CHAPTER XXI Mr. Woodburn's house, everybody admitted, was one of the nicest in Carlingford, but that was not so visible out of doors as in. He was a great amateur of flowers and fruit, and had his garden lined on each side with greenhouses, which were no doubt very fine in their way, but somewhat spoiled the garden, which had not in the least the homely, luxuriant, old-fashioned look of the other gardens, where, for the most part, the flowers and shrubs grew as if they liked it, and were at home. Whereas Mr. Woodburn's flower beds were occupied only by tenants at will, but at one corner near the house there was a little arbor. So covered up and heaped over with clematis that even the Scotch gardener had not the heart to touch it. The mass was so perfect and yet so light that it was the most perfect hiding-place imaginable, and nobody who had not been in it could have suspected that there was the possibility of getting inside. Here Mrs. Woodburn and Mr. Cavendish were seated on this particular afternoon, she very eager, animated, and in earnest, he, silent and leaning his head on his two hands, in a sort of downcast fallen way. Mrs. Woodburn had one of her lively eyes on the garden that nobody might enter unseen, and for this once was taking off no one, but was most emphatically and unquestionably herself. So you did not do it, she said. Why didn't you do it? When you knew so much depended upon it, you know I did not wish for it myself at first. I know since this man has come, and you have got into such a panic, and never will have the courage to face it out. How can I have the courage to face it out? said Mr. Cavendish, with a groan. It is all very easy for a woman to speak who has only to criticise other people. If you had to do it yourself. Ah, if only I had, cried the sister, you may be sure, I would not make so much fuss. After all, what is there to do?  Why, what can he say? If I only could do it, you may be sure I should not lose any time. Yes, said Mr. Cavendish, lifting his head.  You can assume any part you like, but I am not so clever. I tell you again, the only thing I can do is to go away. Run away, you mean, said Mrs. Woodburn, I should be foolish indeed if I were trusting to your cleverness to assume a part. My dear good brother, you would find it impossible to put yourself sufficiently in sympathy with another, cried the mimic, in the Archdeacon's very tone, with a laugh, and at the same time a little snarl of bitter contempt. Oh, for heaven's sake, Nelly, no fool are we just now, said Mr. Cavendish, I don't understand how you can be so heartless to mimic a man who has my position, my reputation, and my very existence in his hands. Have you murdered anybody, said Mrs. Woodburn, with intense scorn? Have you robbed anybody? If you have, I can understand all this stuff. He is the very man to mimic, on the contrary. I'd like to let you see him as he was on that famous occasion when he delivered his opinions on art in Lucilla's drawing-room. Look here, said the mimic, putting one hand behind an imaginary coattail, and with the other holding up a visionary drawing to the light, but this was more than her audience could bear. I think you must have vowed to drive me crazy, cried the exasperated brother, put aside for once that confounded vanity of yours, as if a man had always leisure to look at you playing the fool. While he spoke in this unusual way, he got up, as was natural, and took one or two steps across the narrow space, which was shut in by those luxuriant heaps of clematis, and Mrs. Woodburn, for her part, withdrew her chair out of his way in equal heat and indignation. You have always the leisure to play the fool yourselves, you men, she said, vanity indeed, as if it were not simply to show you that one can laugh at him without being stricken with thunder. But leave that if you like. You know quite well, if you married Lucilla Marchbanks, that there would be no more about it. There could be no more about it. Why, all Grange Lane would be in a sort of way pledged to you. I don't mean to say I am attached to Lucilla, but you used to be, or to give yourself out for being. You flirted with her dreadfully in the winter, I remember, when those terrible woodburns were here, she continued with a shiver. If you married Lucilla and got into Parliament, you might laugh at all the arch-deacons in the world. It is very easy for a woman to talk, said the reluctant wooer again. I can tell you something it is not easy to do, cried his sister. It is frightfully hard for a woman to stand by and see a set of men making a mess of things, and not to dare to say a word till all is spoiled. What is this arch-deacon, I would like to know, or what could he say? If you only would have the least courage and look him in the face, he would be disabled, as if no one had ever heard of mistaken identity before. And in the meantime go and see Lucilla and get her consent. I can't do that for you, but I could do a great deal of the rest if you would only have a little pluck and not give in like this. A little pluck, by George, cried the unfortunate man, and he threw himself down again upon his chair. I am not in love with Lucilla March-Banks, and I don't want to marry her, he added, doggedly, and sat beating a tune with his fingers on the table, but with the poorly assumed air of indifference. As for Mrs. Woodburn, she regarded him with a look of contempt. Perhaps you will tell me who you are in love with, she said disdainfully, but I did not ask to be taken into your confidence in such an interesting way. What I wish to know is whether you want a wife who will keep your position for you. I am not in the least fond of her, but she is very clever. Whether you want the support of all the best people in Carlingford, and connections that would put all that to silence, and a real position of your own which nobody could interfere with, that is what I want to know, Harry. As for the sentimental part, I am not so much interested about that, said Mrs. Woodburn, with a contemptuous smile. She was young still, and she was handsome in her way, for people who liked that style, and it jarred a little on the natural feelings to hear a young wife express herself so disdainfully, but to be sure, her brother was not unaccustomed to that. You said once that Woodburn was necessary to your happiness, he said with a mixture of scorn and appeal, though I can't say I saw it for my part. Did I, said she, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, I saw what was necessary on another score, as you don't seem to do. When a man has nobody belonging to him, it is connections he ought to try for, and Lucilla has very good connections, and it would be as good as securing the support of Grange Lane. Do it for my sake, Harry, if you won't do it for your own, said Mrs. Woodburn, with a change of tone. If you were to let things be said and give people an advantage, think what would become of me. He would not mind so much if somebody else were involved. But, oh, Harry, if you should find out he had been cheated, and he only— He was not cheated. You were always a great deal too good for him, Nelly, said Mr. Cavendish, touched at last at an effectual point, and as for his friends and family and all that—oh, please don't speak of them, said Mrs. Woodburn, with a shudder—but there are only two of us in the world, and Harry, for my sake. At this appeal Mr. Cavendish got up again, and began to pace the little arbor, two steps to the wall, and two steps back again. I told you I had almost done it, when that confounded old woman came in, he said, that could not be called my fault. And she said she was both your grandmothers, said the mimic, with a slightly hysterical laugh in Mrs. Chiley's voice. I know how she did it. She can't be there still, you know. Go now and try. Let alone a little, don't hurry a fellow, said her brother somewhat sullenly. A man can't move himself up to the point of proposing twice in one day. Then promise you will do it tomorrow, said Mrs. Woodburn, I shall have to go in, for there is somebody coming. Harry, before I go, promise that you will do it tomorrow, for my sake. Oh, bother, said Mr. Cavendish, and it was all the answer he deigned to give, before Mrs. Woodburn was called away, notwithstanding the adoration she addressed to him. It was then getting late. Too late even had he been disposed for such an exertion to try his fortunes again that day, and Lucilla's allusion had given him a great longing to see Barbara once more before his sacrifice was accomplished. Not that it was such a great sacrifice after all, for Mr. Cavendish was quite aware that Miss March Banks was a far more suitable match for him than Barbara Lake, and he was not even disposed to offer himself and his name and fortunes such as they were to the drawing master's daughter. But to tell the truth, he was not a person of fixed and settled sentiments, as he ought to have been in order to triumph, as his sister desired over the difficulties of his position. Perhaps Mrs. Woodburn herself would have done just the same had it been she from whom action was demanded. But she was capable of much more spirited and determined conduct in theory, as was natural, and thought she could have done a great deal better. Mr. Cavendish lounged about the garden a little, with his hands in his pockets, and then strayed out quite accidentally, and in the same unpremeditating mood made his way to Grove Street. He meant nothing by it, and did not even inquire of himself where he was going, but only strolled out to take the air a little. And to be sure it was better to go up to the higher parts of the town than to linger here about Grange Lane, where all the people knew he might pass and stop to talk, and ask him where he had been, and worry his life out. And surely he had had enough of bother for one day. By this time it was getting dark, and it was very pleasant in Grove Street, where most of the good people had just watered their little gardens, and brought out the sweetness of the mignonnette. Mr. Cavendish was not sentimental, but still the hour was not without its influence. And when he looked at the lights that began to appear in the parlor windows, and breathed in the odors from the little gardens, it is not to be denied that he asked himself for a moment. What was the good of going through all this bother and vexation, and whether love in a cottage, with a little garden full of mignonnette, and a tolerable amount of comfort within, was not, after all, a great deal more reasonable than it looked at first sight. This, however, it must be allowed, was no conclusion arrived at on sufficient premises and with the calmness that befitted such an important argument, but the mere suggestion, by the way of an impatient, undecided mind, that did always what at the moment it found most agreeable to do, and reflected afterwards, when the moment of repentance, not of reflection, had arrived. He had paused by instinct under a lamp not yet lighted, which was almost opposite Mr. Lake's house, and it was not his fault, if he saw at the upper window a figure looking out, like Marianna, and sighing he cometh not. Naturally the figure was concerned to find out who he was, and he was anxious to find out who was the figure. And on the whole it was in a very innocent manner, that this entirely natural curiosity was satisfied. First the window was opened a little, a very little, just enough to change the air, and Mr. Cavendish down below heard the voice of Barbara singing softly