_Chapter XXIII_
Miss Marjoribanks was naturally the first to recover her senses in thisemergency. Even she, self-possessed as she was, felt the naturalgiddiness inseparable from such a strange reversal of the position. Butshe did not lose her head like the others. She looked at the widowstanding white and tremulous in the shadow of the little porch, and onthe Archdeacon, whose manly countenance had paled to a correspondingcolour. A man does not seize a woman by the sleeve and ask, "Is it_you_?" without some reason for an address so destitute of ordinarycourtesy; and Lucilla was sufficiently versed in such matters to knowthat so rude and startling an accost could be only addressed to some onewhose presence set the speaker's heart beating, and quickened the bloodin his veins. It was odd, to say the least, after the way in which hehad just been speaking to herself; but Miss Marjoribanks, as has beenalready said, was not the woman to lose her head. She recovered herselfwith the second breath she drew, and took her natural place. "I can seethat you have something to say to each other," said Lucilla. "MrsMortimer, ask Mr Beverley to walk in. Never mind me. I want to speak tothe little Lakes. I shall come back presently," Miss Marjoribanks added,nodding pleasantly to the Archdeacon--and she went away to the other endof the garden, calling to the children with that self-possession whichis the gift only of great minds. But when Lucilla found herself at asafe distance, and saw the Archdeacon stoop to go in under the porch, itcannot be denied that her mind was moved by the sight. It was she whohad seen after the putting-up of that trellis round that porch, and thearrangement of the wistaria, which had been sprawling all over the frontof the house uncared for. If there was any place in the world where sheshould have been free from such a shock, it certainly should have beenhere, in this spot, which she had, so to speak, created. Naturally theunfitness of these surroundings to witness a revolution so unlooked-forand disagreeable struck Lucilla. If she had to be again humiliated, andto submit once more to see another preferred to herself, it certainlyshould have been under other circumstances. When we admit that such athought did pass through the mind of Miss Marjoribanks, it will prove toall who know her that Lucilla found her position sufficientlyaggravating. She had exerted herself for Mrs Mortimer as nobody else inCarlingford would have exerted themselves. She had not only found pupilsand a means of living for the widow, which, perhaps, a committee ofladies might have done at the end of a year, had it been put into theirhands; but Miss Marjoribanks had done it at once, and had taken chargeof that timid and maladroit individual herself, and set her up, and doneeverything for her. It was Dr Marjoribanks's gardener, under Lucilla'sorders, who had arranged and planted the garden, and trained theembowering foliage which had just brushed the Archdeacon's clerical hatas he went in; and in the act of refurnishing her drawing-room, MissMarjoribanks had managed to procure, without costing anybody anythingexcept a little trouble, as she herself said, many accessories, whichgave an air of comfort to the little parlour, in which, no doubt, atthat moment, Mr Beverley and Mrs Mortimer were explaining themselves.Lucilla had a great deal too much good sense to upbraid anybody withingratitude, or even to make any claim upon that slippery quality; butshe knew at the same time that the widow was the very last person fromwhom a new discomfiture should come, and that to enter in under thattrellis when he left her was, on the Archdeacon's part, an aggravationof the change in his sentiments which it was difficult to bear.
