in her straightforward way. "'You can come back to luncheon if you like. That is to say, if you can pick up anybody that is very amusing, you may bring him here about half-past one. And if any of my friends have come to call by that time, I will give you lunch. But it must be somebody very amusing, or I will have nothing to say to you,' said Lucilla. And with this dismissal Tom Marchbank's departed, not more content than the doctor, for to be sure the last thing in the world which the poor fellow thought of was to bring somebody who was very amusing to injure his chances with Lucilla. Tom, like most other people, was utterly incapable of fathoming the grand conception which inspired Miss Marchbank's. When she told him that it was the object of her life to be a comfort to papa, he believed it to a certain extent. But it never occurred to him that that filial devotion, though beautiful to contemplate, would preserve Lucilla's heart from the ordinary dangers of youth, or that she was at all an earnest in postponing all matrimonial intentions until she was nine and twenty, and had begun to go off a little. So he went away disconsolate enough, wavering between his instinctive obedience and his desire of being in Lucilla's company, and a desperate determination never to be the means of injuring himself by presenting to her anybody who was very amusing. All Miss Marchbank's is moaned, as it happened, was a little out of humor that day. She had gone on so far triumphantly that it had now become, to be necessary, that she should receive a little check in her victorious career. When Tom was disposed of, Miss Marchbank's put on her hat and went down Grange Lane to carry her invitation to Mrs. Chiley, who naturally was very much pleased to come. "'But, my dear, you must tell me what to put on,' the old lady said. "'I don't think I have anything new since you were home last. I have heard so much about Dr. Marchbank's's dinners that I feel a little excited, as if I was going to be made a Freemason or something. There is my brown, you know, that I wear at home when we have anybody, and my black velvet, and then there is my French gray that I got for Mary Chiley's marriage.' "'Dear Mrs. Chiley,' said Lucilla, "'it doesn't matter in the least what you wear. There are only to be gentlemen, you know, and one never dresses for gentlemen. You must keep that beautiful black velvet for another time.' "'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Chiley, "'I am long past that sort of thing, but the men think, you know, that it is always for them that we dress.' "'Yes,' said Miss Marchbank's, "'their vanity is something dreadful, but it is one of my principles never to dress unless there are ladies. "'A white frock high in the neck,' said Lucilla, with sweet simplicity. As for anything else, it would be bad style.' Mrs. Chiley gave her young visitor a very cordial kiss when she went away. "'The sense she has,' said the old lady. But at the same time, the Colonel's wife was so old-fashioned that this contemptuous way of treating the gentleman puzzled her unprogressive intelligence. She thought it was superhuman virtue on Lucilla's part, nearly incredible, and yet established by proof so incontestable that it would be a shame to doubt it, and she felt ashamed of herself. She, who might have been a grandmother, had such been the will of Providence, for lingering five minutes undecided between her two best caps. "'I dare say Lucilla does not spend so much time on such vanity, and she only nineteen,' said the penitent old lady. As for Miss Marchbank's, she returned up Grange Lane with a mind at ease, and that consciousness of superior endowments which gives amiability and expansion even to the countenance. She did not give any money to the beggar who at that period infested Grange Lane with her six children, for that was contrary to those principles a political economy which she had studied with such success at Mount Pleasant. But she stopped and asked her name, and where she lived, and promised to inquire into her case. "'If you are honest and want to work, I will try to find you something to do,' said Miss Marchbank's, which, to be sure, was a threat appalling enough to keep her free from any further molestation on the part of that interesting family. But Lucilla, to do her justice, felt it equally natural the beneficence should issue from her in this manner as in that other motive feeding the hungry which she was willing to adopt at half past one, and had solemnly engaged herself to fulfill at seven o'clock. She went up after that to Mr. Holden's, and had a most interesting conversation, and found among his stores a delicious damask, softly spiritually green, of which to his great astonishment she tried the effect in one of the great mirrors which ornamented the shop. "'It is just the tint I want,' Lucilla said, when she had applied that unusual test, and she left the fashionable upholster of Carlingford in a state of some uncertainty whether it was curtains or dresses that Miss Marchbank's meant to have made. Perhaps this confusion arose from the fact that Lucilla's mind was occupied in discussing the question whether she could not go round by Grove Street, and try that duet again with Barbara, and invite her to Grange Lane in the evening to electrify the little company. Or whether, in case this latter idea might not be practicable, she should bring Barbara with her to lunch by way of occupying Tom Marchbank's. Lucilla stood at Mr. Holden's door for five seconds, at least balancing the matter. But finally she gave her curls a little shake, and took a quick step forward, and without any more deliberation returned towards Grange Lane, for on the whole it was better not to burst in full triumph all at once upon her constituency, and exhaust her forces at the beginning. If she condescended to sing something herself, it would be indeed a greater honour than her father's dinner-party in strict justice was entitled to. And as for the second question, though Miss Marchbank's was too happy in the confidence of her own powers to fear any rivals, and though her cousin's devotion bored her, still she felt doubtful how far it was good policy to produce Barbara at luncheon for the purpose of occupying Tom. Other people might see her besides Tom, and her own grand-coup might be firstalled for anything she could tell. And then Tom had some title to consideration on his own merits, though he was the unlucky member of the family. He might even, if he were so far left to himself, though Miss Marchbank smiled at the idea, fall in love with Barbara. Or what was more likely, driven to despair by Lucilla's indifference, he might pretend to fall in love, and Lucilla reflected that if anything happened she could never forgive herself. This was the point she had arrived at when she shook her tawny curls and sat out suddenly on her return home. It was nearly one o'clock, and it was quite possible that Tom as well as herself might be on the way to Grange Lane. But Lucilla, who, as she said, made a point of never going against the prejudices of society, made up her mind to remain sweetly unconscious of the hour of luncheon unless somebody came to keep her company. But then Miss Marchbanks was always lucky, as she said. A quarter of an hour before Tom applied for admission, Miss Burry came to pay Lucilla a visit. She had been visiting in her district all the morning, and was very easily persuaded to repose herself a little. And then naturally she was anxious about her young friend's spiritual condition and the effect upon her mind of a year's residence abroad. She was asking whether Lucilla had not seen something soul-degrading and dishonoring to religion in all the memories of Popory, and Miss Marchbanks, who was perfectly orthodox, had replied to the question in the most satisfactory manner when Tom made his appearance looking rather sheepish and reluctant, and followed by the somebody amusing whom Lucilla had commissioned him to bring. He had struggled against his fate, poor fellow, but when it happens to be a man's instinct to do what he is told, he can no more resist it than if it was a criminal impulse. Tom entered with his amusing companion, who had been chosen with care and was very uninviting to look at, and by and by Miss Burry, with the most puzzled looks, found herself listening to gossip about the theatres and all kinds of profane subjects. I think they are going to hang that fellow that killed the tailor, said the amusing man. That will stir you up a little in Carlingford, I should suppose. It is as good as a play for a country-town. Of course there will be a party that will get up a memorial, and provide that a man so kind-hearted never existed out of paradise, and there will be another party who will prove him to be insane, and then at the end all the black guards within a hundred miles will crowd into Carlingford, and the fellow will be hanged as he deserves to be. But I assure you it's a famous amusement for a country-town. Sir, said Miss Burry, with a tremulous voice, for her feelings had overcome her, when you speak of amusement does it ever occur to you what will become of his miserable soul? I assure you wretches of that description have no souls, said the young barrister, or else of course I would not permit myself to speak so freely. It is a conclusion I have come to, not rashly, but after many opportunities of observing the young man went on with solemnity. On the whole, my opinion is, that this is the great difference between one portion of mankind and the other. That description of being, you may take my word for it, has no soul. I never take anybody's word for what is so plainly stated in the holy scriptures, said Miss Burry. I never heard anyone utter such a terrible idea. I am sure I don't want to defend a— A murderer, cried the rector's sister, with agitation, but I have heard of persons in that unfortunate position coming to a heavenly frame of mind and giving every evidence of being truly converted. The law may take their lives, but it is an awful thing, a truly dreadful thing, said Miss Burry, trembling all over, to try to take away their soul. Oh, nonsense, Lucilla, by Jove, he does not mean that, you know, said Tom, interposing to relieve his friend. Do you believe in Jove, Mr. Thomas March Banks, said Miss Burry, looking him in an alarming manner, full in the face? The unfortunate Tom grew red. And then he grew green under this question, in that awful look. No, Miss Burry, I can't say I do, he answered humbly, and the amusing man was so much less brotherly than Tom, that he burst into unsympathetic laughter. As for Lucilla, it was the first real check she had sustained in the beginning of her career. There could not have been a more unfortunate contra-tom. And there is no telling how disastrous the effect might have been had not her courage and coolness, not to say her orthodoxy, been equal to the occasion. She gave her cousin a look which was still more terrible than Miss Burry's, and then she took affairs into her own hands. It is dreadful sometimes to see what straits people are put to to keep up the conversation, said Lucilla. Tom, in particular, for I think he has pleasure in talking nonsense. But you must not suppose I am of that opinion. I remember quite well there was a dreadful man once here in jail for something, and Mr. Burry made him the most beautiful character. Every creature has a soul. I am sure we say so in the creed every day of our lives, and especially in that long creed where so many people perish overlastingly. So far from laughing it is quite dreadful to think of it, said Lucilla. It is one of my principles never to laugh about anything that has to do with religion. I always think it my duty to speak with respect. It has such a bad effect upon some minds. Miss Burry, if you will not take anything more, I think we had better go upstairs. To think that Tom, whose luck as usual had betrayed him to such an unlooked-for extent should have been on the point of following to the drawing-room was more than Miss March Banks could comprehend. Unfortunately his companion had more sense, and took his leave, taking his conductor with him. Miss Burry went upstairs in silence, sighing heavily from time to time. The good woman was troubled in her spirit at the evident depravity of the young men with whom circumstances had constrained her to sit down at table, and she was sadly afraid that such companionship must have a debasing effect upon the mind of that lamb of the flock who was now standing before her. Miss Burry thought herself of Dr. March Banks's profane jokes, and the indifference he had shown to many things in which it was his duty to have interested himself, and she could not but look with tender pity in her young friend's face. Poor dear, said Miss Burry, it is dreadful indeed if this is the sort of society you are subjected to. I could recommend to Dr. March Banks the most admirable woman, a true Christian, who would take charge of things and be your