“And she such an obstinate woman!” said Miss Marjoribanks, with fine scorn. “How could you ever think of such a thing? A woman that never gives in to anybody. If you knew her as well as I do—”
The Archdeacon glanced up with a momentary intense surprise, as if it was within the possibilities that such a change might have taken place in the widow’s nature; and then he caught Lucilla’s eye, and grew red and more aggrieved than ever.
“Mrs. Mortimer happens to be a relative of mine,” he said, in his authoritative voice. “I have known her from her youth. I am better instructed in all her affairs than she can possibly be. When I urge her to any step, however much it may be against her inclinations, she ought to know that it can only be for her good. I beg your pardon, Miss Marjoribanks. It will give me great grief to find that you, upon whose superior good sense I have so much calculated, should support her in her folly. I know how much she owes to you—”
“Oh, no, she does not owe me anything,” said Lucilla. “It was just my luck, you know. I knew she would turn out to be a lady. I don’t want to stand up for her if she is wrong; but I have only heard her side. When you tell me about it, I shall be able to form an opinion,” Miss Marjoribanks added prudently; “for of course everything has two sides.”
“Most things,” said Mr. Beverley, “but this is precisely one of the things which have not two sides. Nothing except some sort of infatuation or other—but never mind, you shall hear the facts,” said the Archdeacon, once more making an effort upon himself. “Her uncle, Mr. Garrett, was above eighty. Why Providence should have let him live to such an age to do so much mischief, Heaven alone knows. Some different rule seems to exist up there about those matters, from what we find to answer on earth,” the Broad-Churchman said, with a certain air of disapproval. “He had this young fellow to see him and then to live with him, and took some sort of idiotic fancy to him; and when the will was made, it was found that, with the exception of a small sum to Helen, everything was left to this impostor. No, I can’t say I have any patience with her folly. How could any man have two opinions on the subject? He was neither related to him, nor connected with him,” cried Mr. Beverley, with a momentary inclination, as Lucilla thought, to get aground among the pronouns, as Mrs. Mortimer had done. “I do not suspect my cousin,” the Archdeacon continued, with an air so severe and indignant that it was evident he was contradicting his own sentiments, “of having any partiality for such a person; but certainly her obstinacy and determination are such—”
“Hush, please,” said Lucilla; “you are only laughing when you use such words. Now, tell me one thing, and don’t be angry if it is a stupid question—If there was anyone that knew her and you, and perhaps him, and was to try—don’t you think it might be arranged?”
“By money?” said the Archdeacon; and he smiled one of those disagreeable smiles which youthful writers describe by saying that his lip curled with scorn. “You seem to take me for Mortimer, who could go into that sort of compromise. I suppose he did give them money before—before she was left a widow,” said Mr. Beverley, grinding his teeth slightly with a savage expression. “No, Miss Marjoribanks. Where everlasting truth and justice are concerned, I do not understand how things can be arranged.”
After such a truculent statement, what was the peacemaker to do? She left the fire to blaze out by itself for a minute or two, and then she came down upon the enemy on another wind.
“I am sure I am very sorry,” said Lucilla softly, “to think you should be so fond of her and she so fond of you, and nothing but this standing in the way; and then she is too good for this world, and never thinks of herself. I often think, if anything was to happen to me—and my life is no safer than other people’s lives,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a sigh—“what would become of her, poor dear! I am sure, if I knew of any way—As for obstinate, you know it is not in her to be obstinate. She thinks she is right, and you think you are right; and I suppose neither of you will give in,” cried Lucilla. “What is anybody to do?”
“If anyone gives in, it should be she,” said the Archdeacon. “For my part, I will never stand by and consent to such a robbery—never. In these matters, at least, a man must be a better judge than a woman. If you are her friend you will persuade her of her duty,” Mr. Beverley added; and he did not show so much as a symptom of yielding. To say that Miss Marjoribanks was not discouraged would be more than the truth; but she was still at the beginning of her forces, and no thought of giving in was in her courageous soul.
“I will tell you what occurs to me,” said Lucilla frankly. “Let us find out something about him. Do you know anything about him? If she were to hear that he was, as you say, an impostor, you know, and a villain?—What is his name?—Where does he live?—Is he a very, very wicked man?” said Miss Marjoribanks, and she looked up with that ingenuous look of appeal, which was always so touching in her, to the Archdeacon’s face.
As for Mr. Beverley, in his haste and excitement, he gave vent to two very contradictory statements. “She knows all about him. I
