Chronicles of Carlingford. 

THEPERPETUAL CURATE

MRS OLIPHANT

_ALLA PADRONA MIA;ED A TE, SORELLA CARISSIMA!CONSOLATRICI GENTILLISSIMEDELLA DESOLATA. _

CHAPTER I. 

Carlingford is, as is well known, essentially a quiet place. There isno trade in the town, properly so called. To be sure, there are two orthree small counting-houses at the other end of George Street, in thatambitious pile called Gresham Chambers; but the owners of these placesof business live, as a general rule, in villas, either detached orsemi-detached, in the North-end, the new quarter, which, as everybodyknows, is a region totally unrepresented in society. In Carlingfordproper there is no trade, no manufactures, no anything in particular, except very pleasant parties and a superior class of people--a verysuperior class of people, indeed, to anything one expects to meetwith in a country town, which is not even a county town, nor the seatof any particular interest. It is the boast of the place that it has noparticular interest--not even a public school: for no reason in theworld but because they like it, have so many nice people collectedtogether in those pretty houses in Grange Lane--which is, of course, avery much higher tribute to the town than if any special inducement hadled them there. But in every community some centre of life is necessary. This point, round which everything circles, is, in Carlingford, found inthe clergy. They are the administrators of the commonwealth, the onlypeople who have defined and compulsory duties to give a sharp outline tolife. Somehow this touch of necessity and business seems needful evenin the most refined society: a man who is obliged to be somewhere at acertain hour, to do something at a certain time, and whose public dutiesare not volunteer proceedings, but indispensable work, has a certainposition of command among a leisurely and unoccupied community, not tosay that it is a public boon to have some one whom everybody knows andcan talk of. The minister in Salem Chapel was everything in his littleworld. That respectable connection would not have hung together half soclosely but for this perpetual subject of discussion, criticism, andpatronage; and, to compare great things with small, society in Carlingfordrecognised in some degree the same human want. An enterprising ornon-enterprising rector made all the difference in the world in GrangeLane; and in the absence of a rector that counted for anything (and poorMr Proctor was of no earthly use, as everybody knows), it followed, as anatural consequence, that a great deal of the interest and influence ofthe position fell into the hands of the Curate of St Roque's. 

But that position was one full of difficulties, as any one acquaintedwith the real state of affairs must see in a moment. Mr Wentworth'scircumstances were, on the whole, as delicate and critical as can beimagined, both as respected his standing in Carlingford and the placehe held in his own family--not to speak of certain other personalmatters which were still more troublesome and vexatious. These last ofcourse were of his own bringing on; for if a young man chooses to fallin love when he has next to nothing to live upon, trouble is sure tofollow. He had quite enough on his hands otherwise without thatcrowning complication. When Mr Wentworth first came to Carlingford, it was in the days of Mr Bury, the Evangelical rector--his lastdays, when he had no longer his old vigour, and was very glad of"assistance, " as he said, in his public and parish work. Mr Bury had afriendship of old standing with the Miss Wentworths of Skelmersdale, Mr Francis Wentworth's aunts; and it was a long time before the oldRector's eyes were opened to the astounding fact, that the nephew ofthese precious and chosen women held "views" of the most dangerouscomplexion, and indeed was as near Rome as a strong and loftyconviction of the really superior catholicity of the Anglican Churchwould permit him to be. Before he found this out, Mr Bury, who hadunlimited confidence in preaching and improving talk, had done all hecould to get the young man to "work, " as the good Rector called it, and had voluntarily placed all that difficult district about the canalunder the charge of the Curate of St Roque's. It is said that thehorror with which, after having just written to Miss Leonora Wentworthto inform her what "a great work" his young friend was doing among thebargemen, Mr Bury was seized upon entering St Roque's itself for thefirst time after the consecration, when the young priest had arrangedeverything his own way, had a very bad effect on his health, andhastened his end. And it is indeed a fact that he died soon after, before he had time to issue the interdict he intended against MrWentworth's further exertions in the parish of Carlingford. Then cameMr Proctor, who came into the town as if he had dropped from theskies, and knew no more about managing a parish than a baby; andunder his exceptional incumbency Mr Wentworth became more than evernecessary to the peace of the community. Now a new _régime_ had beeninaugurated. Mr Morgan, a man whom Miss Wodehouse described as "in theprime of life, " newly married, with a wife also in the prime of life, who had waited for him ten years, and all that time had been undertraining for her future duties--two fresh, new, active, clergymanlyintellects, entirely open to the affairs of the town, and intentupon general reformation and sound management--had just come intopossession. The new Rector was making a great stir all about him, aswas natural to a new man; and it seemed, on the whole, a highlydoubtful business whether he and Mr Wentworth would find Carlingfordbig enough to hold them both. 

"We could not have expected to begin quite without difficulties, " saidMrs Morgan, as she and her husband discussed the question in thedrawing-room of the Rectory. It was a pretty drawing-room, though MrProctor's taste was not quite in accordance with the principles ofthe new incumbent's wife: however, as the furniture was all new, and asthe former rector had no further need for it, it was of course, much thebest and most economical arrangement to take it as it stood--though thebouquets on the carpet were a grievance which nothing but her highChristian principles could have carried Mrs Morgan through. She lookedround as she spoke, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head:she, too, had her share of disagreeables. "It would not look likeChrist's work, dear, " said the clergyman's wife, "if we had it all ourown way. "

"My dear, I hope I am actuated by higher motives than a desire to haveit all my own way, " said the Rector. "I always felt sure that Proctorwould make a mess of any parish he took in hand, but I did not imaginehe would have left it to anybody who pleased to work it. You mayimagine what my feelings were to-day, when I came upon a kind ofimpromptu chapel in that wretched district near the canal. I thoughtit a Little Bethel, you know, of course; but instead of that, I findyoung Wentworth goes there Wednesdays and Fridays to do duty, and thatthere is service on Sunday evening, and I can't tell what besides. It may be done from a good motive--but such a disregard of allconstituted authority, " said the Rector, with involuntary vehemence, "can never, in my opinion, be attended by good results. "

"Mr Wentworth, did you say?" said Mrs Morgan, upon whose female soulthe Perpetual Curate's good looks and good manners had not beenwithout a certain softening effect. "I am so sorry. I don't wonder youare vexed; but don't you think there must be some mistake, William? MrWentworth is so gentlemanly and nice--and of very good family, too. I don't think he would choose to set himself in opposition to theRector. I think there must be some mistake. " "It's a very aggravatingmistake, at all events, " said Mr Morgan, rising and going to thewindow. It was, as we have said, a very pretty drawing-room, and thewindows opened upon as pretty a bit of lawn as you could see, with onehandsome cedar sweeping its dark branches majestically over deliciousgreensward; but some people did think it was too near George Streetand the railway. Just at that moment a puff of delicate white vapourappeared over the wall, and a sudden express-train, just released fromthe cover of the station, sprang with a snort and bound across theRector's view, very imperfectly veiled by the lime-trees, which werethin in their foliage as yet. Mr Morgan groaned and retreated--out ofhis first exaltation he had descended all at once, as people will doafter building all their hopes upon one grand event, into greatdepression and vexation, when he found that, after all, this event didnot change the face of existence, but indeed brought new proofs ofmortality in the shape of special annoyances belonging to itself inits train. "On the whole, " said the Rector, who was subject to fits ofdisgust with things in general, "I am tempted to think it was amistake coming to Carlingford; the drawbacks quite overbalance theadvantages. I did hesitate, I remember--it must have been my betterangel: that is, my dear, " he continued, recollecting himself, "I wouldhave hesitated had it not been for you. "

Here there ensued a little pause. Mrs Morgan was not so young as shehad been ten years ago, all which time she had waited patiently forthe Fellow of All-Souls, and naturally these ten years and thepatience had not improved her looks. There was a redness on hercountenance nowadays which was not exactly bloom; and it stretchedacross her cheeks, and over the point of her nose, as she waspainfully aware, poor lady. She was silent when she heard this, wondering with a passing pang whether he was sorry? But being athoroughly sensible woman, and above indulging in those little appealsby which foolish ones confuse the calm of matrimonial friendship, shedid not express the momentary feeling. "Yes, William, " she said, sympathetically, casting her eyes again on the objectionable carpet, and feeling that there _were_ drawbacks even to her happiness as thewife of the Rector of Carlingford; "but I suppose every place has itsdisadvantages; and then there is such good society; and a town likethis is the very place for your talents; and when affairs are in yourown hands--"

"It is very easy talking, " said the vexed Rector. "Society andeverybody would turn upon me if I interfered with Wentworth--there'sthe vexation. The fellow goes about it as if he had a right. Why, there's a Provident Society and all sorts of things going on, exactlyas if it were his own parish. What led me to the place was seeingsome ladies in grey cloaks--exactly such frights as you used to makeyourself, my dear--flickering about. He has got up a sisterhood, Ihave no doubt; and to find all this in full operation in one's ownparish, without so much as being informed of it! and you know I don'tapprove of sisterhoods--never did; they are founded on a mistake. "

"Yes, dear. I know I gave up as soon as I knew your views on thatsubject, " said Mrs Morgan. "I daresay so will the ladies here. Whowere they? Did you speak to them? or perhaps they belonged to StRoque's. "

"Nobody belongs to St Roque's, " said the Rector, contemptuously--"ithas not even a district. They were the two Miss Wodehouses. "

Mrs Morgan was moved to utter a little cry. "And their father ischurchwarden!" said the indignant woman. "Really, William, this is toomuch--without even consulting you! But it is easy to see how _that_comes about. Lucy Wodehouse and young Wentworth are--; well, I don'tknow if they are engaged--but they are always together, walking andtalking, and consulting with each other, and so forth--a great dealmore than I could approve of; but that poor elder sister, you know, has no authority--nor indeed any experience, poor thing, " said theRector's wife; "that's how it is, no doubt. " "Engaged!" said theRector. He gave a kindly glance at his wife, and melted a little. "Engaged, are they? Poor little thing! I hope she'll be as good as youhave been, my dear; but a young man may be in love without interferingwith another man's parish. I can't forgive that, " said Mr Morgan, recovering himself; "he must be taught to know better; and it is veryhard upon a clergyman, " continued the spiritual ruler of Carlingford, "that he cannot move in a matter like this without incurring a stormof godless criticism. If I were sending Wentworth out of my parish, Ishouldn't wonder if the 'Times' had an article upon it, denouncing meas an indolent priest and bigot, that would neither work myself norlet my betters work; that's how these fellows talk. "

"But nobody could say such things of you, " said Mrs Morgan, firing up. 

"Of me! they'd say them of St Paul, if he had ever been in thecircumstances, " said the Rector; "and I should just like to know whathe would have done in a parish like this, with the Dissenters on oneside, and a Perpetual Curate without a district meddling on the other. Ah, my dear, " continued Mr Morgan, "I daresay they had their troublesin those days; but facing a governor or so now and then, or evenpassing a night in the stocks, is a very different thing from ashowing-up in the 'Times, ' not to speak of the complications of duty. Let us go out and call at Folgate's, and see whether he thinksanything can be done to the church. "

"Dear, you wouldn't mind the 'Times' if it were your duty?" said theRector's wife, getting up promptly to prepare for the walk. 

"No, I suppose not, " said Mr Morgan, not without a thrill of importance;"nor the stake, " he added, with a little laugh, for he was not without asense of humour; and the two went out to the architect's to ascertainthe result of his cogitations over the church. They passed that sacrededifice in their way, and went in to gaze at it with a disgust whichonly an unhappy priest of high culture and aesthetic tastes, doomed toofficiate in a building of the eighteenth century, of the churchwardenperiod of architecture, could fully enter into. "Eugh!" said Mr Morgan, looking round upon the high pews and stifling galleries with an expressivecontraction of his features--his wife looked on sympathetic; and it wasat this unlucky moment that the subject of their late conference madehis appearance cheerfully from behind the ugly pulpit, in closeconference with Mr Folgate. The pulpit was a three-storeyed mass, withthe reading-desk and the clerk's desk beneath--a terrible eyesore to theRector and his wife. 

"I can fancy the expediency of keeping the place in repair, " said theCurate of St Roque's, happy in the consciousness of possessing achurch which, though not old, had been built by Gilbert Scott, andcheerfully unconscious of the presence of his listeners; "but tobeautify a wretched old barn like this is beyond the imagination ofman. Money can't do everything, " said the heedless young man as hecame lounging down the middle aisle, tapping contemptuously with hiscane upon the high pew-doors. "I wonder where the people expected togo to who built Carlingford Church? Curious, " continued the youngAnglican, stopping in mid career, "to think of bestowing _consecration_upon anything so hideous. What a pass the world must have come to, Folgate, when this erection was counted worthy to be the house of God!After all, perhaps it is wrong to feel so strongly about it. The walls_are_ consecrated, though they are ugly; we can't revoke the blessing. But no wonder it was an unchristian age. "

"We have our treasure in earthen vessels, " said Mr Morgan, somewhatsternly, from where he stood, under shelter of the heavy gallery. MrWentworth was shortsighted, like most people nowadays. He put up hisglass hastily, and then hurried forward, perhaps just a littleabashed. When he had made his salutations, however, he returnedundismayed to the charge. 

"It's a great pity you have not something better to work upon, " saidthe dauntless Curate; "but it is difficult to conceive what can bedone with such an unhallowed type of construction. I was just sayingto Folgate--"

"There is a great deal of cant abroad on this subject, " said MrMorgan, interrupting the young oracle. "I like good architecture, butI don't relish attributing moral qualities to bricks and mortar. Thehallowing influence ought to be within. Mr Folgate, we were going tocall at your office. Have you thought of the little suggestions Iventured to make? Oh, the drawings are here. Mr Wentworth does notapprove of them, I suppose?" said the Rector, turning sternly roundupon the unlucky Curate of St Roque's. 

"I can only say I sympathise with you profoundly, " said youngWentworth, with great seriousness. "Such a terrible church must be agreat trial. I wish I had any advice worth offering; but it is my hourfor a short service down at the canal, and I can't keep my poorbargees waiting. Good morning. I hope you'll come and give us yourcountenance, Mrs Morgan. There's no end of want and trouble atWharfside. "

"Is Mr Wentworth aware, I wonder, that Wharfside is in the parish ofCarlingford?" said the Rector, with involuntary severity, as the youngpriest withdrew calmly to go to his "duty. " Mr Folgate, who supposedhimself to be addressed, smiled, and said, "Oh yes, of course, " andunfolded his drawings, to which the clerical pair before him lent adisturbed attention. They were both in a high state of indignation bythis time. It seemed indispensable that something should be done tobring to his senses an intruder so perfectly composed and at hisease. 

CHAPTER II. 

Meanwhile Mr Wentworth, without much thought of his sins, went downGeorge Street, meaning to turn off at the first narrow turning whichled down behind the shops and traffic, behind the comfort and beautyof the little town, to that inevitable land of shadow which alwaysdogs the sunshine. Carlingford proper knew little about it, exceptthat it increased the poor-rates, and now and then produced a fever. The minister of Salem Chapel was in a state of complete ignorance onthe subject. The late Rector had been equally uninformed. Mr Bury, whowas Evangelical, had the credit of disinterring the buried creaturesthere about thirty years ago. It was an office to be expected of thatmuch-preaching man; but what was a great deal more extraordinary, wasto find that the only people now in Carlingford who knew anythingabout Wharfside, except overseers of the poor and guardians of thepublic peace, were the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's--who had nothingparticular to do with it, and who was regarded by many sober-mindedpersons with suspicion as a dilettante Anglican, given over to floralornaments and ecclesiastical upholstery--and some half-dozen people ofthe very _élite_ of society, principally ladies residing in GrangeLane. 

Mr Wentworth came to a hesitating pause at the head of the turningwhich would have led him to Wharfside. He looked at his watch and sawthere was half an hour to spare. He gave a wistful lingering look downthe long line of garden-walls, pausing upon one point where theblossomed boughs of an apple-tree overlooked that enclosure. Therewas quite time to call and ask if the Miss Wodehouses were going downto the service this afternoon; but was it duty? or, indeed, puttingthat question aside, was it quite right to compound matters with hisown heart's desire and the work he was engaged in, in this undeniablefashion? The young priest crossed the street very slowly, swinging hiscane and knitting his brows as he debated the question. If it had beenone of the bargemen bringing his sweetheart, walking with her alongthe side of the canal to which Spring and sweet Easter coming on, andLove, perhaps, always helpful of illusions, might convey a certaingreenness and sentiment of nature--and echoing her soft responses tothe afternoon prayers--perhaps the Curate might have felt that suchdevotion was not entirely pure and simple. But somehow, before he wasaware of it, his slow footstep had crossed the line, and he foundhimself in Grange Lane, bending his steps towards Mr Wodehouse's door. For one thing, to be sure, the Canticles in the evening service couldalways be sung when Lucy's sweet clear voice was there to lead theuncertain melody; and it was good to see her singing the 'Magnificat'with that serious sweet face, "full of grace, " like Mary's own. Thinking of that, Mr Wentworth made his way without any furtherhesitation to the green door over which hung the apple-blossoms, totally untroubled in his mind as to what the reverend pair werethinking whom he had left behind him in the ugly church; andunconscious that his impromptu chapel at Wharfside, with its littlecarved reading-desk, and the table behind, contrived so as to looksuspiciously like an altar, was a thorn in anybody's side. Had hismind been in a fit condition at that moment to cogitate trouble, histhoughts would have travelled in a totally different direction, but inthe mean time Mr Wentworth was very well able to put aside hisperplexities. The green door opened just as he reached it, and Lucyand her elder sister came out in those grey cloaks which the Rectorhad slandered. They were just going to Wharfside to the service, andof course they were surprised to see Mr Wentworth, who did not knockat that green door more than a dozen times in a week, on the average. The Curate walked between the sisters on their way towards theirfavourite "district. " Such a position would scarcely have beenotherwise than agreeable to any young man. Dear old Miss Wodehouse wasthe gentlest of chaperones. Old Miss Wodehouse people called her, notknowing why--perhaps because that adjective was sweeter than the harshone of middle age which belonged to her; and then there was such adifference between her and Lucy. Lucy was twenty, and in her sweetestbloom. Many people thought with Mr Wentworth that there were not othertwo such eyes in Carlingford. Not that they were brilliant orpenetrating, but as blue as heaven, and as serene and pure. So manypersons thought, and the Perpetual Curate among them. The grey cloakfell in pretty folds around that light elastic figure; and there wasnot an old woman in the town so tender, so helpful, so handy as Lucywhere trouble was, as all the poor people knew. So the three went downPrickett's Lane, which leads from George Street towards the canal--nota pleasant part of the town by any means; and if Mr Wentworth wasconscious of a certain haze of sunshine all round and about him, gliding over the poor pavement, and here and there transfiguring somebaby bystander gazing open-mouthed at the pretty lady, could anyreasonable man be surprised?

"I hope your aunts were quite well, Mr Wentworth, when you heard fromthem last, " said Miss Wodehouse, "and all your people at home. In sucha small family as ours, we should go out of our wits if we did nothear every day; but I suppose it is different where there are so many. Lucy, when she goes from home, " said the tender elder sister, glancingat her with a half-maternal admiration--"and she might always bevisiting about if she liked--writes to me every day. "

"I have nobody who cares for me enough to write every week, " said theCurate, with a look which was for Lucy's benefit. "I am not so luckyas you. My aunts are quite well, Miss Wodehouse, and they think I hadbetter go up to town in May for the meetings, " added Mr Wentworth, with a passing laugh; "and the rest of my people are very indignantthat I am not of their way of thinking. There is Tom Burrows on theother side of the street; he is trying to catch _your_ eye, " said theCurate, turning round upon Lucy; for the young man had come to such apass that he could not address her in an ordinary and proper way likeother people, but, because he dared not yet call her by her Christianname as if she belonged to him, had a strange rude way of indicatingwhen he was speaking to her, by emphasis and action. It was singularlydifferent from his usual good-breeding; but Lucy somehow rather likedit than otherwise. "He is not going to church for the sake of theservice. He is going to please _you_. He has never forgotten what youdid for that little boy of his; and, indeed, if you continue to go onso, " said Mr Wentworth, lowering his voice, and more than ever bendinghis tall head to one side, "I shall have to put a stop to it somehow, for I am not prepared, whatever people say, to go in at once for_public_ worship of the saints. "

"I am going in here to call, " said Lucy. She looked up very innocentlyin the Curate's face. "I promised the poor sick woman in the back roomto see her every day, and I could not get out any sooner. I daresay Ishall be at the schoolroom before you begin. Good-bye just now, " saidthe young Sister of Mercy. She went off all at once on this provokingbut unexceptionable errand, looking with calm eyes upon the dismaywhich overspread the expressive countenance of her spiritual guide. MrWentworth stood looking after her for a moment, stunned by theunexpected movement. When he went on, truth compels us to own that athrill of disgust had taken the place of that vague general sense ofbeatitude which threw beauty even upon Prickett's Lane. The Curategave but a sulky nod to the salutation of Tom Burrows, and walked onin a savage mood by the side of Miss Wodehouse, around whom no nimbusof ideal glory hovered. 

"I am always afraid of its being too much for her, Mr Wentworth, " saidthe anxious elder sister; "it upsets me directly; but then I never waslike Lucy--I can't tell where all you young people have learned it; wenever used to be taught so in my day; and though I am twice as old asshe is, I know I am not half so much good in the world, " said the kindsoul, with a gentle sigh. "I should like to see you in a parish ofyour own, where you would have it all your own way. I hope Mr Morganwon't be meddling when he comes to have time for everything. I shouldalmost think he would--though it seems unkind to say it--by his face. "

"I am doing nothing more than my duty, " said the Perpetual Curate, inmorose tones. "This district was given into my hands by the lateRector. Mr Morgan's face does not matter to me. "

"But I should like to see you in a parish of your own, " said MissWodehouse, meaning to please him. "You know papa always says so. StRoque's is very nice, but--"

"If you wish me out of the way, Miss Wodehouse, I am sorry to say youare not likely to be gratified, " said the Curate, "for I have no moreexpectation of any preferment than you have. Such chances don't comein everybody's way. "

"But I thought your aunts, Mr Wentworth--" said poor Miss Wodehouse, who unluckily did not always know when to stop. 

"My aunts don't approve of my principles, " answered Mr Wentworth, whohad his own reasons for speaking with a little asperity. "They aremore likely to have me denounced at Exeter Hall. I will join youimmediately. I must speak to these men across the street;" and theCurate accordingly walked into a knot of loungers opposite, with adecision of manner which Lucy's desertion had helped him to. MissWodehouse, thus left alone, went on with lingering and somewhat doubtfulsteps. She was not used to being in "the district" by herself. Itdisturbed her mild, middle-aged habits to be left straying about herealone among all these poor people, whom she looked at half wistfully, half alarmed, feeling for them in her kind heart, but not at all knowinghow to get at them as the young people did. The unruly children andgossiping mothers at the poor doors discomposed her sadly, and she wasnot near so sure that her grey cloak defended her from all rudeness asshe pretended to be when assenting to the enthusiasm of Mr Wentworth andLucy. She made tremulous haste to get out of this scene, which she wasnot adapted for, to the shelter of the schoolroom, where, at least, shewould be safe. "We never were taught so in my day, " she said to herself, with an unexpressed wonder which was right; but when she had reachedthat haven of shelter, was seized with a little panic for Lucy, and wentout again and watched for her at the corner of the street, feeling veryuncomfortable. It was a great relief to see her young sister coming downalert and bright even before she was joined by Mr Wentworth, who hadcarried his point with the men he had been talking to. To see themcoming down together, smiling to all those people at the doors whodisturbed the gentle mind of Miss Wodehouse with mingled sentiments ofsympathy and repulsion, bestowing nods of greeting here and there, pausing even to say a word to a few favoured clients, was a wonderfulsight to the timid maiden lady at the corner of the street. Twenty yearsago some such companion might have been by Miss Wodehouse's side, butnever among the poor people in Prickett's Lane. Even with Lucy beforeher she did not understand it. As the two came towards her, otherthoughts united with these in her kind soul. "I wonder whether anythingwill ever come of it?" she said to herself, and with that wandered intoanxious reflections what this difference could be between Mr Wentworthand his aunts: which cogitations, indeed, occupied her till the servicebegan, and perhaps disturbed her due appreciation of it; for if Lucy andMr Wentworth got attached, as seemed likely, and Mr Wentworth did notget a living, what was to come of it? The thought made thistender-hearted spectator sigh: perhaps she had some experience of herown to enlighten her on such a point. At least it troubled, withsympathetic human cares, the gentle soul which had lost the confidenceof youth. 

As for the two most immediately concerned, they thought nothing at allabout aunts or livings. Whether it is the divine influence of youth, or whether the vague unacknowledged love which makes two people happyin each other's presence carries with it a certain inspiration, thisat least is certain, that there is an absolute warmth of devotionarrived at in such moments, which many a soul, no longer happy, wouldgive all the world to reach. Such crowds and heaps of blessings fallto these young souls! They said their prayers with all their hearts, not aware of deriving anything of that profound sweet trust andhappiness from each other, but expanding over all the rude butreverend worshippers around them, with an unlimited faith in theirimprovement, almost in their perfection. This was what the wonderinglooker-on, scarcely able to keep her anxieties out of her prayers, could not understand, having forgotten, though she did not think so, the exaltation of that time of youth, as people do. She thought it alltheir goodness that they were able to put away their own thoughts; shedid not know it was in the very nature of those unexpressed emotionsto add the confidence of happiness to their prayers. 

And after a while they all separated and went away back into the worldand the everyday hours. Young Wentworth and Lucy had not said a syllableto each other, except about the people in "the district, " and theProvident Society; and how that sober and laudable conversation could becalled love-making, it would be difficult for the most ardent imaginationto conceive. He was to dine with them that evening; so it was for but avery brief time that they parted when the Perpetual Curate left theladies at the green door, and went away to his room, to attend to someother duties, before he arrayed himself for the evening. As for thesisters, they went in quite comfortably, and had their cup of tea beforethey dressed for dinner. Lucy was manager indoors as well as out. Shewas good for a great deal more than Miss Wodehouse in every practicalmatter. It was she who was responsible for the dinner, and had all thecares of the house upon her head. Notwithstanding, the elder sister tookup her prerogative as they sat together in two very cosy easy-chairs, in a little room which communicated with both their bed-chambersup-stairs--a very cosy little odd room, not a dressing-room nor aboudoir, but something between the two, where the sisters had theirprivate talks upon occasion, and which was consecrated by many alibation of fragrant tea. 

"Lucy, my dear, " said Miss Wodehouse, whose gentle forehead waspuckered with care, "I want to speak to you. I have not been able toget you out of my mind since ever we met Mr Wentworth at the greendoor. "

"Was there any need for getting me out of your mind?" said smilingLucy. "I was a safe enough inmate, surely. I wonder how often I am outof your mind, Mary dear, night or day. "

"That is true enough, " said Miss Wodehouse, "but you know that is notwhat I meant either. Lucy, are you quite sure you're going on just asyou ought--"

Here she made a troubled pause, and looked in the laughing faceopposite, intent upon her with its startled eyes. "What have I done?"cried the younger sister. Miss Wodehouse shook her head with a greatdeal of seriousness. 

"It always begins with laughing, " said the experienced woman; "but ifit ends without tears it will be something new to me. It's about MrWentworth, Lucy. You're always together, day after day; and, my dear, such things can't go on without coming to something--what is to comeof it? I have looked at it from every point of view, and I am sure Idon't know. "

Lucy flushed intensely red, of course, at the Curate's name; perhapsshe had not expected it just at that moment; but she kept hercomposure like a sensible girl as she was. 

"I thought it was the other side that were questioned about theirintentions, " she said. "Am I doing anything amiss? Mr Wentworth is theCurate of St Roque's, and I am one of the district-visitors, and wecan't help seeing a great deal of each other so long as this work goeson at Wharfside. You wouldn't like to stop a great work because we areobliged to see a good deal of--of one particular person?" said Lucy, with youthful virtue, looking at her sister's face; at which tone andlook Miss Wodehouse immediately faltered, as the culprit knew shemust. 

"No--oh no, no--to be sure not, " said the disturbed monitor. "When yousay that, I don't know how to answer you. It must be right, I suppose. I am quite sure it is wonderful to see such young creatures as you, and how you can tell the right way to set about it. But things did notuse to be so in my young days. Girls dare not have done such thingstwenty years ago--not in Carlingford, Lucy, " said Miss Wodehouse;"and, dear, I think you ought to be a little careful, for poor MrWentworth's sake. "

"I don't think Mr Wentworth is in any particular danger, " said Lucy, putting down her cup, with a slight curve at the corners of herpretty mouth--"and it is quite time for you to begin dressing. Youknow you don't like to be hurried, dear;" with which speech the younghousekeeper got up from her easy-chair, gave her sister a kiss as shepassed, and went away, singing softly, to her toilette. Perhaps therewas a little flutter in Lucy's heart as she bound it round with herfavourite blue ribbons. Perhaps it was this that gave a certainstartled gleam to her blue eyes, and made even her father remark themwhen she went down-stairs--"It seems to me as if this child weregrowing rather pretty, Molly, eh? I don't know what other peoplethink, " said Mr Wodehouse--and perhaps Mr Wentworth, who was justbeing ushered into the drawing-room at the moment, heard the speech, for he, too, looked as if he had never found it out before. Luckilythere was a party, and no opportunity for sentiment. The party was inhonour of the Rector and his wife; and Mr Wentworth could not but beconscious before the evening was over that he had done something tolose the favour of his clerical brother. There was a good deal ofChurch talk, as was natural, at the churchwarden's table, where threeclergymen were dining--for Mr Morgan's curate was there as well; andthe Curate of St Roque's, who was slightly hot-tempered, could nothelp feeling himself disapproved of. It was not, on the whole, asatisfactory evening. Mr Morgan talked rather big, when the ladieswent away, of his plans for the reformation of Carlingford. He wentinto statistics about the poor, and the number of people who attendedno church, without taking any notice of that "great work" which MrWentworth knew to be going on at Wharfside. The Rector even talked ofWharfside, and of the necessity of exertion on behalf of that wretcheddistrict, with a studious unconsciousness of Mr Wentworth; and all butdeclined to receive better information when Mr Wodehouse proffered it. Matters were scarcely better in the drawing-room, where Lucy wasentertaining everybody, and had no leisure for the Perpetual Curate. He took his hat with a gloomy sentiment of satisfaction when it wastime to go away; but when the green door was closed behind him, MrWentworth, with his first step into the dewy darkness, plungedheadlong into a sea of thought. He had to walk down the whole lengthof Grange Lane to his lodging, which was in the last house of the row, a small house in a small garden, where Mrs Hadwin, the widow of awhilom curate, was permitted by public opinion, on the score of herown unexceptionable propriety, [A] to receive a lodger without loss ofposition thereby. It was moonlight, or rather it ought to have beenmoonlight, and no lamps were lighted in Grange Lane, according to theeconomical regulations of Carlingford; and as Mr Wentworth pursued hisway down the dark line of garden-walls, in the face of a sudden Aprilshower which happened to be falling, he had full scope and opportunityfor his thoughts. 

These thoughts were not the most agreeable in the world. In the firstplace it must be remembered that for nearly a year past Mr Wentworth hadhad things his own way in Carlingford. He had been more than rector, hehad been archdeacon, or rather bishop, in Mr Proctor's time; for thatgood man was humble, and thankful for the advice and assistance of hisyoung brother, who knew so much better than he did. Now, to be lookedupon as an unauthorised workman, a kind of meddling, Dissenterish, missionising individual, was rather hard upon the young man. And then hethought of his aunts. The connection, imperceptible to an ignorantobserver, which existed between the Miss Wentworths and Mr Morgan, andLucy, and many other matters interesting to their nephew, was asufficiently real connection when you came to know it. That parish ofhis own which Miss Wodehouse had wished him--which would free the youngclergyman from all trammels so far as his work was concerned; and wouldenable him to marry, and do everything for him--it was in the power ofthe Miss Wentworths to bestow; but they were Evangelical women, verypublic-spirited, and thinking nothing of their nephew in comparison withtheir duty; and he was at that time of life, and of that disposition, which, for fear of being supposed to wish to deceive them, would ratherexaggerate and make a display of the difference of his own views. Notfor freedom, not for Lucy, would the Perpetual Curate temporise andmanage the matter; so the fact was that he stood at the present momentin a very perilous predicament. But for this family living, which was, with their mother's property, in the hands of her co-heiresses, thethree Miss Wentworths, young Frank Wentworth had not a chance ofpreferment in the world; for the respectable Squire his father hadindulged in three wives and three families, and such a regiment of sonsthat all his influence had been fully taxed to provide for them. Gerald, the clergyman of the first lot, held the family living--not a very largeone--which belonged to the Wentworths; and Frank, who was of the second, had been educated expressly with an eye to Skelmersdale, which belongedto his aunts. How he came at the end to differ so completely from theseexcellent ladies in his religious views is not our business just atpresent; but in the mean time matters were in a very critical position. The old incumbent of Skelmersdale was eighty, and had been ill allwinter; and if the Miss Wentworths were not satisfied somehow, it wasall over with their nephew's hopes. 

Such were the thoughts that occupied his mind as he walked down GrangeLane in the dark, past the tedious, unsympathetic line of garden-walls, with the rain in his face. The evening's entertainment had stirred up agreat many dormant sentiments. His influence in Carlingford had beenignored by this new-comer, who evidently thought he could do what heliked without paying any attention to the Curate of St Roque's; and, what was a great deal worse, he had found Lucy unapproachable, and hadrealised, if not for the first time, still with more distinctness thanever before, that she did not belong to him, and that he had no moreright than any other acquaintance to monopolise her society. This lastdiscovery was bitter to the young man--it was this that made him set hisface to the rain, and his teeth, as if that could do any good. He hadbeen happy in her mere society to-day, without entering into any of theterrible preliminaries of a closer connection. But now that was over. She did not belong to him, and he could not bear the thought. And howwas she ever to belong to him? Not, certainly, if he was to be a PerpetualCurate of St Roque's, or anywhere else. He felt, in the misery of themoment, as if he could never go to that green door again, or walk by hersweet side to that service in which they had joined so lately. Hewondered whether she cared, with a despairing pang of anxiety, throughwhich for an instant a celestial gleam of consciousness leaped, makingthe darkness all the greater afterwards. And to think that three oldladies, of whom it was not in the nature of things that the young mancould be profoundly reverent, should hold in their hands the absolutepower of his life, and could determine whether it was to be sweet withhope and love, or stern, constrained, and impoverished, without Lucy orany other immediate light! What a strange anomaly this was which met himfull in the face as he pursued his thoughts! If it had been his bishop, or his college, or any fitting tribunal--but his aunts! Mr Wentworth'sring at his own door was so much more hasty than usual that Mrs Hadwinpaused in the hall, when she had lighted her candle, to see if anythingwas the matter. The little neat old lady held up her candle to look athim as he came in, glistening all over with rain-drops. 

"I hope you are not wet, Mr Wentworth, " she said. "It is only an Aprilshower, and we want it so much in the gardens. And I hope you have hada nice party and a pleasant evening. "

"Thank you--pretty well, " said the Perpetual Curate, with less suavitythan usual, and a sigh that nearly blew Mrs Hadwin's candle out. Shesaw he was discomposed, and therefore, with a feminine instinct, foundmore to say than usual before she made her peaceful way to bed. Shewaited while Mr Wentworth lighted his candle too. "Mr Wodehouse'sparties are always pleasant, " she said. "I never go out, you know; butI like to hear of people enjoying themselves. I insist upon you goingup-stairs before me, Mr Wentworth. I have so little breath to spare, and I take such a long time going up, that you would be tired to deathwaiting for me. Now, don't be polite. I insist upon you going upfirst. Thank you. Now I can take my time. "

And she took her time accordingly, keeping Mr Wentworth waiting on thelanding to say good-night to her, much to his silent exasperation. Whenhe got into the shelter of his own sitting-room, he threw himself upona sofa, and continued his thoughts with many a troubled addition. Ayoung man, feeling in a great measure the world before him, conscious ofconsiderable powers, standing on the very threshold of so much possiblegood and happiness, --it was hideous to look up, in his excitedimagination, and see the figures of these three old ladies, worse thanFates, standing across the prospect and barring the way. 

And Lucy, meantime, was undoing her blue ribbons with a thrill of sweetagitation in her untroubled bosom. Perhaps Mary was right, and it wasabout coming to the time when this half-feared, half-hoped revelationcould not be postponed much longer. For it will be perceived that Lucywas not in much doubt of young Wentworth's sentiments. And then shepaused in the dark, after she had said her prayers, to give one timidthought to the sweet life that seemed to lie before her so close athand--in which, perhaps, he and she were to go out together, she did notknow where, for the help of the world and the comfort of the sorrowful;and not trusting herself to look much at that ideal, said anotherprayer, and went to sleep like one of God's beloved, with a tear tooexquisite to be shed brimming under her long eyelashes. At this crisisof existence, perhaps for once in her life, the woman has the best ofit; for very different from Lucy's were the thoughts with which theCurate sought his restless pillow, hearing the rain drip all the night, and trickle into Mrs Hadwin's reservoirs. The old lady had a passion forrain-water, and it was a gusty night. 

CHAPTER III. 

Next week was Passion Week, and full of occupation. Even if it had beenconsistent either with Mr Wentworth's principles or Lucy's to introducesecular affairs into so holy a season, they had not time or opportunity, as it happened, which was perhaps just as well; for otherwise thepremonitory thrill of expectation which had disturbed Lucy's calm, andthe bitter exasperation against himself and his fate with which MrWentworth had discovered that he dared not say anything, might havecaused an estrangement between them. As it was, the air was thundery andominous through all the solemn days of the Holy Week. A consciousness asof something about to happen overshadowed even the "district, " andattracted the keen observation of the lively spectators at Wharfside. They were not greatly up in matters of doctrine, nor perhaps did theyquite understand the eloquent little sermon which the Perpetual Curategave them on Good Friday in the afternoon, between his own services, byway of impressing upon their minds the awful memories of the day; butthey were as skilful in the variations of their young evangelist'slooks, and as well qualified to decide upon the fact that there was "asomething between" him and Miss Lucy Wodehouse, as any practisedobserver in the higher ranks of society. Whether the two had "'ad anunpleasantness, " as, Wharfside was well aware, human creatures undersuch circumstances are liable to have, the interested community couldnot quite make out; but that something more than ordinary was going on, and that the prettiest of all the "Provident ladies" had a certainpreoccupation in her blue eyes, was a fact perfectly apparent tothat intelligent society. And, indeed, one of the kinder matrons inPrickett's Lane had even ventured so far as to wish Miss Lucy "a 'appyweddin' when the time comes. " "And there's to be a sight o' weddingsthis Easter, " had added another, who was somewhat scandalised by theflowers in the bonnet of one of the brides-elect, and proceeded to sayso in some detail. "But Miss Lucy won't wear no bonnet; the quality goesin veils: and there never was as full a church as there will be to seeit, wishing you your 'ealth and 'appiness, ma'am, as aint no more noryou deserve, and you so good to us poor folks. " All which felicitationsand inquiries had confused Lucy, though she made her way out of themwith a self-possession which amazed her sister. 

"You see what everybody thinks, dear, " said that gentle woman, whenthey had made their escape. 

"Oh, Mary, how can you talk of such things at such a time?" the youngSister of Mercy had answered once more, turning those severe eyes ofyouthful devotion upon her troubled elder sister, who, to tell thetruth, not having been brought up to it, as she said, felt much thesame on Easter Eve as at other times of her life; and thus once morethe matter concluded. As for Mr Wentworth, he was much occupied onthat last day of the Holy Week with a great many important matters onhand. He had not seen the Wodehouses since the Good Friday eveningservice, which was an interval of about twenty hours, and had justpaused, before eating his bachelor's dinner, to ponder whether itwould be correct on that most sacred of vigils to steal away for halfan hour, just to ask Lucy if she thought it necessary that he shouldsee the sick woman at No. 10 Prickett's Lane before the morning. It was while he was pondering this matter in his mind that MrWentworth's heart jumped to his throat upon receipt, quite suddenly, without preparation, of the following note:--

 "MY DEAREST BOY, --Your aunts Cecilia, Leonora, and I have just arrived at this excellent inn, the Blue Boar. Old Mr Shirley at Skelmersdale is in a very bad way, poor man, and I thought the _very best_ thing I could do in my dearest Frank's _best_ interests, was to persuade them to make you _quite_ an _unexpected visit_, and see everything for themselves. I am in a terrible fright now lest I should have done wrong; but my dear, dear boy knows it is always his interest that I have at heart; and Leonora is so intent on having a _real gospel minister_ at Skelmersdale, that she _never_ would have been content with anything less than hearing you with her own ears. I hope and trust in Providence that you don't intone like poor Gerald. And oh, Frank, my dear boy, come directly and dine with us, and don't fly in your aunt Leonora's face, and tell me I haven't been imprudent. I thought it would be best to take you unawares when you had everything prepared, and when we should see you just as you always are; for I am convinced Leonora and you only want to see more of each other to understand each other perfectly. Come, my dearest boy, and give a little comfort to your loving and anxious

 "AUNT DORA. "

Mr Wentworth sat gazing blankly upon this horrible missive for someminutes after he had read it, quite unaware of the humble presence ofthe maid who stood asking, Please was she to bring up dinner? When hecame to himself, the awful "No!" with which he answered that alarmedhandmaiden almost drove her into hysterics as she escaped down-stairs. However, Mr Wentworth immediately put his head out at the door andcalled after her, "I can't wait for dinner, Sarah; I am suddenly calledout, and shall dine where I am going. Tell Cook, " said the young parson, suddenly recollecting Lucy's client, "to send what she has prepared forme, if it is very nice, to No. 10 Prickett's Lane. My boy will take it;and send him off directly, please, " with which last commission the youngman went up despairingly to his bedroom to prepare himself for thisinterview with his aunts. What was he to do? Already before him, indreadful prophetic vision, he saw all three seated in one of thehandsome open benches in St Roque's, looking indescribable horrors atthe crown of spring lilies which Lucy's own fingers were to weave forthe cross above the altar, and listening to the cadence of his own manlytenor as it rang through the perfect little church of which he was soproud. Yes, there was an end of Skelmersdale, without any doubt orquestion now; whatever hope there might have been, aunt Dora had settledthe matter by this last move of hers--an end to Skelmersdale, and an endof Lucy. Perhaps he had better try not to see her any more; and the pooryoung priest saw that his own face looked ghastly as he looked at it inthe glass. It gave him a little comfort to meet the boy with a bundlepinned up in snowy napkins, from which a grateful odour ascended, bending his steps to Prickett's Lane, as he himself went out to meet hisfate. It was a last offering to that beloved "district" with which theimage of his love was blended; but he would have given his dinner toLucy's sick woman any day. To-night it was a greater sacrifice that wasto be required of him. He went mournfully and slowly up Grange Lane, steeling himself for the encounter, and trying to forgive aunt Dora inhis heart. It was not very easy. Things might have turned out just thesame without any interference--that was true; but to have it all broughton in this wanton manner by a kind foolish woman, who would wring herhands and gaze in your face, and want to know, Oh! did you think it washer fault? after she had precipitated the calamity, was very hard; andit was with a very gloomy countenance, accordingly, that the Curate ofSt Roque's presented himself at the Blue Boar. 

The Miss Wentworths were in the very best sitting-room which the BlueBoar contained--the style in which they travelled, with a man and twomaids, was enough to secure that; and the kitchen of that respectableestablishment was doing its very best to send up a dinner worthy of "aparty as had their own man to wait. " The three ladies greeted theirnephew with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The eldest, Miss Wentworth, from whom he took his second name Cecil, did not rise from her chair, but nevertheless kissed him in an affectionate dignified way when hewas brought to her. As for aunt Dora, she ran into her dear Frank'sarms, and in the very moment of that embrace whispered in his ear theexpression of her anxiety, and the panic which always followed thoserash steps which she was in the habit of taking. "Oh, my dear, I hopeyou don't think I'm to blame, " she said, with her lips at his ear, andgained but cold comfort from the Curate's face. The alarming member ofthe party was Miss Leonora. She rose and made two steps forward tomeet the unfortunate young man. She shook both his hands cordially, and said she was very glad to see him, and hoped he was well. She wasthe sensible sister of the three, and no doubt required all the senseshe had to manage her companions. Miss Wentworth, who had been verypretty in her youth, was now a beautiful old lady, with snow-whitehair and the most charming smile; and Miss Dora, who was only fifty, retained the natural colour of her own scanty light-brown locks, whichwavered in weak-minded ringlets over her cheeks; but Miss Leonora wasiron-grey, without any complexion in particular, and altogether aharder type of woman. It was she who held in her hands the fate ofSkelmersdale and of Frank Wentworth. Her terrible glance it was whichhe had imagined gleaming fierce upon his lilies--Lucy's lilies, hisEaster decorations. It was by her side the alarmed Curate was made tosit down. It was she who took the foot of the table, and was thegentleman of the house. Her voice was of that class of voice which maybe politely called a powerful contralto. Every way she was as alarminga critic as ever was encountered by a Perpetual Curate, or any otheryoung man in trouble. Mr Wentworth said feebly that this was a veryunexpected pleasure, as he met his aunt Leonora's eye. 

"I hope it _is_ a pleasure, " said that penetrating observer. "To tellthe truth, I did not expect it would be; but your aunt Dora thought so, and you know, when she sets her heart on anything, nobody can get anypeace. Not that your aunt Cecilia and I would have come on that account, if we had not wished, for many reasons, to have some conversation withyou, and see how you are getting on. "

"Quite so, Leonora, " said Miss Wentworth, smiling upon her nephew, andleaning back in her chair. 

Then there was a little pause; for, after such a terrible address, itwas not to be expected that the poor man, who understood every word ofit, could repeat his commonplace about the unlooked-for pleasure. MissDora of course seized the opportunity to rush in. 

"We have been hearing such delightful things about you, my dear, fromthe people of the house. Leonora is so pleased to hear how you arelabouring among the people, and doing your Master's work. We take allthe happiness to ourselves, because, you know, you are _our_ boy, Frank, " said the anxious aunt, all her thin ringlets, poor lady, trembling with her eagerness to make everything comfortable for herfavourite; "and we have come, you know, specially to hear you on EasterSunday in your own church. I am looking forward to a great treat: tothink I should never have heard you, though it is so long since you wereordained! None of us have ever heard you--not even Leonora; but it issuch a pleasure to us all to know you are so much liked in Carlingford, "cried the troubled woman, growing nervous at sight of the unresponsivequiet around her. Miss Leonora by no means replied to the covertappeals thus made to her. She left her nephew and her sister to keep upthe conversation unassisted; and as for Miss Wentworth, conversation wasnot her forte. 

"I'm afraid, aunt, you will not _hear_ anything worth such a longjourney, " said Mr Wentworth, moved, like a rash young man as he was, todisplay his colours at once, and cry no surrender. "I don't think anEaster Sunday is a time for much preaching; and the Church has made suchample provision for the expression of our sentiments. I am more of ahumble priest than an ambitious preacher, " said the young man, withcharacteristic youthful pretence of the most transparent kind. He lookedin Miss Leonora's face as he spoke. He knew the very name of priest wasan offence in its way to that highly Evangelical woman; and if they wereto come to single combat, better immediately than after intolerablesuspense and delay. 

"Perhaps, Dora, you will postpone your raptures about Frank'ssermon--which may be a very indifferent sermon, as he says, for anythingwe can tell--till after dinner, " said Miss Leonora. "We're all very gladto see him; and he need not think any little ill-tempered speeches hemay make will disturb me. I daresay the poor boy would be glad to hearof some of the people belonging to him instead of all that nonsense. Come to dinner, Frank. Take the other side of the table, opposite Dora;and now that you've said grace, I give you full leave to forget thatyou're a clergyman for an hour at least. We were down at the old Hall aweek ago, and saw your father and the rest. They are all well; and thelast boy is rather like you, if you will think that any compliment. MrsWentworth is pleased, because you are one of the handsome ones, youknow. Not much fear of the Wentworths dying out of the country yetawhile. Your father is getting at his wit's end, and does not know whatto do with Cuthbert and Guy. Three sons are enough in the army, and twoat sea; and I rather think it's as much as we can stand, " continued MissLeonora, not without a gleam of humour in her iron-grey eyes, "to havetwo in the Church. "

"That is as it may happen, " said the Perpetual Curate, with a littlespirit. "If the boys are of my way of thinking, they will consider theChurch the highest of professions; but Guy and Cuthbert must go toAustralia, I suppose, like most other people, and take their chance--noharm in that. "

"Not a bit of harm, " said the rich aunt; "they're good boys enough, and I daresay they'll get on. As for Gerald, if you have any influencewith your brother, I think he's in a bad way. I think he has a badattack of Romishness coming on. If you are not in that way yourself, "said Miss Leonora, with a sharp glance, "I think you should go and seeafter Gerald. He is the sort of man who would do anything foolish, youknow. He doesn't understand what prudence means. Remember, I believehe is a good Christian all the same. It's very incomprehensible; butthe fact is, a man may be a very good Christian, and have the leastquality of sense that is compatible with existence. I've seen it overand over again. Gerald's notions are idiocy to me, " said the sensiblebut candid woman, shrugging her shoulders; "but I can't deny that he'sa good man, for all that. "

"He is the best man I ever knew, " said young Wentworth, withenthusiasm. 

"Quite so, Frank, " echoed aunt Cecilia, with her sweet smile: it wasalmost the only conversational effort Miss Wentworth ever made. 

"But it is so sad to see how he's led away, " said Miss Dora; "it is allowing to the bad advisers young men meet with at the universities; andhow can it be otherwise as long as tutors and professors are chosen justfor their learning, without any regard to their principles? What isGreek and Latin in comparison with a pious guide for the young? Wewould not have to feel frightened, as we do so often, about youngmen's principles, " continued aunt Dora, fixing her eyes with warningsignificance on her nephew, and trying hard to open telegraphiccommunications with him, "if more attention was paid at the universitiesto give them sound guidance in their studies. So long as you are soundin your principles, there is no fear of you, " said the timid diplomatist, trying to aid the warning look of her eyes by emphasis and inflection. Poor Miss Dora! it was her unlucky fate, by dint of her very exertionsin smoothing matters, always to make things worse. 

"He would be a bold man who would call those principles unsound whichhave made my brother Gerald what he is, " said, with an affectionateadmiration that became him, the Curate of St Roque's. 

"It's a slavish system, notwithstanding Gerald, " said Miss Leonora, with some heat; "and a false system, and leads to Antichrist at theend and nothing less. Eat your dinner, Frank--we are not going toargue just now. We expected to hear that another of the girls wasengaged before we came away, but it has not occurred yet. I don'tapprove of young men dancing about a house for ever and ever, unlessthey mean something. Do you?"

Mr Wentworth faltered at this question; it disturbed his composuremore than anything that had preceded it. "I--really I don't know, " hesaid, after a pause, with a sickly smile--of which all three of hisaunts took private notes, forming their own conclusions. It was, asmay well be supposed, a very severe ordeal which the poor young manhad to go through. When he was permitted to say good-night, he wentaway with a sensation of fatigue more overpowering than if he hadvisited all the houses in Wharfside. When he passed the green door, over which the apple-tree rustled in the dark, it was a pang to hisheart. How was he to continue to live--to come and go through thatfamiliar road--to go through all the meetings and partings, when thislast hopeless trial was over, and Lucy and he were swept apart as ifby an earthquake? If his lips were sealed henceforward, and he neverwas at liberty to say what was in his heart, what would she think ofhim? He could not fly from his work because he lost Skelmersdale; andhow was he to bear it? He went home with a dull bitterness in hismind, trying, when he thought of it, to quiet the aching pulses whichthrobbed all over him, with what ought to have been the hallowedassociations of the last Lenten vigil. But it was difficult, throbbingas he was with wild life and trouble to the very finger-points, to gethimself into the shadow of that rock-hewn grave, by which, accordingto his own theory, the Church should be watching on this Easter Eve. It was hard just then to be bound to that special remembrance. What hewanted at this moment was no memory of one hour, however memorable orglorious, not even though it contained the Redeemer's grave, but thesense of a living Friend standing by him in the great struggle, whichis the essential and unfailing comfort of a Christian's life. 

Next morning he went to church with a half-conscious, youthful sense ofmartyrdom, of which in his heart he was half ashamed. St Roque's wasvery fair to see that Easter morning. Above the communion-table, withall its sacred vessels, the carved oaken cross of the reredos waswreathed tenderly with white fragrant festoons of spring lilies, sweetNarcissus of the poets; and Mr Wentworth's choristers made another whiteline, two deep, down each side of the chancel. The young Anglican tookin all the details of the scene on his way to the reading-desk as thewhite procession ranged itself in the oaken stalls. At that moment--theworst moment for such a thought--it suddenly flashed over him that, after all, a wreath of spring flowers or a chorister's surplice wasscarcely worth suffering martyrdom for. This horrible suggestion, trueessence of an unheroic age, which will not suffer a man to be absolutelysure of anything, disturbed his prayer as he knelt down in silence toask God's blessing. Easter, to be sure, was lovely enough of itselfwithout the garland, and Mr Wentworth knew well enough that hiswhite-robed singers were no immaculate angel-band. It was Satan himself, surely, and no inferior imp, who shot that sudden arrow into the youngman's heart as he tried to say his private prayer; for the Curate of StRoque's was not only a fervent Anglican, but also a young Englishman_sans reproche_, with all the sensitive, almost fantastic, delicacy ofhonour which belongs to that development of humanity; and not for adozen worlds would he have sacrificed a lily or a surplice on thisparticular Easter, when all his worldly hopes hung in the balance. Butto think at this crowning moment that a villanous doubt of the benefitof these surplices and lilies should seize his troubled heart! for justthen the strains of the organ died away in lengthened whispers, and MissLeonora Wentworth, severe and awful, swept up through the middle aisle. It was under these terrible circumstances that the Perpetual Curate, with his heart throbbing and his head aching, began to intone themorning service on that Easter Sunday, ever after a day so memorable inthe records of St Roque's. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Mr Wentworth's sermon on Easter Sunday was one which he himself longremembered, though it is doubtful whether any of his congregation hadmemories as faithful. To tell the truth, the young man put a black crossupon it with his blackest ink, a memorial of meaning unknown to anybodybut himself. It was a curious little sermon, such as may still be heardin some Anglican pulpits. Though he had heart and mind enough toconceive something of those natural depths of divine significance andhuman interest, which are the very essence of the Easter festival, itwas not into these that Mr Wentworth entered in his sermon. He spoke, invery choice little sentences, of the beneficence of the Church inappointing such a feast, and of all the beautiful arrangements she hadmade for the keeping of it. But even in the speaking, in the excitedstate of mind he was in, it occurred to the young man to see, by asudden flash of illumination, how much higher, how much more catholic, after all, his teaching would have been, could he but have once ignoredthe Church, and gone direct, as Nature bade, to that empty grave inwhich all the hopes of humanity had been entombed. He saw it by gleamsof that perverse light which seemed more Satanic than heavenly in themoments it chose for shining, while he was preaching his little sermonabout the Church and her beautiful institution of Easter, just as he hadseen the non-importance of his lily-wreath and surplices as he was aboutto suffer martyrdom for them. All these circumstances were hard upon theyoung man. Looking down straight into the severe iron-grey eyes of hisaunt Leonora, he could not of course so much as modify a single sentenceof the discourse he was uttering, no more than he could permit himselfto slur over a single monotone of the service; but that sudden bewilderingperception that he could have done so much better--that the loftiestHigh-Churchism of all might have been consistent enough withSkelmersdale, had he but gone into the heart of the matter--gave abitterness to the deeper, unseen current of the Curate's thoughts. 

Besides, it was terrible to feel that he could not abstract himself frompersonal concerns even in the most sacred duties. He was conscious thatthe two elder sisters went away, and that only poor aunt Dora, herweak-minded ringlets limp with tears, came tremulous to the altar rails. When the service was over, and the young priest was disrobing himself, she came to him and gave a spasmodic, sympathetic, half-reproachfulpressure to his hand. "Oh, Frank, my dear, I did it for the best, " saidMiss Dora, with a doleful countenance; and the Perpetual Curate knewthat his doom was sealed. He put the best face he could upon the matter, having sufficient doubts of his own wisdom to subdue the high temper ofthe Wentworths for that moment at least. 

"What was it you did for the best?" said the Curate of St Roque's. "Isuppose, after all, it was no such great matter _hearing_ me as youthought; but I told you I was not an ambitious preacher. This is a dayfor worship, not for talk. "

"Ah! yes, " said Miss Dora; "but oh, Frank, my dear, it is hard upon me, after all my expectations. It would have been so nice to have had you atSkelmersdale. I hoped you would marry Julia Trench, and we should allhave been so happy; and perhaps if I had not begged Leonora to come justnow, thinking it would be so nice to take you just in your usualway--but she must have known sooner or later, " said poor aunt Dora, looking wistfully in his face. "Oh, Frank, I hope you don't think I'm toblame. "

"I never should have married Julia Trench, " said the Curate, gloomily. He did not enter into the question of Miss Dora's guilt or innocence--hegave a glance at the lilies on the altar, and a sigh. The chances werehe would never marry anybody, but loyalty to Lucy demanded instantrepudiation of any other possible bride. "Where are you going, auntDora; back to the Blue Boar? or will you come with me?" he said, as theystood together at the door of St Roque's. Mr Wentworth felt as if he hadcaught the beginning threads of a good many different lines of thought, which he would be glad to be alone to work out. 

"You'll come back with me to the inn to lunch?" said Miss Dora. "Oh, Frank, my dear, remember your Christian feelings, and don't make abreach in the family. It will be bad enough to face your poor dearfather, after he knows what Leonora means to do; and I do so want totalk to you, " said the poor woman, eagerly clinging to his arm. "Youalways were fond of your poor aunt Dora, Frank; when you were quite alittle trot you used always to like me best; and in the holiday times, when you came down from Harrow, I used always to hear all yourtroubles. If you would only have confidence in me now!"

"But what if I have no troubles to confide?" said Mr Wentworth; "a manand a boy are very different things. Come, aunt Dora, I'll see you safeto your inn. What should I have to grumble about? I have plenty to do, and it is Easter; and few men can have everything their own way. "

"You won't acknowledge that you're vexed, " said aunt Dora, almost cryingunder her veil, "but I can see it all the same. You always were such atrue Wentworth; but if you only would give in and say that you aredisappointed and angry with us all, I could bear it better, Frank. Iwould not feel then that you thought it my fault! And oh, Frank, dear, you don't consider how disappointed your poor dear aunt Leonora was!It's just as hard upon us, " she continued, pressing his arm in hereagerness, "as it is upon you. We had all so set our hearts on havingyou at Skelmersdale. Don't you think, if you were giving your mind toit, you might see things in a different light?" with another pressure ofhis arm. "Oh, Frank, what does it matter, after all, if the heart isright, whether you read the service in your natural voice, or give thatlittle quaver at the end? I am sure, for my part--"

"My dear aunt, " said Mr Wentworth, naturally incensed by this manner ofdescription, "I must be allowed to say that my convictions are fixed, and not likely to be altered. I am a priest, and you are--a woman. " Hestopped short, with perhaps a little bitterness. It was very true shewas a woman, unqualified to teach, but yet she and her sisters wereabsolute in Skelmersdale. He made a little gulp of his momentaryirritation, and walked on in silence, with Miss Dora's kind wistful handclinging to his arm. 

"But, dear Frank among us Protestants, you know, there is no sacerdotalcaste, " said Miss Dora, opportunely recollecting some scrap of an ExeterHall speech. "We are all kings and priests to God. Oh, Frank, it isGerald's example that has led you away. I am sure, before you went toOxford you were never at all a ritualist--even Leonora thought you sucha pious boy; and I am sure your good sense must teach you--" falteredaunt Dora, trying her sister's grand tone. 

"Hush, hush; I can't have you begin to argue with me; you are not myaunt Leonora, " said the Curate, half amused in spite of himself. Thisencouraged the anxious woman, and, clasping his arm closer than ever, she poured out all her heart. 

"Oh, Frank, if you could only modify your views a little! It is notthat there is any difference between your views and ours, except justin words, my dear. Flowers are very pretty decorations, and I know youlook very nice in your surplice; and I am sure, for my part, I shouldnot mind--but then that is not carrying the Word of God to the people, as Leonora says. If the heart is right, what does it matter about thealtar?" said aunt Dora, unconsciously falling upon the very argumentthat had occurred to her nephew's perplexed mind in the pulpit. "Eventhough I was in such trouble, I can't tell you what a happiness it wasto take the sacrament from your hands, my dear, dear boy; and but forthese flowers and things that could do nobody any good, poor dearLeonora, who is very fond of you, though perhaps you don't think it, could have had that happiness too. Oh, Frank, don't you think youcould give up these things that don't matter? If you were just to tellLeonora you have been thinking it over, and that you see you've made amistake, and that in future--"

"You don't mean to insult me?" said the young man. "Hush--hush; youdon't know what you are saying. Not to be made Archbishop ofCanterbury, instead of Vicar of Skelmersdale. I don't understand howyou could suggest such a thing to me. "

Miss Dora's veil, which she had partly lifted, here fell over her face, as it had kept doing all the time she was speaking--but this time shedid not put it back. She was no longer able to contain herself, but wepthot tears of distress and vexation, under the flimsy covering of lace. "No, of course, you will not do it--you will far rather be haughty, andsay it is my fault, " said poor Miss Dora. "We have all so much pride, weWentworths--and you never think of our disappointment, and how we allcalculated upon having you at Skelmersdale, and how happy we were tobe, and that you were to marry Julia Trench--"

It was just at this moment that the two reached the corner ofPrickett's Lane. Lucy Wodehouse had been down there seeing the sickwoman. She had, indeed, been carrying her dinner to that poorcreature, and was just turning into Grange Lane, with her blue ribbonshidden under the grey cloak, and a little basket in her hand. They metfull in the face at this corner, and Miss Dora's words reached Lucy'sears, and went through and through her with a little nervous thrill. She had not time to think whether it was pain or only surprise thatmoved her, and was not even self-possessed enough to observe thetremulous pressure of the Curate's hand, as he shook hands with her, and introduced his aunt. "I have just been to see the poor woman atNo. 10, " said Lucy. "She is very ill to-day. If you had time, it wouldbe kind of you to see her. I think she has something on her mind. "

"I will go there before I go to Wharfside, " said Mr Wentworth. "Areyou coming down to the service this afternoon? I am afraid it will bea long service, for there are all these little Burrowses, you know--"

"Yes, I am godmother, " said Lucy, and smiled and gave him her handagain as she passed him while aunt Dora looked on with curious eyes. The poor Curate heaved a mighty sigh as he looked after the greycloak. Not his the privilege now, to walk with her to the green door, to take her basket from the soft hand of the merciful Sister. On thecontrary, he had to turn his back upon Lucy, and walk on with auntDora to the inn--at this moment a symbolical action which seemed toembody his fate. 