She walked along the garden path very briskly under the influence ofthese thoughts, and it was not in nature to do otherwise than snub thechildren when she joined them. Lucilla was a woman of genius, but shewas not faultless; and when she found Ethelinda and Ethelfreda Lake, thetwo twins, the one with her clean frock all muddy and stained, the otherwith the front breadth torn right up the middle, it is scarcely to bewondered 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 andwashing every day for you? It will not be Barbara, I am sure," MissMarjoribanks added, with a fine intonation of scorn, of which theculprits were insensible; and she gave Ethelinda a shake, who wassitting on the wet ground, all muddy with recent watering, and who,besides, was the one who most resembled Barbara. When this temporaryebullition had taken place, Lucilla began gradually to right herself.It was a grand sight, if anybody had been there to witness it, or ifanybody could have seen into Miss Marjoribanks's maiden bosom; but thespectacle of a great mind thus recovering its balance is one which canrarely be visible except in its results. While she set the children torights, and represented to Mrs Mortimer's little servant, who was in thegarden furtively on a pretence of cabbages, the extreme folly, andindeed idiocy, of letting them get to the water and make a mess ofthemselves, Lucilla was in reality coming to herself. Perhaps she spokewith a little more energy than usual; but the offenders were so wellaware of their guilt, and so thoroughly satisfied of the justice of thereproof addressed to them, that no other explanation was necessary; and,little by little, Miss Marjoribanks felt herself restored to her naturalcalm.
"You know I don't like to scold you," she said; "but what would anybodysay?--nice clean frocks, that I am sure were put on fresh thismorning--and you, Mary Jane----"
"Please, Miss, it was only for a young cabbage. Missis is fond of a bitof vegetable," said the little maid. "I knew _she'd_ not saynothing;--and just as I had told 'em all to have done and be good--andnobody knew as _you_ was here," said Mary Jane. There was something evenin that small and humble testimony to Lucilla's sovereignty which helpedon the process which was operating in her mind. She regained bit by bitthat serene self-consciousness which places the spirit above the passingvexations of the world. What did it matter what other people might bedoing or saying? Was not she still Lucilla Marjoribanks? and when onehad said that, one had said all.
"It is time you were all going home to your dinners," said Lucilla; "andI have asked Mrs Mortimer to give you a half-holiday. As for you, youlittle Linda, you are not fit to be seen; and I am sure if I were yoursister I should send you off to bed. Now get all your hats and thingsand run away; and if you are not awfully good to-morrow, I shall neverask for another half-holiday again."
Saying which, Miss Marjoribanks herself saw the hats brought out, andthe little scholars sent away. She took matters into her own hand withthe confidence of a superior nature. "After all the long talk they arehaving she will not be able for her scholars to-day," Lucilla saidmagnanimously to herself; and she again made the tour of the garden,inspecting everything, to see that all was in order. With every stepthat she took, Miss Marjoribanks became more and more herself. As wehave already said, it was a grand and inspiring sight; but then, to besure, as in the former case, her affections, fortunately, were notengaged. She was not in love with the Archdeacon, any more than she hadbeen in love with Mr Cavendish;--though it is true, love is noteverything. And to think how he had been looking and talking not muchmore than half an hour ago, and to reflect that now he had most likelyforgotten her very existence, and was explaining himself, and placingthat position which would have just suited Lucilla at the feet of theobject of her bounty, was enough to have driven a young woman ofordinary mind half out of her senses with disgust and indignation. But,fortunately, Lucilla's mind was not an ordinary one; and every step shetook round the garden restored her more and more entirely to herself.Instead of conceiving any jealous dislike to Mrs Mortimer, she hadalready, as has been stated, exerted herself with her usual benevolenceto leave the widow free for the rest of the day. "After all, it is nother 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 trueand profoundly philosophical conclusion, it may be said that the crisiswas at an end.
