“He says he could be indicted for conspiracy, or for having too much influence over him, and making him do what he liked. But he was very good to him, Lucilla, and to my poor Edward; and when I was married to him—”
“Goodness gracious! were you married to him as well?” cried Lucilla, fairly losing the thread and her balance in this confusing circle. Mrs. Mortimer grew pale, and rose quite up from the sofa, and went with the air 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 to me, and never was. It is an insult to me to think that I must have a personal reason for refusing to do a wicked and unjust thing. I could give up anything,” said the widow, losing a little of her dignity, and growing again pathetic—“I would give in in a moment if it was any fancy of mine—you know I would; but I am sure it would be wicked and unjust—”
“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 to feel 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 I do, who was in the house at the time and saw everything? He may say what he likes, but I know there was no conspiracy; he was just as much surprised as you could be, or Charles, or anybody. Of course it was for his advantage—nobody denies that—but you don’t mean to say that a man is to reject everything that is for his advantage?” said the widow, turning eyes of indignant inquiry upon her visitor; and Miss Marjoribanks for once was so utterly perplexed that she did not know how to respond.
“But you said when you were married to him?” said Lucilla, who felt that the tables were turned upon her for the moment. “I am sure I beg your pardon for being so stupid; but whom were you married to?” This was said in the most deprecating tone in the world, but still it irritated Mrs. Mortimer, whose mind was all unhinged, and who somehow felt that she was not finding in Miss Marjoribanks the help and support to which her clear and detailed explanation entitled her. Though her head was aching dreadfully, she sat up more upright than ever in her chair.
“I don’t think you can mean to insult me, Miss Marjoribanks,” said the widow, “after being so kind. Perhaps I have been trying you too much by what I have said; though I am sure I would have given up everything, and gone away anywhere, rather than be the cause of anything unpleasant. You know that it was my poor dear Edward I was married to; you know I have a—a horror,” said Mrs. Mortimer, faltering, “in general—of second marriages.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucilla, “but there are always exceptions, you know; and when 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 over this one point,” Miss Marjoribanks added, making a dexterous strategical movement. But Mrs. Mortimer only shook her head.
“I don’t think I am hard to get on with,” she said; “but my poor Edward always said one must make a stand somewhere. He used to say I was so easy to be persuaded. He was glad to see I had a point to make a stand on, instead of being disagreeable about it, or thinking he was anything to me. And oh, Lucilla, he was so kind to him,” said the widow, with tears in her eyes. “We met him quite by chance, and he was so kind. I will never forget it, if I should live a hundred years. And why should Charles be in such a way? He never did him any harm! If anyone was injured, it was me, and I never felt myself injured—neither did Edward. On the contrary, he always did him justice, Lucilla,” Mrs. Mortimer continued, fixing a pathetic look upon her friend. What could Lucilla do? She was burning to take it all in her own hands, and arrange it somehow, and unite the two lovers who had been so long separated; but unless she could understand what the point was on which Mrs. Mortimer made her stand, what could she do?
“I never could understand,” said the widow, who began to feel her heart sick with the disappointment of that hope which she had fixed in Miss Marjoribanks, “why he should take it so much to heart. Poor Edward never thought of such a thing! and why he should be so set against poor Mr. Kavan, and so—Lucilla! oh, tell me, do you see anything? what do you mean?”
“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 own suspicions; and the idea of connecting the man who had (apparently) fled from Mr. Beverley’s presence, with the innocent and helpless woman upon whom the appearance of the Broad Churchman had so overwhelming an effect, had never hitherto entered her imagination. But this name, which was not the name of anybody she knew, and yet seemed to bear an odd sort of rudimentary relationship to another name, struck her