"Where is Wharfside? and who are the little Burrowses? and what doesthe young lady mean by being godmother?" said aunt Dora. "She looksvery sweet and nice; but what is the meaning of that grey cloak? Oh, Frank, I hope you don't approve of nunneries, and that sort of thing. It is such foolishness. My dear, the Christian life is very hard, asyour aunt Leonora always says. She says she can't bear to see peopleplaying at Christianity--"

"People should not speak of things they don't understand, " said thePerpetual Curate. "Your Exeter-Hall men, aunt Dora, are like the oldascetics--they try to make a merit of Christianity by calling it hardand terrible; but there are some sweet souls in the world, to whom itcomes natural as sunshine in May. " And the young Anglican, with a glancebehind him from the corner of his eye, followed the fair figure, whichhe believed he was never, with a clear conscience, to accompany anymore. "Now, here is your inn, " he said, after a little pause. "Wharfsideis a district, where I am going presently to conduct service, and thelittle Burrowses are a set of little heathens, to whom I am toadminister holy baptism this Easter Sunday. Good-bye just now. "

"Oh, Frank, my dear, just come in for a moment, and tell Leonora--itwill show her how wrong she is, " said poor aunt Dora, clinging to hisarm. 

"Right or wrong, I am not going into any controversy. My aunt Leonoraknows perfectly well what she is doing, " said the Curate, with the bestsmile he could muster; and so shook hands with her resolutely, andwalked back again all the way down Grange Lane, past the green door, tohis own house. Nobody was about the green door at that particular momentto ask him in to luncheon, as sometimes happened. He walked down all theway to Mrs Hadwin's, with something of the sensations of a man who hasjust gone through a dreadful operation, and feels, with a kind of dullsurprise after, that everything around him is just the same as before. He had come through a fiery trial, though nobody knew of it; and just atthis moment, when he wanted all his strength, how strange to feel thathaunting sense of an unnecessary sacrifice--that troubled new vein ofthought which would be worked out, and which concerned matters moreimportant than Skelmersdale, weighty as that was. He took his sermon outof his pocket when he got home, and marked a cross upon it, as we havealready said; but, being still a young man, he was thankful to snatch amorsel of lunch, and hasten out again to his duty, instead of staying toargue the question with himself. He went to No. 10 Prickett's Lane, andwas a long time with the sick woman, listening to all the woeful tale ofa troubled life, which the poor sick creature had been contemplating fordays and days, in her solitude, through those strange exaggerateddeath-gleams which Miss Leonora would have called "the light ofeternity. " She remembered all sorts of sins, great and small, whichfilled her with nervous terrors; and it was not till close upon the hourfor the Wharfside service, that the Curate could leave his tremulouspenitent. The schoolroom was particularly full that day. Easter, perhaps, had touched the hearts--it certainly had refreshed thetoilettes--of the bargemen's wives and daughters. Some of them felt aninward conviction that their new ribbons were undoubtedly owing to theclergyman's influence, and that Tom and Jim would have bestowed themoney otherwise before the Church planted her pickets in this corner ofthe enemy's camp; and the conviction, though not of an elevateddescription, was a great deal better than no conviction at all. MrWentworth's little sermon to them was a great improvement upon hissermon at St Roque's. He told them about the empty grave of Christ, andhow He called the weeping woman by her name, and showed her the earnestof the end of all sorrows. There were some people who cried, thinking ofthe dead who were still waiting for Easter, which was more than anybodydid when Mr Wentworth discoursed upon the beautiful institutions of theChurch's year; and a great many of the congregation stayed to see TomBurrows's six children come up for baptism, preceded by the new baby, whose infant claims to Christianity the Curate had so strongly insistedupon, to the wakening of a fatherly conscience in the honest bargeman. Lucy Wodehouse, without her grey cloak, stood at the font, holding thatlast tiny applicant for saving grace, while all the other littleheathens were signed with the sacred cross. And strangely enough, whenthe young priest and the young woman stood so near each other, solemnlypledging, one after another, each little sun-browned, round-eyed paganto be Christ's faithful servant and soldier, the cloud passed awayfrom the firmament of both. Neither of them, perhaps, was of a veryenlightened character of soul. They believed they were doing a greatwork for Tom Burrows's six children, calling God to His promise on theirbehalf, and setting the little feet straight for the gates of theeternal city; and in their young love and faith their hearts rose. Perhaps it was foolish of Mr Wentworth to suffer himself to walk homeagain thereafter, as of old, with the Miss Wodehouses--but it was sousual, and, after all, they were going the same way. But it was a verysilent walk, to the wonder of the elder sister, who could not understandwhat it meant. "The Wharfside service always does me good, " said MrWentworth, with a sigh. "And me, too, " said Lucy; and then they talked alittle about the poor woman in No. 10. But that Easter Sunday was notlike other Sundays, though Miss Wodehouse could not tell why. 

CHAPTER V. 

Next day the Miss Wentworths made a solemn call at the Rectory, havingknown an aunt of Mrs Morgan at some period of their history, and beingmuch disposed, besides, with natural curiosity, to ascertain all abouttheir nephew's circumstances. Their entrance interrupted a consultationbetween the Rector and his wife. Mr Morgan was slightly heated, and hadevidently been talking about something that excited him; while she, poorlady, looked just sufficiently sympathetic and indignant to withdrawher mind from that first idea which usually suggested itself on theentrance of visitors--which was, what could they possibly think of herif they supposed the carpet, &c. , to be her own choice? Mrs Morgan casther eye with a troubled look upon the big card which had been brought toher--Miss Wentworth, Miss Leonora Wentworth, Miss Dora Wentworth. "Sisters of his, I suppose, William, " she said in an undertone; "now_do_ be civil, dear. " There was no time for anything more before thethree ladies sailed in. Miss Leonora took the initiative, as wasnatural. 

"You don't remember us, I daresay, " she said, taking Mrs Morgan'shand; "we used to know your aunt Sidney, when she lived at theHermitage. Don't you recollect the Miss Wentworths of Skelmersdale?Charley Sidney spent part of his furlough with us last summer, and Adawrites about you often. We could not be in Carlingford without comingto see the relation of such a dear friend. "

"I am so glad to see anybody who knows my aunt Sidney, " said MrsMorgan, with modified enthusiasm. "Mr Morgan, Miss Wentworth. It wassuch a dear little house that Hermitage. I spent some very happy daysthere. Oh yes, I recollect Skelmersdale perfectly; but, to tell thetruth, there is one of the clergy in Carlingford called Wentworth, andI thought it might be some relations of his coming to call. "

"Just so, " said Miss Wentworth, settling herself in the nearesteasy-chair. 

"And so it is, " cried Miss Dora; "we are his aunts, dear boy--we arevery fond of him. We came on purpose to see him. We are so glad tohear that he is liked in Carlingford. "

"Oh--yes, " said the Rector's wife, and nobody else took any notice ofMiss Dora's little outburst. As for Mr Morgan, he addressed MissLeonora as if she had done something particularly naughty, and he hada great mind to give her an imposition. "You have not been very longin Carlingford, I suppose, " said the Rector, as if that were a sin. 

"Only since Saturday, " said Miss Leonora. "We came to see Mr FrankWentworth, who is at St Roque's. I don't know what your bishop isabout, to permit all those flowers and candlesticks. For my part, Inever disguise my sentiments. I mean to tell my nephew plainly thathis way of conducting the service is far from being to my mind. "

"Leonora, dear, perhaps Mr Morgan would speak to Frank about it, "interposed Miss Dora, anxiously; "he was always a dear boy, and advicewas never lost upon him. From one that he respected so much as he mustrespect the Rector--"

"I beg your pardon. I quite decline interfering with Mr Wentworth; heis not at all under my jurisdiction. Indeed, " said the Rector, with asmile of anger, "I might be more truly said to be under his, for he isgood enough to help in my parish without consulting me; but that isnot to the purpose. I would not for the world attempt to interferewith St Roque's. "

"Dear, I am sure Mr Wentworth is very nice, and everything we haveseen of him in private we have liked very much, " said Mrs Morgan, withan anxious look at her husband. She was a good-natured woman, and thehandsome Curate had impressed her favourably, notwithstanding hismisdoings. "As for a little too much of the rubric, I think that isnot a bad fault in a young man. It gets softened down with a littleexperience; and I do like proper solemnity in the services of theChurch. "

"I don't call intoning proper solemnity, " said Miss Leonora. "TheChurch is a missionary institution, that is my idea. Unless you arereally bringing in the perishing and saving souls, what is the good?and souls will never be saved by Easter decorations. I don't know whatmy nephew may have done to offend you, Mr Morgan; but it is very sadto us, who have very strong convictions on the subject, to see himwasting his time so. I daresay there is plenty of heathenism inCarlingford which might be attacked in the first place. "

"I prefer not to discuss the subject, " said the Rector. "So long as MrWentworth, or any other clergyman, keeps to his own sphere of duty, Ishould be the last in the world to interfere with him. "

"You are offended with Frank, " said Miss Leonora, fixing her iron-greyeyes upon Mr Morgan. "So am I; but I should be glad if you would tellme all about it. I have particular reasons for wishing to know. Afterall, he is only a young man, " she continued, with that instinct ofkindred which dislikes to hear censure from any lips but its own. "Idon't think there can be anything more than inadvertence in it. Ishould be glad if you would tell me what you object to in him. I thinkit is probable that he may remain a long time in Carlingford, " saidMiss Leonora, with charming candour, "and it would be pleasant if wecould help to set him right. Your advice and experience might be of somuch use to him. " She was not aware of the covert sarcasm of herspeech. She did not know that the Rector's actual experience, thoughhe was half as old again as her nephew, bore no comparison to that ofthe Perpetual Curate. She spoke in good faith and good nature, notmoved in her own convictions of what must be done in respect toSkelmersdale, but very willing, if that were possible, to do a goodturn to Frank. 

"I am sure, dear, what we have seen of Mr Wentworth in private, wehave liked very much, " said the Rector's sensible wife, with adeprecating glance towards her husband. The Rector took no notice ofthe glance; he grew slightly red in his serious middle-aged face, andcleared his throat several times before he began to speak. 

"The fact is, I have reason to be dissatisfied with Mr Wentworth, asregards my own parish, " said Mr Morgan: "personally I have nothing tosay against him--quite the reverse; probably, as you say, it arisesfrom inadvertence, as he is still a very young man; but--"

"What has he done?" said Miss Leonora, pricking up her ears. 

Once more Mr Morgan cleared his throat, but this time it was to keepdown the rising anger of which he was unpleasantly sensible. "I don'tgenerally enter into such matters with people whom they don't concern, "he said, with a touch of his natural asperity; "but as you are MrWentworth's relation--. He has taken a step perfectly unjustifiable inevery respect; he has at the present moment a mission going on in myparish, in entire independence, I will not say defiance, of me. Mydear, it is unnecessary to look at me so deprecatingly. I am indignantat having such a liberty taken with me. I don't pretend not to beindignant. Mr Wentworth is a very young man, and may not know anybetter; but it is the most unwarrantable intrusion upon a clergyman'srights. I beg your pardon, Miss Wentworth: you have nothing to do withmy grievances; but the fact is, my wife and I were discussing this veryunpleasant matter when you came in. "

"A mission in your parish?" said Miss Leonora, her iron-grey eyeslighting up with a sparkle which did not look like indignation; atthis point it was necessary that Miss Dora should throw herself intothe breach. 

"Oh, Mr Morgan, I am sure my dear Frank does not mean it!" cried theunlucky peacemaker; "he would not for the world do anything to woundanybody's feelings--it must be a mistake. "

"Mr Morgan would not have mentioned it if we had not just been talkingas you came in, " said the Rector's wife, by way of smoothing down hisruffled temper and giving him time to recover. "I feel _sure_ it is amistake, and that everything will come right as soon as they can talkit over by themselves. The last Rector was not at all a workingclergyman--and perhaps Mr Wentworth felt it was his duty--and now Idaresay he forgets that it is not his own parish. It will all comeright after a time. "

"But the mission is effective, I suppose, or you would not object toit?" said Miss Leonora, who, though a very religious woman, was not apeacemaker; and the Rector, whose temper was hasty, swallowed the bait. He entered into his grievances more fully than his wife thoughtconsistent with his dignity. She sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor, tracing the objectionable pattern on the carpet with her foot, but toomuch vexed for the moment to think of those bouquets which were sosevere a cross to her on ordinary occasions. Perhaps she was thinkingsecretly to herself how much better one knows a man after being marriedto him three months than after being engaged to him ten years; but thediscovery that he was merely a man after all, with very ordinarydefects, did not lessen her loyalty. She sat with her eyes bent upon thecarpet, feeling a little hot and uncomfortable as her husband disclosedhis weakness, and watching her opportunities to rush in and say asoftening word now and then. The chances were, perhaps, on the whole, that the wife grew _more_ loyal, if that were possible, as she perceivedthe necessity of standing by him and backing him out. The Rector wentvery fully into the subject, being drawn out by Miss Leonora's questions, and betrayed an extent of information strangely opposed to the utterignorance which he had displayed at Mr Wodehouse's party. He knew thehours of Mr Wentworth's services, and the number of people who attended, and even about Tom Burrows's six children who had been baptised the daybefore. Somehow Mr Morgan took this last particular as a specialoffence; it was this which had roused him beyond his usual self-control. Six little heathens brought into the Christian fold in his own parishwithout the permission of the Rector! It was indeed enough to try anyclergyman's temper. Through the entire narrative Miss Dora broke in nowand then with a little wail expressive of her general dismay and grief, and certainty that her dear Frank did not mean it. Mrs Morgan repeatedapart to Miss Wentworth with a troubled brow the fact that all they hadseen of Mr Wentworth in private they had liked very much; to which auntCecilia answered, "Quite so, " with her beautiful smile; while MissLeonora sat and listened, putting artful questions, and fixing theheated Rector with that iron-grey eye, out of which the sparkle ofincipient light had not faded. Mr Morgan naturally said a great dealmore than he meant to say, and after it was said he was sorry; but hedid not show the latter sentiment except by silence and an uneasyrustling about the room just before the Miss Wentworths rose to go--asign apparent to his wife, though to nobody else. He gave Miss Wentworthhis arm to the door with an embarrassed courtesy. "If you are going tostay any time at Carlingford, I trust we shall see more of you, " said MrMorgan: "I ought to beg your pardon for taking up so much time with myaffairs;" and the Rector was much taken aback when Miss Wentworthanswered, "Thank you, that is just what I was thinking. " He went back tohis troubled wife in great perplexity. What was it that was just whatshe was thinking?--that he would see more of them, or that he had spokentoo much of his own affairs?

"You think I have been angry and made an idiot of myself, " said MrMorgan to his wife, who was standing looking from a safe distancethrough the curtains at the three ladies, who were holding a consultationwith their servant out of the window of the solemn chariot provided bythe Blue Boar, as to where they were to go next. 

"Nonsense, dear; but I wish you had not said quite so much about MrWentworth, " said the Rector's wife, seizing, with female art, on a causefor her annoyance which would not wound her Welshman's _amour propre_, "for I rather think he is dependent on his aunts. They have the livingof Skelmersdale, I know; and I remember now that their nephew was tohave had it. I hope this won't turn them against him, dear, " said MrsMorgan, who did not care the least in the world about Skelmersdale, looking anxiously in her husband's face. 

This was the climax of the Rector's trouble. "Why did not you tell methat before?" he said, with conjugal injustice, and went off to hisstudy with a disturbed mind, thinking that perhaps he had injured hisown chances of getting rid of the Perpetual Curate. If Mrs Morgan hadpermitted herself to soliloquise after he was gone, the matter of herthoughts might have been interesting; but as neither ladies norgentlemen in the nineteenth century are given to that useful medium ofdisclosing their sentiments, the veil of privacy must remain over themind of the Rector's wife. She got her gardening gloves and scissors, and went out immediately after, and had an animated discussion with thegardener about the best means of clothing that bit of wall, over whichevery railway train was visible which left or entered Carlingford. Thatfunctionary was of opinion that when the lime-trees "growed a bit" allwould be right: but Mrs Morgan was reluctant to await the slow processesof nature. She forgot her vexations about Mr Wentworth in considerationof the still more palpable inconvenience of the passing train. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Miss Dora Wentworth relapsed into suppressed sobbing when the threeladies were once more on their way. Between each little access a fewbroken words fell from the poor lady's lips. "I am sure dear Frank didnot mean it, " she said; it was all the plea his champion could findfor him. 

"He did not mean what? to do his duty and save souls?" said MissLeonora--"is that what he didn't mean? It looks very much as if hedid, though--as well as he knew how. "

"Quite so, Leonora, " said Miss Wentworth. 

"But he could not mean to vex the Rector, " said Miss Dora--"my poordear Frank: of course he meant it for the very best. I wonder youdon't think so, Leonora--you who are so fond of missions. I told youwhat I heard him saying to the young lady--all about the sick peoplehe was going to visit, and the children. He is a faithful shepherd, though you won't think so; and I am sure he means nothing but--"

"His duty, I think, " said the iron-grey sister, resolutely indifferentto Miss Dora's little sniffs, and turning her gaze out of the window, unluckily just at the moment when the carriage was passing Masters'sshop, where some engravings were hanging of a suspiciously devotionalcharacter. The name over the door, and the aspect of the shop-window, were terribly suggestive, and the fine profile of the Perpetual Curatewas just visible within to the keen eyes of his aunt. Miss Dora, forher part, dried hers, and, beginning to see some daylight, addressedherself anxiously to the task of obscuring it, and damaging once moreher favourite's chance. 

"Ah, Leonora, if he had but a sphere of his own, " cried Miss Dora, "where he would have other things to think of than the rubric, anddecorations, and sisterhoods! I don't wish any harm to poor dear oldMr Shirley, I am sure; but when Frank is in the Rectory--"

"I thought you understood that Frank would not do for the Rectory, "said Miss Leonora. "Sisterhoods!--look here, there's a young lady in agrey cloak, and I think she's going into _that_ shop: if Frank carrieson that sort of thing, I shall think him a greater fool than ever. Whois that girl?"

"I'm sure I don't know, dear, " said Miss Dora, with unexpected wisdom. And she comforted her conscience that she did not know, for she hadforgotten Lucy's name. So there was no tangible evidence to confirmMiss Leonora's doubts, and the carriage from the Blue Boar rattleddown Prickett's Lane to the much amazement of that locality. When theygot to the grimy canal-banks, Miss Leonora stopped the vehicle and gotout. She declined the attendance of her trembling sister, and marchedalong the black pavement, dispersing with the great waves of herdrapery the wondering children about, who swarmed as children willswarm in such localities. Arrived at the schoolroom, Miss Leonorafound sundry written notices hung up in a little wooden frame insidethe open door. All sorts of charitable businesses were carried onabout the basement of the house; and a curt little notice about theProvident Society diversified the list of services which was hung upfor the advantage of the ignorant. Clearly the Curate of St Roque'smeant it. "As well as he knows how, " his aunt allowed to herself, witha softening sentiment; but, pushing her inquiries further, was shownup to the schoolroom, and stood pondering by the side of thereading-desk, looking at the table which was contrived to be so likean altar. The Curate, who could not have dreamed of such a visit, andwhose mind had been much occupied and indifferent to externals on theday before, had left various things lying about, which were carefullycollected for him upon a bench. Among them was a little pocket copy ofThomas à Kempis, from which, when the jealous aunt opened it, certainlittle German prints, such as were to be had by the score at Masters's, dropped out, some of them unobjectionable enough. But if the GoodShepherd could not be found fault with, the feelings of Miss Leonora maybe imagined when the meek face of a monkish saint, inscribed with somevillanous Latin inscription, a legend which began with the terriblewords _Ora pro nobis_, became suddenly visible to her troubled eyes. Sheput away the book as if it had stung her, and made a precipitateretreat. She shook her head as she descended the stair--she re-enteredthe carriage in gloomy silence. When it returned up Prickett's Lane, thethree ladies again saw their nephew, this time entering the door of No. 10. He had his prayer-book under his arm, and Miss Leonora seized uponthis professional symbol to wreak her wrath upon it. "I wonder if hecan't pray by a sick woman without his prayer-book?" she cried. "I neverwas so provoked in my life. How is it he doesn't know better? His fatheris not pious, but he isn't a Puseyite, and old uncle Wentworth was verysound--he was brought up under the pure Gospel. How is that the boys areso foolish, Dora?" said Miss Leonora, sharply; "it must be your doing. You have told them tales and things, and put true piety out of theirhead. "

"My doing!" said Miss Dora, faintly; but she was too much startled bythe suddenness of the attack to make any coherent remonstrance. MissLeonora tossed back her angry head, and pursued that inspiration, finding it a relief in her perplexity. 

"It must be _all_ your doing, " she said. "How can I tell that you arenot a Jesuit in disguise? one has read of such a thing. The boys wereas good, nice, pious boys as one could wish to see; and there's Geraldon the point of perversion, and Frank--I tell you, Dora, it must beyour fault. "

"That was always my opinion, " said Miss Cecilia; and the accused, after a feeble attempt at speech, could find nothing better to do thanto drop her veil once more and cry under it. It was very hard, but shewas not quite unaccustomed to it. However, the discoveries of the daywere important enough to prevent the immediate departure which MissLeonora had intended. She wrote a note with her own hands to hernephew, asking him to dinner. "We meant to have gone away to-day, butshould like to see you first, " she said in her note. "Come anddine--we mayn't have anything pleasant to say, but I don't suppose youexpect that. It's a pity we don't see eye to eye. " Such was theintimation received by Mr Wentworth when he got home, very tired, inthe afternoon. He had been asking himself whether, under thecircumstances, it would not be proper of him to return some books ofMr Wodehouse's which he had in his possession, of course by way ofbreaking off his too familiar, too frequent intercourse. He had beenrepresenting to himself that he would make this call after theirdinner would be over, at the hour when Mr Wodehouse reposed in hiseasy-chair, and the two sisters were generally to be found alone inthe drawing-room. Perhaps he might have an opportunity of intimatingthe partial farewell he meant to take of them. When he got MissLeonora's note, the Curate's countenance clouded over. He said, "Another night lost, " with indignant candour. It was hard enough togive up his worldly prospects, but he thought he had made up his mindto that. However, refusal was impossible. It was still daylight whenhe went up Grange Lane to the Blue Boar. He was early, and wentlanguidly along the well-known road. Nobody was about at that hour. Inthose closed, embowered houses, people were preparing for dinner, thegreat event of the day, and Mr Wentworth was aware of that. Perhaps hehad expected to see somebody--Mr Wodehouse going home, most likely, inorder that he might mention his own engagement, and account for hisfailure in the chance evening call which had become so much a part ofhis life. But no one appeared to bear his message. He went lingeringpast the green door, and up the silent deserted road. At the end ofGrange Lane, just in the little unsettled transition interval whichinterposed between its aristocratic calm and the bustle of GeorgeStreet, on the side next Prickett's Lane, was a quaint little shop, into which Mr Wentworth strayed to occupy the time. This wasElsworthy's, who, as is well known, was then clerk at St Roque's. Elsworthy himself was in his shop that Easter Monday, and so was hiswife and little Rosa, who was a little beauty. Rosa and her aunt hadjust returned from an excursion, and a prettier little apparitioncould not be seen than that dimpled rosy creature, with her radianthalf-childish looks, her bright eyes, and soft curls of dark-brownhair. Even Mr Wentworth gave a second glance at her as he droppedlanguidly into a chair, and asked Elsworthy if there was any news. MrsElsworthy, who had been telling the adventures of the holiday to hergoodman, gathered up her basket of eggs and her nosegay, and made theclergyman a little curtsy as she hurried away; for the clerk's wifewas a highly respectable woman, and knew her own place. But Rosa, whowas only a kind of kitten, and had privileges, stayed. Mr Wentworthwas by far the most magnificent figure she had ever seen in her littlelife. She looked at him with awe out of her bright eyes, and thoughthe looked like the prince in the fairy tales. 

"Any news, sir? There aint much to call news, sir--not in a place likethis, " said Mr Elsworthy. "Your respected aunts, sir, 'as been down atthe schoolroom. I haven't heard anything else as I could suppose youdidn't know. "

"My aunts!" cried the Curate; "how do you know anything about myaunts?" Mr Elsworthy smiled a complacent and familiar smile. 

"There's so many a-coming and a-going here that I know most persons ascomes into Carlingford, " said he; "and them three respected ladies isas good as a pictur. I saw them a-driving past and down Prickett'sLane. They was as anxious to know all about it as--as was to beexpected in the circumstances, " said Mr Elsworthy, failing of ametaphor; "and I wish you your 'ealth and 'appiness, sir, if all as Ihear is true. "

"It's a good wish, " said the Curate; "thank you, Elsworthy; but whatyou heard might not be true. "

"Well, sir, it looks more than likely, " said the clerk; "as far asI've seen in my experience, ladies don't go inquiring into a younggentleman's ways, not without some reason. If they was young ladies, andnoways related, we know what we'd think, sir; but being old ladies, andaunts, it's equally as clear. For my part, Mr Wentworth, my worst wishis, that when you come into your fortune, it mayn't lead you away fromSt Roque's--not after everything is settled so beautiful, and not athing wanted but some stained glass, as I hear a deal of people say, tomake it as perfect a little church--"

"Yes, it is very true; a painted window is very much wanted, " said MrWentworth, thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps there's one o' the ladies, sir, as has some friend she'd liketo put up a memorial to, " said Mr Elsworthy, in insinuating tones. "Awindow is a deal cheerfuller a memorial than a tombstone, and itcouldn't be described the improvement it would be to the church. I'msorry to hear Mr Wodehouse aint quite so well as his usual to-night; auseful man like he is, would be a terrible loss to Carlingford; not asit's anything alarming, as far as I can hear, but being a stout man, it aint a safe thing his being took so sudden. I've heard the olddoctor say, sir, as a man of a full 'abit might be took off at once, when a spare man would fight through. It would be a sad thing for hisfamily, sir, " said Mr Elsworthy, tying up a bundle of newspapers witha very serious face. 

"Good heavens, Elsworthy, how you talk!" said the alarmed Curate. "Whatdo you mean?--is Mr Wodehouse ill?--seriously ill?"

"Not serious, as I knows of, " said the clerk, with solemnity; "butbeing a man of a full 'abit of body--I daresay as the town would enterinto it by subscription if it was proposed as a memorial to _him_, forhe's much respected in Carlingford is Mr Wodehouse. I see him a-goingpast, sir, at five o'clock, which is an hour earlier than common, andhe was looking flabby, that's how he was looking. I don't know a manas would be a greater loss to his family; and they aint been withouttheir troubles either, poor souls. "

"I should be sorry to think that it was necessary to sacrifice MrWodehouse for the sake of our painted window, " said the Curate, "asthat seems what you mean. Send over this note for me please, as I havenot time to call. No, certainly, don't send Rosa; that child is tooyoung and too--too pretty to be out by herself at night. Send a boy. Haven't you got a boy?--there is a very nice little fellow that Icould recommend to you, " said Mr Wentworth, as he hastily scribbledhis note with a pencil, "whose mother lives in Prickett's Lane. "

"Thank _you_, sir, all the same; but I hope I don't need to go intothat neighbourhood for good service, " said Mr Elsworthy: "as for Rosa, I could trust her anywhere; and I have a boy, sir, as is the best boythat ever lived--a real English boy, that is. Sam, take this to MrWodehouse's directly, and wait for an answer. No answer?--very well, sir. You needn't wait for no answer, Sam. That's a boy, sir, I couldtrust with untold gold. His mother's a Dissenter, it is true, but theprinciples of that boy is beautiful. I hope you haven't mentioned, sir, as I said Mr Wodehouse was took bad? It was between ourselves, MrWentworth. Persons don't like, especially when they've got to thatage, and are of a full 'abit of body, to have every little attack madea talk about. You'll excuse me mentioning it, sir, but it was asbetween ourselves. "

"Perhaps you'd like me to show you my note, " said the Curate, with asmile; which, indeed, Elsworthy would have very much liked, could hehave ventured to say so. Mr Wentworth was but too glad of an excuse towrite and explain his absence. The note was not to Lucy, however, though various little epistles full of the business of the districthad passed between the two:--

 "DEAR MISS W. , --I hear your father is not quite well. I can't call just now, as I am going to dine with my aunts, who are at the Blue Boar; but, if you will pardon the lateness of the hour, I will call as I return to ask for him. --Ever yours, "F. C. WENTWORTH. "

Such was the Curate's note. While he scribbled it, little Rosa stoodapart watching him with admiring eyes. He had said she was too prettyto be sent across Grange Lane by herself at this hour, though it wasstill no more than twilight; and he looked up at her for an instant ashe said the words, --quite enough to set Rosa's poor little heartbeating with childish romantical excitement. If she could but havepeeped into the note to see what he said!--for perhaps, after all, there might not be anything "between" him and Miss Lucy--and perhaps--The poor little thing stood watching, deaf to her aunt's call, lookingat the strange ease with which that small epistle was written, andthinking it half divine to have such mastery of words and pen. MrWentworth threw it to Sam as if it were a trifle; but Rosa's livelyimagination could already conceive the possibility of living upon suchtrifles and making existence out of them; so the child stood with herpretty curls about her ears, and her bright eyes gleaming dewy overthe fair, flushed, rosebud cheeks, in a flutter of roused and innocentimagination anticipating her fate. As for Mr Wentworth, it is doubtfulwhether he saw Rosa, as he swung himself round upon the stool he wasseated on, and turned his face towards the door. Somehow he wascomforted in his mind by the conviction that it was his duty to callat Mr Wodehouse's as he came back. The evening brightened up andlooked less dismal. The illness of the respected father of the housedid not oppress the young man. He thought not of the sick-room, but ofthe low chair in one corner, beside the work-table where Lucy hadalways basketfuls of sewing in hand. He could fancy he saw the workdrop on her knee, and the blue eyes raised. It was a pretty picturethat he framed for himself as he looked out with a half smile into theblue twilight through the open door of Elsworthy's shop. And it wasclearly his duty to call. He grew almost jocular in the exhilarationof his spirits. 

"The Miss Wentworths don't approve of memorial windows, Elsworthy, " hesaid; "and, indeed, if you think it necessary to cut off one of thechief people in Carlingford by way of supplying St Roque's with alittle painted glass--"

"No, sir--no, no, sir; you're too hard upon me--there wasn't no suchmeaning in my mind; but I don't make no question the ladies werepleased with the church, " said Elsworthy, with the satisfaction of aman who had helped to produce an entirely triumphant effect. "I don'tpretend to be a judge myself of what you call 'igh art, Mr Wentworth;but if I might venture an opinion, the altar was beautiful; and wewon't say nothing about the service, considering, sir--if you won't beoffended at putting them together, as one is so far inferior--thatboth you and me--"

Mr Wentworth laughed and moved off his chair. "We were not appreciatedin this instance, " he said, with an odd comic look, and then went offinto a burst of laughter, which Mr Elsworthy saw no particularoccasion for. Then he took up his glove, which he had taken off towrite the note, and, nodding a kindly good-night to little Rosa, whostood gazing after him with all her eyes, went away to the Blue Boar. The idea, however, of his own joint performance with Mr Elsworthy notonly tickled the Curate, but gave him a half-ashamed sense of theaspect in which he might himself appear to the eyes of matter-of-factpeople who differed with him. The joke had a slight sting, whichbrought his laughter to an end. He went up through the lighted streetto the inn, wishing the dinner over, and himself on his way back againto call at Mr Wodehouse's. For, to tell the truth, by this time he hadalmost exhausted Skelmersdale, and, feeling in himself not muchdifferent now from what he was when his hopes were still green, hadbegun to look upon life itself with a less troubled eye, and tobelieve in other chances which might make Lucy's society practicableonce more. It was in this altered state of mind that he presentedhimself before his aunts. He was less self-conscious, less watchful, more ready to amuse them, if that might happen to be possible, and inreality much more able to cope with Miss Leonora than when he had beenmore anxious about her opinion. He had not been two minutes in theroom before all the three ladies perceived this revolution, and eachin her own mind attempted to account for it. They were experiencedwomen in their way, and found a variety of reasons; but as none ofthem were young, and as people _will_ forget how youth feels, not oneof them divined the fact that there was no reason, but that thisimprovement of spirits arose solely from the fact that the PerpetualCurate had been for two whole days miserable about Skelmersdale, andhad exhausted all his powers of misery--and that now youth had turnedthe tables, and he was still to see Lucy tonight. 

CHAPTER VII. 

"Your Rector is angry at some of your proceedings, " said Miss Leonora. "I did not think a man of your views would have cared for missionarywork. I should have supposed that you would think that vulgar, andLow-Church, and Evangelical. Indeed, I thought I heard you say youdidn't believe in preaching, Frank?--neither do I, when a man preachesthe Tracts for the Times. I was surprised to hear what you were doingat the place they call Wharfside. "

"First let me correct you in two little inaccuracies, " said Mr Wentworth, blandly, as he peeled his orange. "The Rector of Carlingford is not _my_rector, and I don't preach the Tracts for the Times. Let us always beparticular, my dear aunt, as to points of fact. "

"Exactly so, " said Miss Leonora, grimly; "but, at the same time, asthere seems no great likelihood of your leaving Carlingford, don't youthink it would be wise to cultivate friendly relations with the Rector?"said the iron-grey inexorable aunt, looking full in his eyes as shespoke. So significant and plain a statement took for an instant thecolour out of the Curate's cheeks--he pared his orange very carefullywhile he regained his composure, and it was at least half a minutebefore he found himself at leisure to reply. Miss Dora of course seizedupon the opportunity, and, by way of softening matters, interposed inher unlucky person to make peace. 

"But, my dear boy, I said I was sure you did not mean it, " said MissDora; "I told Mr Morgan I felt convinced it could be explained. Nobodyknows you so well as I do. You were always high-spirited from a child, and never would give in; but I know very well you never could mean it, Frank. "

"Mean it?" said the Curate, with sparkling eyes: "what do you take mefor, aunt Dora? Do you know what it is we are talking of? The questionis, whether a whole lot of people, fathers and children, shall be leftto live like beasts, without reverence for God or man, or shall bebrought within the pale of the Church, and taught their duty? And youthink I don't mean it? I mean it as much as my brother Charley meant itat the Redan, " said young Wentworth, with a glow of suppressed enthusiasm, and that natural pride in Charley (who got the Cross for valour) whichwas common to all the Wentworths. But when he saw his aunt Leonoralooking at him, the Perpetual Curate stood to his arms again. "I havestill to learn that the Rector has anything to do with it, " said theyoung Evangelist of Wharfside. 

"It is in his parish, and he thinks he has, " said Miss Leonora. "I wishyou could see your duty more clearly, Frank. You seem to me, you know, to have a kind of zeal, but not according to knowledge. If you werecarrying the real Gospel to the poor people, I shouldn't be disposed toblame you; for the limits of a parish are but poor things to pause forwhen souls are perishing; but to break the law for the sake of diffusingthe rubric and propagating Tractarianism--"

"Oh, Leonora, how can you be so harsh and cruel?" cried Miss Dora;"only think what you are doing. I don't say anything aboutdisappointing Frank, and perhaps injuring his prospects for life; for, to be sure, he is a true Wentworth, and won't acknowledge that; butthink of my poor dear brother, with so many sons as he has to providefor, and so much on his mind; and think of ourselves and all that wehave planned so often. Only think what you have talked of over andover; how nice it would be when he was old enough to take the Rectory, and marry Julia Trench--"

"Aunt Dora, " said the Curate, rising from the table. "I shall have togo away if you make such appeals on my behalf. And besides, it is onlyright to tell you that, whatever my circumstances were, I never couldnor would marry Julia Trench. It is cruel and unjust to bring in hername. Don't let us hear any more of this, if you have any regard forme. "

"Quite so, Frank, " said Miss Wentworth; "that is exactly what I wasthinking. " Miss Cecilia was not in the habit of making demonstrations, but she put out her delicate old hand to point her nephew to his seatagain, and gave a soft slight pressure to his as she touched it. OldMiss Wentworth was a kind of dumb lovely idol to her nephews; sherarely said anything to them, but they worshipped her all the same forher beauty and those languid tendernesses which she showed them oncein ten years or so. The Perpetual Curate was much touched by thismanifestation. He kissed his old aunt's beautiful hand as reverentlyas if it had been a saint's. "I knew you would understand me, " hesaid, looking gratefully at her lovely old face; which exclamation, however, was a simple utterance of gratitude, and would not have borneinvestigation. When he had resumed his seat and his orange, MissLeonora cleared her throat for a grand address. 

"Frank might as well tell us he would not have Skelmersdale, " shesaid. "Julia Trench has quite other prospects, I am glad to say, though Dora talks like a fool on this subject as well as on manyothers. Mr Shirley is not dead yet, and I don't think he means to die, for my part; and Julia would never leave her uncle. Besides, I don'tthink any inducement in the world would make her disguise herself likea Sister of Mercy. I hope she knows better. And it is a pity thatFrank should learn to think of Skelmersdale as if it were a familyliving, " continued Miss Leonora. "For my part, I think peopledetached from immediate ties as we are, are under all the greaterresponsibility. But as you are likely to stay in Carlingford, Frank, perhaps we could help you with the Rector, " she concluded blandly, asshe ate her biscuit. The Curate, who was also a Wentworth, had quiterecovered himself ere this speech was over, and proved himself equalto the occasion. 

"If the Rector objects to what I am doing, I daresay he will tell meof it, " said Mr Wentworth, with indescribable suavity. "I had theconsent of the two former rectors to my mission in their parish, and Idon't mean to give up such a work without a cause. But I am equallyobliged to you, my dear aunt, and I hope Mr Shirley will live for ever. How long are you going to stay in Carlingford? Some of the people wouldlike to call on you, if you remain longer. There are some great friendsof mine here; and as I have every prospect of being perpetually theCurate, as you kindly observe, perhaps it might be good for me if Iwas seen to have such unexceptionable relationships--"

"Satire is lost upon me, " said Miss Leonora, "and we are goingto-morrow. Here comes the coffee. I did not think it had been so late. We shall leave by an early train, and you can come and see us off, ifyou have time. "

"I shall certainly find time, " said the nephew, with equal politeness;"and now you will permit me to say good-night, for I have a--one of mysick people to visit. I heard he was ill only as I came here, and hadnot time to call, " added the Curate, with unnecessary explanitoriness, and took leave of his aunt Cecilia, who softly put something into hishand as she bade him good-night. Miss Dora, for her part, went withhim to the door, and lingered leaning on his arm, down the longpassage, all unaware, poor lady, that his heart was beating withimpatience to get away, and that the disappointment for which shewanted to console him had at the present moment not the slightest realhold upon his perverse heart. "Oh, my dear boy, I hope you don't thinkit's my fault, " said Miss Dora, with tears. "It must have come tothis, dear, sooner or later: you see, poor Leonora has such a sense ofresponsibility; but it is very hard upon us, Frank, who love you somuch, that she should always take her own way. "

"Then why don't you rebel?" said the Curate, who, in the thought ofseeing Lucy, was exhilarated, and dared to jest even upon the awfulpower of his aunt. "You are two against one; why don't you take itinto your own hands and rebel?"

Miss Dora repeated the words with an alarmed quiver. "Rebel! oh, Frank, dear, do you think we could? To be sure, we are co-heiresses, and have just as good a right as she has; and for your sake, my dearboy, " said the troubled woman, "oh, Frank, I wish you would tell mewhat to do! I never should dare to contradict Leonora with no one tostand by me; and then, if anything happened, you would all think I hadbeen to blame, " said poor aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. She made himwalk back and back again through the long passage, which was sacred tothe chief suite of apartments at the Blue Boar. "We have it all toourselves, and nobody can see us here; and oh, my dear boy, if youwould only tell me what I ought to do?" she repeated, with wistfullooks of appeal. Mr Wentworth was too good-hearted to show theimpatience with which he was struggling. He satisfied her as well ashe could, and said good-night half-a-dozen times. When he made hisescape at last, and emerged into the clear blue air of the springnight, the Perpetual Curate had no such sense of disappointment andfailure in his mind as the three ladies supposed. Miss Leonora'sdistinct intimation that Skelmersdale had passed out of the region ofprobabilities, had indeed tingled through him at the moment it wasuttered; but just now he was going to see Lucy, anticipating withimpatience the moment of coming into her presence, and nothing in theworld could have dismayed him utterly. He went down the road veryrapidly, glad to find that it was still so early, that the shopkeepersin George Street were but just putting up their shutters, and thatthere was still time for an hour's talk in that bright drawing-room. Little Rosa was standing at the door of Elsworthy's shop, looking outinto the dark street as he passed; and he said, "A lovely night, Rosa, " as he went by. But the night was nothing particular in itself, only lovely to Mr Wentworth, as embellished with Lucy shining over it, like a distant star. Perhaps he had never in his life felt so gladthat he was going to see her, so eager for her presence, as that nightwhich was the beginning of the time when it would be no longer lawfulfor him to indulge in her society. He heaved a big sigh as thatthought occurred to him, but it did not diminish the flush ofconscious happiness; and in this mood he went down Grange Lane, withlight resounding steps, to Mr Wodehouse's door. 

But Mr Wentworth started with a very strange sensation when the doorwas stealthily, noiselessly opened to him before he could ring. Hecould not see who it was that called him in the darkness; but he feltthat he had been watched for, and that the door was thrown open veryhurriedly to prevent him from making his usual summons at the bell. Such an incident was incomprehensible. He went into the dark gardenlike a man in a dream, with a horrible vision of Archimage and thefalse Una somehow stealing upon his mind, he could not tell how. Itwas quite dark inside, for the moon was late of rising that night, andthe faint stars threw no effectual lustre down upon the trees. He hadto grope before him to know where he was going, asking in a troubledvoice, "Who is there? What is the matter?" and falling into more andmore profound bewilderment and uneasiness. 

"Hush, hush, oh hush!--Oh, Mr Wentworth, it is I--I want to speak toyou, " said an agitated voice beside him. "Come this way--this way; Idon't want any one to hear us. " It was Miss Wodehouse who thus pitifullyaddressed the amazed Curate. She laid a tremulous hand on his arm, anddrew him deeper into the shadows--into that walk where the limes andtall lilac-bushes grew so thickly. Here she came to a pause, and thesound of the terrified panting breath in the silence alarmed him moreand more. 

"Is Mr Wodehouse ill? What has happened?" said the astonished youngman. The windows of the house were gleaming hospitably over the darkgarden, without any appearance of gloom--the drawing-room windowsespecially, which he knew so well, brightly lighted, one of them open, and the sound of the piano and Lucy's voice stealing out like acelestial reality into the darkness. By the time he had become fullysensible of all these particulars his agitated companion had found herbreath. 

"Mr Wentworth, don't think me mad, " said Miss Wodehouse; "I have comeout to speak to you, for I am in great distress. I don't know what todo unless you will help me. Oh no, don't look at the house--nobodyknows in the house; I would die rather than have them know. Hush, hush! don't make any noise. Is that some one looking out at the door?"

And just then the door was opened, and Mr Wodehouse's sole maleservant looked out, and round the garden, as if he had heard somethingto excite his curiosity or surprise. Miss Wodehouse grasped the arm ofthe Perpetual Curate, and held him with an energy which was almostviolence. "Hush, hush, hush, " she said, with her voice almost at hisear. The excitement of this mild woman, the perfectly inexplicablemystery of the meeting, overwhelmed young Wentworth. He could think ofnothing less than that she had lost her senses, and in his turn hetook her hands and held her fast. 

"What is the matter? I cannot tell you how anxious, how distressed Iam. What has happened?" said the young man, under his breath. 

"My father has some suspicion, " she answered, after a pause--"he camehome early to-day looking ill. You heard of it, Mr Wentworth--it wasyour note that decided me. Oh, heaven help us! it is so hard to knowwhat to do. I have never been used to act for myself, and I feel ashelpless as a baby. The only comfort I have was that it happened onEaster Sunday, " said the poor gentlewoman, incoherently; "and oh! ifit should prove a rising from the dead! If you saw me, Mr Wentworth, you would see I look ten years older; and I can't tell you how it is, but I think my father has suspicions;--he looked so ill--oh, soill--when he came home to-night. Hush! hush! did you hear anything? Idaren't tell Lucy; not that I couldn't trust her, but it is cruel whena young creature is happy, to let her know such miseries. Oh, MrWentworth, I daresay I am not telling you what it is, after all. Idon't know what I am saying--wait till I can think. It was on EasterSunday, after we came home from Wharfside; you remember we all camehome together, and both Lucy and you were so quiet. I could notunderstand how it was you were so quiet, but I was not thinking of anytrouble--and then all at once there he was. "

"Who?" said the Curate, forgetting caution in his bewilderment. 

Once more the door opened, and John appeared on the steps, this timewith a lantern and the watch-dog, a great brown mastiff, by his side, evidently with the intention of searching the garden for the owners ofthose furtive voices. Mr Wentworth drew the arm of his tremblingcompanion within his own. "I don't know what you want of me, butwhatever it is, trust to me like--like a brother, " he said, with a sigh. "But now compose yourself; we must go into the house: it will not do foryou to be found here. " He led her up the gravel-walk into the light ofthe lantern, which the vigilant guardian of the house was flashing amongthe bushes as he set out upon his rounds. John fell back amazed butrespectful when he saw his mistress and the familiar visitor. "Beg yourpardon, ma'am, but I knew there was voices, and I didn't know as any ofthe family was in the garden, " said the man, discomfited. It was all MrWentworth could do to hold up the trembling figure by his side. As Johnretreated, she gathered a little fortitude. Perhaps it was easier forher to tell her hurried tremulous story, as he guided _her_ back to thehouse, than it would have been in uninterrupted leisure and quiet. Thefamily tragedy fell in broken sentences from her lips, as the Curatebent down his astonished ear to listen. He was totally unprepared forthe secret which only her helplessness and weakness and anxiety to serveher father could have drawn from Miss Wodehouse's lips; and it had to betold so hurriedly that Mr Wentworth scarcely knew what it was, except aterrible unsuspected shadow overhanging the powerful house, until he hadtime to think it all over. There was no such time at this moment. Histrembling companion left him as soon as they reached the house, to"compose herself, " as she said. When he saw her face in the light of thehall lamp it was ghastly, and quivering with agitation, looking not tenyears, as she said, but a hundred years older than when, in the sweetprecision of her Sunday dress and looks, old Miss Wodehouse had biddenhim good-bye at the green door. He went up to the drawing-room, notwithstanding, with as calm a countenance as he himself could collect, to pay the visit which, in this few minutes, had so entirely changed incharacter. Mr Wentworth felt as if he saw everything exactly as he hadpictured it to himself half an hour ago. Lucy, who had left the piano, was seated in her low chair again, not working, but talking to MrWodehouse, who lay on the sofa, looking a trifle less rosy than usual, like a man who had had a fright, or been startled by some possibleshadow of a ghost. To walk into the room, into the bright householdglow, and smile and shake hands with them, feeling all the time that heknew more about them than they themselves did, was the strangestsensation to the young man. He asked how Mr Wodehouse did, with a voicewhich, to himself, sounded hollow and unnatural, and sat down beside theinvalid, almost turning his back upon Lucy in his bewilderment. It wasindeed with a great effort that Mr Wentworth mastered himself, and wasable to listen to what his companion said. 

"We are all right, " said Mr Wodehouse--"a trifle of a headache orso--nothing to make a talk about; but Molly has forsaken us, and wewere just about getting bored with each other, Lucy and I; a thirdperson was all we wanted to make us happy--eh? Well I thought youlooked at the door very often--perhaps I was mistaken--but I couldhave sworn you were listening and looking for somebody. No wondereither--I don't think so. I should have done just the same at yourage. "

"Indeed, papa, you are quite mistaken, " said Lucy. "I suppose that meansthat I cannot amuse you by myself, though I have been trying all theevening. Perhaps Mr Wentworth will be more fortunate. " And, either forshame of being supposed to look for him, or in a little innocent pique, she moved away from where she was sitting, and rang for tea, and leftthe two gentlemen to talk to each other. That is to say, Mr Wodehousetalked, and the Perpetual Curate sat looking vaguely at the fair figurewhich flitted about the room, and wondering if he were awake, or theworld still in its usual place. After a while Miss Wodehouse came in, very tremulous and pale, and dropped into the first chair she couldfind, and pretended to occupy herself over her knitting. She had aheadache, Lucy said; and Mr Wentworth sat watching while the youngersister tended the elder, bringing her tea, kissing her, persuading herto go and lie down, taking all kinds of affectionate trouble to cheerthe pale woman, who looked over Lucy's fair head with eyes full ofmeaning to the bewildered visitor, who was the only one there whounderstood what her trouble meant. When he got up to go away, she wrunghis hand with a pitiful gaze which went to his heart. "Let me know!" shesaid in a whisper; and, not satisfied still, went to the door with him, and lingered upon the stair, following slowly. "Oh, Mr Wentworth! besure you let me know, " she repeated, again looking wistfully after himas he disappeared into the dark garden, going out. The stars were stillshining, the spring dews lying sweet upon the plants and turf. It was alovelier night now than when Mr Wentworth had said so to little RosaElsworthy an hour ago; but mists were rising from the earth, and cloudscreeping over the sky, to the startled imagination of the PerpetualCurate. He had found out by practical experiments, almost for the firsttime, that there were more things in earth and heaven than are dreamt ofin the philosophy of youth. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

It was the next morning after this when Mrs Hadwin's strange lodgerfirst appeared in the astonished house. He was the strangest lodger tobe taken into a house of such perfect respectability, a house inGrange Lane; and it came to be currently reported in Carlingford aftera time, when people knew more about it, that even the servants couldnot tell when or how he arrived, but had woke up one morning to find apair of boots standing outside the closed door of the green room, which the good old lady kept for company, with sensations which itwould be impossible to describe. Such a pair of boots they weretoo--muddy beyond expression, with old mud which had not been brushedoff for days--worn shapeless, and patched at the sides; the strangestcontrast to a handsome pair of Mr Wentworth's, which he, contrary tohis usual neat habits, had kicked off in his sitting-room, and whichSarah, the housemaid, had brought and set down on the landing, closeby these mysterious and unaccountable articles. When the bell of thegreen room rang an hour or two later, Sarah and the cook, who happenedto be standing together, jumped three yards apart and stared at eachother; the sound gave them both "a turn. " But they soon got perfectlywell used to that bell from the green room. It rung very often in theday, for "the gentleman" chose to sit there more than half his time;and if other people were private about him, it was a great deal morethan he was about himself. He even sent the boots to be mended, toSarah's shame and confusion. For the credit of the house, the girlinvented a story about them to calm the cobbler's suspicions. "Theywas the easiest boots the gentleman had, being troubled with tenderfeet; and he wasn't a-going to give them up because they was shabby, "said Sarah. He sent down his shabby clothes to be brushed, and wore MrWentworth's linen, to the indignation of the household. But he was nota man to be concealed in a corner. From where he sat in the greenroom, he whistled so beautifully that Mrs Hadwin's own pet canarypaused astonished to listen, and the butcher's boy stole into thekitchen surreptitiously to try if he could learn the art; and while hewhistled, he filled the tidy room with parings and cuttings of wood, and carved out all kinds of pretty articles with his knife. But thoughhe rang his bell so often, and was so tiresome with his litter, andgave so much trouble, Sarah's heart, after a while, melted to "thegentleman. " He made her a present of a needlecase, and was verycivil-spoken--more so a great deal than the Curate of St Roque's; andsuch a subject of talk and curiosity had certainly not been inCarlingford for a hundred years. 

As for Mrs Hadwin, she never gave any explanation at all on thesubject, but accepted the fact of a new inmate cheerfully, as if sheknew all about it. Of course she could not ask any of her nieces tovisit her while the green room was occupied; and as they were allrather large, interfering, managing women, perhaps the old lady wasnot very sorry. Mr Wentworth himself was still less explanatory. WhenMr Wodehouse said to him, "What is this I hear about a brother ofyours?--they tell me you've got a brother staying with you. Well, that's what I hear. Why don't you bring him up to dinner? Cometo-morrow;" the Perpetual Curate calmly answered, "Thank you; butthere's no brother of mine in Carlingford, " and took no furthernotice. Naturally, however, this strange apparition was much discussedin Grange Lane; the servants first, and then the ladies, becamecurious about him. Sometimes, in the evenings, he might be seen comingout of Mrs Hadwin's garden-door--a shabby figure, walking softly inhis patched boots. There never was light enough for any one to seehim; but he had a great beard, and smoked a short little pipe, and hadevidently no regard for appearances. It was a kind of thing which fewpeople approved of. Mrs Hadwin ought not to permit it, some ladiessaid; and a still greater number were of the opinion that, rather thanendure so strange a fellow-lodger, the Curate ought to withdraw, andfind fresh lodgings. This was before the time when the public began toassociate the stranger in a disagreeable way with Mr Wentworth. Beforethey came to that, the people in Grange Lane bethought themselves ofall Mrs Hadwin's connections, to find out if there might not be someof them under hiding; and, of course, that excellent woman had anephew or two whose conduct was not perfect; and then it came tobe reported that it was Mr Wentworth's brother--that it was anunfortunate college chum of his--that it was somebody who hadspeculated, and whom the Curate had gone shares with: but, in the meantime, no real information could be obtained about this mysteriousstranger. The butcher's boy, whose senses were quickened by mingledadmiration and envy, heard him whistling all day long, sometimeshidden among the trees in the garden, sometimes from the open windowof the green room, where, indeed, Lady Western's page was ready totake his oath he had once seen the audacious unknown leaning out inthe twilight, smoking a pipe. But no trap of conversation, howeveringenious--and many traps were laid for Mr Wentworth--ever elicitedfrom the Perpetual Curate any acknowledgment of the other lodger'sexistence. The young Anglican opened his fine eyes a little wider thanusual when he was asked sympathetically whether so many people in thehouse did not interfere with his quiet. "Mrs Hadwin's talk is verygentle, " said the Curate; "she never disturbs me. " And the mistress ofthe house was equally obtuse, and would not comprehend any allusion. The little household came to be very much talked of in Carlingford inconsequence; and to meet that shabby figure in the evening, when onechanced to be out for a walk, made one's company sought after in thebest circles of society: though the fact is, that people began to beremiss in calling upon Mrs Hadwin, and a great many only left theircards as soon as it became evident that she did not mean to give anyexplanation. To have the Curate to stay with her was possible, withoutinfringing upon her position; but matters became very different whenshe showed herself willing to take "any one, " even when in equivocalapparel and patched boots. 

Probably the Curate had his own troubles during this period of hishistory. He was noticed to be a little quick and short in his temper forsome time after Easter. For one thing, his aunts did not go away; theystayed in the Blue Boar, and sent for him to dinner, till the Curate'simpatience grew almost beyond bearing. It was a discipline upon which hehad not calculated, and which exceeded the bounds of endurance, especially as Miss Leonora questioned him incessantly about his "work, "and still dangled before him, like an unattainable sweet-meat before achild, the comforts and advantages of Skelmersdale, where poor old MrShirley had rallied for the fiftieth time. The situation altogether wasvery tempting to Miss Leonora; she could not make up her mind to go awayand leave such a very pretty quarrel in progress; and there can be nodoubt that it would have been highly gratifying to her vanity as anEvangelical woman to have had her nephew brought to task for missionarywork carried on in another man's parish, even though that work was notconducted entirely on her own principles. She lingered, accordingly, with a great hankering after Wharfside, to which Mr Wentworth steadilydeclined to afford her any access. She went to the afternoon servicesometimes, it is true, but only to be afflicted in her soul by the sightof Miss Wodehouse and Lucy in their grey cloaks, not to speak of therubric to which the Curate was so faithful. It was a trying experienceto his Evangelical aunt; but at the same time it was a "great work;" andshe could not give up the hope of being able one time or other toappropriate the credit of it, and win him over to her own "views. " Ifthat consummation could but be attained, everything would become simple;and Miss Leonora was a true Wentworth, and wanted to see her nephew inSkelmersdale: so it may easily be understood that, under presentcircumstances, there were great attractions for her in Carlingford. 

It was, accordingly, with a beating heart that Miss Dora, feeling alittle as she might have been supposed to feel thirty years before, had she ever stolen forth from the well-protected enclosure ofSkelmersdale Park to see a lover, put on her bonnet in the earlytwilight, and, escaping with difficulty the lively observations of hermaid, went tremulously down Grange Lane to her nephew's house. Shehad never yet visited Frank, and this visit was unquestionablyclandestine. But then the news with which her heart was beating wasimportant enough to justify the step she was taking--at least so shewhispered to herself; though whether dear Frank would be pleased, orwhether he would still think it "my fault, " poor Miss Dora could notmake up her mind. Nothing happened in the quiet road, where there werescarcely any passengers, and the poor lady arrived with a tremblingsense of escape from unknown perils at Mrs Hadwin's garden-door. ForMiss Dora was of opinion, like some few other ladies, that to walkalone down the quietest of streets was to lay herself open tounheard-of dangers. She put out her trembling hand to ring the bell, thinking her perils over--for of course Frank would walk home withher--when the door suddenly opened, and a terrible apparition, quiteunconscious of anybody standing there, marched straight out upon MissDora, who gave a little scream, and staggered backwards, thinking theworst horrors she had dreamed of were about to be realised. They wereso close together that the terrified lady took in every detail of hisappearance. She saw the patched boots and that shabby coat which Sarahthe housemaid felt that she rather demeaned herself by brushing. Itlooked too small for him, as coats will do when they get shabby; and, to complete the alarming appearance of the man, he had no hat, butonly a little travelling-cap surmounting the redundancy of hair, mustache, and beard, which were enough of themselves to strike anynervous woman with terror. "Oh, I beg your pardon, " cried poor MissDora, hysterically; "I wanted to see Mr Wentworth;" and she stoodtrembling and panting for breath, holding by the wall, not quite surethat this apparition could be appeased by any amount of apologies. Itwas a great comfort to her when the monster took off its cap, and whenshe perceived, by the undulations of the beard, something like a smileupon its hidden lips. "I believe Mr Wentworth is at church, " said thenew lodger: "may I have the pleasure of seeing you safely across to StRoque's?" At which speech Miss Dora trembled more and more, and said, faintly, "No, thank you, "--for who could tell what the man'sintentions might be? The result was, however, that he only put on hiscap again, and went off like any other human creature in the otherdirection, and that slowly; with tremulous steps Miss Dora pursued herway to her nephew's pretty church. She could not have described, asshe herself said, what a relief it was after all this, to take Frank'sarm, as she met him at the door of St Roque's. He was coming out, andthe young lady with the grey cloak had been one of the congregation;and, to tell the truth, Miss Dora was an unwelcome addition just thento the party. Lucy's coming had been accidental, and it was very sweetto Mr Wentworth to be able to conclude that he was obliged to walkhome with her. They were both coming out from their evening devotionsinto the tranquil spring twilight, very glad of the charmed quiet, andhappy somehow to find themselves alone together. That had happened butseldom of late; and a certain expectation of something that mighthappen hovered over the heads of Lucy and the Curate. It did notmatter that he dared not say to her what was in his heart. MrWentworth was only a young man after all, and the thrill of a possiblerevelation was upon him in that half-hour upon which he was enteringwith so profound a sense of happiness. And then it was an accidentalmeeting, and if anything did happen, they could not blame themselvesas if they had sought this opportunity of being together. Thecircumstances were such that they might call it providential, ifanything came of it. But just as the two had made their first step outof the church, where the organ was still murmuring low in thedarkness, and where the music of the last Amen, in which he hadrecognised Lucy's voice, had not quite died from the Curate's ears, tomeet Miss Dora, pale and fluttered, full of news and distress, with noother thought in her mind but to appropriate her dear Frank, and takehis arm and gain his ear! It was very hard upon the Perpetual Curate. As for Lucy, she, of course, did not say anything, but merely arrangedher veil and greeted Miss Wentworth sweetly. Lucy walked on the otherside of the Curate, saying little as Miss Dora's eager shower ofquestions and remarks ran on. Perhaps she had a little insight into MrWentworth's feelings, and no doubt it was rather tantalising. Whenthey came to Mrs Hadwin's door, the young Anglican made a spasmodiceffort, which in his heart he felt to be unprincipled, and which, hadit been successful, would have totally taken away the accidental andunpremeditated character of this walk with Lucy, which he could notfind it in his heart to relinquish. He proposed that his aunt shouldgo in and rest while he saw Miss Wodehouse safely home--he was sureshe was tired, he said, eagerly. "No, my dear, not at all, " said MissDora; "it is such a pleasant evening, and I know Miss Wodehouse's isnot very far off. I should like the walk, and, besides, it is toolate, you know, to see Mrs Hadwin, and I should not like to go inwithout calling on her; and besides--"

Mr Wentworth in his aggravation gave a momentary sudden glance at Lucywhen she had no expectation of it. That glance of disappointment--ofdisgust--of love and longing, was no more intentional than theirmeeting; could he help it, if it revealed that heart which was in sucha state of commotion and impatience? Anyhow, the look gave Lucysufficient occupation to keep her very quiet on the other side whileMiss Dora maundered on. 

"I met the strangest man coming out when I was going to ring yourbell. You will think it very foolish, Frank, but he frightened me, "she said. "A man with a terrible beard, and a--a shabby man, my dear. Who could it be? Not a person to be seen coming out of a house where aclergyman lives. He could not be any friend of yours?"

"The other lodger, I suppose, " said the Curate, briefly. "When are yougoing away?"

"Oh, my dear boy, we are not going away; I came to tell you. But, Frank, you don't mean to say that such a man as that lodges in MrsHadwin's house? I don't think it is safe for you--I don't think it isrespectable. People might think he was a friend of yours. I wonder ifMiss Wodehouse has ever seen him--a great man with a beard? To besure, a man might have a beard and yet be respectable; but I am sure, if Miss Wodehouse saw him, she would agree with me in thinking--Frank, my dear boy, what is the matter? Have I said anything wrong?"

