“That would be dreadful,” said Miss Marjoribanks, “if she knew him, and was keeping him out of the way till you were gone. I did not think of that. If such a thing should be the case, fond as I am of Mrs. Mortimer, I never could go near her any more,” said Lucilla sadly. “Oh, don’t say you think so, please. I should have to give her up, and that would be dreadful; for I owe it to papa, when he gives me so much liberty, to be very careful. Oh, Mr. Beverley, don’t say you think so,” cried Lucilla, deeply moved. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and yet she kept watch upon the Archdeacon through one of the corners. He had got up by this time, and was walking about the room like any other man in trouble. To throw suspicion on the widow, or separate her from so effectual a protector, was the very last thing he had any inclination to do: for, to tell the truth, he made that jealous suggestion only in order to receive an indignant denial, and to be assured that such a thing was impossible. But then Mr. Beverley did not know whom he had to deal with, nor that he was not the first man whom Miss Marjoribanks had reduced to his proper place.
“If that was the case,” said Lucilla, drying her eyes, “dreadful as it is to think of it—oh, Mr. Beverley, if such a thing were the case—it would be far better for her to marry him, and then she would have all the fortune without going to law. If things have gone so far, though it is miserable to think of it, and to believe that she could be so unkind,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with a sob, “and so double-minded, and so deceitful to me—”
“In Heaven’s name what are you thinking of?” said the Archdeacon. He had grown as pale as he was before red, and came to a dead stop in front of Lucilla, and stood lowering and menacing over her. His shadow was so big and strong, and stood so directly between her and the window, that Miss Marjoribanks’s heart gave one bound of something like alarm.
“Dear Mr. Beverley,” said Lucilla, “try and compose yourself. It would be a dreadful trial to me, but I should endeavour to bear it. If we love her, we should, on the contrary, urge her to do it,” said the young moralist, with solemnity, “however hard it may be to us. It would be better than—than dreadful concealment and misery—it would be better than knowing and not telling, as you say. Oh, Mr. Beverley, if you are sure that is the case, let us both go to her, and beg her to marry him. I could never, never, never see her again,” sobbed Lucilla, “but she would be happy, and that would be the end of all.”
The Archdeacon, though he was not a weakling, was altogether stunned by this address. He sank into the nearest chair, and drew it closer to Lucilla, and looked perfectly flabby and ghastly in his white tie, with his alarmed countenance. “For the sake of all that is sacred,” said Mr. Beverley, bending forward towards her, “tell me what foundation you have—tell me all you know.”
Now was the critical moment, and Lucilla felt it. If Mrs. Chiley, for example, had only advised herself to come in then instead of interrupting people’s proposals, and driving a likely suitor to desperation! But such happy chances do not occur at the real crises of life. What she wanted was, naturally, not to explain herself, but to let that arrow rankle in her opponent’s heart until it should have served her purpose. All that she said in answer to Mr. Beverley’s appeal was to hide her face in her handkerchief, which was the only means that occurred to her for the moment of gaining a little time for reflection.
“It is so hard to have such thoughts put into one’s head,” said Lucilla, “of a person who has been one’s friend. And she always looked so nice and so true! I never thought she would deceive anyone. I thought she was so transparent, you know. Oh, Mr. Beverley, it is so dreadful to be disappointed in one’s friends! I wish I had never heard of it—I wish you had never told me. I almost wish, though it is dreadful to say such a thing, that you had never come to Carlingford and found it all out.”
“My dear Miss Marjoribanks,” said the Archdeacon solemnly, “I implore you, as the greatest kindness you can do me, to tell me all you know.”
“Indeed, I don’t know what I know,” said Lucilla, partially raising her face out of her handkerchief; “I don’t think I know anything, for my part. I always thought if one could rely upon anyone, one could rely upon her—for truthfulness, and for yieldingness, and doing what anyone asked her. I did think so; and it is perfectly bewildering to think, after all, that she should be obstinate and deceiving, and yet look so different!” said Lucilla. “But if it has come to that, we must be firm, Mr. Beverley. If you ask my opinion, I say she should be allowed to marry him. That would solve everything, you know,” Miss Marjoribanks added, with sad decision. “She would get all the fortune without going to law, and she would be settled, and off one’s mind. That