above, which settled the matter as to her identity. As to his, Barbara had never from the first moment she perceived him had any doubt of that. Her heart leaped back, as she thought, to its right place when she first caught sight of that blessed apparition, and with her heart came the orange flowers, and the wedding breakfast, and the veil of real Brussels for which Barbara had so much wept. She tried to sing something that would convey hope and assurance to her timid lover, but her mind was far from being a prompt one, as has been said. Thus it was all in the most natural way that it came about. When Mr. Cavendish felt quite sure who it was, he took off his hat, which was only civil, and made a step or two forward, and then Barbara took the extreme step of going down to the door. No doubt it was an extreme step. Nothing but a great public aim, like that of Miss March Banks, could have justified such a measure. But then Barbara, if she had not a great public, had at least a decided personal purpose, and obeyed the impulse of that mingled inclination towards another, and determination to have her own way, which in such a mind calls itself passion, and which sometimes by sheer force of will succeeds better than either genius or calculation. She went down to the door, all palpitating with renewed hope, and at the same time with the dread that he might escape her in the moment which was necessary for her passage downstairs. But when she opened the door, and appeared with her cheeks glowing, and her eyes blazing, and her heart thumping in her breast, in the midst of that quiet twilight, the object of her hopes was still there. He had even advanced a little with an instinctive sense of her approach, and thus they met, the street being comparatively quiet just then, and the minuet perfuming the air. To be sure, the poetry of the situation was of a homely order, for it was under a lamppost instead of a tree that the lover had placed himself, and it was not the dew but the watering that brought out the odor of the minuet. But then neither of the two were very poetical personages, and the accessories did perfectly well for them. Is it you, Mr. Cavendish? Goodness, I could not think who it was, cried Barbara, out of breath. Yes, it is I. I thought, if I had an opportunity, I would ask you how you were, before I go away again, said the imprudent man. He did not want to commit himself, but at the same time he was disposed to take the benefit of his position as a hero on the eve of departure. I heard you had been ill. Oh, no, not ill, said Barbara, and then she added taking breath. Quite well now, won't you come in? This was the perfectly simple and natural manner in which it occurred. There was nobody in, and Barbara did not see, any more than her lover did, why she should sacrifice any of her advantages. They were, on the whole, quite well matched, and stood in need of no special protection on either side, though naturally Barbara, who felt by this time as if she could almost see the pattern of the real Brussels, had a much more serious object in view than Mr. Cavendish, who went in only because it was a pleasant thing to do at the moment, and offered him a little refuge from himself and his deliberations, and the decision which it was so necessary to come to. Thus it happened that when Mr. Lake and Rose came in from the evening walk they had been taking together, they found to their great amazement Barbara in the little parlor singing to Mr. Cavendish, who had forgotten all about Grange Lane and his dangers and his hopes of a better fortune, and was quite as much contented with the mellow contralto that delighted his ears, and the blazing scarlet bloom in black-level eyebrows that pleased his eyes, as anybody could have desired. To be sure, he had not yet even given a thought to the wedding breakfast which was all arranged already in the mind of the enchantress, who thus held him enthralled. But perhaps that may be best accounted for by referring it to one of those indefinable peculiarities of difference that exists between the mind of a woman, and that of man. When Mr. Lake and his daughter came in from their walk and their talk about willy, and about art, and about the effects and bits which Rose and her father mutually pointed out to each other, to find this unexpected conjunction in the parlor, their surprise and indeed consternation may be imagined. But it was only in the mind of Rose that the letter sentiment existed, as for Mr. Lake he had long made up his mind how, as he said, a man of superior position ought to be received when he made his appearance in an artist's house. Perhaps to tell the truth he forgot for the moment that his visitor was young, and his daughter very handsome, and that it was to visit Barbara and not himself that Mr. Cavendish had come. The little drawing master would not suffer himself to be seduced by thoughts which were apart from the subject, from carrying out his principles. When Mr. Cavendish rose up confused with a look of being caught and found out, Mr. Lake held out his hand to him with perfect suavity. I have the pleasure of knowing you only by sight, said the innocent father, but I am very glad to make your acquaintance in my own house. And as this was said, with the conscious dignity of a man who knows that his house is not just an ordinary house, but one that naturally the patrician portion of the community, if they only knew it, would be glad to seek admittance to. The consequence was that Mr. Cavendish felt only the more and more confused. I happen to be passing, he explained faintly, and having heard that Miss Lake, whom I have had the pleasure of meeting, I assure you, said the drawing master, that I hail with satisfaction the appearance of a gentleman whose intelligence I have heard so much of.  But still we are sympathetic, Mr. Cavendish. We can understand other subjects of study, though we cannot share them. Yes, Barbara has been a little poorly, but she does not look as if there was much the matter with her to-night. Ask for the lamp rose, said Mr. Lake, with a little grandeur. There was no light in the room except the candles at the piano, which lighted that corner and left the rest of the apartment, small as it was, in comparative shade. There was something magnificent in the idea of adding the lamp to that illumination. But then, it is true, that, as Mr. Lake himself said, every artist is a prodigal in his heart.  What did he want here? How had he been admitted? She scorned to go and interrogate the maid, which involved a kind of infidelity to her sister. But all the same, she looked hard at Mr. Cavendish, with a severity, which had on the whole a reassuring effect upon him. For to tell the truth, the benign reception which he was receiving from Mr. Lake, instead of setting the visitor at his ease, made him nervous, for he was not in the least aware of the heroic soul which existed in the drawing master's limited person. Mr. Cavendish thought nothing but that he was being caught, according to his own vulgar theory. He thought Barbara's father was cringing to him, and playing the usual mean part of an interested parent who means to secure a good match for his daughter. But as for Rose, she evidently either from jealousy or some other reason, was not in the plot. She stood apart and scowled, as well as she knew how, upon the intruder. I suppose, papa, said Rose, Mr. Cavendish wished to hear Barbara sing, and she has been singing. She is always very good-natured in that way, but as we have none of us anything particular to do, I don't see what need we have for a lamp. At this trenchant speech Mr. Cavendish rose. He was quite grateful to the little pre-Raphaelite for her incivility. It made him feel less as if he had committed himself, and more as if he were an intruder, which was the more agreeable suggestion of the two under the present circumstances. You remind me that I should thank Miss Lake for letting me come in and hear once more her lovely voice, he said. I am at present only a visitor in Carlingford, and indeed in England. I may have to leave again in a day or two. Good-bye. If I am still here, I shall hope to meet you on Thursday. And then he pressed Barbara's hand, who, to tell the truth, was very reluctant to let him go away. If you must go, she said, so low that her father could not hear her, though the vigilant, suspicious little Rose caught the sound and came a step nearer, like a little dragon, as Barbara was disposed to think she was. I must go, murmured Mr. Cavendish, but I shall see you. We shall meet. He dared not say another word. So alarming were the looks of the small Medusa, whose countenance he could see behind Barbara regarding the parting. As for Mr. Lake, he too regarded it with a momentary curiosity. He did not quite understand how it was that his daughter and his visitor could know each other well enough to communicate in this undertone. I am sorry to see so little of you, said Mr. Lake. I am afraid it is my little girl's brusque way of speaking that hastens your going. I assure you we were quite unoccupied, and would have been very happy. Yes we may be more fortunate at another time. And with that the drawing master gave a dignified dismissal to his surprising visitor. It was Rose herself who saw Mr. Cavendish to the door, which she opened for him with an utter disregard of his excuses and attempts to do that office for himself. She would not even shake hands, but made him the most majestic curtsy that ever was executed by a personage five feet high, under the influence of which Mr. Cavendish went away humbled, and he could scarcely tell why, ashamed of himself. When Rose came back to the parlor, still with her hat on, she found that Barbara had gone to the window, and was looking out at the edge of the blind, which was all that was wanted to put a climax to her guardian's exasperation. Papa, said Rose, I should like to know in your presence, or I should like you, to ask Barbara herself, what is the meaning of all that has been going on tonight? Mr. Lake turned right round at this appeal with an expression of utter amaze and bewilderment, which at another moment would have struck Rose with the profoundest delight as a study. And as for Barbara, without any more ado, she burst into a flood of passionate tears. Oh, you nasty, envious thing!  But here Barbara's voice lost itself in her tears. My dear, what does this mean, said Mr. Lake? It means, Papa, that she has encouraged him to come, and invited him in and been singing to him, cried Rose, to think she should be one of us and have no proper pride. If he was fond of her, he would tell her so and ask your permission. But she is laying herself out to please him, and is content that they should all jeer at her in Lucilla's parties, and say she is trying to catch him. I thought I could have died of shame when I saw him here tonight, and compromising you, as if that was why you were so civil. If it were for her good, do you think I would ever interfere? cried Barbara's guardian angel. At this point Rose herself would have liked excessively to cry, if the truth must be told. But Barbara had already appropriated that facile mode of expression, and the little artist scorned to copy. As for Mr. Lake, he turned from one to the other of his daughters with unmitigated consternation and dismay. It was all your coming in, sobbed Barbara, if you had only had the sense to see it. That was what he meant. If I was singing, it was just to pass the time.  