"Nothing that I know of, " said the Curate, who had given her arm alittle angry pressure to stop the stream of utterance--"only that I amnot interested in the other lodger. Tell me about your going away. "

"But I must appeal to Miss Wodehouse: it is for your own sake, my dearFrank, " said aunt Dora--"a clergyman should be so careful. I don'tknow what your aunt Leonora would say. Don't you think to see a manlike that coming out of Mr Wentworth's house is not as it should be? Iassure you he frightened me. "

"I don't think I have seen him, " said Lucy. "But shouldn't a clergyman'shouse be like the church, open to good and bad?--for it is to the wickedand the miserable you are sent, " said the Sister of Mercy, lowering hervoice and glancing up at the Perpetual Curate. They could have claspedeach other's hands at that moment, almost without being aware that itwas any personal feeling which made their agreement so sweet. As forMiss Dora, she went on leaning on her nephew's arm, totally unconsciousof the suppressed rapture and elevation in which the two were moving atthe other side. 

"That is very true. I am sure your aunt Leonora would approve of that, dear, " said Miss Dora, with a little answering pressure on hernephew's arm--"but still I have a feeling that a clergyman shouldalways take care to be respectable. Not that he should neglect thewicked, " continued the poor aunt, apologetically, "for a poor sinnerturning from the evil of his ways is the--the most interesting--sightin the world, even to the angels, you know; but to _live_ with them inthe same house, my dear--I am sure that is what I never could advise, nor Leonora either; and Mrs Hadwin ought to know better, and have himaway. Don't you know who he is, Frank? I could not be content withoutfinding out, if it was me. "

"I have nothing to do with him, " said the Curate, hurriedly: "it is asubject I don't want to discuss. Never mind him. What do you mean bysaying you are not going away?"

"My dear, Leonora has been thinking it all over, " said Miss Dora, "andwe are so anxious about you. Leonora is very fond of you, though shedoes not show it; and you know the Meritons have just come home fromIndia, and have not a house to go to. So you see we thought, as youare not quite so comfortable as we could wish to see you, Frank--andperhaps we might be of some use--and Mr Shirley is better again, andno immediate settlement has to be made about Skelmersdale;--that onthe whole, if Leonora and you were to see more of each other--oh, mydear boy, don't be so hasty; it was all her own doing--it was not myfault. "

"Fault! I am sorry to be the occasion of so many arrangements, " said MrWentworth, with his stiff manner; "but, of course, if you like to stayin Carlingford I shall be very happy--though there is not much preachinghere that will suit my aunt Leonora: as for Mr Shirley, I hope he'lllive for ever. I was at No. 10 today, " continued the Curate, turning hishead to the other side, and changing his tone in a manner marvellous toMiss Dora. "I don't think she can live much longer. You have done agreat deal to smooth her way in this last stage. Poor soul! she thinksshe has been a great sinner, " said the young man, with a kind ofwondering pity. He had a great deal to vex him in his own person, andhe knew of some skeletons very near at hand, but somehow at that momentit was hard to think of the extremities of mortal trouble, of death andanguish--those dark deeps of life by which Lucy and he sometimes stoodtogether in their youth and happiness. A marvelling remorseful pity cameto his heart. He could not believe in misery, with Lucy walking softlyin the spring twilight by his side. 

"But, Frank, you are not taking any notice of what I say, " said MissDora, with something like a suppressed sob. "I don't doubt your sickpeople are very important, but I thought you would take _some_interest. I came down to tell you, all the way by myself. "

"My sister would like to call on you, Miss Wentworth, " said Lucy, interposing. "Gentlemen never understand what one says. Perhaps wecould be of some use to you if you are going to settle in Carlingford. I think she has been a great deal better since she confessed, "continued the charitable Sister, looking up to the Curate, and, likehim, dropping her voice. "The absolution was such a comfort. Now sheseems to feel as if she could die. And she has so little to live for!"said Lucy, with a sigh of sympathetic feeling, remorseful too. Somehowit seemed cruel to feel so young, so hopeful, so capable of happiness, with such desolation close at hand. 

"Not even duty, " said the Curate; "and to think that the Church shouldhesitate to remove the last barriers out of the way! I would not be apriest if I were debarred from the power of delivering such a poorsoul. "

"Oh, Frank, " said Miss Dora, with a long breath of fright and horror, "_what_ are you saying? Oh, my dear, don't say it over again, I don'twant to hear it! I hope when we are dying we shall all feel what greatgreat sinners we are, " said the poor lady, who, between vexation andmortification, was ready to cry, "and not think that one is betterthan another. Oh, my dear, there is that man again! Do you think it issafe to meet him in such a lonely road? If he comes across and speaksto me any more I shall faint, " cried poor Miss Dora, whose opinionswere not quite in accordance with her feelings. Mr Wentworth did notsay anything to soothe her, but with his unoccupied hand he made aninvoluntary movement towards Lucy's cloak, and plucked at it to bringher nearer, as the bearded stranger loomed dimly past, looking at thegroup. Lucy felt the touch, and wondered and looked up at him in thedarkness. She could not comprehend the Curate's face. 

"Are _you_ afraid of him?" she said, with a slight smile; "if it isonly his beard I am not alarmed; and here is papa coming to meet me. Ithought you would have come for me sooner, papa. Has anythinghappened?" said Lucy, taking Mr Wodehouse's arm, who had suddenlyappeared from underneath the lamp, still unlighted, at DrMarjoribanks's door. She clung to her father with unusual eagerness, willing enough to escape from the darkness and the Curate's side, andall the tremulous sensations of the hour. 

"What could happen?" said Mr Wodehouse, who still looked "limp" fromhis recent illness, "though I hear there are doubtful people about; sothey tell me--but you ought to know best, Wentworth. Who is thatfellow in the beard that went by on the other side? Not little Lakethe drawing-master? Fancied I had seen the build of the manbefore--eh?--a stranger? Well, it's a mistake, perhaps. Can't be sureof anything nowadays;--memory failing. Well, that's what the doctorsays. Come in and rest and see Molly; as for me, I'm not good formuch, but you won't get better company than the girls, or else that'swhat folks tell me. Who did you say that fellow was?" said thechurchwarden, leaning across his daughter to see Mr Wentworth's face. 

"I don't know anything about him, " said the Curate of St Roque's. 

And curiously enough silence fell upon the little party, nobody couldtell how;--for two minutes, which looked like twenty, no one spoke. Then Lucy roused herself, apparently with a little effort. "We seem totalk of nothing but the man with the beard to-night, " she said. "Maryknows everything that goes on in Carlingford--she will tell us abouthim; and if Miss Wentworth thinks it too late to come in, we will saygood-night, " she continued, with a little decision of tone, which wasnot incomprehensible to the Perpetual Curate. Perhaps she was a littleprovoked and troubled in her own person. To say so much in looks andso little in words, was a mode of procedure which puzzled Lucy. Itfretted her, because it looked unworthy of her hero. She withdrewwithin the green door, holding her father's arm fast, and talking tohim, while Mr Wentworth strained his ears after the voice, which hethought he could have singled out from a thousand voices. Perhaps Lucytalked to drown her thoughts; and the Curate went away dumb andabstracted, with his aunt leaning on his arm on the other side of thewall. He could not be interested, as Miss Dora expected him to be, inthe Miss Wentworths' plans. He conducted her to the Blue Boarlanguidly, with an evident indifference to the fact that his auntLeonora was about to become a permanent resident in Carlingford. Hesaid "Good-night" kindly to little Rosa Elsworthy, looking out withbright eyes into the darkness at the door of her uncle's shop; but hesaid little to Miss Dora, who could not tell what to make of him, andswallowed her tears as quietly as possible under her veil. When he haddeposited his aunt safely at the inn, the Perpetual Curate hasteneddown Grange Lane at a great pace. The first sound he heard on enteringMrs Hadwin's garden was the clear notes of the stranger's whistleamong the trees; and with an impatient exclamation Mr Wentworth soughthis fellow-lodger, who was smoking as usual, pacing up and down ashaded walk, where, even in daylight, he was pretty well concealedfrom observation. The Curate looked as if he had a little discontentand repugnance to get over before he could address the anonymousindividual who whistled so cheerily under the trees. When he did speakit was an embarrassed and not very intelligible call. 

"I say--are you there? I want to speak to you, " said Mr Wentworth. 

"Yes, " said the stranger, turning sharply round. "I am here, a dogwithout a name. What have you got to say?"

"Only that you must be more careful, " said Mr Wentworth again, with alittle stiffness. "You will be recognised if you don't mind. I havejust been asked who you were by--somebody who thought he had seen youbefore. "

"By whom?"

"Well, by Mr Wodehouse, " said the Curate. "I may as well tell you; ifyou mean to keep up this concealment you must take care. "

"By Jove!" said the stranger, and then he whistled a few bars of theair which Mr Wentworth's arrival had interrupted. "What is a fellow todo?" he said, after an interjection. "I sometimes think I had betterrisk it all--eh! don't you think so? I can't shut myself up for everhere. "

"That must be as you think best, " said the Perpetual Curate, in whomthere appeared no movement of sympathy; and he said no more, though thedoubtful individual by his side lifted an undecided look to his face, and once more murmured in perplexed tones a troubled exclamation: "A manmust have a little amusement somehow, " the stranger said, with anaggrieved voice; and then abruptly left his unsociable companion, andwent off to his room, where he summoned Sarah to bring lights, and triedto talk to her a little in utter dearth of society. Mr Wentworth stayedbehind, pacing up and down the darkening walk. The Curate's thoughtswere far from satisfactory. There was not much comfort anywhere, let himlook where he pleased. When a man has no spot in all his horizon onwhich his eye can rest with comfort, there is something more discouragingin the prospect than a positive calamity. He could not take refuge evenin the imaginations of his love, for it was clear enough that already asentiment of surprise had risen in Lucy's mind, and her tranquillity wasshaken. And perhaps he had done rashly to plunge into other people'stroubles--he upon whom a curious committee of aunts were now to sit _enpermanence_. He went in to write his sermon, far from being so assuredof things in general as that discourse was when it was written, thoughit was a little relief to his mind to fall back upon an authoritysomewhere, and to refer, in terms which were perhaps too absolute to bealtogether free of doubt, to the Church, which had arranged everythingfor her children in one department of their concerns at least. If itwere only as easy to know what ought to be done in one's personalaffairs as to decide what was the due state of mind expected by theChurch on the second Sunday after Easter! But being under that guidance, at least he could not go wrong in his sermon, which was one point ofease amid the many tribulations of the Curate of St Roque's. 

CHAPTER IX. 

"If they are going to stay in Carlingford, perhaps we could be of useto them? Yes, Lucy; and I am sure anything we could do for MrWentworth--" said Miss Wodehouse. "I wonder what house they will get. I am going to Elsworthy's about some paper, and we can ask him if heknows where they are going. That poor little Rosa should have some oneto take care of her. I often wonder whether it would be kind to speakto Mrs Elsworthy about it, Lucy; she is a sensible woman. The littlething stands at the door in the evening, and talks to people who arepassing, and I am afraid there are some people who are unprincipled, and tell her she is pretty, and say things to her, " said MissWodehouse, shaking her head; "it is a great pity. Even Mr Wentworth isa great deal more civil to that little thing than he would be if shehad not such a pretty face. "

"I said you knew everything that went on in Carlingford, " said Lucy, as they went out together from the green door, not in their greycloaks this time; "but I forgot to ask you about one thing thatpuzzled us last night--who is the man in the beard who lives at MrsHadwin's? Mr Wentworth will not tell anybody about him, and I think heknows. "

"Who is the man in the beard?" said Miss Wodehouse, with a gasp. Shegrew very pale, and turned away her head and shivered visibly. "Howvery cold it is!" she said, with her teeth chattering; "did you thinkit was so cold? I--I don't know any men with beards; and it is sostrange of you to say I know everything that goes on in Carlingford. Don't stop to speak to that little girl just now. Did you say she camefrom Prickett's Lane? No. 10? It is very right to go to see the sick, but, indeed, I don't approve of your attendance upon that poor woman, Lucy. When I was a girl I dared not have gone away by myself as youdo, and she might not be a proper person. There is a carriage that Idon't know standing before Elsworthy's shop. "

"But you have not told me yet about the man with the beard, " saidLucy, whose curiosity was excited. She looked at her sister keenlywith an investigating look, and poor Miss Wodehouse was fain to drawher shawl close round her, and complain again of the cold. 

"I told you I did not know, " she said, with a complaining tone in hervoice. "It is strange you should think I knew; it looks as if youthought me a gossip, Lucy. I wonder who those people can be coming outof the carriage? My dear, " said the elder sister, feeling withinherself that an attack upon the enemy's country was the best means ofmeeting any sally--"I don't think you should go down to Prickett'sLane just now. I saw Mr Wentworth pass a little while ago, and peoplemight say you went to meet each other. I can't keep people fromtalking, Lucy, and you are both so young; and you know I spoke to youbefore about your meeting so often. It will be a great deal better foryou to come with me to call on his aunts. "

"Only that my poor patient wants me, " said Lucy. "Must I not do myduty to a poor woman who is dying, because Mr Wentworth is inPrickett's Lane? There is no reason why I should be afraid of meetingMr Wentworth, " said the young district-visitor, severely; and theelder sister saw that Lucy spoke in a different tone from that inwhich she had answered her before. She did not extinguish MissWodehouse by a reference to the great work. She treated the mattermore as a personal one to-day; and a shadow--a very ghost ofirritation--was in Lucy's voice. The two crossed the street silentlyafter that to Elsworthy's, where a group of ladies were visible, whohad come out of the strange carriage. One of them was seated in achair by the counter, another was reading a list which Mr Elsworthyhad just presented to her, and the third, who was not so tall as hersister, was pressing up to it on tiptoe, trying to read it too. "Thatis Miss Dora Wentworth, " said Lucy, "and the other, I suppose, is MissLeonora, who is so very Low-Church. I think I can see the MissHemmings coming down George Street. If I were to go in I should be ina dreadful minority; but you are Low-Church in your heart too. "

"No, dear; only reasonable, " said Miss Wodehouse, apologetically. "Idon't go as far as you and Mr Wentworth do, but I like the service tobe nicely done, and the--the authority of the Church respected too. AsI have never met Miss Wentworth, you had better come in and introduceme. There is Rosa looking out of the front window, Lucy. I really mustspeak to Mrs Elsworthy about that child. What a lovely old lady thatis sitting by the counter! Say I am your sister, and then if you areresolved upon Prickett's Lane, you can go away. "

"They are the two who wear the grey cloaks, " said Miss LeonoraWentworth to herself, as the introduction was effected. "I am glad tomake your acquaintance, Miss Wodehouse. We are going to stay inCarlingford for a time, and to know a few pious families will be agreat advantage. We don't go much into society, in the usual sense ofthe word--but, I am sure, to make the acquaintance of ladies who helpmy nephew so much in his work, is sure to be an advantage. I shouldlike so much to hear from you how he gets on, for he does not say agreat deal about it himself. "

"He is so good and so nice, " said kind Miss Wodehouse, "he never makesa fuss about anything he does. I am sure, to see such young creaturesso pious and so devoted, always goes to my heart. When we were youngit used to be so different--we took our own pleasure, and neverthought of our fellow-creatures. And the young people are so goodnowadays, " said the gentle woman, falling instinctively into herfavourite sentiment. Miss Leonora looked at her with critical eyes. 

"We are none of us good, " said that iron-grey woman, whose neutraltints were so different from the soft dove-colour of her newacquaintance; "it does not become such sinful creatures to talk ofanybody being good. Good works may only be beautiful sins, if they arenot done in a true spirit, " said Miss Leonora, turning to her list offurnished houses with a little contempt. But the Miss Hemmings hadcome in while she was speaking, and it was seldom that such edifyingtalk was heard in Carlingford. 

"That is such a beautiful sentiment--oh, if we only bore it always inmind!" murmured the eldest Miss Hemmings. "Mr Elsworthy, I hope youhave got the tracts I ordered. They are so much wanted here. Poor dearMr Bury would not believe his eyes if he could see Carlingford now, given up to Puseyism and Ritualism--but good men are taken away fromthe evil to come. I will pay for them now, please. "

"If you wish it, ma'am, " said Mr Elsworthy. "The town _is_ changed; Idon't say nothing different; but being in the ritual line as you say, you won't find no church as it's better done than in St Roque's. MrWentworth never spares no pains, ma'am, on anything as he takes up. I've heard a deal of clergymen in my day, but _his_ reading isbeautiful; I can't say as I ever heard reading as could equal it;--andthem choristers, though they're hawful to manage, is trained as Inever see boys trained in _my_ life afore. There's one of them houses, ma'am, " continued the optimist, turning to Miss Wentworth, "as is abeauty. Miss Wodehouse can tell you what it is; no lady in the landcould desire a handsomer drawing-room; and as for the kitchings, --Idon't pretend to be a judge up-stairs, but being brought up ablacksmith, I know what's what in a kitching-range. If you had allGrange Lane to dinner, there's a range as is equal to it, " said MrElsworthy with enthusiasm--"and my wife will show you the 'ouse. "

"I knew Mr Bury, " said Miss Leonora; "he was a precious man. Perhapsyou have heard him mention the Miss Wentworths? I am very sorry tohear that there is no real work going on in the town. It is very sadthat there should be nobody able to enter into the labours of such asaint. "

"Indeed, " said Miss Wodehouse, who was excited, in spite of herself, by this conversation, "I think the Carlingford people go quite as muchto church as in Mr Bury's days. I don't think there is less religionthan there used to be: there are not so many prayer meetings, perhaps;but--"

"There is nothing the carnal mind dislikes so much as prayer meetings, "said Miss Hemmings. "There is a house in Grove Street, if Miss Wentworthis looking for a house. I don't know much about the kitchen-range, but Iknow it belongs to a very pious family, and they wish so much to letit. My sister and I would be so glad to take you there. It is not in thegay world, like Grange Lane. "

"But you might want to ask people to dinner; and then we should be sonear Frank, " said Miss Dora, whispering at her sister's elbow. As forthe second Miss Hemmings, she was dull of comprehension, and did notquite make out who the strangers were. 

"It is so sad to a feeling mind to see the mummeries that go on at StRoque's, " said this obtuse sister; "and I am afraid poor Mr Wentworthmust be in a bad way. They say there is the strangest man in hishouse--some relation of his--and he daren't be seen in the daylight;and people begin to think there must be something wrong, and that MrWentworth himself is involved; but what can you expect when there isno true Christian principle?" asked Miss Hemmings, triumphantly. Itwas a dreadful moment for the bystanders; for Miss Leonora turnedround upon this new intelligence with keen eyes and attention; andMiss Dora interposed, weeping; and Miss Wodehouse grew so pale, thatMr Elsworthy rushed for cold water, and thought she was going tofaint. "Tell me all about this, " said Miss Leonora, with peremptoryand commanding tones. "Oh, Leonora, I am sure my dear Frank hasnothing to do with it, if there is anything wrong, " cried Miss Dora. Even Miss Wentworth herself was moved out of her habitual smile. Shesaid, "He is my nephew"--an observation which she had never been heardto make before, and which covered the second Miss Hemmings withconfusion. As for Miss Wodehouse, she retreated very fast to a seatbehind Miss Cecilia, and said nothing. The two who had arrived lastslunk back upon each other with fiery glances of mutual reproach. Theformer three stood together in this emergency, full of curiosity, andperhaps a little anxiety. In this position of affairs, Mr Elsworthy, being the only impartial person present, took the management ofmatters into his own hands. 

"Miss Hemmings and ladies, if you'll allow _me_, " said Mr Elsworthy, "it aint no more than a mistake. The new gentleman as is staying atMrs Hadwin's may be an unfortunate gentleman for anything I can tell;but he aint no relation of our clergyman. There aint nobody belongingto Mr Wentworth, " said the clerk of St Roque's, "but is a credit bothto him and to Carlingford. There's his brother, the Rev. Mr Wentworth, as is the finest-spoken man, to be a clergyman, as I ever set eyes on;and there's respected ladies as needn't be named more particular. Butthe gentleman as is the subject of conversation is no more like MrWentworth than--asking pardon for the liberty--I am. I may say as Ihave opportunities for knowing more than most, " said Mr Elsworthy, modestly, "me and Rosa; for if there's a thing Mr Wentworth isparticular about, it's having his papers the first moment; and ladiesas knows me knows I am one that never says more nor the truth. Notsaying a word against the gentleman--as is a most respectablegentleman, for anything I know against him--he aint no connection ofMr Wentworth. He's Mrs Hadwin's lodger; and I wouldn't say as he isn'ta relation there; but our clergyman has got no more to do with himthan the babe unborn. "

Mr Elsworthy wiped his forehead after he had made this speech, andlooked round for the approbation which he was aware he had deserved;and Miss Leonora Wentworth threw a glance of disdainful observationupon the unhappy lady who had caused this disturbance. "If your wifewill come with us, we will go and look at the house, " she said, graciously. "I daresay if it is in Grange Lane it will suit us verywell. My nephew is a very young man, Miss Wodehouse, " said MissLeonora, who had not passed over the agitation of that gentle womanwithout some secret comments; "he does not take advice in his work, though it might be of great assistance to him; but I hope he'll growolder and wiser, as indeed he cannot help doing if he lives. I hopeyou and your pretty sister will come to see us when we're settled;--Idon't see any sense, you know, in your grey cloaks--I'm old, and youwon't mind me saying so; but I know what Frank Wentworth is, " said theindignant aunt, making a severe curtsy, accompanied by lightningglances at the shrinking background of female figures, as she went outof the shop. 

"Oh, Leonora! I always said you were fond of him, though you neverwould show it, " cried poor Miss Dora. "She is a great deal moreaffectionate than she will let anybody believe; and my dear Frankmeans nothing but good, " cried the too zealous champion. Miss Leonoraturned back upon the threshold of the shop. 

"You will please to let me know what Dissenting chapels there are inthe town, and what are the hours of the services, " she said. "Theremust surely be a Bethesda, or Zion, or something--Salem? yes, to besure;--perhaps there's somebody there that preaches the gospel. Sendme word, " said the peremptory woman; and poor Miss Dora relapsed intoher usual melancholy condition, and stole into the carriage in abroken-hearted manner, weeping under her veil. 

After which Miss Wodehouse went home, not having much heart forfurther visits. That is to say, she went all the way down Grange Lane, somewhat tremulous and uncertain in her steps, and went as far as MrsHadwin's, and hesitated at the door as if she meant to call there;but, thinking better of it, went on a little farther with verylingering steps, as if she did not know what she wanted. When she cameback again, the door of Mrs Hadwin's garden was open, and thebutcher's boy stood blocking up the way, listening with all his earsto the notes of the whistle, soft and high and clear like the notes ofa bird which come audibly from among the trees. Miss Wodehouse gave alittle start when she heard it: again she hesitated, and looked inwith such a wistful face that Sarah, the housemaid, who had been aboutto slam the door hastily upon the too tender butcher, involuntarilyheld it wide open for the expected visitor. "No, not to-day thankyou, " said Miss Wodehouse. "I hope your mistress is quite well; giveher my love, and say I meant to come in, but I have a bad headache. No, thank you; not to-day. " She went away after that with a wonderfulexpression of face, and reached home long before Lucy had come backfrom Prickett's Lane. Miss Wodehouse was not good for much in thehouse. She went to the little boudoir up-stairs, and lay down on thesofa, and had some tea brought her by an anxious maid. She was verynervous, trembling she could not say why, and took up a novel whichwas lying on the sofa, and read the most affecting scene, and criedover it; and then her sweet old face cleared, and she felt better. When Lucy came in she kissed her sister, and drew down the blinds, andbrought her the third volume, and then went away herself to arrangethe dessert, and see that everything was in order for one of MrWodehouse's little parties. These were their respective parts in thehouse; and surely a more peaceful, and orderly, and affectionatehouse, was not to be found that spring evening, either in England orGrange Lane. 

CHAPTER X. 

It may be easily supposed after this that Mr Wentworth and hisproceedings were sufficiently overlooked and commented upon inCarlingford. The Miss Wentworths took old Major Brown's house for sixmonths, which, as everybody knows, is next door to Dr Marjoribanks. Itwas just after Letty Brown's marriage, and the poor old Major was veryglad to go away and pay a round of visits, and try to forget that hislast daughter had gone the way of all the rest. There was asummer-house built in the corner of the garden, with a window in theouter wall looking on to Grange Lane, from which everything thathappened could be inspected; and there was always somebody at thatwindow when the Perpetual Curate passed by. Then he began to have astrange painful feeling that Lucy watched too, and was observing allhis looks and ways, and what he did and said in these changed times. It was a strange difference from the sweet half-conscious bond betweenthem which existed of old, when they walked home together fromWharfside, talking of the district and the people, in the tender unionof unspoken love and fellowship. Not that they were altogether partednow; but Lucy contrived to leave the schoolroom most days before theyoung priest could manage to disrobe himself, and was seldom to beseen on the road lingering on her errands of kindness as she used todo. But still she knew all he was about, and watched, standing indoubt and wonder of him, which was at least a great deal better thanindifference. On the whole, however, it was a cloudy world throughwhich the Perpetual Curate passed as he went from his lodgings, wherethe whistle of the new lodger had become a great nuisance to him, pastthe long range of garden-walls, the sentinel window where Miss Doralooked out watching for him, and Mr Wodehouse's green door which he nolonger entered every day. Over the young man's mind, as he went out tohis labours, there used to come that sensation of having nobody tofall back upon, which is of all feelings the most desolate. Amid allthose people who were watching him, there was no one upon whom hecould rest, secure of understanding and sympathy. They were allcritical--examining, with more or less comprehension, what he did; andhe could not think of anybody in the world just then who would becontent with knowing that _he_ did it, and take that as warranty forthe act, unless, perhaps, his poor aunt Dora, whose opinion was notimportant to the young man. It was not a pleasant state of mind intowhich these feelings threw him; and the natural result was, that hegrew more and more careful about the rubric, and confined his sermons, with increasing precision, to the beautiful arrangements of theChurch. They were very clever little sermons, even within theselimitations, and an indifferent spectator would probably have beensurprised to find how much he could make out of them; but still it isundeniable that a man has less scope, not only for oratory, but forall that is worthy of regard in human speech, when, instead of theever-lasting reciprocations between heaven and earth, he occupieshimself only with a set of ecclesiastical arrangements, howeverperfect. The people who went to St Roque's found this out, and so didMr Wentworth; but it did not alter the system pursued by the troubledCurate. Perhaps he gave himself some half-conscious credit for it, asbeing against his own interests; for there was no mistaking thecountenance of Miss Leonora, when now and then, on rare occasions, shecame to hear her nephew preach. 

All this, however, was confined to St Roque's, where there was asomewhat select audience, people who agreed in Mr Wentworth's views;but things were entirely different at Wharfside, where the PerpetualCurate was not thinking about himself, but simply about his work, andhow to do it best. The bargemen and their wives did not know muchabout the Christian year; but they understood the greater matterswhich lay beneath: and the women said to each other, sometimes withtears in their eyes, that there was nothing that the clergyman didn'tmake plain; and that if the men didn't do what was right, it was noneo' Mr Wentworth's fault. The young priest indemnified himself in "thedistrict" for much that vexed him elsewhere. There was no question ofSkelmersdale, or of any moot point there, but only a quantity ofprimitive people under the original conditions of humanity, whoselives might be amended, and consoled, and elevated. That was a matterabout which Mr Wentworth had no doubt. He put on his surplice withthe conviction that in that white ephod the truest embodiment ofChristian purity was brought within sight of the darkened world. Hewas not himself, but a Christian priest, with power to deliver and tobless, when he went to Wharfside. 

Easter had been early that year, and Ascension Day was in thebeginning of May, one of those sweet days of early summer which stilloccur now and then to prove that the poets were right in all they sayof the tenderest month of the year. Mr Wentworth had done duty at StRoque's, and afterwards at Wharfside. The sweet day and the sweetseason had moved his heart. He was young, and it was hard to live shutup within himself without any sympathy either from man or woman. Hehad watched the grey cloak gliding out as his rude congregationdispersed, and went away quicker than was his wont, with a strongerlonging than usual to overtake Lucy, and recover his place beside her. But she was not to be seen when he got into Prickett's Lane. He lookedup the weary length of the street, and saw nothing but the childrenplaying on the pavement, and some slovenly mothers at the doors. Itwas a very disenchanting prospect. He went on again in a kind ofgloomy discontent, displeased with everything. What was the good of itall? he said to himself--weariness, and toil, and trouble, and nothingever to come of it. As for the little good he was doing in Wharfside, God did not need his poor exertions; and, to tell the truth, going onat St Roque's, however perfect the rubric and pretty the church, was, without any personal stimulant of happiness, no great prospect for thePerpetual Curate. Such was the tenor of his thoughts, when he saw ablack figure suddenly emerge out of one of the houses, and stand atthe door, throwing a long shadow over the pavement. It was the Rectorwho was standing there in Mr Wentworth's favourite district, talkingto a shopkeeper who had always been on the opposition side. The youngAnglican raised his drooping head instantly, and recovered hisinterest in the general world. 

"Glad to see you, Mr Wentworth, " said the Rector. "I have beenspeaking to this worthy man about the necessities of the district. Thestatistics are far from being satisfactory. Five thousand souls, andno provision for their spiritual wants; it is a very sad state ofaffairs. I mean to take steps immediately to remedy all that. "

"A bit of a Methody chapel, that's all, " said the opposition shopkeeper;"and the schoolroom, as Mr Wentworth--"

"Yes, I have heard of that, " said the Rector, blandly;--somebody hadadvised Mr Morgan to change his tactics, and this was the firstevidence of the new policy--"I hear you have been doing what littleyou could to mend matters. It is very laudable zeal in so young a man. But, of course, as you were without authority, and had so little inyour power, it could only be a very temporary expedient. I am verymuch obliged to you for your good intentions. "

"I beg your pardon, " said the Perpetual Curate, rousing up as at thesound of the trumpet, "I don't care in the least about my goodintentions; but you have been much deceived if you have not understoodthat there is a great work going on in Wharfside. I hope, Saunders, youhave had no hand in deceiving Mr Morgan. I shall be glad to show you mystatistics, which are more satisfactory than the town list, " said MrWentworth. "The schoolroom is consecrated; and but that I thought we hadbetter work slowly and steadily, there is many a district in worsecondition which has its church and its incumbent. I shall be very happyto give you all possible information; it is best to go to thefountainhead. "

"The fountainhead!" said the Rector, who began not unnaturally to losehis temper. "Are you aware, sir, that Wharfside is in my parish?"

"And so is St Roque's, I suppose, " said the Curate, affably. "I haveno district, but I have my cure of souls all the same. As forWharfside, the Rector of Carlingford never had had anything to do withit. Mr Bury and Mr Proctor made it over to me. I act upon theirauthority; but I should like to prove to you it is something more thana temporary expedient, " said the young Anglican, with a smile. MrMorgan was gradually getting very hot and flushed. His temper got thebetter of him; he could not tolerate to be thus bearded on his ownground. 

"It appears to me the most extraordinary assumption, " said the Rector. "I can't fancy that you are ignorant of the law. I repeat, Wharfsideis in my parish; and on what ground you can possibly justify such anincredible intrusion--"

"Perhaps we might find a fitter place to discuss the matter, " said theCurate, with great suavity. "If you care to go to the schoolroom, wecould be quiet there. "

"No, sir. I don't care to go to the schoolroom. I decline to haveanything to do with such an unwarrantable attempt to interfere with myrights, " said Mr Morgan. "I don't want to know what plausible argumentsyou may have to justify yourself. The fact remains, sir, that Wharfsideis in my parish. If you have anything to say against that, I will listento you, " said the irascible Rector. His Welsh blood was up; he evenraised his voice a little, with a kind of half-feminine excitement, common to the Celtic race; and the consequence was that Mr Wentworth, who stood perfectly calm to receive the storm, had all the advantage inthe world over Mr Morgan. The Perpetual Curate bowed with immovablecomposure, and felt himself master of the field. 

"In that case, it will perhaps be better not to say anything, " hesaid; "but I think you will find difficulties in the way. Wharfsidehas some curious privileges, and pays no rates; but I have never takenup that ground. The two previous rectors made it over to me, and thework is too important to be ignored. I have had thoughts of applyingto have it made into an ecclesiastical district, " said the Curate, with candour, "not thinking that the Rector of Carlingford, with somuch to occupy him, would care to interfere with my labours; but atall events, to begin another mission here would be folly--it would becopying the tactics of the Dissenters, if you will forgive me forsaying so, " said Mr Wentworth, looking calmly in the Rector's face. 

It was all Mr Morgan could do to restrain himself. "I am not in thehabit of being schooled by my--juniors, " said the Rector, withsuppressed fury. He meant to say inferiors, but the aspect of thePerpetual Curate checked him. Then the two stood gazing at each otherfor a minute in silence. "Anything further you may have to say, youwill perhaps communicate to my solicitor, " said the elder priest. "Itis well known that some gentlemen of your views, Mr Wentworth, thinkit safe to do evil that good may come;--that is not my opinion; and Idon't mean to permit any invasion of my rights. I have the pleasure ofwishing you good morning. "

Mr Morgan took off his hat, and gave it a little angry flourish in theair before he put it on again. He had challenged his young brother tothe only duel permitted by their cloth, and he turned to theopposition tradesman with vehemence, and went in again to the dustylittle shop, where a humble assortment of groceries were displayed forthe consumption of Prickett's Lane. Mr Wentworth remained standingoutside in much amazement, not to say amusement, and a general senseof awakening and recovery. Next to happiness, perhaps enmity is themost healthful stimulant of the human mind. The Perpetual Curate wokeup and realised his position with a sense of exhilaration, if thetruth must be told. He muttered something to himself, uncomplimentaryto Mr Morgan's good sense, as he turned away; but it was astonishingto find how much more lively and interesting Prickett's Lane hadbecome since that encounter. He went along cheerily, saying a word nowand then to the people at the doors, every one of whom knew andrecognised him, and acknowledged, in a lesser or greater degree, thesway of his bishopric. The groups he addressed made remarks after hehad passed, which showed their sense of the improvement in his looks. "He's more like himsel' than he's bin sin' Easter, " said one woman, "and none o' that crossed look, as if things had gone contrairy;--Lordbless you, not cross--he's a deal too good a man for that--butcrossed-looking; it might be crossed in love for what I can tell. ""Them as is handsome like that seldom gets crossed in love, " saidanother experienced observer; "but if it was fortin, or whatever itwas, there's ne'er a one in Wharfside but wishes luck to the parson. It aint much matter for us women. Them as won't strive to keep theirchildren decent out o' their own heads, they won't do much for aclergyman; but, bless you, he can do a deal with the men, and it'sthem as wants looking after. " "I'd like to go to his wedding, " saidanother. "I'd give a deal to hear it was all settled;" and amid theseaffectionate comments, Mr Wentworth issued out of Prickett's Lane. Hewent direct to Mr Wodehouse's green door, without making any excusesto himself. For the first time for some weeks he went in upon thesisters and told them all that had happened as of old. Lucy was stillin her grey cloak as she had returned from the district, and it waswith a feeling more distinct than sympathy that she heard of thisthreatened attack. "It is terrible to think that he could interferewith such a work out of jealousy of _us_, " said the Sister of Charity, with a wonderful light in her blue eyes; and she drew her low chairnearer, and listened with eloquent looks, which were balm to the soulof the Perpetual Curate. "But we are not to give up?" she said, givinghim her hand, when he rose to go away. "Never!" said Mr Wentworth; andif he held it more closely and longer than there was any particularoccasion for, Lucy did not make any objection at that special moment. Then it turned out that he had business at the other end of the town, atthe north end, where some trustee lived who had to do with the OrphanSchools, and whom the curate was obliged to see; and Miss Wodehousegave him a timid invitation to come back to dinner. "But you are not togo home to dress; we shall be quite alone--and you must be so tired, "said the elder sister, who for some reason or other was shy of MrWentworth, and kept away from him whenever he called. So he went in onhis way back, and dined in happiness and his morning coat, with a sweetconscious return to the familiar intercourse which these few disturbedweeks had interrupted. He was a different man when he went back againdown Grange Lane. Once more the darkness was fragrant and musical abouthim. When he was tired thinking of his affairs, he fell back upon thememories of the evening, and Lucy's looks and the "us" and "we, " whichwere so sweet to his ears. To have somebody behind whom one can fallback upon to fill up the interstices of thought--_that_ makes all thedifference, as Mr Wentworth found out, between a bright and a heavylife. 

When he opened the garden-door with his key, and went softly in in thedarkness, the Perpetual Curate was much surprised to hear voices amongthe trees. He waited a little, wondering, to see who it was; andprofound was his amazement when a minute after little Rosa Elsworthy, hastily tying her hat over her curls, came rapidly along the walk fromunder the big walnut-tree, and essayed, with rather a tremulous hand, to open the door. Mr Wentworth stepped forward suddenly and laid hishand on her arm. He was very angry and indignant, and no longer thebenign superior being to whom Rosa was accustomed. "Whom have you beentalking to?" said the Curate. "Why are you here alone so late? Whatdoes this mean?" He held the door close, and looked down upon herseverely while he spoke. She made a frightened attempt to defendherself. 

"Oh, please, I only came with the papers. I was talking to--Sarah, "said the little girl, with a sob of shame and terror. "I will never doit again. Oh, please, _please_, let me go! Please, Mr Wentworth, letme go!"

"How long have you been talking to--Sarah?" said the Curate. "Did youever do it before? No, Rosa; I am going to take you home. This mustnot happen any more. "

"I will run all the way. Oh, don't tell my aunt, Mr Wentworth. I didn'tmean any harm, " said the frightened creature. "You are not reallycoming? Oh, Mr Wentworth, if you tell my aunt I shall die!" cried poorlittle Rosa. But she was hushed into awe and silence when the curatestalked forth, a grand, half-distinguished figure by her side, keepingpace with her hasty, tremulous steps. She even stopped crying, in thewhirlwind of her feelings. What did he mean? Was he going to sayanything to her? Was it possible that he could like her, and be jealousof her talk with--Sarah? Poor little foolish Rosa did not know what tothink. She had read a great many novels, and knew that it was quiteusual for gentlemen to fall in love with pretty little girls who werenot of their own station;--why not with her? So she went on, halfrunning, keeping up with Mr Wentworth, and sometimes stealing slyglances at him to see what intention was in his looks. But his lookswere beyond Rosa's reading. He walked by her side without speaking, andgave a glance up at the window of the summer-house as they passed. Andstrange enough, that evening of all others, Miss Dora, who had been thevictim of some of Miss Leonora's caustic criticisms, had strayed forth, in melancholy mood, to repose herself at her favourite window, and lookout at the faint stars, and comfort herself with a feeble repetition ofher favourite plea, that it was not "my fault. " The poor lady wasstartled out of her own troubles by the sight of her nephew's tallunmistakable figure; and, as bad luck would have it, Rosa's hat, tiedinsecurely by her agitated fingers, blew off at that moment, so that MrWentworth's aunt became aware, to her inexpressible horror andastonishment, who his companion was. The unhappy Curate divined all thethoughts that would arise in her perturbed bosom, when he saw theindistinct figure at the window, and said something to himself about_espionage_, which was barely civil to Miss Dora, as he hurried along onhis charitable errand. He was out of one trouble into another, thisunlucky young man. He knocked sharply at Elsworthy's closed door, andgave up his charge without speaking to Rosa. "I brought her home becauseI thought it wrong to let her go up Grange Lane by herself, " said theCurate. "Don't thank me; but if you have any regard for the child, don'tsend her out at night again. " He did not even bid Rosa good-night, orlook back at her, as she stood blushing and sparkling in confusedchildish beauty, in the doorway; but turned his back like any savage, and hastened home again. Before he entered his own apartments, heknocked at the door of the green room, and said something to the inmatethere which produced from that personage a growl of restrained defiance. And after all these fatigues, it was with a sense of relief that theCurate threw himself upon his sofa, to think over the events of theafternoon, and to take a little rest. He was very tired, and theconsolation he had experienced during the evening made him more disposedto yield to his fatigue. He threw himself upon the sofa, and stretchedout his hand lazily for his letters, which evidently did not excite anyspecial expectations in his mind. There was one from his sister, and onefrom an old university friend, full of the news of the season. Last ofall, there was a neat little note, directed in a neat little hand, whichanybody who received it would naturally have left to the last, as MrWentworth did. He opened it quite deliberately, without any appearanceof interest. But as he read the first lines, the Curate graduallygathered himself up off the sofa, and stretched out his hand for hisboots, which he had just taken off; and before he had finished it, hadwalked across the room and laid hold of the railway book in use atCarlingford, all the time reading and re-reading the important littleepistle. It was not so neat inside as out, and blurred and blotted, andslightly illegible; and this is what the letter said:--

 "Oh, Frank, dear, I am so anxious and unhappy about Gerald. I can't tell what is the matter with him. Come directly, for heaven's sake, and tell me what you think, and try what you can do. Don't lose a train after you get this, but come directly--oh, come if you ever loved any of us. I don't know what he means, but he says the most awful things; and if he is not _mad_, as I sometimes hope, he has forgotten his duty to his family and to me, which is far worse. I can't explain more; but if there is any chance of anybody doing him good, it is you. I beg you, on my knees, come directly, dear Frank. I never was in such a state in my life. I shall be left so that nobody will be able to tell what I am; and my heart is bursting. Never mind business or anything; but come, come directly, whether it is night or day, to your broken-hearted sister, "LOUISA. "

 "_P. S. _--In great haste, and _so_ anxious to see you. "

Half an hour after, Mr Wentworth, with a travelling-bag in his hand, wasonce more hastening up Grange Lane towards the railway station. His facewas somewhat grey, as the lamps shone on it. He did not exactly knowwhat he was anxious about, nor what might have happened at WentworthRectory before he could get there; but the express train felt slow tohis anxious thoughts as it flashed out of the station. Mr Morgan and hiswife were in their garden, talking about the encounter in Prickett'sLane, when the train plunged past, waking all the echoes; and MrsMorgan, by way of making a diversion, appealed to the Rector about thosecreepers, with which she hoped in a year or two to shut out the sight ofthe railway. "The Virginian creeper would be the best, " said theRector's wife; and they went in to calculate the expenses of bringing MrWentworth before Dr Lushington. Miss Dora, at very nearly the samemoment, was confiding to her sister Cecilia, under vows of secrecy, theterrible sight she had seen from the summer-house window. They went tobed with very sad hearts in consequence, both these good women. In themean time, leaving all these gathering clouds behind him, leaving hisreputation and his work to be discussed and quarrelled over as theymight, the Perpetual Curate rushed through the night, his heart achingwith trouble and anxiety, to help, if he could--and if not, at least tostand by--Gerald, in this unknown crisis of his brother's life. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Miss Dora Wentworth rose very unrefreshed next morning from herdisturbed slumbers. It was hard to sit at breakfast with Leonora, andnot betray to her the new anxiety; and the troubled sister ran into acountless number of digressions, which would have inevitably betrayedher had not Miss Leonora been at the moment otherwise occupied. Shehad her little budget of letters as usual, and some of them were morethan ordinarily interesting. She too had a favourite district, whichwas in London, and where also a great work was going on; and hermissionary, and her Scripture-readers, and her colporteur were all ina wonderful state of excitement about a new gin-palace which was beingfitted out and decorated in the highest style of art on the borders oftheir especial domain. They were moving heaven and earth to preventthis temple of Satan from being licensed; and some of them were sovery certain of the Divine acquiescence in their measures, that theyannounced the success of their exertions to be a test of thefaithfulness of God; which Miss Leonora read out to her sisters as aninstance of very touching and beautiful faith. Miss Wentworth, perhaps, was not so clear on that subject. During the course of hersilent life, she had prayed for various things which it had not beenGod's pleasure to grant; and just now she, too, was very anxious aboutFrank, who seemed to be in a bad way; so she rather shook her headgently, though she did not contravene the statement, and concludedwith sadness that the government of the earth might still go on asusual, and God's goodness remain as certain as ever, even though thepublic-house was licensed, or Frank did fall away. This was theteaching of experience; but aunt Cecilia did not utter it, for thatwas not her way. As for Miss Dora, she agreed in all the colporteur'ssentiments, and thought them beautiful, as Leonora said, and was notmuch disturbed by any opinion of her own, expressed or unexpressed, but interspersed her breakfast with little sighing ejaculations of thetemptations of the world, and how little one knew what was passingaround one, and "let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest hefall, " which could not have failed to attract Miss Leonora'sattention, and draw forth the whole story of her sister's suspicions, had not that quick-witted iron-grey woman been, as we have alreadymentioned, too deeply engaged. Perhaps her nephew's imaginarybacksliding might have excited even Miss Leonora to an interest deeperthan that which was awakened by the new gin-palace; but as ithappened, it was the humbler intelligence alone which occupied itselfwith the supposed domestic calamity. Miss Dora's breakfast wasaffected by it in a way which did not appear in the morning meal ofher sister; for somehow the most fervent love of souls seldom takesaway the appetite, as the love of some unlucky individual occasionallydoes. 

When breakfast was over, Miss Dora made a very elaborate excuse forgoing out by herself. She wanted to match some wool for a blanket shewas making, "For Louisa's baby, " the devoted aunt said, with a littletremor. "Poor Louisa! if Gerald were to go any further, you know, itwould be so sad for her; and one would like to help to keep up herheart, poor dear, as much as one could. "

"By means of a blanket for the bassinet in scarlet and white, " saidMiss Leonora; "but it's quite the kind of comfort for Louisa. I wonderif she ever had the smallest inkling what kind of a husband she hasgot. I don't think Frank is far wrong about Gerald, though I don't pinmy faith to my nephew's judgment. I daresay he'll go mad or do worsewith all those crotchets of his--but what he married Louisa for hasalways been a mystery to me. "

"I suppose because he was very fond of her, " suggested Miss Dora, withhumility. 

"But why was he fond of her?--a goose!" said the strong-minded sister, and so went about her letter-writing without further comment, leavingaunt Dora to pursue her independent career. It was with a feeling ofrelief, and yet of guilt, that this timid inquirer set forth on hermission, exchanging a sympathetic significant look with Miss Wentworthbefore she went out. If she should meet Frank at the door, lookingdignified and virtuous, what could she possibly say to him? and yet, perhaps, he had only been imprudent, and did not mean anything. MissDora looked round her on both sides, up and down Grange Lane, as shewent out into the lovely summer morning. Neither Frank nor any othersoul, except some nurse-maids, was to be seen along the whole line ofsunny road. She was relieved, yet she was disappointed at the sametime, and went slowly up towards Elsworthy's shop, saying to herselfthat she was sure Frank could not mean anything. It must have beenthat forward little thing herself who had come up to him when he wasout for his walk, or it must have been an accident. But then sheremembered that she had heard the Curate call Rosa pretty; and MissDora wondered within herself what it mattered whether she was prettyor not, and what he had to do with it, and shook her head over thestrange way men had of finding out such things. For her own part, shewas sure she never looked whether the girl was pretty or not; and theanxious aunt had just come round again, by a very circuitous andperplexing course, to her original sentiment, and strengthened herselfin the thought that her dear Frank could not mean anything, when shereached Elsworthy's door. 

That worthy trader was himself behind the counter, managing matterswith his usual exactness. Berlin wool was one of the articles MrElsworthy dealt in, besides newspapers, and books when they wereordered. Miss Dora, who wore no crinoline, stumbled over her dress inher agitation as she went in, and saw, at the first glance, littleRosa, looking very blooming and pretty, tying up a parcel at the otherend of the shop. The poor lady did not know how to enter upon sodifficult a question. She offered her wool humbly to be matched, andlistened to Mr Elsworthy's sentiments on the subject. He told her howhe always had his wools from the best houses in London, and couldmatch anything as was ever made in that line, and was proud to say ashe always gave satisfaction. Miss Dora could not see any opening forthe inquiries she hoped to make; for how was it possible to intimatethe possibility of disapproval to an establishment so perfect in allits arrangements? The probabilities are, that she would have gone awaywithout saying anything, had not Mr Elsworthy himself given her achance. 

"Miss Wodehouse has been my great help, " said the shopkeeper; "she isthe nicest lady, is Miss Wodehouse, in all Carlingford. I do respectthem people; they've had their troubles, like most families, but thereaint many as can lay their finger on the skeleton as is in theircupboard: they've kept things close, and there aint a many as knows;but Miss Wodehouse has spoke up for me, ma'am, right and left, andmost persons as count for anything in Carlingford gets their fancyarticles out o' my shop. Mr Wentworth, ma'am, our respected clergyman, gets all his papers of me--and partickler he is to a degree--andlikes to have 'em first thing afore they're opened out o' the parcel. It's the way with gentlemen when they're young. Mostly people aint sopartickler later in life--not as I could tell the reason why, unlessit may be that folks gets used to most things, and stop looking foranything new. But there aint a many young gentlemen like ourclergyman, though I say it as shouldn't, " continued Mr Elsworthy, witha little effusion, as he succeeded in finding an exact match for thescarlet wool. 

"And why shouldn't you say it, Mr Elsworthy?" said Miss Dora, a littletartly; "you are not in any way particularly connected with mynephew. " Here she gave an angry glance at Rosa, who had drawn near tolisten, having always in her vain little heart a certain palpitationat Mr Wentworth's name. 

"I ask your pardon, ma'am; I'm clerk at St Roque's. It aint often aswe have the pleasure of seeing you there--more's the pity, " said thechurch official, "though I may say there aint a church as perfect, orwhere the duty is performed more beautiful, in all the country; andthere never was a clergyman as had the people's good at heart like MrWentworth--not in my time. It aint no matter whether you're rich orpoor, young or old, if there's a service as can be done to ever a onein his way, our clergyman is the man to do it. Why, no further gonethan last night, ma'am, if you'll believe me, that little girlthere--"

"Yes, " said Miss Dora, eagerly, looking with what was intended to be avery stern and forbidding aspect in the little girl's face. 

"She was a-coming up Grange Lane in the dark, " said Mr Elsworthy--"notas there was any need, and me keeping two boys, but she likes a runout of an evening--when Mr Wentworth see her, and come up to her. Itaint what many men would have done, " said the admiring but unluckyadherent of the suspected Curate: "he come up, seeing as she was byherself, and walked by her, and gave her a deal of good advice, andbrought her home. Her aunt and me was struck all of a heap to see theclergyman a-standing at our door. 'I've brought Rosa home, ' he said, making believe a bit sharp. 'Don't send her out no more so late atnight, ' and was off like a shot, not waiting for no thanks. It's myopinion as there aint many such gentlemen. I can't call to mind as Iever met with his fellow before. "

"But a young creature like that ought not to have been out so late, "said Miss Dora, trying to harden herself into severity. "I wonder verymuch that you like to walk up Grange Lane in the dark. I should thinkit very unpleasant, for my part; and I am sure I would not allow it, Mr Elsworthy, " she said firmly, "if such a girl belonged to me. "

"But, please, I wasn't walking up Grange Lane, " said Rosa, with somehaste. "I was at Mrs Hadwin's, where Mr Wentworth lives. I am sure Idid not want to trouble him, " said the little beauty, recovering hernatural spirit as she went on, "but he insisted on walking with me; itwas all his own doing. I am sure I didn't want him;" and here Rosabroke off abruptly, with a consciousness in her heart that she wasbeing lectured. She rushed to her defensive weapons by naturalinstinct, and grew crimson all over her pretty little face, andflashed lightning out of her eyes, which at the same time were notdisinclined to tears. All this Miss Dora made note of with a sinkingheart. 

"Do you mean to say that you went to Mrs Hadwin's to see MrWentworth?" asked that unlucky inquisitor, with a world of horror inher face. 

"I went with the papers, " said Rosa, "and I--I met him in the garden. I am sure it wasn't my fault, " said the girl, bursting into petulanttears. "Nobody has any occasion to scold me. It was Mr Wentworth aswould come;" and Rosa sobbed, and lighted up gleams of defiance behindher tears. Miss Dora sat looking at her with a very troubled, paleface. She thought all her fears were true, and matters worse than sheimagined; and being quite unused to private inquisitions, of courseshe took all possible steps to create the scandal for which she hadcome to look. 

"Did you ever meet him in the garden before?" asked Miss Dora, painfully, in a low voice. During this conversation Mr Elsworthy hadbeen looking on, perplexed, not perceiving the drift of theexamination. He roused himself up to answer now--a little alarmed, totell the truth, by the new lights thrown on the subject, and vexed tosee how unconsciously far both the women had gone. 

"It aint easy to go into a house in Grange Lane without meeting ofsome one in the garden, " said Mr Elsworthy; "not as I mean to say itwas the right thing for Rosa to be going them errands after dark. Myorders is against that, as she knows; and what's the good of keepingtwo boys if things isn't to be done at the right time? Mr Wentworthhimself was a-reproving of me for sending out Rosa, as it might be thelast time he was here; for she's one of them as sits in the chanceland helps in the singing, and he feels an interest in her, natural, "said the apologetic clerk. Miss Dora gave him a troubled look, buttook no further notice of his speech. She thought, with an instinctivecontempt for the masculine spectator, that it was impossible he couldknow anything about it, and pursued her own wiser way. 

"It is very wrong of you--a girl in your position, " said Miss Dora, asseverely as she could in her soft old voice, "to be seen walking aboutwith a gentleman, even when he is your clergyman, and, of course, hasnothing else in his head. Young men don't think anything of it, " saidthe rash but timid preacher; "of course it was only to take care of you, and keep you out of harm's way. But then you ought to think what atrouble it was to Mr Wentworth, taking him away from his studies--and itis not nice for a young girl like you. " Miss Dora paused to take breath, not feeling quite sure in her own mind whether this was the right thingto say. Perhaps it would have been better to have disbelieved the factaltogether, and declared it impossible. She was much troubled about it, as she stood looking into the flushed tearful face, with all that lightof defiance behind the tears, and felt instinctively that little Rosa, still only a pretty, obstinate, vain, uneducated little girl, was morethan a match for herself, with all her dearly-won experiences. Thelittle thing was bristling with a hundred natural weapons and defences, against which Miss Dora's weak assault had no chance. 

"If it was a trouble, he need not have come, " said Rosa, more and moreconvinced that Mr Wentworth must certainly have meant something. "I amsure _I_ did not want him. He insisted on coming, though I begged himnot. I don't know why I should be spoke to like this, " cried the littlecoquette, with tears, "for I never was one as looked at a gentleman;it's them, " with a sob, "as comes after me. "

"Rosa, " said Mr Elsworthy, much alarmed, "your aunt is sure to belooking out for you, and I don't want you here, not now; nor I don'twant you again for errands, and don't you forget. If it hadn't been thatMr Wentworth thought you a silly little thing, and had a kind feelingfor my missis and me, you don't think he'd have took that charge ofyou?--and I won't have my clergyman, as has always been good to me andmine, made a talk of. You'll excuse me, ma'am, " he said, in an undertone, as Rosa reluctantly went away--not to her aunt, however, but againto her parcel at the other end of the shop--"she aint used to beingtalked to. She's but a child, and don't know no better: and after all, "said Rosa's uncle, with a little pride, "she is a tender-hearted littlething--she don't know no better, ma'am; she's led away by a kindword--for nobody can say but she's wonderful pretty, as is very plain tosee. "

"Is she?" said Miss Dora, following the little culprit to theback-counter with disenchanted eyes. "Then you had better take all thebetter care of her, Mr Elsworthy, " she said, with again a littleasperity. The fact was, that Miss Dora had behaved very injudiciously, and was partly aware of it; and then this prettiness of little Rosa's, even though it shone at the present moment before her, was not so plainto her old-maidenly eyes. She did not make out why everybody was so sureof it, nor what it mattered; and very probably, if she could have hadher own way, would have liked to give the little insignificant thing agood shake, and asked her how she dared to attract the eye of thePerpetual Curate. As she could not do this, however, Miss Dora gatheredup her wool, and refused to permit Mr Elsworthy to send it home for her. "I can carry it quite well myself, " said the indignant little woman. "Iam sure you must have a great deal too much for your boys to do, or youwould not send your niece about with the things. But if you will take myadvice, Mr Elsworthy, " said Miss Dora, "you will take care of that poorlittle thing: she will be getting ridiculous notions into her head;" andaunt Dora went out of the shop with great solemnity, quite unaware thatshe had done more to put ridiculous notions into Rosa's head than couldhave got there by means of a dozen darkling walks by the side of themajestic Curate, who never paid her any compliments. Miss Dora went awaymore than ever convinced in her mind that Frank had forgotten himselfand his position, and everything that was fit and seemly. She jumped toa hundred horrible conclusions as she went sadly across Grange Lane withher scarlet wool in her hand. What Leonora would say to such anirremediable folly?--and how the Squire would receive his son after sucha _mésalliance_? "He might change his views, " said poor Miss Dora toherself, "but he could not change his wife;" and it was poor comfort tocall Rosa a designing little wretch, and to reflect that Frank at firstcould not have meant anything. The poor lady had a bad headache, and wasin a terribly depressed condition all day. When she saw from the windowof her summer-house the pretty figure of Lucy Wodehouse in her greycloak pass by, she sank into tears and melancholy reflections. But thenLucy Wodehouse's views were highly objectionable, and she bethoughtherself of Julia Trench, who had long ago been selected by the sistersas the clergyman's wife of Skelmersdale. Miss Dora shook her head overthe blanket she was knitting for Louisa's baby, thinking of clergymen'swives in general, and the way in which marriages came about. Who had theordering of these inexplicable accidents? It was surely not Providence, but some tricky imp or other who loved confusion; and then Miss Dorapaused with compunction, and hoped she would be forgiven forentertaining, even for one passing moment, such a wicked, wickedthought. 

CHAPTER XII. 

On the afternoon of the same day Mr Morgan went home late, andfrightened his wife out of her propriety by the excitement and troublein his face. He could do nothing but groan as he sat down in thedrawing-room, where she had just been gathering her work together, andputting stray matters in order, before she went up-stairs to makeherself tidy for dinner. The Rector paid no attention to the fact thatthe dinner-hour was approaching, and only shook his head and repeatedhis groan when she asked him anxiously what was the matter. The goodman was too much flushed and heated and put out, to be able at firstto answer her questions. 

"Very bad, very bad, " he said, when he had recovered sufficientcomposure--"far worse than I feared. My dear, I am afraid thebeginning of my work in Carlingford will be for ever associated withpain to us both. I am discouraged and distressed beyond measure bywhat I have heard to-day. "

"Dear William, tell me what it is, " said the Rector's wife. 

"I feared it was a bad business from the first, " said the disturbedRector. "I confess I feared, when I saw a young man so regardless oflawful authority, that his moral principles must be defective, but Iwas not prepared for what I have heard to-day. My dear, I am sorry togrieve you with such a story; but as you are sure to hear it, perhapsit is better that you should have the facts from me. "

"It must be about Mr Wentworth, " said Mrs Morgan. She was sorry; forthough she had given in to her husband's vehemence, she herself in herown person had always been prepossessed in favour of the PerpetualCurate; but she was also sensible of a feeling of relief to know thatthe misfortune concerned Mr Wentworth, and was not specially connectedwith themselves. 

"Yes, it's about Mr Wentworth, " said the Rector. He wiped his face, which was red with haste and exhaustion, and shook his head. He wassincerely shocked and grieved, to do him justice; but underneath therewas also a certain satisfaction in the thought that he had foreseenit, and that his suspicions were verified. "My dear, I am very glad hehad not become intimate in our house, " said Mr Morgan; "that wouldhave complicated matters sadly. I rejoice that your womanly instinctsprevented that inconvenience;" and as the Rector began to recoverhimself, he looked more severe than ever. 

"Yes, " said Mrs Morgan, with hesitation; for the truth was, that herwomanly instincts had pronounced rather distinctly in favour of theCurate of St Roque's. "I hope he has not done anything very wrong, William. I should be very sorry; for I think he has very goodqualities, " said the Rector's wife. "We must not let our personalobjections prejudice us in respect to his conduct otherwise. I am sureyou are the last to do that. "

"I have never known an insubordinate man who was a perfect moralcharacter, " said the Rector. "It is very discouraging altogether; andyou thought he was engaged to Wodehouse's pretty daughter, didn't you?I hope not--I sincerely hope not. That would make things doubly bad;but, to be sure, when a man is faithless to his most sacredengagements, there is very little dependence to be placed on him inother respects. "

"But you have not told me what it is, " said the Rector's wife, withsome anxiety; and she spoke the more hastily as she saw the shadow ofa curate--Mr Morgan's own curate, who must inevitably be invited tostop to dinner--crossing the lawn as she spoke. She got up and went alittle nearer the window to make sure. "There is Mr Leeson, " she said, with some vexation. "I must run up-stairs and get ready for dinner. Tell me what it is!"

Upon which the Rector, with some circumlocution, described theappalling occurrence of the previous night, --how Mr Wentworth hadwalked home with little Rosa Elsworthy from his own house to hers, ashad, of course, been seen by various people. The tale had been toldwith variations, which did credit to the ingenuity of Carlingford; andMr Morgan's version was that they had walked arm in arm, in theclosest conversation, and at an hour which was quite unseemly for sucha little person as Rosa to be abroad. The excellent Rector gave thestory with strong expressions of disapproval; for he was aware ofhaving raised his wife's expectations, and had a feeling, as herelated them, that the circumstances, after all, were scarcelysufficiently horrifying to justify his preamble. Mrs Morgan listenedwith one ear towards the door, on the watch for Mr Leeson's knock. 

"Was that all?" said the sensible woman. "I think it very likely itmight be explained. I suppose Mr Leeson must have stopped to look atmy ferns; he is very tiresome with his botany. That was all! Dear, Ithink it might be explained. I can't fancy Mr Wentworth is a man tocommit himself in that way--if that is all!" said Mrs Morgan; "but Imust run up-stairs to change my dress. "

"That was not all, " said the Rector, following her to the door. "It issaid that this sort of thing has been habitual, my dear. He takes the'Evening Mail, ' you know, all to himself, instead of having the'Times' like other people, and she carries it down to his house, and Ihear of meetings in the garden, and a great deal that is veryobjectionable, " said Mr Morgan, speaking very fast in order to deliverhimself before the advent of Mr Leeson. "I'm afraid it is a very badbusiness. I don't know what to do about it. I suppose I must askLeeson to stay to dinner? It is absurd of him to come at six o'clock. "

"Meetings in the garden?" said Mrs Morgan, aghast. "I don't feel as ifI could believe it. There is that tiresome man at last. Do as youlike, dear, about asking him to stay; but I must make my escape, " andthe Rector's wife hastened up-stairs, divided between vexation aboutMr Leeson and regret at the news she had just heard. She put on herdress rather hastily, and was conscious of a little ill-temper, forwhich she was angry with herself; and the haste of her toilette, andthe excitement under which she laboured, aggravated unbecomingly thatredness of which Mrs Morgan was painfully sensible. She was not at allpleased with her own appearance as she looked in the glass. Perhapsthat sense of looking not so well as usual brought back to her mind atroublesome and painful idea, which recurred to her not unfrequentlywhen she was in any trouble. The real Rector to whom she was marriedwas so different from the ideal one who courted her; could it bepossible, if they had married in their youth instead of now, that herhusband would have been less open to the ill-natured suggestions ofthe gossips in Carlingford, and less jealous of the interferences ofhis young neighbour? It was hard to think that all the self-denial andpatience of the past had done more harm than good; but though she wasconscious of his defects, she was very loyal to him, and resolute tostand by him whatever he might do or say; though Mrs Morgan's "womanlyinstincts, " which the Rector had quoted, were all on Mr Wentworth'sside, and convinced her of his innocence to start with. On the whole, she was annoyed and uncomfortable; what with Mr Leeson's intrusion(which had occurred three or four times before, and which Mrs Morganfelt it her duty to check) and the Rector's uncharitableness, and herown insufficient time to dress, and the disagreeable heightening ofher complexion, the Rector's wife felt in rather an unchristian frameof mind. She did not look well, and she did not feel better. She wasterribly civil to the Curate when she went down-stairs, and snubbedhim in the most unqualified way when he too began to speak about MrWentworth. "It does not seem to me to be at all a likely story, " shesaid, courageously, and took away Mr Leeson's breath. 