But then where personal offence and indignation (if the natural shock toMiss Marjoribanks's feelings could be called by such hard names) ended,bewilderment and curiosity began. Who could this Archdeacon be who hadfrightened the most popular man in Carlingford out of the place, andwhose unlooked-for appearance had driven Mrs Mortimer back o
ut of herrecovered good looks and cheerfulness into pallor and trembling? It istrue that Lucilla knew quite well who he was--the second son of MrBeverley of Trent Valley, a family as well known as any family inEngland. Everybody knew all about the Archdeacon: his career from hisyouth up was as clearly traceable as if he had been killed in a railwayaccident and had had his memoir published in the _Times_. There wasnothing in the smallest degree secret or mysterious about him; and yethow could it come about that the sight of him should frighten MrCavendish out of his senses, and make Mrs Mortimer, who was utterlyunconnected with Mr Cavendish, all but faint, as she had done on aformer occasion? Was it his mission to go about the world drivingpeople into fits of terror or agitation? To be sure, he was aBroad-Churchman, and not the type of clergyman to which Lucilla in herheart inclined; but still a man may be Broad Church, and speak a littlefreely on religious matters, without being a basilisk. As these thoughtswent through her mind, Miss Marjoribanks could not help observing thatthe branches of the pear-tree, which was all that the garden containedin the shape of fruit, had come loose from the wall, and were swayingabout greatly to the damage of the half-grown pears,--not to say that itgave a very untidy look to that corner. "I must send Crawford down thisevening to fasten it up," Lucilla said to herself, and then went on withwhat she was thinking; and she made one or two other remarks of the samedescription in a parenthesis as she made her tour. After all, it isastonishing how many little things go wrong when the man or woman with ahundred eyes is absent for a few days from the helm of affairs. It wasnearly a week since Miss Marjoribanks had been round Mrs Mortimer'sgarden, and in that time the espalier had got detached, some of theverbenas were dead in the borders, and the half of the sticks thatpropped up the dahlias had fallen, leaving the plants in miserableconfusion. Lucilla shook her head over this, as she asked herself whatmysterious influence there could be in the Archdeacon. For her own part,she was not in the slightest degree afraid of him, nor could she confessto having felt agitated even when he walked with her into this fatedgarden; but there could be no doubt of the seriousness of the effectproduced by his appearance on the two others. "They have broken half ofthe props, the little nuisances," Lucilla said to herself, as shepursued her musings. For her large mind was incapable, now that itsperfect serenity was happily regained, of confining itself, unless witha very good reason, to one sole subject.
When she had finished her inspection, and saw that nobody had yetappeared at the door, Miss Marjoribanks collected the books which thechildren had left lying in the summer-house, and put them undercover--for, to tell the truth, it looked a little like rain; and havingdone this, and looked all round her to see if anything else required herimmediate care, Lucilla carried philosophy to its highest practicalpoint by going away, which is, perhaps, a height of good sense which maybe thought too much for humanity. It was not too much for MissMarjoribanks's legislative soul and knowledge of human nature;--and inthus denying herself she was perfectly aware of her advantages, and ofthe inevitable result. She knew, just as well as if she had alreadyreceived it, that Mrs Mortimer would write her a little three-cornerednote, marked _Private_, as soon as the Archdeacon was gone; and shethought it was highly probable that Mr Beverley himself would come togive some explanation. With this tranquil assurance in her mind, Lucillaturned her face towards Grange Lane. She began to have a kind ofconviction too, since this had happened, either that Carlingford wouldnot be raised into a bishopric, or that the Archdeacon at least wouldnot be the first bishop. It was difficult to give any ground for theidea, but it came into her mind with a kind of quiet certainty; and withthis conviction, in which she recognised that beautiful self-adjustingbalance of compensations which keeps everything right in the world,Lucilla, quite recovered from her shock, had on the whole a pleasantwalk home.