companion, Lucilla. It is not at all nice for you, at your age, to be obliged to receive young men like these alone. I had you, said Lucilla, taking both Miss Burry's hands. I felt it was such a blessing. I would not have let Tom stay for luncheon if you had not been there. And now I am so glad, because it has shown me the danger of letting him bring people. I am quite sure it was a special providence that made you think of coming here to-day. Well, my dear, said Miss Burry, who was naturally mollified by this statement of the question. I am very glad to have been of use to you. If there is anything I desire in this life, it is to be useful to my fellow creatures, and to do my work while it is called day. I should not think the time lost, my dear Lucilla, if I could only hope that I had impressed upon your mind that an account must be given of every careless word. Oh, yes, said Lucilla, that is so true, and besides it is quite against my principles. I make it a point never to speak of anything about religion except with the greatest respect. And I am quite sure it was a special providence that I had you. Miss Burry took her farewell very affectionately, not to say effusively after this, with her heart melting over the ingenuous young creature who was so thankful for her protection. But at the same time she left Miss Marchbanks a prey to the horrible sensation of having made a failure. To be sure, there was time to recover herself in the evening, which was, so to speak, her first formal appearance before the public of Carlingford. Tom was so ill-advised as to come in when she was having her cup of tea before dinner to fortify her for her exertions, and the reception he met with may be left to the imagination. But after all, there was little satisfaction in demolishing Tom. And then Lucilla had known from the beginning that the success of her undertaking depended entirely on herself. CHAPTER VIII OF MISS MARCHBANKS The evening passed off in a way which, if Miss Marchbanks had been an ordinary woman, would have all together obliterated from her mind all recollection of the failure at lunch. To speak first of the most important particular, the dinner was perfect. As for the benighted men who had doubted Lucilla, they were covered with shame, and at the same time with delight. If there had been a fault in Dr. Marchbanks's table under the ancient regime, it lay in a certain want of variety, and occasional overabundance, which wounded the feelings of young Mr. Cavendish, who was a person of refinement. Tonight, as that accomplished critic remarked, there was a certain air of feminine grace diffused over everything, and an amount of doubt and expectation, unknown to the composed feastings of old, gave interest to the meal. As for the doctor, he found Mrs. Chiley at his right hand not so great a bore as he expected. She was a woman capable of appreciating the triumphs of art that were set before her, and had indeed been trained to as high a pitch of culture in this respect as perhaps is possible to the female intelligence. And then her pride and delight in being admitted to a participation in those sacred mysteries was beyond expression. My dear Lucilla, I feel exactly as if I was going to be made a freemason, and as if your dear good papa had to blindfold me, and make me swear all sorts of things before he took me downstairs, she said, as they sat together, waiting for the commencement of the ceremony. And when the two ladies returned to the drawing room, Mrs. Chiley took Lucilla in her arms and gave her a kiss, as the only way of expressing adequately her enthusiasm. My love, said the Colonel's wife, I never realized before what it was to have a genius. You should be very thankful to Providence for giving you such a gift. I have given dinners all my life, that is, all my married life, my dear, which comes to almost the same thing, for I was only a baby. But I never could come up to anything like that, said Mrs. Chiley with tears in her eyes. As for Miss Marchbanks, she was so satisfied with her success that she felt at liberty to tranquilize her old friend. I am sure you always give very nice dinners, she said, and then you know the Colonel has his favorite dishes, whereas I must say for papa he is very reasonable for a man. I am so glad you are pleased. It is very kind of you to say it as genius, but I don't pretend to anything but paying great attention and studying the combinations. There is nothing one cannot manage if one only takes the trouble. Come here to this nice easy chair. It is so comfortable. It is so nice to have a little moment to ourselves before they come upstairs. That is what I always say, said Mrs. Chiley, but there are not many girls so sensible as you, Lucilla. I hear them all saying it is so much better French fashion. Of course, I am an old woman, and like things in the old style. I don't think it is because I am more sensible, submissed Marchbanks, with modesty. I don't pretend to be better than other people. It is because I have thought it all over, you know. And then I went through a course of political economy, when I was at Mount Pleasant, Lucilla said tranquilly, with an error of having explained the whole matter, which much impressed her hearer. But for all that something dreadful happened today. Tom brought in one of his friends with him, you know, and Miss Burry was here, and they talked. I want to tell you, in case you should say something, and then you will know what to believe. I never felt so dreadfully ashamed in my life. They talked. My dear, not anything improper, I hope, cried the old lady in dismay. Oh, no, said Lucilla, but they began laughing about some people having no souls, you know, as if there could be anybody without a soul. And poor Miss Burry nearly fainted. You may think what a dreadful thing it was for me. My dear child, if that was all, said Mrs. Childly, reassured. As for everybody having a soul, I am sure I cannot say. You never were in India, to be sure, but Miss Burry should have known better than to faint at a young man's talk and frighten you, my poor dear. She ought to be ashamed of herself at her age. Do you think Tom has turned out clever? The old lady continued, not without a little finesse, and watched Lucilla with a curious eye. But in the very least, said Miss Marchbanks calmly, he is just as awkward as he used to be. It is dreadful to have him here just now when I have so many things to do. And then he would follow me about everywhere if I would let him. A cousin of that sort is always in the way. I am always afraid of a cousin, for my part, said Mrs. Childly. And talking of that, what do you think of Mr. Cavendish, Lucilla? He is very nice in himself, and he has nice property, and some people say he has a very good chance to be member for Carlingford when there is an election. I think that is just what would suit you. I could not see him for the lamp, said Lucilla. It was right between us, you know. But it is no use talking of that sort of thing just now. Of course, if I had liked, I never need have come home at all, Miss Marchbanks added with composure. And now I have come home. I have got other things to think of. If Papa is good, I will not think of leaving him for ten years. Oh, yes, I have heard girls say that before, said Mrs. Childly, but they always change their minds. You would not like to be an old maid, Lucilla, and in ten years. I should have begun to go off a little, no doubt, said Miss Marchbanks. No, I can't say I wish to be an old maid. Can they be coming upstairs already, do you think? Oh, it is Tom, I suppose, said Lucilla with a little indignation. But when they did make their appearance, which was at a tolerably early period, for a return to the drawing-room was quite a novelty for Dr. Marchbanks's friends, and tempted them accordingly. Miss Marchbanks was quite ready to receive them. And just before ten o'clock, when Mrs. Childly began to think of going home, Lucilla, without being asked, and without indeed a word of preface, suddenly went to the piano, and before anybody knew had commenced to sing. She was a great deal too sensible to go into high art on this occasion, or to electrify her father's friends with her newly acquired Italian, or even with German, as some young ladies do. She sang them a ballad out of one of those treasures of resuscitated ballads, which the new generation had then begun to dig out of the bowels of the earth. There was not, to tell the truth, a great deal of music in it, which proved Lucilla's disinterestedness. I only sang it to amuse you, she said, when all the world crowded to the piano, and for that night she was not to be persuaded to further exertions. Thus Miss Marchbanks proved to her little public the power of subordinating her personal taste, and even her vanity to her great object, which more than anything else demonstrates a mind made to rule. I hope next time you will be more charitable and not tantalize us in this way, Mr. Cavendish said, as he took his leave, and Lucilla retired from the scene of her triumph, conscious of having achieved entire success in her first appearance in Carlingford. She laid her head upon her pillow with that sweet sense of an approving conscience, which accompanies the footsteps of the benefactors of their kind. But even Miss Marchbanks' satisfaction was not without its drawbacks. She could not get out of her mind that unhappy abortive lynching and all its horrors, not to speak of the possibility of her religious principles being impugned, which was dreadful in itself. For people can stand a man being skeptical, you know, Miss Marchbanks justly observed. But everybody knows how unbecoming it is to a woman, and me, who have such a respect for religion, there remained the still more alarming chance that Miss Burry, who was so narrow-minded, might see something improper in the presence of the two young men at Lucilla's maidenly table. For, to be sure, the wrecked her sister was altogether incapable of grasping the idea that young men, like old men and the other less interesting members of the human family, were simple material for Miss Marchbanks' genius, out of which she had a great result to produce. This was the dread that overshadowed the mind of Lucilla as she composed herself to rest after her fatigues. When she slept the sleep of the innocent, it still pursued her into her dreams. She dreamed that she stood at the altar by the side of the member for Carlingford, and that Mr. Burry, with inflexible cruelty, insisted upon marrying her to Tom Marchbanks instead. And then the scene changed, and instead of receiving the salutations of Mr. Cavendish as MP for the hero, it was the amusing man in the character of the defeated candidate who grinned and nodded at her, and said from the hustings that he never would forget the lynching that had been his first introduction to Carlingford. Such was the nightmare that pursued Lucilla even into the sphere of dreams. When such a presentiment takes possession of a well-balanced mind, like that of Miss Marchbanks, it may be accepted as certain that something is likely to follow. Lucilla did her best to disarm fate, not only by the sweetest submission and dutifulness to the doctor and his wishes, but by a severe disregard of Tom, which drove that unhappy young man nearly desperate. Far from saying anything about luncheon, she even ignored his presence at breakfast, and remained calmly unconscious of his empty cup until he had to ask for some coffee in an injured and pathetic voice which amused Dr. Marchbanks beyond description. But even this did not prove sufficient to propitiate the fates. When they were gone, and it may be well to say that Lucilla used this pronoun to signify the gentleman in greater or smaller number as it might happen, and she had finished all her arrangements, Miss Marchbanks decided upon going to Grove Street to pay Barbara Lake a visit and practice some duets, which was certainly as innocent an occupation for her leisure as could have been desired. She was putting on her hat with this object when the bell in the garden rang solemnly, and Lucilla, whose curiosity even conquered her good manners for the moment, hastening to the window, saw Mr. Burry himself enter the garden, accompanied by a tall black figure in deep and shabby mourning. All the tremors of the night rushed back upon her mind at the sight. She felt that the moment had arrived for a trial of her courage very different from the exertions which had hitherto sufficed her. Nothing but the most solemn intentions could have supported the rector in that severe pose of his figure and features, every line in which revealed an intention of being faithful, and the accompanying mute in black, whose office the culprit could not divine, had a veil over her face, and wore a widow's dress. Miss Marchbanks, it is true, was not a woman to be discouraged by appearances, but she felt her heart beat as she collected all her powers to meet this mysterious assault. She took off her hat with an instinctive certainty that, for