"But I hear a very unfavourable general account, " said the Rector, whowas almost equally surprised. "I hear he has been playing fast and loosewith that very pretty person, Miss Wodehouse, and that her friends beginto be indignant. It is said that he has not been nearly so much therelately, but, on the contrary, always going to Elsworthy's, and haspartly educated this little thing. My dear, one false step leads toanother. I am not so incredulous as you are. Perhaps I have studiedhuman nature a little more closely, and I know that error is alwaysfruitful;--that is my experience, " said Mr Morgan. His wife did not sayanything in answer to this deliverance, but she lay in wait for theCurate, as was natural, and had her revenge upon him as soon as his illfate prompted him to back the Rector out. 

"I am afraid Mr Wentworth had always too much confidence in himself, "said the unlucky individual who was destined to be scapegoat on thisoccasion; "and as you very justly observe, one wrong act leads toanother. He has thrown himself among the bargemen on such an equalfooting that I daresay he has got to like that kind of society. Ishouldn't be surprised to find that Rosa Elsworthy suited him betterthan a lady with refined tastes. "

"Mr Wentworth is a gentleman, " said the Rector's wife, with emphasis, coming down upon the unhappy Leeson in full battle array. "I don't thinkhe would go into the poorest house, if it were even a bargeman's, without the same respect of the privacy of the family as is customaryamong--persons of our own class, Mr Leeson. I can't tell how wrong orhow foolish he may have been, of course--but that he couldn't behave toanybody in a disrespectful manner, or show himself intrusive, or forgetthe usages of good society, " said Mrs Morgan, who was looking all thetime at the unfortunate Curate, "I am perfectly convinced. "

It was this speech which made Mr Morgan "speak seriously, " as hecalled it, later the same night, to his wife, about her manner to poorLeeson, who was totally extinguished, as was to be expected. MrsMorgan busied herself among her flowers all the evening, and could notbe caught to be admonished until it was time for prayers: so that itwas in the sacred retirement of her own chamber that the remonstrancewas delivered at last. The Rector said he was very sorry to find thatshe still gave way to temper in a manner that was unbecoming in aclergyman's wife; he was surprised, after all her experience, and theway in which they had both been schooled in patience, to find she hadstill to learn that lesson: upon which Mrs Morgan, who had beenthinking much on the subject, broke forth upon her husband in a mannertotally unprecedented, and which took the amazed Rector altogether bysurprise. 

"Oh, William, if we had only forestalled the lesson, and been _less_prudent!" she cried in a womanish way, which struck the Rector dumbwith astonishment; "if we hadn't been afraid to marry ten years ago, but gone into life when we were young, and fought through it like somany people, don't you think it would have been better for us? Neitheryou nor I would have minded what gossips said, or listened to a packof stories when we were five-and-twenty. I think I was better thenthan I am now, " said the Rector's wife. Though she filled thatelevated position, she was only a woman, subject to outbreaks ofsudden passion, and liable to tears like the rest. Mr Morgan lookedvery blank at her as she sat there crying, sobbing with the force of asentiment which was probably untranslatable to the surprised, middle-aged man. He thought it must be her nerves which were in faultsomehow, and though much startled, did not inquire farther into it, having a secret feeling in his heart that the less that was said thebetter on that subject. So he did what his good angel suggested tohim, kissed his wife, and said he was well aware what heavy calls hehad made upon her patience, and soothed her the best way that occurredto him. "But you were very hard upon poor Leeson, my dear, " said theRector, with his puzzled look, when she had regained her composure. Perhaps she was disappointed that she had not been able to convey herreal meaning to her husband's matter-of-fact bosom; at all events, MrsMorgan recovered herself immediately, and flashed forth with all thelively freshness of a temper in its first youth. 

"He deserved a great deal more than I said to him, " said the Rector'swife. "It might be an advantage to take the furniture, as it was allnew, though it is a perpetual vexation to me, and worries me out of mylife; but there was no need to take the curate, that I can see. Whatright has he to come day after day at your dinner-hour? he knows wedine at six as well as we do ourselves; and I do believe he knows whatwe have for dinner, " exclaimed the incensed mistress of the house;"for he always makes his appearance when we have anything he likes. Ihope I know my duty, and can put up with what cannot be mended, "continued Mrs Morgan, with a sigh, and a mental reference to thecarpet in the drawing-room; "but there are some things really thatwould disturb the temper of an angel. I don't know anybody that couldendure the sight of a man always coming unasked to dinner;--and he tospeak of Mr Wentworth, who, if he were the greatest sinner in theworld, is _always_ a gentleman!" Mrs Morgan broke off with a sparklein her eye, which showed that she had neither exhausted the subject, nor was ashamed of herself; and the Rector wisely retired from thecontroversy. He went to bed, and slept, good man, and dreamt that SirCharles Grandison had come to be his curate in place of Mr Leeson; andwhen he woke, concluded quietly that Mrs Morgan had "experienced alittle attack on the nerves, " as he explained afterwards to DrMarjoribanks. Her compunctions, her longings after the lost life theymight have lived together, her wistful womanish sense of theimpoverished existence, deprived of so many experiences, on which theyhad entered in the dry maturity of their middle age, remained for evera mystery to her faithful husband. He was very fond of her, and had ahigh respect for her character; but if she had spoken Sanscrit, hecould not have had less understanding of the meaning her words wereintended to convey. 

Notwithstanding, a vague idea that his wife was disposed to side withMr Wentworth had penetrated the brain of the Rector, and was notwithout its results. He told her next morning, in his curt way, thathe thought it would be best to wait a little before taking any stepsin the Wharfside business. "If all I hear is true, we may have toproceed in a different way against the unhappy young man, " said MrMorgan, solemnly; and he took care to ascertain that Mr Leeson had aninvitation somewhere else to dinner, which was doing the duty of atender husband, as everybody will allow. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

"I want to know what all this means about young Wentworth, " said MrWodehouse. "He's gone off, it appears, in a hurry, nobody knows where. Well, so they say. To his brother's, is it? _I_ couldn't know that;but look here--that's not all, nor nearly all--they say he meets thatlittle Rosa at Elsworthy's every night, and walks home with her, andall that sort of thing. I tell you I don't know--that's what peoplesay. You ought to understand all the rights of it, you two girls. Iconfess I thought it was Lucy he was after, for my part--and a verybad match, too, and one I should never have given my consent to. Andthen there is another fine talk about some fellow he's got at hishouse. What's the matter, Molly?--she looks as if she was going tofaint. "

"Oh no, " said Miss Wodehouse, faintly; "and I don't believe a wordabout Rosa Elsworthy, " she said, with sudden impetuosity, a minuteafter. "I am sure Mr Wentworth could vindicate himself whenever helikes. I daresay the one story is just as true as the other; butthen, " said the gentle elder sister, turning with anxious lookstowards Lucy, "he is proud, as is natural; and I shouldn't think hewould enter into explanations if he thought people did not trust himwithout them. "

"That is all stuff, " said Mr Wodehouse; "why should people trust him? Idon't understand trusting a man in all sorts of equivocal circumstances, because he's got dark eyes, &c. , and a handsome face--which seems _your_code of morality; but I thought he was after Lucy--that was mybelief--and I want to know if it's all off. "

"It never was on, papa, " said Lucy, in her clearest voice. "I have beena great deal in the district, you know, and Mr Wentworth and I could nothelp meeting each other; that is all about it: but people must alwayshave something to talk about in Carlingford. I hope you don't think Iand Rosa Elsworthy could go together, " she went on, turning round to himwith a smile. "I don't think that would be much of a compliment;" and, saying this, Lucy went to get her work out of its usual corner, and satdown opposite to her father, with a wonderfully composed face. She wasso composed, indeed, that any interested beholder might have beenjustified in thinking that the work suffered in consequence, for itseemed to take nearly all Lucy's strength and leisure to keep up thatlook. 

"Oh!" said Mr Wodehouse, "that's how it was? Then I wonder why thatconfounded puppy came here so constantly? I don't like that sort ofbehaviour. Don't you go into the district any more and meethim--that's all I've got to say. "

"Because of Rosa Elsworthy?" said Lucy, with a little smile, which didnot flicker naturally, but was apt to get fixed at the corners of herpretty mouth. "That would never do, papa. Mr Wentworth's privateconcerns are nothing to us; but, you know, there is a great work goingon in the district, and _that_ can't be interfered with, " said the youngSister of Mercy, looking up at him with a decision which Mr Wodehousewas aware he could make no stand against. And when she stopped speaking, Lucy did a little work, which was for the district too. All this timeshe was admitting to herself that she had been much startled by thisnews about Rosa Elsworthy, --much startled. To be sure, it was not likeMr Wentworth, and very likely it would impair his influence; and it wasnatural that any friend taking an interest in him and the district, should be taken a little aback by such news. Accordingly, Lucy sat alittle more upright than usual, and was conscious that when she smiled, as she had just done, the smile did not glide off again in a naturalway, but settled down into the lines of her face with a kind of spasmodictenacity. She could do a great deal in the way of self-control, but shecould not quite command these refractory muscles. Mr Wodehouse, who wasnot particularly penetrating, could not quite make her out; he saw therewas something a little different from her ordinary look about hisfavourite child, but he had not insight enough to enable him tocomprehend what it was. 

"And about his man who is staying at Mrs Hadwin's?" said the perplexedchurchwarden; "does any one know who the fellow is? I don't understandhow Wentworth has got into all this hot water in a moment. Here's theRector in a state of fury, --and his aunts, --and now here's this littlebit of scandal to crown all;--and who is this fellow in his house?"

"It must be somebody he has taken in out of charity, " said MissWodehouse, with tears in her eyes; "I am sure it is somebody whom hehas opened his doors to out of Christian charity and the goodness ofhis heart. I don't understand how you can all desert him at the firstword. All the years he has been here, you know there never was awhisper against him; and is it in reason to think he would go so farwrong all in a moment?" cried the faithful advocate of the PerpetualCurate. Her words were addressed to Mr Wodehouse, but her eyes soughtLucy, who was sitting very upright doing her work, without any leisureto look round. Lucy had quite enough to occupy her within herself atthat emergency, and the tearful appeal of her elder sister had noeffect upon her. As for Mr Wodehouse, he was more and more puzzled howto interpret these tears in his daughter's eyes. 

"I don't make it out at all, " said the perplexed father, getting up toleave the room. "I hope _you_ weren't in love with him, Molly? youought to have too much sense for that. A pretty mess he'll find whenhe comes home; but he must get out of it the best way he can, for _I_can't help him, at least. I don't mean to have him asked here anymore--you understand, Lucy, " he said, turning round at the door, withan emphatic creak of his boots. But Lucy had no mind to be seducedinto any such confession of weakness. 

"You are always having everybody in Carlingford to dinner, " said theyoung housekeeper, "and all the clergymen, even _that_ Mr Leeson; andI don't see why you should except Mr Wentworth, papa; he has donenothing wicked, so far as we know. I daresay he won't want to bringRosa Elsworthy with him; and why shouldn't he be asked here?" saidLucy, looking full in his face with her bright eyes. Mr Wodehouse wasentirely discomfited, and did not know what to say. "I wonder if youknow what you mean yourselves, you women, " he muttered; and then, witha shrug of his shoulders, and a hasty "settle it as you please, " thechurchwarden's boots creaked hastily out of the room, and out of thehouse. 

After this a dead silence fell upon the drawing-room and its twooccupants. They did not burst forth into mutual comment upon this lastpiece of Carlingford news, as they would have done under any othercircumstances; on the contrary, they bent over their several occupationswith quite an unusual devotion, not exchanging so much as a look. Lucy, over her needlework, was the steadiest of the two; she was still at thesame point in her thoughts, owning to herself that she was startled, andindeed shocked, by what she had heard--that it was a great pity for MrWentworth; perhaps that it was not quite what might have been expectedof him, --and then she checked herself, and went back again to heroriginal acknowledgment. To tell the truth, though she assured herselfthat she had nothing to do with it, a strange sense of having justpassed through an unexpected illness, lay underneath Lucy's composure. It was none of her business, to be sure, but she could not help feelingas if she had just had a fever, or some other sudden unlooked-forattack, and that nobody knew of it, and that she must get well as bestshe could, without any help from without. 

It was quite half an hour before Miss Wodehouse got up from theknitting which she had spoiled utterly, trying to take up the droppedstitches with her trembling fingers, and dropping others by everyeffort she made. The poor lady went wistfully about the room, wandering from corner to corner, as if in search of something; at lastshe took courage to speak, when she found herself behind her youngsister. "Dear, I am sure it is not true, " said Miss Wodehouse, suddenly, with a little sob; and then she came close to Lucy's chair, and put her hand timidly upon her sister's shoulder. "Think how manygood things you two have done together, dear; and is it likely you areto be parted like this?" said the injudicious comforter. It feltrather like another attack of fever to Lucy, as unexpected as thelast. 

"Don't speak so, please, " said the poor girl, with a momentary shiver. "It is about Mr Wentworth you mean?" she went on, after a little, without turning her head. "I--am sorry, of course. I am afraid it willdo him--harm, " and then she made a pause, and stumbled over her sewingwith fingers which felt feeble and powerless to the very tips--all onaccount of this fever she had had. "But I don't know any reason whyyou and I should discuss it, Mary, " she said, getting up in her turn, not quite sure whether she could stand at this early period of herconvalescence, but resolved to try. "We are both Mr Wentworth'sfriends--and we need not say any harm of him. I have to get somethingout of the storeroom for to-night. "

"But, Lucy, " said the tender, trembling sister, who did not know howto be wise and silent, "_I_ trust him, and _you_ don't. Oh, my dear, it will break my heart. I know some part of it is not true. I know onething in which he is quite--quite innocent. Oh, Lucy, my darling, ifyou distrust him it will be returning evil for good!" cried poor MissWodehouse, with tears. As for Lucy, she did not quite know what hersister said. She only felt that it was cruel to stop her, and look ather, and talk to her; and there woke up in her mind a fierce suddenspark of resistance to the intolerable. 

"Why do you hold me? I may have been ill, but I can stand well enoughby myself, " cried Lucy, to her sister's utter bewilderment. "That is, I--I mean, I have other things to attend to, " she cried, breaking intoa few hot tears of mortification over this self-betrayal; and so wentaway in a strange glow and tremble of sudden passion, such as hadnever been seen before in that quiet house. She went direct to thestoreroom, as she had said, and got out what was wanted; and onlyafter that was done permitted herself to go up to her own room, andturn the key in her door. Though she was a Sister of Mercy, and muchbeloved in Prickett's Lane, she was still but one of Eve's poorpetulant women-children, and had it in her to fly at an intruder onher suffering, like any other wounded creature. But she did not makeany wild demonstration of her pain, even when shut up thus in herfortress. She sat down on the sofa, in a kind of dull heaviness, looking into vacancy. She was not positively thinking of Mr Wentworth, or of any one thing in particular. She was only conscious of aterrible difference somehow in everything about her--in the air whichchoked her breathing, and the light which blinded her eyes. When shecame to herself a little, she said over and over, half-aloud, thateverything was just the same as it had always been, and that to her atleast nothing had happened; but that declaration, though made withvehemence, did not alter matters. The world altogether had sustained achange. The light that was in it was darkened, and the heart stilled. All at once, instead of a sweet spontaneous career, providing for itsown wants day by day, life came to look like something which requiredsuch an amount of courage and patience and endurance as Lucy had notat hand to support her in the way; and her heart failed her at themoment when she found this out. 

Notwithstanding, the people who dined at Mr Wodehouse's that nightthought it a very agreeable little party, and more than once repeatedthe remark, so familiar to most persons in society in Carlingford--thatWodehouse's parties were the pleasantest going, though he himself washumdrum enough. Two or three of the people present had heard thegossip about Mr Wentworth, and discussed it, as was natural, takingdifferent views of the subject; and poor Miss Wodehouse took up hisdefence so warmly, and with such tearful vehemence, that there weresmiles to be seen on several faces. As for Lucy, she made only a verysimple remark on the subject. She said: "Mr Wentworth is a greatfriend of ours, and I think I would rather not hear any gossip abouthim. " Of course there were one or two keen observers who put a subtlemeaning to this, and knew what was signified by her looks and her waysall the evening; but, most likely, they were altogether mistaken intheir suppositions, for nobody could possibly watch her so closely asdid Miss Wodehouse, who know no more than the man in the moon, at theclose of the evening, whether her young sister was very wretched ortotally indifferent. The truth was certainly not to be discovered, forthat night at least, in Lucy's looks. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The next afternoon there were signs of a considerable commotion in MrElsworthy's shop. Rosa had disappeared altogether, and Mrs Elsworthy, with an ominous redness on her cheeks, had taken the place generallyheld by that more agreeable little figure. All the symptoms of havingbeen engaged in an affray from which she had retired not altogethervictorious were in Mrs Elsworthy's face, and the errand-boys vanishedfrom her neighbourhood with inconceivable rapidity, and found out littleparcels to deliver which would have eluded their most anxious search inother circumstances. Mr Elsworthy himself occupied his usual place inthe foreground, without the usual marks of universal content andsatisfaction with all his surroundings which generally distinguishedhim. An indescribable appearance of having been recently snubbed hungabout the excellent man, and his glances towards the back-shop, and theglances directed from the back-shop to him, told with sufficientsignificance the quarter from which his humiliation had proceeded. Ithad done him good, as such painful discipline generally does; for he wasclearing out some drawers in which sundry quires of paper had brokenloose and run into confusion, with the air of a man who ought to havedone it weeks ago. As for the partner of his bosom, she was standing inthe obscure distance behind the counter knitting a blue stocking, whichwas evidently intended for no foot but his. There was a chair close by, but Mrs Elsworthy disdained to sit down. She stood with her knitting inconscious power, now and then suffering a confession of her faith toescape her. "There's nothing as don't go contrary in this world, " saidthe discontented wife, "when a man's a fool. " It was hard upon MrElsworthy that his ears were sharp, and that he knew exactly what thisagreeable murmur was. But he was wise in his generation, and made noreply. 

Things were in this condition when, of all persons in Carlingford, itoccurred to Miss Leonora Wentworth to enter Mr Elsworthy's shop. Notthat she was alone, or bent upon any errand of inquiry; for MissLeonora seldom moved about unattended by her sisters, whom she felt ither duty to take out for exercise; and wonderfully enough, she had notfound out yet what was the source of Miss Dora's mysteries anddepression, having been still occupied meantime by her own "greatwork" in her London district, and the affair of the gin-palace, whichwas still undecided. She had been talking a great deal about thisgin-palace for the last twenty-four hours; and to hear Miss Leonora, you might have supposed that all the powers of heaven must fail and bediscomfited before this potent instrument of evil, and that, afterall, Bibles and missionaries were much less effective than thestoppage of the licence, upon which all her agents were bent. At allevents, such an object of interest had swept out from her thoughts thevague figure of her nephew Frank, and aunt Dora's mysterious anxietieson his account. When the three ladies approached Elsworthy's, thefirst thing that attracted their attention was Rosa, the little Rosawho had been banished from the shop, and whom Mrs Elsworthy believedto be expiating her sins in a back room, in tears and darkness;instead of which the little girl was looking out of her favouritewindow, and amusing herself much with all that was going on in GrangeLane. Though she was fluttered by the scolding she had received, Rosaonly looked prettier than usual with her flushed cheeks; and so manythings had been put into her nonsensical little head during the lasttwo days, especially by her aunt's denunciations, that her sense ofself-importance was very much heightened in consequence. She looked atthe Miss Wentworths with a throb of mingled pride and alarm, wonderingwhether perhaps she might know more of them some day, if Mr Wentworthwas really fond of her, as people said--which thought gave Rosa awonderful sensation of awe and delighted vanity. Meanwhile the threeMiss Wentworths looked at her with very diverse feelings. "I mustspeak to these people about that little girl, if nobody else has senseenough to do it, " said Miss Leonora; "she is evidently going wrong asfast as she can, the little fool;" and the iron-grey sister went intoMr Elsworthy's in this perfectly composed and ordinary frame of mind, with her head full of the application which was to be made to thelicensing magistrates today, in the parish of St Michael, and totallyunaware that anybody belonging to herself could ever be connected withthe incautious little coquette at the window. Miss Dora's feelingswere very different. It was much against her will that she was goingat all into this obnoxious shop, and the eyes which she hastilyuplifted to the window and withdrew again with lively disgust anddislike, were both angry and tearful; "Little forward shamelessthing, " Miss Dora said to herself, with a little toss of her head. Asfor Miss Wentworth, it was not her custom to say anything--but she, too, looked up, and saw the pretty face at the window, and secretlyconcluded that it might all be quite true, and that she had known ayoung man make a fool of himself before now for such another. So theyall went in, unwitting that they came at the end of a domestichurricane, and that the waters were still in a state of disturbance. Miss Wentworth took the only chair, as was natural, and sat downsweetly to wait for Leonora, and Miss Dora lingered behind while hersister made her purchases. Miss Leonora wanted some books--

"And I came here, " she said, with engaging candour, "because I see noother shop in this part of the town except Masters's, which, ofcourse, I would not enter. It is easy enough to do without books, butI can't afford to compromise my principles, Mr Elsworthy;" to which MrElsworthy had replied, "No, ma'am, of course not--such a thing aint tobe expected;" with one eye upon his customer, and one upon hisbelligerent wife. 

"And, by the by, if you will permit me to speak about what does notconcern me, " said Miss Leonora cheerfully, "I think you should lookafter that little girl of yours more carefully;--recollect I don'tmean any offence; but she's very pretty, you know, and very young, andvain, as a matter of course. I saw her the other evening going downGrange Lane, a great deal too late for such a creature to be out; andthough I don't doubt, you are very particular where she goes--"

It was at this conjuncture that Mrs Elsworthy, who could not keepsilence any longer, broke in ardently, with all her knitting-needlesin front of her, disposed like a kind of porcupine mail--

"I'm well known in Carlingford--better known than most, " said MrsElsworthy, with a sob; "such a thing as not being particular was nevernamed to me. I strive and I toil from morning to night, as all thingsshould be respectable and kep' in good order; but what's the good?Here's my heart broken, that's all; and Elsworthy standing gaping likea gaby as he is. There aint nothing as don't go contrairy, when folksis tied to a set of fools!" cried the indignant matron. "As forpretty, I don't know nothing about it; I've got too much to do mindingmy own business. Them as has nothing to think of but stand in the shopand twiddle their thumbs, ought to look to that; but, ma'am, if you'llbelieve me, it aint no fault of mine. It aint my will to throw her inany young gentleman's way; not to say a clergyman as we're bound torespect. Whatever you does, ladies, --and I shouldn't wonder at yourtaking away your custom, nor nothing else as was a punishment--don'tblame me!"

"But you forget, Mrs Elsworthy, that we have nothing to do withit, --nothing at all; my nephew knows very well what he is about, " saidMiss Dora, in injudicious haste. "Mr Wentworth is not at all likely toforget himself, " continued that poor lady, getting confused as hersister turned round and stared at her. "Of course it was all out ofkindness;--I--I know Frank did not mean anything, " cried theunfortunate aunt. Leonora's look, as she turned round and fixed hereyes upon her, took away what little breath Miss Dora had. 

"Mr Wentworth?" asked Miss Leonora; "I should be glad to know, ifanybody would inform me, what Mr Wentworth can possibly have to dowith it? I daresay you misunderstood me; I said you were to look afterthat little girl--your niece, or whatever she is; I did not sayanything about Mr Wentworth, " said the strong-minded sister, lookinground upon them all. For the moment she forgot all about the licence, and turned upon Mr Elsworthy with an emphasis which almost drive thattroubled citizen to his knees. 

"That was how I understood it, " said the clerk of St Roque's, humbly;"there wasn't nothing said about Mr Wentworth--nor there couldn't beas I know of, but what was in his favour, for there aint many youngmen like our clergyman left in the Church. It aint because I'mspeaking to respected ladies as is his relations; folks may talk, "said Mr Elsworthy, with a slight faltering, "but I never see hisequal; and as for an act of kindness to an orphan child--"

"The orphan child is neither here nor there, " said his angry wife, whohad taken up her post by his side; "a dozen fathers and motherscouldn't have done better by her than we've done; and to go and layout her snares for them as is so far above her, if you'll believe me, ma'am, it's nigh broken my heart. She's neither flesh nor blood o'mine, " cried the aggrieved woman; "there would have been a differenttale to tell if she had belonged to me. I'd have--murdered her, ma'am, though it aint proper to say so, afore we'd have gone and raised atalk like this; it aint my blame, if it was my dying word, " cried MrsElsworthy, relapsing into angry tears: "I'm one as has always shownher a good example, and never gone flirting about, nor cast my eyes toone side or another for the best man as ever walked; and to think as arespectable family should be brought to shame through her doings, anda gentleman as is a clergyman got himself talked about--it's gone nighto kill me, that's what it's done, " sobbed the virtuous matron; "and Idon't see as nobody cares. "

Miss Leonora had been woke up suddenly out of her abstractoccupations; she penetrated to the heart of the matter while all thistalk was going on. She transfixed her sister Dora, who seemed muchinclined to cry like Mrs Elsworthy, with a look which overwhelmed thattrembling woman; then she addressed herself with great suavity to thematter in hand. 

"I suppose it is this poor little foolish child who has been gettingherself talked about?" said Miss Leonora. "It's a pity, to be sure, but I daresay it's not so bad as you think. As for her laying snaresfor people above her, I wouldn't be afraid of that. Poor little thing!It's not so easy as you think laying snares. Perhaps it's the newminister at Salem Chapel who has been paying attention to her? I wouldnot take any notice of it if I were you. Don't let her loll about atthe window as she's doing, and don't let her go out so late, and giveher plenty of work to do. My maid wants some one to help in herneedlework. Perhaps this child would do, Cecilia?" said Miss Leonora. "As for her snares, poor thing, I don't feel much afraid of them. Idaresay if Mr Wentworth had Sunday classes for the young people as Iwished him to have, and took pains to give them proper instruction, such things would not happen. If you send her to my maid, I flattermyself she will soon come to her senses. Good morning; and you willplease to send me the books--there are some others I want you to getfor me next week, " said Mr Elsworthy's patroness. "I will follow you, Dora, please, " and Miss Leonora swept her sisters out before her, andwent upon her way with indescribable grandeur. Even little Rosa feltthe change, where she sat at the window looking out. The little vaincreature no longer felt it possible to believe, as she looked afterthem, that she ever could be anything to the Miss Wentworths except alittle girl in a shop. It shook her confidence in what people said;and it was as well for her that she withdrew from the window at thatconjuncture, and so had an opportunity of hearing her aunt comeup-stairs, and of darting back again to the penitential darkness ofher own chamber at the back of the house--which saved Rosa some angrywords at least. 

As for Miss Leonora Wentworth, she said nothing to her sisters on thisnew subject. She saw them safely home to their own apartments, andwent out again without explaining her movements. When she was gone, Miss Wentworth listened to Miss Dora's doubts and tears with herusual patience, but did not go into the matter much. "It doesn'tmatter whether it is your fault or not, " said aunt Cecilia, with alarger amount of words than usual, and a sharpness very uncommon withher; "but I daresay Leonora will set it all right. " After all, theconfidence which the elder sister had in Leonora was justified. Shedid not entirely agree with her about the "great work, " nor wasdisposed to connect the non-licensing of the gin-palace in any waywith the faithfulness of God: but she comprehended in her gentle heartthat there were other matters of which Leonora was capable. As forMiss Dora, she went to the summer-house at last, and, seating herselfat the window, cried under her breath till she had a very badheadache, and was of no use for any purpose under heaven. She thoughtnothing less than that Leonora had gone abroad to denounce poor Frank, and tell everybody how wicked he was; and she was so sure her poordear boy did not mean anything! She sat with her head growing heavierand heavier, watching for her sister's return, and calculating withinherself how many places Leonora must have called at, and how utterlygone by this time must be the character of the Perpetual Curate. Atlast, in utter despair, with her thin curls all limp about her poorcheeks, Miss Dora had to go to bed and have the room darkened, andswallow cups of green tea and other nauseous compounds, at the willand pleasure of her maid, who was learned in headache. The poor ladysobbed herself to sleep after a time, and saw, in a hideous dream, hersister Leonora marching from house to house of poor Frank's friends, and closing door after door with all sorts of clang and dash upon thereturning prodigal. "But oh, it was not my fault--oh, my dear, shefound it out herself. You do not think _I_ was to blame?" sobbed pooraunt Dora in her troubled slumber; and her headache did not get anybetter notwithstanding the green tea. 

Miss Dora's visions were partly realised, for it was quite true thather iron-grey sister was making a round of calls upon Frank's friends. Miss Leonora Wentworth went out in great state that day. She had herhandsomest dress on, and the bonnet which her maid had calculated uponas her own property, because it was much too nice for Miss Leonora. Inthis impossible attire she went to see Mrs Hadwin, and was very graciousto that unsuspecting woman, and learned a few things of which she hadnot the least conception previously. Then she went to the MissWodehouses, and made the elder sister there mighty uncomfortable by herkeen looks and questions; and what Miss Leonora did after that was notdistinctly known to any one. She got into Prickett's Lane somehow, andstumbled upon No. 10, much to the surprise of the inhabitants; andbefore she returned home she had given Mrs Morgan her advice about theVirginian creeper which was intended to conceal the continual passage ofthe railway trains. "But I would not trust to trellis-work. I wouldbuild up the wall a few feet higher, and then you will have somesatisfaction in your work, " said Miss Leonora, and left the Rector'swife to consider the matter in rather an agreeable state of mind, forthat had been Mrs Morgan's opinion all along. After this last visit theactive aunt returned home, going leisurely along George Street, and downGrange Lane, with meditative steps. Miss Leonora, of course, would notfor kingdoms have confessed that any new light had come into her mind, or that some very ordinary people in Carlingford, no one of whom shecould have confidently affirmed to be a converted person, had left acertain vivid and novel impression upon her thoughts. She went alongmuch more slowly than usual in this new mood of reflectiveness. She wasnot thinking of the licensing magistrates of St Michael's nor thebeautiful faith of the colporteur. Other ideas filled her mind at themoment. Whether perhaps, after all, a man who did his duty by rich andpoor, and could encounter all things for love and duty's sake, was notabout the best man for a parish priest, even though he did havechoristers in white surplices, and lilies on the Easter altar? Whetherit might not be a comfort to know that in the pretty parsonage atSkelmersdale there was some one ready to start at a moment's notice forthe help of a friend or the succour of a soul--brother to Charley whowon the Cross for valour, and not unworthy of the race? Some strangemoisture came into the corners of Miss Leonora's eyes. There was Geraldtoo, whom the Perpetual Curate had declared to be the best man he everknew; and the Evangelical woman, with all her prejudices, could not inher heart deny it. Various other thoughts of a similar description, buttoo shadowy to bear expression, came in spite of herself through MissLeonora's mind. "We know that God heareth not sinners; but if any man bea worshipper of God and doeth His will, him He heareth;" and it occurredto her vaguely, for the first time, that she was harder to please thanher Master. Not that such an idea could get possession of a mind so wellfortified, at the first assault; but it was strange how often thethought came back to her that the man who had thrilled through all thosepeople about Prickett's Lane a kind of vague sense that they wereChristians, and not hopeless wretches, forgotten of God; and who hadtaken in the mysterious lodger at Mrs Hadwin's, bearing the penalty ofsuspicion without complaint, would be true at his post wherever he mightbe, and was a priest of God's appointing. Such were the strangely novelideas which went flashing through Miss Leonora's mind as she went hometo dinner, ejecting summarily the new gin-palaces and her favouritecolporteur. If anybody had stated them in words, she would haveindignantly scouted such latitudinarian stuff; but they kept flickeringin the strangest fluctuations, coming and going, bringing in nativeWentworth prejudices and natural affections to overcome all otherprepossessions, in the most inveterate, unexplainable way. For it willbe apparent that Miss Leonora, being a woman of sense, utterly scornedthe Rosa Elsworthy hypothesis, and comprehended as nearly how ithappened as it was possible for any one unaware of the facts to do. 

Such were the good and bad angels who fought over the Curate's fatewhile he was away. He might have been anxious if he had known anythingabout them, or had been capable of imagining any such clouds as thosewhich overshadowed his good name in the lively imagination ofCarlingford. But Rosa Elsworthy never could have occurred to theunconscious young man as a special danger, any more than the relentingin the heart of his aunt Leonora could have dawned upon him as apossible happiness. To tell the truth, he had left home, so far as hehimself was concerned, in rather a happy state of mind than otherwise, with healthful impulses of opposition to the Rector, and confidence inthe sympathy of Lucy. To hear that Lucy had given him up, and thatMiss Leonora and Mrs Morgan were the only people who believed in him, would have gone pretty far at this moment to make an end of thePerpetual Curate. But fortunately he knew nothing about it; and whileLucy held her head high with pain, and walked over the burning coals aconscious martyr, and Miss Dora sobbed herself asleep in her darkenedroom, all on his account, there was plenty of trouble, perplexity, anddistress in Wentworth Rectory to occupy to the full all the thoughtsand powers of the Curate of St Roque's. 

CHAPTER XV. 

It was mid-day, and more than twelve hours after he had left Carlingford, before Mr Wentworth reached the Rectory. He had snatched a few hours'sleep in London, where he was obliged to pause because of the trains, which did not correspond; and accordingly, though he was very anxiousabout Gerald, it was with a mien and gait very much like his usualappearance that he jumped out of the railway carriage at the littlestation which was on his father's property, and where everybody knew theSquire's son. Left in entire uncertainty as he was in respect to thetrouble which had overtaken his brother, it was a little comfort to theCurate to find that everybody looked surprised to see him, and thatnobody seemed to know of any cause demanding his presence. All was wellat the Hall, so far as the station-master knew; and as for the Rector, he had no special place in the local report which the handiest portersupplied "Mr Frank"--a blessed neglect, which was very consolatory tothe heart of the anxious brother, to whom it became evident that nothinghad happened, and who began to hope that Gerald's wife, who never wasvery wise, had been seized with some merely fantastic terror. With thishope he walked on briskly upon the familiar road to his brother's house, recovering his courage, and falling back upon his own thoughts, and atlast taking pleasure in the idea of telling all his troubles to Gerald, and getting strength and enlightenment from his advice. He had comequite into this view of the subject when he arrived at the Rectory, andsaw the pretty old-fashioned house, with its high ivied garden-walls, and the famous cedar on the lawn, standing all secure and sweet in theearly sunshine, like something too steadfast to be moved, as if sorrowor conflict could never enter there. Unconsciously to himself, theperfect tranquillity of everything altered the entire scope of FrankWentworth's thoughts. He was no longer in anxiety about his brother. Hewas going to ask Gerald's advice upon his own troubles, and lay thedifficulties and dangers of his position before the clear and lucid eyesof the best man he ever knew. 

It shook him a little out of his position, however, to find himselfadmitted with a kind of scared expectation by Mrs Gerald Wentworth'smaid, who made no exclamation of wonder at the sight of him, butopened the door in a troubled, stealthy way, strangely unlike theusual customs of the place. "Is my brother at home?" said the Curate, going in with a step that rang on the hall, and a voice that soundedinto the house. He would have proceeded straight, as usual, toGerald's study after this question, which was one of form merely, butfor the disturbed looks of the woman, who put up her hand imploringly. "Oh hush! Mr Frank; hush! My mistress wants to see you first. Shesaid I was to show you into her sitting-room, " said the maid, halfin a whisper, and led him hastily down a side-passage to a littleout-of-the-way room, which he knew was where Louisa was wont to retirewhen she had her headaches, as was well known to all the house ofWentworth. The Curate went in with some impatience and some alarm tothis retired apartment. His eyes, dazzled by the sunshine, could notpenetrate at first the shadowy greenness of the room, which, what withthe trees without and the Venetian blind within, was lost in a kind oftwilight, grateful enough after a while, but bewildering at the firstmoment. Out of this darkness somebody rose as he entered, and walkedinto his arms with trembling eagerness. "Oh Frank, I am so thankfulyou are come! now perhaps something may be done; for _you_ alwaysunderstood, " said his little sister-in-law, reaching up to kiss him. She was a tiny little woman, with soft eyes and a tender littleblooming face, which he had never before seen obscured by any cloud, or indeed moved by any particular sentiment. Now the firmament was allovercast, and Louisa, it was evident, had been sitting in the shade ofher drawn blinds, having a quiet cry, and going into all her grievances. To see such a serene creature all clouded over and full of tears, gavethe Curate a distinct shock of alarm and anxiety. He led her back to hersofa, seeing clearer and clearer, as he watched her face, the plaintivelines of complaint, the heavy burden of trouble which she was about tocast on his shoulders. He grew more and more afraid as he looked at her. "Is Gerald ill?" he said, with a thrill of terror; but even this couldscarcely account for the woeful look of all the accessories to thepicture. 

"Oh, Frank, I am so glad you are come!" said Louisa through her tears. "I felt sure you would come when you got my letter. Your father thinksI make a fuss about nothing, and Cuthbert and Guy do nothing but laughat me, as if they could possibly know; but you always understand me, Frank. I knew it was just as good as sending for a brother of my own;indeed better, " said Mrs Wentworth, wiping her eyes; "for thoughGerald is using me so badly, I would not expose him out of his ownfamily, or have people making remarks--oh, not for the world!"

"Expose him!" said the Curate, with unutterable astonishment. "Youdon't mean to say you have any complaint to make about Gerald?" Theidea was so preposterous that Frank Wentworth laughed; but it was nota laugh pleasant to hear. 

"Oh, Frank, if you but knew all, " said Louisa; "what I have had to putup with for months--all my best feelings outraged, and so many thingsto endure that were dreadful to think of. And I that was alwaysbrought up so differently; but now, " cried the poor little woman, bursting into renewed tears, "it's come to such a pass that it can'tbe concealed any longer. I think it will break my heart; people willbe sure to say I have been to blame; and how I am ever to hold up myhead in society, and what is to be my name, and whether I am to beconsidered a widow--"

"A widow!" cried the Perpetual Curate, in utter consternation. 

"Or worse, " sobbed Gerald's poor little wife: "it feels like beingdivorced--as if one had done something wrong; and I am sure I neverdid anything to deserve it; but when your husband is a Romish priest, "cried the afflicted woman, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, "Iwould just ask anybody what are you? You can't be his wife, because heis not allowed to have any wife; and you can't go back to your maidenname, because of the children; and how can you have any place insociety? Oh, Frank, I think I shall go distracted, " said poor Louisa;"it will feel as if one had done something wicked, and been put out ofthe pale. How can I be called Mrs Wentworth any more when my husbandhas left me? and even if he is a priest, and can't have any wife, still he will be alive, and I shall not have the satisfaction of beinga widow even. I am sure I don't know what I say, " she concluded, witha fresh outburst; "for to be a widow would be a poor satisfaction, andI don't know how I could ever, ever live without Gerald; but to feelas if you were an improper person, and all the children's prospects inlife!--Oh, Frank!" cried the weeping Louisa, burying her face in herhandkerchief, "I think I shall go distracted, and my heart willbreak. "

To all this strange and unexpected revelation the startled Curatelistened like a man in a dream. Possibly his sister-in-law'srepresentation of this danger, as seen entirely from her own point ofview, had a more alarming effect upon him that any other statement ofthe case. He could have gone into Gerald's difficulties with so muchsympathy and fellow-feeling that the shock would have been trifling incomparison; and between Rome and the highest level of Anglicanismthere was no such difference as to frighten the accustomed mind of theCurate of St Roque's. But, seen from Louisa's side, matters appearedvery different: here the foundations of the earth were shaking, andlife itself going to pieces; even the absurdity of her distress madethe whole business more real; and the poor little woman, whose troublewas that she herself would neither be a wife nor a widow, had enoughof truth on her side to unfold a miserable picture to the eyes of theanxious spectator. He did not know what answer to make her; andperhaps it was a greater consolation to poor Louisa to be permitted torun on--

"And you know it never needed to have come to this if Gerald had beenlike other people, " she said, drying her tears, and with a tone ofremonstrance. "Of course it is a family living, and it is not likelyhis own father would have made any disturbance; and there is no otherfamily in the parish but the Skipwiths, and they are great friends, and never would have said a word. He might have preached in sixsurplices if he had liked, " cried poor Louisa--"who would have minded?And as for confession, and all that, I don't believe there is anybodyin the world who had done any wrong that could have helped confessingto Gerald; he is so good--oh, Frank, you know he is so good!" said theexasperated little wife, overcome with fondness and admiration andimpatience, "and there is nobody in the parish that I ever heard ofthat does not worship him; but when I tell him so, he never pays theleast attention. And then Edward Plumstead and he go on talking aboutsubscription, and signing articles, and nonsense, till they make myhead swim. Nobody, I am sure, wants Gerald to subscribe or signarticles. I am sure I would subscribe any amount, " cried the poorlittle woman, once more falling into tears--"a thousand pounds if Ihad it, Frank--only to make him hear reason; for why should he leaveWentworth, where he can do what he likes, and nobody will interferewith him? The Bishop is an old friend of my father's, and I am surehe never would say anything; and as for candles and crossesand--anything he pleases, Frank--"

Here poor Louisa paused, and put her hand on his arm, and looked upwistfully into his face. She wanted to convince herself that she wasright, and that the faltering dread she had behind all this, ofsomething more mysterious than candles or crosses--something which shedid not attempt to understand--was no real spectre after all. "Oh, Frank, I am sure I never would oppose him, nor your father, noranybody; and why should he go and take some dreadful step, and upseteverything?" said Mrs Wentworth. "Oh, Frank! we will not even haveenough to live upon; and as for me, if Gerald leaves me, how shall Iever hold up my head again, or how will anybody know how to behave tome? I can't call myself Miss Leighton again, after being married solong; and if I am not his wife, what shall I be?" Her crying becamehysterical as she came back to this point; and Mr Wentworth sat by hertrying to soothe her, as wretched as herself. 

"But I must see Gerald, Louisa, " said the Curate; "he has neverwritten to me about this. Perhaps things have not gone so far as youthink; but as for the crosses and the candles, you know, and not beinginterfered with--"

"I would promise to do anything he likes, " cried the weeping woman. "Inever would worry him any more about anything. After aunt Leonora washere, perhaps I said things I should not have said; but, oh Frank, whatever he likes to do I am sure I will give in to it. I don't_really_ mind seeing him preach in his surplice, only you know poorpapa was so _very_ Low-Church; and as for the candles, what are theyto pleasing one's husband? Oh, Frank, if you would only tell him--Ican't argue about things like a man--tell him nobody will everinterfere, and he shall do whatever he pleases. I trust to you to say_everything_, " said the poor wife. "You can reason with him andexplain things. Nobody understands Gerald like you. You will notforsake me in my trouble, Frank? I thought immediately of you. I knewyou could help us, if anybody could. You will tell him all I havesaid, " she continued, rising as Mr Wentworth rose, and going after himto the door, to impress once more upon him the necessities of thecase. "Oh, Frank, remember how much depends upon it!--everything inthe world for me, and all the children's prospects in life; and hewould be miserable himself if he were to leave us. You know he would?"said Louisa, looking anxiously into his face, and putting her hand onhis arm. "Oh, Frank, you don't think Gerald could be happy without thechildren--and me?"

The terrible thought silenced her. She stopped crying, and a kind oftearless horror and dread came over her face. She was not very wise, but her heart was tender and full of love in its way. What if perhapsthis life, which had gone so smoothly over her unthinking head withoutany complications, should turn out to be a lie, and her happiness amere delusion? She could not have put her thoughts into words, but thedoubt suddenly came over her, putting a stop to all her lamentations. If perhaps Gerald _could_ be happy without the children and herself, what dreadful fiction had all her joy been built upon! Such aninarticulate terror seemed to stop the very beating of her heart. Itwas not a great calamity only but an overthrowal of all confidence inlife; and she shivered before it like a dumb creature piteouslybeholding an approaching agony which it could not comprehend. Theutterance of her distress was arrested upon her lips, --she looked upto her brother with an entreating look, so suddenly intensified andgrown desperate that he was startled by it. It alarmed him so muchthat he turned again to lead her back to her sofa, wondering whatmomentary passion it could be which had woke such a sudden world ofconfused meaning in Louisa's eyes. 

"You may be sure he could not, " said the Curate, warmly. "Not happy, certainly; but to men like Gerald there are things in the worlddearer than happiness, " he said, after a little pause, with a sigh, wondering to himself whether, if Lucy Wodehouse were his, his dearestduty could make him consent to part with her. "If he thinks of such astep, he must think of it as of martyrdom--is that a comfort to you?"he continued, bending, in his pity and wonder, over the tremblingwife, who burst forth into fresh tears as he spoke, and forgot hermomentary horror. 

"Oh, Frank, go and speak to him, and tell him how miserable I am, andwhat a dreadful thing it would be; tell him everything, Frank. Oh, don'tleave him till you have persuaded him. Go, go; never mind me, " cried MrsWentworth; and then she went to the door after him once more--"Don't sayI sent for you. He--he might not be pleased, " she said, in herfaltering, eager voice; "and oh, Frank, consider how much hangs uponwhat you say. " When he left her, Louisa stood at the door watching himas he went along the passage towards her husband's room. It was aforlorn-hope; but still the unreasoning, uncomprehending heart took alittle comfort from it. She watched his figure disappearing along thenarrow passage with a thrill of mingled anxiety and hope; arguing withGerald, though it was so ineffectual when she tried it, might still beof some avail in stronger hands. His brother understood him, and couldtalk to him better than anybody else could; and though she had neverconvinced anybody of anything all her life, Mrs Wentworth had aninalienable confidence in the effect of "being talked to. " In themomentary stimulus she went back to her darkened room and drew up theblind, and went to work in a tremulous way; but as the slow time wenton, and Frank did not return, poor Louisa's courage failed her; herfingers refused their office, and she began to imagine all sorts ofthings that might be going on in Gerald's study. Perhaps the argumentmight be going the wrong way; perhaps Gerald might be angry at hisbrother's interference; perhaps they might come to words--they who hadbeen such good friends--and it would be her fault. She jumped up withher heart beating loud when she heard a door opened somewhere; but whennobody came, grew sick and faint, and hid her face, in the impatience ofher misery. Then the feeling grew upon her that those precious momentswere decisive, and that she must make one last appeal, or her heartwould burst. She tried to resist the impulse in a feeble way, but it wasnot her custom to resist impulses, and it got the better of her; andthis was why poor Louisa rushed into the library, just as Frank thoughthe had made a little advance in his pleading, and scattered hiseloquence to the winds with a set of dreadful arguments which were allher own. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Curate of St Roque's found his brother in his library, lookingvery much as he always looked at first glance. But Gerald was notreading nor writing nor doing anything. He was seated in his usualchair, by his usual table, with all the ordinary things around. Somemanuscript--lying loosely about, and looking as if he had thrown downhis pen in disgust, and pushed it away from him in the middle of asentence--was on the table, and an open book in his other hand; butneither the book nor the manuscript occupied him; he was sittingleaning his head in his hands, gazing blankly out through the window, as it appeared, at the cedar, which flung its serene shadow over thelawn outside. He jumped up at the sound of his brother's voice, butseemed to recall himself with a little difficulty even for that, anddid not look much surprised to see him. In short, Frank read inGerald's eyes that he would not at that moment have been surprised tosee any one, and that, in his own consciousness, the emergency wasgreat enough to justify any unlooked-for appearance, though it mightbe from heaven or from the grave. 

"I am glad you have come, " he said, after they had greeted each other, his mouth relaxing ever so slightly into the ghost of his old smile;"you and I always understood each other, and it appears I wantinterpretation now. And one interpretation supposes many, " he saidwith a gleam, half of pathos half of amusement, lighting up his facefor a moment; "there is no such thing as accepting a simple versioneven of one man's thoughts. You have come at a very fit time, Frank--that is, for me. "

"I am glad you think so, " said the other brother; and then there was apause, neither liking to enter upon the grand subject which stoodbetween them. 

"Have you seen Louisa?" said Gerald. He spoke like a man who was ill, in a preoccupied interrupted way. Like a sick man, he was occupiedwith himself, with the train of thought which was always going on inhis mind whatever he might be doing, whether he was working orresting, alone or in company. For months back he had carried it withhim everywhere. The cedar-tree outside, upon which his thoughtful eyesfell as he looked straight before him out of the library window, wasall garlanded with the reasonings and questionings of this painfulspring. To Frank's eyes, Gerald's attention was fixed upon thefluttering of a certain twig at the extremity of one of those broadsolemn immovable branches. Gerald, however, saw not the twig, but oneof his hardest difficulties which was twined and twined in the mostinextricable way round that little sombre cluster of spikes; and sokept looking out, not at the cedar, but at the whole confused yetdistinct array of his own troubled thoughts. 

"If you have seen Louisa, she has been talking to you, no doubt, " hesaid, after another little pause, with again the glimmer of a smile. "Wehave fallen upon troubles, and we don't understand each other, Frank. That's all very natural; she does not see things from my point of view:I could not expect she should. If I could see from hers, it might beeasier for us all; but that is still less to be expected; and it is hardupon her, Frank--very hard, " said Gerald, turning round in his oldingenuous way, with that faculty for seeing other people's difficultieswhich was so strong a point in his character. "She is called upon tomake, after all, perhaps, the greater sacrifice of the two; and she doesnot see any duty in it--the reverse, indeed. She thinks it a sin. It isa strange view of life, to look at it from Louisa's point. Here will bean unwilling, unintentional martyrdom; and it is hard to think I shouldtake all the merit, and leave my poor little wife the suffering withoutany compensation!" He began to walk up and down the room with uneasysteps, as if the thought was painful, and had to be got rid of by somesudden movement. "It must be that God reckons with women for what theyhave endured, as with men for what they have done, " said Gerald. Hespoke with a kind of grieved certainty, which made his brother feel, tostart with, the hopelessness of all argument. 

"But must this be? Is it necessary to take such a final, such aterrible step?" said the Perpetual Curate. 

"I think so. " Gerald went to the window, to resume his contemplationof the cedar, and stood there with his back turned to Frank, and hiseyes going slowly over all the long processes of his self-argument, laid up as they were upon those solemn levels of shadow. "Yes--youhave gone so far with me; but I don't want to take you any farther, Frank. Perhaps, when I have reached the perfect peace to which I amlooking forward, I may try to induce you to share it, but at presentthere are so many pricks of the flesh. You did not come to argue withme, did you?" and again the half-humorous gleam of old came overGerald's face as he looked round. "Louisa believes in arguing, " hesaid, as he came back to the table and took his seat again; "not thatshe has ever gained much by it, so far as I am aware. Poor girl! shetalks and talks, and fancies she is persuading me; and all the time myheart is bleeding for her. There it is!" he exclaimed, suddenly hidinghis face in his hands. "This is what crushes one to think of. The restis hard enough, Heaven knows--separation from my friends, giving up myown people, wounding and grieving, as I know I shall, everybody wholoves me. I could bear that; but Louisa and her children--God help me, there's the sting!"

They were both men, and strong men, not likely to fall into anysentimental weakness; but something between a groan and a sob, wrungout of the heart of the elder brother at the thought of the terriblesacrifice before him, echoed with a hard sound of anguish into thequiet. It was very different from his wife's trembling, weeping, hoping agony; but it reduced the Curate more than ever to thatposition of spectator which he felt was so very far from the activepart which his poor sister expected of him. 

"I don't know by what steps you have reached this conclusion, " saidFrank Wentworth; "but even if you feel it your duty to give up theAnglican Church (in which, of course, I think you totally wrong, "added the High Churchman in a parenthesis), "I cannot see why you arebound to abandon all duties whatever. I have not come to argue withyou; I daresay poor Louisa may expect it of me, but I can't, and youknow very well I can't. I should like to know how it has come aboutall the same; but one thing only, Gerald--a man may be a Christianwithout being a priest. Louisa--"

"Hush, I am a priest, or nothing. I can't relinquish my life!" cried theelder brother, lifting his hands suddenly, as if to thrust awaysomething which threatened him. Then he rose up again and went towardsthe window and his cedar, which stood dark in the sunshine, slightlyfluttered at its extremities by the light summer-wind, but throwingglorious level lines of shadow, which the wind could not disturb, uponthe grass. The limes near, and that one delicate feathery birch whichwas Mrs Wentworth's pride, had all some interest of their own on hand, and went on waving, rustling, coquetting with the breezes and thesunshine in a way which precluded any arbitrary line of shade. But thecedar stood immovable, like a verdant monument, sweeping its long levelbranches over the lawn, passive under the light, and indifferent, exceptat its very tops and edges, to the breeze. If there had been any humansentiment in that spectator of the ways of man, how it must have groanedand trembled under the pitiless weight of thoughts, the sad lines ofdiscussion and argument and doubt, which were entangled in its branches!Gerald Wentworth went to his window to refer to it, as if it were a bookin which all his contests had been recorded. The thrill of the air in ittingled through him as he stood looking out; and there, without lookingat Frank, except now and then for a moment when he got excited with hissubject, he went into the history of his struggle--a history notunprecedented or unparalleled, such as has been told to the world beforenow by men who have gone through it, in various shapes, with variousamounts of sophistry and simplicity. But it is a different thing readingof such a conflict in a book, and hearing it from lips pallid with themeaning of the words they uttered, and a heart which was about to proveits sincerity by voluntary pangs more hard than death. Frank Wentworthlistened to his brother with a great deal of agreement in what he said, and again with an acute perception of mistakes on Gerald's part, andvehement impulses of contradiction, to which, at the same time, it wasimpossible to give utterance; for there was something very solemn in theaccount he was giving of himself, as he stood with his face half turnedto the anxious listener, leaning on the window, looking into the cedar. Gerald did not leave any room for argument or remonstrance; he told hisbrother how he had been led from one step to another, without anylingering touch of possibility in the narrative that he might beinduced to retrace again that painful way. It was a path, once trod, never to be returned upon; and already he stood steadfast at the end, looking back mournfully, yet with a strange composure. It would beimpossible to describe the mixture of love, admiration, impatience--evenintolerance--which swelled through the mind of the spectator as helooked on at this wonderful sight, nor how hard he found it to restrainthe interruptions which rushed to his lips, the eager arguments whichcame upon him in a flood, all his own favourite fences against theoverflow of the tide which ran in lawful bounds in his own mind, butwhich had inundated his brother's. But though it was next to impossibleto keep silence, it was altogether impossible to break in upon Gerald'shistory of this great battle through which he had just come. He _had_come through it, it was plain; the warfare was accomplished, the weaponshung up, the conflict over; and nothing could be more apparent than thathe had no intention of entering the battle-field again. When he hadended, there was another pause. 

"I am not going to argue with you, " said Frank Wentworth; "I don't evenneed to tell you that I am grieved to the heart. It isn't so very manyyears ago, " said the younger brother, almost too much touched by therecollection to preserve his composure, "since I took all my opinionsfrom you; and since the time came for independent action, I too havegone over all this ground. My conclusions have been very different fromyours, Gerald. I see you are convinced, and I can say nothing; but theydo not convince me--you do not convince me, nor the sight of your faith, though that is the most touching of all arguments. Will you go back andgo over it again?" said the Curate, spurred, by a thought of poorLouisa, to contradict himself, while the words were still on his lips. 

"No, " said Gerald; "it would be of no use, Frank. We should only grieveeach other more. "

"Then I give up that subject, " said the younger brother: "but thereis one matter which I must go back to. You may go to Rome, and ceaseto be a priest of the Anglican Church, but you cannot cease to be aman, to bear the weight of your natural duties. Don't turn away, buthear me. Gerald, Louisa--"

"Don't say any more. Do you imagine I have not thought of that?" saidGerald, once more, with a gesture of pain, and something like terror;"I have put my hand to the plough and I cannot go back. If I am not apriest, I am nothing. " But when he came to that point, his cedar-treeno longer gave him any assistance; he came back to his chair, andcovered his face with his hands. 

"Louisa is your wife; you are not like a man free from the bonds ofnature, " said the Curate of St Roque's. "It is not for me to speak ofthe love between you; but I hold it, as the Scripture says, for a holymystery, like the love of Christ for his Church--the most sacred ofall bonds, " said the young man, with a certain touch of awe andemotion, as became a young man and a true lover. He made a littlepause to regain command of himself before he continued, "And she isdependent on you--outwardly, for all the comfort of her life--and inher heart, for everything, Gerald. I do not comprehend what that dutyis which could make you leave her, all helpless and tender, as youknow her to be, upon the mercies of the world. She herself says"--andpoor Louisa's complaint grew into pathos under the subliming force ofher advocate's sympathy--"that she would be like a widow, and worsethan a widow. I am not the man to bid you suppress your convictionsbecause they will be your ruin, in the common sense of the word; but, Gerald--your wife--"

Gerald had bent his head down upon his clasped hands; sometimes agreat heave of his frame showed the last struggle that was going onwithin him--a struggle more painful, more profound, than anything thathad gone before. And the voice of the Curate, who, like his brother, was nothing if not a priest, was choked, and painful with the forceof his emotion. He drew his breath hard between his words: it was notan argument, but an admonition; an appeal, not from a brother only, but from one who spoke with authority, as feeling himself accreditedfrom God. He drew closer towards the voluntary martyr beside him, thehumbleness of his reverential love for his elder brother mingling inthat voice of the priest, which was natural to him, and which he didnot scruple to adopt. "Gerald, --your wife, " he said, in softened butfirm tones, laying his hand on his brother's arm. And it was at thismoment, when in his heart he felt that his influence might be of someavail, and when all the powers of his mind were gathering to bear uponthis last experiment, that the door opened suddenly, and poor Louisa, all flushed and tearful, in womanish hot impatience and misery thatknew no prudence, burst, without any warning, into the room. 

"I can't bear it any longer, " cried the poor wife. "I knew you weretalking it all over, and deciding what it was to be; and when one'slife is hanging on a chance, how can one keep quiet and not interfere?Oh, Gerald, Gerald! I have been a true wife to you. I know I am notclever; but I would have died to do you any good. You are not going toforsake me!" cried poor Louisa, going up to him and putting her armsround him. "I said Frank was to tell you everything, but a man cannever tell what is in a woman's heart. Oh, Gerald, why should you goand kill me! I will never oppose you any more; whatever you want, Iwill give in to it as freely as if it were my own way. I will make_that_ my own way, Gerald, if you will only listen to me. Whateverchanges you please, oh Gerald, I will never say a word, nor yourfather, nor any one! If the Bishop should interfere, we would allstand up for you. There is not a soul in Wentworth to oppose--you knowthere is not. Put anything you please in the church--preach how youplease--light the candles or anything. Gerald, you know it is true Iam saying--I am not trying to deceive you!" cried the poor soul, bewildered in her folly and her grief. 

"No, Louisa, no--only you don't understand, " said her husband, with agroan: he had raised his head, and was looking at her with a hopelessgleam of impatience in the pity and anguish of his eyes. He took herlittle hand and held it between his own, which were trembling with allthis strain--her little tender helpless woman's hand, formed only forsoft occupations and softer caresses; it was not a hand which couldhelp a man in such an emergency; it was without any grasp in it totake hold upon him, or force of love to part--a clinging impotenthand, such as holds down, but cannot raise up. He held it in a closetremulous pressure, as she stood looking down upon him, questioninghim with eager hopeful eyes, and taking comfort in her ignorance fromhis silence, and the way in which he held her. Poor Louisa concludedshe was yet to win the day. 

"I will turn Puseyite too, " she said with a strange little touch ofattempted laughter. "I don't want to have any opinions different frommy husband's; and you don't think your father is likely to do anythingto drive you out of the church? You have only given us a terriblefright, dear, " she continued, beginning to tremble again, as he shookhis head and turned away from her. "You did not really mean such adreadful thing as sending _me_ away. You could not do without me, Gerald--you know you could not. " Her breath was getting short, herheart quickening in its throbs--the smile that was quivering on herface got no response from her husband's downcast eyes. And then poorLouisa lost all her courage; she threw herself down at his feet, kneeling to him. "Oh, Gerald, it is not because you want to get rid ofme? You are not doing it for that? If you don't stay in the Rectory, we shall be ruined--we shall not have enough to eat! and the Rectorywill go to Frank, and your children will be cast upon the world--andwhat, oh what is it for, unless it is to get rid of me?" cried MrsWentworth. "You could have as much freedom as you like here at yourown living--nobody would ever interfere or say what are you doing?and the Bishop is papa's old friend. Oh, Gerald, be wise in time, anddon't throw away all our happiness for a fancy. If it was anythingthat could not be arranged, I would not mind so much; but if we allpromise to give in to you, and that you shall do what you please, andnobody will interfere, how can you have the heart to make us all sowretched? We will not even be respectable, " said the weeping woman; "afamily without any father, and a wife without her husband--and heliving all the time! Oh, Gerald, though I think I surely might beconsidered as much as candles, have the altar covered with lights ifyou wish it; and if you never took off your surplice any more, I wouldnever say a word. You can do all that and stay in the Rectory. Youhave not the heart--surely--surely you have not the heart--all for anidea of your own, to bring this terrible distress upon the childrenand me?"