As for the two who were shut up together in Mrs Mortimer's parlour,their state of mind was far from partaking of the virtuous peace andserenity which filled Miss Marjoribanks's bosom. It was more than anhour before the Archdeacon went away; and when Mrs Mortimer had a littlecollected her faculties, the result arrived which had been foreseen byLucilla. In the first place, terror seized the widow as to what hadbecome of her pupils, whom all this time she had forgotten, and deep washer gratitude when she had ascertained that her protecting genius hadsent them away. But with that gratitude came a sudden recollection ofthe manner in which Mr Beverley and Miss Marjoribanks had been comingtogether up the garden path, before the mistress of the house showedherself. Mrs Mortimer wrung her hands when she recollected the looks andattitude of the two, and the rumour which had reached her ears that theArchdeacon was paying attention to Miss Marjoribanks. What was she todo?--was her miserable presence here to dispel perhaps the youthfulhopes 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 disconsolately into the rain--forit had come on to rain, as Lucilla supposed it would--and felt like acreature in a cage, helpless, imprisoned, miserable, not knowing what todo with herself, and the cause of trouble to her best friends. A littlehouse in a garden may look like a little paradise in the sunshine, andyet feel like a dungeon when a poor woman all alone looks out across herflowers 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--nobodyto tell her what to do, nothing but her own feeble powers to supporther, and the dreadful idea that she has done harm and can do no good toher only protector. Any reasonable creature would have said, that to bethere in her own house, poor enough certainly, but secure, and no longerdriven lonely and distressed about the world, was a great matter. Butyet, after all, the walls that shut her in, the blast of white,sweeping, downright rain, which seemed to cut her off from any succouroutside, and the burden of something on her mind which by herself shewas quite unable to bear, was a hard combination; and wringing one'shands, and feeling one's mind ready to give way under a new andunexpected burden, could not advance matters in the slightest degree.She was not strong-minded, as has been already proved; nor, indeed, hadshe the ordinary amount of indifference to other people, or confidencein 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 avague instinct of perhaps finding some suggestion of comfort outside,Mrs Mortimer relapsed by necessity into the one idea that had been asupport to her for so many months past. All that she could do was toconsult Lucilla--it might be to wound Lucilla, for anything she couldtell; but when a poor creature is helpless and weak, and has but onefriend in the world who is strong, what can she do but apply to hersustainer and guardian? When, after beating about wildly from one pointto another, she arrived ultimately, as might have been predicted, and asMiss Marjoribanks had expected from the first, at that conclusion, thereremained a further difficulty in respect to the means of communication.Lucilla had settled quite calmly in her own mind that it would be by themedium of a three-cornered note, a matter in which there was nodifficulty whatever, for the widow was sufficiently fluent with her pen;but then Lucilla had not thought of Mary Jane, who was the only possiblemessenger. It was to this point now that Mrs Mortimer's ideas addressedthemselves. At that moment the rain poured down fiercer than ever, thebricks of the uncovered wall grew black with the wet, and the wistariacrouched and shivered about the porch as if it wanted to be takenindoors. And then to get wet, and perhaps catch cold, was a thing MaryJane conscientiously avoided, like the rest of the world; and it waswith a sense of alarm even stronger than that excited by the possibilityof injuring Lucilla, that Mrs Mortimer very gently and modestly rang herbell.
"I don't think it rains quite so heavily," said the timidexperimentalist, feeling her heart beat as she made this doubtfulstatement. "Have you a pair of goloshes, Mary Jane?"
"No," said the little handmaiden, with precaution; "and, please, if it'sfor the post, it rains worse nor ever; and I don't think as mother wouldlike----"
"Oh, it is not
for the post," said Mrs Mortimer; "it is for MissMarjoribanks. You can take mine, and then you will not get your feetwet. I go out so very little; you may have them--to keep--Mary Jane. Andyou can take the big shawl that hangs in the passage, and an umbrella. Idon't think it is so heavy as it was."