this morning at least, the duet was impracticable, when she heard Mr. Burry's steady step ascending the stairs. But, notwithstanding, it was with a perfectly cheerful politeness that she bade him welcome when he came into the room. It is so good of you to come, Lucilla said. You that have so much to do, I scarcely could believe it when I saw you come in. I thought it must be for papa. I did hope to find Dr. Marchbanks, said the rector, but as he is not at home I thought it best to come to you. This is Mrs. Mortimer, said Mr. Burry, taking the chair Lucilla had indicated with a certain want of observance of his companion, which betrayed to the keen perceptions of Miss Marchbanks, that she was a dependent of some kind or other. The rector was a very good man, but he was evangelical, and had a large female circle who admired and swore by him, and consequently he felt it in a manner natural that he should take his seat first, and the place that belonged to him as the principal person present. And then, to be sure, his mission was for Mrs. Mortimer's as well as Miss Marchbanks's good. After this introduction, the figure in black put up its veil and revealed a deprecating woman, with a faint sort of pleading smile on her face. Probably she was making believe to smile at the position in which she found herself. But anyhow she took her seat humbly on another chair at a little distance, and waited, as Lucilla did, for the next golden words that it might please the rector to say. My sister told me what happened yesterday, said Mr. Burry. She is very sorry for you, Miss Marchbanks. It is sad for you to be left alone so young, and without a mother, and exposed to—to temptations which it is difficult to withstand at your age. And at all ages we have great occasion to pray, not to be led into temptation, for the heart of a man is terribly deceitful. After hearing what she had to say, I thought it best to come up at once this morning, and talk to Dr. Marchbanks. I am sure his natural good sense will teach him that you ought not to be left alone in the house. I do not see how papa can help it, said Lucilla. I am sure it is very sad for him as well. But since dear mama died, there has been nobody but me to be a comfort to him. I think he begins to look a little cheerful now, Miss Marchbanks continued, with beautiful simplicity, looking her adversary in the face. Everybody knows that to be a comfort to him is the object of my life. That is a very good feeling, said the rector, but it does not do to depend too much upon our feelings. You are too young to be placed in a position of so much responsibility, and open to so much temptation. I was deeply grieved for Dr. Marchbanks when his partner in life was taken from him. But my dear Miss Lucilla, now you have come home, who stand so much in need of a mother's care, we must try to find someone to fill her place. Lucilla uttered a scream of genuine alarm and dismay, and then she came to herself and saw the force of her position. She had it in her power to turn the tables on the rector, and she did not hesitate, as a weaker woman might have done, out of consideration for anybody's feelings. Do you mean you have found someone for him to marry, she asked, with a look of artless surprise, bending her earnest gaze on Mr. Berry's face. As for the rector, he looked at Lucilla aghast, like a man caught in a trap. Of course not, of course not, he stammered after his first pause of consternation, and then he had to stop again to take breath. Lucilla kept up an air of amazement and consternation which had come naturally at first, and had her eyes fixed on him, leaning forward with all the eager anxiety natural to the circumstances, and the unfortunate clergyman reddened from the edge of his white cravat to the roots of his gray hair. He was almost as sensitive to the idea of having proposed something improper as his sister could have been, though indeed at the worst there would have been nothing improper in it had Dr. Marchbanks made up his mind to another wife. It is very dreadful for me that I am so young to go against you, said Lucilla, but if it is that, I cannot be expected to take any part in it. It would not be natural. It is the great object of my life to be a comfort to papa. But if that is what you mean, I could not give into it. I am sure Miss Berry would understand me, said Miss Marchbanks, and she looked so nearly on the point of tears that the rector's anxious disclaimer found words for itself. Nothing of the kind, my dear Miss Lucilla, nothing of the kind, cried Mr. Berry. Such an idea never came into my mind. I cannot imagine how I could have said anything. I can't fancy what put such an idea. Mrs. Mortimer, you are not going away. Lucilla had already seen with the corner of her eye that the victim had started violently, and that her heavy veil had fallen over her face. But she had not taken any notice, for there are cases in which it is absolutely necessary to have a victim. By this time, however, the poor woman had risen in her nervous undecided way. I had better go. I am sure I had better go, she said hurriedly, clasping together a pair of helpless hands, as if they could find a little strength in union. Miss Marchbanks will understand you better, and you will perhaps understand Miss Marchbanks. Oh, sit down, sit down, said Mr. Berry, who was not tolerant of feelings. Perhaps I expressed myself badly. What I meant to say was that Mrs. Mortimer, who has been a little unfortunate in circumstances, sit down, pray, had, by singular providence, just applied to me, when my sister returned home yesterday. These things do not happen by chance, Lucilla. We are taken care of when we are not thinking of it. Mrs. Mortimer is a Christian lady for whom I have the greatest respect, a situation to take the superintendents of the domestic affairs, and to have charge of you, would be just what would suit her. It must be a great anxiety to the doctor to leave you alone, and without any control at your age. You may think the liberty is pleasant at first, but if you had a Christian friend to watch over and take care of you, what is the matter, said the rector in great alarm? It was only that the poor widow, who was to have charge of Lucilla according to his benevolent intention, looked so like fainting that Miss Marchbanks jumped up from her chair and rang the bell hastily. It was not Lucilla's way to lose time about anything. She took the poor woman by the shoulders, and all but lifted her to the sofa, where she was lying down with her bonnet off, when the rector came to his senses. To describe the feelings with which Mr. Murray contemplated this little entract, which was not in his program, would be beyond our powers. He went off humbly and opened the window when he was told, and tried to find the odic alone on the table, while Thomas rushed downstairs for water, at a pace very unlike his usual steady rate of progress. As for Lucilla, she stood by the side of her patient, quite self-possessed, while the rector looked so foolish. She will be all right directly, Miss Marchbanks was saying, luckily she never went right off. When you don't go right off, lying down is everything. If there had been anyone to rent and get some water, she would have got over it, but luckily I saw it in time. What possible answer Mr. Murray could make to this? Of how he could go on with his address inside of the strange turn things had taken, it would have been hard to say. Fortunately for the moment he did not attempt it, but walked around in dismay, and put himself in the draft with his rheumatism, and felt dreadfully vexed and angry with Mrs. Mortimer, who, for her part, now she had done with fainting, manifested an inclination to cry, for which Mr. Murray in his heart could have whipped her had the mode of discipline been permitted in the Church of England. Lucilla was merciful, but she could not help taking a little advantage of her victory. She gave the sufferer a glass of water, and the odic cologne to keep her from a relapse, and whispered to her to lie quiet, and then she came back and took her seat and begged the rector not to stand in the draft. I don't think she is strong, said Miss Marchbanks confidentially, when she had wiled the disconcerted clergyman back to her side. Her colour changes so. She never would be able, for what there is to do here, even if Papa would consent to think of it. For my part, I am sure I should be glad of a little assistance, said Lucilla, but I never like to give false hopes, and I don't think Papa would consent. She looks nice if she was not so weak, poor thing. And there are such quantities of things to be done here. But if you wish it, Mr. Burry, I will speak to Papa, said Miss Marchbanks, lifting her eyes, which were so open and straightforward to the rector's face. To tell the truth, he did not, in the least, know what to say, and the chances are he would not have been half so vexed and angry, nor felt in so un-christian a disposition with the poor woman on the sofa, had he meant to do her harm instead of good. Yes, I should be glad if you would mention it to Dr. Marchbanks, he said, without very well knowing what he said, and got up to shake hands with Lucilla, and then recollected that he could not leave his protégé behind him, and hesitated, and did not know what to do. He was really grateful, without being aware of it, to miss Marchbanks when once again she came to his aid. Please, leave her a little, said Lucilla, and I can make acquaintance with her, you know, in case Papa should be disposed to think of it. She must lie still a little till it quite wears off. I would ask you to state a lunch if I was not afraid of wasting your precious time. Mr. Burry gave a little gasp of indignation, but he did not say anything. On the whole, even though smarting under the indignity of being asked to lunch, as his sister had been, when probably there might be a repetition of the scene of yesterday, he was glad to get safely out of the house, even at the risk of abandoning his enterprise. As for a woman in want of a situation, who had so little common sense as to faint at such a critical moment, the rector was disposed to wash his hands of her. For Mr. Burry, like them all, as Lucilla said, was horribly frightened by a faint when he saw one, and afterwards pretended to disbelieve in it, and called it one of the things which a little self-command could always prevent. When he was gone, Miss Marchbanks felt the full importance of her victory, and then, though she had not hesitated to sacrifice this poor woman when it was necessary to have a victim, that moment was over. And she had no pleasure in being cruel. On the contrary, she went and sat by her patient, and talked, and was very kind to her. She made her lie still, and tell her story at leisure, and all about it. I knew it would hurt your feelings, Miss Marchbanks said candidly, but I could not do anything else, and you know it was Mr. Burry's fault, but I am sure if I can be of any use to you. It was thus that Lucilla added, without knowing it, another complication to her fortunes. But then, to be sure, clear-sighted as she was, she could not see into the future, nor know what was to come of it. She told the doctor in the evening with the greatest faithfulness, and described how Mr. Burry looked, and that she had said she did not think Papa would be disposed to think of it, and Dr. Marchbanks was so much entertained that he came upstairs to hear the end, and took a cup of tea. It was the third night in succession that the doctor had taken this step, though it was against his principles, and thus it will be seen that good came out of evil in a beautifully distinct and appropriate way. But notwithstanding Miss Marchbanks, though she had escaped immediate danger, still felt in her heart the consequences of having made a failure at the beginning of her career. CHAPTER IX It was not till Miss Marchbanks had surmounted to a certain extent the vexation caused her by her unlucky confidence in Tom, that that unhappy young man took the step which Lucilla had so long dreaded, but which she trusted to her own genius to hinder him from carrying into execution. Miss Marchbanks had extricated herself so triumphantly from the consequences of that unhappy commencement of the very charming lentions which she gave in aftertimes, that she had begun to forget the culpability of her cousin. She had defeated the rector in his benevolent intentions, and she had taken up his protégé just at the moment when Mr. Burry was most disgusted with the unfortunate woman's weakness. Poor Mrs. Mortimer, to be sure, had fainted, or been near fainting, at the most inopportune moment, and it was only natural that the rector should be annoyed. But as for Lucilla, who was always prompt in her actions, and whose good nature and liberality were undoubted, she found her opportunity in the failure of Mr. Burry's scheme. After the rector had gone away, Miss Marchbanks herself conducted the widow home, and heard all her story. And