All this made up a scene entirely novel to the amazed father, who felt at his duty to put a stop to it, and yet could not tell what to say. Girls, he began, with a trembling voice. This is all perfectly new to me. I don't understand. If Mr. Cavendish, or any one, wishes to pay his addresses to my daughter, it is of course his business to apply to me in the first place. Barbara, don't cry.  Don't make a fuss, Rose. For heaven's sake, girls, can't you say at once what you mean, and don't worry me to death?   At this point Rose intervened, and did what she could to calm matters down. Barbara, still sobbing, retired to her chamber.  CHAPTER XXII 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. It was thus that Mr. Cavendish, without particularly meaning it, impressed upon two interesting and amiable young women on the same day the conviction that he was about to propose, without in either case realizing that expectation. After this last exploit he went home with his head more confused and his will more undecided than ever. For he had one of those perverse minds which cling to everything that is forbidden, and the idea that he ought not to have gone near Barbara Lake, that he ought not to see her again, nor address her in any special way, worried and annoyed him horribly. If such a thing had been permissible in England as that a man might marry one wife for his liking and another for his interests, the matter might have been compromised by proposing to them both, and there cannot be a doubt that Lucilla, in such a case, would very soon have triumphed over her handsome, sullen, passionate rival. But then such a way of conciliating a man with himself does not exist in the British islands, and consequently was not to be thought of. And to be sure, every time he came to think of it, Mr. Cavendish saw more and more clearly what a fool he would be to marry Barbara, who was evidently so ready to marry him. The same thing could not with any confidence be predicated of Miss March Banks, though if she were to accept him and her father were to consent, nothing could be better for his interests. All this he felt, and yet an unconquerable reluctance kept him back. His history was not quite spotless, and there were chapters in it which he thought it would kill him to have brought before the public of Carlingford. But still he was far from being a bad fellow in his way. And down at the bottom of his heart, out of everybody's sight, and unacknowledged even by himself, there was one little private nook full of gratitude to Lucilla. Though he scarcely knew what was passing at the moment, he knew, when he came to think of it, that she had saved him from the effects of his first panic at the unexpected appearance of Mr. Beverly. Perhaps it was partly this consciousness that made him so embarrassed in her presence. And he could not find it in his heart, with this sense of gratitude to deceive her, and say he loved her and asked her to marry him. To be sure, if Mr. Cavendish had been a very acute observer, he might have felt that Lucilla was quite able to take care of herself in such an emergency, and was at the least a match for him, however seductive he might appear to others. But then, few people are acute observers in a matter so entirely personal to themselves. He felt furious with himself as he went home, and thought how foolish he had been ever to go near Barbara Lake in the present position of affairs. And yet he could not stop feeling it was more delightful to him to see the color blaze into her cheeks, and the song rise like a bird from her full crimson lips, and that flush of excitement and triumph come from her eyes, then it could have been in any case to have been admitted to the same degree of intimacy with Lucilla, who was not in the least intoxicated by his presence. Thus the unfortunate man was torn asunder, not so much by his love and duty as by inclination and interest. Though the inclination was not strong enough to have allowed of any great sacrifice, nor the interest sufficiently certain to have repaid the exertion, this only made it more difficult to decide, and, in his circumstances, and with the panic that pursued him, he did not feel it possible to adopt the only wise policy that remained to him, and wait. As Mr. Cavendish was thus making his way home, horribly vexed and annoyed with himself, and avoiding Grange Lane as if the plague was in it, Miss March Bank sat in her drawing-room alone, and thought the matter over. Certainly she had not expected him that evening, but still, when she heard ten o'clock strike, and felt that his coming was now absolutely impossible, she was a little, not exactly disappointed, but annoyed at herself for having felt a sort of expectation. Lucilla was not a person to hide her sentiments, or even to conceal a fact which was disagreeable to her amore propay. She had too thorough and well-founded a confidence in the natural interest of the world, and all belonging to her to do that. So when ten o'clock had done striking, she opened her blotting book and took one of her pretty sheets of paper, with Lucilla on it in delicate rose-tinted letters, the L very large, and the concluding letters very small, and dashed off her note to Mrs. Chiley. The Mrs. Blunt's at Mount Pleasant had been one of the very first establishments to forsake the handwriting which was all corners in favor of the bold running hand of the present female generation. And it was, accordingly, in a very free and strongly characterized manuscript, black with much ink, that Miss March Banks wrote, Dearest Mrs. Chiley, I never expected him to come, and he has not. I dare say he never meant it. I am so glad. It was Providence that sent you at that particular moment today, always in haste, with fond love your most truly affectionate Lucilla. And when she had sent Thomas with this note, Miss March Banks felt her mind relieved. Not that it had been much distressed before, but when she had put it in black and white, and concluded upon it, her satisfaction was more complete. And no such treblous thoughts as these which disturbed a hero of this day's transactions, no such wild tears as poured from the eyes of Barbara Lake, interfered with the maidenly composure of Lucilla's meditations. Notwithstanding all that people say to the contrary, there is a power in virtue which makes itself felt in such an emergency. Miss March Banks could turn for Mr. Cavendish, who had thus failed to fulfill the demands of his position, to the serene idea of the Archdeacon with that delightful consciousness of having nothing to reproach herself with, which is a balm to a well-regulated mind. She had done her duty, whatever happened. She had not injudiciously discouraged nor encouraged the possible member for Carlingford. And at the same time she was perfectly free to turn her attention to the possible bishop, and neither in one case nor the other could anybody say that she had gone a step too far or committed herself in any way whatever. While these consoling reflections were passing through Lucilla's mind, Dr. March Banks came upstairs, as had grown to be his custom lately. Sometimes he took a cup of tea, though it was against his principles, and sometimes he only sat by while his daughter had hers, and amused himself with her chat before he went to bed. He was later than usual tonight, and naturally the tea tray had disappeared some time before. As for Lucilla, she did not for a moment permit her own preoccupation to interfere with the discharge of her immediate duty, which was unquestionably to be amusing and agreeable, and a comfort to her dear papa. "'So you had Cavendish here today,' said the doctor. "'What brought him here? What has he been doing? Since you and he are on such good terms, I hope he gave you an account of where he has been. He has been nursing a sick friend on the continent, said Lucilla, with that largeness of geographical expression which is natural to the insular mind. Who are Mr. Cavendish's friends, papa?' added Miss March Banks, with confiding simplicity, and it was beautiful to see how the daughter looked up into her father's face, with that angelic confidence in his knowledge on all subjects, which is so rarely to be met with in the present generation. But it was not a question to which the doctor found it easy to respond. "'Who are his friends?' said Dr. March Banks. "'He's one of the Cavendish's, they say. We have all heard that. I never knew he had any friends, which is, after all, next best to having very good ones,' said the philosophical old Scotchman. And there, as it appeared, he was quite content to let the matter drop. "'I would like to know who people belong to, for my part,' said Lucilla. "'The Archdeacon, for example, one knows all about his friends. Very till nicer, you know, papa. Not that it matters in the least about the Cavendish's. "'Well, I should have thought not after the way you made an end of him,' said the doctor. "'I hope he doesn't mean to begin that nonsense over again, Lucilla. He is a good enough fellow, and I don't mind asking him to my house. But it is quite a different thing to give him my daughter. He spends too much money, and I can't see what real bottom he has. It may all flare up and come to nothing any day. Nobody can have any certainty with an expensive fellow like that,' said Dr. March Banks. "'There is no telling where he draws his income from. It isn't from land, and it isn't from business. And if it's money and the funds—' "'Dear papa,' said Lucilla, if he had the Bank of England, it would not make any difference to me.  I said ten years, and I mean to keep it, if nothing very particular happens,' Miss March Banks added prudently. Most likely I shall begin to go off a little in ten years. And all I think of just now is to do my duty, and be a little comfort to you. Dr. March Banks indulged in a faint hump, under his breath, as he lighted his candle, for, as has been already said, he was not a man to feel so keenly as some men might have felt the enthusiasm of filial devotion, which beautified Lucilla's life. But at the same time, he had that respect for his daughter's business, which only experience could have impressed upon him, and he did not venture, or rather he did not think it necessary, to enter into any further explanations. Dr. March Banks did not, in the least degree, share the nervousness of Mr. Cavendish, who was afraid of deceiving Lucilla. As for her father, he felt a consoling conviction that she was quite able to conduct her own affairs, and would do him no discredit in any matrimonial engagements she might form. But at the same time, he was amused by the idea that he might be swindled in respect to the drawing-room, if she married at this early moment. He took it for wit, when it was the most solid and sensible reality. But then, fortunately, the points in which he misapprehended her redounded as much to Lucilla's credit, as those in which he seized her meaning clearest, so that on every side there was something gained. And when Miss March Banks, too, retired to her maidenly chamber, a sentiment of general content and satisfaction filled her mind. It is true that for the moment she had experienced a natural womanly vexation, to see a proposal nipped in the bud. It annoyed her not so much on personal, as on general principles, for Lucilla was aware that nothing could be more pernicious to a man than when thus brought to the very point to be thrown back again, and never permitted to produce that delicate bloom of his affections. It was like preventing a rose