"God help us all!" said Gerald, with a sigh of despair, as he liftedher up sobbing in a hysterical fit, and laid her on the sofa. He hadto stand by her side for a long time holding her hand, and soothingher, with deeper and deeper shadows growing over his face. As forFrank, after pacing the room in great agitation for some time, aftertrying to interpose, and failing, he went away in a fever ofimpatience and distress into the garden, wondering whether he couldever find means to take up the broken thread, and urge again upon hisbrother the argument which, but for this fatal interruption, hethought might have moved him. But gathering thoughts came thick uponthe Perpetual Curate. He did not go back to make another attempt, evenwhen he knew by the sounds through the open windows that Louisa hadbeen led to her own room up-stairs. He stood outside and looked at thetroubled house, which seemed to stand so serene and secure in thesunshine. Who could have supposed that it was torn asunder in such ahopeless fashion? And Louisa's suggestion came into his mind, anddrove him wild with a sense of horror and involuntary guilt, asthough he had been conspiring against them. "The Rectory will go toFrank. " Was it his fault that at that moment a vision of LucyWodehouse, sweet and strong and steadfast--a delicate, firm figure, onwhich a man could lean in his trouble--suddenly rose up before theCurate's eyes? Fair as the vision was, he would have banished it if hecould, and hated himself for being capable of conjuring it up at sucha time. Was it for him to profit by the great calamity which wouldmake his brother's house desolate? He could not endure the thought, nor himself for finding it possible; and he was ashamed to look inGerald's face with even the shadow of such an imagination on his own. He tapped at the library window after a while, and told his brotherthat he was going up to the Hall. Louisa had gone up-stairs, and herhusband sat once more, vacant yet occupied, by his writing-table. "Iwill follow you presently, " said Gerald. "Speak to my father withoutany hesitation, Frank; it is better to have it over while we are alltogether--for it must be concluded now. " And the Curate saw in theshadow of the dim apartment that his brother lifted from the table thegrand emblem of all anguish and victory, and pressed upon it his palelips. The young man turned away with the shadow of that cross standingblack between him and the sunshine. His heart ached at the sight ofthe symbol most sacred and most dear in the world. In an agony ofgrief and impatience, he went away sadly through the familiar road tohis father's house. Here had he to stand by and see this sacrificeaccomplished. This was all that had come of his mission of consolationand help. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Curate of St Roque's went sadly along the road he knew so wellfrom Wentworth Rectory to the Hall. There was scarcely a tree nor theturning of a hedgerow which had not its own individual memories to theson of the soil. Here he had come to meet Gerald returning fromEton--coming back from the university in later days. Here he hadrushed down to the old Rector, his childless uncle, with the copy ofthe prize-list when his brother took his first-class. Gerald, and thefamily pride in him, was interwoven with the very path, and now--Theyoung man pressed on to the Hall with a certain bitter moisturestealing to the corner of his eye. He felt indignant and aggrieved inhis love, not at Gerald, but at the causes which were conspiring todetach him from his natural sphere and duties. When he recollected howhe had himself dallied with the same thoughts, he grew angry with hisbrother's nobleness and purity, which never could see less than itshighest ideal soul in anything, and with a certain fierce fit oftruth, glanced back at his own Easter lilies and choristers, feelinginvoluntarily that he would like to tear off the flowers and surplicesand tread them under his feet. Why was it that he, an inferior man, should be able to confine himself to the mere accessories whichpleased his fancy, and could judge and reject the dangerous principlesbeneath; while Gerald, the loftier, purer intelligence, should get sohopelessly lost in mazes of sophistry and false argument, to the perilof his work, his life, and all that he could ever know of happiness?Such were the thoughts that passed through the mind of the PerpetualCurate as he went rapidly through the winding country-road going"home. " Perhaps he was wrong in thinking that Gerald was thus superiorto himself; but the error was a generous one, and the Curate held itin simplicity and with all his heart. 

Before he reached the house he saw his father walking under thelime-trees, which formed a kind of lateral aisle to the great avenue, which was one of the boasts of the Wentworths. The Squire was like mostsquires of no particular character; a hale, ruddy, clear-complexioned, well-preserved man, looking his full age, but retaining all the vigourof his youth. He was not a man of any intellect to speak of, nor did hepretend to it; but he had that glimmering of sense which keeps many astupid man straight, and a certain amount of natural sensibility andconsideration for other people's feelings which made persons who knew nobetter give Mr Wentworth credit for tact, a quality unknown to him. Hewas walking slowly in a perplexed manner under the lime-trees. They wereall in glorious blossom, filling the air with that mingling sense offragrance and music which is the soul of the murmurous tree: but theshort figure of the Squire, in his morning-coat, with his perplexedlooks, was not at all an accessory in keeping with the scene. He wastaking his walk in a subdued way, pondering something--and it puzzledhim sorely in his straightforward, unprofound understanding. He shookhis head sometimes as he went along, sad and perplexed andunsatisfactory, among his limes. He had got a note from Gerald thatmorning; and how his son could intend to give up living and station, andwife and children, for anything in heaven or earth, was more than theSquire could understand. He started very much when he heard Frank'svoice calling to him. Frank, indeed, was said to be, if any one was, theSquire's weakness in the family; he was as clever as Gerald, and he hadthe practical sense which Mr Wentworth prized as knowing himself topossess it. If he could have wished for any one in the presentemergency, it would have been Frank--and he turned round overjoyed. 

"Frank, my boy, you're heartily welcome home!" he said, holding outhis hand to him as became a British parent--"always welcome, butparticularly just now. Where did you come from? how did you come? haveyou eaten anything this morning? it's close upon lunch, and we'll goin directly; but, my dear boy, wait here a moment, if you're notparticularly hungry; I can't tell you how glad I am you're come. I'drather see you than a hundred pound!"

When Frank had thanked him, and returned his greetings, and answeredhis questions (which the Squire had forgotten), and made his owninquiries, to which Mr Wentworth replied only by a hasty nod, and an"Oh yes, thank you, all well--all well, " the two came to a momentarypause: they had nothing particular to add about their happiness inseeing each other; and as Frank wrote to his sisters pretty regularly, there was nothing to tell. They were quite free to plunge at once, asis to British relatives under the trying circumstances of a meeting ablessed possibility, into the first great subject which happened to beat hand. 

"Have you heard anything about Gerald?" said Mr Wentworth, abruptly;"perhaps you called there on your way from the station? Gerald has gotinto a nice mess. He wrote to tell me about it, and I can't make headnor tail of it. Do you think he's a little touched here?" and theSquire tapped his own round forehead, with a troubled look: "there'sno other explanation possible that I can see: a good living, a nicehouse, a wife that just suits him (and it's not everybody that wouldsuit Gerald), and a lot of fine children--and he talks to me of givingup everything; as if a man could give up everything! It's all verywell talking of self-renunciation, and so forth; and if it meantsimply considering other people, and doing anything disagreeable foranybody's sake, I don't know a man more likely than my son Gerald. Your brother's a fine fellow, Frank--a noble sort of fellow, thoughhe has his crotchets, " said the father, with a touch of involuntarypathos; "but you don't mean to tell me that my son, a man like GeraldWentworth, has a mind to throw away his position, and give up all theduties of his life? He can't do it, sir! I tell you it's impossible, and I won't believe it. " Mr Wentworth drew up his shirt-collar, andkicked away a fallen branch with his foot, and looked insulted andangry. It was a dereliction of which he would not suppose thepossibility of a Wentworth being guilty. It did not strike him as aconflict between belief and non-belief; but on the question of a manabandoning his post, whatever it might be, the head of the house heldstrong views. 

"I agree it's impossible; but it looks as if it were true, " said theCurate. "I don't understand it any more than you do; but I am afraidwe shall have to address ourselves to the reality all the same. Geraldhas made up his mind that the Church of Rome is the only true Church, and therefore he is in a false position in the Church of England: hecan't remain a priest of the Anglican communion with such views, anymore than a man could fight against his country, or in a wrongquarrel--"

"But, good heavens, sir!" said the Squire, interrupting him, "is it atime to inquire into the quarrel when you're on the ground? Will youtell me, sir, that my son Charley should have gone into the questionbetween Russia and England when he was before Sebastopol--anddeserted, " said Mr Wentworth, with a snort of infinite scorn, "if hefound the Czar had right on his side? God bless my soul! that'sstriking at the root of everything. As for the Church of Rome, it'sAntichrist--why, every child in the village school could tell youthat; and if Gerald entertains any such absurd ideas, the thing forhim to do is to read up all that's been written on the subject, andget rid of his doubts as soon as possible. The short and the long ofit is, " said the troubled Squire, who found it much the easiest way tobe angry, "that you ask me to believe that your brother Gerald is afool and a coward; and I won't believe it, Frank, if you should preachto me for a year. "

"And for my part, I would stake my life on his wisdom and hiscourage, " said the Curate, with a little heat; "but that is not thequestion--he believes that truth and honour require him to leave hispost. There is something more involved which we might yet prevent. Ihave been trying, but Louisa interrupted me--I don't know if yourealise fully what he intends. Gerald cannot cease to be a priest--hewill become a Catholic priest when he ceases to be Rector ofWentworth--and that implies--"

"God bless my soul!" cried the bewildered Squire--he was silent for along time after he had uttered that benediction. He took out Gerald'sletter and read it over while the two walked on in silence under thelime-trees, and the paper shook in his hands, notwithstanding all hissteadiness. When he spoke again, it was only after two or threeefforts to clear his voice. "I can't make out that he says _that_, Frank--I don't see that _that's_ what he means, " said Mr Wentworth, ina fainter tone than usual; and then he continued, with more agitation, "Louisa is a dear good soul, you know; but she's a bit of a fool, likemost women. She always takes the worst view--if she can get a good cryout of anything, she will. It's she that's put this fancy into yourhead, eh? You don't say you had it from Gerald himself? You don't meanto tell me that? By Jove, sir!--by heaven, sir!" cried the excitedSquire, blazing up suddenly in a burst of passion, "he can't be anyson of mine--For any damnable Papistical madness to give up his wife!Why, God bless us, he was a man, wasn't he, before he became a priest?A priest! He's not a priest--he's a clergyman, and the Rector ofWentworth. I can't believe it--I won't believe it!" said the head ofthe house, with vehemence. "Tell me one of my sons is a sneak and atraitor!--and if you weren't another of my sons, sir, I'd knock youdown for your pains. " In the excitement of the moment Mr Wentworthcame full force against a projecting branch which he did not see, ashe spoke these words; but though the sudden blow half stunned him, hedid not stop in his vehement contradiction. "It can't be. I tell youit can't--it shan't be, Frank!" cried the Squire. He would not pay anyattention to the Curate's anxieties, or accept the arm Frank offered, though he could not deny feeling faint and giddy after the blow. Ittook away all the colour from his ruddy face, and left him pale, witha red welt across his forehead, and wonderfully unlike himself. "Confound it! I told Miles to look after that tree weeks ago. If hethinks I'll stand his carelessness, he's mistaken, " said Mr Wentworth, by way of relieving himself. He was a man who always eased his mind bybeing angry with somebody when anything happened to put him out. 

"My dear father, " said the Curate as soon as it was practicable, "Iwant you to listen to me and help me; there's only one thing to bedone that I can see. Gerald is in a state of high excitement, fit forany martyrdom. We can't keep him back from one sacrifice, but by allthe force we can gather we must detain him from the other. He must beshown that he can't abandon his natural duties. He was a man before hewas a priest, as you say; he can no more give up his duty to Louisathan he can give up his own life. It is going on a false ideaaltogether; but falsehood in anything except in argument could neverbe named or dreamed of in connection with Gerald, " said his brother, with some emotion; "we all know that. "

There was another pause of a few minutes, during which they walked onside by side without even the heart to look at each other. "If it hadbeen Huxtable or Plumstead, or any other fool, " burst forth theSquire, after that interval, "but Gerald!" Huxtable was the husband ofthe eldest Miss Wentworth, and Plumstead was the Squire's sister'sson, so the comparison was all in the family. "I suppose your auntLeonora would say such a thing was sent to bring down my pride andkeep me low, " said Mr Wentworth, bitterly. "Jack being what he is, was it anything but natural that I should be proud of Gerald? Therenever was any evil in him, that I could see, from a child; butcrotchety, always crotchety, Frank. I can see it now. It must havebeen their mother, " said the Squire, meditatively; "she died veryyoung, poor girl! her character was not formed. As for _your_ dearmother, my boy, she was always equal to an emergency; she would havegiven us the best of advice, had she been spared to us this day. MrsWentworth is absorbed in her nursery, as is natural, and I should notcare to consult her much on such a subject. But, Frank, whatever youcan do or say, trust to me to back you out, " said the anxious fatherof three families. "Your mother was the most sensible woman I everknew, " he continued, with a patriarchal composure. "Nobody could evermanage Jack and Gerald as she did. She'd have seen at a glance what todo now. As for Jack, he is not assistance to anybody; but I consideryou very like your mother, Frank. If anybody can help Gerald, it willbe you. He has got into some ridiculous complications, you know--thatmust be the explanation of it. You have only to talk to him, and clearup the whole affair, " said the Squire, recovering himself a little. Hebelieved in "talking to, " like Louisa, and like most people who areutterly incapable of talking to any purpose. He took some courage fromthe thought, and recovered his colour a little. "There is the bell forluncheon, and I am very glad of it, " he said; "a glass of sherry willset me all right. Don't say anything to alarm Mrs Wentworth. WhenGerald comes we'll retire to the library, and go into the mattercalmly, and between us we will surely be able to convince him. I'llhumour him, for my part, as far as my conscience will allow me. Wemust not give in to him, Frank. He will give it up if we show a veryfirm front and yield nothing, " said the Squire, looking with anunusually anxious eye in his son's face. 

"For my part, I will not enter into the controversy between theChurches, " said the Curate; "it is mere waste of time. I must confinemyself to the one point. If he must forsake us, he must, and I can'tstop him: but he must not forsake his wife. "

"Tut--it's impossible!" said the Squire; "it's not to be thought offor a moment. You must have given undue importance to something thatwas said. Things will turn out better than you think. " They were verynearly at the great entrance when these words were said, and MrWentworth took out his handkerchief and held it to his forehead toveil the mark, until he could explain it, from the anxious eye of hiswife. "If the worst should come to the worst, as you seem to think, "he said, with a kind of sigh, "I should at least be able to providefor you, Frank. Of course, the Rectory would go to you; and you don'tseem to have much chance of Skelmersdale, so far as I can learn. Leonora's a very difficult person to deal with. God bless my soul!"exclaimed the Squire--"depend upon it, she has had something to dowith this business of Gerald's. She's goaded him into it, with herLow-Church ways. She's put poor Louisa up to worrying him; there'swhere it is. I did not see how your brother could possibly have falleninto such a blunder of his own accord. But come to luncheon; you mustbe hungry. You will think the boys grown, Frank; and I must ask youwhat you think, when you have a little leisure, of Cuthbert and Guy. "

So saying, the Squire led the way into the house; he had been muchappalled by the first hint of this threatened calamity, and wasseriously distressed and anxious still; but he was the father of manysons, and the misfortunes or blunders of one could not occupy all hisheart. And even the Curate, as he followed his father into the house, felt that Louisa's words, so calmly repeated, "Of course, the Rectorywill go to you, " went tingling to his heart like an arrow, painfullyrecalling him, in the midst of his anxiety, to a sense of his owninterests and cares. Gerald was coming up the avenue at the momentslowly, with all the feelings of a man going to the stake. He waslooking at everything round as a dying man might, not knowing whatterrible revolution of life might have happened before he saw themagain--

 "He looked on hill, and sea, and shore, As he might never see them more. "

Life was darkened over to his preoccupied eyes, and the composure ofnature jarred upon him, as though it were carelessness and indifferenceto the fate which he felt to be coming in the air. He thought nothingless than that his father and brother were discussing him with hearts asheavy and clouded as his own; for even he, in all his tolerance andimpartiality, did not make due account of the fact, that every man hashis own concerns next to him, close enough to ameliorate and lighten theweight of his anxieties for others. The prospect was all gloom toGerald, who was the sufferer; but the others found gleams of comfort intheir own horizon, which threw reflected lights upon his; for perfectsympathy is not, except in dreams. There was quite a joyful littlecommotion at the luncheon table when Frank's arrival was discovered; andhis sisters were kissing him, and his young brothers shaking his handoff, while Gerald came slowly up, with preoccupied, lingering steps, underneath the murmurous limes. All kinds of strange miseries wereappearing to him as he pursued his way. Glimpses of scenes to come--adark phantasmagoria of anticipated pain. He saw his wife and hischildren going away out of their happy house; he saw himself severedfrom all human ties, among alien faces and customs, working out a hardnovitiate. What could he do? His heart, so long on the rack, was achingwith dull throbs of anguish, but he did not see any way of escape. Hewas a priest by all the training, all the habits of his life; how couldhe give up that service to which he was called before everything, themost momentous work on earth? For ease, for happiness, for even sacredlove, could he defraud God of the service he had vowed, and go back tosecular work just at the moment when the true meaning of ecclesiasticalwork seemed dawning upon him? He had decided that question before, butit came back and back. His eyes were heavy with thought and conflict ashe went up to his father's house. All this was wearing out his strength, and sapping his very life. The sooner it was over the better would it befor all. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Very little came, as was natural, of the talk in the library, to whichthe entire afternoon was devoted. The Squire, in his way, was as greatan interruption to the arguments of the Curate as was poor Louisa inhers; and Gerald sat patiently to listen to his father's indignantmonologue, broken as it was by Frank's more serious attacks. He wasprepared for all they could say to him, and listened to it, sometimeswith a kind of wondering smile, knowing well how much more strongly, backed by all his prejudices and interests, he had put the samearguments to himself. All this time nobody discussed the practicabilityof the matter much, nor what steps he meant to take: what immediatelyoccupied both his father and brother was his determination itself, andthe reasons which had led him to it, which the Squire, like Louisa, could not understand. 

"If I had made myself disagreeable, " said Mr Wentworth; "if I hadremonstrated with him, as Leonora urged me to do; if I had put a stop tothe surplice and so forth, and interfered with his decorations or hissaints' days, or anything, it might have been comprehensible. But Inever said a syllable on the subject. I give you my word, I never did. Why couldn't he have sent down for Louisa now, and dined at the Hall, asusual, when any of my sons come home? I suppose a man may change hisreligion, sir, without getting rid of his natural affections, " said theSquire, gazing out with puzzled looks to watch Gerald going slowly downthe avenue. "A man who talks of leaving his wife, and declines to dineat his father's house with his brothers and sisters, is a mystery Ican't understand. "

"I don't suppose he cares for a lively party like ours at this moment, "said the Curate: "I don't take it as any sign of a want of affection forme. "

The Squire puffed forth a large sigh of trouble and vexation as hecame from the window. "If _I_ were to give in to trouble when itappears, what would become of our lively party, I wonder?" he said. "I'm getting an old man, Frank; but there's not a young man inChristendom has more need to take care of himself, and preserve hishealth, than I have. I am very well, thank God, though I have had atouch of our Wentworth complaint--just one touch. My father had it tenyears earlier in life, and lived to eighty, all the same; but that isan age I shall never see. Such worries as I have would kill any man. I've not spoken to anybody about it, " said the Squire, hastily, "butJack is going a terrible pace just now. I've had a good deal of botherabout bills and things. He gets worse every year; and what wouldbecome of the girls and the little children if the estate were to comeinto Jack's hands, is a thought I don't like to dwell upon, Frank. Isuppose he never writes to you?"

"Not for years past, " said the Curate--"not since I was at Oxford. Where is he now?"

"Somewhere about town, I suppose, " said the aggrieved father, "orwherever the greatest scamps collect when they go out of town--that'swhere he is. I could show you a little document or two, Frank--butnow, " said the Squire, shutting up a drawer which he had unlocked andpartly opened, "I won't; you've enough on your mind with Gerald, andI told you I should be glad of your advice about Cuthbert and Guy. "

Upon which the father and son plunged into family affairs. Cuthbertand Guy were the youngest of the Squire's middle family--a "lot" whichincluded Frank and Charley and the three sisters, one of whom wasmarried. The domestic relations of the Wentworths were complicated inthis generation. Jack and Gerald were of the first marriage, a periodin his history which Mr Wentworth himself had partly forgotten; andthe troop of children at present in the Hall nursery were quite beyondthe powers of any grown-up brother to recognise or identify. It wasvaguely understood that "the girls" knew all the small fry by head andname, but even the Squire himself was apt to get puzzled. With such ahousehold, and with an heir impending over his head like Jack, it maybe supposed that Mr Wentworth's anxiety to get his younger boysdisposed of was great. Cuthbert and Guy were arrows in the hand of thegiant, but he had his quiver so full that the best thing he could dowas to draw his bow and shoot them away into as distant and as fresh asphere as possible. They were sworn companions and allies, but theywere not clever, Mr Wentworth believed, and he was very glad toconsult over New Zealand and Australia, and which was best, with theirbrother Frank. 

"They are good boys, " said their father, "but they have not any brainsto speak of--not like Gerald and you;--though, after all, I begin to bedoubtful what's the good of brains, " added the Squire, disconsolately, "if this is all that comes of them. After building so much on Gerald foryears, and feeling that one might live to see him a bishop--but, however, there's still _you_ left; you're all right, Frank?"

"Oh yes, I am all right, " said the Curate, with a sigh; "but neitherGerald nor I are the stuff that bishops are made of, " he added, laughing. "I hope you don't dream of any such honour for me. "

But the Squire was too troubled in his mind for laughter. "Jack wasalways clever, too, " he said, dolefully, "and little good has come ofthat. I hope he won't disgrace the family any more than he has done, inmy time, Frank. You young fellows have all your life before you; butwhen a man comes to my age, and expects a little comfort, it's hard tobe dragged into the mire after his children. I did my duty by Jacktoo--I can say that for myself. He had the same training as Geraldhad--the same tutor at the university--everything just the same. How doyou account for that, sir, you that are a philosopher?" said MrWentworth again, with a touch of irritation. "Own brothers both byfather and mother; brought up in the same house, same school and collegeand everything; and all the time as different from each other as lightand darkness. How do you account for that? Though, to be sure, here'sGerald taken to bad ways too. It must have been some weakness by theirmother's side. Poor girl! she died too young to show it herself; butit's come out in her children, " said the vexed Squire. "Though it's apoor sort of thing to blame them that are gone, " he added, withpenitence; and he got up and paced uneasily about the room. Who wasthere else to blame? Not himself, for he had done his duty by his boys. Mr Wentworth never was disturbed in mind, without, as his family werewell aware, becoming excited in temper too; and the unexpected nature ofthe new trouble had somehow added a keener touch of exasperation to hisperennial dissatisfaction with his heir. "If Jack had been the man heought to have been, his advice might have done some good--for aclergyman naturally sees things in a different light from a man of theworld, " said the troubled father; and Frank perceived that he too sharedin his father's displeasure, because he was not Jack, nor a man of theworld; notwithstanding that, being Frank and a clergyman, he wasacknowledged by public opinion to be the Squire's favourite in thefamily. Things continued in this uncomfortable state up to thedinner-hour, so that the Curate, even had his own feelings permitted it, had but little comfort in his home visit. At dinner Mr Wentworth did noteat, and awoke the anxiety of his wife, who drove the old gentleman intoa state of desperation by inquiries after his health. 

"Indeed, I wish you would remonstrate with your papa, Frank, " said hisstepmother, who was not a great deal older than the Curate. "After hisattack he ought to be more careful. But he never takes the leasttrouble about himself, no more than if he were five-and-twenty. Aftergetting such a knock on the forehead too; and you see he eats nothing. I shall be miserable if the doctor is not sent for to-night. "

"Stuff!" cried the Squire, testily. "Perhaps you will speak to the cookabout these messes she insists on sending up to disgust one, and leaveme to take care of my own health. Don't touch that dish, Frank; it'spoison. I am glad Gerald is not here: he'd think we never had a dinnerwithout that confounded mixture. And then the wonder is that one can'teat!" said Mr Wentworth, in a tone which spread consternation round thetable. Mrs Wentworth secretly put her handkerchief to her eyes behindthe great cover, which had not yet been removed; and one of the girlsdashed in violently to the rescue, of course making everything worse. 

"Why did not Gerald and Louisa come to dinner?" cried the ignorantsister. "Surely, when they knew Frank had come, they would have liked tobe here. How very odd it was of you not to ask them, papa! they alwaysdo come when anybody has arrived. Why aren't they here to-night?"

"Because they don't choose to come, " said the Squire, abruptly. "IfGerald has reasons for staying away from his father's house, what isthat to you? Butterflies, " said Mr Wentworth, looking at them in theirpretty dresses, as they sat regarding him with dismay, "that don'tunderstand any reason for doing anything except liking it or not likingit. I daresay by this time your sister knows better. "

"My sister is married, papa, " said Letty, with her saucy look. 

"I advise you to get married too, and learn what life is like, " said thesavage Squire; and conversation visibly flagged after this effort. Whenthe ladies got safely into the drawing-room, they gathered into a cornerto consult over it. They were all naturally anxious about him after his"attack. "

"Don't you remember he was just like this before it came on?" said MrsWentworth, nervously; "so cross, and finding fault with the made dishes. Don't you think I might send over a message to Dr Small--not to come onpurpose, you know, but just as if it were a call in passing?"

But the girls both agreed this would make matters worse. 

"It must be something about Jack, " they both said in a breath, in akind of awe of their elder brother, of whom they had a very imperfectknowledge. "And it seems we never are to have a chance of a word withFrank!" cried Letty, who was indignant and exasperated. But at leastit was a consolation that "the boys" were no better off. All next dayCuthbert and Guy hung about in the vain hope of securing the companyand attention of the visitor. He was at the Rectory the whole morning, sometimes with Gerald, sometimes with Louisa, as the scouts of thefamily, consisting of a variety of brothers, little and big, informedthe anxious girls. And Louisa was seen to cry on one of theseoccasions; and Gerald looked cross, said one little spy, whereupon hehad his ears boxed, and was dismissed from the service. "As if Geraldever looked anything but a saint!" said the younger sister, who was anadvanced Anglican. Letty, however, holding other views, confuted thisopinion strongly: "When one thinks of a saint, it is aunt Leonora onethinks of, " said this profane young woman. "I'll tell you what Geraldlooks like--something just half-way between a conqueror and a martyr. I think, of all the men I ever saw, he is my hero, " said Letty, meditatively. The youngest Miss Wentworth was not exactly of thislatter opinion, but she did not contradict her sister. They were keptin a state of watchfulness all day, but Frank's mission remained amystery which they could not penetrate; and in the evening Geraldalone made his appearance at the hall to dinner, explaining thatLouisa had a headache. Now Louisa's headaches were not unfrequent, butthey were known to improve in the prospect of going out to dinner. Onthe whole, the matter was wrapt in obscurity, and the Wentworthhousehold could not explain it. The sisters sat up brushing theirhair, and looking very pretty in their dressing-gowns, with theirbright locks (for the Wentworth hair was golden-brown of a Titian hue)over their shoulders, discussing the matter till it was long pastmidnight; but they could make nothing of it, and the only conclusionthey came to was, that their two clergymen brothers were occupied innegotiating with the Squire about some secret not known to the rest ofthe family, but most probably concerning Jack. Jack was almost unknownto his sisters, and awoke no very warm anxiety in their minds; so theywent to sleep at last in tolerable quiet, concluding that whatevermystery there was concerned only the first-born and least loved of thehouse. 

While the girls pursued these innocent deliberations, and reasonedthemselves into conviction, the Squire too sat late--much later thanusual. He had gone with Frank to the library, and sat there inhalf-stupefied quietness, which the Curate could not see withoutalarm, and from which he roused himself up now and then to wander offinto talk, which always began with Gerald, and always came back to hisown anxieties and his disappointed hopes in his eldest son. "If Jackhad been the man he ought to have been, I'd have telegraphed for him, and he'd have managed it all, " said the Squire, and then relapsedonce more into silence. "For neither you nor I are men of the world, Frank, " he would resume again, after a pause of half an hour, revealing pitifully how his mind laboured under the weight of thisabsorbing thought. The Curate sat up with him in the dimly-lightedlibrary, feeling the silence and the darkness to his heart. He couldnot assist his father in those dim ranges of painful meditation. Grieved as he was, he could not venture to compare his own distresswith the bitterness of the Squire, disappointed in all his hopes andin the pride of his heart; and then the young man saw compensationsand heroisms in Gerald's case which were invisible to the unheroiceyes of Mr Wentworth, who looked at it entirely from a practical pointof view, and regarded with keen mortification an event which would layall the affairs of the Wentworths open to general discussion, andinvite the eye of the world to a renewed examination of his domesticskeletons. Everything had been hushed and shut up in the Hall for atleast an hour, when the Squire got up at last and lighted his candle, and held out his hand to his son--"This isn't a very cheerful visitfor you, Frank, " he said; "but we'll try again to-morrow, and have oneother talk with Gerald. Couldn't you read up some books on thesubject, or think of something new to say to him? God bless my soul!if I were as young and as much accustomed to talking as you are, I'dsurely find out some argument, " said the Squire, with a momentaryspark of temper, which made his son feel more comfortable about him. "It's your business to convince a man when he's wrong. We'll tryGerald once more, and perhaps something may come of it; and as forJack--" Here the Squire paused, and shook his head, and let go hisson's hand. "I suppose it's sitting up so late that makes one feel socold and wretched, and as if one saw ghosts, " said Mr Wentworth. "Don't stay here any longer, and take care of the candles. I ought tohave been in bed two hours ago. Good-night. "

And as he walked away, the Curate could not but observe what an agedfigure it looked, moving with a certain caution to the door. The greatlibrary was so dim that the light of the candle which the Squirecarried in his hand was necessary to reveal his figure clearly, andthere was no mistaking his air of age and feebleness. The Curate'sthoughts were not very agreeable when he was left by himself in thehalf-lighted room. His imagination jumped to a picture very possible, but grievous to think of--Jack seated in his father's place, and "thegirls" and the little children turned out upon the world. In such acase, who would be their protector and natural guardian? Not Gerald, who was about to divest himself of ties still closer and more sacred. The Curate lit his candle too, and went hastily to his room when thatthought came upon him. There might be circumstances still morehopeless and appalling than the opposition of a rector or the want ofa benefice. He preferred to return to his anxiety about Gerald, and toput away that thought, as he went hurriedly up-stairs. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

"The sum of it all is, that you won't hear any reason, Gerald, " saidthe Squire. "What your brother says, and what I say, are nothing; yourpoor wife is nothing; and all a man's duties, sir, in life--all yourresponsibilities, everything that is considered most sacred--"

"You may say what you will to me, father, " said Gerald. "I can'texpect you should speak differently. But you may imagine I have lookedat it in every possible light before I came to this resolution. A mandoes not decide easily when everything he prizes on earth is atstake. I cannot see with Frank's eyes, or with yours; according to thelight God has given me, I must see with my own. "

"But, God bless my soul! what do you mean by seeing with your own eyes?"said the Squire. "Don't you know that is a Protestant doctrine, sir? Doyou think they'll let you see with any eyes but theirs when you getamong a set of Papists? Instead of an easy-going bishop, and friendlyfellows for brother clergymen, and parishioners that think everythingthat's good of you, how do you suppose you'll feel as an Englishman whenyou get into a dead Frenchified system, with everything going by ruleand measure, and bound to believe just as you're told? It'll kill you, sir--that's what will be the end of it. If you are in your grave withinthe year, it will be no wonder to me. "

"Amen!" said Gerald, softly. "If that is to be all, we will notquarrel with the result;" and he got up and went to the window, as ifto look for his cedar, which was not there. Perhaps the absence of hissilent referee gave him a kind of comfort, though at the same time itdisappointed him in some fantastical way, for he turned with a curiouslook of relief and vexation to his brother. "We need not be alwaysthinking of it, even if this were to be the end, " he said. "Come downthe avenue with me, Frank, and let us talk of something else. Thegirls will grumble, but they can have you later: come, I want to hearabout yourself. "

Unfortunately the Squire got up when his sons did, which was by no meanstheir intention; but Mr Wentworth was vexed and restless, and was notwilling to let Gerald off so easily. If he were mad, at least he oughtto be made duly wretched in his madness, Mr Wentworth thought; and hewent out with them, and arrested the words on their lips. Somehoweverything seemed to concur in hindering any appeal on the part of theCurate. And Gerald, like most imaginative men, had a power of dismissinghis troubles after they had taken their will of him. It was he who tookthe conversation on himself when they went out of doors. Finding Frankslow in his report, Gerald went into all the country news for theinstruction of his brother. He had been down to the very depths duringthe two previous days, and now he had come aloft again; for a man cannotbe miserable every moment of his life, however heavy his burden may be. The "girls, " whose anxieties had been much stimulated by the renewedconference held with closed doors in the library, stood watching themfrom one of the drawing-room windows. The boldest of the two had, indeed, got her hat to follow them, not comprehending why Frank shouldbe monopolised for days together by anybody but herself, his favouritesister; but something in the aspect of the three men, when they firstappeared under the lime-trees, had awed even the lively Letty out of herusual courage. "But Gerald is talking and laughing just as usual, " shesaid, as she stood at the window dangling her hat in her hand--"morethan usual, for he has been very glum all this spring. Poor fellow! Idaresay Louisa worries him out of his life;" and with this easyconclusion the elder brother was dismissed by the girls. "Perhaps Frankis going to be married, " said the other sister, who, under the livelyspur of this idea, came back to the window to gaze at him again, andfind out whether any intimation of this alarming possibility could begathered from the fit of his long clerical coat, or his manner of walk, as he sauntered along under the limes. "As if a Perpetual Curate couldmarry!" said Letty, with scorn, who knew the world. As for little Janet, who was a tender-hearted little soul, she folded her two hands together, and looked at her brother's back with a great increase of interest. "Ifone loved him, one would not mind what he was, " said the little maiden, who had been in some trouble herself, and understood about such matters. So the girls talked at their window, Mrs Wentworth being, as usual, occupied with her nursery, and nobody else at hand to teach them wisdom, and soon branched off into speculations about the post-bag, which was"due, " and which, perhaps, was almost more interesting, to one of themat least, than even a brother who was going to be married. 

In the mean time Gerald was talking of Huxtable and Plumstead, thebrother-in-law and cousin, who were both clergymen in the samedistrict, and about the people in the village whom they had known whenthey were boys, and who never grew any older. "There is old Kilweed, for example, who was Methuselah in those days--he's not eighty yet, "he said, with a smile and a sigh; "it is we who grow older and comenearer to the winter and the sunset. My father even has come down along way off the awful eminence on which I used to behold him: everyyear that falls on my head seems to take one off his: if we both livelong enough, we shall feel like contemporaries by-and-by, " saidGerald: "just now the advantage of years is all on my side; and youare my junior, sir. " He was switching down the weeds among the grasswith his cane as he spoke, like any schoolboy; the air, and perhaps alittle excitement, had roused the blood to his cheek. He did not lookthe same man as the pale martyr in the library--not that he had anyreason for appearing different, but only that inalienable poeticwaywardness which kept him up through his trouble. As for MrWentworth, he resented the momentary brightening, which he took forlevity. 

"I thought we came out here to prolong our discussion, " said theSquire. "I don't understand this light way of talking. If you meanwhat you have said, sir, I should never expect to see you smile more. "

"The smiling makes little difference, " said Gerald; but he stoppedshort in his talk, and there was a pause among them till the postboycame up to them with his bag, which Mr Wentworth, with muchimportance, paused to open. The young men, who had no special interestin its contents, went on. Perhaps the absence of their father was arelief to them. They were nearer to each other, understood each otherbetter than he could do; and they quickened their pace insensibly asthey began to talk. It is easy to imagine what kind of talk itwas--entire sympathy, yet disagreement wide as the poles--here for afew steps side by side, there darting off at the most oppositetangent; but they had begun to warm to it, and to forget everythingelse, when a succession of lusty hollos from the Squire brought themsuddenly to themselves, and to a dead stop. When they looked round, hewas making up to them with choleric strides. "What the deuce do youmean, sir, by having telegrams sent here?" cried Mr Wentworth, pitching at his son Frank an ominous ugly envelope, in blue and red, such as the unsophisticated mind naturally trembles at. "Beg yourpardon, Gerald; but I never can keep my temper when I see a telegraph. I daresay it's something about Charley, " said the old man, in aslightly husky voice--"to make up to us for inventing troubles. " TheSquire was a good deal disturbed by the sight of that ill-omenedmessage; and it was the better way, as he knew by experience, to throwhis excitement into the shape of anger rather than that of grief. 

"It's nothing about Charley, " said Frank; and Mr Wentworth blew hisnose violently and drew a long breath. "I don't understand it, " saidthe Curate, who looked scared and pale; "it seems to be from Jack;though why _he_ is in Carlingford, or what he has to do--"

"He's ill, sir, I suppose--dying; nothing else was to be looked for, "said the Squire, and held out his hand, which trembled, for thetelegram. "Stuff! why shouldn't I be able to bear it? Has he been anycomfort to me? Can't you read it, one of you?" cried the old man. 

"'John Wentworth to the Reverend--'"

"God bless my soul! can't you come to what he says?"

"'Come back directly--you are wanted here; I am in trouble, as usual;and T. W. --'"

Here the Squire took a step backwards, and set himself against a tree. "The sun comes in one's eyes, " he said, rather feebly. "There'ssomething poisonous in the air today. Here's Gerald going out of theChurch; and here's Frank in Jack's secrets. God forgive him! Lads, itseems you think I've had enough of this world's good. My heir's aswindling villain, and you know it; and here's Frank going the sameroad too. "

The Squire did not hear the words that both the brothers addressed tohim; he was unconscious of the Curate's disclaimer and eager explanationthat he knew nothing about Jack, and could not understand his presencein Carlingford. The blow he had got the previous day had confused hisbrain outside, and these accumulated vexations had bewildered it within. "And I could have sworn by Frank!" said the old man, piteously, tohimself, as he put up his hand unawares and tugged at the daintystarched cravat which was his pride. If they had not held him in theirarms, he would have slid down at the foot of the tree, against which hehad instinctively propped himself. The attack was less alarming toGerald, who had seen it before, than to Frank, who had only heard of it;but the postboy was still within call, by good fortune, and was sent offfor assistance. They carried him to the Hall, gasping for breath, and ina state of partial unconsciousness, but still feebly repeating thosewords which went to the Curate's heart--"I could have sworn by Frank!"The house was in a great fright and tumult, naturally, before theyreached it, Mrs Wentworth fainting, the girls looking on in dismay, andthe whole household moved to awe and alarm, knowing that one time orother Death would come so. As for the Curate of St Roque's, he hadalready made up his mind, with unexpected anguish, not only that hisfather was dying, but that his father would die under a fatalmisconception about himself; and between this overwhelming thought, andthe anxiety which nobody understood or could sympathise with respectingJack's message, the young man was almost beside himself. He went away inutter despair from the anxious consultations of the family after thedoctor had come, and kept walking up and down before the house, waitingto hear the worst, as he thought; but yet unable, even while his fatherlay dying, to keep from thinking what miserable chance, what folly orcrime, had taken Jack to Carlingford, and what his brother could have todo with the owner of the initials named in his telegram. He was lost inthis twofold trouble when Gerald came out to him with brightened looks. 

"He is coming round, and the doctor says there is no immediatedanger, " said Gerald; "and it is only immediate danger one is afraidof. He was as well as ever last time in a day or two. It is thecomplaint of the Wentworths, you know--we all die of it; but, Frank, tell me what is this about Jack?"

"I know no more than you do, " said the Curate, when he had recoveredhimself a little. "I must go back, not having done much good here, tosee. "

"And T. W. ?" said Gerald. The elder brother looked at the youngersuspiciously, as if he were afraid for him; and it was scarcely inhuman nature not to feel a momentary flash of resentment. 

"I tell you I know nothing about it, " said Frank, "except what isevident to any one, that Jack has gone to Carlingford in my absence, being in trouble somehow. I suppose he always is in trouble. I have notheard from him since I went there; but as it don't seem I can be of anyuse here, as soon as my father is safe, I will go back. Louisa imagined, you know--; but she was wrong. "

"Yes, " said Gerald, quietly. That subject was concluded, and there wasno more to say. 

The same evening, as the Squire continued to improve, and had been ableto understand his energetic explanation that he was entirely ignorant ofJack's secrets, Frank Wentworth went back again with a very disturbedmind. He went into the Rectory as he passed down to the station, to saygood-bye to Louisa, who was sitting in the drawing-room with herchildren round her, and her trouble considerably lightened, though therewas no particular cause for it. Dressing for dinner had of itself abeneficial effect upon Louisa: she could not understand how a life couldever be changed which was so clearly ordained of Heaven; for if Geraldwas not with her, what inducement could she possibly have to dress fordinner? and then what would be the good of all the pretty wardrobe withwhich Providence had endowed her? Must not Providence take care that itsgifts were not thus wasted? So the world was once more set fast on itsfoundations, and the pillars of earth remained unshaken, when Frankglanced in on his way to the station to say good-bye. 

"Don't be afraid, Louisa; I don't believe he would be allowed to do it, "said the Curate in her ear. "The Church of Rome does not go in the faceof nature. She will not take him away from you. Keep your heart at easeas much as you can. Good-bye. "

"You mean about Gerald. Oh, you don't _really_ think he could everhave had the heart?" said Mrs Wentworth. "I am so sorry you are goingaway without any dinner or anything comfortable; and it was so good ofyou to come, and I feel so much better. I shall always be grateful toyou, dear Frank, for showing Gerald his mistake; and tell dear auntDora I am so much obliged to her for thinking of the blanket for thebassinet. I am sure it will be lovely. Must you go? Good-bye. I amsure you have always been like my own brother--Frank, dear, good-bye. Come and kiss your dear uncle, children, and say good-bye. "

This was how Louisa dismissed him after all his efforts on her behalf. The girls were waiting for him on the road, still full of anxiety toknow why he had come so suddenly, and was going away so soon. "We havenot had half a peep of you, " said Letty; "and it is wicked of you notto tell us; as if anybody could sympathise like your sisters--yourvery own sisters, Frank, " said the young lady, with a pressure on hisarm. In such a mixed family the words meant something. 

"We had made up our minds you had come to tell papa, " said Janet, with her pretty shy look; "that was my guess--you might tell us hername, Frank. "

"Whose name?" said the unfortunate Curate; and the dazzling vision ofLucy Wodehouse's face, which came upon him at the moment, was such, that the reluctant blood rose high in his cheeks--which, of course, the girls were quick enough to perceive. 

"It _is_ about some girl, after all, " said Letty; "oh me! I did notthink you had been like all the rest. I thought you had other thingsto think of. Janet may say what she likes--but I do think it'scontemptible always to find out, when a man, who can do lots ofthings, is in trouble, that it's about some girl or other like one'sself! I did not expect it of you, Frank--but all the same, tell us whoshe is?" said the favourite sister, clasping his arm confidentially, and dropping her voice. 

"There is the train. Good-bye, girls, and be sure you write to meto-morrow how my father is, " said the Curate. He had taken his seatbefore they could ask further questions, and in a minute or two morewas dashing out of the little station, catching their smiles andadieus as he went, and turning back last of all for another look atGerald, who stood leaning on his stick, looking after the train, withthe mist of preoccupation gathering again over his smiling eyes. TheCurate went back to his corner after that, and lost himself inthoughts and anxieties still more painful. What had Jack to do inCarlingford? what connection had he with those initials, or how did heknow their owner? All sorts of horrible fears came over the Curate ofSt Roque's. He had not seen his elder brother for years, and Jack'scareer was not one for the family to be proud of. Had he donesomething too terrible to be hidden--too clamorous to let his namedrop out of remembrance, as was to be desired for the credit of theWentworths? This speculation whiled the night away but drearily, as thePerpetual Curate went back to the unknown tide of cares which hadsurged in his absence into his momentarily abandoned place. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Mr Wentworth got back to Carlingford by a happy concurrence of trainsbefore the town had gone to sleep. It was summer, when the days are atthe longest, and the twilight was just falling into night as he tookhis way through George Street. He went along the familiar street witha certain terror of looking into people's faces whom he met, and ofasking questions, such as was natural to a man who did not knowwhether something of public note might not have happened in hisabsence to call attention to his name. He imagined, indeed, that hedid see a strange expression in the looks of the townsfolk heencountered on his way. He thought they looked at him askance as theymade their salutations, and said something to each other after theypassed, which, indeed, in several cases was true enough, though thecause was totally different from anything suspected by Mr Wentworth. Anxious to know, and yet unwilling to ask, it was with a certainrelief that the Curate saw the light gleaming out from the open doorof Elsworthy's shop as he approached. He went in and tossed down histravelling-bag on the counter, and threw himself on the solitary chairwhich stood outside for the accommodation of customers, with asuppressed excitement, which made his question sound abrupt andsignificant to the ears of Elsworthy. "Has anything happened since Iwent away?" said Mr Wentworth, throwing a glance round the shop whichalarmed his faithful retainer. Somehow, though nothing was fartherfrom his mind than little Rosa, or any thought of her, the Curatemissed the pretty little figure at the first glance. 

"Well--no, sir; not much as I've heard of, " said Elsworthy, with alittle confusion. He was tying up his newspapers as usual, but it didnot require the touch of suspicion and anxiety which gave sharpness tothe Curate's eyes to make it apparent that the cord was trembling inMr Elsworthy's hand. "I hope you've had a pleasant journey, sir, and acomfortable visit--it's been but short--but we always miss you inCarlingford, Mr Wentworth, if it was only for a day. "

"I'll take my paper, " said the young man, who was not satisfied--"sothere's no news, isn't there?--all well, and everything going on asusual?" And the look which the suspicious Curate bent upon MrElsworthy made that virtuous individual, as he himself described it, "shake in his shoes. "

"Much as usual, sir, " said the frightened clerk, --"nothing new as Ihear of but gossip, and that aint a thing to interest a clergyman. There's always one report or another flying about, but them folliesaint for your hearing. Nothing more, " continued Mr Elsworthy, conscious of guilt, and presenting a very tremulous countenance to theinspection of his suspicious auditor, "not if it was my lastword--nothing but gossip, as you wouldn't care to hear. "

"I might possibly care to hear if it concerned myself, " said theCurate, --"or anybody I am interested in, " he added, after a littlepause, with rather a forced smile--which convinced Mr Elsworthy thathis clergyman had heard all about Rosa, and that the days of hisincumbency as clerk of St Roque's were numbered. 

"Well, sir, if you did hear, it aint no blame of mine, " said theinjured bookseller; "such a notion would never have come into mymind--no man, I make bold to say, is more particular about keeping tohis own rank of life nor me. What you did, sir, you did out of thekindness of your heart, and I'd sooner sell up and go off to the endof the world than impose upon a gentleman. Her aunt's took her away, "continued Mr Elsworthy, lowering his voice, and cautiously pointingto the back of the shop--"She'll not bother you no more. "

"She!--who?" cried the Perpetual Curate, in sudden consternation. Hewas utterly bewildered by the introduction of a female actor into thelittle drama, and immediately ran over in his mind all the women hecould think of who could, by any possibility, be involved inmysterious relations with his brother Jack. 

"She's but a child, " said Elsworthy, pathetically; "she don't knownothing about the ways o' the world. If she was a bit proud o' beingnoticed, there wasn't no harm in that. But seeing as there's nothingin this world that folks won't make a talk of when they've started, her aunt, as is very partic'lar, has took her away. Not as I'm meaningno reproach to you, Mr Wentworth; but she's a loss to us, is Rosa. Shewas a cheerful little thing, say the worst of her, " said Mr Elsworthy;"going a-singing and a-chirping out and in the shop; and I won't denyas the place looks desolate, now she's away. But that aint neitherhere nor there. It was for her good, as my missis says. Most things asis unpleasant _is_ sent for good, they tell me; and I wouldn't--notfor any comfort to myself--have a talk got up about the clergyman--"

By this time Mr Wentworth had awakened to a sense of the real meaning ofElsworthy's talk. He sat upright on his chair, and looked into the faceof the worthy shopkeeper until the poor man trembled. "A talk about theclergyman?" said the Curate. "About me, do you mean? and what has littleRosa to do with me? Have you gone crazy in Carlingford--what is themeaning of it all?" He sat with his elbows on the counter, looking athis trembling adherent--looking through and through him, as Elsworthysaid. "I should be glad of an explanation; what does it mean?" said MrWentworth, with a look which there was no evading; and the clerk of StRoque's cast an anxious glance round him for help. He would haveaccepted it from any quarter at that overwhelming moment; but there wasnot even an errand-boy to divert from him the Curate's terrible eyes. 

"I--I don't know--I--can't tell how it got up, " said the unhappy man, who had not even his "missis" in the parlour as a moral support. "Onething as I know is, it wasn't no blame o' mine. I as good as went downon my knees to them three respected ladies when they come to inquire. Isaid as it was kindness in you a-seeing of the child home, and didn'tmean nothing more. I ask you, sir, what could I do?" cried Mr Elsworthy. "Folks in Carlingford will talk o' two straws if they're a-seena-blowing up Grange Lane on the same breath o' wind. I couldn't do nomore nor contradict it, " cried Rosa's guardian, getting excited in hisself-defence; "and to save your feelings, Mr Wentworth, and put it outo' folks's power to talk, the missis has been and took her away. "

"To save my feelings!" said the Curate, with a laugh of contempt andvexation and impatience which it was not pleasant to hear. At anothermoment an accusation so ridiculous would have troubled him very little;but just now, with a sudden gleam of insight, he saw all thecomplications which might spring out of it to confuse further the pathwhich he already felt to be so burdened. "I'll tell you what, Elsworthy, " said Mr Wentworth; "if you don't want to make me your enemyinstead of your friend, you'll send for this child instantly, without aday's delay. Tell your wife that my orders are that she should come backdirectly. _My_ feelings! do the people in Carlingford think me an idiot, I wonder?" said the Curate, walking up and down to relieve his mind. 

"I don't know, sir, I'm sure, " said Elsworthy, who thought some answerwas required of him. To tell the truth, Rosa's uncle felt a littlespiteful. He did not see matters in exactly the same light as MrWentworth did. At the bottom of his heart, after all, lay a thrill ofawakened ambition. Kings and princes had been known to marry far outof their degree for the sake of a beautiful face; and why a PerpetualCurate should be so much more lofty in his sentiments, puzzled andirritated the clerk of St Roque's. "There aint a worm but will turnwhen he's trod upon, " said Mr Elsworthy to himself; and when histemper was roused, he became impertinent, according to the manner ofhis kind. 

Mr Wentworth gave him a quick look, struck by the changed tone, butunable to make out whether it might not be stupidity. "You understandwhat I mean, Elsworthy, " he said, with his loftiest air. "If Rosa doesnot return instantly, I shall be seriously offended. How you and yourfriends could be such utter idiots as to get up this ridiculousfiction, I can't conceive; but the sooner it's over the better. Iexpect to see her back to-morrow, " said the Curate, taking up his bagand looking with an absolute despotism, which exasperated the man, inElsworthy's face. 

"You may be sure, sir, if she knows as you want to see her, she'llcome, " said the worm which had been trampled on; "and them as asks mewhy, am I to say it was the clergyman's orders?" said Elsworthy, looking up in his turn with a consciousness of power. "That means adeal, does that. I wouldn't take it upon me to say as much, not ofmyself; but if them's your orders, Mr Wentworth--"

"It appears to me, Elsworthy, " said the Curate, who was inwardly in atowering passion, though outwardly calm enough, "either that you'vebeen drinking or that you mean to be impertinent--which is it?"

"Me!--drinking, sir?" cried the shopkeeper. "If I had been one as wasgiven that way, I wouldn't have attended to your interests not as Ihave done. There aint another man in Carlingford as has stood up forhis clergyman as I have; and as for little Rosa, sir, most folks ashad right notions would have inquired into that; but being as Itrusted in you, I wasn't the one to make any talk. I've said toeverybody as has asked me that there wasn't nothing in it butkindness. I don't say as I hadn't my own thoughts--for gentlemen don'tgo walking up Grange Lane with a pretty little creature like that allfor nothing; but instead o' making anything of that, or leading of youon, or putting it in the child's head to give you encouragement, whatwas it I did but send her away afore you came home, that you mightn'tbe led into temptation! And instead of feelin' grateful, you say I'vebeen drinking! It's a thing as I scorn to answer, " said Mr Elsworthy;"there aint no need to make any reply--all Carlingford knows _me_; butas for Rosa, if it is understood plain between us that it's your wish, I aint the man to interfere, " continued Rosa's guardian, with a smilewhich drove the Curate frantic; "but she hasn't got no father, poorthing, and it's my business to look after her; and I'll not bring herback, Mr Wentworth, unless it's understood between us plain. "

Strong language, forcible, but unclerical, was on the Curate's lips, and it was only with an effort that he restrained himself. "Look here, Elsworthy, " he said; "it will be better for you not to exasperate me. You understand perfectly what I mean. I repeat, Rosa must come back, and that instantly. It is quite unnecessary to explain to you why Iinsist upon this, for you comprehend it. Pshaw! don't let us have anymore of this absurdity, " he exclaimed, impatiently. "No more, I tellyou. Your wife is not such a fool. Let anybody who inquires about meunderstand that I have come back, and am quite able to account for allmy actions, " said the Curate, shouldering his bag. He was just aboutleaving the shop when Elsworthy rushed after him in an access of alarmand repentance. 

"One moment, sir, " cried the shopkeeper; "there aint no offence, MrWentworth? I am sure there aint nobody in Carlingford as means better, or would do as much for his clergyman. One moment, sir; there was onething I forgot to mention. Mr Wodehouse, sir, has been took bad. Therewas a message up a couple of hours ago to know when you was expectedhome. He's had a stroke, and they don't think as he'll get overit--being a man of a full 'abit of body, " said Mr Elsworthy in haste, lest the Curate should break in on his unfinished speech, "makes itdangerous. I've had my fears this long time past. "

"A stroke, " said the Curate--"a fit, do you mean? When, and how? and, good heavens! to think that you have been wasting my time withrubbish, and knew this!" Mr Wentworth tossed down his travelling-bagagain, and wiped his forehead nervously. He had forgotten his realanxiety in the irritation of the moment. Now it returned upon him withdouble force. "How did it come on?" he asked, "and when?" and stoodwaiting for the answer, with a world of other questions, which hecould not put to Elsworthy, hanging on his lips. 

"I have a deal of respect for that family, sir, " said Elsworthy; "theyhave had troubles as few folks in Carlingford know of. How close theyhave kep' things, to be sure!--but not so close as them that has goodmemories, and can put two and two together, couldn't call to mind. Myopinion, sir, if you believe me, " said the clerk of St Roque's, approaching close to the Curate's ear, "is, that it's somethingconcerning the son. "

"The son!" said Mr Wentworth, with a troubled look. Then, after apause, he added, as if his exclamation had been an oversight, "Whatson? has Mr Wodehouse a son?"

"To think as they should have been so close with the clergyman!" saidElsworthy, innocently; "though he aint no credit that they should talkof him. He's been gone out o' Carlingford nigh upon twenty year; buthe aint dead for all that; and I'm told as he's been seen about GrangeLane this last spring. I am one as hears all the talk that's a-goingon, being, as you might say, in a public position of life. Such athing mightn't maybe come to your ears, sir?" he continued, lookinginquisitively in Mr Wentworth's face; "but wherever he is, you may besure it's something about him as has brought on this attack on the oldman. It was last night as he was took so bad, and a couple of hoursago a message came up. Miss Wodehouse (as is the nicest lady inGrange Lane, and a great friend to me) had took a panic, and she wasa-crying for you, the man said, and wouldn't take no denial. If I hadknown where you was to be found, I'd have sent word. "

"Send down my bag to my house, " said the Curate, hastily interruptinghim. "Good-night--don't forget what I said about the other matter. " MrWentworth went out of the shop with a disagreeable impression thatElsworthy had been examining his face like an inquisitor, and wasalready forming conclusions from what he had seen there. He went awayhurriedly, with a great many vague fears in his mind. Mr Wodehouse'ssudden illness seemed to him a kind of repetition and echo of theSquire's, and in the troubled and uncertain state of his thoughts, hegot to confusing them together in the centre of this whirl of unknowndisaster and perplexity. Perhaps even thus it was not all bitterness tothe young man to feel his family united with that of Lucy Wodehouse. Hewent down Grange Lane in the summer darkness under the faint stars, fullof anxiety and alarm, yet not without a thrill in his heart, a sweeterunder-current of conscious agitation in the knowledge that he washastening to her presence. Sudden breaks in his thoughts revealed her, as if behind a curtain, rising to receive him, giving him her hand, meeting his look with a smile; so that, on the whole, neither Gerald'sdistress, nor Jack's alarming call, nor his father's attack, nor MrWodehouse's illness, nor the general atmosphere of vexation and troublesurrounding his way, could succeed in making the young man totallywretched. He had this little stronghold of his own to retire into. Theworld could not fall to pieces so long as he continued with eager stepsto devour the road which led to Mr Wodehouse's garden-door. 

Before he had reached that goal, however, he met a group who wereevidently returning from some little dinner in Grange Lane. Mr Wentworthtook off his hat hastily in recognition of Mrs Morgan, who was walkingby her husband's side, with a bright-coloured hood over her headinstead of a bonnet. The Curate, who was a man of taste, could not helpobserving, even in the darkness, and amid all his preoccupations, howutterly the cherry-coloured trimmings of her head-dress were out ofaccordance with the serious countenance of the Rector's wife, who was alittle heated with her walk. She was a good woman, but she was not fairto look upon; and it occurred to Mr Wentworth to wonder, if Lucy were towait ten years for him, would the youthful grace dry and wither out ofher like this! And then all at once another idea flashed upon his mind, without any wish of his. Like the unhappy lover in the ballad, he wassuddenly aware of a temptation--

"How there looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright, And howhe knew it was a fiend. "

"Of course the Rectory will go to Frank. " He could not tell why at thatmoment the words rang into his ear with such a penetrating sound. Thathe hated himself for being able to think of such a possibility made nodifference. It came darting and tingling into his mind like one of thosesuggestions of blasphemy which the devils whispered in Christian's earas he went through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He went on fasterthan ever to escape from it, scarcely observing that Mrs Morgan, insteadof simply acknowledging his bow as she passed, stopped to shake hands, and to say how glad she was he had come back again. He thought of itafterwards with wonder and a strange gratitude. The Rector's wife wasnot like the conventional type of a pitying angel; and even had she beenso, he had not time to recognise her at that moment as he wentstruggling with his demons to Mr Wodehouse's green door. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

When the green door was opened, Mr Wentworth saw at a glance thatthere was agitation and trouble in the house. Lights were twinklingirregularly in the windows here and there, but the family apartment, the cheerful drawing-room, which generally threw its steady, cheerfulblaze over the dark garden, shone but faintly with half-extinguishedlights and undrawn curtains. It was evident at a glance that the roomwas deserted, and its usual occupants engaged elsewhere. "Master'svery bad, sir, " said the servant who opened the door; "the youngladies is both with him, and a hired nurse come in besides. The doctordon't seem to have no great hopes, but it will be a comfort to know asyou have come back. Miss Wodehouse wanted you very bad an hour or twoago, for they thought as master was reviving, and could understand. I'll go and let them know you are here. "

"Don't disturb them, unless I can be of use, " said Mr Wentworth. Thelook of the house, and the atmosphere of distress and anxiety aboutit, chilled him suddenly. His visions and hopes seemed guilty andselfish as he went slowly up those familiar steps and into the house, over which the shadow of death seemed already lying. He went byhimself into the forsaken drawing-room, where two neglected candleswere burning feebly in a corner, and the wistful sky looking in as ifto ask why the domestic temple was thus left open and uncared for. After the first moment he went hastily to the windows, and drew downthe blinds in a kind of tender impatience. He could not bear thatanything in the world, even her father's danger, should discompose thesweet, good order of the place where Lucy's image dwelt. There was achair and her basket of work, and on the little table a book markedwith pencil-marks, such as youthful readers love to make; and bydegrees that breath of Lucy lingering in the silent room overcame itsdreariness, and the painful sense of desertion which had struck him atfirst. He hovered about that corner where her usual place was, feelingin his heart that Lucy in trouble was dearer, if possible, than Lucyin happiness, and hung over her chair, with a mixture of reverence andtenderness and yearning, which could never be expressed in words. Itwas the divinest phase of love which was in his mind at the moment;for he was not thinking of himself, but of her, and of how he couldsuccour and comfort her, and interpose his own true heart and lifebetween her and all trouble. It was at this moment that Lucy herselfentered the room; she came in softly, and surprised him in theoverflowing of his heart. She held out her hand to him as usual, andsmiled, perhaps less brightly, but that of course arose from thecircumstances of the house; and her voice was very measured and steadywhen she spoke, less variable than of old. What was it she said? MrWentworth unconsciously left the neighbourhood of that chair overwhich he had been bending, which, to tell the truth, he had leaned hishead upon, lover-like, and perhaps even kissed for her sake, fiveminutes before, and grew red and grew pale with a strange revulsionand tumult of feeling. He could not tell what the difference was, orwhat it meant. He only felt in an instant, with a sense of the changethat chilled him to the heart, as if somehow a wall of ice had risenbetween them. He could see her through the transparent veil, and hearher speak, and perceive the smile which cast no warmth of reflectionon him; but in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, everything inheaven and earth was changed. Lucy herself, to her own consciousness, trembled and faltered, and felt as if her voice and her looks mustbetray an amount of emotion which she would have died rather thanshow; but then Lucy had rehearsed this scene before, and knew all sheintended by it; whereas upon the Curate, in his little flush andoverflow of tenderness, it fell like a sudden earthquake, rending hisfair edifice of happiness asunder, and casting him out into unexpecteddarkness. Sudden confusion, mortification, even a sense of injury andbitterness, came swelling over his heart as he set a chair for her asfar away as possible from the corner in which he had been indulgingsuch vain and unwarrantable dreams. 

"It happened yesterday, " said Lucy; "we have not been quite able tomake out what was the cause; at least _I_ have not been able to findit out. The clerks at the office say it was something about--but thatdoes not matter, " she went on, with her sweet politeness: "you don'tcare for the details. I sometimes fancy Mary knows more than she tellsme, and I think you are in her confidence, Mr Wentworth. But I am notgoing to ask you any questions. The doctors say he is not suffering somuch as he seems to be. It is terrible to see him lie there notknowing any of us, " said Lucy, with a tremble in her voice. 

"But you thought him better some time ago?" said the Curate, whosewords choked him, and who could not endure to speak. 

"Yes, about six o'clock, " said Lucy, "he tried to speak, and put Maryin a great fright, I cannot tell why. Would you be good enough, MrWentworth, " she went on hastily, with a strange mixture of earnestnessand coldness, "if you know of anything she is keeping secret, to bidher tell me? I am able to bear anything there may be to bear--surelyas well as she is, who has had no trouble, " said Lucy, softly; and fora moment she wavered in her fixed composure, and the wall of ice movedas if it might fall. 

