Miss Marjoribanks · Chapter 23 (3/3)

“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 Miss Marjoribanks; “lie down⁠—there’s a dear⁠—and keep quite still, and see whether we cannot make anything better of it. Tell me, what would you go to law with him for?” Lucilla continued, with the natural humility of imperfect comprehension. It was perhaps the first time in her life that such a singular chance had happened to Miss Marjoribanks, as to have a matter explained to her, and yet be unable to understand.

“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 like a sudden blow and brought everything back to her mind. It was a bewildering sort of explanation, if it was an explanation; but still a confused light began to break upon Lucilla’s understanding. If this was what it all meant then there was the widest opening for charitable exertions, and much to be done which only a mind like Miss Marjoribanks’s could do.

“That is not his name now,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “I don’t see, if he liked it, why he should not change his name. I am sure a great many people do; but his name was Kavan when he lived with my uncle. I don’t remember what it was after, for of course he was always Mr. Kavan to me; and Charles Beverley never could bear him. He used to think⁠—But oh, Lucilla, forgive me⁠—oh, forgive me, if it is too much for you!” she added, a moment after, as another idea struck her. “It was not with the idea of⁠—of anything coming of it, you know; it will never come to that⁠—not now;⁠—I don’t know if it is to be wished. I am sure he is quite free so far as I am concerned. It was not with that idea I asked for your advice, Lucilla,” said the poor woman, in piteous tones. If Miss Marjoribanks had pressed her, and insisted upon knowing what was the idea which had moved her friend to ask her advice, Mrs. Mortimer would no doubt have found it very hard to reply; but Lucilla had no such cruel intentions; and the widow, notwithstanding her piteous denial of any motive, now that her mind was cleared, and she had caught the comprehension of her auditor, began to regard her with a certain instinct of hope.

As for Miss Marjoribanks, this revelation at once troubled and cleared her mind. If this was the culprit, he was a culprit and yet he was innocent; and to heap coals of fire upon his head was in some respects a Christian duty. Her ideas went forward at a bound to a grand finale of reconciliation and universal brotherhood. She saw the tools under her hands, and her very fingers itched to begin. Large and varied as her experience was, she had never yet had any piece of social business on so important a scale to manage, and her eyes sparkled and her heart beat at the idea. Instead of shrinking from interference, her spirits rose at the thought. To vanquish the Archdeacon, to pluck out from the darkness, and rehabilitate and set at his ease the mysterious adventurer, whom, to be sure, she could not say she knew⁠—for Lucilla was very careful, even in her own thoughts, not to commit herself on this subject⁠—and to finish off by a glorious and triumphant marriage⁠—not her own, it is true, but of her making, which was more to the purpose⁠—such was the programme she made out for herself with the speed of lightning, the moment she had laid hold of the clue which guided or seemed to guide her through the labyrinth. It would be too lengthy a matter to go into all her tender cares for the widow’s comfort during the rest of her stay, and the pains and delicacy with which she managed to elicit further particulars, and to make out her brief, so to speak, while she cheered up and encouraged the witness. Miss Marjoribanks jumped to the conclusion that “poor Edward” had been, after all, but a temporary tenant of the heart, which was now again free for the reception of the Archdeacon, if he could be got to accept the conditions. When half-past six arrived, and Thomas came for her with the great umbrella, she went off quite resplendent in her waterproof cloak, and utterly indifferent to the rain, leaving Mrs. Mortimer worn out, but with a glimmer of hope in her mind. Such was the great work which, without a moment’s hesitation, Lucilla took upon her shoulders. She had no more fear of the result than she had of wetting her feet, which was a thing Mrs. Mortimer and Thomas were both concerned about. But then Lucilla knew her own resources, and what she was capable of, and proceeded upon her way with that unconscious calm of genius which is always so inexplicable to the ordinary world.