“It will never come to that,” she said, “no more than it did in 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 not 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 shone in the yielding woman’s mild eyes. Was it possible that even she had one point upon which she could be firm? Miss Marjoribanks 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 more distinct 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 Marjoribanks, if it is possible to imagine her clear spirit 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 is my cousin,” she said; “not my real cousin, but distant; and I will not deny that long, long ago—when we were both quite young, you know, Lucilla—”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Miss Marjoribanks, 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 go to law with 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 momentary exasperation, “you who are so quick and pick up everything, to think you should not understand me when I speak of a thing so important! Of course it was not to Charles Beverley 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 unwonted energy. “He said I was to indict him for conspiracy; and I declare to you, Lucilla, that he was not to blame. Uncle Garrett might be foolish, but I don’t say even that he was foolish: he was so good to him, like a son; and he had no son of his own, and I was only a girl. 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. Beverley thought he was to blame?” she said, when the narrator paused to take breath.
“Is 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 is not always very easy to understand a gentleman, you know. After I was married to poor Edward, naturally I never had any more correspondence with him; and to see him today without any warning, and to find him just as bent as he was upon making me prosecute, and just as full of bad feeling, and speaking as if there was some reason more 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 same thing as ever, and the same obstacle as ever, and it never will come to that.”
“You are agitating yourself,” said