"Nor you?" said the Curate, bending anxiously forward to look into hereyes. He was inexpressibly moved and agitated by the inference, whichperhaps no listener less intensely concerned would have drawn fromwhat Lucy said. He could not bear that she should have any troublewhich he might not do something to relieve her of. 

"Oh, no, nor I, " said Lucy, quickly, and in that moment the softeningof tone disappeared entirely. "Mary will be pleased to see you, MrWentworth. I will go and relieve her presently. Papa is asleep justnow, and I was down-stairs giving some directions when you came in. Iwanted to ask you to look after that poor woman at No. 10. She stillkeeps living on, and I have not been able to see her today. She missesme when I don't go, " said Lucy, with a very little unconscious sigh. "Would you see her, please, to-morrow, if you have time?"

"Yes, certainly, " said the Curate; and then there was a pause. "Isthere nothing but this that you will let me do for you?" he asked, trusting to his looks to show the heart, which at this moment he wasso much tempted to disclose to her, but dared not. And even in all hertrouble Lucy was too much of a woman to neglect an opportunity sotempting. 

"Thank you, " she said. "Yes, there are those poor little Bertrams Iwas to have seen today--if you would be so very good as to send someone to them. " Lucy lifted her eyes only as she ended this littlespeech. She had meant it cruelly, to be sure, and the arrow had gonehome; but when she met the look that was fixed on her after her littleshaft was fired, Lucy's resolution faltered. The tears came rushing toher eyes so hot and rapid that she could not restrain them. Sometrouble of her own gave poignancy to that outbreak of filial grief. "Papa is so very ill!" she said, with a sob, as a scalding drop fellupon her hand; and then got up suddenly, afraid of the consequences. But the Curate, mortified, wounded, and disheartened as he was, had nocomprehension either of the bitterness or the relenting that was inLucy's thoughts. Rosa Elsworthy did not so much as occur to him in allhis confused wonderings. He went after her to the door, too muchperplexed and distressed to be indignant, as his first impulse was. She turned half round, with a tremulous little inclination of herhead, which was all the good-night she could venture on. But the youngman was too much disturbed to permit this. 

"You will give me your hand, surely, " he said, taking it, and holding itfast--a hand so different from that weak woman's hand that clung toGerald without any force to hold him, in Wentworth Rectory. Thosereluctant fingers, so firm and so soft, which scorned any struggle towithdraw themselves, but remained passive in his with a more effectualprotest still against his grasp, wrung the very heart of the PerpetualCurate. He let them go with a sigh of vexation and disappointment. "Since that is all I can do, I will do it, " he said--"that or anythingelse. " She had left him almost before the words were said; and it was ina very disconsolate mood that he turned back into the deserteddrawing-room. To tell the truth, he forgot everything else for themoment, asking himself what it could mean; and walked about stumblingover the chairs, feeling all his little edifice of personal consolationfalling to the winds, and not caring much though everything else shouldfollow. He was in this state of mind when Miss Wodehouse came to him, moving with noiseless steps, as everybody did in the stricken house. 

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, I am so glad you have come, " said that mild woman, holding out both her hands to him. She was too much agitated to sayanything more. She was not equal to the emergency, or any emergency, but sank down on a chair, and relieved herself by tears, while theCurate stood anxiously by, waiting for what she had to say to him. "Myfather is very ill, " she said, like Lucy, through her crying; "I don'tknow what good anybody can do; but thank God you've come home--now Ishall feel I have somebody to apply to, whatever happens, " said poorMiss Wodehouse, drying the eyes that were suffused again the nextmoment. Her helpless distress did not overwhelm the spectator, likeLucy's restrained trouble, but that was natural enough. 

"Tell me about it, " said Mr Wentworth; "the cause--can I guess at thecause? it is something about your--"

"Oh hush! don't say his name, " cried Miss Wodehouse. "Yes, yes, whatelse could it be? Oh, Mr Wentworth, will you close the door, please, and see that there's no one about. I dare not speak to you till I amsure there's no one listening; not that I suspect anybody oflistening, " said the distressed woman; "but one never knows. I amafraid it is all my fault, " she continued, getting up suddenly to seethat the windows were closed. "I ought to have sent him away, insteadof putting my trouble upon you; and now he is in greater danger thanever. Oh, Mr Wentworth, I meant it for the best; and now, unless youcan help us, I don't know what I am to do. "

"I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong, " said the Curate, making her sit down, and drawing a chair close to her. He took herhand, by way of compelling her attention--a fair, soft hand, too, inits restless, anxious way. He held it in a brotherly grasp, trying torestore her to coherence, and induce her to speak. 

"I don't know enough about business to tell you, " she said. "He was indanger when I threw him upon your charity; and oh, Mr Wentworth, thankyou, thank you a thousand times, for taking him in like a brother. IfLucy only knew! But I don't feel as if I dared to tell her--and yet Isometimes think I ought, for your--I mean for all our sakes. Yes, I willtry to explain it if I can; but I can't--indeed I don't understand, "cried the poor lady, in despair. "It is something about a bill--it wassomething about a bill before; and I thought I could soften papa, andpersuade him to be merciful; but it has all turned to greaterwretchedness and misery. The first one was paid, you know, and I thoughtpapa might relent;--but--don't cast us off, Mr Wentworth--don't go anddenounce him; you might, but you will not. It would be justice, Iacknowledge, " cried the weeping woman; "but there is something higherthan justice even in this world. You are younger than I am, and so isLucy; but you are better than me, you young people, and you must be moremerciful too. I have seen you going among the poor people and among thesick, and I could not have done it; and you won't forsake me--oh, MrWentworth, you won't forsake me, when you know that my trouble isgreater than I can bear!"

"I will not forsake you, " said the Curate; "but tell me what it is. Ihave been summoned to Carlingford by my brother, and I am bewilderedand disturbed beyond what I can tell you--"

"By your brother?" said Miss Wodehouse, with her unfailing instinct ofinterest in other people. "I hope there is no trouble in your ownfamily, Mr Wentworth. One gets so selfish when one is in greatdistress. I hope he is not ill. It sounds as if there was comfort inthe very name of a brother, " said the gentle woman, drying her tears, "and I hope it is so with you; but it isn't always so. I hope you willfind he is better when you get home. I am very, very sorry to hearthat you are in trouble too. "

Mr Wentworth got up from his chair with a sigh of impatience. "Willnobody tell me what is the matter?" he said. "Mr Wodehouse is ill, andthere is some mysterious cause for it; and you are miserable, andthere is a cause for that too; and I am to do something to set thingsright without knowing what is wrong. Will you not tell me? What is it?Has your--"

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, don't say anybody's name--don't speak so loud. There may be a servant in the staircase or something, " cried MissWodehouse. "I hear somebody coming now. " She got up to listen, herface growing white with panic, and went a few steps towards the door, and then tottered into another chair, unable to command herself. Acertain sick thrill of apprehension came over the Curate, too, as hehastened forward. He could not tell what he was afraid of, or whetherit was only the accumulated agitation of the day that made him weak. Somebody was coming up the stairs, and towards the room, with afootstep more careless than those stealthy steps with which all theservants were stealing about the house. Whoever he was, he stopped atthe door a moment, and then looked cautiously in. When he saw thefigure of the Curate in the imperfect light, he withdrew his headagain as if deliberating with himself, and then, with a sudden rush, came in, and shut the door after him. "Confound these servants, they're always prowling about the house, " said the new-comer. He wasan alarming apparition in his great beard and his shabbiness, and thefugitive look he had. "I couldn't help it, " he broke forth, with aspontaneous burst of apology and self-defence. "I heard he was ill, and I couldn't keep quiet. How is he? You don't mean to say _that's_my fault. Molly, can't you speak to me? How could I tell I should findyou and the parson alone here, and all safe? I might have been riskingmy--my--freedom--everything I care for; but when I heard he was ill, Icouldn't stay quiet. Is he dying?--what's the matter? Molly, can't youspeak?"

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, somebody will see him, " cried Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands. "Oh Tom, Tom, how could you do it? Supposesomebody was to come in--John or somebody. If you care for your ownlife, oh, go away, go away!"

"They can't touch my life, " said the stranger, sullenly. "I daresayshe doesn't know that. Nor the parson need not look superior--thereare more people concerned than I; but if I've risked everything tohear, you may surely tell me how the old man is. "

"If it was love that brought you, " said poor Miss Wodehouse; "but oh, Tom, you know I can't believe that. He is very, very ill; and it isyou that have done it, " cried the mild woman, in a little gush ofpassion--"you whom he has forgiven and forgiven till his heart issick. Go away, I tell you, go away from the house that you haveshamed. Oh, Mr Wentworth, take him away, " she cried, turning to theCurate with clasped hands--"tell him to hide--to fly--or he'll betaken: he will not be forgiven this time; and if my father--if my dearfather dies--" But when she got so far her agitation interrupted her. She kept her eyes upon the door with a wild look of terror, and wavedher helpless hands to warn the intruder away. 

"If he dies, matters will be altered, " said the stranger: "you and Imight change places then, for that matter. I'm going away fromCarlingford. I can't stay in such a wretched hole any longer. It'sgout or something?" said the man, with a tone of nature breakingthrough his bravado--"it's not anything that has happened? Say so, andI'll never trouble you more. "

"Oh, if Lucy were to see him!" said poor Miss Wodehouse. The wordscame unawares out of her heart without any thought; but the next thingof which she was conscious was that the Perpetual Curate had laid hishand on the stranger's arm, and was leading him reluctantly away. "Iwill tell you all you want to know, " said Mr Wentworth, "but nothere;" and with his hand upon the other's arm, moved him somehow withan irresistible command, half physical, half mental, to the door. Before Miss Wodehouse could say anything they were gone; before shecould venture to draw that long sighing breath of relief, she heardthe door below close, and the retreating footsteps in the garden. Butthe sound, thankful though she was, moved her to another burst ofbitter tears. "To think I should have to tell a stranger to take himaway, " she sobbed, out of the anguish of her heart; and sat weepingover him with a relenting that wrung her tender spirit, without powerto move till the servant came up with alarmed looks to ask if any onehad come in in his absence. "Oh, no; it was only Mr Wentworth--anda--gentleman who came to fetch him, " said Miss Wodehouse. And she gotup, trembling as she was, and told John he had better shut up thehouse and go to bed. "For I hope papa will have a better night, andwe must not waste our strength, " she said, with a kind of woefulsmile, which was a wonder to John. He said Miss Wodehouse was atender-hearted one, to be sure, when he went down-stairs; but that wasno very novel piece of information to anybody there. 

Meantime the Curate went down Grange Lane with that strange lodger ofMrs Hadwin's, who had broken thus into Miss Wodehouse's solitude. Theydid not say much to each other as they went sullenly side by side downthe silent road; for the stranger, whose feelings were not complicatedby any very lively sense of gratitude, looked upon his companion as akind of jailer, and had an unspeakable grudge against the man whoexercised so calm an ascendancy over him; though to be sure it mighthave been difficult to resist the moral force of the Curate of StRoque's, who was three inches taller than himself, and had theunbroken vigour of youth and health to back him. As for Mr Wentworth, he went on without speaking, with a bitterness in his heart not to beexpressed. His own personal stronghold of happiness and consolationhad shattered in pieces in that evening's interview; and as he went tohis own house he asked himself what he should find in it? Thiswretched man, with whose sins he had been hitherto but partiallyacquainted; and Jack, with whom the other had heaven knew whathorrible connection. Should he find a den of thieves where he had leftonly high thoughts and lofty intentions? It was thus, after his threedays' absence, that he returned home. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

When Mr Wentworth entered Mrs Hadwin's garden in the dark, his firstglance up at the house showed him that a certain change had passed onit also. The decorous little house had been turned inside out. Thewindows of his own sitting-room were open, the blind drawn up to thetop, and in addition to his usual lamp some candles were flaringwildly in the draught. He could see into the room as he paused at thegarden-door, and was able to distinguish that the table was stillcovered as for dinner, and to catch the purple gleam of the light inthe claret-jug which occupied the place of honour; but nobody wasvisible in the room. That wildly-illuminated and open apartment stoodin strange contrast with the rest of the house, where everything wasdark, save in Mrs Hadwin's own chamber. The Curate proceeded on hisway, after that moment's pause, with hasty and impatient steps. On theway up he encountered Sarah the housemaid, who stopped in the middleof the stairs to make a frightened little curtsy, and utter an alarmed"La!" of recognition and surprise. But Sarah turned round as soon asshe had recovered herself, to say that her missis wanted very bad tosee Mr Wentworth as soon as he came home; but she was gone up to bednow, and didn't he think it would be a pity to wake her up? The Curategave her only a little nod of general acquiescence, as he hurried on;but felt, notwithstanding, that this prompt request, ready preparedfor his arrival, was a tacit protest against his guests, andexpression of disapproval. Mrs Hadwin was only his landlady, an oldwoman, and not a particularly wise one, but her disapproval vexed thePerpetual Curate. It was a kind of sign of the times--those times inwhich it appeared that everybody was ready to turn upon him andembarrass his path. He had forgotten all about his companion as hehurried into the familiar room which was so little like itself, butyet was somehow conscious with annoyance that the stranger followedhim through its half-shut door. The scene within was one which wasnever effaced from Mr Wentworth's memory. There were several bottlesupon the table, which the poor Curate knew by sight, and which hadbeen collected in his little cellar more for the benefit of Wharfsidethan of himself. Removed out of the current of air which was playingfreely through the apartment, was some one lying on a sofa, withcandles burning on a table beside him. He was in a dressing-gown, withhis shirt open at the throat, and his languid frame extended inperfect repose to catch the refreshment of the breeze. Clouds oflanguid smoke, which were too far out of the way to feel the draughtbetween the windows, curled over him: he had a cigar in one hand, which he had just taken from his lips, and with which he was faintlywaving off a big night-moth which had been attracted by the lights;and a French novel, unmistakable in its paper cover, had closed uponthe other. Altogether a more languid figure never lay at rest inundisturbed possession of the most legitimate retirement. He had theWentworth hair, the golden-brown, which, like all their other familyfeatures, even down to their illnesses, the race was proud of, and ahandsome silky beard. He had lived a hard life of pleasure andpunishment; but though he had reached middle age, there was not a hairon the handsome reprobate's head which had changed out of its originalcolour. He looked languidly up when the door opened, but did not stopthe delicate fence which he was carrying on against the moth, nor thepolyglot oaths which he was swearing at it softly half under hisbreath. 

"Frank, I suppose, " he said, calmly, as the Curate came hastilyforward. "How d'ye do? I am very glad you've come back. The countrywas very charming the first day, but that's a charm that doesn't last. I suppose you've dined: or will you ring and order something?" hesaid, turning slowly round on his sofa. "Accidente! the thing willkill itself after all. Would you mind catching it in your handkerchiefbefore you sit down? But don't take away the candles. It's too late tomake any exertion, " said the elegant prodigal, leaning back languidlyon his sofa; "but I assure you that light is half my life. "

The Curate was tired, heated, and indignant. He lifted the candlesaway from the table, and then put them back again, too much excited tothink of the moth. "Your arrival must have been very sudden, " he said, throwing himself into the nearest chair. "I was very much surprised byyour message. It looks inhospitable, but I see you make yourself quiteat home--"

"Perfectly, " said the elder brother, resuming his cigar. "I always do. It is much more agreeable for all parties. But I don't know how it isthat a man's younger brothers are always so rapid and unreasonable intheir movements. Instead of saving that unhappy insect, you haveprecipitated its fate. Poor thing--and it had no soul, " said theintruder, with a tone of pathos. The scene altogether was a curiousone. Snugly sheltered from the draught, but enjoying the coolness ofthe atmosphere which it produced, lay the figure on the sofa atperfect ease and leisure, with the light shed brightly upon him, onhis shining beard, the white cool expanse of linen at his breast, andthe bright hues of his dressing-gown. Near him, fatigued, dusty, indignant, and perplexed, sat the Curate, with the night air playingupon him, and moving his disordered hair on his forehead; while at theother end of the room hovered the stranger who had followed MrWentworth--a broad, shabby, indistinct figure, who stood with his backto the others, looking vaguely out of the window into the darkness. Over these two the night air blew with no small force between theopen windows, making the candles on the centre table flare wildly, andflapping the white tablecloth. An occasional puff from the cigarfloated now and then across the room. It was a pause before the storm. 

"I was about to say, " said the Perpetual Curate, "that though it mightseem inhospitable, the first thing I had to ask was, What brought youhere--and why did you send for me?"

"Don't be abrupt, pray, " said Jack, taking his cigar from his mouth, and slightly waving the hand that held it. "Don't let us plunge intobusiness all at once. You bring a sense of fatigue into the room withyou, and the atmosphere was delightful a little while ago. I flattermyself I know how to enjoy the cool of the evening. Suppose you wereto--ah--refresh yourself a little, " he said, with a disapprovingglance at his brother's dusty boots, "before we begin to talk of ouraffairs. "

The Curate of St Roque's got up from his chair, feeling that he had anunchristian inclination to kick the heir of the Wentworths. As hecould not do that, he shut the window behind him emphatically, andextinguished the flaring candles on the centre table. "I detest adraught, " said the Perpetual Curate, which, unfortunately, was not astatement entirely founded on fact, though so far true in the presentinstance that he hated anything originated by the intruder. "I havehurried home in reply to your message, and I should be glad to knowwhat it means, now that I am here--what you are in trouble about--andwhy you come to me--and what you have to do with him?"

"But you need not have deranged the temperature, " said Jack. "Impetuosity always distresses me. All these are questions which itwill take some time to answer. Let me persuade you, in the firstplace, to make yourself comfortable. Don't mind me; I am at the crisisof my novel, which is very interesting. I have just been thinking howit might be adapted for the stage--there's a character that Fechtercould make anything of. Now, my dear fellow, don't stand on ceremony. Take a bath and change your dress, and in the mean time there will betime to cook something--the cookery here is not bad for the country. After that we'll discuss all our news. I daresay our friend there isin no hurry, " said the elder brother, opening his book and puffingslowly towards the Curate the languid smoke of his cigar. 

"But, by Jove, I _am_ in a hurry, though, " said that namelessindividual, coming forward. "It's all very well for you: you put a manup to everything that's dangerous, and then you leave him in thelurch, and say it don't matter. I daresay it don't matter to you. Allthat you've done has been to share the profit--you've nothing to dowith the danger; but I'm savage to-night, and I don't mean to stand itany more, " said the stranger, his great chest expanding with a pantingbreath. He, too, looked as if he would have liked to seize the languidspectator in his teeth and shake some human feeling into him. JackWentworth raised his eyebrows and looked at him, as he might havelooked at a wild beast in a rage. 

"Sit down, savage, and be quiet, " he said. "Why should I troublemyself about you?--any fool could get into your scrape. I am not inthe habit of interfering in a case of common crime. What I do, I doout of pity, " he continued, with an air of superiority, quitedifferent from his tone to his brother. But this look, which hadanswered before, was not successful to-night. 

"By Jove, I _am_ savage!" said the other, setting his teeth, "and Iknow enough of your ways to teach you different behaviour. The parsonhas treated me like a gentleman--like what I used to be, though hedon't like me; but you!--By Jove! It was only my own name I signed, after all, " he continued, after a pause, lowering his voice; "but you, you blackleg--"

"Stop a little, " said the Curate, rising up. "Though you seem both tohave forgotten it, this is my room. I don't mean to have anyaltercations here. I have taken you in for the sake of your--family, "said Mr Wentworth, with a momentary gasp, "and you have come becauseyou are my brother. I don't deny any natural claims upon me; but I ammaster of my own house and my own leisure. Get up, Jack, and tell mewhat you want. When I understand what it is, you can lounge at yourwill; but in the mean time get up and explain: and as for you, Wodehouse--"

Jack Wentworth faced round on his sofa, and then, with a kind ofinvoluntary motion, slid his feet to the ground. He looked at hisbrother with extreme amazement as he closed his novel and tossed awaythe end of his cigar. "It's much better not to mention names, " hesaid, in a half-apologetic way. "Our friend here is under a temporarycloud. His name, in fact, is--Smith, I think. " But as he spoke he satupright, a little startled to find that Frank, whom he remembered onlyas a lad, was no longer to be coerced and concussed. As for the other, he came forward with the alacrity of a man who began to see some hope. 

"By Jove, my name _is_ Wodehouse, though, " he said, in the argumentativetone which seemed habitual to him; his voice came low and grumblingthrough his beard. He was not of the class of triumphant sinners, whatever wickedness he might be capable of. To tell the truth, he hadlong, long ago fallen out of the butterfly stage of dissipation, and hadnow to be the doer of dirty work, despised and hustled about by such menas Jack Wentworth. The wages of sin had long been bitter enough, thoughhe had neither any hope of freeing himself, nor any wish to do so; buthe took up a grumbling tone of self-assertion as soon as he had anopening. "The parson treats me like a gentleman--like what I used tobe, " he repeated, coming into the light, and drawing a chair towards thetable. "My name is Wodehouse--it's my own name that I have signed afterall, by Jove!" said the unlucky prodigal. It seemed to give him a littlecomfort to say that over again, as if to convince himself. 

"As for Wodehouse, I partly understand what he has done, " said theCurate. "It appears likely that he has killed his father, by the way;but I suppose you don't count that. It is forgery in the mean time; Iunderstand as much. "

"It's my name as well as his, by Jove!" interrupted, hastily, thestranger, under his breath. 

"Such strong terms are unnecessary, " said Jack; "everybody knows thatbills are drawn to be renewed, and nursed, and taken care of. We'vehad a great failure in luck as it happens, and these ones have comedown to this deuced place; and the old fellow, instead of paying themlike a gentleman, has made a row, and dropped down dead, or something. I suppose you don't know any more than the women have told you. Theold man made a row in the office, and went off in fire and flame, andgave up our friend here to his partner's tender mercies. I sent foryou, as you've taken charge of him. I suppose you have your reasons. This is an unlikely corner to find him in, and I suppose he couldn'tbe safer anywhere. That's about the state of the case. I came down tolook after him, out of kind feeling, " said the heir of the Wentworths. "If you don't mean to eat any dinner, have a cigar. "

"And what have you to do with each other? what is the connectionbetween you?" said the Curate of St Roque's. "I have my reasons, asyou say, for taking an interest in him--but you--"

"I am only your elder brother, " said Jack, shrugging his shoulders andresuming his place on the sofa. "We understand that difference. Business connection--that's all, " he said, leisurely selecting anothercigar from his case. When he had lighted it, he turned round and fixedhis eyes upon the stranger. "We don't want any harm to happen to him, "he said, with a little emphasis. "I have come here to protect him. Ifhe keeps quiet and doesn't show, it will blow over. The keenest spy inthe place could scarcely suspect him to be here. I have come entirelyon his account--much to my own disgust--and yours, " said theexquisite, with another shrug. He laid back his head and looked up atthe ceiling, contemplating the fragrant wreaths of smoke with the airof a man perfectly at his ease. "We don't mean him to come to anyharm, " said Jack Wentworth, and stretched out his elegant limbs on thesofa, like a potentate satisfied that his protection was enough tomake any man secure. 

"I'm too much in their secrets, by Jove!" said poor Wodehouse, in hisbeard. "I _do_ know their secrets, though they talk so big. It's notany consideration for me. It's to save themselves, by Jove, that'swhat it is!" cried the indignant drudge, of whom his superior deignedto take no notice. As for Mr Wentworth, he rose from his seat in astate of suppressed indignation, which could not express itself merelyin words. 

"May I ask what share I am expected to play in the drama?" he asked, pushing his chair aside in his excitement. The elder brother turnedinstinctively, and once more slid his feet to the ground. They lookedat each other for a moment; the Curate, pale with a passion which hecould not conceal, had something in his eyes which brought shame evento Jack Wentworth's face. 

"You can betray him if you like, " he said, sulkily. "I haveno--particular interest in the matter; but in that case he hadbetter make the best of his time and get away. You hear?" said themaster-spirit, making a sign to Wodehouse. He had roused himself up, andlooked now like a feline creature preparing for a spring--his eyes werecast down, but under the eyelids he followed his brother's movementswith vigilant observation. "If you like, you can betray him, " herepeated, slowly, understanding, as bad men so often do, thegenerosities of the nature to which his own was so much opposed. 

And perhaps there was an undue degree of exasperation in the indignantfeelings which moved Mr Wentworth. He kicked off his dusty boots withan indecorum quite unusual to him, and hunted up his slippers out ofthe adjoining room with perhaps an unnecessary amount of noise andhaste. Then he went and looked out of the window into the serenesummer darkness and the dewy garden, getting a little fresh air uponhis heated face. Last of all he came back, peremptory and decided. "Ishall not betray him, " said the Perpetual Curate; "but I will have nofurther schemes concocted nor villany carried on in my house. If Iconsent to shield him, and, if possible, save him from the law, it isneither for his sake--nor yours, " said the indignant young man. "Isuppose it is no use saying anything about your life; but both of youhave fathers very like to die of this--"

"My dear fellow, " said Jack Wentworth, "we have gone through thatphase ages ago. Don't be so much after date. I have brought down myfather's grey hairs, &c. , a hundred times; and, I daresay, so has he. Don't treat us as if we were in the nursery--a parson of advancedviews like you should have something a little more novel to say. "

"And so I have, " said Mr Wentworth, with a heightened colour. "Thereare capital rooms at the Blue Boar, which you will find verycomfortable, I am sure. I don't remember that we have ever been morethan acquaintances; and to take possession of a man's house in hisabsence argues a high degree of friendship, as you are aware. It willbe with difficulty that I shall find room for myself to-night; butto-morrow, I trust, if business requires you to remain in Carlingford, you will be able to find accommodation at the Blue Boar. "

The elder brother grew very red all over his face. "I will go atonce, " he said, with a little start; and then he took a secondthought. "It is a poor sort of way of winning a victory, " he said, incontemptuous tones, after he had overcome his first impulse; "but ifyou choose that, it is no matter to me. I'll go to-morrow, as yousay--to pack up to-night is too much for my energies. In the mean timeit won't disturb you, I hope, if I go on with my novel. I don'tsuppose any further civilities are necessary between you and me, " saidJack, once more putting up his feet on the sofa. He arranged himselfwith an indifference which was too genuine for bravado, opening hisbook, and puffing his cigar with great coolness. He did all but turnhis back upon the others, and drew the little table nearer to him, inutter disregard of the fact that the Curate was leaning his arm on it. In short, he retired from the contest with a kind of grandeur, withhis cigar and his novel, and the candles which lighted him upplacidly, and made him look like the master of the house and thesituation. There was a pause for some minutes, during which the otherslooked on--Mr Wentworth with a perfectly unreasonable sense of defeat, and poor Wodehouse with that strange kind of admiration which anunsuccessful good-for-nothing naturally feels for a triumphant rascal. They were in the shade looking on, and he in the light enjoyinghimself calmly in his way. The sight put an end to various twinges ofrepentance in the bosom of the inferior sinner. Jack Wentworth, lyingon the sofa in superb indifference, victorious over all sense ofright, did more to confirm his humble admirer in the life which he hadalmost made up his mind to abandon, than even his own inclinationtowards forbidden pleasure. He was dazzled by the success of hisprincipal; and in comparison with that instructive sight, his father'sprobable deathbed, his sisters' tears, and even his own presentdiscomfort, faded into insignificance. What Jack Wentworth was, TomWodehouse could never be; but at least he could follow his great modelhumbly and afar off. These sentiments made him receive but sulkily theadmonitions of the Curate, when he led the way out of the preoccupiedsitting-room; for Mr Wentworth was certainly not the victor in thispassage of arms. 

"I will do what I can to help you out of this, " said the Curate, pausing within the door of Wodehouse's room, "for the sake ofyour--friends. But look here, Wodehouse; I have not preached to youhitherto, and I don't mean to do so now. When a man has done a crime, he is generally past preaching. The law will punish you for forgingyour father's name--"

"It's _my_ name as well as his, by Jove!" interrupted the culprit, sullenly; "I've a right to sign it wherever I please. "

"But the law, " said Mr Wentworth, with emphasis, "has nothing to dowith the breaking of your father's heart. If he dies, think whetherthe recollection will be a comfortable one. I will save you, if I can, and there is time, though I am compromised already, and it may do meserious injury. If you get free and are cleared from this, will you goaway and break off your connection with--yes, you are quite right--Imean with my brother, whatever the connection may be? I will onlyexert myself for you on condition that you promise. You will go awaysomehow, and break off your old habits, and try if it is possible tobegin anew?"

Wodehouse paused before he answered. The vision of Jack in theCurate's sitting-room still dazzled him. "You daren't say as much toyour brother as you say to me, " he replied, after a while, in hissulky way; "but I'm a gentleman, by Jove, as well as he is. " And hethrew himself down in a chair, and bit his nails, and grumbled intohis beard. "It's hard to ask a fellow to give up his liberty, " hesaid, without lifting his eyes. Mr Wentworth, perhaps, was a littlecontemptuous of the sullen wretch who already had involved him in somuch annoyance and trouble. 

"You can take your choice, " he said; "the law will respect yourliberty less than I shall;" and all the Curate's self-control couldnot conceal a certain amount of disdain. 

"By Jove!" said Wodehouse, lifting up his eyes, "if the old man shoulddie, you'd change your tone;" and then he stopped short and lookedsuspiciously at the Curate. "There's no will, and I'm the heir, " hesaid, with sullen braggadocio. Mr Wentworth was still young, and thislook made him sick with disgust and indignation. 

"Then you can take your chance, " he said, impatiently, making a hastystep to the door. He would not return, though his ungrateful guestcalled him back, but went away, much excited and disgusted, to see ifthe fresh air outside would restore his composure. On his waydown-stairs, he again met Sarah, who was hovering about in a restlessstate of curiosity. "I've made a bed for you, please, sir, in the littledressing-room, " said Sarah; "and, please, Cook wants to know, wouldn'tyou have anything to eat?" The question reminded Mr Wentworth that hehad eaten nothing since luncheon, which he took in his father's house. Human nature, which can bear great blows with elasticity so wonderful, is apt to be put out, as everybody knows, by their most triflingaccessories, and a man naturally feels miserable when he had had nodinner, and has not a place to shelter him while he snatches a necessarymouthful. "Never mind; all the rooms are occupied to-night, " said thePerpetual Curate, feeling thoroughly wretched. But Cook and Sarah hadarranged all that, being naturally indignant that their favouriteclergyman should be put "upon" by his disorderly and unexpected guests. 

"I have set your tray, sir, in missis's parlour, " said Sarah, openingthe door to that sanctuary; and it is impossible to describe the senseof relief with which the Perpetual Curate flung himself down on MrsHadwin's sofa, deranging a quantity of cushions and elaboratecrochet-work draperies without knowing it. Here at least he was safefrom intrusion. But his reflections were far from being agreeable ashe ate his beef-steak. Here he was, without any fault of his own, plunged into the midst of a complication of disgrace and vice. Perhapsalready the name of Lucy Wodehouse was branded with her brother'sshame; perhaps still more overwhelming infamy might overtake, throughthat means, the heir and the name of the Wentworths. And for himself, what he had to do was to attempt with all his powers to defeatjustice, and save from punishment a criminal for whom it wasimpossible to feel either sympathy or hope. When he thought of Jackup-stairs on the sofa over his French novel, the heart of the Curateburned within him with indignation and resentment; and his disgust athis other guest was, if less intense, an equally painful sensation. Itwas hard to waste his strength, and perhaps compromise his character, for such men as these; but on the other hand he saw his father, withthat malady of the Wentworths hanging over his head, doing his best tolive and last, like a courageous English gentleman as he was, for thesake of "the girls" and the little children, who had so little toexpect from Jack; and poor stupid Mr Wodehouse dying of the crimewhich assailed his own credit as well as his son's safety. The Curateof St Roque's drew a long breath, and raised himself up unconsciouslyto his full height as he rose to go up-stairs. It was he against theworld at the moment, as it appeared. He set himself to his uncongenialwork with a heart that revolted against the evil cause of which he wasabout to constitute himself the champion. But for the Squire, who hadmisjudged him--for Lucy who had received him with such icy smiles, andclosed up her heart against his entrance;--sometimes there is a kindof bitter sweetness in the thought of spending love and life in onelavish and prodigal outburst upon those to whom our hearts are bound, but whose affections make us no return. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The Curate went to breakfast next morning with a little curiosity anda great deal of painful feeling. He had been inhospitable to hisbrother, and a revulsion had happened such as happens invariably whena generous man is forced by external circumstances to show himselfchurlish. Though his good sense and his pride alike prevented himfrom changing his resolution of the previous night, still his hearthad relented toward Jack, and he felt sorry and half ashamed to meetthe brother to whom he had shown so much temper and so littlekindness. It was much later than usual when he came down-stairs, andJack was just coming out of the comfortable chamber which belonged ofright to his brother, when the Curate entered the sitting-room. Jackwas in his dressing-gown, as on the previous night, and came forthhumming an air out of the 'Trovatore, ' and looking as wholesomelyfresh and clean and dainty as the most honest gentleman in England. Hegave his brother a good-humoured nod, and wished him good morning. "Iam glad to see you don't keep distressingly early hours, " he said, between the bars of the air he was humming. He was a man of perfectdigestion, like all the Wentworths, and got up accordingly, in a goodtemper, not disposed to make too much of any little incivility thatmight have taken place. On the contrary, he helped himself to hisbrother's favourite omelet with the most engaging cheerfulness, andentered into such conversation as might be supposed to suit aPerpetual Curate in a little country town. 

"I daresay you have a good many nice people about here, " said Jack. "I've done nothing but walk about since I came--and it does a man goodto see those fresh little women with their pink cheeks. There's one, asister of our friend's, I believe, " he continued, with a nod towardsthe door to indicate Wodehouse--"an uncommonly pretty girl, I can tellyou; and there's a little rosebud of a creature at that shop, whom, they tell me, you're interested in. Your living is not worth much, Isuppose? It's unlucky having two clergymen in a family; but, to besure, you're going in for Skelmersdale. By the way, that remindsme--how are the aunts? I have not heard anything of them for ages. Female relations of that description generally cling to the parsons ofthe race. I suppose they are all living--all three? Some people neverseem to die. "

"They are here, " said the Curate, succinctly, "living in Carlingford. I wonder nobody has told you. "

A sudden bright spark lighted in the prodigal's eyes. "Ah, they arehere, are they?" he said, after a momentary pause; "so much the betterfor you; but in justice you ought to be content with the living. I sayso as your elder brother. Gerald has the best right to what they'vegot to leave. By the by, how are Gerald and the rest? you've just beenthere. I suppose our respected parent goes on multiplying. To think ofso many odious little wretches calling themselves Wentworth is enoughto make one disgusted with the name. "

"My father was very ill when I left; he has had another attack, " saidthe Curate. "He does not seem able to bear any agitation. Your telegramupset him altogether. I don't know what you've been about--he did nottell me, " continued the younger brother, with a little emotion, "but heis very uneasy about you. "

"Ah, I daresay, " said Jack; "that's natural; but he's wonderfullytough for such an old fellow. I should say it would take twentyattacks to finish him; and this is the second, isn't it? I wonder howlong an interval there was between the two; it would be a prettycalculation for a _post-obit_. Wodehouse seems to have brought hisancestor down at the first shot almost; but then there's no entail inhis case, and the old fellow may have made a will. I beg your pardon;you don't like this sort of talk. I forgot you were a clergyman. Irather like this town of yours, do you know. Sweet situation, and goodfor the health, I should say. I'll take your advice, I think, aboutthe--how did you call it?--Black Boar. Unless, indeed, some charitablefamily would take me in, " said the elder brother, with a glance fromunder his eyelids. His real meaning did not in the least degreesuggest itself to the Curate, who was thinking more of what was pastthan of what was to come. 

"You seem to take a great interest in Wodehouse?" said Mr Wentworth. 

"Yes; and so do you, " said Jack, with a keen glance of curiosity--"Ican't tell why. My interest in him is easily explained. If the affaircame to a trial, it might involve other people who are of retiringdispositions and dislike publicity. I don't mind saying, " continuedthe heir of the Wentworths, laying down his knife and fork, andlooking across at his brother with smiling candour, "that I mightmyself be brought before the world in a way which would wound mymodesty; so it must not be permitted to go any further, you perceive. The partner has got a warrant out, but has not put it into executionas yet. That's why I sent for you. You are the only man, so far as Ican see, that can be of any use. "

"I don't know what you mean, " said the Curate, hastily, "nor whatconnection you can possibly have with Wodehouse; perhaps it is betternot to inquire. I mean to do my best for him, independent of you. "

"Do, " said Jack Wentworth, with a slight yawn; "it is much better not toinquire. A clergyman runs the risk of hearing things that may shock himwhen he enters into worldly business; but the position of mediator isthoroughly professional. Now for the Black Boar. I'll send for my trapswhen I get settled, " he said, rising in his languid way. He had made avery good breakfast, and he was not at all disposed to make himselfuncomfortable by quarrelling with his brother. Besides, he had a newidea in his mind. So he gave the Curate another little good-humourednod, and disappeared into the sleeping-room, from which he emerged a fewminutes after with a coat replacing the dressing-gown, ready to go out. "I daresay I shall see you again before I leave Carlingford, " he said, and left the room with the utmost suavity. As for Mr Wentworth, it isprobable that his brother's serenity had quite the reverse of a soothingeffect upon his mind and temper. He rose from the table as soon as Jackwas gone, and for a long time paced about the room composing himself, and planning what he was to do--so long, indeed, that Sarah, aftercoming up softly to inspect, had cleared the table and put everythingstraight in the room before the Curate discovered her presence. It wasonly when she came up to him at last, with her little rustical curtsy, to say that, please, her missis would like to see him for a moment inthe parlour, that Mr Wentworth found out that she was there. Thisinterruption roused him out of his manifold and complicated thoughts. "Iam too busy just now, but I will see Mrs Hadwin to-night, " he said; "andyou can tell her that my brother has gone to get rooms at the BlueBoar. " After he had thus satisfied the sympathetic handmaiden, theCurate crossed over to the closed door of Wodehouse's room and knocked. The inmate there was still in bed, as was his custom, and answered MrWentworth through his beard in a recumbent voice, less sulky and moreuncertain than on the previous night. Poor Wodehouse had neither thenerve nor the digestion of his more splendid associate. He had nostrength of evil in himself when he was out of the way of it; and theconsequence of a restless night was a natural amount of penitence andshame in the morning. He met the Curate with a depressed countenance, and answered all his questions readily enough, even giving him theparticulars of the forged bills, in respect to which Thomas Wodehousethe younger could not, somehow, feel so guilty as if it had been a namedifferent from his own which he had affixed to those fatal bits ofpaper; and he did not hesitate much to promise that he would go abroadand try to make a new beginning if this matter could be settled. MrWentworth went out with some satisfaction after the interview, believingin his heart that his own remonstrances had had their due effect, as itis so natural to believe--for he did not know, having slept verysoundly, that it had rained a good deal during the night, and that MrsHadwin's biggest tub (for the old lady had a passion for rain-water) wasimmediately under poor Wodehouse's window, and kept him awake as itfilled and ran over all through the summer darkness. The recollectionof Jack Wentworth, even in his hour of success, was insufficient tofortify the simple soul of his humble admirer against that ominous soundof the unseen rain, and against the flashes of sudden lightning thatseemed to blaze into his heart. He could not help thinking of hisfather's sick-bed in those midnight hours, and of all the melancholyarray of lost years which had made him no longer "a gentleman, as heused to be, " but a skulking vagabond in his native place; and hispenitence lasted till after he had had his breakfast and Mr Wentworthwas gone. Then perhaps the other side of the question recurred to hismind, and he began to think that if his father died there might be noneed for his banishment; but Mr Wentworth knew nothing of this change inhis _protégé's_ sentiments, as he went quickly up Grange Lane. Wharfsideand all the district had lain neglected for three long days, as theCurate was aware, and he had promised to call at No. 10 Prickett's Lane, and to look after the little orphan children whom Lucy had taken chargeof. His occupations, in short, both public and private, wereoverpowering, and he could not tell how he was to get through them; for, in addition to everything else, it was Friday, and there was a litanyservice at twelve o'clock at St Roque's. So the young priest had littletime to lose as he hurried up once again to Mr Wodehouse's green door. 

It was Miss Wodehouse who came to meet the Curate as soon as hispresence was known in the house--Miss Wodehouse, and not Lucy, whomade way for her sister to pass her, and took no notice of MrWentworth's name. The elder sister entered very hurriedly the littleparlour down-stairs, and shut the door fast, and came up to him withan anxious inquiring face. She told him her father was just the same, in faltering tones. "And oh, Mr Wentworth, has anything happened?" sheexclaimed, with endless unspeakable questions in her eyes. It was sohard for the gentle woman to keep her secret--the very sight ofsomebody who knew it was a relief to her heart. 

"I want you to give me full authority to act for you, " said theCurate. "I must go to Mr Wodehouse's partner and discuss the wholematter. "

Here Miss Wodehouse gave a little cry, and stopped him suddenly. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, it would kill papa to know you had spoken to any one. You must send him away, " she said, breathless with anxiety and terror. "To think of discussing it with any one when even Lucy does notknow--!" She spoke with so much haste and fright that it was scarcelypossible to make out her last words. 

"Nevertheless I must speak to Mr Waters, " said the Curate; "I am goingthere now. He knows all about it already, and has a warrant for _his_apprehension; but we must stop that. I will undertake that it shall bepaid, and you must give me full authority to act for you. " When MissWodehouse met the steady look he gave her, she veered immediately fromher fright at the thought of having it spoken of, to gratitude to himwho was thus ready to take her burden into his hands. 

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, it is so good of you--it is like a brother!" saidthe trembling woman; and then she made a pause. "I say a brother, " shesaid, drawing an involuntary moral, "though we have never had any goodof ours; and oh, if Lucy only knew--!"

The Curate turned away hastily, and wrung her hand without being awareof it. "No, " he said, with a touch of bitterness, "don't let her know. I don't want to appeal to her gratitude;" and with that he becamesilent, and fell to listening, standing in the middle of the room, ifperhaps he might catch any sound of footsteps coming down-stairs. 

"She will know better some day, " said Miss Wodehouse, wiping her eyes;"and oh, Mr Wentworth, if papa ever gets better--!" Here the poor ladybroke down into inarticulate weeping. "But I know you will stand byus, " she said, amid her tears; "it is all the comfort I have--andLucy--"

There was no sound of any footstep on the stair--nothing but theticking of the timepiece on the mantelshelf, and the rustling of thecurtains in the soft morning breeze which came through the openwindow, and Miss Wodehouse's crying. The Curate had not expected tosee Lucy, and knew in his heart that it was better they should notmeet just at this moment; but, notwithstanding this, it was strangehow bitter and disappointed he felt, and what an impatient longing hehad for one look of her, even though it should be a look which woulddrive him frantic with mortified love and disappointed expectation. Toknow that she was under the same roof, and that she knew he was here, but kept away, and did not care to see him, was gall to his excitedmind. He went away hastily, pressing poor Miss Wodehouse's hand with akind of silent rage. "Don't talk about Lucy, " he said, half tohimself, his heart swelling and throbbing at the sound of the name. Itwas the first time he had spoken it aloud to any ear but his own, andhe left the house tingling with an indignation and mortification andbitter fondness which could not be expressed in words. What he wasabout to do was for her sake, and he thought to himself, with aforlorn pride, that she would never know it, and it did not matter. Hecould not tell that Lucy was glancing out furtively over the blind, ashamed of herself in her wounded heart for doing so, and wonderingwhether even now he was occupied with that unworthy love which hadmade an everlasting separation between them. If it had been any oneworthy, it would have been different, poor Lucy thought, as shepressed back the tears into her eyes, and looked out wistfully at himover the blind. She above-stairs in the sick-room, and he in the freshgarden hastening out to his work, were both thinking in their heartshow perverse life was, and how hard it was not to be happy--as indeedthey well might in a general way; though perhaps one glance of theCurate's eyes upward, one meeting of looks, might have resulted quitereasonably in a more felicitous train of thinking, at least for thatday. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

When Mr Wentworth arrived in the little vestry at St Roque's to robehimself for the approaching service, it was after a long and toughcontest with Mr Wodehouse's partner, which had to a great extentexhausted his energies. Mr Wodehouse was the leading attorney inCarlingford, the chief family solicitor in the county, a man looked uponwith favourable eyes even by the great people as being himself a cadetof a county family. His partner, Mr Waters, was altogether a differentdescription of man. He was much more clever, and a good deal more like agentleman, but he had not a connection in the world, and had fought hisway up to prosperity through many a narrow, and perhaps, if people spoketrue, many a dirty avenue to fortune. He was very glad of the chancewhich brought his partner's reputation and credit thus under his power, and he was by no means disposed to deal gently with the prodigal son. That is to say, he was quite disinclined to let the family out of hisclutches easily, or to consent to be silent and "frustrate the ends ofjustice" for anything else than an important equivalent. Mr Wentworthhad much ado to restrain his temper while the wily attorney talked abouthis conscience; for the Curate was clear-sighted enough to perceive atthe first glance that Mr Waters had no real intention of proceeding toextremities. The lawyer would not pledge himself to anything, notwithstanding all Mr Wentworth's arguments. "Wodehouse himself was ofthe opinion that the law should take its course, " he said; but out ofrespect for his partner he might wait a few days to see what turn hisillness would take. "I confess that I am not adapted for my profession, Mr Wentworth. My feelings overcome me a great deal too often, " said thesharp man of business, looking full into the Curate's eyes, "and whilethe father is dying I have not the heart to proceed against the son; butI pledge myself to nothing--recollect, to nothing. " And with this and avery indignant mind Mr Wentworth had been forced to come away. Histhoughts were occupied with the contrarieties of the world as hehastened along to St Roque's--how one man had to bear another's burdensin every station and capacity of life, and how another man triumphed andcame to success by means of the misfortunes of his friends. It was hardto tell what made the difference, or how humankind got divided intothese two great classes, for possibly enough the sharp attorney was asjust in his way as the Curate; but Mr Wentworth got no more satisfactionin thinking of it than the speculatists generally have when theyinvestigate this strange, wayward, fantastical humanity which is neverto be calculated upon. He came into the little vestry of St Roque's, which was a stony little room with a groined roof and windows tooseverely English in their character to admit any great amount of light, with a sensation of fatigue and discouragement very natural to a man whohad been interfering in other people's affairs. There was some comfortin the litany which he was just going to say, but not much comfort inany of the human individuals who would come into Mr Wentworth's mind ashe paused in the midst of the suffrage for "sick persons" and for thosewho "had erred and were deceived, " that the worshippers might whisperinto God's ear the names for which their hearts were most concerned. Theyoung priest sighed heavily as he put on his surplice, pondering all theobstinate selfishness and strange contradictions of men; and it was onlywhen he heard a rather loud echo to his breath of weariness that helooked up and saw Elsworthy, who was contemplating him with a verycurious expression of face. The clerk started a little on beingdiscovered, and began to look over all the choristers' books and setthem in readiness, though, indeed, there were no choristers on Fridays, but only the ladies, who chanted the responses a great deal moresweetly, and wore no surplices. Thinking of that, it occurred to MrWentworth how much he would miss the round full notes which alwaysbetrayed Lucy's presence to him even when he did not see her; and heforgot Elsworthy, and sighed again without thinking of any comment whichmight be made upon the sound. 

"I'm sorry to see, sir, as you aint in your usual good spirits?" saidthat observant spectator, coming closer up to "his clergyman. "Elsworthy's eyes were full of meanings which Mr Wentworth could not, and had no wish to, decipher. 

"I am perfectly well, thank you, " said the Perpetual Curate, with hiscoldest tone. He had become suspicious of the man, he could scarcelytell why. 

"There's a deal of people in church this morning, " said the clerk; andthen he came closer still, and spoke in a kind of whisper. "About thatlittle matter as we was speaking of, Mr Wentworth--that's allstraight, sir, and there aint no occasion to be vexed. She came backthis morning, " said Elsworthy, under his breath. 

"Who came back this morning?" asked the Curate, with a littlesurprise. His thoughts had been so much with Lucy that no one elseoccurred to him at the moment; and even while he asked the question, his busy fancy began to wonder where she could have been, and whatmotive could have taken her away?

"I couldn't mean nobody but Rosa, as I talked to you about lastnight, " said Elsworthy. "She's come back, sir, as you wished; and I_have_ heard as she was in Carlingford last night just afore you come, Mr Wentworth, when I thought as she was far enough off; which you'llallow, sir, whoever it was she come to see, it wasn't the right thing, nor what her aunt and me had reason to expect. "

The Curate of St Roque's said "Pshaw!" carelessly to himself. He was notat all interested in Rosa Elsworthy. Instead of making any answer, hedrew on the scarlet band of his hood, and marched away gravely into thereading-desk, leaving the vestry-door open behind him for the clerk tofollow. The little dangers that harassed his personal footsteps had notyet awakened so much as an anxiety in his mind. Things much more seriouspreoccupied his thoughts. He opened his prayer-book with a consciousnessof the good of it which comes to men only now and then. At Oxford, inhis day, Mr Wentworth had entertained his doubts like others, and likemost people was aware that there were a great many things in heaven andearth totally unexplainable by any philosophy. But he had always beenmore of a man than a thinker, even before he became a high Anglican; andbeing still much in earnest about most things he had to do with, hefound great comfort just at this moment, amid all his perplexities, inthe litany he was saying. He was so absorbed in it, and so full of thatappeal out of all troubles and miseries to the God who cannot beindifferent to His creatures, that he was almost at the last Amen beforehe distinguished that voice, which of all voices was most dear to him. The heart of the young man swelled, when he heard it, with a mingledthrill of sympathy and wounded feeling. She had not left her father'ssick-bed to see _him_, but she _had_ found time to run down the sunnyroad to St Roque's to pray for the sick and the poor. When he knelt downin the reading-desk at the end of the service, was it wrong, instead ofmore abstract supplications, that the young priest said over and over, "God bless her, " in an outburst of pity and tenderness? And he did nottry to overtake her on the road, as he might have done had his heartbeen less deeply touched, but went off with abstracted looks toWharfside, where all the poor people were very glad to see him, andwhere his absence was spoken of as if he had been three months insteadof three days away. It was like going back a century or two intoprimitive life, to go into "the district, " where civilisation did notprevail to any very distressing extent, and where people in generalspoke their minds freely. But even when he came out of No. 10, where thepoor woman still kept on living, Mr Wentworth was made aware of hisprivate troubles; for on the opposite side of the way, where there was alittle bit of vacant ground, the Rector was standing with some of theschismatics of Wharfside, planning how to place the iron church which, it was said, he meant to establish in the very heart of the "district. "Mr Morgan took off his hat very stiffly to the Perpetual Curate, whoreturned up Prickett's Lane with a heightened colour and quickenedpulse. A man must be an angel indeed who can see his work taken out ofhis hands and betray no human emotion. Mr Wentworth went intoElsworthy's, as he went back, to write a forcible little note to theRector on the subject before he returned home. It was Rosa who handedhim the paper he wanted, and he gave her a little nod without looking ather. But when he had closed his note, and laid it on the counter to bedelivered, the Curate found her still standing near, and looked at thelittle blushing creature with some natural admiration. "So you have comeback, " he said; "but mind you don't go into Grange Lane any more afterdark, little Rosa. " When he had left the shop and finished this littlematter, he bethought himself of his aunts, whom he had not seen since hereturned. Aunt Dora was not at her usual sentinel window when he crossedGrange Lane towards their garden-door; and the door itself was open, andsome one from the Blue Boar was carrying in a large portmanteau. MrWentworth's curiosity was strangely excited by the sight. He said, "Whohas come, Lewis?" to Miss Wentworth's man, who stood in the hallsuperintending the arrival, but ran up-stairs without waiting for anyanswer. He felt by instinct that the visitor was some one likely toincrease the confusion of affairs, and perplex matters more and more tohimself. 

But even this presentiment did not prepare him for the astonishing sightwhich met his eyes when he entered the drawing-room. There the threeladies were all assembled, regarding with different developments ofinterest the new-comer, who had thrown himself, half-reclining, on asofa. Aunt Dora was sitting by him with a bottle of eau-de-Cologne inher hand, for this meeting had evidently gone to the heart of thereturned prodigal. Aunt Dora was ready to have sacrificed all the vealin the country in honour of Jack's repentance; and the Curate stoodoutside upon the threshold, looking at the scene with the strangesthalf-angry, half-comical realisation of the state of mind of the elderbrother in the parable. He had himself been rather found fault with, excused, and tolerated, among his relations; but Jack had at once becomemaster of the position, and taken possession of all their sympathies. MrWentworth stood gazing at them, half-amused, and yet more angry thanamused--feeling, with a little indignation, as was natural, that thepretended penitence of the clever sinner was far more effective andinteresting than his own spotless loyalty and truth. To be sure, theywere only three old ladies--three old aunts--and he smiled at the sight;but though he smiled, he did not like it, and perhaps was more abruptthan usual in his salutations. Miss Leonora was seated at herwriting-table, busy with her correspondence. The question of the newgin-palace was not yet decided, and she had been in the middle of aletter of encouragement to her agents on the subject, reminding themthat, even though the licence was granted, the world would still go onall the same, and that the worst possibilities must be encountered, when Jack the prodigal made his appearance, with all the tokens ofreformation and repentance about him, to throw himself upon theChristian charity of his relations. A penitent sinner was too tempting abait for even Miss Leonora's good sense to withstand, and she hadpostponed her letter-writing to hear his explanations. But Jack had toldhis story by this time, and had explained how much he wanted towithdraw out of the world in which he had been led astray, and how sickhe was of all its whirl of temptations and disappointment; and MissLeonora had returned to her letter when her younger nephew arrived. Asfor Miss Wentworth, she was seated placidly in her usual easy-chair, smiling with equable smiles upon both the young men, and lifting herbeautiful old cheek for Frank to kiss, just as she had lifted it toJack. It was Miss Dora who was most shaken out of her allegiance; shewho had always made Frank her special charge. Though she had weptherself into a day's headache on his behalf so short a time ago, auntDora for a moment had allowed the more effusive prodigal to supersedeFrank. Instead of taking him into her arms as usual, and clinging tohim, she only put the hand that held the eau-de-Cologne over hisshoulder as she kissed him. Jack, who had been so dreadfully, inexpressibly wicked, and who had come back to his aunts to be convertedand restored to his right mind, was more interesting than many curates. She sat down again by her penitent as soon as she had saluted hisbrother; and even Miss Leonora, when she paused in her letter, turnedher eyes towards Jack. 

"So Gerald is actually going over to Rome, " said the strong-mindedaunt. "I never expected anything else. I had a letter from Louisayesterday, asking me to use my influence: as if I had any influenceover your brother! If a silly wife was any justification for a manmaking an idiot of himself, Gerald might be excused; but I suppose thenext thing we shall hear of will be that you have followed him, Frank. Did you hear anything further about Janet and that lover of hers? In alarge family like ours there is always something troublesome goingon, " said Miss Leonora. "I am not surprised to hear of your father'sattack. _My_ father had a great many attacks, and lived to eighty; buthe had few difficulties with the female part of his household, " shecontinued, with a grim little smile--for Miss Leonora rather piquedherself upon her exemption from any known sentimental episode, evenin her youth. 

"Dear Jack's return will make up for a great deal, " said aunt Dora. "Oh, Frank, my dear, your brother has made us all so happy. He hasjust been telling us that he means to give up all his racing andbetting and wickedness; and when he has been with us a little, andlearned to appreciate a domestic circle--" said poor Miss Dora, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. She was so much overcome thatshe could not finish the sentence. But she put her disengaged handupon Jack's arm and patted it, and in her heart concluded that as soonas the blanket was done for Louisa's bassinet, she would work him apair of slippers, which should endear more and more to him thedomestic circle, and stimulate the new-born virtue in his repentantheart. 

"I don't know what Jack's return may do, " said Mr Wentworth, "but Ihope you don't imagine it was Gerald who caused my father's illness. _You_ know better, at least, " said the indignant Curate, looking atthe hero on the sofa. That interesting reprobate lifted his eyes witha covert gleam of humour to the unresponsive countenance of hisbrother, and then he stroked his silky beard and sighed. 

"My dear aunt, Frank is right, " said Jack, with a melancholy voice. "Ihave not concealed from you that my father has great reason to beoffended with me. I have done very much the reverse of what I ought tohave done. I see even Frank can't forgive me; and I don't wonder atit, " said the prodigal, "though I have done him no harm that I knowof;" and again the heir of the Wentworths sighed, and covered his facefor a moment with his hand. 

"Oh, Frank, " cried Miss Dora, with streaming eyes--"oh, my dearboy!--isn't there joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth? You'renot going to be the wicked elder brother that grudged the prodigal hiswelcome--you're not going to give way to jealousy, Frank?"

"Hold your tongue, Dora, " said the iron-grey sister; "I daresay Frankknows a great deal better than you do; but I want to know aboutGerald, and what is to be done. If he goes to Rome, of course you willtake Wentworth Rectory; so it will not be an unmingled evil, " saidMiss Leonora, biting her pen, and throwing a keen glance at the Curateof St Roque's, "especially as you and we differ so entirely in ourviews. I could not consent to appoint anybody to Skelmersdale, even ifpoor Mr Shirley were to die, who did not preach the Gospel; and itwould be sad for you to spend all your life in a Perpetual Curacy, where you could have no income, nor ever hope to be able to marry, "she continued steadily, with her eyes fixed upon her nephew. "Ofcourse, if you had entered the Church for the love of the work, itwould be a different matter, " said the strong-minded aunt. "But thatsort of thing seems to have gone out of fashion. I am sorry aboutGerald--very sorry; but after what I saw of him, I am not surprised;and it is a comfort to one's mind to think that you will be providedfor, Frank. " Miss Leonora wrote a few words of the letter as shefinished this speech. What she was saying in that epistle was (inreference to the gin-palace) that all discouragements were sent byGod, and that, no doubt, His meaning was, that we should work all theharder to make way against them. After putting down which encouragingsentiment, she raised her eyes again, and planted her spear in hernephew's bosom with the greatest composure in the world. 

"My Perpetual Curacy suits me very well, " said Mr Wentworth, with alittle pride; "and there is a good deal to do in Carlingford. However, I did not come here to talk about that. The Rector is going to put upan iron church in my district, " said the young man, who was ratherglad of a subject which permitted a little of his indignation toescape. "It is very easy to interfere with other people's work. " Andthen he paused, not choosing to grumble to an unsympathetic audience. To feel that nobody cares about your feelings, is better than all therules of self-control. The Perpetual Curate stopped instinctively witha dignified restraint, which would have been impossible to him underother circumstances. It was no merit of his, but he reaped theadvantage of it all the same. 

"But oh, my dear, " said Miss Dora, "what a comfort to think of what StPaul says--'Whether it be for the right motive or not, Christ is stillpreached. ' And one never knows what chance word may touch a heart, "said the poor little woman, shaking her limp curls away from hercheeks. "It was you being offended with him that made dear Jack thinkof coming to us; and what a happiness it is to think that he sees theerror of his ways!" cried poor Miss Dora, drying her tears. "And oh, Frank, my dear boy, I trust you will take warning by your brother, andnot run into temptation, " continued the anxious aunt, remembering allher troubles. "If you were to go wrong, it would take away all thepleasure of life. "

"That is just what I was thinking, " said aunt Cecilia from hereasy-chair. 

"For, oh, Frank, my dear, " said Miss Dora, much emboldened by thissupport, "you must consider that you are a clergyman, and there are agreat many things that are wrong in a clergyman that would not matter inanother man. Oh, Leonora, if you would speak to him, he would mind you, "cried the poor lady; "for you know a clergyman is quite different;" andMiss Dora again stopped short, and the three aunts looked at thebewildered Curate, who, for his part, sat gazing at them without an ideawhat they could mean. 

"What have I been doing that would be right in another man?" he said, with a smile which was slightly forced; and then he turned to Jack, whowas laughing softly under his breath, and stroking his silky beard. Theelder brother was highly amused by the situation altogether, but Frank, as was natural, did not see it in the same light. "What have you beensaying?" said the indignant Curate; and his eyes gave forth a suddenlight which frightened Miss Dora, and brought her in to the rescue. 

"Oh, Frank, he has not been saying anything, " cried that troubledwoman; "it is only what we have heard everywhere. Oh, my dear boy, itis only for your good I ever thought of speaking. There is nobody inthe world to whom your welfare is so precious, " said poor Miss Dora. "Oh, Frank, if you and your brother were to have any difference, Ishould think it all my fault--and I always said you did not meananything, " she said, putting herself and her eau-de-Cologne betweenthe two, and looking as if she were about to throw herself into theCurate's arms. "Oh, Frank, dear, don't blame any one else--it is myfault!" cried aunt Dora, with tears; and the tender-hearted foolishcreature kept between them, ready to rush in if any conflict shouldoccur, which was a supposition much resented by the Curate of StRoque's. 

"Jack and I have no intention of fighting, I daresay, " he said, drawinghis chair away with some impatience; and Jack lay back on the sofa andstroked his beard, and looked on with the greatest composure while poorMiss Dora exhausted her alarm. "It is all my fault, " sobbed aunt Dora;"but, oh, my dear boy, it was only for your good; and I always said youdid not mean anything, " said the discomfited peacemaker. All this, though it was highly amusing to the prodigal, was gall and bitterness tothe Perpetual Curate. It moved him far more deeply than he could haveimagined it possible for anything spoken by his aunt Dora to move him. Perhaps there is something in human nature which demands to becomprehended, even where it is aware that comprehension is impossible;and it wounded him in the most unreasonable way to have it supposed thathe was likely to get into any quarrel with his brother, and to see Jackthus preferred to himself. 

"Don't be a fool, " said Miss Leonora, sharply: "I wish you wouldconfine yourself to Louisa's bassinet, and talk of things you canunderstand. I hope Frank knows what he is doing better than a set ofold women. At the same time, Frank, " said Miss Leonora, rising andleading the way to the door, "I want to say a word to you. Don'tthink you are above misconception. Most people believe a lie morereadily than the truth. Dora is a fool, " said the elder sister, pausing, when she had led her nephew outside the drawing-room door, "but so are most people; and I advise you to be careful, and not togive occasion for any gossip; otherwise, I don't say _I_ disapprove ofyour conduct. " She had her pen in one hand, and held out the other tohim, dismissing him; and even this added to the painful feeling in theCurate's heart. 