from putting forth its flowers, a cruelty equally prejudicial to the plant and to the world. But when this pang of wounded philanthropy was over, Miss March Banks felt in her heart that it was Providence that had sent Mrs. Chiley at that special moment. There was no telling what embarrassments, what complications she might not have got into, had Mr. Cavendish succeeded in unbozoming himself. No doubt Lucilla had a confidence that, whatever difficulties there might have been, she would have extricated herself from them with satisfaction, and even a clot. But still, it was better to avoid the necessity. Thus it was with a serene conviction that whatever is is best, that Miss March Banks betook herself to her peaceful slumbers. There are so many people in the world who hold, or who are tempted to hold an entirely different opinion, that it is pleasant to linger over the spectacle of a mind so perfectly well-regulated. Very different were the sentiments of Mr. Cavendish, who could not sleep for the ghosts that kept tugging at him on every side, and those of Barbara Lake, who felt that for her, too, the flower of her hero's love had been nipped in the bud. But to be sure, it is only natural that goodness and self-control should have the best of it sometimes, even in this uncertain world. CHAPTER XXXIII The Archdeacon returned to Carlingford before Thursday as he had anticipated. But in the interval, Mr. Cavendish had not recovered his courage, so far as to renew his visit to Miss March Banks, or to face the man who had alarmed him so much. Everybody in Grange Lane remarked at the time, how worried, poor Mrs. Woodburn looked, her eyes lost their brightness, which some people thought was the only beauty she had, and her nerves and her temper both failed her. No one could tell why. The personal sketches she made at this moment were truculent and bitter to an unheard of degree. She took off Mr. Beverly with a savage force which electrified her audience and put words into his mouth which everybody admitted were exactly like him, if he could ever be imagined to have fallen into the extraordinary circumstances in which the mimic placed him. In short, Mrs. Woodburn made a little drama out of the Archdeacon. She brought him into personal contact with an offensive stranger, and made the most elaborate study of his dignified indignation, his growing wrath, and the final sublime manifestation of physical force with which he overcame his enemy. I hope I have not given up my manhood by becoming a priest, Mrs. Woodburn's hero said in the Archdeacon's very voice. A gentleman should surely know how to use his natural weapons as well as a coal-heaver. It is one way of getting one's self in sympathy with one's fellow creatures. To be sure, Mr. Beverly knew nothing about this, and showed some surprise now and then at the restrained laughter which he heard in the corners, but when anybody spoke of Mrs. Woodburn, he showed an instinctive want of confidence. I have not studied her sufficiently to give an opinion of her, he said, which was certainly the very reverse of her deliverance upon him. To tell the truth, she had rather studied him too much and gave too keen an edge to his characteristic qualities as is natural to all literary portraiture, and even went so far that in the end people began to ask whether she had any personal spite against him. She don't know him, Mr. Woodburn said. And he heard some faint echo of this suggestion. She's clever and it carries her away, you know. She enters into it so she don't know how far she's going. But I can answer for it. She never saw the Archdeacon before. And Halle isn't here to give her the key note, as she says. He has met everybody, I believe, one place or another. The simple man said, with little natural pride, for in his heart, he was vain of his fashionable brother-in-law. As for Mr. Cavendish himself, it began to be understood that he was with a friend who was sick on the continent, and soon, for news had a wonderful tendency to increase and grow bigger as it spread in Grange Lane, that his friend was dying, and that a probable large increase of fortune to the popular favourite would be the result, which was very well as an addition and did credit to the imagination of Carlingford. He had disappeared completely once more after the eventful day, which we have described, carrying out, in the fullest way, Lucila's prediction, but striking Barbara Lake with bitter disappointment. Miss Marchbanks had a great many things to occupy her, but Barbara had nothing except the humble duty of looking after her little brothers and sisters, and attending to her father's comfort, which had never been occupations particularly to her mind. Then, Barbara was aware that, if she neglected her duties, Rose on her return from the School of Design would do them, though with a fierce little outbreak of indignation, which the elder sister felt she could bear, and accordingly Barbara did little else but brood over his sudden disappearance, and spent her time at the window, looking for his return. Naturally, Lucila conducted herself in a much more rational and dignified manner. She made herself very agreeable to the Archdeacon, who unbended very much, and grew very nice, as Mrs. Chiley herself allowed. But, my dear, I am uneasy about his opinions, the old lady said. He certainly had a very free way of talking, and was ready to discuss anything, and was not approved off by Mr. Berry. But still he had a very good connections and a nice position, and had always a chance of being Bishop of Carlingford, and in marriage it is well known, that one never can have everything one wants, so that, on the whole, even Mrs. Chiley did not see what difference his opinions made, so far as Lucila was concerned. When Miss Marchbanks went down to Colonel Chiley's in the evening, and made tea for the old people, like a daughter of the house, Mr. Beverly was always disposed to go over to the enemy, as the old Colonel said. No doubt he had enough of Colonel Chiley, who had not received a new idea into his mind since the Battle of Waterloo, and did not see what people had to do with such nonsense. And then the Archdeacon would very often walk home with a young visitor. In all this time, as was natural, Mr. Beverly heard Mr. Cavendish's name a hundred times, and regretted, like all the world, that so eminent a member of the Carlingford Commonwealth should be absent during the time of his visit. But at the same time, Lucila took great care to avoid all personalities, and kept a discreet silence even about the gifts and accomplishments of her almost-lover. Mrs. Chiley sighed, poor soul, when she saw how her young friend avoided this subject, and thought sometimes that he was forgotten, sometimes that the poor dear was breaking her heart for him. But it is needless to say that neither of these positions was in the least true. And then it began to be considered rather odd in Carlingford, that the Archdeacon should pay such a long visit. Mrs. Chiley, no doubt, was very kind and hospitable, and exceedingly glad to receive such a distinguished clergyman, but when a man has been six weeks in any one's house, and shows no inclination of going, it is natural that people should feel a little surprised. His visitation was over, and he had dined with everybody, and studied the place and its characteristics, and entered into everything that was going on. The only thing, indeed, that he did not seem to think of was going away. If it had been Mr. Cavendish, the chances are that he would have made himself so much one of the family, that his departure would have been felt as a domestic calamity. But the Archdeacon, as was to be expected, was very different from Mr. Cavendish. So long as he was in the house, it was impossible to forget either his position, or his ways of thinking, or the absence of any real connection between himself and his hosts. He did not combat or contradict anybody, but he would give a faint smile when the Colonel uttered his old-fashioned sentiments, which drove the old soldier frantic. As if I was not able to form an opinion, by Jove, Colonel Chiley said, while on the other hand the Archdeacon was quite ready to enter into the young people's absurd theories, and discussed the very Bible itself, as if that were the book to be discussed. As for the rector, he turned his head away when he passed Colonel Chiley's door, and Miss Berry made visits of condolence and sympathy. You must feel it's a great responsibility having Mr. Beverly with you. The rector's sister would say, though naturally, without any distinct explanation of her meaning, and then she would look at Mrs. Chiley in sigh. Oh, I am sure it is a great pleasure, Mrs. Chiley answered, not willing to let down the prestige of her guest. He's very nice, and takes a great deal of interest in everything, and then, you know, he's a connection of ours. The Colonel's niece, Mary Chiley. Yes, I know, said Miss Berry. Poor thing, she looked suffering the last time I saw her. I hope she has found a true consolation to support her. Now she has entered into the troubles of life. Well, yes, I hope so, said Mrs. Chiley, a little doubtfully. But you know one does not feel the troubles of life very severely at her age, and I don't think I should have called a baby a trouble when I was like her. I never had any, you know, and I used to fret over it a great deal. But the Colonel never liked the noise of children, and I suppose it is all for the best. One may always be sure of that, said Miss Berry in her instructive way. I suppose the Archdeacon is going soon, she added. He has been here a long time now. I almost wonder he likes to be so long absent from his parish. Two months, is it not? Oh no, not quite six weeks, said Mrs. Chiley briskly. I hope he may be persuaded to stay some time longer. I look upon it as quite a compliment to Carlingford, for to be sure he would not stay if he had not some attraction, said the imprudent woman. And this was precisely what Miss Berry wanted, as any one of acute perceptions might have seen from the first. It must be a great responsibility for you, said the rector's sister, with a sigh, pressing Mrs. Chiley's hand. If it should turn out badly, you know. Of course my brother and I don't agree with Mr. Beverly on all points, though I am sure I hope he is quite conscientious, but I do feel for you with such a responsibility, said Miss Berry, with a look that made the old lady nervous in spite of herself. Thus, notwithstanding all her sense of the duties of hospitality, and her anxiety about the Silla's interests, she could not but feel that it would be rather a relief to get so formidable a guest fairly out of the house. It is uncomfortable, it must be allowed. To entertain in your house anybody, particularly a clergyman of whom your rector does not approve, and there could be no doubt that the Archdeacon was not like the clergyman that Mrs. Chiley had been accustomed to. And he could come back another time, she said to herself, by way of conciliating her own weariness with her visitor's advantage and the interests of Lucilla. But notwithstanding these reflections on Mrs. Chiley's part, and notwithstanding the Colonel's less amiable growl uttered every morning, does that person of yours never mean to go away? The Archdeacon showed no intention of budging. It was poor Mrs. Chiley who had all the brunt to bear, to exhaust herself in civilities and to be upgraded with that person of yours, whereas he was not in the least her parson, nor even