by this time Mrs. Mortimer's prospects were beginning to brighten under the active and efficient patronage of her new friend. This being the case, Lucilla's good humor was perfectly restored, and she had forgiven Tom his maledroitness. He cannot help it, you know, she said privately to old Mrs. Chiley. I suppose some people are born to do ridiculous things. And it was indeed as if he had intended to give a practical illustration of the truth of this conclusion that Tom chose the particular moment he did for driving Miss Marchbanks to the extremity of her patients. The upholsterers were in the house, and indeed had just finished putting up the pictures on the new paper in the drawing room, which was green as Lucilla had determined it should be, of the most delicate tint, and looked, as she flattered herself, exactly like Salt Kingings. And Mr. Holden himself waited with a certain complacence for Miss Marchbanks's opinion of the effect. He had no doubt on the subject himself, but he was naturally impressed, as most people were, with that confidence in Lucilla's judgment which so much facilitates the operation of those persons who are born to greatness. It was precisely at this moment that his evil genius persuaded Tom Marchbanks to interrupt Thomas, who was carrying Mr. Holden's message to his young mistress, and to shut the library door upon the external world. Lucilla had taken refuge in the library during the renovation of the drawing room, and she was aware that this was Tom's last day at Carlingford, and had no intention of being unkind to him. To tell the truth, she had at the bottom of her heart a certain regard and impulse of protection and patronage towards Tom, of which something might have come had the unlucky fellow known how to manage. But at the same time Miss Marchbanks was aware that things must be approaching a crisis upstairs, and was listening intently to the movements overhead, and wondering why she was not sent for. This was the moment of all others at which Tom thought it fit to claim a hearing, and the state of Lucilla's feelings may be easily imagined when she saw him plant himself by her side, all trembling, with his face alternately red and white, and all the signs of a desperate resolution in his countenance. For the first time in her life, a certain despair took possession of Miss Marchbanks's mind. The sounds had suddenly ceased upstairs, as if the artists there were making a pause to contemplate the effect of their completed work, which indeed was precisely the case, and at the same time, nobody came to call her, important though the occasion was. She made a last effort to emancipate herself before it was too late. �Ring, please, Tom� she said, �I want to know if they have finished upstairs. I am so sorry you are going away, but you know it is one of my principles never to neglect my duty. I am sure they must be waiting for me, if you would only be kind enough to ring.� �Lucilla,� said Tom, �you know I would do anything in the world you liked to tell me, but don�t ask me to ring just now. �I am going to leave you, and there is something I must say to you, Lucilla,� said the young man with agitation. Miss Marchbanks was seated near the window, and she had a moral certainty that if any of the Browns happened to be in that ridiculous glass house where they did their photography, they must have a perfectly good view of her, with Tom in the background, who had placed himself so as to shut her in the recesses of the window. Miss, coupled with the evidence of her senses, that the workmen upstairs had ceased their work, and that a slow footstep traversing the floor now and then was all that was audible, drove Lucilla to despair. �Yes,� she said, �temporizing a little,� which was the only thing she could do. �I am sure I am sorry, but then you know, with the house in such a condition, �Next time you come I shall be able to enjoy your society,� said the designing young woman, �but at present I am so busy. It is one of my principles, you know, that things are never rightly done if the lady of the house does not pay proper attention. They are sure to make some dreadful mistake upstairs if I don�t look after them. I shall see you again before you go. �Lucilla, don�t be so cruel,� cried the unlucky Tom, and he caught her hand though they were at the window. �Do stop a moment and listen to me. Lucilla, what does it matter about furniture and things when a man�s heart is bursting?� cried the unfortunate lover, and just at that moment Ms. Barchbanks could see that the curtain was drawn aside a little, ever so little in the glass house. She sat down again with a sigh, and drew her hand away, and prepared herself to meet her fate with heroism at least. �What in the world can you have been doing?� said Lucilla innocently. �You used always to tell me I know when you got into any difficulty, and I am sure if I can be of any use to you, Tom. But as for furniture and things, they matter a great deal, I assure you, to people�s happiness, and then you know it is the object of my life to be a comfort to dear papa.� When she said this, Ms. Barchbanks settled herself again in the recess of the window, so that the Ms. Browns could command a full view if they chose. For Lucilla�s courage was of the highest order, and nothing except, perhaps, a strategical necessity of profound importance would have moved her to retreat before an enemy. As for Tom, he was bewildered to start with, by this solemn repetition of her great purpose. �I know how good you are, Lucilla� he said with humility. �But then, my uncle, you know, I don�t think he is a man, to appreciate. �Oh, Lucilla, why should you go and sacrifice to him the happiness of your life?� Tom, submissed Ms. Barchbanks, with some solemnity. �I wish you would not talk to me of happiness. I have always been brought up to believe that duty was happiness, and everybody has known for a long time that was the object of my life. As for poor papa, it is the worse for him if he does not understand, but that does not make any difference to my duty,� said the devoted daughter. She gave a little sigh as she spoke. The sigh of a great soul, his motives must always remain to some extent unappreciated, and the sight of her resignation and beautiful perseverance overwhelmed her unlucky suitor. For indeed, up to this moment, Lucilla still entertained the hope of preventing Tom from, as she herself described it, saying the very words, which, to be sure, are awkward words to hear and to say. �Lucilla, when you are so good to my uncle, you ought to have a little pity on me,� said Tom, driven to the deepest despondency. �How do you think I can bear it, to see you getting everything done here, as if you meant to stay all your life? When you know I love you,� said the unfortunate young man, �when you know I have always been so fond of you, Lucilla, and always looked forward to the time. And now it is very hard to see you care so little for me.� �Tom,� said Miss Marchbanks, with indignant surprise, �how can you say I care little for you?� �You know I was always very fond of you, on the contrary. I am sure I always stood your friend at home, whatever happened, and never said a word when you broke that pretty little pearl ring I was so fond of, and tore the scarf my aunt gave me. �I wonder for my part, how you can be so unkind as to say so. We have always been the very best friends in the world,� said Lucilla, with an air of injury. �I always said at school, I liked you the best of all my cousins, and I am very fond of all my cousins.� Miss Marchbanks concluded after a little pause. �It is so unkind to tell me that I don't care for you. Poor Tom groaned within himself as he listened. He did not know what to answer to Lucilla's aggrieved yet frank confession of her fondness. Naturally it would have been much less displeasing to Tom to understand that she hated him and never desired to see him any more. But Miss Marchbanks was far from entertaining any such un-christian sentiments. She even began to forget her anxiety about what was going on upstairs and that delightful sense of power and abundant resources with which she was mastering the present difficulty. She reflected in herself that though it was excessively annoying to be thus occupied at such a moment, still it was nearly as important to make an end of Tom as to see that the pictures were hung rightly, for, to be sure, it was always easy to return to the latter subject. Accordingly she drew her chair a little nearer to the window, and regarded Tom with a calm gaze of benevolent interest, which was in perfect accordance with the sentiments she had just expressed. A look in which a little gentle reproach was mingled. I have always been like a sister to you, said Lucilla. How can you be so unkind as to say I don't care? As for the unhappy Tom, he got up, as was natural, and took a little walk in front of the table, as a young man in trouble is apt to do. You know very well that it's not what I mean, Lucilla, he said disconsolately. It is you who are unkind. I don't know why it is that ladies are so cruel. I am not such a snob as to persecute anybody, but what is the good of pretending not to know what I mean? Tom, listen, cried Miss Marchbanks, rising in her turn. I feel sure they must have finished. There is Mr. Holden going through the garden, and everybody knows that hanging pictures is just the thing of all others that requires a person of taste. If they have spoiled the room, it will be all your fault. Go for heaven's sake, never mind the room, said Tom. I never thought you would have trifled with a man, Lucilla. You know quite well what I mean. You know it isn't a new thing, said the lover, beginning to stammer and get confused. You know that is what I have been thinking of all along, as soon as ever I had anything to live on. I love you, Lucilla. You know I love you. How can you trifle with me so? It is you who are trifling, said Miss Marchbanks, especially when you know I have really something of importance to do. You can come upstairs with me if you like. Of course we all love each other. What is the good of being relations, otherwise, said Lucilla calmly? It is such a natural thing, you know. I suppose it is because you are going away that you are so affectionate today. It is very nice of you, I am sure. But Tom, I feel quite certain you have not packed your things. Miss Marchbanks added in an admonitory tone, come along with me upstairs. And by this time, Lucilla's curiosity was beginning again to get the upper hand. If she only could have escaped, it would have been impossible for her cousin to have renewed the conversation. And luckily he was to leave Carlingford the same evening. But then a man is always an inconsequent creature, and not to be calculated on. This time, instead of obeying as usual, Tom, having his Miss Marchbanks afterwards described, but only in the strictest confidence, worked himself up to it, set himself directly in her way and seized upon both her hands. Lucilla cried the unlucky fellow. Is it possible that you really have misunderstood me all this time? Do you mean to say that you don't know? Oh, Lucilla, listen, just five minutes. It isn't because I am your cousin. I wish to heaven I was not your cousin, but someone you had never seen before. I mean I want you to consent to marry me, Lucilla. That is what I mean. I am called to the bar, and I can work for you and make a reputation. Lucilla, listen to what I have got to say. Miss Marchbanks left her hands in his with a calmness which froze poor Tom's heart in his breast. She did not even take the trouble to draw them away. Have you gone out of your senses, Tom? She asked in her sensible way, and she lifted her eyes to the face of the poor young fellow, who was in love, with an inquiring look, as if she felt a little anxious about him. If you have any feeling, as if fever was coming on, said Lucilla, I think you should go upstairs and lie down a little till papa comes in. I heard there had been some cases down about the canal. I hope it is not the assizes that have been too much for you. When Miss Marchbank said this, she herself took fast hold of Tom's hands with a motherly grasp to feel if they were hot, looked into his eyes with a certain serious inspection, which, under the circumstances, poor fellow, was enough to drive him out of the little rationality he had left. Tom was so far carried away by his frenzy that he gave her a little shake in his impatience. You are trying to drive me mad, Lucilla, cried the young man. I have got no fever. It is only you who are driving me out of my senses. This time you must hear me. I will not let you go till you have given me an answer. I am called to the bar, and I have begun my career, said Tom, making a pause for breath. I knew you would have laughed at me when I was depending on my mother, but now all that is over, Lucilla. I have loved you as long as I can remember, and I always thought that you cared for me a little. If you will have me, there is nothing I could not