"I should hope not, " he said, somewhat stiffly; "good-bye--my conduct isnot likely to be affected by any gossip, and I don't see any need fortaking precautions against imaginary danger. " Miss Leonora thought hernephew looked very ungracious as he went away. She said to herself thatFrank had a great deal of temper, and resembled his mother's family morethan the Wentworths, as she went back to her writing-table; and thoughshe could not disapprove of him, she felt vexed somehow at his rectitudeand his impatience of advice; whereas, Jack, poor fellow! who had been agreat sinner, was, according to all appearance, a great penitent also, and a true Wentworth, with all the family features. Such were MissLeonora's thoughts as she went back to finish her letters, and toencourage her agents in her London district to carry on the good work. 

"God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform, " she wroteapropos of the gin-palace, and set very distinctly before her spiritualretainers all that Providence might intend by this unexpected hindrance;and so quite contented herself about her nephew, whose views on this andmany other subjects were so different from her own. 

Meanwhile Mr Wentworth went about the rest of the day's work in a notunusual, but far from pleasant, frame of mind. When one suddenly feelsthat the sympathy upon which one calculated most surely has beenwithdrawn, the shock is naturally considerable. It might not beanything very great while it lasted, but still one feels thedifference when it is taken away. Lucy had fallen off from him; andeven aunt Dora had ceased to feel his concerns the first in the world. He smiled at himself for the wound he felt; but that did not removethe sting of it. After the occupations of the day were over, when atlast he was going home, and when his work and the sense of fatiguewhich accompanied it had dulled his mind a little, the Curate felthimself still dwelling on the same matter, contemplating it in ahalf-comic point of view, as proud men are not unapt to contemplateanything that mortifies them. He began to realise, in a humorous way, his own sensations as he stood at the drawing-room door and recognisedthe prodigal on the sofa; and then a smile dawned upon his lip as hethought once more of the prodigal's elder brother, who regarded thatbusiness with unsympathetic eyes and grudged the supper. And from thathe went into a half-professional line of thought, and imagined tohimself, half smiling, how, if he had been Dr Cumming or the ministerof Salem Chapel, he might have written a series of sermons on theunappreciated characters of Scripture, beginning with that virtuousuninteresting elder brother; from which suggestion, though he was notthe minister of Salem nor Dr Cumming, it occurred to the PerpetualCurate to follow out the idea, and to think of such generous carelesssouls as Esau, and such noble unfortunates as the peasant-king, themournful magnificent Saul--people not generally approved of, orenrolled among the martyrs or saints. He was pursuing this kind ofhalf-reverie, half-thought, when he reached his own house. It wasagain late and dark, for he had dined in the mean time, and was goinghome now to write his sermon, in which, no doubt, some of these veryideas were destined to reappear. He opened the garden-gate with hislatch-key, and paused, with an involuntary sense of the beauty andfreshness of the night, as soon as he got within the sheltering walls. The stars were shining faint and sweet in the summer blue, and allthe shrubs and the grass breathing forth that subdued breath offragrance and conscious invisible life which gives so much sweetnessto the night. He thought he heard whispering voices, as he pausedglancing up at the sky; and then from the side-walk he saw a littlefigure run, and heard a light little footstep fluttering towards thedoor which he had just closed. Mr Wentworth started and went afterthis little flying figure with some anxiety. Two or three of his longstrides brought him up with the escaping visitor, as she fumbled inher agitation over the handle of the door. "You have come again, notwithstanding what I said to you? but you must not repeat it, Rosa, "said the Curate; "no good can come of these meetings. I will tell youruncle, if I ever find you here again. "

"Oh no, no, please don't, " cried the girl; "but, after all, I don'tmind, " she said, with more confidence: "he would think it wassomething very different;" and Rosa raised her eyes to the Curate'sface with a coquettish inquiry. She could not divest herself of thethought that Mr Wentworth was jealous, and did not like to have hercome there for anybody but himself. 

"If you were not such a child, I should be very angry, " said theCurate; "as it is, I _am_ very angry with the person who deludes youinto coming. Go home, child, " he said, opening the door to her, "andremember I will not allow you on any pretext to come here again. "

His words were low, and perhaps Rosa did not care much to listen; butthere was quite light enough to show them both very plainly, as hestood at the door and she went out. Just then the Miss Hemmings weregoing up Grange Lane from a little tea-party with their favouritemaid, and all their eyes about them. They looked very full in MrWentworth's face, and said How d'ye do? as they passed the door; andwhen they had passed it, they looked at each other with eyes whichspoke volumes. Mr Wentworth shut the door violently with irrepressiblevexation and annoyance when he encountered that glance. He made nofarewells, nor did he think of taking care of Rosa on the way home ashe had done before. He was intensely annoyed and vexed, he could nottell how. And this was how it happened that the last time she was seenin Carlingford, Rosa Elsworthy was left standing by herself in thedark at Mr Wentworth's door. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The Curate got up very early next morning. He had his sermon to writeand it was Saturday, and all the events of the week had naturallyenough unsettled his mind, and indisposed him for sermon-writing. Whenthe events of life come fast upon a man, it is seldom that he findsmuch pleasure in abstract literary composition, and the style of theCurate of St Roque's was not of that hortatory and impassionedcharacter which sometimes gives as much relief to the speaker asexcitement to the audience. So he got up in the early sweetness of thesummer morning, when nobody but himself was astir in the house, withthe sense of entering upon a task, and taking up work which was farfrom agreeable to him. When he came into the little room which he usedas a study, and threw the window open, and breathed the delicious airof the morning, which was all thrilling and trembling with the songsof birds, Mr Wentworth's thoughts were far from being concentratedupon any one subject. He sat down at his writing-table and arrangedhis pens and paper, and wrote down the text he had selected; and whenhe had done so much, and could feel that he had made a beginning, heleaned back in his chair, and poised the idle pen on his finger, andabandoned himself to his thoughts. He had so much to think about. There was Wodehouse under the same roof, with whom he had felt himselfconstrained to remonstrate very sharply on the previous night. Therewas Jack, so near, and certainly come to Carlingford on no gooderrand. There was Gerald, in his great perplexity and distress, andthe household at home in their anxiety; and last, but worst of all, his fancy would go fluttering about the doors of the sick chamber inGrange Lane, longing and wondering. He asked himself what it could bewhich had raised that impalpable wall between Lucy and himself--thatbarrier too strong to be overthrown, too ethereal to be complained of;and wondered over and over again what her thoughts were towardshim--whether she thought of him at all, whether she was offended, orsimply indifferent?--a question which any one else who had observedLucy as closely could have solved without any difficulty, but which, to the modest and true love of the Perpetual Curate, was at presentthe grand doubt of all the doubts in the universe. With this matter tosettle, and with the consciousness that it was still only fiveo'clock, and that he was at least one hour beforehand with the world, it is easy to understand why Mr Wentworth mused and loitered over hiswork, and how, when it was nearly six o'clock, and Sarah and the cookwere beginning to stir from their sleep, there still remained only thetext written upon the sermon-paper, which was so nicely arrangedbefore him on the table. "When the wicked man turneth away from theevil of his ways, and doeth that which is lawful and right. "--This wasthe text; but sitting at the open window, looking out into the garden, where the birds, exempt, as they seemed to think, for once from thevulgar scrutiny of man, were singing at the pitch of all their voicesas they prepared for breakfast; and where the sweet air of the morningbreathed into his mind a freshness and hopefulness which youth cannever resist, and seduced his thoughts away from all the harderproblems of his life to dwell upon the sweeter trouble of that doubtabout Lucy, --was not the best means of getting on with his work. Hesat thus leaning back--sometimes dipping his pen in the ink, andhovering over the paper for two or three seconds at a time, sometimesreading over the words, and making a faint effort to recall his ownattention to them; for, on the whole, perhaps, it is not of much usegetting up very early in the morning when the chief consequence of itis, that a man feels he has an hour to spare, and a little time toplay before he begins. 

Mr Wentworth was still lingering in this peaceful pause, when heheard, in the stillness, hasty steps coming down Grange Lane. No doubtit was some workmen going to their work, and he felt it must be nearlysix o'clock, and dipped his pen once more in the ink; but, the nextmoment, paused again to listen, feeling in his heart a strangeconviction that the steps would stop at his door, and that somethingwas going to happen. He was sure of it, and yet somehow the soundtingled upon his heart when he heard the bell ring, waking up echoesin the silent house. Cook and Sarah had not yet given any signs ofcoming down-stairs, and nobody stirred even at the sound of the bell. Mr Wentworth put down his pen altogether, and listened with an anxietywhich he could scarcely account for--knowing, as he said to himself, that it must be the milk, or the baker, or somebody. But neither themilk nor the baker would have dared to knock, and shake, and kick thedoor as the new arrivals were doing. Mr Wentworth sat still as long ashe could, then he added to the din they were making outside by anindignant ring of his own bell; and finally getting anxious, as wasnatural, and bethinking himself of his father's attack and MrWodehouse's illness, the Curate took the matter into his own hands, and hastened down-stairs to open the door. Mrs Hadwin called to him ashe passed her room, thinking it was Sarah, and begging for goodnessgracious sake to know directly what was the matter; and he felthimself growing agitated as he drew back the complicated bolts, andturned the key in the door, which was elaborately defenced, as wasnatural. When he hurried out into the garden, the songs of the birdsand the morning air seemed to have changed their character. Hethought he was about to be summoned to the deathbed of one or other ofthe old men upon whom their sons had brought such misery. He was butlittle acquainted with the fastenings of the garden-door, and fumbleda little over them in his anxiety. "Wait a moment and you shall beadmitted, " he called out to those outside, who still continued toknock; and he fancied, even in the haste and confusion of the moment, that his voice caused some little commotion among them. Mr Wentworthopened the door, looking anxiously out for some boy with a telegram, or other such mournful messenger; but to his utter amazement wasnearly knocked down by the sudden plunge of Elsworthy, who enteredwith a spring like that of a wild animal, and whose face looked whiteand haggard as he rushed in. He came against the Curate so roughly asto drive him a step or two farther into the garden, and naturallyaroused somewhat sharply the temper of the young man, who had alreadybegun to regard him with disagreeable sensations as a kind of spyagainst himself. 

"What in the world do you want at such an early hour in the morning?"cried Mr Wentworth--"and what do you mean by making such a noise? IsMr Wodehouse worse? or what has happened?" for, to tell the truth, hewas a little relieved to find that the two people outside bothbelonged to Carlingford, and that nowhere was there any visibleapparition of a telegraph boy. 

"Don't trifle with me, Mr Wentworth, " said Elsworthy. "I'm a poor man;but a worm as is trodden on turns. I want my child, sir!--give me mychild. I'll find her out if it was at the end of the world. I've onlybrought down my neighbour with me as I can trust, " he continued, hoarsely--"to save both your characters. I don't want to make no talk;if you do what is right by Rosa, neither me or him will ever say aword. I want Rosa, Mr Wentworth. Where's Rosa? If I had known as itwas for this you wanted her home! But I'll take my oath not to make notalk, " cried the clerk, with passion and earnestness, which confoundedMr Wentworth--"if you'll promise to do what's right by her, and letme take her home. "

"Elsworthy, are you mad?" cried the Curate--"is he out of his senses?Has anything happened to Rosa? For heaven's sake, Hayles, don't standthere like a man of wood, but tell me if the man's crazy, or what hemeans. "

"I'll come in, sir, if you've no objection, and shut the door, not tomake a talk, " said Elsworthy's companion, Peter Hayles, the druggist. "If it can be managed without any gossip, it'll be best for allparties, " said this worthy, shutting the door softly after him. "Thething is, where's Rosa, Mr Wentworth? I can't think as you've got herhere. "

"She's all the same as my own child!" cried Elsworthy, who was greatlyexcited. "I've had her and loved her since she was a baby. I don'tmean to say as I'd put myself forward to hurt her prospects if she wasmarried in a superior line o' life; but them as harms Rosa has me toreckon with, " he said, with a kind of fury which sat strangely on theman. "Mr Wentworth, where's the child? God forgive you both, you'vegiven me a night o' weeping; but if you'll do what's right by Rosa, and send her home in the mean time--"

"Be silent, sir!" cried the Curate. "I know nothing in the world aboutRosa. How dare you venture to come on such an errand to me? I don'tunderstand how it is, " said the young man, growing red and angry, "that you try so persistently to connect this child with me. I havenever had anything to do with her, and I will not submit to any suchimpertinent suspicion. Leave my house, sir, immediately, and don'tinsult me by making such inquiries here. "

Mr Wentworth was very angry in the first flush of his wrath. He didnot think what misery was involved in the question which had beenaddressed to him, nor did he see for the moment the terrible calamityto Rosa which was suggested by this search for her. He thought only ofhimself, as was natural, at the first shock--of the injurious andinsulting suspicion with which he seemed to be pursued, and of theannoyance which she and her friends were causing him. "What do youmean by rousing a whole household at this hour in the morning?" criedMr Wentworth, as he saw with vexation, Sarah, very startled andsleepy, come stealing round by the kitchen door. 

"You don't look as if you had wanted any rousing, " said Elsworthy, whowas too much in earnest to own the Curate's authority. "She was seenat your door the last thing last night, and you're in your clothes, asbright as day, and a-waiting for us afore six o'clock in the morning. Do you think as I've shut my eyes because it's my clergyman?" criedthe injured man, passionately. "I want my little girl--my littleRosa--as is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. If Mr Wentworthdidn't know nothing about it, as he says, " cried Elsworthy, withsudden insight, "he has a feelin' heart, and he'd be grieved about thechild; but he aint grieved, nor concerned, nor nothing in the worldbut angry; and will you tell me there aint nothing to be drawn fromthat? But it's far from my intention to raise a talk, " said the clerk, drawing closer and touching the arm of the Perpetual Curate; "let hercome back, and if you're a man of your word, and behave honourable byher, there shan't be nothing said in Carlingford. I'll stand up foryou, sir, against the world. "

Mr Wentworth shook off his assailant's hand with a mingled sense ofexasperation and sympathy. "I tell you, upon my honour, I know nothingabout her, " he said. "But it is true enough I have been thinking onlyof myself, " he continued, addressing the other. "How about the girl?When was she lost? and can't you think of any place she can have goneto? Elsworthy, hear reason, " cried the Curate anxiously. "I assureyou, on my word, that I have never seen her since I closed thisgarden-gate upon her last night. "

"And I would ask you, sir, what had Rosa to do at your garden-gate?"cried the clerk of St Roque's. "He aint denying it, Hayles; you cansee as he aint a-denying of it. What was it as she came here for butyou? Mr Wentworth, I've always had a great respect for you, " saidElsworthy. "I've respected you as my clergyman, sir, as well as forother things; but you're a young man, and human nature is frail. I sayagain as you needn't have no fear of me. I aint one as likes to make atalk, and no more is Hayles. Give up the girl, and give me yourpromise, and there aint a man living as will be the wiser; MrWentworth--"

"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate, furious with indignationand resentment. "Leave this place instantly! If you don't want me topitch you into the middle of the road, hold your tongue and go away. The man is mad!" said Mr Wentworth, turning towards the spectator, Hayles, and pausing to take breath. But it was evident that this thirdperson was by no means on the Curate's side. 

"I don't know, sir, I'm sure, " said Hayles, with a blank countenance. "It appears to me, sir, as it's an awkward business for all parties. Here's the girl gone, and no one knows where. When a girl don't comeback to her own 'ome all night, things look serious, sir; and it hasbeen said as the last place she was seen was at your door. "

"Who says so?" cried Mr Wentworth. 

"Well--it was--a party, sir--a highly respectable party--as I havegood reason to believe, " said Hayles, "being a constant customer--oneas there's every confidence to be put in. It's better not to name nonames, being at this period of the affair. "

And at that moment, unluckily for Mr Wentworth, there suddenly floatedacross his mind the clearest recollection of the Miss Hemmings, andthe look they gave him in passing. He felt a hot flush rush over hisface as he recalled it. They, then, were his accusers in the firstplace; and for the first time he began to realise how the tide ofaccusation would surge through Carlingford, and how circumstanceswould be patched together, and very plausible evidence concocted outof the few facts which were capable of an inference totally opposed tothe truth. The blood rushed to his face in an overpowering glow, andthen he felt the warm tide going back upon his heart, and realised theposition in which he stood for the first time in its true light. 

"And if you'll let me say it, sir, " said the judicious Hayles, "thougha man may be in a bit of a passion, and speak more strong that iscalled for, it aint unnatural in the circumstances; things may bebetter than they appear, " said the druggist, mildly; "I don't saynothing against that; it may be as you've took her away, sir (if so beas you have took her away), for to give her a bit of education, orsuchlike, before making her your wife; but folks in general aintexpected to know that; and when a young girl is kep' out of her 'omefor a whole night, it aint wonderful if her friends take fright. It'sa sad thing for Rosa whoever's taken her away, and wherever she is. "

Now, Mr Wentworth, notwithstanding the indignant state of mind whichhe was in, was emphatically of the tolerant temper which is socuriously characteristic of his generation. He could not beunreasonable even in his own cause; he was not partisan enough, evenin his own behalf, to forget that there was another side to thequestion, nor to see how hard and how sad was that other side. He wasmoved in spite of himself to grieve over Rosa Elsworthy's greatmisfortune. 

"Poor little deluded child, " he said, sadly; "I acknowledge it is verydreadful for her and for her friends. I can excuse a man who is madwith grief and wretchedness and anxiety, and doesn't know what he issaying. As for any man in his senses imagining, " said the Curateagain, with a flush of sudden colour, "that I could possibly beconcerned in anything so base, that is simply absurd. When Elsworthyreturns to reason, and acknowledges the folly of what he has said, Iwill do anything in the world to help him. It is unnecessary for youto wait, " said Mr Wentworth, turning to Sarah, who had stolen upbehind, and caught some of the conversation, and who was staring withround eyes of wonder, partly guessing, partly inquiring, what hadhappened--"these people want me; go indoors and never mind. "

"La, sir! Missis is a-ringing all the bells down to know what 'as'appened, " said Sarah, holding her ground. 

This was how it was to be--the name of the Curate of St Roque's was tobe linked to that of Rosa Elsworthy, let the truth be what it might, in the mouths of every maid and every mistress in Carlingford. He wasseized with a sudden apprehension of this aspect of the matter, and itwas not wonderful if Mr Wentworth drew his breath hard and set histeeth, as he ordered the woman away, in a tone which could not bedisobeyed. 

"I don't want to make no talk, " said Elsworthy, who during this timehad made many efforts to speak; "I've sait it before, and I say itagain--it's Mr Wentworth's fault if there's any talk. She was seenhere last night, " he went on rapidly, "and afore six o'clock thisblessed morning, you, as are never known to be stirring early, meetsus at the door, all shaved and dressed; and it aint very difficult tosee, to them as watches the clergyman's countenance, " said Elsworthy, turning from one to another, "as everything isn't as straight as itought to be; but I aint going to make no talk, Mr Wentworth, " he wenton, drawing closer, and speaking with conciliatory softness; "me andher aunt, sir, loves her dearly, but we're not the folks to stand inher way, if a gentleman was to take a fancy to Rosa. If you'll give meyour word to make her your wife honourable, and tell me where she is, tortures wouldn't draw no complaints from me. One moment, sir; it aintonly that she's pretty, but she's good as well--she won't do you nodiscredit, Mr Wentworth. Put her to school, or what you please, sir, "said Rosa's uncle; "me and my wife will never interfere, so be as youmake her your wife honourable; but I aint a worm to be trampled on, "cried Elsworthy, as the Curate, finding him approach very closely, thrust him away with vehement indignation; "I aint a slave to bepushed about. Them as brings Rosa to shame shall come to shame by me;I'll ruin the man as ruins that child. You may turn me out, " he cried, as the Curate laid his powerful hand upon his shoulder and forced himtowards the door, "but I'll come back, and I'll bring all Carlingford. There shan't be a soul in the town as doesn't know. Oh, you youngviper, as I thought was a pious clergyman! you aint got rid of me. Mychild--where's my child?" cried the infuriated clerk, as he foundhimself ejected into the road outside, and the door suddenly closedupon him. He turned round to beat upon it in blind fury, and keptcalling upon Rosa, and wasting his threats and arguments upon the calmair outside. Some of the maid-servants in the other houses came out, broom in hand, to the green doors, to see what was the matter, butthey were not near enough to hear distinctly, and no early wayfarershad as yet invaded the morning quiet of Grange Lane. 

Mr Wentworth, white with excitement, and terribly calm and self-possessed, turned to the amazed and trembling druggist, who still stood inside. "Look here, Hayles, " said the Curate; "I have never seen Rosa Elsworthysince I closed this door upon her last night. What had brought her hereI don't know--at least she came with no intention of seeing me--and Ireproved her sharply for being out so late. This is all I know about theaffair, and all I intend to say to any one. If that idiot outsideintends to make a disturbance, he must do it; I shall take no furthertrouble to clear myself of such an insane accusation. I think it rightto say as much to you, because you seem to have your senses about you, "said the Curate, pausing, out of breath. He was perfectly calm, but itwas impossible to ignore the effect of such a scene upon ordinary fleshand blood. His heart was beating loudly, and his breath came short andquick. He turned away and walked up to the house-door, and then cameback again. "You understand me, I suppose?" he said; "and if Elsworthyis not mad, you had better suggest to him not to lose his only chanceof recovering Rosa by vain bluster with me, who know nothing about her. I shan't be idle in the mean time, " said Mr Wentworth. All this timeElsworthy was beating against the door, and shouting his threats intothe quiet of the morning; and Mrs Hadwin had thrown up her window, andstood there visibly in her nightcap, trying to find out what the noisewas about, and trembling for the respectability of her house--all whichthe Curate apprehended with that extraordinary swiftness and breadth ofperception which comes to men at the eventful moments of life. 

"I'll do my best, sir, " said Hayles, who felt that his honour wasappealed to; "but it's an awkward business for all parties, that'swhat it is;" and the druggist backed out in a state of greatbewilderment, having a little struggle at the door with Elsworthy toprevent his re-entrance. "There aint nothing to be got out of _him_, "said Mr Hayles, as he succeeded at last in leading his friend away. Such was the conclusion of Mr Wentworth's morning studies, and thesermon which was to have been half written before breakfast upon thateventful Saturday. He went back to the house, as was natural, withvery different thoughts in his mind. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The first thing Mr Wentworth did was to hasten up-stairs toWodehouse's room. Sarah had gone before him, and was by this timetalking to her mistress, who had left the window, and stood, still inher nightcap, at the door of her own chamber. "It's something aboutRosa Elsworthy, ma'am, " said Sarah; "she's gone off with some one, which nothing else was to be expected; and her uncle's been a-ravingand a-raging at Mr Wentworth, which proves as a gentleman should nevertake no notice of them shop-girls. I always heard as she was a badlot. "

"Oh, Mr Wentworth--if you would excuse my nightcap, " said MrsHadwin--"I am so shaken and all of a tremble with that noise; Icouldn't help thinking it must be a murder at the least, " said thelittle old lady; "but I never could believe that there was anythingbetween you and--Sarah, you may go away; I should like to talk to MrWentworth by himself, " said Mrs Hadwin, suddenly remembering that MrWentworth's character must not be discussed in the presence of evenher favourite maid. 

"Presently, " said the unhappy Curate, with mingled impatience andresignation; and, after a hasty knock at the door, he went intoWodehouse's room, which was opposite, so full of a furious anxiety toquestion him that he had burst into speech before he perceived thatthe room was empty. "Answer me this instant, " he had cried, "where isRosa Elsworthy?" and then he paused, utterly taken aback. It had notoccurred to him that the culprit would be gone. He had parted with himlate on the previous night, leaving him, according to appearances, ina state of sulky half-penitence; and now the first impulse of hisconsternation was to look in all the corners for the fugitive. Theroom had evidently been occupied that night; part of the Curate's ownwardrobe, which he had bestowed upon his guest, lay about on thechairs, and on a little table were his tools and the bits of wood withwhich he did his carving. The window was open, letting in the freshair, and altogether the apartment looked so exactly like what it mighthave done had the occupant gone out for a virtuous morning walk, thatMr Wentworth stopped short in blank amazement. It was a relief to himto hear the curious Sarah still rustling in the passage outside. Hecame out upon her so hastily that Sarah was startled. Perhaps she hadbeen so far excited out of her usual propriety as to think of thekeyhole as a medium of information. 

"Where is Wode--Mr Smith?" cried the Curate; "he is not in hisroom--he does not generally get up so early. Where is he? Did he goout last night?"

"Not as I knows of, sir, " said Sarah, who grew a little pale, and gavea second glance at the open door. "Isn't the gentleman in his room? Hedo take a walk in the morning, now and again, " and Sarah cast analarmed look behind to see if her mistress was still within hearing;but Mrs Hadwin, intent on questioning Mr Wentworth himself, hadfortunately retired to put on her cap, and closed her door. 

"Where is he?" said the Curate, firmly. 

"Oh, please sir, I don't know, " said Sarah, who was very near crying. "He's gone out for a walk, that's all. Oh, Mr Wentworth, don't look atme so dreadfully, and I'll tell you hall, " cried the frightened girl, "_hall_--as true as if I was on my oath. He 'as a taking way withhim, " said poor Sarah, to whom the sulky and shabby rascal was radiantstill with the fascinating though faded glory of "a gentleman"--"andhe aint one as has been used to regular hours; and seeing as he was afriend of yours, I knew as hall was safe, Mr Wentworth; and oh, sir, if you'll not tell missis, as might be angry. I didn't mean no harm;and knowing as he was a friend of yours, I let him have the key of thelittle door. "

Here Sarah put her apron to her eyes; she did not cry much into it, orwet it with her tears--but under its cover she peeped at Mr Wentworth, and, encouraged by his looks, which did not seem to promise anyimmediate catastrophe, went on with her explanation. 

"He's been and took a walk often in the morning, " said Sarah, withlittle gasps which interrupted her voice, "and come in as steady assteady, and nothing happened. He's gone for a walk now, poorgentleman. Them as goes out first thing in the morning, can't mean noharm, Mr Wentworth. If it was at night, it would be different, " saidthe apologetic Sarah. "He'll be in afore we've done our breakfast inthe kitchen; that's his hour, for I always brings him a cup of coffee. If you hadn't been up not till _your_ hour, sir, you'd never haveknown nothing about it;" and here even Mrs Hadwin's housemaid lookedsharply in the Curate's face. "I never knew you so early, sir, notsince I've been here, " said Sarah; and though she was a partisan of MrWentworth, it occurred even to Sarah that perhaps, after all, Elsworthy might be right. 

"If he comes in let me know immediately, " said the Curate; and he wentto his study and shut himself in, to think it all over with a sense ofbeing baited and baffled on every side. As for Sarah, she went off ingreat excitement to discuss the whole business with the cook, tossingher head as she went. "Rosa Elsworthy, indeed!" said Sarah to herself, thinking her own claims to admiration quite as well worthconsidering--and Mr Wentworth had already lost one humble follower inGrange Lane. 

The Curate sat down at his table as before, and gazed with a kind ofexasperation at the paper and the text out of which his sermon was tohave come. "When the wicked man turneth away from the evil of hisways"--he began to wonder bitterly whether that ever happened, or if itwas any good trying to bring it about. If it were really the case thatWodehouse, whom he had been labouring to save from the consequences ofone crime, had, at the very crisis of his fate, perpetrated another ofthe basest kind, what was the good of wasting strength in behalf of awretch so abandoned? Why should such a man be permitted to live to bringshame and misery on everybody connected with him? and why, when noxiousvermin of every other description were hunted down and exterminated, should the vile human creature be spared to suck the blood of hisfriends? Mr Wentworth grew sanguinary in his thoughts as he leaned backin his chair, and tried to return to the train of reflection whichElsworthy's arrival had banished. That was totally impossible, butanother train of ideas came fast enough to fill up the vacant space. TheCurate saw himself hemmed in on every side without any way of escape. Ifhe could not extract any information from Wodehouse, or if Wodehousedenied any knowledge of Rosa, what could he do to clear himself from animputation so terrible? and if, on the other hand, Wodehouse did notcome back, and so pleaded guilty, how could he pursue and put the lawupon the track of the man whom he had just been labouring to save fromjustice, and over whose head a criminal prosecution was impending? MrWentworth saw nothing but misery, let him turn where he would--nothingbut disgrace, misapprehension, unjust blame. He divined with theinstinct of a man in deadly peril, that Elsworthy, who was a mean enoughman in common circumstances, had been inspired by the supposed injury hehad sustained into a relentless demon; and he saw distinctly how strongthe chain of evidence was against him, and how little he could do toclear himself. As his miseries grew upon him, he got up, as was natural, and began to walk about the room to walk down his impatience, if hecould, and acquire sufficient composure to enable him to wait for thetime when Wodehouse might be expected to arrive. Mr Wentworth hadforgotten at the moment that Mrs Hadwin's room was next to his study, and that, as she stood putting on her cap, his footsteps vibrated alongthe flooring, which thrilled under her feet almost as much as under hisown. Mrs Hadwin, as she stood before her glass smoothing her thin littlebraids of white hair, and putting on her cap, could not but wonder toherself what could make Mr Wentworth walk about the room in such anagitated way. It was not by any means the custom of the PerpetualCurate, who, up to the time of his aunts' arrival in Carlingford, hadknown no special disturbances in his individual career. And then the oldlady thought of that report about little Rosa Elsworthy, which she hadnever believed, and grew troubled, as old ladies are not unapt to dounder such circumstances, with all that lively faith in the seductionsof "an artful girl, " and all that contemptuous pity for a "poor youngman, " which seems to come natural to a woman. All the old ladies inCarlingford, male and female, were but too likely to entertain the samesentiments, which at least, if they did nothing else, showed a wonderfulfaith in the power of love and folly common to human nature. It did notoccur to Mrs Hadwin any more than it did to Miss Dora, that MrWentworth's good sense and pride, and superior cultivation, weresufficient defences against little Rosa's dimpled cheeks and brighteyes; and with some few exceptions, such was likely to be the opinion ofthe little world of Carlingford. Mrs Hadwin grew more and more anxiousabout the business as she felt the boards thrill under her feet, andheard the impatient movements in the next room; and as soon as she hadsettled her cap to her satisfaction, she left her own chamber and wentto knock, as was to be expected, at Mr Wentworth's door. 

It was just at this moment that Mr Wentworth saw Wodehouse's shabbyfigure entering at the garden-gate; he turned round suddenly withouthearing Mrs Hadwin's knock, and all but ran over the old lady in hishaste and eagerness--"Pardon me; I am in a great hurry, " said theCurate, darting past her. Just at the moment when she expected hercuriosity to be satisfied, it was rather hard upon Mrs Hadwin to bedismissed so summarily. She went down-stairs in a state of greatdignity, with her lace mittens on, and her hands crossed before her. She felt she had more and more reason for doubting human nature ingeneral, and for believing that the Curate of St Roque's in particularcould not bear any close examination into his conduct. Mrs Hadwin satdown to her breakfast accordingly with a sense of pitying virtue whichwas sweet to her spirit, notwithstanding that she was, as she wouldhave frankly acknowledged, very fond of Mr Wentworth; she said, "Pooryoung man, " to herself, and shook her head over him as she poured outher solitary cup of tea. She had never been a beauty herself, nor hadshe exercised any overwhelming influence that she could remember overany one in the days of her distant youth: but being a true woman, MrsHadwin believed in Rosa Elsworthy, and pitied, not without a certainhalf-conscious female disdain, the weakness of the inevitable victim. He did not dare to stop to explain to _her_ what it meant. He rushedout of her way as soon as he saw she meant to question him. Thatdesigning girl had got him entirely under her sway, the poor youngman!

Meanwhile the Curate, without a single thought for his landlady, madea rush to Wodehouse's room. He did not wait for any answer to hisknock, but went in, not as a matter of policy, but because hiseagerness carried him on in spite of himself. To Mr Wentworth's greatamazement Wodehouse was undressing, intending, apparently, to returnto bed. The shabby fugitive, looking broad and brawny in hisshirt-sleeves, turned round when he heard the voice with an angryexclamation. His face grew black as he saw the Curate at the door. "What the deuce have you to do in my room at this hour?" he growledinto his beard. "Is a man never to have a little peace?" and with thatthrew down his coat, which he still had in his hand, and faced roundtowards the intruder with sullen looks. It was his nature to standalways on the defensive, and he had got so much accustomed to beingregarded as a culprit, that he naturally took up the part, whetherthere might be just occasion or not. 

"Where have you been?" exclaimed the Curate; "answer me truly--I can'tsubmit to any evasion. I know it all, Wodehouse. Where is she? wherehave you hid her? If you do not give her up, I must give you up tojustice. Do you hear me? where is Rosa Elsworthy? This is a matterthat touches my honour, and I must know the truth. "

Mr Wentworth was so full of the subject that it did not occur to himhow much time he was giving his antagonist to prepare his answer. Though Wodehouse was not clever, he had the instinct of a baitedanimal driven to bay; and resistance and denial came natural to a manwho had been accused and condemned all his life. 

"Rosa Elsworthy?" said the vagabond, "what have I to do with RosaElsworthy? A pretty man I should be to run away with a girl; all thatI have in the world is a shilling or two, and, by Jove, it's anexpensive business, that is. You should ask your brother, " hecontinued, giving a furtive glance at the Curate--"it's more in hisway, by Jove, than mine. "

Mr Wentworth was recalled to himself by this reply. "Where is she?" hesaid, sternly, --"no trifling. I did not ask if you had taken her away. I ask, where is she?" He had shut the door behind him, and stood inthe middle of the room facing Wodehouse, and overawing him by hissuperior stature, force, and virtue. Before the Curate's look the eyesof the other fell; but he had fallen by chance on a reasonable defenceenough, and so long as he held by that felt himself tolerably safe. 

"I don't know anything about her, " he repeated; "how should I knowanything about her? I aint a fool, by Jove, whatever I may be: a manmay talk to a pretty girl without any harm. I mayn't be as good as aparson, but, by Jove, I aint a fool, " he muttered through his beard. He had begun to speak with a kind of sulky self-confidence; but hisvoice sunk lower as he proceeded. Jack Wentworth's elegant levity wasa terrible failure in the hands of the coarser rascal. He fell back bydegrees upon the only natural quality which enabled him to offer anyresistance. "By Jove, I aint an idiot, " he repeated with dullobstinacy, and upon that statement made a stand in his dogged, argumentative way. 

"Would you like it better if I said you were a villain?" asked theexasperated Curate. "I don't want to discuss your character with you. Where is Rosa Elsworthy? She is scarcely more than a child, " said MrWentworth, "and a fool, if you like. But where is she? I warn youthat unless you tell me you shall have no more assistance from me. "

"And I tell you that I don't know, " said Wodehouse; and the two menstood facing each other, one glowing with youthful indignation, theother enveloped in a cloud of sullen resistance. Just then there camea soft knock at the door, and Sarah peeped in with a coquettish air, which at no other time in her existence had been visible in the sedatedemeanour of Mrs Hadwin's favourite handmaid. The stranger lodger was"a gentleman, " notwithstanding his shabbiness, and he was a verycivil-spoken gentleman, without a bit of pride; and Sarah was still awoman, though she was plain and a housemaid. "Please, sir, I'vebrought you your coffee, " said Sarah, and she carried in her tray, which contained all the materials for a plentiful breakfast. When shesaw Mr Wentworth standing in the room, and Wodehouse in hisshirt-sleeves, Sarah said, "La!" and set down her tray hastily andvanished; but the episode, short as it was, had not been without itsuse to the culprit who was standing on his defence. 

"I'm not staying here on my own account, " said Wodehouse, --"it's nopleasure to me to be here. I'm staying for your brother's sakeand--other people's; it's no pleasure to me, by Jove! I'd go to-morrowif I had my way--but I aint a fool, " continued the sulky defendant:"it's of no use asking me such questions. By Jove, I've other things tothink of than girls; and you know pretty well how much money I've got, "he continued, taking out an old purse and emptying out the few shillingsit contained into his hand. When he had thrown them about, out and in, for nearly a minute, he turned once more upon the Curate. "I'd like tohave a little more pocket-money before I ran away with any one, " saidWodehouse, and tossed the shillings back contemptuously. As for MrWentworth, his reasonableness once more came greatly in his way. Hebegan to ask himself whether this penniless vagabond, who seemed to haveno dash or daring in his character, could have been the man to carrylittle Rosa away; and, perplexed by this idea, Mr Wentworth put himselfunawares into the position of his opponent, and in that character madean appeal to his imaginary generosity and truth. 

"Wodehouse, " he said, seriously, "look here. I am likely to be muchannoyed about this, and perhaps injured. I entreat you to tell me, ifyou know, where the girl is. I've been at some little trouble for you;be frank with me for once, " said the Curate of St Roque's. Nothing inexistence could have prevented himself from responding to such anappeal, and he made it with a kind of absurd confidence that theremust be some kindred depths even in the meaner nature with which hehad to deal, which would have been to Jack Wentworth, had he seen it, a source of inextinguishable laughter. Even Wodehouse was taken bysurprise. He did not understand Mr Wentworth, but a certain vague ideathat the Curate was addressing him as if he still were "a gentleman ashe used to be"--though it did not alter his resolution in anyway--brought a vague flush of shame to his unaccustomed cheek. 

"I aint a fool, " he repeated rather hastily, and turned away not to meetthe Curate's eyes. "I've got no money--how should _I_ know anythingabout her? If I had, do you think I should have been here?" hecontinued, with a sidelong look of inquiry: then he paused and put onhis coat, and in that garb felt himself more of a match for hisopponent. "I'll tell you one thing you'll thank me for, " he said, --"theold man is dying, they think. They'll be sending for you presently. That's more important than a talk about a girl. I've been talked to tillI'm sick, " said Wodehouse, with a little burst of irrepressible nature, "but things may change before you all know where you are. " When he hadsaid so much, the fear in his heart awoke again, and he cast anotherlook of inquiry and anxiety at the Curate's face. But Mr Wentworth wasdisgusted, and had no more to say. 

"Everything changes--except the heart of the churl, which can never bemade bountiful, " said the indignant young priest. It was not a fitsentiment, perhaps, for a preacher who had just written that textabout the wicked man turning from the evil of his ways. Mr Wentworthwent away in a glow of indignation and excitement, and left his guestto Sarah's bountiful provision of hot coffee and new-laid eggs, towhich Wodehouse addressed himself with a perfectly good appetite, notwithstanding all the events of the morning, and all the mystery ofthe night. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Mr Wentworth retired to his own quarters with enough to think about forone morning. He could not make up his mind about Wodehouse--whether hewas guilty or not guilty. It seemed incredible that, penniless as hewas, he could have succeeded in carrying off a girl so well known inCarlingford as Rosa Elsworthy; and, if he had taken her away, how didit happen that he himself had come back again? The Curate saw clearlyenough that his only chance for exculpating himself in the sight ofthe multitude was by bringing home the guilt to somebody else; and inproportion to the utter scorn with which he had treated Elsworthy'sinsinuations at first, was his serious apprehension now of the dangerwhich surrounded him. He divined all that slander would make of itwith the quickened intelligence of a man whose entire life, andreputation dearer than life, were at stake. If it could not be clearedup--if even any investigation which he might be able to demand was notperfectly successful--Mr Wentworth was quite well aware that thecharacter of a clergyman was almost as susceptible as that of awoman, and that the vague stigma might haunt and overshadow him allhis life. The thought was overwhelming at this moment, when his firsthopes of finding a speedy solution of the mystery had come to nothing. If he had but lived a century earlier, the chances are that no doubtof Wodehouse's guilt would have entered his mind; but Mr Wentworth wasa man of the present age--reasonable to a fault, and apt to considerother people as much as possible from their own point of view. He didnot see, looking at the circumstances, how Wodehouse _could_ be guilty;and the Curate would not permit the strong instinctive certainty that he_was_ guilty, to move his own mind from what he imagined to be itsbetter judgment. He was thinking it over very gloomily when hisbreakfast was brought to him and his letters, feeling that he could besure of nobody in such an emergency, and dreading more the doubt of hisfriends than the clamour of the general world. He could bear (heimagined) to be hooted at in the streets, if it ever came to that; butto see the faces of those who loved him troubled with a torturing doubtof his truth was a terrible thought to the Perpetual Curate. And Lucy?But here the young man got up indignant and threw off his fears. Hedoubted her regard with a doubt which threw darkness over the wholeuniverse; but that she should be able for a moment to doubt his entiredevotion to her, seemed a blindness incredible. No; let who wouldbelieve ill of him in this respect, to Lucy such an accusation must lookas monstrous as it was untrue. _She_, at least, knew otherwise; and, taking this false comfort to his heart, Mr Wentworth took up hisletters, and presently was deep in the anxieties of his brother Gerald, who wrote to him as to a man at leisure, and without any overwhelmingperplexities of his own. It requires a very high amount of unselfishnessin the person thus addressed to prevent a degree of irritation which ismuch opposed to sympathy; and Mr Wentworth, though he was very impartialand reasonable, was not, being still young and meaning to be happy, unselfish to any inhuman degree. He put down Gerald's letter, after hehad read through half of it, with an exclamation of impatience which hecould not restrain, and then poured out his coffee, which had got coldin the mean time, and gulped it down with a sense of half-comfortingdisgust--for there are moments when the mortification of the fleshis a relief to the spirit; and then it occurred to him to rememberWodehouse's tray, which was a kind of love-offering to the shabbyvagabond, and the perfect good order in which _he_ had his breakfast;and Mr Wentworth laughed at himself with a whimsical perception of allthat was absurd in his own position which did him good, and broke thespell of his solitary musings. When he took up Gerald's letter again, heread it through. A man more sympathetic, open-hearted, and unselfishthan Gerald Wentworth did not exist in the world, as his brother wellknew; but nevertheless, Gerald's mind was so entirely preoccupied thathe passed over the Curate's cares with the lightest referenceimaginable. "I hope you found all right when you got back, and nothingseriously amiss with Jack, " the elder brother wrote, and then went on tohis own affairs. All right! nothing seriously amiss! To a man who felthimself standing on the edge of possible ruin, such expressions seemedstrange indeed. 

The Rector of Wentworth, however, had enough in his mind to excuse himfor a momentary forgetfulness of others. Things had taken a differentturn with him since his brother left. He had been so busy with hischange of faith and sentiment, that the practical possibilities of thestep which he contemplated had not disturbed Gerald. He had taken itcalmly for granted that he _could_ do what he wanted to do. But a newlight had burst upon him in that respect, and changed the character ofhis thoughts. Notwithstanding the conviction into which he hadreasoned himself, the Rector of Wentworth had not contemplated theidea of becoming simply a Catholic layman. He was nothing if not apriest, he had said, passionately. He could have made a martyr ofhimself--have suffered tortures and deaths with the steadiestendurance; but he could not face the idea of taking all meaning andsignificance out of his life, by giving up the profession which hefelt to be laid upon him by orders indelible, beyond the power ofcircumstances to revoke. Such was the new complication to which Geraldhad come. He was terribly staggered in his previous resolution by thisnew doubt, and he wrote to pour his difficulties into the ear of hisbrother. It had been Frank's question which first awoke in his mind adoubt as to the practicability of the step he contemplated; and one ofLouisa's relations, appealed to by her in her next access of terror, had brought this aspect of the matter still more distinctly before theRector of Wentworth. Gerald had been studying Canon law, but hisEnglish intelligence did not make very much of it; and the bare ideaof a dispensation making that right which in itself was wrong, touchedthe high-minded gentleman to the quick, and brought him to a suddenstandstill. He who was nothing if not a priest, stood sorrowfullylooking at his contemplated martyrdom--like Brother Domenico of StMark's sighing on the edge of the fiery ordeal into which the Churchherself would not let him plunge. If it was so, he no longer knew whatto do. He would have wrapped the vestment of the new priesthood abouthim, though it was a garment of fire; but to stand aside in irksomeleisure was a harder trial, at which he trembled. This was the newcomplication in which Gerald asked his brother's sympathy and counsel. It was a long letter, curiously introspective, and full of self-argument;and it was hard work, with a mind so occupied as was that of thePerpetual Curate, to give it due attention. He put it away when he haddone with his cold breakfast, and deferred the consideration of thesubject, with a kind of vague hope that the family firmament mightpossibly brighten in that quarter at least; but the far-off andindistinct interest with which he viewed, across his own gloomysurroundings, this matter which had engrossed him so completely a fewdays before, was wonderful to see. 

And then he paused to think what he was to do. To go out and face theslander which must already have crept forth on its way--to seeElsworthy and ascertain whether he had come to his senses, and try ifanything could be done for Rosa's discovery--to exert himself somehow, in short, and get rid of the feverish activity which he felt consuminghim, --that was what he longed to do. But, on the other hand, it wasSaturday, and Mr Wentworth was conscious that it would be moredignified, and in better taste altogether, if he went on writing hissermon and took no notice of this occurrence, with which, in reality, he had nothing to do. It was difficult, but no doubt it was the best;and he tried it accordingly--putting down a great many sentences whichhad to be scratched out again, and spoiling altogether the appearanceof the sermon-paper. When a message came from Mr Wodehouse's abouteleven o'clock, bringing the news that he was much worse and notexpected to live, and begging Mr Wentworth's immediate presence, theCurate was as nearly glad as it was possible for a man to be under thecircumstances. He had "a feeling heart, " as even Elsworthy allowed, but in such a moment of excitement any kind of great and terribleevent seemed to come natural. He hastened out into the fresh morningsunshine, which still seemed thrilling with life and joy, and went upGrange Lane with a certain sense of curiosity, wondering whethereverybody was already aware of what had happened. A long way off afigure which much resembled that of the Rector was visible crossingover to Dr Marjoribanks's door; and it occurred to the Curate that MrMorgan was crossing to avoid him, which brought a smile of anger andinvoluntary dislike to his face, and nerved him for any otherencounter. The green door at Mr Wodehouse's--a homely sign of thetrouble in the house--had been left unlatched, and was swinging ajarwith the wind when the Curate came up; and as he went in (closing itcarefully after him, for that forlorn little touch of carelessnesswent to his heart), he encountered in the garden Dr Marjoribanks andDr Rider, who were coming out together with very grave looks. They didnot stop for much conversation, only pausing to tell him that the casewas hopeless, and that the patient could not possibly live beyond aday or two at most; but even in the few words that were spoken MrWentworth perceived, or thought he perceived, that something hadoccurred to lessen him in the esteem of the shrewd old Scotch doctor, who contemplated him and his prayer-book with critical eyes. "Iconfess, after all, that there are cases in which written prayers area kind of security, " Dr Marjoribanks said in an irrelevant manner toDr Rider when Mr Wentworth had passed them--an observation at which, in ordinary cases, the Curate would have smiled; but to-day the colourrose to his face, and he understood that Dr Marjoribanks did not thinkhim qualified to carry comfort or instruction to a sick-bed. Perhapsthe old doctor had no such idea in his mind--perhaps it was simply arelic of his national Presbyterianism, to which the old Scotchman keptup a kind of visionary allegiance. But whether he meant it or not, MrWentworth understood it as a reproach to himself, and went on with abitter feeling of mortification to the sick-room. He had gone with hiswhole heart into his priestly office, and had been noted for hisministrations to the sick and poor; but now his feelings were much toopersonal for the atmosphere into which he was just about to enter. Hestopped at the door to tell John that he would take a stroll round thegarden before he came in, as he had a headache, and went on throughthe walks which were sacred to Lucy, not thinking of her, butwondering bitterly whether anybody would stand by him, or whether anutterly baseless slander would outweigh all the five years of his lifewhich he had spent among the people of Carlingford. Meanwhile Johnstood at the door and watched him, and of course thought it was very"queer. " "It aint as if he'd a-been sitting up all night, like ouryoung ladies, " said John to himself, and unconsciously noted thecircumstance down in his memory against the Curate. 

When Mr Wentworth entered the sick-room, he found all very silent andstill in that darkened chamber. Lucy was seated by the bedside, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and looked as if she had not sleptfor several nights; while Miss Wodehouse, who, notwithstanding all heranxiety to be of use, was far more helpless than Lucy, stood on theside next the door, with her eyes fixed on her sister, watching withpathetic unserviceableness for the moment when she could be of someuse. As for the patient himself, he lay in a kind of stupor, fromwhich he scarcely ever could be roused, and showed no tokens at themoment of hearing or seeing anybody. The scene was doubly sad, but itwas without the excitement which so often breathes in the atmosphereof death. There was no eager listening for the last word, no lastoutbreaks of tenderness. The daughters were both hushed into uttersilence; and Lucy, who was more reasonable than her sister, had evengiven up those wistful beseeching looks at the patient, with whichMiss Wodehouse still regarded him, as if perhaps he might be thuspersuaded to speak. The nurse whom Dr Marjoribanks had sent to assistthem was visible through an open door, sleeping very comfortably inthe adjoining room. Mr Wentworth came into the silent chamber with allhis anxieties throbbing in his heart, bringing life at its very heightof agitation and tumult into the presence of death. He went forward tothe bed, and tried for an instant to call up any spark of intelligencethat might yet exist within the mind of the dying man; but MrWodehouse was beyond the voice of any priest. The Curate said theprayers for the dying at the bedside, suddenly filled with a greatpity for the man who was thus taking leave unawares of all thismournful splendid world. Though the young man knew many an ordinarysentiment about the vanity of life, and had given utterance to thateffect freely in the way of his duty, he was still too fresh in hisheart to conceive actually that any one could leave the world withoutpoignant regrets; and when his prayer was finished, he stood lookingat the patient with inexpressible compassion. Mr Wodehouse had scarcelyreached old age; he was well off, and only a week ago seemed to have somuch to enjoy; now, here he lay stupefied, on the edge of the grave, unable to respond even by a look to the love that surrounded him. Oncemore there rose in the heart of the young priest a natural impulse ofresentment and indignation; and when he thought of the cause of thischange, he remembered Wodehouse's threat, and roused himself from hiscontemplation of the dying to think of the probable fate of those whomust live. 

"Has he made his will?" said Mr Wentworth, suddenly. He forgot that itwas Lucy who was standing by him; and it was only when he caught aglance of reproach and horror from her eyes that he recollected howabrupt his question was. "Pardon me, " he said; "you think me heartlessto speak of it at such a time; but tell me, if you know: MissWodehouse, has he made his will?"

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, I don't know anything about business, " said theelder sister. "He said he would; but we have had other things to thinkof--more important things, " said poor Miss Wodehouse, wringing herhands, and looking at Mr Wentworth with eyes full of warning andmeaning, beseeching him not to betray her secret. She came nearer tothe side of the bed on which Lucy and the Curate were standing, andplucked at his sleeve in her anxiety. "We have had very differentthings to think of. Oh, Mr Wentworth, what does it matter?" said thepoor lady, interposing her anxious looks, which suggested every kindof misfortune, between the two. 

"It matters everything in the world, " said Mr Wentworth. "Pardon me ifI wound you--I must speak; if it is possible to rouse him, an effortmust be made. Send for Mr Waters. He must not be allowed to go out ofthe world and leave your interests in the hands of--"

"Oh, hush, Mr Wentworth, hush!--oh, hush, hush! Don't say any more, "cried Miss Wodehouse, grasping his arm in her terror. 

Lucy rose from where she had been sitting at the bedside. She hadgrown paler than before, and looked almost stern in her youthfulgravity. "I will not permit my father to be disturbed, " she said. "Idon't know what you mean, or what you are talking of; but he is not tobe disturbed. Do you think I will let him be vexed in his last hoursabout money or anybody's interest?" she said, turning upon the Curatea momentary glance of scorn. Then she sat down again, with a pang ofdisappointment added to her grief. She could not keep her heart somuch apart from him, as not to expect a little comfort from hispresence. And there had been comfort in his prayers and his looks; butto hear him speak of wills and worldly affairs by her father'sdeathbed, as any man might have done, went to Lucy's heart. She satdown again, putting her hand softly upon the edge of the pillow, toguard the peace of those last moments which were ebbing away sorapidly. What if all the comfort of the world hung upon it? Could shelet her kind father be troubled in his end for anything so miserable?Lucy turned her indignant eyes upon the others with silent resolution. It was she who was _his_ protector now. 

"But it must be done, " said Mr Wentworth. "You will understand mehereafter. Miss Wodehouse, you must send for Mr Waters, and in themean time I will do what I can to rouse him. It is no such cruelty asyou think, " said the Curate, with humility; "it is not for money orinterest only--it concerns all the comfort of your life. "

This he said to Lucy, who sat defending her father. She, for her part, looked up at him with eyes that broke his heart. At that moment of allothers, the unfortunate Curate perceived, by a sudden flash ofinsight, that nothing less than love could look at him with suchforce of disappointment and reproach and wounded feeling. He repliedto the look by a gesture of mingled entreaty and despair. 

"What can I do?" he cried--"you have no one else to care for you. Icannot even explain to you all that is at stake. I must act as Iought, even though you hate me for it. Let us send for Mr Waters;--ifthere is a will--"

Mr Wentworth had raised his voice a little in the excitement of themoment, and the word caught the dull ear of the dying man. The Curatesaw instantly that there was comprehension in the flicker of theeyelash and the tremulous movement of the hand upon the bed. It was anew and unaccustomed part which he had now to play; he went hurriedlyto the other side and leaned over the pillow to make out thestammering words which began to be audible. Lucy had risen up also andstood looking at her father still with her look of defence. As thefeeble lips babbled forth unintelligible words, Lucy's face grewsterner and sterner. As for Miss Wodehouse, she stood behind, cryingand trembling. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, do you think it is returninglife--do you think he is better?" she cried, looking wistfully at theCurate; and between the two young people, who were leaning with looksand feelings so different over his bed, the patient lay strugglingwith those terrible bonds of weakness, labouring to find expressionfor something which wrought him into a fever of excitement. While MrWentworth bent his ear closer and closer, trying to make some sense ofthe inarticulate torrent of sound, Lucy, inspired by grief and horrorand indignation, leaned over her father on the other side, doingeverything possible to calm him. "Oh, papa, don't say any more--don'tsay any more; we understand you, " she cried, and put her soft handsupon his flushed forehead, and her cheek to his. "No more, no more!"cried the girl in the dulled ear which could not hear. "We will doeverything you wish--we understand all, " said Lucy. Mr Wentworthwithdrew vanquished in that strange struggle--he stood looking onwhile she caressed and calmed and subdued into silence the dyingpassion which he would have given anything in the world to stimulateinto clearer utterance. She had baffled his efforts, made him helplessto serve her, perhaps injured herself cruelly; but all the more theCurate loved her for it, as she expanded over her dying father, withthe white sleeves hanging loose about her arms like the white wings ofan angel, as he thought. Gradually the agony of utterance got subdued, and then Lucy resumed her position by the bed. "He shall not bedisturbed, " she said again, through lips that were parched withemotion; and so sat watchful over him, a guardian immovable, ready todefy all the world in defence of his peace. 

Mr Wentworth turned away with his heart full. He would have liked togo and kiss her hand or her sleeve or anything belonging to her; andyet he was impatient beyond expression, and felt that she had baffledand vanquished him. Miss Wodehouse stood behind, still looking on witha half perception of what had happened; but the mind of the eldersister was occupied with vain hopes and fears, such as inexperiencedpeople are subject to in the presence of death. 

"He heard what you said, " said Miss Wodehouse; "don't you think thatwas a good sign? Oh, Mr Wentworth, sometimes I think he looks a littlebetter, " said the poor lady, looking wistfully into the Curate's face. Mr Wentworth could only shake his head as he hurried away. 

"I must go and consult Mr Waters, " he said, as he passed her. "I shallcome back presently;" and then Miss Wodehouse followed him to the door, to beg him not to speak to Mr Waters of _anything particular_--"For papahas no confidence in him, " she said, anxiously. The Curate was nearlydriven to his wits' end as he hastened out. He forgot the clouds thatsurrounded him in his anxiety about this sad household; for it seemedbut too evident that Mr Wodehouse had made no special provision for hisdaughters; and to think of Lucy under the power of her unknown brother, made Mr Wentworth's blood boil. 

The shutters were all put up that afternoon in the prettiest house inGrange Lane. The event took Carlingford altogether by surprise; butother events just then were moving the town into the wildestexcitement; for nothing could be heard, far or near, of poor littleRosa Elsworthy, and everybody was aware that the last time she wasseen in Carlingford she was standing by herself in the dark, at MrWentworth's garden-door. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Mrs Morgan was in the garden watering her favourite ferns when herhusband returned home to dinner on the day of Mr Wodehouse's death. TheRector was late, and she had already changed her dress, and was removingthe withered leaves from her prettiest plant of maidenhair, andthinking, with some concern, of the fish, when she heard his step on thegravel; for the cook at the Rectory was rather hasty in her temper, andwas apt to be provoking to her mistress next morning when the Rectorchose to be late. It was a very hot day, and Mr Morgan was flushed anduncomfortable. To see his wife looking so cool and tranquil in hermuslin dress rather aggravated him than otherwise, for she did notbetray her anxiety about the trout, but welcomed him with a smile, asshe felt it her duty to do, even when he was late for dinner. The Rectorlooked as if all the anxieties of the world were on his shoulders, as hecame hurriedly along the gravel; and Mrs Morgan's curiosity wassufficiently excited by his looks to have overcome any consideration butthat of the trout, which, however, was too serious to be trifled with;so, instead of asking questions, she thought it wiser simply to remindher husband that it was past six o'clock. "Dinner is waiting, " she said, in her composed way; and the Rector went up-stairs to wash his hands, half disposed to be angry with his wife. He found her already seated atthe head of the table when he came down after his rapid ablutions; andthough he was not particularly quick of perception, Mr Morgan perceived, by the looks of the servant as well as the mistress, that he wasgenerally disapproved of throughout the household for being half an hourtoo late. As for Thomas, he was at no pains to conceal his sentiments, but conducted himself with distant politeness towards his master, expressing the feelings of the household with all the greater freedomthat he had been in possession of the Rectory since Mr Bury's time, andfelt himself more secure in his tenure than any incumbent, as wasnatural to a man who had already outlived two of these temporarytenants. Mr Morgan was disposed to be conciliatory when he saw thestrength of the opposite side. 

"I am a little late today, " said the politic Rector. "Mr Leeson waswith me, and I did not want to bring him home to dinner. It was onlyon Wednesday he dined with us, and I know you don't care for chanceguests. "

"I think it shows a great want of sense in Mr Leeson to think of sucha thing, " said Mrs Morgan, responding by a little flush of anger tothe unlucky Curate's name. "He might understand that people like to beby themselves now and then. I am surprised that you give in to him somuch as you do, William. Good-nature must stop somewhere, and I thinkit is always best to draw a line. "

"I wish it were possible for everybody to draw a line, " said theRector, mysteriously, with a sigh. "I have heard something that hasgrieved me very much to-day. I will tell you about it afterwards. "When he had said this, Mr Morgan addressed himself sadly to hisdinner, sighing over it, as if that had something to do with hisdistress. 

"Perhaps, ma'am, " suggested Thomas, who was scarcely on speaking termswith his master, "the Rector mayn't have heard as Mr Wodehouse hasbeen took very bad again, and aint expected to see out the night. "

"I am very sorry, " said the Rector. "Poor ladies! it will come veryhard upon them. My dear, I think you should call and ask if you can doanything. Troubles never come singly, it is said. I am very sorry forthat poor young creature; though, perhaps, things have not gone so faras one imagined. " The Rector sighed again, and looked as though hissecret, whatever it might be, was almost too much for him. Theconsequence, of course, was, that Thomas prolonged his services to thelast possibility, by way of hearing what had happened; as for MrsMorgan, she sat on thorns, though her sense of propriety was too greatto permit her to hurry over the dinner. The pudding, though it was theRector's favourite pudding, prepared from a receipt only known atAll-Souls, in which the late respected Head of that learned communityhad concentrated all his genius, was eaten in uneasy silence, brokenonly by the most transparent attempts on both sides to make a littleconversation. Thomas hovered sternly over his master and mistress allthe time, exacting with inexorable severity every usage of the table. He would not let them off the very smallest detail, but insisted onhanding round the peaches, notwithstanding Mrs Morgan's protest. "Theyare the first out of the new orchard-house, " said the Rector's wife. "I want your opinion of them. That will do, Thomas; we have goteverything now, I think. " Mrs Morgan was a little anxious about thepeaches, having made a great many changes on her own responsibility inthe gardening department; but the Rector took the downy fruit as if ithad been a turnip, and notwithstanding her interest in thelong-delayed news, his wife could not but find it very provoking thathe took so little notice of her exertions. 

"Roberts stood out against the new flue as long as he could, " saidMrs Morgan. "Mr Proctor took no interest in the garden, and everythinghad gone to ruin; though I must say it was very odd that anybody from_your_ college, William, should be careless about such a vitalmatter, " said the Rector's wife, with a little asperity. "I supposethere must be something in the air of Carlingford which makes peopleindifferent. " Naturally, it was very provoking, after all the troubleshe had taken, to see her husband slicing that juicy pulp as if it hadbeen any ordinary market fruit. 

"I beg your pardon, my dear, " said Mr Morgan; "I was thinking of thisstory about Mr Wentworth. One is always making new discoveries of thecorruption of human nature. He had behaved very badly to me; but it isvery sad to see a young man sacrifice all his prospects for theindulgence of his passions; though that is a very secular way oflooking at the subject, " said the Rector, shaking his head mournfully. "If it is bad in a worldly point of view, what is it in a spiritual?and in this age, too, when it is so important to keep up the characterof the clergy!" Mr Morgan sighed again more heavily than ever as hepoured out the single glass of port, in which his wife joined himafter dinner. "Such an occurrence throws a stigma upon the wholeChurch, as Mr Leeson very justly remarked. "

"I thought Mr Leeson must have something to do with it, " said theRector's wife. "What has Mr Wentworth been doing? When you keep aLow-Church Curate, you never can tell what he may say. If he had knownof the All-Souls pudding he would have come to dinner, and we shouldhave had it at first-hand, " said Mrs Morgan, severely. She put awayher peach in her resentment, and went to a side-table for her work, which she always kept handy for emergencies. Like her husband, MrsMorgan had acquired some little "ways" in the long ten years of theirengagement, one of which was a confirmed habit of needlework at allkinds of unnecessary moments, which much disturbed the Rector when hehad anything particular to say. 

"My dear, I am very sorry to see you so much the victim of prejudice, "said Mr Morgan. "I had hoped that all our long experiences--" and herethe Rector stopped short, troubled to see the rising colour in hiswife's face. "I don't mean to blame you, my dear, " said the perplexedman; "I know you were always very patient;" and he paused, not knowingwhat more to say, comforting himself with the thought that women wereincomprehensible creatures, as so many men have done before. 