the kind of man she approved of as a clergyman. All this, however, the brave old woman bore with fortitude for Lucilla's sake, certainly it must be Lucilla who kept him in Carlingford if it were not something else. Because we're in this condition, Mr. Cavendish having again disappeared into utter darkness, and Carlingford beginning to enter warmly into the question whether or not Mr. Beverly was paying attention to Lucilla when it happened to Miss Marchbanks one morning to meet the Archdeacon in little lane running between Grove Street and Grange Lane. Opening from this lane was a little door in the wall which admitted to a little garden very bright with flowers of the simplest old-fashioned kinds, with a little house planted at its extremity, which had pretensions to be an old-fashioned and quasi-rural cottage on the score of being very rickety, uncomfortable, and badly arranged. But it must be a very impracticable erection indeed, which does not look tolerable under the bright sunshine on a summer noon at the end of a pretty garden where children are playing and birds singing, and a woman or two about. Lucilla was standing at the door of this little closed-up hermitage, almost filling up the opening with her crisp summer draperies, and affording only a very partial and tempting glimpse of its flowers and shrubs and whitewashed walls inside. And when Mr. Beverly came up to Miss Marchbanks, he felt his curiosity excited. Is it Armida's garden, or the Elysian Fields? said the archdeacon, and he made a dead stop before the door, not knowing any more than any other blind mortal what he was going to find inside. I don't know anything about Armida, said Miss Marchbanks. Unfortunately they were all Cambridge in their ways of thinking at Mount Pleasant, and our classics got dreadfully neglected. But you may come in if you like, at least I think you may come in. If you will promise not to frighten the children, I am sure they never saw an archdeacon in their lives. Are their children, said Mr. Beverly, with a doubtful air, for to tell the truth, he had come to the age at which men think it best to avoid children, unless indeed they happen to have a personal interest in them, and he stretched his neck a little to see in over Miss Marchbanks' head. There are a whole lot of children and a pretty governance, said Miss Hilla. It is a school, and I am so much interested in it. I may call it my school for that matter. I came to know her in the funniest way, but I will tell you that another time. And it was just my luck, as usual.  If you will not say you are an archdeacon to frighten the children, I will let you come in.  When I am with the lady patroness, what does it matter what I call myself?  I have already bowed before your genius in the other branches of government, but this ought to be more in my own way. I don't think you care for visiting schools, said Lucilla. I know you think it's a bore, but she is so nice, and so nice-looking. I'm sure you will be pleased with her. I am quite sure she is a lady, and has seen better days. Oh, those dreadful women that have seen better days, said the archdeacon. I think Mrs. Charlie has a regiment of them. It is hard to know how to get oneself into sympathy with those faded existences. They fill me with an infinite pity. But then what can one do? If one tries to recall them to the past, it sounds like mockery, and if one speaks of the present, it wounds their feelings. It is a great social difficulty, said Mr. Beverly, and he fixed his eyes on the ground and entered meditatively without looking where he was going in his broad church way. Dear Mrs. Charlie is so kind, said Lucilla, who was a little puzzled for the moment, and did not know what to say. Mrs. Charlie is a good, pure, gentle woman, said the archdeacon, in a tone which settled the question, and from which there was no appeal, and no doubt it was a perfectly true, though not a very distinct characterization. Thus they went in together, into the bright little garden, thinking of nothing particular, and loitering as people do who do not know what is coming. There was something that morning in Mr. Beverly's tone and manner, which struck Lucilla as something more than usual. She was not a young woman to attach undue importance to looks and tones, but the archdeacon's manner was so softened and mellowed, and his eyes had so much expression in them. And he looked at Lucilla with such marked regard, that it was impossible for her not to recognize that a crisis might be approaching. To be sure, it was not by any means so near as that crisis manque, which she had so lately passed over her head, in respect to Mr. Cavendish, but still, Miss March Banks could not but remark the signs of a slowly approaching, and most likely, more important climax. And as she remarked it, Lucilla, naturally by anticipation, prepared herself for the coming event that thus threw a shadow upon her. She did not make up her mind to accept Mr. Beverly any more than she had made up her mind to accept Mr. Cavendish, but she thought it only her duty to him and to herself and to society in general to take his claims into full consideration. And no doubt, if these claims had seemed to her sufficiently strong to merit such a reward, Miss March Banks had it in her to marry the Archdeacon, and make him an admirable wife, though she was not, at the present moment, so far as she was aware, absolutely what foolish people call in love with him. At the same time, as was only natural, she made herself all the more agreeable to Mr. Beverly from her sense of the dawn of tenderness with which he regarded her. In this way, they went up the broad central path, which traversed the little garden, neither looking to the left nor the right, but presenting all that appearance of being occupied with each other, which, especially to a female observer, is so easy of interpretation, for, to be sure, the Archdeacon had not the remotest idea into whose house he was going, nor who it was whom he was about to see. But as it happened, Lucilla's protégé, who had seen better days, had just then finished one of her lessons, and sent her little pupils out into the garden. She was preparing for the next little class, when, raising her eyes accidentally, she saw Miss March Banks coming through the garden with the Archdeacon by her side. She was the same person whom Mr. Berry had brought to Lucilla, with the idea of recommending her to Dr. March Banks as a companion and chaperone for his daughter. But since then, Mrs. Mortimer's appearance had considerably changed. She had grown younger by ten years, during the period of comparative comfort and tranquillity, which Lucilla's active help and championship had procured for her. Her house and her garden, and her little scholars, and the bloom on her cheeks, and the filling up of her worn frame, were all Miss March Banks doing. In the intervals of her legislative cares, Lucilla had run about all over Carlingford, searching for pupils, and at the same moment had cut and stitched and arranged, and papered walls, and planted flower beds for the feeble creature, thus thrown upon her. This was a side of Lucilla's character, which certainly she did nothing to hide from the public but which, at the same time, she never made any fuss about, and it was an endless pleasure to her to find a protege so perfectly content to be done for, and do as she was told to do. It was thus that the poor faded widow, who was sensitive and had feelings, and forgot herself so far as to faint, or nearly to faint, just at the most unlucky moment possible, when the rector's character and dignity demanded superior self-control on her part, had found her youth again and her good looks under Lucilla's shadow. When she looked up and saw the two approaching, Mrs. Timmer's first impulse was to smile at the conjunction, but the next moment she had dropped the books out of her hands, and was standing gazing out like a woman in a dream, with a color all gone out of her cheeks, and even out of her lips, in the surprise of the moment. It was only surprise, and a kind of dismay. It was not terror, like that which Mr. Cavendish had exhibited at the same apparition. She dropped into her chair without knowing it, and probably would have fainted this time also if something more urgent than mere feelings had not roused her up. As it was, it happened very happily for her that she had thus a little preparation. When she saw that her patroness was leading Mr. Beverly up to the door, and that in a minute more he would inevitably be brought to her very side, Mrs. Martimer roused up all her strength. She gathered up her books in her hand without knowing very well what she was doing, and taking virtue from necessity went desperately out to meet them. It was Miss March Banks who first saw her, white and tottering, leaning against a trelley of the little porch, and Lucilla could not but give a little cry of alarm and wonder. What kind of man could this be, who thus struck down another victim without even so much as a glance? It was just then that the Archdeacon raised his eyes, and saw standing before him among the faded roses, the woman whom he had been approaching so indifferently, the faded existence that had seen better days. He saw her, and he stood stock still, as if it was she who was the basilisk, and the look of pleased interest went out of his face in a moment. In that moment he had become as unconscious of the presence of Lucilla, as if he had never in his life softened his voice to her ear, or talked nonsense to please her. His eyes did not seem big enough to take in the figure which stood shrinking and looking at him in the porch. Then he made one long step forward, and took hold of her sleeve, not her hand, as if to convince himself that it was something real he saw. He showed no joy, nor satisfaction, nor anything but sheer amaze and wonder at this unexpected appearance, for he had not had time to prepare himself as she had. Am I dreaming, or is it you? He said, in a voice that sounded as different from the voice with which he had been speaking to Lucilla, as if years had elapsed between the two. And it would be vain to describe the amazement and singular sense that the earth had suddenly given way under her feet, with which Miss March Banks stood by and looked on. CHAPTER XXIV Miss March Banks was naturally the first to recover her senses in this emergency. Even she, self-possessed as she was, felt, to be sure, the natural giddiness inseparable from such a strange reversal of the position. But she did not lose her head, like the others. She looked at her protégé standing white and tremulous in the shadow of the little porch, and on the arch-deacon whose manly countenance had paled to a corresponding color. A man does not seize a woman by the sleeve and ask, is it you? Without some reason for an address so destitute of ordinary courtesy, and Lucilla was sufficiently versed in such matters to know that so rude and impersonal and accosts could be only addressed to someone whose presence set the speaker's heart beating and quickened the blood in his veins. It was odd to say the least, after the way in which he had just been speaking to herself, but Miss March Banks, as had been already said, was not the woman to lose her head. She recovered herself with a second breath she drew, and took her natural place. I can see that you have something to say to each other, said Lucilla. Mrs. Mortimer, ask Mr. Beverly to walk in. Never mind me. I want to speak to these little lakes. I