For after the commotion on the staircase Lucilla had no further doubt on the subject. She even had the strength to get up to meet him, and hold out her hands to him by way of welcome—but found herself, before she knew how, in the arms of a man with a beard, who was so much changed in his own person that he ventured to kiss her, which was a thing Tom Marjoribanks, though her cousin, had never dared to do before. He kissed her—such was his audacity; and then he held her at arm’s length to have a good look at her; and then, according to all appearance, would have repeated his first salutation, but that Lucilla had come to herself, and took the reins at once into her hand.
“Tom!” she said, “of course it is you; nobody else would have been so impertinent. When did you come? Where did you come from? Who could ever have thought of your appearing like this, in such an altogether unexpected—?”
“Unexpected!” said Tom, with an astonished air. “But I suppose you had other things to think of. Ah, Lucilla, I could not write to you. I felt I ought to be beside you, trying if there was not something I could do. My mother told you, of course; but I could not trust myself to write to you.”
Then Lucilla saw it all, and that Aunt Jemima had meant to do Mr. Ashburton a good turn. And she was not grateful to her aunt, however kind her intentions might have been. But Tom was holding her hand, and looking into her face while this thought passed through her mind, and Miss Marjoribanks was not the woman, under any circumstances, to make dispeace.
“I am sure I am very glad,” said Lucilla. “I would say you were changed, but only of course that would make you think how I am changed; and though one knows one has gone off—”
“I never saw you look so nice all your life,” cried Tom energetically; and he took hold of both her hands, and looked into her face more and more. To be sure he had a kind of right, being a cousin, and newly returned after so long an absence; but it was embarrassing all the same.
“Oh, Tom, don’t say so,” cried Lucilla; “if you but knew how different the house is, and everything so altered—and dear papa!”
It was natural, and indeed it was only proper, that Miss Marjoribanks should cry—which she did abundantly, partly for grief, and partly because of the flutter of agitation, and something like joy, in which she was, and which, considering that she had always frankly owned that she was fond of Tom, was quite natural too. She cried with honest abandonment, and did not take much notice what her cousin was doing to comfort her, though indeed he applied himself to that benevolent office in the most anxious way.
“Don’t cry, Lucilla,” he said, “I can’t bear it. It don’t look natural to see you cry. My poor uncle was an old man, and you were always the best daughter in the world—”
“Oh, Tom! sometimes I don’t think so,” sobbed Lucilla; “sometimes I think if I had sat up that last night—And you don’t know how good he was. It was me he was thinking of, and never himself. When he heard the money was lost, all that he said was, Poor Lucilla! You rang his bell though it is the night-bell, and nobody ever touches it now; I knew it could be nobody but you; and to see you again brings up everything so distinctly. Oh, Tom! he was always very fond of you.”
“Lucilla,” said Tom Marjoribanks, “you know I always had a great regard for my uncle. But it was not for him I came back. He was never half so fond of me as I am of you. You know that as well as I do. There never was a time that I would not have gone to the other end of the world if you had told me; and I have done it as near as possible. I went to India because you sent me away. And I have come back—”
“You have not come back only for an hour, I hope?” said Miss Marjoribanks, with momentary impatience; “you are not obliged to talk of everything all in a moment—and when one has not even got over one’s surprise at seeing you. When did you come back? When did you have anything to eat? You want your breakfast or your lunch or something; and, Tom! the idea of sitting here talking to me, and talking nonsense, when you have not seen your mother. She is in her own room, you unnatural boy—the blue room, next to what used to be yours. To think Aunt Jemima should be in the house, and you should sit here talking nonsense to me!”
“This minute,” said Tom apologetically; but he drew his chair in front of Miss Marjoribanks, so that she could not get away. “I have come back to stay as long as you will let me,” he said; “don’t go away yet. Look here, Lucilla—if you had married, I would have tried to bear it; but as long as you are not married, I can’t help feeling as if there might be a chance for me yet. And that is why I have come home. I met somebody coming downstairs.”
“Tom,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “it is dreadful to see that you have come back just as tiresome as ever. I always said I would
