Mrs. Mortimer gave a little cry of terror, but her companion, for his part, sat quite dumb and immovable. The moment had arrived at last, and perhaps he too was glad it had come. He sat still, expecting to see the earth crumble under his feet, expecting to hear the humble name he had once borne proclaimed aloud, and to hear ridicule and shame poured upon the impostor who had called himself one of the Cavendishes. But it was no use struggling any longer. He did not even raise his eyes, but sat still, waiting for the thunderbolt to fall.
But to tell the truth, the Archdeacon, though a torrent of words came rushing to his lips, felt at a difficulty how to begin. “I don’t understand how it is that I find you here with the man who has ruined your prospects,” he said, with a slight incoherence; and then he changed the direction of his attack. “But it is you with whom I have to do,” he said; “you, sir, who venture to introduce yourself into society with—with your victim by your side. Do you not understand that compassion is impossible in such a case, and that it is my duty to expose you? You have told some plausible story here, I suppose, but nothing can stand against the facts. It is my duty to inform Dr. Marjoribanks that it is a criminal who has stolen into his house and his confidence—that it is a conspirator who has ventured to approach his daughter—that it is—”
“A criminal? a conspirator?” said Mr. Cavendish, and he looked in his accuser’s face with an amazement which, notwithstanding his rage, struck the Archdeacon. If he had called him an impostor, the culprit would have quailed and made no reply. But the exaggeration saved him. After that first look of surprise, he rose to his feet and confronted the avenger, who saw he had made a blunder without knowing what it was. “You must be under some strange mistake,” he said. “What do you accuse me of? I know nothing about crime or conspiracy. Either you are strangely mistaken, or you have forgotten what the words mean.”
“They are words which I mean to prove,” said the Archdeacon; but there can be no doubt that his certainty was diminished by the surprise with which his accusation was received. It checked his first heat, and it was with a slightly artificial excitement that he went on, trying to work himself up again to the same point. “You who worked yourself into a wretched old man’s confidence, and robbed an unoffending woman,” said Mr. Beverley; and then in spite of himself he stopped short; for it was easier to say such things to a woman, who contradicted without giving much reason, than to a man who, with an air of the utmost astonishment, stood regarding his accuser in the face.
“These are very extraordinary accusations,” said Mr. Cavendish. “Have you ever considered whether you had any proof to support them?” He was not angry to speak of, because he had been entirely taken by surprise, and because at the same time he was unspeakably relieved, and felt that the real danger, the danger which he had so much dreaded, was past and over. He recovered all his coolness from the moment he found out that it was not a venial imposition practised upon society, but a social crime of the ugliest character, of which he was accused. He was innocent, and he could be tranquil on that score. “As for robbing Mrs. Mortimer,” he added with a little impatience, “she knows, on the contrary, that I have always been most anxious and ready to befriend her—”
“To befriend—Her!” cried the Archdeacon, restored to all his first impetuosity. He could not swear, because it was against his cloth and his principles; but he said, “Good heavens!” in a tone which would have perfectly become a much less mild expletive. “It is better we should understand each other thoroughly,” he said. “I am not in a humour for trifling. I consider it is her fortune which enables you to make an appearance here. It is her money you are living upon, and which gives you position, and makes you presume as—as you are doing—upon my forbearance. Do you think it possible that I can pass over all this and let you keep what is not yours? If you choose to give up everything, and retire from Carlingford, and withdraw all your pretensions—It is not for my part,” said Mr. Beverley, with solemnity, taking breath, “to deal harshly with a penitent sinner. It is my duty, as a clergyman, to offer you at least a place of repentance. After that—”
But he was interrupted once more. Mrs. Mortimer made her faint voice heard in a remonstrance. “Oh, Charles, I always told you—I had no right to anything!” cried the terrified widow; but that was not what stopped the Archdeacon. It was because his adversary laughed that he stopped short. No doubt it was the metallic laugh of a man in great agitation, but still Mr. Beverley’s ear was not fine enough at that moment to discriminate. He paused as a man naturally pauses at the sound of ridicule, still furious, yet abashed, and half conscious of a ludicrous aspect to his passion—and turned his full face to his antagonist, and stood at bay.
“It is a modest request, certainly,” Mr. Cavendish said. “Give up all I have and all I am, and perhaps you will forgive me! You must think me a fool to make such a proposal; but look here,” said the accused energetically; “I will tell you the true state of affairs, if for once you will listen. I do it, not for my sake, nor for your sake, but for the sake of—of the women involved,” he added hastily; and it was well for him that, instead of looking at the shrinking widow beside him as he said so, his eye