shall see you presently. Miss March Banks added, nodding pleasantly to the arch-deacon, and she went away to the other end of the garden, calling to the children with that self-possession, which is the gift only of great minds. But when Lucilla found herself at a safe distance, and saw the arch-deacons duped to go in under the porch, it cannot be denied that her mind was moved by the sight. It was she who had seen after the putting up of that trelly, and the arrangement of the wisteria, which had been sprawling over the front of the house, uncared for. If there was any place in the world where she should have been free from such a shock, it certainly should have been here, in this spot, which she had, so to speak, created. Naturally the unfitness of these surroundings to witness a revolution, which was so unlooked for and disagreeable struck Lucilla. If she had to be again humiliated, and to submit once more to see another preferred to her, it certainly should have been under other circumstances than these. When we admit that such a thought did pass through the mind of Miss Marchbanks, it will sufficiently prove to all who know her, that Lucilla found her position sufficiently aggravating. She had exerted herself or Mrs. Mortimer, as nobody else in Carlingford would have exerted themselves. She had not only found pupils as a means of living for the widow, which perhaps a committee of ladies might have done at the end of a year, had it been put into their hands, but Miss Marchbanks had done it at once, and had taken charge of that timid and maladroit individual herself and set her up, and done everything for her. It was Dr. Marchbanks' gardener under Lucilla's orders, who had arranged and planted the garden, and trained over the porch those long branches of wisteria which had just brushed the Archdeacon's clerical hat as he went in, and in the act of refurnishing her drawing-room, Miss Marchbanks managed to procure without costing anybody anything except a little trouble, as she herself said, many accessories, which gave an air of comfort to the little parlor, in which no doubt at that moment Mr. Beverly and Mrs. Mortimer were explaining themselves. Lucilla had a great deal too much good sense to upbraid anybody within gratitude, or even to make any claim upon that slippery quality, but she knew at the same time that the widow was a very last person from whom any new discomputure should come, and had to enter in under that trelly which had, so to speak, been grated by her own hand, when he left her was, on the Archdeacon's part, an aggravation of the change in his sentiments which was too difficult to bear. She walked along the garden path very briskly under the influence of these thoughts, and it was not in nature to do otherwise than snub the children when she joined them. Lucilla was a woman of genius, but she was not faultless, and when she found Ethel Linda and Ethel Fredle Lake, the two twins, the one with her clean frock all muddy and stained, the other with the front breath torn right up the middle, it is scarcely to be wondered at if she lost her patience. "'You little nasty, untidy things,' she said. "'I should like to know who you expect is to go mending up and washing every day for you. It will not be Barbara, I'm sure.' Miss Marchbank's added, with the fine intonation of scorn, of which the culprits were insensible, and she gave Ethel Linda a shake, who was sitting on the wet ground all muddy with recent watering, and who, beside, was the one who most resembled Barbara. When this temporary abolition had taken place, Lucilla began gradually to write herself. It was grand sight, if anybody had been there to witness it, or if anybody could have seen into Miss Marchbank's maiden bosom, but the spectacle of a great mind, thus recovering its balance, is one, which can rarely be visible except in its results. While she said the children to writes, and represented to Mrs. Mortimer's little servant, who was in the garden furtively on a pretense of cabbages, the extreme folly, and indeed, idiocy, of letting them get to the water and make a mess of themselves, Lucilla was in reality coming to herself. Perhaps she spoke with a little more energy than usual, but the offenders were so well aware of their guilt, and so thoroughly satisfied of the justice of the reproof addressed to them, that no other explanation was necessary, and little by little, Miss Marchbank's felt herself restored to her natural calm. You know I don't like to scold you, she said, but what would anybody say? Nice clean frocks, that I am sure were put on fresh this morning, and you, Mary Jane, please, Miss, it was only for a young cabbage, Mrs. is fond of a bit of vegetable, said the little maid. I knew she'd not say nothing, and just as I told them all, to have done and be good, and nobody knew as you were here, said Mary Jane, there was something even in that small and humble testimony to Lucilla's sovereignty which helped on the process which was operating in her mind. She regained bit by bit that serene self-consciousness which places the spirit above the passing vexations of the world. What did it matter what other people might be doing or saying? Was not she still Lucilla Marchbank's? And when one had said that, one had said all. It is time you were all going home to your dinners, said Lucilla, and I have asked Mrs. Mortimer to give you a half holiday.  Now get all your hats and things and run away, and if you are not awfully good to-morrow, I shall never ask for another half-holiday again. Saying which, Miss Marchbank's herself saw the hats brought out, and the little scholars sent away, she took matters into her own hand, with the confidence of a superior nature. After all the long talk they are having, she will not be able for her scholars to-day, Lucilla said to herself with magnanimity, and she again made the tour of the garden, inspecting everything, to see that all was in order. With every step she took, Miss Marchbank's became more and more herself. As we have already said, it was a grand and inspiring sight, but then, to be sure, as in the former case, her affections, fortunately, were not engaged. She was not in love with the Archdeacon any more than she had been in love with Mr. Cavendish, though it is true, love is not everything. To think how he had been looking and talking not much more than half an hour ago, and to reflect that now he had most likely forgotten her very existence, and was explaining himself, and placing that position which would have just suited Lucilla at the feet of the object of her bounty, was enough to have driven a young woman of ordinary mind half out of her senses with disgust and indignation. But fortunately Lucilla's mind was not an ordinary one. And every step she took round the garden restored her more and more entirely to herself. Instead of conceiving any jealous dislike to Mrs. Mortimer, she had already, as has been stated, exerted herself with her usual benevolence to leave her free for the rest of the day. After all, it is not her fault if she knew him before, or if he was in love with her, Lucilla said to herself, and when she had arrived at this perfectly true and profoundly philosophical conclusion, it may be said that the crisis was at an end. But then, where personal offense and indignation, if the natural shock of Miss Marchbank's feelings could be called by such hard names, ended, bewilderment and curiosity began, who could this archdeacon be, who had frightened the most popular man in Carlingford out of the place, and whose unlooked-for appearance had driven Mrs. Mortimer back out of her recovered good looks and cheerfulness into pallor and trembling. To be sure, Lucilla knew quite well who he was, the second son of Mr. Beverly of Trent Valley, a family as well known as any family in England. Everybody knew all about the archdeacon. His career from his youth up was as clearly traceable, as if he had been killed in a railway accident and had had his memoir published in The Times. There was nothing in the smallest degree secrets or mysterious about him, and yet how could it come about that the sight of him should frighten Mr. Cavendish out of his senses, and make Mrs. Mortimer, who was utterly unconnected with Mr. Cavendish, all but faint as she had done on a former occasion. But was it his mission to go about the world driving people into fits of terror or agitation? To be sure, he was a broad churchman, and not the type of clergyman to which Lucilla in her heart inclined.  As these thoughts went through her mind, Ms. Marchbank's eyes could not help observing that the branches of the pear tree, which was all the garden contained in the shape of fruit, had come loose from the wall, and were swaying about greatly to the damage of the half-grown pears, not to say that it gave a very untidy look to that corner. I must send Crawford down this evening to fasten it up, Lucilla said to herself, and then went on with what she was thinking. And she made one or two other remarks of the same description in a parenthesis as she made her tour. After all, it is astonishing how many little things go wrong, when the man or woman with a hundred eyes is absent for a few days from the helm of affairs. It was nearly a week since Ms. Marchbank's had been round Mrs. Mortimer's garden, and in that time the espalier had got detached, some of the verbenas were dead in the borders, and half of the sticks that propped up the dahlias had fallen, leaving the plants in miserable confusion. Lucilla shook her head over this as she asked herself what mysterious influence there could be in the Archdeacon. For her own part, she was not in the slightest degree afraid of him, nor could she confess to having felt agitated even when he walked with her into this fated garden, but there could be no doubt of the seriousness of the effects produced by his appearance on the two others. They have broken half of the props, the little nuisance is, Lucilla said to herself, as she pursued her musings. For her large mind was incapable, now it had recovered its serenity, of confining itself unless with a very good reason, to one soul subject. When she had finished her inspection and saw that nobody had yet appeared at the door, Ms. Marchbank's collected the books which the children had left lying in the summer house, and put them under cover for to tell the truth. It looked a little like rain. And having done this, and looked all round her to see if anything else required her immediate care, and seeing once more that nobody was coming, Lucilla carried philosophy to its highest practical point by going away, which is, perhaps, a height of good sense which may be thought too much for humanity. It was not too much for Ms. Marchbank's legislative soul and knowledge of human nature, for in thus denying herself she was perfectly aware of her advantages, and of the inevitable result. She knew just as well as if she had already received it, that Mrs. Mortimer would write her a little three-cornered note, marked private, as soon as the arch-deacon was gone, and she thought it was highly probable that Mr. Beverly himself would come to give some explanation.  