Mary Jane regarded the rain gloomily from the window; but her reluctancewas at an end from the moment she heard that it was to Miss Marjoribanksshe was going. To be sure, the distance between the Serenissime Nancyand Thomas, and the other inmates of the Doctor's kitchen, and MrsMortimer's little handmaiden, was as great as that which exists betweenan English Duke and the poorest little cadet of a large family among hisattendant gentry; but, correspondingly, the merest entrance into thathigher world was as great a privilege for Mary Jane, as the Duke'snotice would be to the Squire's youngest son. She kept up a momentaryshow of resistance, but she accepted the goloshes, and even after amoment agreed in her mistress's trembling assertion about the rain. Andthis was how the three-cornered note got conveyed to its destination inthe heaviest of the storm, between three and four o'clock in theafternoon. Mrs Mortimer still sat at her window, wringing her hands fromtime to time, with her head aching and her heart beating, and a dreadfulquestion in her mind as to what Lucilla would say, or whether perhapsshe might reject altogether in her natural indignation the appeal madeto her; which was an idea which filled the widow with inexpressiblehorror. While at the same moment Miss Marjoribanks sat looking for thatappeal which she knew was sure to come. The rain had set in by this timewith an evident intention of lasting, and even from the windows ofLucilla's drawing-room the prospect of the garden walls and glisteningtrees was sufficiently doleful. Nobody was likely to call, nothing wasdoing; and Lucilla, who never caught cold, had not the least fear ofwetting her feet. And besides, her curiosity had been rising everymoment since her return; and the widow's pathetic appeal, "Come to me,my dearest Lucilla. I have nobody whom I can talk to in the world butyou!" had its natural effect upon a mind so feeling. Miss Marjoribanksgot up as soon as she had read the note, and changed her dress, and puton a great waterproof cloak. Instead of thinking it a trouble, she wasrather exhilarated by the necessity. "Be sure you make your mistress anice cup of tea as soon as we get there," she said to Mary Jane. "Shemust want it, I am sure, if she has not had any dinner;" for the littlemaid had betrayed the fact that Mrs Mortimer could not eat anything, andhad sent away her dinner, which was naturally an alarming and wonderfuloccurrence to Mary Jane. The widow was still sitting at the window whenLucilla appeared tripping across the wet garden in her waterproof cloak,if not a ministering angel, at least a substantial prop and support tothe lonely woman who trusted in her, and yet in the present instancefeared her. But anything more unlike a disappointed maiden, whose wooerhad been taken away from her under her very eyes, could not have beenseen. On the contrary, Miss Marjoribanks was radiant, with raindropsglistening on her hair, and what Mrs Chiley called "a lovely colour." Ifthere was one thing in the world more than another which contentedLucilla, it was to be appealed to and called upon for active service. Itdid her heart good to take the management of incapable people, andarrange all their affairs for them, and solve all their difficulties.Such an office was more in her way than all the Archdeacons in theworld.
"I saw you knew him the moment I looked at you," said Lucilla. "I haveseen other people look _like that_ when he appeared. Who is he, forgoodness' sake? I know quite well, of course, who he is, in the ordinaryway; but do tell me what has he done to make people look like thatwhenever he appears?"
Mrs Mortimer did not directly answer this question--she fixed her mindupon one part of it, like an unreasonable woman, and repeated "Otherpeople?" 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 Marjoribanks continued; "you must have heard of him; indeed, youwould have heard him preach if you had not gone off after theseDissenters. Did you really never know that he was here till to-day?"
"I did not think of him being Archdeacon--he was only a curate when Iused to know him," said poor Mrs Mortimer, with a sigh.
"Tell me all about it," said Lucilla, with ingenuous sympathy; and shedrew her chair close to that of her friend, and took her hand in aprotecting, encouraging way. "You know, whatever you like to say, thatit is quite safe with me."
"If you are sure you do not mind," said the poor widow. "Oh, yes, I haveheard what people have been saying about him and--and you, Lucilla; andif I had known, I would have shut myself up--I would have gone away forever and ever--I would----"
"My dear," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a little severity, "I thoughtyou knew me better. If I had been thinking of that sort of thing, Inever need have come home at all; and when you know how kind papa hasbeen about the drawing-room and everything. Say what you were going tosay, and never think of me."
"Ah, Lucilla, I have had my life," said the trembling woman, whoseagitation was coming to a climax--"I have had it, and done with it; andyou have been so good to me; and if, after all, I was to stand betweenyou and--and--and--anybody----" But here Mrs Mortimer broke down, andcould say no more. To be sure, she did not faint this time any more thanshe did on the first occasion when she made Miss Marjoribanks'sacquaintance; but Lucilla thought it best, as then, to make her lie downon the sofa, and keep her quite quiet, and hasten Mary Jane with the cupof tea.
