The Archdeacon himself took it quite cheerfully, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I have no doubt it was a very pleasant party, if one could have got the keynote,” he said, in his Broad-Church way, as if there was nothing more to be said on the subject, and Lucilla’s Thursday was the merest ordinary assembly. For there could be no doubt that he was Broad-Church, even though his antecedents had not proclaimed the fact. He had a way of talking on many subjects which alarmed his hostess. It was not that there was anything objectionable in what he said—for, to be sure, a clergyman and an archdeacon may say a great many things that ordinary people would not like to venture on—but still it was impossible to tell what it might lead to; for it is not everybody who knows when to stop, as Mr. Beverley in his position might be expected to do. It was the custom of good society in Carlingford to give a respectful assent, for example, to Mr. Bury’s extreme Low-Churchism—as if it were profane, as it certainly was not respectable, to differ from the Rector—and to give him as wide a field as possible for his missionary operations by keeping out of the way. But Mr. Beverley had not the least regard for respectability, nor that respect for religion which consists in keeping as clear of it as possible; and the way in which he spoke of Mr. Bury’s views wounded some people’s feelings. Altogether, he was, as Mrs. Chiley said, an anxious person to have in the house; for he just as often agreed with the gentlemen in their loose ways of thinking, as with the more correct opinions by which the wives and mothers who had charge of Their morality strove hard to keep them in the right way; and that was the reverse of what one naturally expected from a clergyman. He was very nice, and had a nice position; and, under all the circumstances, it was not only a duty to pay attention to him, but a duty from which results of a most agreeable character might spring; but still, though she could not be otherwise than kind, it would be impossible to say that it was out of personal predilection that Mrs. Chiley devoted herself to her guest. She admitted frankly that he was not like what clergymen were in her time. For one thing, he seemed to think that every silly boy and girl ought to have an opinion and be consulted, as if they had anything to do with it—which was just the way to turn their heads, and make them utterly insupportable. On the whole, perhaps, the old lady was more charitable to Mary Chiley, and understood better how it was that she, brought up in sound Church principles, did not get on so well as might be desired with her husband’s family, after a week of the Archdeacon. And yet he was a delightful person, and full of information, as everybody admitted; and if Carlingford should be erected into a bishopric, as would be only right—and if Mr. Beverley should happen to be appointed bishop, as was highly probable—then it would be a pleasure to think that one had been kind to him. At the same time, it must be owned that he showed a great want of tact in coming to Miss Marjoribanks’s Thursday on the night of his arrival, and thus brushing, as it were, the very cream off his introduction to Grange Lane. And Mrs. Chiley still sighed a little over Mr. Cavendish, and thought within herself that it was not his fault, but that designing, artful creature, who was enough to lead any man wrong. For it was very clear to the meanest capacity that nobody could ever call the Archdeacon “my dear,” as, with all his faults, it had been possible to call Mr. Cavendish. And by this line of thought Mrs. Chiley was led to regret Mr. Cavendish, and to wonder what had become of him, and what family affairs it could be that had taken him so suddenly away.
A great many people in Carlingford were at that moment occupied by the same wonders and regrets. Some people thought he was frightened to find how far he had gone with that Miss Lake, and had left town for a little to be out of the way; and some thought he must have been speculating, and have lost money. To tell the truth, it was very strange that he should have disappeared so suddenly—just at the moment, too, when old Mr. Chiltern had one of his bad attacks of bronchitis, which Dr. Marjoribanks himself had admitted might carry him off any day. Nothing could be more important to the future interests of young Cavendish than to be on the spot at this critical moment, and yet he had disappeared without telling anybody he was going, or where he was going, which was on the whole a perfectly unexplainable proceeding. His very servants, as had been ascertained by some inquiring mind in the community, were unaware of his intention up to the very last moment; and certainly he had not said goodbye to anybody before leaving Dr. Marjoribanks’s garden on that Thursday evening. Mr. Woodburn, who was not a person of very refined perceptions, was the only man who found his disappearance quite natural. “After making such a deuced ass of himself, by George! what could the fellow do?” said his brother-in-law, who naturally enjoyed the discomfiture of so near a connection; and this was no doubt