She began to have a kind of conviction, too, since this has happened, either that Carlingford would not be raised into a bishopric, or that the arch-deacon, at least, would not be the first bishop. It was difficult to give any ground for this idea, but it came into her mind with a kind of quiet certainty, and with this conviction in which she recognized that beautiful self-adjusting balance of compensations which keeps everything right in the world, Lucilla, quite recovered from her shock, had on the whole a pleasant walk home. As for the two who were shut up together in Mrs. Mortimer's parlor, their state of mind was far from partaking of the virtuous peace and serenity which filled Miss Marchbank's bosom. It was more than an hour before the arch-deacon went away, and when Mrs. Mortimer had a little collected her faculties, the result arrived which had been foreseen by Lucilla. In the first place, terror seized the widow as to what had become of the pupils, whom all this time she had forgotten. Deep was her gratitude when she had ascertained that her protecting genius had sent them away, but with that gratitude came a sudden recollection of the manner in which Mr. Beverly and Miss Marchbank's had been coming together up the garden path before the mistress of the house showed herself. Mrs. Mortimer wrung her hands when she recollected the looks and attitude of the two, and the rumour which had reached her ears that the arch-deacon was paying attention to Miss Marchbank's. What was she to do? Was her miserable presence here to dispel perhaps the youthful hopes of her benefactress and make a revolution in Lucilla's prospects? The poor woman felt herself ready to sink into the earth at the thought. She went to the window and looked out disconsolently into the rain, for it had come on to rain, as Lucilla supposed it would, and felt like a creature in a cage, helpless, imprisoned, miserable, not knowing what to do with herself, and the cause of trouble to her best friends. A little house in the garden may look like a little paradise in the sunshine, and yet feel like a dungeon when a poor woman all alone looks out across her flowers in the rain, and sees nothing but the wall that shuts her in, and thinks to herself that she has no refuge nor escape from it, nobody to tell her what to do, nothing but her own feeble powers to support her, and the dreadful idea that she has done harm and can do no good to her only protector. To be sure, to be there in her own house, poor enough certainly, but secure, and no longer driven lonely and distressed about the world was a great matter, but yet, after all, the walls that shut her in, the blast of white, sweeping, downright rain, which seemed to cut her off from any sucker outside, and the burden of something on her mind which by herself she was quite unable to bear was a hard and painful combination, and wringing one's hands, and feeling one's mind ready to give way under a new and unexpected burden could not advance matters in the slightest degree. She was not strong-minded as has been already proved, nor indeed had she the ordinary amount of indifference to other people or confidence in herself, which stands in the place of self-control with many people. After she had wrung her hands and looked out again and again with a vague instinct of perhaps finding some suggestion of comfort outside, Mrs. Mortimer relapsed by necessity into the one idea that had been a support to her for so many months past. All that she could do was to consult Lucilla. It might be to wound Lucilla for anything she could tell, but when a poor creature is helpless and weak, and has but one friend in the world who is strong, what can she do but apply to her sustainer and guardian? When after beating about wildly from one point to another she arrived ultimately, as might have been predicted, and indeed, as Miss Marchbanks had expected from the first, at that conclusion, there remained the further difficulty of the means of communication. Lucilla had settled quite calmly in her own mind, that it would be by the medium of a three-cornered note, a matter in which there was no difficulty whatever, for the widow was sufficiently fluent with her pen, but then Lucilla had not thought of Mary Jane, who was the only possible messenger. It was to this point now that Mrs. Mortimer's ideas addressed themselves. As that moment the rain poured down fiercer than ever. The bricks of the uncovered wall grew black with the wet, and the wisteria crouched and shivered about the porch as if it wanted to be taken indoors. And then to get wet and perhaps catch cold was a thing Mary Jane conscientiously avoided like the rest of the world, and it was with a sense of alarm even stronger than that excited by the possibility of injuring Lucilla that Mrs. Mortimer very gently and modestly rang her bell. I don't think it rains quite so heavily, said the timid experimentalist, feeling her heart beat as she made this doubtful statement. Love you a pair of galoshes, Mary Jane? No, said the little handmaiden, with precaution, and please, if it's for the post, it rains worse nor ever, and I don't think a smother would like. Oh, it's not for the post, said Mrs. Mortimer. It is for Miss March Banks. You can take mine, and then you will not get your feet wet. I go out so very little. You may have them, to keep Mary Jane, and you can take the big shawl that hangs in the passage, and an umbrella. I don't think it is so heavy as it was. Mary Jane regarded the rain gloomily from the window, but her reluctance was at an end from the moment she heard that it was to Miss March Banks she was going. To be sure, the distance between the Serenissime Nancy and Thomas, and the other inmates of the doctor's kitchen, and Mrs. Mortimer's little handmaiden, was as great as that which exists between an English duke and the poorest little cadet of a large family among his attendant gentry. But correspondingly the nearest entrance into that higher world was as great a privilege for Mary Jane as the duke's notice would be to the squire's youngest son. She kept up a momentary show of resistance, but she accepted the gloloshes, and after a moment agreed in her mistress's trembling assertion about the rain. And this was how the three-cornered note got conveyed to its destination in the heaviest of the storm, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. Mrs. Mortimer still sat at her window, wringing her hands from time to time, with her head aching and her heart beating, and a dreadful question in her mind as to what Lucilla would say, or whether perhaps she might reject altogether in her natural indignation the appeal made to her, which was an idea which filled the widow with inexpressible horror. While at the same moment Miss Marchbank sat looking for that appeal which she knew was sure to come, the rain had set in by this time with an evident intention of lasting, and even from the windows of Dr. Marchbank's drawing-room the prospect of the garden walls and glistening trees was sufficiently doleful. Nobody was likely to call, nothing was doing, and Lucilla, who never caught cold, had not the least fear of wetting her feet.  Miss Marchbank's got up as soon as she had read the note and changed her dress and put on a great waterproof cloak. Instead of thinking it a trouble, she was rather exhilarated by the necessity. Be sure to make your mistress a nice cup of tea as soon as we get there, she said to Mary Jane. She must want it, I am sure, if she has not had any dinner. For the little maid had betrayed the fact that Mrs. Mortimer could not eat anything, and had sent away her dinner, which was naturally an alarming and wonderful occurrence to Mary Jane. The widow was still sitting at the window when Lucilla appeared, tripping across the wet garden in her waterproof cloak, if not a ministering angel, at least a substantial prop and support to the lonely woman who trusted in her, and yet in the present instant feared her. But anything more unlike a disappointed maiden, whose wooer had been taken away from her under her very eyes, could not have been seen. On the contrary, Miss Marchbank's was radiant, with raindrops glistening on her hair, and what Mrs. Shiley called a lovely colour. If there was one thing in the world, more than another which contented Lucilla, it was to be appealed to and called upon for active service. It did her heart good to take the management of incapable people, and arrange all their affairs for them, and solve all their difficulties. Such an office was more in her way than all the archdeacons in the world. I saw you knew him the moment I looked at you, said Lucilla. I have seen other people look like that when he appeared. Who is he for goodness sake? I know quite well, of course, who he is in the ordinary way, but do tell me, what has he done to make people look like that whenever he appears? Mrs. Mortimer didn't directly answer this question. She fixed her mind upon one part of it, like an unreasonable woman, and repeated, other people, with a kind of interrogative gasp. Oh, it was only a gentleman, said Lucilla, with rapid intelligence, and then there was a little pause. He has been here for six weeks, Miss Marchbank's continued. You must have heard of him.  Did you really never know that he was here till today? I did not think of him being archdeacon. He was only a curate when I used to know him, said poor Mrs. Mortimer with a sigh. Tell me all about it, said Lucilla, with ingenious sympathy, and she drew her chair close to that of her friend, and took her hand in a protecting, encouraging way. You know, whatever you like to say, that it is quite safe with me. If you are sure you do not mind, said the poor widow. Oh yes, I have heard what people have been saying about him and you, Lucilla, and if I had known I would have shut myself up, I would have gone away forever and ever, I would, my dear, said Miss Marchbank's, with a little severity. I thought you knew me better. If I had been thinking of that sort of thing, I never would have come home at all, and when you know how kind Papa has been about the drawing-room and everything, say what you were going to say and never think of me. Oh, Lucilla, I have had my life, said the trembling woman, whose agitation was coming to a climax. I have had it, and done with it, and you have been so good to me, and if after all I was to stand between you and, and, and anybody. But here Mrs. Mortimer broke down and could say no more. To be sure, she did not faint this time, any more than she did, on the first occasion when she made Miss Marchbank's acquaintance. But Lucilla thought it best as then, to make her lie down on the sofa, and keep her quite quiet, and hasten Mary Jane with a cup of tea. You have been agitated, and you have not eaten anything, said Lucilla.  