do, said Tom, who thoroughly believed what he was saying, and if you will not have me, I will not answer for the consequences. If I go off to India or if I go to the bad, Tom, said Lucilla solemnly, and this time she drew away her hands. If you ever want to get married, I think the very best thing you can do is go to India. As for marrying just now at your age, you know you might as well jump into the sea. You need not be vexed, said Miss Marchbanks in her motherly way. I would not speak so if I was not your best friend, Tom. As for marrying me, you know it is ridiculous. I have not the least intention of marrying anybody. If I had thought of that, I need never have come home at all. As for you going to the bad, I am not afraid of that. If I were to let you carry on with such a ridiculous idea, I should never forgive myself. It would be just as sensible to go into a lunatic asylum at once. It is very lucky for you that you said this to me, Lucilla went on, and not to one of the girls that think it great fun to be married. And if I were you, Tom, I would go and pack my things. You know you are always too late, and don't jump on your portmanteau and make such a dreadful noise if it won't shut, but ring the bell for Thomas. You know we are to dine at half past five today to give you time for the train. These were the last words Tom Marchbanks heard as Lucilla left the room. She ran up to the drawing room without losing a minute, and burst in upon the vacant place where Mr. Holden had stood so long waiting for her. To be sure, Miss Marchbanks's forebodings were so far fulfilled that the St. Cecilio, which she meant to have over the piano, was hung quite in the other corner of the room, by the reason of being just the same size as another picture at the opposite angle which the workmen, sternly symmetrical, thought it was necessary to match. But after all, that was a trifling defect. She stood in the middle of the room and surveyed the walls, well pleased, with the heart which kept beating very steadily in her bosom. On the whole, perhaps, she was not sorry to have had it out with Tom. So far as he was personally concerned, Miss Marchbanks, being a physician's daughter, had great faith in the V's medicatrice, and was not afraid for her cousin's health or his morals as a less experienced woman might have been. If she was angry with anybody, it was with herself, who had not taken sufficient precautions to avoid the explanation. But after all, everything is for the best, Lucilla said to herself, with that beautiful confidence which is common to people who have things their own way. And she devoted her mind to the St. Cecilia, and paid no more attention to Tom. It was not till more than an hour after that a succession of dreadful thumps were not only heard but felt throughout the house. It was Tom, but he was not doing any harm to himself. He was not blowing out his brains or knocking his head against the wall. He was only jumping on his poor man toe, not withstanding that Lucilla had warned him against such a proceeding. And in his state of mind the jumps were naturally more frantic than usual. When Lucilla heard it, she rang the bell and told Thomas to go and help Mr. Tom with his packing, from which it will be seen that Miss Marchbanks bore no grudge against her cousin, but was disposed to send him forth in friendship and peace. End of Chapter 9. Recorded by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, California, May 2009. Chapter 10 of Miss Marchbanks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michelle Crandall. Miss Marchbanks by Mrs. Oliphant. Chapter 10. It was nearly six weeks after this when all Miss Marchbanks's arrangements were completed, and she was able, with satisfaction to herself, to begin her campaign. It was just before Christmas, at the time above all others, when society has need of a ruling spirit. For example, Mrs. Chiley expected the Colonel's niece, Mary Chiley, who had been married about six months before and who was not fond of her husband's friends, and at the same time had no home of her own to go to, being an orphan. The Colonel had invited the young couple by way of doing a kind thing, but he grumbled a little at the necessity, and had never liked the fellow, he said, and then what were two old people to do to amuse them? Then Mrs. Sentom had her two eldest boys home from school, and was driven out of her senses by the noise in the racket as she confided to her visitors. It's all very well to make pretty pictures about Christmas, said the exasperated mother, but I should like to know how one can enjoy anything with such a commotion going on. I get up every morning with a headache, I assure you, and then Mr. Sentom expects me to be cheerful when he comes into dinner. Children are so unreasonable. I should like to know what they would do if they had what we have to go through, to look after all the servants, and they are always out of their senses at Christmas, and to see that the children don't have too much pudding and to support all the noise. The holidays are the hardest work a poor woman can have, she concluded with a sigh. And when it is taken into consideration that this particular Christmas was a wet Christmas, without any frost or possibility of amusement out of doors, English matrons in general will not refuse their sympathy to Mrs. Sentom. Mrs. Woodburn perhaps was equally to be pitied in a different way. She had to receive several members of her husband's family, who were, like Miss Marchbanks, without any sense of humor, and who stared, and did not in the least understand her when she took off any of her neighbors, not to say that some of them were low church, and thought the practice sinful. After these circumstances it will be readily believed that the commencement of Lucila's operations was looked upon with great interest in Carlingford. It was so opportune that society forgot its usual instincts of criticism, and forgave Miss Marchbanks for being more enlightened and enterprising than her neighbors. And then most people were very anxious to see the drawing room now it had been restored. This was a privilege, however, not accorded to the crowd. Miss Chiley had seen it under a vow of secrecy, and Mr. Cavendish owned to having made a run upstairs one evening after one of Dr. Marchbanks's little dinners, when the other convives were in the library, where Lucila had erected her temporary throne. But this clandestine inspection met with the failure it deserved, for there was no light in the room except the moonlight, which made three white blotches on the carpet where the windows were, burying everything else in the profoundest darkness. And the spy knocked his foot against something, which reduced him to sudden and well-married agony. As for Mrs. Chiley, she was discretion itself, and would say nothing even to her niece. I mean to work her a footstool in Waterlilies, my dear, like the one I did for you when you were married, the old lady said, and that was the only light she would throw on the subject. My opinion is that it must be in Crimson, Mrs. Woodburn said when she heard this, for I know your aunt's Waterlilies, when I see them growing, I always think of you. It would be quite like Lucila Marchbanks to have it in Crimson, for it is a cheerful color, you know, and quite different from the old furniture, and that would always be a comfort to her dear papa. From this it will be seen that the curiosity of Carlingford was excited to a lively extent. Many people even went so far as to give the Browns a sitting in their glass-house, with the hope of having a peep at the color of the hangings at least. But Miss Marchbanks was too sensible a woman to leave her virgin drawing-room exposed to the sun, when there was any, and to the photographers, who were perhaps more dangerous. I think it is blue for my part, said Miss Brown, who had got into the habit of rising early in hopes of finding the doctor's household off its guard. Lucila was always a great one for blue. She thinks it is becoming to her complexion. Which indeed, as the readers of this history are aware, was a matter of fact. As for Miss Marchbanks, she did her best to keep up this agreeable mystery. For my part, I am fond of neutral tints, she herself said, when she was questioned on the subject. Anybody who knows me can easily guess my taste. I should have been born a Quaker, you know. I do so like the drabs and grays, and all those soft colors. You can have as much red and green as you like abroad, where the sun is strong. And here it would be a bad style, said Lucila, from which the most simple-minded of her auditors drew the natural conclusion. Thus, all the world contemplated with excitement the first Thursday, which was to open this enchanted chamber to their admiring eyes. Don't expect any regular invitation, Miss Marchbanks said. I hope you will all come, or as many of you as can. Papa has always cemented dinner with him that day, you know, and it is so dreadfully slow for me with the heap of men. That is why I fixed on Thursday. I want you to come every week, so it would be absurd to send an invitation. And remember, it is not a party, only an evening, said Lucila. I shall wear a white frock high, as I always do. Now be sure you come. But we can't all go in high white frocks, said Mrs. Chiley's niece, Mary, who, if her trousseau had been subtracted from the joys of marriage, would not poor soul have found very much left. This intimation dismayed the bride a little, for, to be sure, she had decided which dress she was to wear before Lucila spoke. But, my dear, you are married, said Miss Marchbanks. That makes it quite different. Come in that pretty pink that is so becoming. I don't want to have any doughties for my part, and don't forget that I shall expect you all at nine o'clock. When she had said this, Miss Marchbanks proceeded on her way, sewing invitations and gratification round her. She asked the youngest Miss Brown to bring her music, in recognition of her ancient claims as the songstress of society in Carlingford. For Lucila had all that regard for constituted rites, which is so necessary to a revolutionary of the highest class. She had no desire to shock anybody's prejudices, or wound anybody's feelings. And she has a nice little voice, Lucila said to herself, with the most friendly and tolerant feelings. Miss Marchbanks prepared to establish her kingdom with a benevolence which was almost utopian, not upon the ruins of other thrones, but with the goodwill and cooperation of the lesser powers, who were, to be sure, too feeble to resist her advance, but whose rites she was quite ready to recognize, and even to promote in her own way. At the same time it is necessary here to indicate a certain vague and not disagreeable danger which appeared to some experienced persons to show Lucila's conquering way. Mr. Cavendish, who was a young man of refinement, not to say that he had a very nice property, had begun to pay attention to Miss Marchbanks in what Mrs. Charlie thought quite a marked way. To be sure, he could not pretend to the honor of taking her in to dinner, which was not his place being a young man, but he did what was next best, and maneuvered to get the place on her left hand, which, in a party composed chiefly of men, was not difficult to manage. For, to tell the truth, most of the gentlemen present were at that special moment more interested in the dinner than in Lucila. And after dinner it was Mr. Cavendish who was the first to leave the room, and to hear the two talking about all the places they had been to, and all the people they had met, was as good as a play, as Mrs. Charlie said. Mr. Cavendish confided to Lucila his opinions upon things in general, and accepted the reproofs which she administered, for Miss Marchbanks was quite unquestionable in her orthodoxy, and thought it a duty, as she said, always to speak with respect of religion, when his sentiments were too speculative, and said, how charming is divine philosophy! So as for the moment to dazzle Lucila herself, who thought it a very pretty compliment. He came to her assistance when she made tea, and generally fulfilled all the duties which are expected of a man who is paying attention to a young lady. Old Mrs. Charlie watched the nascent regard with her kind old grandmotherly eyes. She calculated over in her own mind the details of his possessions, so far as the public was aware of them, and found them on the whole satisfactory. He had a nice property, and then he was a very nice, indeed an unexceptionable young man, and, to add to this, it had been agreed between Colonel Chiley and Mr. Sentom, and several other of the leading people in Carlingford, that he was the most likely man to represent the borough when old Mr. Chiltern, who was always threatening to retire, fulfilled his promise. Mr. Cavendish had a very handsome house, a little out of Carlingford, where a lady would be next thing to a county lady, indeed quite a county lady, if her husband was the member for