The hardest matter in the whole business, however, was the identification of the Mr. Kavan whom the Archdeacon thought he had seen in Carlingford, and was not afraid to speak of as a clever rascal and adventurer. Mr. Beverley had never seen the fellow again, as he had told Lucilla not many days back, and Miss Marjoribanks had been unfeignedly glad to hear it; but now matters had changed. In the course of her reflections, she decided that it would now be best that these two men, if possible, should meet and recognise each other, and that the business should once for all be definitively settled. If all the offence he had committed against society was to have had a large sum of money left him by a childless old man, Lucilla saw no reason why this mysterious culprit should conceal himself; and even if he had taken a little liberty with his name, that was not a crime—his name was his own surely, if anything was his own. At the same time, Miss Marjoribanks took pains to impress upon herself, as it is to be hoped a friendly audience will also have the goodness to do, that she had no real foundation for her suspicions as to the identity of this personage, and might turn out to be completely mistaken. He might have made no change whatever on his name; he might be flourishing in some other quarter of England or the world, with all his antecedents perfectly well known, and unconscious of anything to be ashamed about; which, to tell the truth, was, as Lucilla confessed to herself, a much more likely hypothesis than the supposition which had taken such possession of her mind. But then Miss Marjoribanks had a just faith in her instincts, and in those brief but telling pieces of evidence which supported her conclusion. She was thinking over this important branch of the subject with the greatest care and devotion, when, looking out by chance into the rain, she saw the Archdeacon crossing the garden. Perhaps it was just as well that she thus had warning and a moment to prepare for his visit; not that Lucilla was a person to be taken at disadvantage; but still, in a matter so practical and pressing, it was always better to be prepared.
Mr. Beverley came in with an air and expression so different from that which he had borne in their intercourse no further gone than yesterday, that, notwithstanding the corresponding revolution in her own mind, Miss Marjoribanks could not but regard him with mingled admiration and surprise. She judged him as the general world so often judged herself, and gave him credit for skill and courage in assuming such an attitude, when the fact was he was only preoccupied and natural, and did not think of his attitude at all. It did not occur to the Archdeacon that he had sinned towards Lucilla. He thought it right to explain to her his extreme surprise at the sight of Mrs. Mortimer, and possibly to make her aware, at the same time, of his grievances, in so far as Mrs. Mortimer was concerned; but perhaps Mr. Beverley was, on the whole, innocent of those intentions which Mrs. Chiley had attributed to him, and which even Lucilla, more clear-sighted, had seen dawning in their last interview; for, to be sure, this is one of the questions which the female intellect is apt to judge in a different light from that in which it is regarded by a man. The Archdeacon, accordingly, came in preoccupied, with a cloud on his brow, but without the smallest appearance of penitence or deprecation; by which demeanour he gained, without deserving it, the respect, and to a certain extent the admiration, of Lucilla. His expression was not that of a man repentant, but of a man aggrieved. He had a cloud upon his countenance, and a certain air of offence and temper; and when he sat down, he breathed a short impatient sigh.
“Thank you for receiving me so early,” he said. “I called yesterday afternoon, but found you out. You must have had very particular business to take you out in that rain,” Mr. Beverley continued, with subdued exasperation; for naturally, being a clergyman, he was a little impatient to find, when it was he who wanted her, any of his female friends out of the way.
“Yes,” said Lucilla, who thought it was best to open her battery boldly and at once. “I was spending the afternoon with poor Mrs. Mortimer; poor dear, she is so solitary!” and to meet Mr. Beverley’s ill-temper, Miss Marjoribanks put on her most heavenly air of sympathy, and rounded her words with a soft sigh, as different from his as a flute is from a trumpet. It was with an exclamation of impatience that the Archdeacon replied.
“Poor Mrs. Mortimer!” he cried; “I don’t know whether you are aware how much her obstinacy has cost me; and herself, I suppose,” he added, in a parenthesis. “Not to depreciate your kindness, or the truly human and Christian way in which you have conducted yourself—fancy what my feelings naturally must have been to find her an object of charity—actually of charity! I don’t mean to say,” said Mr. Beverley, controlling himself, “that it is degrading to accept succour when given as from man to man—quite the contrary; but you will excuse me from entering into the general question. She knew