I am very glad the Archdeacon did not come until you had got back your looks. It makes such a difference to a man. Miss Marchbank's added, with that almost imperceptible tone of contempt, which she was sometimes known to use when speaking of their absurd peculiarities. As for Mrs. Mortimer, the interference conveyed by these words brought the color to her pale cheeks. It will never come to that, she said. No more than it did in the old days. It never can, Lucilla, and I don't know that it is to be wished. I couldn't help being put out a little when I saw him, you know, but there is one thing that he never, never will persuade me, said the widow. Lucilla could but look on in surprise, and even consternation, while Mrs. Mortimer thus expressed herself. A warm flush animated the pale and somewhat worn face, and a gleam of something that looked absolutely like resolution, shown in the yielding woman's mild eyes. Was it possible that even she had one point upon which she could be firm? Miss Marchbank stood still, petrified, in the very act of pouring out the tea. If it is only one thing, if I were you, I would give in to him, said Lucilla, with a vague sense that this sort of self-assertion must be put a stop to, mingling with her surprise. Never, said Mrs. Mortimer again, with a still clearer gleam of resolution. In the first place, I have no right, whatever, to anything more than my uncle gave me. He told me himself I was to have no more, and he was very, very kind to poor Edward. You don't know all the circumstances, or you would not say so, she cried, with a sob. As for Miss Marchbank's, if it is possible to imagine her clear spears altogether lost in bewilderment, it would have been at that moment, but she recovered as soon as she had administered her cup of tea. Now tell me all about it, said Lucilla, again sitting down by the sofa, and this time Mrs. Mortimer, to whom her excitement had given a little spur and stimulus, did not waste any more time. He's my cousin, she said, not my real cousin, but distant, and I will not deny that long, long ago, when we were both young, you know, Lucilla, yes, yes, I understand, said Miss Marchbank's, pressing her hand. He was very nice in those days, said Mrs. Mortimer, faltering. That is, I don't mean to say he was not always nice, you know, but only, I never had either father or mother, I was living with my uncle Garrett, my uncle on the other side, and he thought he should have made me his heiress, but instead of that, he left his money, you know, to him, and then he was dreadfully put out, and wanted me to prosecute him, and change the will, but I never blamed him for my part, Lucilla, he knows I never blamed him, and nothing he said would make me give in to go to the law with him. Stop a minute, said Lucilla. I am not quite sure that I understand. Who was it he wanted you to go to law with? And was it to the Archdeacon the money was left? Oh, Lucilla, said the widow, with a momentary exasperation, you who are so quick, and pick up everything, to think you should not understand me when I speak up a thing so important. Of course it was not to Charles Beverly the money was left, if it had been left to him, how could he have wanted me to go to law? It has always been the question between us, said Mrs. Mortimer, once more lighting up with exceptional and unwanted energy. He said I was to indict him for conspiracy, and I declared to you, Lucilla, that he was not to blame. The political garret might be foolish, but I don't say even that he was foolish.  He never was anything to me, said Mrs. Mortimer, wiping her eyes. Never, whatever Charles may choose to say, but if ever I was sure of anything in the world, I am sure that he was not to blame. Lucilla's head began to whirl, but after her first unsuccessful essay, she was wise enough not to ask any more direct questions. She made all the efforts possible, with ears and eyes intent, to disentangle this web of pronouns, and, failing, waited on in the hope that time and patience would throw a little light upon them. I suppose Mr. Beverly thought he was to blame, she said, when the narrator paused to take breath. It's not that what I am saying, said Mrs. Mortimer. It was through that it was all broke off. I am sure I don't know whether he has regretted it or not, Lucilla. It's not always very easy to understand a gentleman, you know.  It is just the same thing as ever, and the same obstacle as ever, and it never will come to that. You're agitating yourself, said Miss March Banks. Lie down, there's a deer, and keep quite still, and see whether we cannot make anything better of it. Tell me, what would you go to law with him for? Lucilla continued, with a natural humility of imperfect comprehension. It was perhaps the first time in her life that such a singular chance had happened to Miss March Banks, as to have a matter explained to her, and yet be unable to understand. He says he could be indicted for conspiracy, or for having too much influence over him, and making him do what he liked, but he was very good to him, Lucilla, and to my poor Edward, and when I was married to him. Goodness gracious, were you married to him as well? cried Lucilla, fairly losing the thread in her balance in this confusing circle. Miss Mortimer grew pale, and rose quite up from the sofa, and went with the air of an insulted woman to seat herself in her usual chair. I don't know why you should address me so, she said. He is nothing to me, and never was. It is an insult to me to think that I must have a personal reason for refusing to do a wicked and unjust thing.  I would give in, in a moment, if it was any fancy of mine. You know I would, but when I am sure it would be wicked and unjust. I am sure I am not the person to bid you do anything unjust or wicked, said Lucilla, who in the utter confusion of her faculties began to feel offended in her turn. Then I beg you will never speak to me of it again, cried Mrs. Mortimer. How is it possible that either he or you can know the rights of it as I do, who was in the house at the time, and saw everything? Many may say what he likes, but I know there was no conspiracy. He was just as much surprised as you could be, or Charles, or anybody. Of course it was for his advantage. Nobody denies that, but you don't mean to say that a man is to reject everything that is for his advantage, said the widow, turning eyes of indignant inquiry upon her visitor, and Miss March Banks for once was so utterly perplexed that she did not know how to respond. But you said when you were married to him, said Lucilla, who felt that the tables were turned upon her for the moment.  This was said in the most deprecating tone in the world, but still it irritated Mrs. Mortimer, whose mind was all unhinged, and somehow felt that she was not finding in Miss March Banks the help and support to which her clear and detailed explanation entitled her, though her head was aching dreadfully, she sat up more upright than ever in her chair. I don't think you can mean to insult me, Miss March Banks, said the widow, after being so kind. Perhaps I have been trying you too much by what I have said, though I am sure I would have given up everything, and gone away anywhere, rather than be the cause of anything unpleasant. You know that it was my poor dear Edward I was married to. You know I have a horror, said Mrs. Mortimer, faltering. In the general, of second marriages. Oh yes, said Lucilla, but there are always exceptions, you know, and when people have no children or anything and you that were so young, I always make exceptions for my part, and if you could only get over this one point, Miss March Banks added, making a dexterous strategical movement, but Mrs. Mortimer only shook her head. I don't think I am hard to get on with, she said, but my poor Edward always said, one must make a stand somewhere. He used to say I was so easy to be persuaded. He was glad to see, I had a point to make a stand on, instead of being disagreeable about it, or thinking he was anything to me, and though Lucilla he was so kind to him, said the widow, with tears in her eyes. We met him quite by chance, and he was so kind, I will never forget it, if I should live a hundred years. And why should Charles be in such a way, he never did him any harm, if any one was injured, it was me, and I never felt myself injured, neither did Edward. On the contrary, he always did him justice, Lucilla. Mrs.  What could Lucilla do? She was burning to take it all in her own hands, and arrange it somehow, and unite the two lovers who had been so long separated. But unless she could understand what the point was on which Mrs. Mortimer made her stand, what could she do? I never could understand, said the widow, who began to feel her heart sick, with the disappointment of that hope which she had fixed in Miss March Banks. Why he should take it so much to heart? Poor Edward never thought of such a thing. And why he should be so set against poor Mr. Cavern, and so, Lucilla, oh, tell me, do you see anything? What do you mean? So it is Mr. Cavern he wants to prosecute, said Miss March Banks, and she drew a long breath as she emerged from her difficulties. Certainly the work before her was no trifle, but still it began to grow intelligible, which was the first grand advance on the way. Mrs. Mortimer uttered a sigh, and pressed her two hands together, and gave her companion a pathetic look, as people naturally do when they are talking to somebody who will not understand. I have been telling you of nothing else ever since you came in, she said, with an air of resignation. But Lucilla, dear, forgive me, oh, forgive me, if it is too much for you, she added, in a moment after, as another idea struck her. It was not with the idea of anything coming of it, you know. It will never come to that, not now. I don't know if it is to be wished. I am sure he is quite free so far as I am concerned. It was not with that idea I asked for your advice, Lucilla, said the poor woman in piteous tones. If Miss March Banks had pressed her and insisted upon knowing what was the idea, which had moved her friend to ask her advice, Mrs. Mortimer would no doubt have found it very hard to reply. But Lucilla had no such cruel intentions, and the widow not when standing her piteous denial of any motive, now that her mind was cleared, and she had caught the comprehension of her auditor, began to regard her with a certain instinct of hope. As for Miss March Banks, her ideas went forward at a bound to one grand finale of reconciliation and universal brotherhood. She saw the tools under her hands, and her very fingers itched to begin. Large and varied as her experience was, she never yet had any piece of social business on so important a scale to manage, and her eyes sparkled and her heart beat at the idea. Instead of shrinking from interference, her spirits rose at the thought, to vanquish the arch-deacon, to pluck out from the darkness, and rehabilitate, and set at his ease, the mysterious adventurer whom, to be sure, she could not say she knew, for Lucilla was very careful, even in her own thoughts, not to commit herself on this subject, and to finish off by a glorious and triumphant marriage, not her own it is true, but of her making, which was more to the purpose. Such was the program she made out for herself with the speed of lightning, the moment she had laid hold of the clue which guided her through the labyrinth. It would be too lengthy a matter to go into all her tender cares for the widow's comfort during the rest of her stay, and the pains and delicacy with which she managed to illicit further particulars, and to make out her brief, so to speak, while she cheered up and encouraged the witness. Miss Marge Banks jumped to the conclusion that poor Edward had been, after all, but a temporary tenant of the heart, which was now again free for the reception of the arch-deacon, if he could be got to accept the conditions. When half-past six arrived, and Thomas came for her with a great umbrella, she went off quite resplendent in her waterproof cloak, and utterly indifferent to the rain, leaving Mrs. Mortimer worn out, but with a glimmer of hope in her mind. Such was the great work which, without a moment's hesitation, Lucilla took upon her shoulders. She had no more fear of the result than she had of wetting her feet, which was a thing Mrs. Mortimer and Thomas were both concerned about, but then Lucilla knew her own resources and what she was capable of, and proceeded upon her way with that unconscious calm of genius which is always so inexplicable to the ordinary world.