"You have been agitated, and you have not eaten anything," said Lucilla."I am going to stay with you till half-past six, when I must run homefor dinner, so we have plenty of time; and as for your life, I don'tconsider you gone off at all yet, and you are a great dealyounger-looking than you were six months ago. I am very glad theArchdeacon did not come until you had got back your looks. It makes sucha difference to a man," Miss Marjoribanks added, with that almostimperceptible tone of contempt which she was sometimes known to use whenspeaking of Their absurd peculiarities. As for Mrs Mortimer, theinference conveyed by these words brought the colour to her palecheeks.
"It will never come to that," she said, "no more than it did in olddays; it never can, Lucilla; and I don't know that it is to be wished. Icouldn't help being put out a little when I saw him, you know; but thereis one thing, that he never, never will persuade me," said the widow.Lucilla could not but look on in surprise and even consternation, whileMrs Mortimer thus expressed herself. A warm flush animated the pale andsomewhat worn face--and a gleam of something that looked absolutely likeresolution shone in the yielding woman's mild eyes. Was it possible thateven she had one point upon which she could be firm? Miss Marjoribanksstood 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," saidLucilla, with a vague sense that this sort of self-assertion must be puta stop to, mingling with her surprise.
"Never," said Mrs Mortimer again, with a still more distinct gleam ofresolution. "In the first place, I have no right whatever to anythingmore 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 thecircumstances, or you would not say so," she cried, with a sob. As forMiss Marjoribanks, if it is possible to imagine her clear spiritaltogether lost in bewilderment, it would have been at that moment; butshe recovered as soon as she had administered her cup of tea.
"Now tell me all about it," said Lucilla, again sitting down by thesofa; and this time Mrs Mortimer, to whom her excitement had given alittle spur and stimulus, did not waste any more time.
"He is my cousin," she said; "not my real cousin, but distant; and Iwill not deny that long, long ago--when we were both quite young, youknow, Lucilla----"
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Miss Marjoribanks, pressing her hand.
"He was very nice in those days," said Mrs Mortimer, faltering; "thatis, I don't mean to say he was not always nice, you know, but only----Inever had either father or mother. I was living with my UncleGarrett--my uncle on the other side;
and he thought he should have mademe 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 go to lawwith 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 megive 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 Archdeaconthe money was left?"
"Oh, Lucilla," said the widow, with momentary exasperation, "you who areso quick and pick up everything, to think you should not understand mewhen I speak of a thing so important! Of course it was not to CharlesBeverley the money was left: if it had been left to him, how could hehave wanted me to go to law? It has always been the question betweenus," said Mrs Mortimer, once more lighting up with exceptional andunwonted energy. "He said I was to indict him for conspiracy; and Ideclare to you, Lucilla, that he was not to blame. Uncle Garrett mightbe foolish, but I don't say even that he was foolish: he was so good tohim, like a son; and he had no son of his own, and I was only a girl. Henever was anything to me," said Mrs Mortimer, wiping her eyes--"never,whatever Charles may choose to say; but if ever I was sure of anythingin 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 allthe efforts possible, with ears and eyes intent, to disentangle this webof pronouns, and failing, waited on in the hope that time and patiencewould throw a little light upon them. "I suppose Mr Beverley thought hewas to blame?" she said, when the narrator paused to take breath.
"Is not that what I am saying?" said Mrs Mortimer. "It was through thatit was all broke off. I am sure I don't know whether he has regretted itor not, Lucilla. It is not always very easy to understand a gentleman,you know. After I was married to poor Edward, naturally I never had anymore correspondence with him; and to see him to-day without any warning,and to find him just as bent as he was upon making me prosecute, andjust as full of bad feeling, and speaking as if there was some reasonmore than truth and justice why I should be so determined. No, Lucilla,"said Mrs Mortimer, raising herself up on the sofa, "it is just the samething as ever, and the same obstacle as ever, and it never will come to_that_."