Carlingford. All these thoughts passed through Mrs. Chiley's mind, and, as was natural, in the precious moments after dinner were suggested in occasional words of meaning to the understanding ear of Miss Marchbanks. My dear Lucilla, it is just the position that would suit you, with your talents, the old lady said, and Miss Marchbanks did not say no. To be sure, she had not at the present moment the least inclination to get married, as she truly said. It would indeed, to tell the truth, disturb her plans considerably. But still, if such was the intention of Providence, and if it was to the member for Carlingford, Lucilla felt that it was still credible that everything might be for the best. But it is a great deal too soon to think of anything of that sort, Miss Marchbanks would reply. If I had thought of that, I need never have come home at all. And especially when Papa has been so good about everything. Yet for all that, she was not ungracious to Mr. Cavendish when he came in first, as usual. To marry a man in his position would not, after all, be degrading her plans to any serious extent. Indeed it would, if his hopes were realized, constitute Lucilla a kind of queen in Carlingford, and she could not but feel that under these circumstances it might be a kind of duty to reconsider her resolution. And thus the time passed while the drawing-room was undergoing renovation. Mr. Cavendish had been much tantalized, as he said, by the absence of the piano, which prevented them from having any music, and Lucilla had even been tempted into a few snatches of song, which, to tell the truth, some of the gentlemen present, especially the doctor himself, and Colonel Chiley, being old-fashioned, preferred without the accompaniment. And thus it was under the most brilliant auspices, and with the full confidence of all her future constituency, that Ms. Marchbank superintended the arrangement of the drawing-room on that momentous Thursday, which was to be the real beginning of her great work in Carlingford. My dear, you must leave yourself entirely in my hands, Lucilla said to Barbara Lake on the morning of that eventful day. Don't get impatient. I dare say you don't know many people, and it may be a little slow for you at first, but everybody has to put up with that, you know, for a beginning. And by the way, what are you going to wear? I have not thought about it, said Barbara Lake, who had the painful pride of poverty, aggravated much by a sense that the comforts of other people were an injury to her. Poor soul, she had been thinking of little else for at least a week past, and then she had not very much choice in her wardrobe, but her temperament was one which rejected sympathy, and she thought it would look best to pretend to be indifferent. At the same time, she said this with a dull color on her cheeks, the color of irritation, and she could not help asking herself why Lucilla, who was not so handsome as she was, had the power to array herself in gorgeous apparel, while she, Barbara, had nothing but a white frock. There are differences even in white frocks, though the masculine mind may be unaware of them. Barbara's muslin had been washed six times, and had a very different air from the vestal robes of her patroness. To be sure, Lucilla was not taken in in the least by her companion's look of indifference, and to tell the truth would have been delighted to bestow a pretty dress upon Barbara, if that had been a possible thing to do. There will be no dress, said Miss Marchbanks, with solemnity. I have insisted upon that. You know it is not a party, it is only an evening, a white frock high, that is all I mean to wear, and mind you don't lose patience. I shall keep my eye on you, and after the first I feel sure you will enjoy yourself. Goodbye for the present. Miss Marchbanks went away to pursue her preparations, and Barbara proceeded to get out her dress and examine it. It was as important to her as all the complicated paraphernalia of the evening's arrangements were to Lucilla. To be sure, there were greater interests involved in the case of the leader, but then Barbara was the soldier of fortune who had to open the oyster with her sword, and she was feeling the point of it metaphorically while she pulled out the breaths of her white dress, and tried to think that they would not look limp at night, and what her sentiments lost in breath, as compared with Lucilla's, they gained in intensity, for, for anything she could tell, her life might change color by means of this Thursday evening. And such, indeed, was her hope. Barbara prepared for her first appearance in Grange Lane, with a mind wound up to any degree of daring. It did not occur to her that she required to keep faith with Miss Marchbanks in anything except the duet. For other matters Barbara was quite unscrupulous, for, at the bottom, she could not but feel that anyone who was kind to her was taking an unwarrantable liberty. What right had Lucilla Marchbanks to be kind to her, as if she was not as good as Lucilla any day, and though it might be worth her while to take advantage of it for the moment, it was still an insult in its way to be avenged if an opportunity ever should arise. The evening came, as evenings do come quite indifferently, whether people are glad or sorry. And it was with a calmness which the other ladies regarded as next to miraculous, that Miss Marchbanks took Colonel Chiley's arm to go to the dining room. We say the other ladies, for on this great occasion, Mrs. Sentom and Mrs. Woodburn were both among the dinner guests. To see her eat her dinner as if she had nothing on her mind, Mrs. Sentom said in amazement, as for me, though nobody can blame me if anything goes wrong, I could enjoy nothing for thinking of it. And I must say I was disappointed with the dinner, she added, with a certain air of satisfaction in Mrs. Woodburn's ear. It was when they were going upstairs and Lucilla was behind with Mrs. Chiley. The fuss the men have always made about these dinners, and except for a few made dishes that were really nothing, you know, I can't say I saw anything particular in it. But as for Lucilla, I can't think she has any feeling, said the banker's wife. Oh, my dear, it is because you don't understand, said Mrs. Woodburn. She has kept up, you know, by a sense of duty. It is all because she has set her heart on being a comfort to her dear papa. Such it is true were the comments that were made upon the public-spirited young woman who was doing so much for Carlingford. But then Lucilla only shared the fate of all the great benefactors of the world. An hour later the glories of the furniture were veiled and hidden in a radiant flood of society, embracing all that was most fair and all that was most distinguished in Carlingford. No doubt this was a world of heterogeneous elements. But then, if there had not been difficulties, where would have been the use of Miss March Banks's genius? Mr. Burry and his sister, who had been unconsciously emolified by the admirable dinner, provided for them downstairs, found some stray lambs in the assembly who were in need of them, and thus had the double satisfaction of combining pleasure with duty. And though there were several people in the room whose lives were a burden to them in consequence of Mrs. Woodburn's remarkable gift, even they found it impossible not to be amused by an occasional representation of an absent individual, or by the dashing sketch of Lucilla, which she gave at intervals in her corner, amid the smothered laughter of the audience, who were half ashamed of themselves. She has never ill-tempered, you know, the persons who felt themselves threatened in their turn said to each other, with a certain piteous resignation. And oddly enough, it was in general the most insignificant people about who were afraid of Mrs. Woodburn. It is needless to say that such a dread never entered the serene intelligence of Miss March Banks, who believed in herself with a reasonable and steady faith. As for old Mrs. Chiley, who had so many funny little ways, and whom the mimic executed to perfection, she also was quite calm on the subject. You know there is nothing to take off in me, the old lady would say. I, always, was a simple body, and then I am old enough to be all your grandmothers, my dear, which was a saying calculated, as Miss March Banks justly observed, to melt a heart of stone. Then the Miss Browns had brought their photographs, in which most people in Grange Lane were caricatured hideously, but with such a charming equality that the most exigent forgave the wrong to himself in laughing at his neighbors. Miss Brown had brought her music, too, and sang her feeble little strain to the applause of her immediate neighbors, and to the delight of those who were at a distance, and who could talk louder and flirt more openly under cover of the music. And there were other young ladies, who had also come prepared with a little role of songs or pieces. Lucilla, with her finger as it were upon the pulse of the company, let them all exhibit their powers, with that enlightened impartiality which we have already remarked in her. When Mr. Cavendish came to her in his ingratiating way, and asked her how she could possibly let all the sparrows chirp like that, when the nightingale was present, Miss March Banks proved herself proof to the flattery. She said, do go away like a good man, and make yourself agreeable. There are so few men, you know, who can flirt in Carlingford. I have always reckoned upon you as such a valuable assistant. It is always such an advantage to have a man who flirts, said Miss March Banks. This was a sentiment perhaps too large and enlightened, in the truest sense of the word, to meet as it ought to have done with the applause of her audience. Most of the persons immediately surrounding her thought, indeed, that it was a mere bonement to which Lucilla had given utterance, and laughed accordingly. But it is needless to explain that these were persons unable to understand her genius. All this time she was keeping her eyes upon a figure in the corner of a sofa, which looked as if it was glued there, and kept staring defiance at the world in general, from under black and leveled brows. Lucilla, it is true, had introduced Barbara Lake in the most flattering way to Mrs. Chiley, and to some of the young ladies present. But then she was a stranger, and an intruder into those regions of the blessed, and she could not help feeling so. If her present companions had not whispered among themselves, Miss Lake, what Miss Lake? Good gracious, Lake the Drying Master's daughter! She herself would still have reminded herself of her humble paternity. Barbara sat as if she could not move from that corner, looking out upon everybody with scared eyes, which expressed nothing but defiance, and in her own mind making the reflections of bitter poverty upon the airy pretty figures round her, in all the variations of that costume, which Miss March Banks had announced as the standard of dress for the evening. Barbara's muslin, six times washed, was not more different from the spotless lightness of all the draperies round her than was her air of fright, and at the same time of defiance, from the gay babble and pleasant looks of the group, which, by a chance combination, she seemed to form part of. She began to say to herself that she had much better go away, and that there never could be anything in common between these frivolous creatures and her, who was a poor man's daughter. And she began to get dreadfully exasperated with Lucilla, who had beguiled her into this scene to make game of her, as poor Barbara said, though so far from making game of her, nobody took much notice, after the first unsuccessful attempt at conversation of the unfortunate young woman. It was when she was in this unhappy humor that her eye fell upon Mr. Cavendish, who was in the act of making the appeal to Lucilla which we have already recorded. Barbara had never as yet had a lover, but she had read an unlimited number of novels, which came to nearly the same thing, and she saw at a glance that this was somebody who resembled the indispensable hero. She looked at him with a certain fierce interest, and remembered at that instant how often in books it is the humble heroine, behind backs, whom all the young ladies snub who wins the hero at the last. And then, Miss Marchbanks, though she sent him away, smiled benignantly upon him. The color flushed to Barbara's cheeks, and her eyes, which had grown dull and fixed between fright and spite, took sudden expression under her straight brows, an intention which was not so much an intention as an instinct, suddenly sprang into life within her, and without knowing, she drew a long breath of eagerness and impotence. He was standing quite near by this time, doing his duty according to Miss Marchbanks' orders, and flirting with all his might, and Barbara looked at him just as a hungry schoolboy might be supposed to look at attempting apple just out of his reach. How was she to get at