"You are agitating yourself," said Miss Marjoribanks; "lie down--there'sa dear--and keep quite still, and see whether we cannot make anythingbetter of it. Tell me, what would you go to law with him for?" Lucillacontinued, with the natural humility of imperfect comprehension. It wasperhaps the first time in her life that such a singular chance hadhappened to Miss Marjoribanks, as to have a matter explained to her, andyet be unable to understand.
"He says he could be indicted for conspiracy, or for having too muchinfluence over him, and making him do what he liked. But he was verygood to him, Lucilla, and to my poor Edward; and when I was married tohim----"
"Goodness gracious! were you married to him as well?" cried Lucilla,fairly losing the thread and her balance in this confusing circle. MrsMortimer grew pale, and rose quite up from the sofa, and went with theair 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 tome, and never was. It is an insult to me to think that I must have apersonal reason for refusing to do a wicked and unjust thing. I couldgive up anything," said the widow, losing a little of her dignity, andgrowing again pathetic--"I would give in in a moment if it was any fancyof mine--you know I would; but I am sure it would be wicked andunjust----"
"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 tofeel 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 Ido, who was in the house at the time and saw everything? He may say whathe likes, but I know there was no conspiracy; he was just as muchsurprised as you could be, or Charles, or anybody. Of course it was forhis advantage--nobody denies that--but you don't mean to say that a manis to reject everything that is for his advantage?" said the widow,turning eyes of indignant inquiry upon her visitor; and MissMarjoribanks for once was so utterly perplexed that she did not know howto respond.
"But you said when you were married to him?" said Lucilla, who felt thatthe tables were turned upon her for the moment. "I am sure I beg yourpardon for being so stupid; but whom were you married to?" This was saidin the most deprecating tone in the world, but still it irritated MrsMortimer, whose mind was all unhinged, and who somehow felt that shewas not finding in Miss Marjoribanks the help and support to which herclear and detailed explanation entitled her. Though her head was achingdreadfully, she sat up more upright than ever in her chair.
"I don't think you can mean to insult me, Miss Marjoribanks," said thewidow, "after being so kind. Perhaps I have been trying you too much bywhat I have said; though I am sure I would have given up everything, andgone away anywhere, rather than be the cause of anything unpleasant. Youknow that it was my poor dear Edward I was married to; you know I havea--a horror," said Mrs Mortimer, faltering, "in general--of secondmarriages."
"Oh, yes," said Lucilla, "but there are always exceptions, you know; andwhen people have no children, nor anything--and you that were so young.I always make exceptions, for my part; and if you could only get overthis one point," Miss Marjoribanks added, making a dexterous strategicalmovement. But Mrs Mortimer only shook her head.
"I don't think I am hard to get on with," she said; "but my poor Edwardalways said one must make a stand somewhere. He used to say I was soeasy to be persuaded. He was glad to see I had a point to make a standon, instead of being disagreeable about it, or thinking he was anythingto me. And oh, Lucilla, he was so kind to him," said the widow, withtears in her eyes. "We met him quite by chance, and he was so kind. Iwill never forget it, if I should live a hundred years. And why shouldCharles be in such a way? He never did him any harm! If any one wasinjured, it was me, and I never felt myself injured--neither did Edward.On the contrary, he _always_ did him justice, Lucilla," Mrs Mortimercontinued, fixing a pathetic look upon her friend. What could Lucillado? She was burning to take it all in her own hands, and arrange itsomehow, and unite the two lovers who had been so long separated; butunless she could understand what the point was on which Mrs Mortimermade her stand, what could she do?
"I never could understand," said the widow, who began to feel her heartsick with the disappointment of that hope which she had fixed in MissMarjoribanks, "why he should take it so much to heart. Poor Edward neverthought of such a thing! and why he should be so set against poor MrKavan, and so----Lucilla! oh, tell me, do you see anything? what do youmean?"
"I want to know who Mr Kavan is?" said Miss Marjoribanks, much startled.She had for the moment forgotten the Archdeacon's discovery and her ownsuspicions; and the idea of connecting the man who had (apparently) fledfrom Mr Beverley's presence, with the innocent and helpless woman uponwhom the appearance of the Broad Churchman had so overwhelming aneffect, had never hitherto entered her imagination. But this name, whichwas not the name of anybody she knew, and yet seemed to bear an odd sortof rudimentary relationship to another name, struck her like a suddenblow and brought everything back to her mind. It was a bewildering sortof explanation, if it was an explanation; but still a confused lightbegan to break upon Lucilla's understanding. If this was what it allmeant then there was the widest opening for charitable exertions, andmuch to be done which only a mind like Miss Marjoribanks's could do.
"That is not his name now," said Mrs Mortimer, "I don't see, if he likedit, why he should not change his name. I am sure a great many people do;but his name was Kavan when he lived with my uncle. I don't rememberwhat it was after, for of course he was always Mr Kavan to me; andCharles Beverley never could bear him. He used to think----But oh,Lucilla, forgive me--oh, forgive me, if it is too much for
you!" sheadded, a moment after, as another idea struck her. "It was not with theidea of--of anything coming of it, you know; it will never come tothat--not now;--I don't know if it is to be wished. I am sure he isquite free so far as I am concerned. It was not with that idea I askedfor your advice, Lucilla," said the poor woman, in piteous tones. IfMiss Marjoribanks had pressed her, and insisted upon knowing what _was_the idea which had moved her friend to ask her advice, Mrs Mortimerwould no doubt have found it very hard to reply; but Lucilla had no suchcruel intentions; and the widow, notwithstanding her piteous denial ofany motive, now that her mind was cleared, and she had caught thecomprehension of her auditor, began to regard her with a certaininstinct of hope.
As for Miss Marjoribanks, this revelation at once troubled and clearedher mind. If this was the culprit, he _was_ a culprit and yet he wasinnocent; and to heap coals of fire upon his head was in some respects aChristian duty. Her ideas went forward at a bound to a grand finale ofreconciliation and universal brotherhood. She saw the tools under herhands, and her very fingers itched to begin. Large and varied as herexperience was, she had never yet had any piece of social business on soimportant a scale to manage, and her eyes sparkled and her heart beat atthe idea. Instead of shrinking from interference, her spirits rose atthe thought. To vanquish the Archdeacon, to pluck out from the darkness,and rehabilitate and set at his ease the mysterious adventurer, whom, tobe 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 tofinish off by a glorious and triumphant marriage--not her own, it istrue, but of her making, which was more to the purpose--such was theprogramme she made out for herself with the speed of lightning, themoment she had laid hold of the clue which guided or seemed to guide herthrough the labyrinth. It would be too lengthy a matter to go into allher tender cares for the widow's comfort during the rest of her stay,and the pains and delicacy with which she managed to elicit furtherparticulars, and to make out her brief, so to speak, while she cheeredup and encouraged the witness. Miss Marjoribanks jumped to theconclusion that "poor Edward" had been, after all, but a temporarytenant of the heart, which was now again free for the reception of theArchdeacon, if he could be got to accept the conditions. When half-pastsix arrived, and Thomas came for her with the great umbrella, she wentoff quite resplendent in her waterproof cloak, and utterly indifferentto the rain, leaving Mrs Mortimer worn out, but with a glimmer of hopein her mind. Such was the great work which, without a moment'shesitation, Lucilla took upon her shoulders. She had no more fear of theresult than she had of wetting her feet, which was a thing Mrs Mortimerand Thomas were both concerned about. But then Lucilla knew her ownresources, and what she was capable of, and proceeded upon her way withthat unconscious calm of genius which is always so inexplicable to theordinary world.
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