this, suitor of Lucilla's? It would have given her so pure a delight to tear down the golden apple and tread on it, and trample it to nothing, and then it came into her head that it might be good to eat as well. It was at this moment that Miss Marchbanks, who was in six places at once, suddenly touched Barbara's shoulder. Come with me a minute, I want to show you something, she said loud out. Barbara on her side looked round with a crimson countenance, feeling that her secret thoughts must be written in her guilty eyes. But then, these were eyes which could be utterly destitute of expression when they pleased, though their owner at present, just at the beginning of her experience, was not quite aware of the fact. She stumbled to her feet with all the awkwardness natural to that form of shyness which her temper and her temperament united to produce in her. She did all but put her foot through Miss Brown's delicate skirt, and she had neither the natural disposition nor the acquired grace which can carry off one of those trifling offenses against society. Nevertheless, as she stood beside Lucilla at the piano, the company in general owned a little thrill of curiosity. Who was she? A girl with splendid black hair, with brows as level as if they had been made with a line, with intense eyes which looked a little oblique under that straight bar of shadow. Her dress was limp, but she had not such a figure as can be passed over even at an evening party. And then, her face was a little flushed and her eyes lit up with excitement. She seemed to survey everybody with that defiant look which was chiefly awkwardness and temper, but which looked like pride when she was standing up at her full height, and in a conspicuous position where everybody could see her. Most people concluded she was an Italian whom Lucilla had picked up somewhere in her travels. As for Mr. Cavendish, he stopped short all together in the occupation which Miss Marchbanks had allotted to him and drew close to the piano. He thought he had seen the face somewhere under a shabby bonnet in some by-street of Carlingford, and he was even sufficiently learned in female apparel to observe the limpness of her dress. This preface of curiosity had all been foreseen by Miss Marchbanks, and she paused a moment under pretence of selecting her music to take the full advantage of it, for Lucilla, like most persons of elevated aims, was content to sacrifice herself to the success of her work, and then all at once before the Carlingford people knew what they were doing. The two voices rose, bursting upon the astonished community like a sudden revelation, for it must be remembered that nobody in Carlingford, except the members of Dr. Marchbanks's dinner party, had ever heard Lucilla sing, much less her companion, and the account which these gentlemen had carried home to their wives had been generally poo-pooed and put down. Mr. Sentom never listens to a note if he can help it, said the banker's wife, and how could he know whether she had a nice voice or not, which indeed was a powerful argument. But this evening there could be no mistake about it. The words were arrested on the very lips of the talkers. Mrs. Woodburn paused in the midst of doing Lucilla, and, as we have before said, Mr. Cavendish broke a flotation clean off at its most interesting moment. It is impossible to record what they sang, for those events as everybody is aware happened a good many years ago, and the chances are that the present generation has altogether forgotten the duet, which made so extraordinary an impression on the inhabitants of Grange Lane. The applause with which the performance was received reached the length of a perfect ovation. Barbara, for her part, who was not conscious of having ever been applauded before, flushed into splendid crimson, and shone out from under her straight eyebrows, intoxicated into absolute beauty. As for Miss March Banks, she took it more calmly. Lucilla had the advantage of knowing what she could do, and, accordingly, she was not surprised when people found it remarkable. She consented on urgent persuasion to repeat the last verse of the duet, but when that was over was smilingly obdurate. Almost everybody can sing, said Miss March Banks, with a magnificent depreciation of her own gift. Perhaps Miss Brown will sing us something. But as for me, you know, I'm the mistress of the house. She had to go away to attend to her guests, and she left Barbara, still crimson and splendid, triumphing over her limp dress and all her disadvantages by the piano. Fortunately, for that evening, Barbara's pride and her shyness prevented her from yielding to the repeated demands addressed to her by the admiring audience. She said to Mr. Cavendish, with a disloyalty which that gentleman thought bequant, that Miss March Banks would not be pleased, and the future member for Carlingford thought he could not do better than obey the injunctions of the mistress of the feast by a little flirtation with the gifted unknown. To be sure, Barbara was not gifted in talk, and she was still defiant and contradictory. But then her eyes were blazing with excitement under her level eyebrows, and she was as willing to be flirted with as if she had known a great deal better. And then Mr. Cavendish had a weakness for a contralto. While this little biplay was going on, Lucilla was moving about, the center of a perfect tumult of applause. No more complete success could be imagined than that of this first Thursday evening, which was remarkable in the records of Carlingford. And yet perhaps Miss March Banks, like other conquerors, was destined to build her victory upon sacrifice. She did not feel any alarm at the present moment, but even if she had, that would have made no difference to Lucilla's proceedings. She was not the woman to shrink from a sacrifice when it was for the promotion of the great object of her life. And that, as everybody knew who knew Miss March Banks, was to be a comfort to her dear papa. End of Chapter 10, recorded by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, California, May 2009. Chapter 11 of Miss March Banks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michelle Crandall. Miss March Banks by Mrs. Oliphant. Chapter 11. You have never told us who your unknown was, said Mr. Cavendish. I suppose she is professional. Carlingford could not possibly possess two such voices in private life. Oh, I don't know about two such voices, said Miss March Banks. Her voice suits mine, you know. It is always a great thing to find two voices that suit. I never would choose to have professional singers for my part. You have to give yourself up to music when you do such a thing, and that is not my idea of society. I am very fond of music, said Lucilla, excessively fond of it. But then everybody is not of my opinion, and one has to take so many things into consideration. For people who give one party in a year, it does very well. But then I hate parties. The only pleasure in society is when one's friends come to see one without any adieu. In white frocks, high, said Mrs. Woodburn, who could not help assuming Lucilla's manner for the moment, even while addressing herself. But, as the possibility of such less majesty did not even occur to Miss March Banks, she accepted the observation in good faith. Yes, I hate a grand toilette when it is only a meeting of friends, she said. For the girls, you know. Of course, you married ladies can always do what you like. You have your husbands to please, said Lucilla. And this was a little hard upon her satirist. For, to tell the truth, that was a particular of domestic duty to which Mrs. Woodburn did not much devote herself, according to the opinion of Grange Lane. But about the Contralto, said Mr. Cavendish, who had come to call on Miss March Banks under his sister's wing, and desired above all things to keep the peace between the two ladies, as indeed is a man's duty under such circumstances. You are always statesman-like in your views, but I cannot understand why you let poor little Molly Brown carry on her chirping when you had such an astonishing force in reserve. She must have been covered with confusion, the poor little soul. Nothing of the sort, said Mrs. Woodburn, pursuing her favorite occupation as usual. She only said, goodness me, how high Lucilla goes! Do you like that dreadfully high music? And made little eyebrows. To be sure, the mimic made Miss Brown's eyebrows, and spoke in her voice, so that even Lucilla found it a little difficult to keep her gravity. But then Miss March Banks was defended by her mission, and she felt in her heart that, representing public interest as she did, it was her duty to avoid all complicity in any attack upon an individual. And consequently, to a certain extent, it was her duty also to put Mrs. Woodburn down. Molly Brown has a very nice little voice, said Lucilla, with most disheartening gravity. I like to hear her sing, for my part. The only thing is that she wants cultivation a little. It doesn't matter much, you know, whether or not you have a voice to begin with. It is cultivation that is the thing, said Miss March Banks, deliberately. I hope you really thought it was a pleasant evening. Of course, everybody said so to me. But then when can never put any faith in that? I have said it myself ever so many times, when I am sure I did not mean it. For myself, I don't give any importance to the first evening. Anybody can do a thing once, you know. The second and the third and so on, that is the real test. But I hope you thought it pleasant so far as it went. It was a great deal more than pleasant, said Mr. Cavendish, and, as for your conception of social politics, it is masterly. The future MP added, in a tone which struck Lucilla as very significant, not that she cared particularly about Mr. Cavendish's meaning. But still, when a young man who intends to go into Parliament congratulates a young lady upon her statesman-like views, and her conception of politics, it must be confessed that it looks a little particular. And then, if that was what he meant, it was no doubt Lucilla's duty to make up her mind. Oh, you know, I went through a course of political economy at Mount Pleasant, she said, with a laugh. One of Miss Blunt's was dreadfully strong-minded. I wonder, for my part, that she did not make me literary, but fortunately I escaped that. Heaven be praised, said Mr. Cavendish. I think you ought to be Prime Minister. That contralto of yours is charming raw material. But if I were you, I would put her through an elementary course. She knows how to sing, but she does not know how to move. And as for talking, she seems to expect to be insulted. If you make a pretty behaved young lady out of that, you will beat Adam Smith. Oh, I don't know much about Adam Smith, said Miss March Banks. I think Miss Martha thought him rather old-fashioned. As for poor Barbara, she is only a little shy, but that will soon wear off. I don't see what need she has to talk, or to move, either, for that matter. I thought she did very well, indeed, for a girl who never goes into society. Was it not clever of me to find her out the very first day I was in Carlingford? It has always been so difficult to find a voice that went perfectly with mine. For my part, I think it was a great deal more than clever, said Mr. Cavendish. For Mrs. Woodburn, finding herself unappreciated, was silent and making notes. It was a stroke of genius. So her name is Barbara. I wonder if it would be indiscreet to ask where Madame Waselle Barbara comes from, or if she belongs to anybody or lives anywhere. My own impression is that you mean to keep her shut up in a box all the week through, and produce her only on the Thursday evenings. I have a weakness for a fine contralto. If she had been existing in an ordinary habitation like other people in Carlingford, I should have heard her, or heard of her. It is clear to me that you keep her shut up in a box. Exactly, said Lucilla, I don't mean to tell you anything about her. You may be sure. Now I have found her out. I mean to keep her for myself. Her box is quite a pretty one, like what Gulliver had somewhere. It is just time for lunch, and you are both going to stay, I hope. And there is poor Mary Chiley and her husband coming through the garden. What a pity it is he is such a goose. Yes, but you know she never would take her uncle's advice, my dear, said the incorrigible mimic, putting on Mrs. Chiley's face, and being an orphan, what could anybody do? And then she does not get on with his family. By the way Mrs. Woodburn said, falling into her natural tone, if indeed she could be said to have a natural tone, I wonder if anybody ever does get on with her husband's family. The question was one which was a little grave to herself at the moment, and this was the reason why she returned to her identity, for there was no telling how long the Woodburns, who had come for Christmas, meant to stay. I shall be quite interested to watch you, Lucilla, when it comes to be your turn, and see how you manage, she went on with a keen look at Miss March Banks. And Mr. Cavendish laughed. He too looked at her, and Lucilla felt herself in rather a delicate position. Not that she was agitated, as might have been the case had the future MP for Carlingford engaged her affections, as she herself would have said. Fortunately these young affections were quite free as yet. But nevertheless Miss March Banks felt that the question was a serious one, as coming from the sister of a gentleman who was undeniably paying her attention. She did not in the least wish to alarm a leading member of a family into which it was possible she might enter, and then at the same time she intended to reserve fully all her individual rights. I always make it a point never to shock anybody's prejudices, said Miss March Banks. I should do just the same with them as with other people. All you have to do is to show from the first that you mean to be good friends with everybody. But then I am so lucky I can always get on with people, said Lucilla, rising to greet the two unfortunates, who had come to Colonel Chiles to spend a merry Christmas, and who did not know what to do with themselves. And then they all went downstairs and lunched together very pleasantly. As for Mr. Cavendish he was quite devoted, as poor Mary Chiles said with a touch of envy. To be sure, her true so was still in its full glory, but yet life under the conditions of marriage was not nearly such fun as it had been when she was a young lady, and had someone paying attention to her. And she rather grudged Lucilla that climax of existence, not withstanding her own superior standing and dignity as a married lady. And Mrs. Woodburn, too, awoke from her study of the stupid young husband to remark upon her brother's behaviour. She had not seen the two together so often as Mrs. Chiles had done, and consequently this was the first time that the thought had occurred to her. She, too, had been born one of the Cavendish's, as it was common to say in Carlingford with a certain imposing, yet vague, grandeur. And she was a little shocked, like any good sister, at the first idea. She watched Lucilla's movements, and looks, with a quite different kind of attention after this idea struck her, and made a rapid private calculation as to who Dr. Marchbanks's connections were, and what he would be likely to give his daughter, so that it is evident that Lucilla did not deceive herself, but that Mr. Cavendish's attentions must have been marked indeed. This was the little cloud which arose, as we have said, no bigger than a man's hand over Miss Marchbanks's prosperous way. When the luncheon was over, and they had all gone, Lucilla took a few minutes to think it over before she went out. It was not that she was unduly flattered by Mr. Cavendish's attentions, as might have happened to an inexperienced young woman. For Lucilla, with her attractions and genius, had not reached the mature age of nineteen without receiving the natural homage of mankind, on several clearly defined occasions. But then, the present case had various features peculiar to itself, which prevented Lucilla from crushing it in the bud, as she had meant to do with her cousin's ill-fated passion. She had to consider, in the first place, her mission in Carlingford, which was more important than anything else. But though Miss Marchbanks had vowed herself to the reorganization of society in her native town, she had not by any means vowed that it was absolutely as Miss Marchbanks that she was to accomplish that renovation. And then there was something in the very idea of being MP for Carlingford, which moved the mind of Lucilla. It was a perfectly ideal position for a woman of her views, and seemed to offer the very field that was necessary for her ambition. This was the reason, of all others, which made her less careful to prevent Mr. Cavendish from saying the words than she had been with Tom. To be sure, it would be a trial to leave the drag-room after it had just been furnished so entirely to her liking, not to say her complexion. But still, it was a sacrifice which might be made. It was in this way that Miss Marchbanks prepared herself for the possible modifications which circumstances might impose. She did not make any rash resolution to resist a change which, on the whole, might possibly be for the best, but prepared herself to take everything into consideration, and possibly to draw from it a superior good. In short, she looked upon the matter as a superior mind, trained in sound principles of political economy, might be expected to look upon the possible vicissitudes of fortune, with an enlightened regard to the uses of all things, and to the comparative values on either side. Barbara Lake, as it happened, was out walking at the very moment when Miss Marchbanks sat down to consider this question. She had gone to the School of Design to meet Rose, with an amiability very unusual in her. Rose had made such progress after leaving Mount Pleasant under her father's care, and by the help of that fine feeling for art which has been mentioned in the earlier part of this history, that the charge of the female pupils in the School of Design had been confided to her, with a tiny little salary which served Mr. Lake as an excuse for keeping his favorite little daughter with him. Nothing could be supposed more unlike Barbara than her younger sister, who just came up to her shoulder, and was twice as serviceable and active and nice, according to the testimony of all the children. Barbara had led her father a hard life, poor man, the time that Rose was at Mount Pleasant. But now that his assistant had come back again, the poor drawing master had recovered all his old spirits. She was just coming out of the School of Design with her portfolio under her arm when Barbara met her. There were not many pupils, it is true, but still there were enough to worry poor Rose, who was not an imposing personage, and who was daily wounded by the discovery that after all there are but a limited number of persons in this world, especially in the poorer classes of the community and under the age of sixteen, who have a feeling for art. It was utterly inconceivable to the young teacher how her girls could be so clever as to find out each a different way of putting the sublime features of the Belvedere Apollo out of the drawing. And she was still revolving this difficult problem when her sister joined her. Barbara, for her part, was occupied with thoughts of a hero much more interesting than he of Olympus. She was fleshed and eager and looking very handsome under her shabby bonnet, and her anxiety to have a confidant was so great that she made a dart at Rose and grasped her by the arm under which she was carrying her portfolio to the great discomposure of the young artist. She asked, with a little anxiety, what is the matter? Is there anything wrong at home? And made a rapid movement to get to the other side. Oh, Rose, said Barbara, panting with haste and agitation, only fancy. I have just seen him. I met him right in front of Master's's, and he was taking his hat off to me. I feel in such a way I can scarcely speak. Met who, said Rose, for she was imperfect in her grammar, like most people in a moment of emergency. And besides, she shared to some extent Miss Marchbanks's reluctance to shock the prejudices of society, and was disturbed by the idea that somebody might pass and see Barbara in her present state of excitement, and perhaps attribute it to its true cause. Oh, you stupid little thing, said Barbara, giving her a shake by her disengaged arm. I tell you, him! The gentleman I met at Lucilla Marchbanks's. He looked as if he was quite delighted to see me again, and I am sure he turned round to see where I was going. He couldn't speak to me, you know, the first time. Though indeed I shouldn't be the least surprised if he had followed, at a distance, you know, only to see where I live, said Barbara, turning round and searching into the distance with her eager eyes. But there was nobody to be seen in the street, except some of Rose's pupils lingering along in the sunshine, and very probably exchanging similar confidences. Barbara turned back again with a touch of disappointment. I am quite sure he will find out before long. And don't forget I said so, she added with a little nod of her head. I don't see what it matters if he found out directly, said Rose. Papal would not let anybody come to our house that he did not approve of, and then, you know, he will never have anything to say to people who are patronizing. I don't want to hear any more about your fine gentleman. If you were worried as I am, you would think much more of getting home than of anybody bowing to you in the street. One of the gentlemen from Marlboro House once took off his hat to me, said Rose, with a certain solemnity. Of course I was pleased, but then I knew it was my design he was thinking of, my Hunniton flounce, you know. I suppose this other one must have thought you had a pretty voice. This time, however, it was an angry shake that Barbara gave to her sister. I wish she would not be such a goose, she said, who cares about your Hunniton flounce? He took off his hat because—because he admired me, I suppose. And then it was a great deal more than just taking off his hat. He gave me such a look. Papa has no sense, though I suppose you will blaze up when I say so. He ought to think of us a little. As for patronizing, I should soon change that, I can tell you. But then Papa thinks of nothing but paying his bills and keeping out of debt, as he says, as if everybody was not in debt. And how do you suppose we are ever to get settled in life? It would be far more sensible to spend a little more and go into society a little and do us justice. Only think all that that old doctor is doing for Lucilla. And there are four of us when the little ones grow up, said Barbara, in a tone of injury. I should like to know what Papa is thinking of. If Mama had not died when she did, it was not poor Mama's fault, said Rose. I daresay she would have lived if she could for all our sakes. But then you have always taken a false view of our position, Barbara. We are a family of artists, said the little mistress of the school of design. She had pretty eyes, very dewy and clear, and they woke up under the excitement of this proud claim. When Papa is appreciated as he deserves, and when Willie has made a name, said Rose, with modest confidence, things will be different. But the true strength of our position is that we are a family of artists. We are everybody's equal, and we are nobody's equal. We have a rank of our own. If you would only remember this, you would not grudge anything to Lucilla March Banks. And then I am sure she has been very kind to you. Oh, bother, said the unfeeling Barbara, you do nothing but encourage Papa with your nonsense. And I should like to know what right Lucilla March Banks has to be kind to me. If I am not as good as she is, it is a very strange thing. You'd never take the trouble to think about him if it was not that Lucilla believes he is paying her attention. That is the great fun. It would be delicious to take him from her, and make game of her and her kindness. Goodness, there he is again. I felt sure that he would try to find out the house. And Barbara crimsoned higher than ever, and held Rose fast by the arm, and called her attention by the most visible and indeed tangible signs to the elegant apparition, like any other underbred young woman. As for Rose, she was a little gentlewoman born, and had a horror unspeakable of her sister's bad manners. When Mr. Cavendish made a movement, as if to address Barbara, it was the pretty eyes of Rose lifted to his face with a look of straightforward surprise and inquiry which made him retire so hastily. He took off his hat again more respectfully than before, and pursued his walk along Grove Street, as if he had no ulterior intention in visiting that humble part of the town. As for Barbara, she held Rose faster than ever, and almost pinched her arm to move her attention. I knew he was trying to find out the house, she said, in an exultant whisper. And Lucilla thinks he is paying her attention. For to be sure, when Miss March Banks took to being kind to Barbara, she conferred upon the contralto, at the same moment, a palpable injury and grievance, which was what the drawing master's daughter had been looking for for several years of her life. And naturally, Lucilla, who was at this moment thinking it all over under the soft green shadows from her new hangings, was deprived of the light which might have been thrown on her reflections had she seen what was going on in Grove Street. But the conditions of humanity are such that even a woman of genius cannot altogether overstep them, and Lucilla still continued to think that Mr. Cavendish was paying her attention, which indeed was also the general opinion in Grange Lane. End of Chapter 11, recorded by Michelle Crandall, Fremont, California, June 2009.