"I am not patient, " said the Rector's wife; "it never was my nature. Ican't help thinking sometimes that our long experiences have done usmore harm than good; but I hope nothing will ever make me put up witha Curate who tells tales about other people, and flatters one's self, and comes to dinner without being asked. Perhaps Mr Wentworth is verysinful, but at least he is a gentleman, " said Mrs Morgan; and she benther head over her work, and drove her needle so fast through themuslin she was at work upon, that it glimmered and sparkled likesummer lightning before the spectator's dazzled eyes. 

"I am sorry you are so prejudiced, " said the Rector. "It is a veryunbecoming spirit, my dear, though I am grieved to say so much to you. Mr Leeson is a very good young man, and he has nothing to do with thisterrible story about Mr Wentworth. I don't wish to shock yourfeelings--but there are a great many things in the world that onecan't explain to ladies. He has got himself into a most distressingposition, and a public inquiry will be necessary. One can't helpseeing the hand of Providence in it, " said the Rector, playingreflectively with the peach on his plate. 

It was at this moment that Thomas appeared at the door to announce MrLeeson, who had come to talk over the topic of the day with theRector--being comfortably obtuse in his perceptions, and quitedisposed to ignore Mrs Morgan's general demeanour towards himself. "Iam sure she has a bad temper, " he would say to his confidants in theparish; "you can see it by the redness in her face: but I never takeany notice when she says rude things to me. " The redness was alarmingin Mrs Morgan's face as the unlucky man became visible at the door. She said audibly, "I knew we should be interrupted!" and got up fromher chair. "As Mr Leeson is here, you will not want me, William, " sheadded, in her precisest tones. "If anything has happened since youcame in, he will be able to tell you about it; and perhaps I hadbetter send you your coffee here, for I have a great many things todo. " Mr Morgan gave a little groan in his spirit as his wife wentaway. To do him justice, he had a great deal of confidence in her, andwas unconsciously guided by her judgment in many matters. Talking itover with Mr Leeson was a totally different thing; for whatever mightbe said in his defence, there could not be any doubt that the Curateprofessed Low-Church principles, and had been known to drink tea withMr Beecher, the new minister of Salem Chapel. "Not that I object to MrBeecher because he is a Dissenter, " Mr Morgan said, "but because, mydear, you know, it is a totally different class of society. " When theRector was left alone to discuss parish matters with this doubtfulsubordinate, instead of going into the subject with his wife, the goodman felt a pang of disappointment; for though he professed to bereluctant to shock her, he had been longing all the time to enter intothe story, which was certainly the most exciting which had occurred inCarlingford since the beginning of his incumbency. Mrs Morgan, for herpart, went up-stairs to the drawing-room with so much indignationabout this personal grievance that she almost forgot her curiosity. MrLeeson hung like a cloud over all the advantages of Carlingford; heput out that new flue in the greenhouse, upon which she was ratherdisposed to pique herself, and withered her ferns, which everybodyallowed to be the finest collection within a ten miles' circuit. Thissense of disgust increased upon her as she went into the drawing-room, where her eye naturally caught that carpet which had been the firstcross of her married life. When she had laid down her work, she beganto plan how the offensive bouquets might be covered with a pinafore oflinen, which looked very cool and nice in summer-time. And then theRector's wife reflected that in winter a floor covered with whitelooked chilly, and that a woollen drugget of an appropriate smallpattern would be better on the whole; but no such thing was to be hadwithout going to London for it, which brought her mind back again toMr Leeson and all the disadvantages of Carlingford. These subjectsoccupied Mrs Morgan to the exclusion of external matters, as wasnatural; and when she heard the gentlemen stir down-stairs as if withideas of joining her in the drawing-room, the Rector's wife suddenlyrecollected that she had promised some tea to a poor woman in GroveStreet, and that she could not do better this beautiful evening thantake it in her own person. She was very active in her district at alltimes, and had proved herself an admirable clergywoman; but perhaps itwould not have occurred to her to go out upon a charitable errand thatparticular evening had it not been for the presence of Mr Leesondown-stairs. 

It was such a very lovely night, that Mrs Morgan was tempted to gofurther than she intended. She called on two or three of herfavourites in Grove Street, and was almost as friendly with them asLucy Wodehouse was with the people in Prickett's Lane; but beingneither pretty and young, like Lucy, nor yet a mother with a nursery, qualified to talk about the measles, her reception was not quite asenthusiastic as it might have been. Somehow it would appear as thoughour poor neighbours loved most the ministrations of youth, which issuperior to all ranks in the matter of possibility and expectation, and inferior to all ranks in the matter of experience; and so holds akind of balance and poise of nature between the small and the great. Mrs Morgan was vaguely sensible of her disadvantages in this respectas well as in others. She never could help imagining what she mighthave been had she married ten years before at the natural period. "And even then not a girl, " she said to herself in her sensible way, as she carried this habitual thread of thought with her along thestreet, past the little front gardens, where there were so manymothers with their children. On the other side of the way the genteelhouses frowned darkly with their staircase windows upon the humilityof Grove Street; and Mrs Morgan began to think within herself of theMiss Hemmings and other spinsters, and how they got along upon thispath of life, which, after all, is never lightsome to behold, exceptin the future or the past. It was dead present with the Rector's wifejust then, and many speculations were in her mind, as was natural. "Not that I could not have lived unmarried, " she continued withinherself, with a woman's pride; "but things looked so different atfive-and-twenty!" and in her heart she grudged the cares she had lost, and sighed over this wasting of her years. 

It was just then that the youngest Miss Hemmings saw Mrs Morgan, andcrossed over to speak to her. Miss Hemmings had left five-and-thirtybehind a long time ago, and thought the Rector's wife a happy woman inthe bloom of youth. When she had discovered conclusively that MrsMorgan would not go in to have a cup of tea, Miss Hemmings volunteeredto walk with her to the corner; and it is not necessary to say thatshe immediately plunged into the topic which at that moment engagedall minds in Carlingford. "If I had not seen it with my own eyes, Ishould not have believed it, " said Miss Hemmings. "I should havethought it a got-up story; not that I ever could have thought it_impossible_, as you say--for, alas! I know well that without graceevery wickedness is more than possible--but I saw them with my owneyes, my dear Mrs Morgan; she standing outside, the bold little thing, and he at the door--as if it was right for a clergyman to open thedoor like a man-servant--and from that moment to this she has not beenseen by any living creature in Carlingford: who can tell what may havebeen done with her?" cried the horrified eyewitness. "She has neverbeen seen from that hour!"

"But that was only twenty-four hours ago, " said Mrs Morgan; "she mayhave gone off to visit some of her friends. "

"Ah, my dear Mrs Morgan, twenty-four hours is a long time for a girlto disappear out of her own home, " said Miss Hemmings; "and all herfriends have been sent to, and no word can be heard of her. I amafraid it will go very hard with Mr Wentworth; and I am sure it lookslike a judgment upon him for all his candlesticks and flowers andthings, " she continued, out of breath with the impetuosity of hertale. 

"Do you think, then, that God makes people sin in order to punishthem?" said Mrs Morgan, with some fire, which shocked Miss Hemmings, who did not quite know how to reply. 

"I do so wish you would come in for a few minutes and taste our tea;my sister Sophia was just making it when I came out. We get it fromour brother in Assam, and we think a great deal of it, " said MissHemmings; "it can't possibly be adulterated, you know, for it comesdirect from his plantation. If you can't come in just now, I will sendyou some to the Rectory, and you shall tell us how you like it. We arequite proud of our tea. My brother has a large plantation, and hehopes--"

"Thank you, " said Mrs Morgan, "but the Rector will be waiting for me, and I must go. It must be very nice to have your tea direct from theplantation; and I hope you will change your mind about Mr Wentworth, "she continued, without much regard for punctuation, as she shook handsat the corner. Mrs Morgan went down a narrow street which led toGrange Lane, after this interview, with some commotion in her mind. She took Mr Wentworth's part instinctively, without asking any proofsof his innocence. The sun was just setting, and St Roque's stood outdark and picturesque against all the glory of the western sky as theRector's wife went past. She could not help thinking of him, in hisyouth and the opening of his career, with a kind of wistful interest. If he had married Lucy Wodehouse, and confined himself to his owndistrict (but then he had no district), Mrs Morgan would havecontemplated the two, not, indeed, without a certain half-resentfulself-reference and contrast, but with natural sympathy. And now, tothink of this dark and ugly blot on his fair beginning disturbed hermuch. When Mrs Morgan recollected that she had left her husband andhis Curate consulting over this matter, she grew very hot and angry, and felt humiliated by the thought. Was it her William, her hero, whomshe had magnified for all these ten years, though not withoutoccasional twinges of enlightenment, into something great, who wasthus sitting upon his young brother with so little human feeling andso much middle-aged jealousy? It hurt her to think of it, though notfor Mr Wentworth's sake. Poor Mrs Morgan, though not at all asentimental person, had hoarded up her ideal so much after theordinary date, that it came all the harder upon her when everythingthus merged into the light of common day. She walked very fast upGrange Lane, which was another habit of her maidenhood not quite inaccord with the habit of sauntering acquired during the same period bythe Fellow of All-Souls. When Mrs Morgan was opposite Mr Wodehouse's, she looked across with some interest, thinking of Lucy; and it shockedher greatly to see the closed shutters, which told of the presence ofdeath. Then, a little farther up, she could see Elsworthy in front ofhis shop, which was already closed, talking vehemently to a littlegroup round the door. The Rector's wife crossed the street, to avoidcoming into contact with this excited party; and, as she went swiftlyalong under the garden-walls, came direct, without perceiving it, uponMr Wentworth, who was going the opposite way. They were both absorbedin their own thoughts, the Perpetual Curate only perceiving Mrs Morganin time to take off his hat to her as he passed; and, to tell thetruth, having no desire for any further intercourse. Mrs Morgan, however, was of a different mind. She stopped instantly, as soon asshe perceived him. "Mr Wentworth, it is getting late--will you walkwith me as far as the Rectory?" she said, to the Curate's greatastonishment. He could not help looking at her with curiosity as heturned to accompany her. Mrs Morgan was still wearing her weddingthings, which were not now in their first freshness--not to say thatthe redness, of which she was so painfully sensible, was rather out ofaccordance with the orange blossoms. Then she was rather flurried anddisturbed in her mind; and, on the whole, Mr Wentworth ungratefullyconcluded the Rector's wife to be looking her plainest, as he turnedwith very languid interest to see her safely home. 

"A great many things seem to be happening just now, " said Mrs Morgan, with a good deal of embarrassment; "I suppose the people inCarlingford are grateful to anybody who gives them something to talkabout. "

"I don't know about the gratitude, " said the Perpetual Curate; "it isa sentiment I don't believe in. "

"You ought to believe in everything as long as you are young, " saidMrs Morgan. "I want very much to speak to you, Mr Wentworth; but thenI don't know how you will receive what I am going to say. "

"I can't tell until I know what it is, " said the Curate, shuttinghimself up. He had an expressive face generally, and Mrs Morgan sawthe shutters put up, and the jealous blinds drawn over the young man'scountenance as clearly as if they had been tangible articles. He didnot look at her, but kept swinging his cane in his hand, and regardingthe pavement with downcast eyes; and if the Rector's wife had formedany expectations of finding in the Perpetual Curate an ingenuous youngheart, open to sympathy and criticism, she now discovered her mistake. 

"If I run the risk, perhaps you will forgive me, " said Mrs Morgan. "Ihave just been hearing a dreadful story about you; and I don't believeit in the least, Mr Wentworth, " she continued, with a little effusion;for though she was very sensible, she was only a woman, and did notrealise the possibility of having her sympathy rejected, and herfavourable judgment received with indifference. 

"I am much flattered by your good opinion. What was the dreadfulstory?" asked Mr Wentworth, looking at her with careless eyes. Theywere just opposite Elsworthy's shop, and could almost hear what he wassaying, as he stood in the midst of his little group of listeners, talking loud and vehemently. The Perpetual Curate looked calmly at himacross the road, and turned again to Mrs Morgan, repeating hisquestion, "What was the dreadful story?--one gets used to romances, "he said, with a composure too elaborate to be real; but Mrs Morgan didnot think of that. 

"If you don't care about it, I need not say anything, " said theRector's wife, who could not help feeling affronted. "But I am sosorry that Mr Morgan and you don't get on, " she continued, after alittle pause. "I have no right to speak; but I take an interest ineverything that belongs to the parish. If you would put a littleconfidence in my husband, things might go on better; but, in the meantime, I thought I might say to you, on my own account, that I hadheard this scandal, and that I don't believe in it. If you do notunderstand my motive I can't help it, " said the Rector's wife, who wasnow equally ready for friendship or for battle. 

"Thanks; I understand what you mean, " said Mr Wentworth, who had cometo himself. "But will you tell me what it is you don't believe in?" heasked, with a smile which Mrs Morgan did not quite comprehend. 

"I will tell you, " she said, with a little quiet exasperation. "Idon't think you would risk your prospects, and get yourself intotrouble, and damage your entire life, for the sake of any girl, however pretty she might be. Men don't do such things for womennowadays, even when it is a worthy object, " said the disappointedoptimist. "And I believe you are a great deal more sensible, MrWentworth. " There was just that tone of mingled approval and contemptin this speech which a woman knows how to deliver herself of withoutany appearance of feeling; and which no young man, however _blasé_, can hear with composure. 

"Perhaps not, " he said, with a little heat and a rising colour. "I amglad you think me so sensible. " And then there ensued a pause, uponthe issue of which depended the question of peace or war between thesetwo. Mr Wentworth's good angel, perhaps, dropped softly through thedusky air at that moment, and jogged his perverse charge with the tipof a celestial wing. "And yet there might be women in the world forwhom--" said the Curate; and stopped again. "I daresay you are notanxious to know my sentiments on the subject, " he continued, with alittle laugh. "I am sorry you think so badly--I mean so well of me. "

"I don't think badly of you, " said Mrs Morgan, hastily. "Thank you forwalking with me; and whatever happens, remember that I for one don'tbelieve a word of it, " she said, holding out her hand. After this littledeclaration of friendship, the Rector's wife returned to the Rectory, where her husband was waiting for her, more than ever prepared to standup for Mr Wentworth. She went back to the drawing-room, forgetting allabout the carpet, and poured out the tea with satisfaction, and madeherself very agreeable to Mr Finial, the architect, who had come to talkover the restorations. In that moment of stimulation she forgot all herexperience of her husband's puzzled looks, of the half-comprehensionwith which he looked at her, and the depths of stubborn determinationwhich were far beyond the reach of her hastier and more generous spirit, and so went on with more satisfaction and gaiety than she had feltpossible for a long time, beating her drums and blowing her trumpets, tothe encounter in which her female forces were so confident of victory. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Mr Wentworth went upon his way, after he had parted from Mrs Morgan, with a moment's gratitude; but he had not gone half-a-dozen stepsbefore that amiable sentiment yielded to a sense of soreness andvexation. He had almost acknowledged that he was conscious of theslander against which he had made up his mind to present a blank frontof unconsciousness and passive resistance, and he was angry withhimself for his susceptibility to this unexpected voice of kindness. He was going home, but he did not care for going home. Poor MrsHadwin's anxious looks of suspicion had added to the distaste withwhich he thought of encountering again the sullen shabby rascal towhom he had given shelter. It was Saturday night, and he had still hissermon to prepare for the next day; but the young man was in a stateof disgust with all the circumstances of his lot, and could not makeup his mind to go in and address himself to his work as he ought tohave done. Such a sense of injustice and cruelty as possessed him wasnot likely to promote composition, especially as the pulpit addressesof the Curate of St Roque's were not of a declamatory kind. To thinkthat so many years' work could be neutralised in a day by a suddenbreath of scandal, made him not humble or patient, but fierce andresentful. He had been in Wharfside that afternoon, and felt convincedthat even the dying woman at No. 10 Prickett's Lane had heard of RosaElsworthy; and he saw, or imagined he saw, many a distrustfulinquiring glance thrown at him by people to whom he had been a kindof secondary Providence. Naturally the mere thought of the failingallegiance of the "district" went to Mr Wentworth's heart. When heturned round suddenly from listening to a long account of one poorfamily's distresses, and saw Tom Burrows, the gigantic bargeman, whosesix children the Curate had baptised in a lump, and whose baby hadbeen held at the font by Lucy Wodehouse herself, looking at himwistfully with rude affection, and something that looked very muchlike pity, it is impossible to describe the bitterness that welled upin the mind of the Perpetual Curate. Instead of leaving Wharfsidecomforted as he usually did, he came away wounded and angry, feelingto its full extent the fickleness of popular sympathy. And when hecame into Grange Lane and saw the shutters closed, and Mr Wodehouse'sgreen door shut fast, as if never more to open, all sources ofconsolation seemed to be shut against him. Even the habit he had ofgoing into Elsworthy's to get his newspaper, and to hear what talkmight be current in Carlingford, contributed to the sense of utterdiscomfort and wretchedness which overwhelmed him. Men in otherpositions have generally to consult the opinion of their equals only;but all sorts of small people can plant thorns in the path of a priestwho has given himself with fervour to the duties of his office. Trueenough, such clouds blow by, and sometimes leave behind a sky clearerthan before; but that result is doubtful, and Mr Wentworth was not ofthe temper to comfort himself with philosophy. He felt ingratitudekeenly, as men do at eight-and-twenty, even when they have made uptheir minds that gratitude is a delusion; and still more keenly, withdeep resentment and indignation, he felt the horrible doubt which haddiffused itself around him, and seemed to be looking at him out ofeverybody's eyes. In such a state of mind one bethinks one's self ofone's relations--those friends not always congenial, but whom onelooks to instinctively, when one is young, in the crisis of life. Heknocked at his aunts' door almost without knowing it, as he went downGrange Lane, after leaving Mrs Morgan, with vague sentences of hissermon floating in his mind through all the imbroglio of otherthoughts. Even aunt Dora's foolish affection might have been a littlecomfort at the moment, and he could not but be a little curious toknow whether they had heard Elsworthy's story, and what thepatronesses of Skelmersdale thought of the matter. Somehow, just then, in the midst of his distresses, a vision of Skelmersdale burst uponthe Perpetual Curate like a glimpse of a better world. If he could butescape there out of all this sickening misconception and ingratitude--ifhe could but take Lucy into his protecting arms, and carry her away farfrom the clouds that were gathering over her path as well as his own. The thought found vent in an impatient long-drawn sigh, and was thenexpelled contemptuously from the young man's bosom. If a hundredSkelmersdales were in his power, here, where his honour had beenattacked, it was necessary to remain, in the face of all obstacles, tillit was cleared. 

The Miss Wentworths had just come up to the drawing-room after dinnerwhen their nephew entered. As for Miss Dora, she had seated herself bythe window, which was open, and, with her light little curlsfluttering upon her cheek, was watching a tiny puff of smoke by theside of the great laurel, which indicated the spot occupied at thismoment by Jack and his cigar. "Dear fellow, he does enjoy the quiet, "she said, with a suppressed little sniff of emotion. "To think weshould be in such a misery about poor dear Frank, and have Jack, aboutwhom we have all been so unbelieving, sent to us for a consolation. Mypoor brother will be so happy, " said Miss Dora, almost crying at thethought. She was under the influence of this sentiment when the Curateentered. It was perhaps impossible for Mr Wentworth to present himselfbefore his three aunts at the present crisis without a certainconsciousness in his looks; and it was well that it was twilight, andhe could not read distinctly all that was written in theircountenances. Miss Cecilia held out her lovely old hand to him firstof all. She said, "How do you do, Frank?" which was not very original, but yet counted for a good deal in the silence. When he came up toher, she offered him her sweet old cheek with a look of pity whichtouched, and yet affronted, the Perpetual Curate. He thought it wasthe wisest way to accept the challenge at once. 

"It is very good of you, but you need not be sorry for me, " he said, ashe sat down by her. And then there was a little pause--an awful pause;for Miss Wentworth had no further observations to offer, and Miss Dora, who had risen up hastily, dropped into her chair again in a disconsolatecondition, when she saw that her nephew did not take any notice of her. The poor little woman sat down with miserable sensations, and did notfind the comfort she hoped for in contemplation of the smoke of Jack'scigar. After all, it was Frank who was the original owner of Miss Dora'saffections. When she saw him, as she thought, in a state of guilt andtrouble, received with grim silence by the dreaded Leonora, the poorlady began to waver greatly, divided between a longing to return to herold allegiance, and a certain pride in the new bonds which bound her toso great a sinner as Jack. She could not help feeling the distinction ofhaving such a reprobate in her hands. But the sight of Frank broughtback old habits, and Miss Dora felt at her wits' end, and could not tellwhat to do. 

At length Miss Leonora's voice, which was decided contralto, broke thesilence. "I am very glad to see you, Frank, " said the strong-mindedaunt. "From something we heard, I supposed you had gone away for atime, and we were rather anxious about your movements. There are somany things going on in the family just now, that one does not knowwhat to think. I am glad to see you are still in Carlingford. "

"I never had the least intention of going away, " said Mr Wentworth. "I can't imagine who could tell you so. "

"Nobody told us, " said Miss Leonora; "we drew that conclusion fromother things we heard. Dora, give Frank the newspaper with thatparagraph about Gerald. I have prophesied from the very first whichway Gerald was tending. It is very shocking of him, and I don't knowwhat they are to do, for Louisa is an expensive little fool; and if heleaves the Rectory, they can't have enough to live on. If you knewwhat your brother was going to do, why didn't you advise himotherwise? Besides, he will be wretched, " said the discriminatingwoman. "I never approved of his ways, but I could not say anythingagainst his sincerity. I believe his heart was in his work; a man maybe very zealous, and yet very erroneous, " said Miss Leonora, like anoracle, out of the shadows. 

"I don't know if he is erroneous or not--but I know I should like topunch this man's head, " said the Curate, who had taken the paper tothe window, where there was just light enough to make out theparagraph. He stood looming over Miss Dora, a great black shadowagainst the fading light. "All the mischief in the world comes ofthese villanous papers, " said Mr Wentworth. "Though I did not thinkanybody nowadays believed in the 'Chronicle. ' Gerald has not gone overto Rome, and I don't think he means to go. I daresay you have agitatedyourselves unnecessarily about more than one supposed event in thefamily, " he continued, throwing the paper on the table. "I don't knowanything very alarming that has happened as yet, except, perhaps, theprodigal's return, " said the Perpetual Curate, with a slight touch ofbitterness. His eye had just lighted on Jack sauntering through thegarden with his cigar; and Mr Wentworth was human, and could notentirely refrain from the expression of his sentiments. 

"But oh, Frank, my dear, you are not angry about poor Jack?" said MissDora. "He has not known what it was to be at home for years and years. A stepmother is so different from an own mother, and he never has hadany opportunities; and oh, Frank, don't you remember that there isjoy in heaven?" cried the anxious aunt--"not to say that he is theeldest son. And it is such a thing for the family to see him changinghis ways in such a beautiful spirit!" said Miss Dora. The room wasalmost dark by this time, and she did not see that her penitent hadentered while she spoke. 

"It is very consoling to gain your approval, aunt Dora, " said Jack. "Mybrother Frank doesn't know me. If the Squire _will_ make a nursery ofhis house, what can a man do? But a fellow can't be quite ruined as longas he has--" aunts, the reprobate was about to say, with an inflectionof laughter intended for Frank's ear only in his voice; but hefortunately remembered in time that Miss Leonora had an acuteintelligence, and was not to be trifled with--"As long as he has femalerelations, " said Jack, in his most feeling tone. "Men never sympathisewith men. " He seemed to be apologising for Frank's indifference, as wellas for his own sins. He had just had a very good dinner--for the MissWentworths' cook was the best in Carlingford--and Jack, whose digestionwas perfect, was disposed to please everybody, and had, in particular, no disposition to quarrel with Frank. 

"Oh, my dear, you see how humble and forgiving he is, " said Miss Dora, rising on tiptoe to whisper into the Curate's ear; "and always takesyour part whenever you are mentioned, " said the injudicious aunt. Meantime the other sisters were very silent, sitting each in the midstof her own group of shadows. Then Miss Leonora rose with a suddenrustling of all her draperies, and with her own energetic hand rangthe bell. 

"Now the lamp is coming, " said Jack, in a tone of despair, "a bright, blank, pitiless globe like the world; and instead of this deliciousdarkness, where one can see nothing distinctly, my heart will be tornasunder for the rest of the evening by the sight of suicide. Why do weever have lights?" said the exquisite, laying himself down softly ona sofa. When the lamp was brought in, Jack became visible stretchedout in an attitude of perfect repose and tranquillity, with a quietconscience written in every fold of his scrupulous apparel. As forFrank, on the contrary, he was still in morning dress, and was bitinghis nails, and had a cloud upon his brow which the sudden lightdisclosed like a traitor before he was prepared for it. Between thetwo brothers such a contrast was visible that it was not surprising ifMiss Dora, still wavering in her allegiance, went back with relief tothe calm countenance of her penitent, and owned to herself withtrembling that the Curate looked preoccupied and guilty. Perhaps MissLeonora came to a similar conclusion. She seated herself at herwriting-table with her usual air of business, and made a pen to a hardpoint by the light of the candles, which were sacred to her particularuse. 

"I heard some news this morning which pleased me very much, " said MissLeonora. "I daresay you remember Julia Trench? You two used to be agreat deal together at one time. She is going to be married to MrShirley's excellent curate, who is a young man of the highestcharacter. He did very well at the university, I believe, " said thepatroness of Skelmersdale; "but I confess I don't care much foracademical honours. He is an excellent clergyman, which is a greatdeal more to the purpose, and I thoroughly agree with his views. So, knowing the interest we take in Julia, you may think how pleased wewere, " said Miss Leonora, looking full into her nephew's face. He knewwhat she meant as distinctly as if she had put it in words. 

"When is old Shirley going to die?" said Jack from the sofa. "It'srather hard upon Frank, keeping him out of the living so long; and ifI were you, I'd be jealous of this model curate, " said the finegentleman, with a slight civil yawn. "I don't approve of model curatesupon family livings. People are apt to make comparisons, " said Jack, and then he raised his head with a little energy--"Ah, there it is, "said the Sybarite, "the first moth. Don't be precipitate, my dearfellow. Aunt Dora, pray sit quietly where you are, and don't disturbour operations. It is only a moth, to be sure; but don't let us cutshort the moments of a creature that has no hereafter, " said Jack, solemnly. He disturbed them all by this eccentric manifestation ofbenevolence, and flapped his handkerchief round Miss Dora, upon whosewhite cap the unlucky moth, frightened by its benefactor's vehemence, was fluttering wildly. Jack even forgot himself so far as to swearsoftly in French at the frightened insect as it flew wildly off at atangent, not to the open window, but to Miss Leonora's candles, whereit came to an immediate end. Miss Leonora sat rather grimly looking onat all this byplay. When her elegant nephew threw himself back oncemore upon his sofa, she glanced from him to his brother with acomparison which perhaps was not so much to the disadvantage of thePerpetual Curate. But even Miss Leonora, though so sensible, had herweaknesses; and she was very evangelical, and could put up with agreat deal from the sinner who had placed himself for conversion inher hands. 

"We have too great a sense of our responsibility to treat Skelmersdalesimply as a family living, " she said. "Besides, Frank of course is tohave Wentworth Rectory. Gerald's perversion is a great blow; butstill, if it _is_ to be, Frank will be provided for at least. As forour parish--"

"I beg your pardon, " said the Curate; "I have not the least intentionof leaving Carlingford. At the present moment neither Skelmersdale norWentworth would tempt me. I am in no doubt as to where my work lies, and there is enough of it to satisfy any man. " He could not helpthinking, as he spoke, of ungrateful Wharfside, for which he had doneso much, and the recollection brought a little flush of indignantcolour to his cheek. 

"Oh, Frank, my dear, " said Miss Dora in a whisper, stealing up to him, "if it is not true, you must not mind. Oh, my dear boy, nobody willmind it if it is not true. " She put her hand timidly upon his arm asshe reached up to his ear, and at the same time the poor little woman, who was trying all she could to serve two masters, kept one eye uponJack, lest her momentary return to his brother might have a disastrouseffect upon the moral reformation which she was nursing with so muchcare. As for the Curate, he gave her a hasty glance, which very nearlymade an end of Miss Dora. She retired to her seat with no more courageto say anything, unable to make out whether it was virtuous reproachor angry guilt which looked at her so sternly. She felt her headachecoming on as she sank again upon her chair. If she could but havestolen away to her own room, and had a good comforting cry in thedark, it might have kept off the headache; but then she had to befaithful to her post, and to look after the reformation of Jack. 

"I have no doubt that a great work might be done in Carlingford, " saidMiss Leonora, "if you would take my advice and organise mattersproperly, and make due provision for the lay element. As for Sistersof Mercy, I never had any belief in them. They only get youngclergymen into mischief, " said the strong-minded aunt. "We are goingto have tea, Frank, if you will have some. Poor Mr Shirley has gotmatters into very bad order at Skelmersdale, but things will bedifferent under the new incumbent, I hope, " said Miss Leonora, shooting a side-glance of keen inspection at the Curate, who bore itsteadily. 

"I hope he will conduct himself to your satisfaction, " said MrWentworth, with a bland but somewhat grim aspect, from the window;"but I can't wait for tea. I have still got some of my work to do forto-morrow; so good-night. "

"I'll walk with you, Frank, " said his elder brother. "My dear aunts, don't look alarmed; nothing can happen to me. There are fewtemptations in Grange Lane; and, besides, I shall come back directly. _I_ cannot do without my tea, " said Jack, by way of consoling poorMiss Dora, who had started with consternation at the proposal. Andthe two brothers went out into the fresh evening air together, theiraunt Dora watching them from the window with inexpressible anxiety;for perhaps it was not quite right for a clergyman to saunter out ofdoors in the evening with such a doubtful member of society as Jack;and perhaps Frank, having himself fallen into evil ways, might hinderor throw obstacles in the way of his brother's re-establishment in thepractice of all the virtues. Miss Dora, who had to carry them bothupon her shoulders, and who got no sympathy in the present case fromher hard-hearted sisters, was fain at last to throw a shawl over herhead and steal out to that summer-house which was built into thegarden-wall, and commanded Grange Lane from its little window. Thereshe established herself in the darkness, an affectionate spy. Thereought to have been a moon that night, and accordingly the lamps werenot lighted at that end of Grange Lane, for the authorities inCarlingford bore a frugal mind. But the sky had become cloudy, and themoon shone only at intervals, which gave a certain character ofmystery and secrecy to the night. Through this uncertain light theanxious woman saw her two nephews coming and going under the window, apparently in the most eager conversation. Miss Dora's anxiety grew tosuch a height that she opened softly a chink of the window in hopes ofbeing able to hear as well as to see, but that attempt was altogetherunsuccessful. Then, when they had walked about for half an hour, whichlooked like two hours to Miss Dora, who was rapidly taking one of herbad colds at the half-open window, they were joined by another figurewhich she did not think she had ever seen before. The excitement wasgrowing tremendous, and the aspect of the three conspirators more andmore alarming, when the poor lady started with a little scream at anoise behind her, and turning round, saw her maid, severe as apursuing Fate, standing at the door. "After giving me your word as youwouldn't come no more?" said the reproachful despot who swayed MissDora's soul. After that she had to make the best of her way indoors, thankful not to be carried to her room and put into hot water, whichwas the original intention of Collins. But it would be impossible todescribe the emotions of Miss Dora's mind after this glimpse into theheart of the volcano on which her innocent feet were standing. Unlessit were murder or high treason, what could they have to plot about? orwas the mysterious stranger a disguised Jesuit, and the whole businesssome terrible Papist conspiracy? Jack, who had been so much abroad, and Gerald, who was going over to Rome, and Frank, who was in troubleof every description, got entangled together in Miss Dora's disturbedimagination. No reality could be so frightful as the fancies withwhich she distracted herself after that peep from the summer-house;and it would be impossible to describe the indignation of Collins, whoknew that her mistress would kill herself some day, and was aware thatshe, in her own person, would get little rest that night. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

"I don't know what is the exact connection between tea andreformation, " said Jack Wentworth, with a wonderful yawn. "When Iconsider that this is all on account of that stupid beast Wodehouse, Ifeel disposed to eat him. By the way, they have got a capital cook; Idid not think such a _cuisine_ was the sort of thing to be found inthe bosom of one's family, which has meant boiled mutton up to thismoment, to my uninstructed imagination. But the old ladies are in astate of excitement which, I presume, is unusual to them. It appearsyou have been getting into scrapes like other people, though you area parson. As your elder brother, my dear Frank--"

"Look here, " said the Perpetual Curate; "you want to ask aboutWodehouse. I will answer your questions, since you seem to have someinterest in him; but I don't speak of my private affairs to any but myintimate friends, " said Mr Wentworth, who was not in a humour to betrifled with. 

The elder brother shrugged his shoulders. "It is curious to remark theprogress of the younger members of one's family, " he said, reflectively. "When you were a little boy, you took your drubbingsdutifully; but never mind, we've another subject in hand. I take aninterest in Wodehouse, and so do you--I can't tell for what reason. Perhaps he is one of the intimate friends with whom you discuss yourprivate affairs? but that is a matter quite apart from the subject. The thing is that he has to be taken care of--not for his own sake, asI don't need to explain to you, " said Jack. "I hear the old fellowdied today, which was the best thing he could have done, upon thewhole. Perhaps you can tell me how much he had, and how he has leftit? We may have to take different sides, and the fellow himself is asnob; but I should like to understand exactly the state of affairsbetween you and me as gentlemen, " said the heir of the Wentworths. Either a passing spasm of compunction passed over him as he said theword, or it was the moon, which had just flung aside the last fold ofcloud and burst out upon them as they turned back facing her. "When weknow how the affair stands, we can either negotiate or fight, " headded, puffing a volume of smoke from his cigar. "Really a very fineeffect--that little church of yours comes well against that bit ofsky. It looks like a Constable, or rather it would look like aConstable, thrusting up that bit of spire into the blue, if ithappened to be daylight, " said Jack, making a tube of his hand, andregarding the picture with great interest. Miss Dora at her windowbeheld the movement with secret horror and apprehension, and took itfor some mysterious sign. 

"I know nothing about Mr Wodehouse's property, " said the Curate: "Iwish I knew enough law to understand it. He has left no will, Ibelieve;" and Mr Wentworth watched his brother's face with no smallinterest as he spoke. 

"Very like a Constable, " said Jack, still with his hands to his eyes. "These clouds to the right are not a bad imitation of some effects ofhis. I beg your pardon, but Constable is my passion. And so oldWodehouse has left no will? What _has_ he left? some daughters? Excusemy curiosity, " said the elder brother. "I am a man of the world, youknow. If you like this other girl well enough to compromise yourselfon her account (which, mind you, I think a great mistake), you can'tmean to go in at the same time for that pretty sister, eh? It's a sortof sport I don't attempt myself--though it may be the correct thingfor a clergyman, for anything I can tell to the contrary, " said thetolerant critic. 

Mr Wentworth had swallowed down the interruptions that rushed to hislips, and heard his brother out with unusual patience. After all, perhaps Jack was the only man in the world whom he could ask to advisehim in such an emergency. "I take it for granted that you don't meanto insult either me or my profession, " he said, gravely; "and, to tellthe truth, here is one point upon which I should be glad of your help. I am convinced that it is Wodehouse who has carried away thisunfortunate girl. She is a little fool, and he has imposed upon her. If you can get him to confess this, and to restore her to her friends, you will lay me under the deepest obligation, " said the PerpetualCurate, with unusual energy. "I don't mind telling you that such aslander disables me, and goes to my heart. " When he had once begun tospeak on the subject, he could not help expressing himself fully; andJack, who had grown out of acquaintance with the nobler sentiments, woke up with a slight start through all his moral being to recognisethe thrill of subdued passion and scorn and grief which was in hisbrother's voice. Innocent Miss Dora, who knew no evil, had scarcely adoubt in _her_ mind that Frank was guilty; but Jack, who scarcely knewwhat goodness was, acquitted his brother instantaneously, and requiredno other proof. Perhaps if he had been capable of any impressionbeyond an intellectual one, this little incident might, in Miss Dora'sown language, have "done him good. "

"So you have nothing to do with it?" he said, with a smile. "Wodehouse!but then the fellow hasn't a penny. I see some one skulking along underthe walls that looks like him. Hist! Smith--Tom--what do they call you?We want you here, " said Jack, upon whom the moon was shining full. Whenhe stood in his evening coat and spotless breadth of linen, the heir ofthe Wentworths was ready to meet the eye of all the world. His shabbysubordinate stopped short, with a kind of sullen admiration, to look athim. Wodehouse knew the nature of Jack Wentworth's pursuits a great dealbetter than his brother did, and that some of them would not bear muchinvestigation; but when he saw him stand triumphant in gorgeous apparel, fearing no man, the poor rascal, whom everybody kicked at, rose superiorto his own misfortunes. He had not made much of it in his own person, but that life was not altogether a failure which had produced JackWentworth. He obeyed his superior's call with instinctive fidelity, proud, in spite of himself, to be living the same life and sharing thesame perils. When he emerged into the moonlight, his shaggy countenancelooked excited and haggard. Notwithstanding all his experiences, he wasnot of a constitution which could deny nature. He had inflicted everykind of torture upon his father while living; but, notwithstanding, thefact of the death affected him. His eyes looked wilder than usual, andhis face older and more worn, and he looked round him with a kind ofclandestine skulking instinct as he came out of the shadow into thelight. 

This was the terrible conjunction which Miss Dora saw from her window. The anxious woman did not wait long enough to be aware that the Curateleft the other two to such consultations as were inevitable betweenthem, and went away very hastily to his own house, and to the work whichstill awaited him--"When the wicked man turneth away from the evil ofhis ways, and doeth that which is lawful and right. " Mr Wentworth, whenhe came back to it, sat for about an hour over his text before he wrotea single syllable. His heart had been wrung that day by the sharpestpangs which can be inflicted upon a proud and generous spirit. He wasdisposed to be bitter against all the world--against the dull eyes thatwould not see, the dull ears that could shut themselves against allsuggestions either of gratitude or justice. It appeared to him, on thewhole, that the wicked man was every way the best off in this world, besides being wooed and besought to accept the blessings of the other. And the Curate was conscious of an irrepressible inclination toexterminate the human vermin who made the earth such an imbroglio ofdistress and misery; and was sore and wounded in his heart to feel howhis own toils and honest purposes availed him nothing, and how all theinterest and sympathy of bystanders went to the pretender. Thesesentiments naturally complicated his thoughts, and made compositiondifficult; not to say that they added a thrill of human feeling warmerthan usual to the short and succinct sermon. It was not an emotionalsermon, in the ordinary sense of the word; but it was so for MrWentworth, who carried to an extreme point the Anglican dislike forpulpit exaggeration in all forms. The Perpetual Curate was not a naturalorator. He had very little of the eloquence which gave Mr Vincent somuch success in the Dissenting connection during his short stay inCarlingford, which was a kind of popularity not much to the taste of theChurchman. But Mr Wentworth had a certain faculty of concentrating histhoughts into the tersest expression, and of uttering in a very fewwords, as if they did not mean anything particular, ideas which werealways individual, and often of distinct originality--a kind ofutterance which is very dear to the English mind. As was natural, therewere but a limited amount of people able to find him out; but those whodid so were rather fond of talking about the "restrained power" of theCurate of St Roque's. 

Next morning was a glorious summer Sunday--one of those days of peaceon which this tired old earth takes back her look of innocence, anddeludes herself with thoughts of Eden. To be sure, there were tumultsenough going on over her surface--vulgar merry-makings and noises, French drums beating, all kinds of discordant sounds going on here andthere, by land and sea, under that tranquil impartial sun. But the airwas very still in Carlingford, where you could hear the bees in thelime-blossoms as you went to church in the sunshine. All that world ofsoft air in which the embowered houses of Grange Lane lay beatified, was breathing sweet of the limes; but notwithstanding the radiance ofthe day, people were talking of other subjects as they came down underthe shadow of the garden-walls to St Roque's. There was a great streamof people--greater than usual; for Carlingford was naturally anxiousto see how Mr Wentworth would conduct himself in such an emergency. Onone side of the way Mr Wodehouse's hospitable house, shut up closely, and turning all its shuttered windows to the light, which shoneserenely indifferent upon the blank frames, stood silent, dumblycontributing its great moral to the human holiday; and on the other, Elsworthy's closed shop, with the blinds drawn over the cheerfulwindows above, where little Rosa once amused herself watching thepassengers, interposed a still more dreadful discordance. TheCarlingford people talked of both occurrences with composure as theywent to St Roque's. They were sorry, and shocked, and very curious;but that wonderful moral atmosphere of human indifference andself-regard which surrounds every individual soul, kept their feelingsquite within bounds. Most people wondered much what Mr Wentworthwould say; whether he would really venture to face the Carlingfordworld; whether he would take refuge in a funeral sermon for MrWodehouse; or how it was possible for him to conduct himself undersuch circumstances. When the greater part of the congregation wasseated, Miss Leonora Wentworth, all by herself, in her iron-grey silk, which rustled like a breeze along the narrow passage, although shewore no crinoline, went up to a seat immediately in front, close to MrWentworth's choristers, who just then came trooping in in their whitesurplices, looking like angels of unequal height and equivocalreputation. Miss Leonora placed herself in the front row of a littlegroup of benches arranged at the side, just where the Curate's wifewould have been placed, had he possessed such an appendage. She lookeddown blandly upon the many lines of faces turned towards her, accepting their inspection with perfect composure. Though herprinciples were Evangelical, Miss Leonora was still a Wentworth, and awoman. She had not shown any sympathy for her nephew on the previousnight; but she had made up her mind to stand by him, without sayinganything about her determination. This incident made a greatimpression on the mind of Carlingford. Most likely it interfered withthe private devotions, from which a few heads popped up abruptly asshe passed; but she was very devout and exemplary in her own person, and set a good example, as became the clergyman's aunt. 

Excitement rose very high in St Roque's when Mr Wentworth came into thereading-desk, and Elsworthy, black as a cloud, became visibleunderneath. The clerk had not ventured to absent himself, nor to send asubstitute in his place. Never, in the days when he was most devoted toMr Wentworth, had Elsworthy been more determined to accompany himthrough every particular of the service. They had stood together in thelittle vestry, going through all the usual preliminaries, the Curatetrying hard to talk as if nothing had happened, the clerk going throughall his duties in total silence. Perhaps there never was a churchservice in Carlingford which was followed with such intense interest byall the eyes and ears of the congregation. When the sermon came, it tookMr Wentworth's admirers by surprise, though they could not at the momentmake out what it was that puzzled them. Somehow the perverse manner inwhich for once the Curate treated that wicked man who is generally madeso much of in sermons, made his hearers slightly ashamed of themselves. As for Miss Leonora, though she could not approve of his sentiments, thethought occurred to her that Frank was not nearly so like his mother'sfamily as she had supposed him to be. When the service was over, shekept her place, steadily watching all the worshippers out, who throngedout a great deal more hastily than usual to compare notes, and ask eachother what they thought. "I can't fancy he looks guilty, " an eager voicehere and there kept saying over and over. But on the whole, after theyhad got over the momentary impression made by his presence and aspect, the opinion of Carlingford remained unchanged; which was--that, notwithstanding all the evidence of his previous life, it was quitebelievable that Mr Wentworth was a seducer and a villain, and ought tobe brought to condign punishment; but that in the mean time it was veryinteresting to watch the progress of this startling little drama; andthat he himself, instead of merely being the Curate of St Roque's, hadbecome a most captivating enigma, and had made church-going itself halfas good as a play. 

As for Miss Leonora, she waited for her nephew, and, when he was ready, took his arm and walked with him up Grange Lane to her own door, wherethey encountered Miss Wentworth and Miss Dora returning from church, andoverwhelmed them with astonishment. But it was not about his own affairsthat they talked. Miss Leonora did not say a word to her nephew abouthimself. She was talking of Gerald most of the time, and inquiring intoall the particulars of the Squire's late "attack. " And she would veryfain have found out what Jack's motive was in coming to Carlingford; butas for Rosa Elsworthy and her concerns, the strong-minded woman ignoredthem completely. Mr Wentworth even went with her to lunch, on her urgentinvitation; and it was from his aunts' house that he took his way toWharfside, pausing at the green door to ask after the Miss Wodehouses, who were, John said, with solemnity, as well as could be expected. Theywere alone, and they did not feel equal to seeing anybody--even MrWentworth; and the Perpetual Curate, who would have given all he had inthe world for permission to soothe Lucy in her sorrow, went away sadlyfrom the hospitable door, which was now for the first time closed tohim. He could not go to Wharfside, to the "district" through which theyhad so often gone together, about which they had talked, when all thelittle details discussed were sweet with the love which they did notname, without going deeper and deeper into that sweet shadow of Lucywhich was upon his way wherever he went. He could not help missing hervoice when the little choir, which was so feeble without her, sang the'Magnificat, ' which, somehow, Mr Wentworth always associated with herimage. He read the same sermon to the Wharfside people which he hadpreached in St Roque's, and saw, with a little surprise, that it drewtears from the eyes of his more open-hearted hearers, who did not thinkof the proprieties. He could see their hands stealing up to their faces, and a great deal of persistent winking on the part of the strongermembers of the congregation. At the close of the service Tom Burrowscame up to the Curate with a downcast countenance. "Please, sir, if I'vedone ye injustice in my own mind, as went sore against the grain, andwouldn't have happened but for the women, I axes your pardon, " said thehonest bargeman, which was balm and consolation to Mr Wentworth. Therewas much talk in Prickett's Lane on the subject as he went to see thesick woman in No. 10. "There aint no doubt as he sets our duty beforeus clear, " said one family mother; "he don't leave the men no excuse fortheir goings-on. He all but named the Bargeman's Arms out plain, as itwas the place all mischief comes from. " "If he'd have married Miss Lucy, like other folks, at Easter, " said one of the brides whom Mr Wentworthhad blessed, "such wicked stories couldn't never have been made up. " "Astory may be made up, or it mayn't be made up, " said a more experiencedmatron; "but it can't be put out of the world unbeknowst no more nor ababby. I don't believe in stories getting up that aint true. I don't sayas he don't do his duty; but things was different in Mr Bury's time, aswas the real Rector; and, as I was a-saying, a tale's like a babby--itmay come when it didn't ought to come, or when it aint wanted, but youcan't do away with it, anyhow as you like to try. " Mr Wentworth did nothear this dreary prediction as he went back again into the upper world. He was in much better spirits, on the whole. He had calmed his own mindand moved the hearts of others, which is to every man a gratification, even though nothing higher should be involved. And he had regained themoral countenance of Tom Burrows, which most of all was a comfort tohim. More than ever he longed to go and tell Lucy as he passed by thegreen door. Tom Burrows's repentant face recalled Mr Wentworth's mind tothe fact that a great work was doing in Wharfside, which, after all, wasmore worth thinking of than any tantalising vision of an impossiblebenefice. But this very thought, so consoling in itself, reminded him ofall his vexations, of the public inquiry into his conduct which washanging over him, and of his want of power to offer to Lucy the supportand protection of which she might so soon stand in need; and having thusdrawn upon his head once more his whole burden of troubles, Mr Wentworthwent in to eat his dinner with what appetite he could. 

The Perpetual Curate sat up late that night, as indeed was hiscustom. He sat late, hearing, as everybody does who sits up alone in ahushed and sleeping household, a hundred fantastic creaks and soundswhich did not mean anything, and of which he took no notice. Once, indeed, when it was nearly midnight, he fancied he heard thegarden-gate close hurriedly, but explained it to himself as people dowhen they prefer not to give themselves trouble. About one o'clock inthe morning, however, Mr Wentworth could no longer be in any doubtthat some stealthy step was passing his door and moving about thehouse. He was not alarmed, for Mrs Hadwin had occasional "attacks, "like most people of her age; but he put down his pen and listened. Noother sound was to be heard except this stealthy step, no opening ofdoors, nor whisper of voices, nor commotion of any kind; and after awhile Mr Wentworth's curiosity was fully awakened. When he heard itagain, he opened his door suddenly, and threw a light upon thestaircase and little corridor into which his room opened. The figurehe saw there startled him more than if it had been a midnight robber. It was only Sarah, the housemaid, white and shivering with terror, whofell down upon her knees before him. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, it aint myfault!" cried Sarah. The poor girl was only partially dressed, andtrembled pitifully. "They'll say it was my fault; and oh, sir, it's mycharacter I'm a-thinking of, " said Sarah, with a sob; and the Curatesaw behind her the door of Wodehouse's room standing open, and themoonlight streaming into the empty apartment. "I daren't godown-stairs to see if he's took anything, " cried poor Sarah, under herbreath; "there might be more of them about the place. But oh, MrWentworth, if Missis finds out as I gave him the key, what will becomeof me?" Naturally, it was her own danger which had most effect uponSarah. Her full, good-humoured face was all wet and stained withcrying, her lips quivering, her eyes dilated. Perhaps a thrill ofprivate disappointment mingled with her dread of losing her character. "He used to tell me all as he was a-going to do, " said Sarah; "but, oh, sir, he's been and gone away, and I daren't go down-stairs to lookat the plate, and I'll never more sleep in quiet, if I was to live acentury. It aint as I care for _him_, but it's the key and mycharacter as I'm a-thinking of, " cried the poor girl, bursting intoaudible sobs that could be restrained no longer. Mr Wentworth took acandle and went into Wodehouse's empty room, leaving her to recoverher composure. Everything was cleared and packed up in that apartment. The little personal property he had, the shabby boots and wornhabiliments, had disappeared totally; even the rubbish of wood-carvingon his table was cleared away. Not a trace that he had been there afew hours ago remained in the place. The Curate came out of the roomwith an anxious countenance, not knowing what to make of it. And bythis time Sarah's sobs had roused Mrs Hadwin, who stood, severe andindignant, at her own door in her nightcap, to know what was thematter. Mr Wentworth retired into his own apartments after a word ofexplanation, leaving the mistress and maid to fight it out. He himselfwas more disturbed and excited than he could have described. He couldnot tell what this new step meant, but felt instinctively that itdenoted some new development in the tangled web of his own fortunes. Some hidden danger seemed to him to be gathering in the air over thehouse of mourning, of which he had constituted himself a kind ofguardian. He could not sleep all night, but kept starting at everysound, thinking now that the skulking rascal, who was Lucy's brother, was coming back, and now that his departure was only a dream. MrWentworth's restlessness was not soothed by hearing all the nightthrough, in the silence of the house, suppressed sobs and sounds ofweeping proceeding from the attic overhead, which poor Sarah sharedwith her fellow-servant. Perhaps the civilities of "the gentleman" haddazzled Sarah, and been too much for her peace of mind; perhaps it wasonly her character, as the poor girl said. But as often as the Curatestarted from his uneasy and broken snatches of sleep, he heard themurmur of crying and consoling up-stairs. Outside the night wasspreading forth those sweetest unseen glories of the starlight and themoonlight and the silence, which Nature reserves for her ownenjoyment, when the weary human creatures are out of the way and atrest;--and Jack Wentworth slept the sleep of the righteous, utteringdelicate little indications of the depth of his slumber, which itwould have been profane to call by any vulgar name. _He_ slept sweetlywhile his brother watched and longed for daylight, impatient for themorrow which must bring forth something new. The moonlight streamedfull into the empty room, and made mysterious combinations of thefurniture, and chased the darkness into corners which each held theirsecret. This was how Mrs Hadwin's strange lodger, whom nobody couldever make out, disappeared as suddenly as he had come, without anyexplanations; and only a very few people could ever come to understandwhat he had to do with the after-events which struck Grange Lane dumb, and turned into utter confusion all the ideas and conclusions ofsociety in Carlingford. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

"I will do what I can for you, " said Mr Morgan; "yours is a very hardcase, as you say. Of course it would not do for me to give anyopinion--but such a thing shall not occur in Carlingford, while I amhere, without being looked into, " said the Rector, with dignity; "ofthat you may be sure. "

"I don't want no more nor justice, " said Elsworthy--"no more norjustice. I'm a man as has always been respected, and never interferedwith nobody as didn't interfere with me. The things I've stood frommy clergyman, I wouldn't have stood from no man living. The way ashe'd talk, sir, of them as was a deal better than himself! We was ahappy family afore Mr Wentworth came nigh of us. Most folks inCarlingford knows me. There wasn't a more industrious family inCarlingford, though I say it as shouldn't, nor one as was morecontent, or took things more agreeable, afore Mr Wentworth come to putall wrong. "

"Mr Wentworth has been here for five years, " said the Rector's wife, who was present at this interview; "have things been going wrong forall that time?"

"I couldn't describe to nobody what I've put up with, " said the clerkof St Roque's, evading the question. "He hadn't the ways of suchclergymen as I've been used to. Twice the pay wouldn't have made upfor what I've suffered in my feelings; and I ask you, sir, is this howit's all to end? My little girl's gone, " cried Elsworthy, rising intohoarse earnestness--"my little girl as was so sweet, and as everybodytook notice on. She's gone, and I don't know as I'll ever see heragain; and I can't get no satisfaction one way or another; and I askyou, sir, is a villain as could do such a thing to hold up his head inthe town, and go on the same as ever? I aint a man as is contrairy, oras goes agin' my superiors; but it's driving me mad, that's what it'sdoing, " said Elsworthy, wiping the moisture from his forehead. The manwas trembling and haggard, changed even in his looks--his eyes werered with passion and watching, and looked like the eyes of a wildbeast lying in wait for its prey. "I can't say as I've ever slept anhour since it happened, " he cried; "and as for my missis, it'sa-killing of her. We aint shut up, because we've got to live all thesame; and because, if the poor thing come back, there's always an opendoor. But I'll have justice, if I was to die for it!" cried Elsworthy. "I don't ask no more than justice. If it aint to be had one way, I'llhave it another. I'll set the police on him--I will. When a man'sdrove wild, he aint answerable for what he's a-doing; and to see hima-walking about Carlingford, and a-holding up his head, is a thing asI won't stand no longer, not if it was to be my ruin. I'm as good asruined now, and I don't care. " He broke off short with these words, and sat down abruptly on the chair Thomas had placed for him in frontof the Rector's table. Up to this moment he had been standing, in hisvehemence and agitation, without taking advantage of the courtesyaccorded to his misfortune; now the poor man sat down by way ofemphasis, and began to polish his hat round and round with histrembling hands. 

As for Mr Morgan, he, on the contrary, got up and walked instinctivelyto the fireplace, and stood there with his back to the empty grate, contemplating the world in general with a troubled countenance, as wasusual. Not to speak of his prejudice against Mr Wentworth, the Rectorwas moved by the sight of Elsworthy's distress; but then his wife, whounluckily had brought her needlework into the library on this particularmorning, and who was in the interest of the Curate of St Roque's, wasseated watchful by the window, occasionally looking up, and entirelycognisant, as Mr Morgan was aware, of everything that happened. TheRector was much embarrassed to feel himself thus standing between thetwo parties. "Yours is a very hard case--but it is necessary to proceedwith caution, for, after all, there is not much proof, " he said, faltering a little. "My dear, it is a pity to detain you from yourwalk, " Mr Morgan continued, after a momentary pause, and looked with aflush of consciousness at his wife, whose absence would have been such arelief to him. Mrs Morgan looked up with a gracious smile. 

"You are not detaining me, William--I am very much interested, " saidthe designing woman, and immediately began to arrange and put in orderwhat the Rector knew by experience to be a long piece of work, likelyto last her an hour at least. Mr Morgan uttered a long breath, whichsounded like a little snort of despair. 

"It is very difficult to know what to do, " said the Rector, shiftinguneasily upon the hearthrug, and plunging his hands into the depths ofhis pockets. "If you could name anybody you would like to refer itto--but being a brother clergyman--"

"A man as conducts himself like that, didn't ought to be a clergyman, sir, " cried Elsworthy. "I'm one as listened to him preaching on Sunday, and could have jumped up and dragged him out of the pulpit, to hear hima-discoursing as if he wasn't a bigger sinner nor any there. I aint safeto stand it another Sunday. I'd do something as I should be sorry forafter. I'm asking justice, and no more. " With these words Elsworthy gotup again, still turning round in his hands the unlucky hat, and turnedhis person, though not his eyes, towards Mrs Morgan. "No man could bemore partial to his clergyman nor I was, " he said hoarsely. "There wasnever a time as I wasn't glad to see him. He came in and out as if itbelonged to him, and I had no more thought as he was meaning any harmthan the babe unborn; but a man as meddles with an innocent girl aintnothing but a black-hearted villain!" cried Elsworthy, with a gleam outof his red eyes; "and I don't believe as anybody would take his part asknew all. I put my confidence in the Rector, as is responsible for theparish, " he went on, facing round again: "not to say but what it'snatural for them as are Mr Wentworth's friends to take his part--butI'll have justice, wherever it comes from. It's hard work to go again'any lady as I've a great respect for, and wouldn't cross for the world;but it aint in reason that I should be asked to bear it and not saynothing; and I'll have justice, if I should die for it, " said Elsworthy. He turned from one to another as he spoke, but kept his eyes upon hishat, which he smoothed and smoothed as if his life depended on it. Butfor the reality of his excitement, his red eyes, and hoarse voice, hewould have been a ludicrous figure, standing as he did in the middle ofMr Morgan's library, veering round, first to one side and then to theother, with his stooping head and ungainly person. As for the Rector, hetoo kept looking at his wife with a very troubled face. 

"It is difficult for me to act against a brother clergyman, " said MrMorgan; "but I am very sorry for you, Elsworthy--very sorry; if youcould name, say, half-a-dozen gentlemen--"

"But don't you think, " said the Rector's wife, interposing, "that youshould inquire first whether there is any evidence? It would make youall look very ridiculous if you got up an inquiry and found no proofagainst Mr Wentworth. Is it likely he would do such a thing all atonce without showing any signs of wickedness beforehand--is itpossible? To be sorry is quite a different thing, but I don't see--"

"Ladies don't understand such matters, " said the Rector, who had beenkept at bay so long that he began to get desperate. "I beg yourpardon, my dear, but it is not a matter for you to discuss. We shalltake good care that there is plenty of evidence, " said the perplexedman--"I mean, before we proceed to do anything, " he added, growingvery red and confused. When Mr Morgan caught his wife's eye, he got asnearly into a passion as was possible for so good a man. "You knowwhat I mean, " he said, in his peremptory way; "and, my dear, you willforgive me for saying this is not a matter to be discussed before alady. " When he had uttered this bold speech, the Rector took a fewlittle walks up and down the room, not caring, however, to look at hiswife. He was ashamed of the feeling he had that her absence would sethim much more at ease with Elsworthy, but still could not help beingconscious that it was so. He did not say anything more, but he walkedup and down the room with sharp short steps, and betrayed hisimpatience very manifestly. As for Mrs Morgan, who was a sensiblewoman, she saw that the time had come for her to retire from thefield. 

"I think the first thing to be done is to try every possible means offinding the girl, " she said, getting up from her seat; "but I have nodoubt what you decide upon will be the best. You will find me in thedrawing-room when you want me, William. " Perhaps her absence for thefirst moment was not such a relief to her husband as he had expected. The mildness of her parting words made it very apparent that she didnot mean to take offence; and he perceived suddenly, at a glance, thathe would have to tell her all he was going to do, and encounter hercriticism single-handed, which was rather an appalling prospect to theRector. Mrs Morgan, for her part, went up-stairs not without a littlevexation, certainly, but with a comforting sense of the opportunitywhich awaited her. She felt that, in his unprotected position, as soonas she left him, the Rector would conduct himself rashly, and that hertime was still to come. 

The Rector went back to the hearthrug when his wife left the room, butin the heat of his own personal reflections he did not say anything toElsworthy, who still stood smoothing his hat in his hand. On thewhole, Mr Morgan was rather aggravated for the moment by the unluckycause of this little encounter, and was not half so well disposedtowards Mr Wentworth's enemy as half an hour before, when herecognised his wife as the champion of the Curate, and felt controlledby her presence; for the human and even the clerical mind has itsimpulses of perversity. He began to get very impatient of Elsworthy'shat, and the persistent way in which he worked at it with his hands. 

"I suppose you would not be so certain about it if you had notsatisfactory evidence?" he said, turning abruptly, and even a littleangrily, upon the supplicant; for Mr Morgan naturally resented his owntemper and the little semi-quarrel he had got into upon the thirdperson who was the cause of all. 

"Sir, " said Elsworthy, with eagerness, "it aint no wonder to me as thelady takes Mr Wentworth's part. A poor man don't stand no chanceagainst a young gentleman as has had every advantage. It's a thing asI'm prepared for, and it don't have no effect upon me. A lady as is sorespected and thought a deal of both in town and country--"

"I was not speaking of my wife, " said the Rector, hastily, "don't youthink you had better put down your hat? I think you said it was onFriday it occurred. It will be necessary to take down the facts in abusiness-like way, " said Mr Morgan, drawing his chair towards the tableand taking up his pen. This was how the Rector was occupied when Thomasannounced the most unexpected of all possible visitors, Mr Proctor, whohad been Mr Morgan's predecessor in Carlingford. Thomas announced hisold master with great solemnity as "the late Rector"--a title whichstruck the present incumbent with a sense of awe not unnatural in thecircumstances. He jumped up from his chair and let his pen fall out ofhis startled fingers when his old friend came in. They had eaten many agood dinner together in the revered hall of All-Souls, and as thefamiliar countenance met his eyes, perhaps a regretful thought of thatElysium stole across the mind of the late Fellow, who had been so gladto leave the sacred brotherhood, and marry, and become as other men. Hegave but a few hurried words of surprise and welcome to his visitor, andthen, with a curious counterpoise of sentiment, sent him up-stairs tosee "my wife, " feeling, even while half envious of him, a kind ofsuperiority and half contempt for the man who was not a Rector andmarried, but had given up both these possibilities. When he sent himup-stairs to see "my wife, " Mr Morgan looked after the elderly celibatewith a certain pity. One always feels more inclined to take the simpleview of any matter--to stand up for injured innocence, and to right thewronged--when one feels one's self better off than one's neighbours. Areverse position is apt to detract from the simplicity of one'sconceptions, and to suggest two sides to the picture. When Mr Proctorwas gone, the Rector addressed himself with great devotion to Elsworthyand his evidence. It could not be doubted, at least, that the man wasin earnest, and believed what he said; and things unquestionably lookedrather ugly for Mr Wentworth. Mr Morgan took down all about the Curate'suntimely visit to Elsworthy on the night when he took Rosa home; andwhen he came to the evidence of the Miss Hemmings, who had seen theCurate talking to the unfortunate little girl at his own door the lasttime she was seen in Carlingford, the Rector shook his head with aprolonged movement, half of satisfaction, half of regret; for, to besure, he had made up his mind beforehand who the culprit was, and it wasto a certain extent satisfactory to have his opinion confirmed. 

"This looks very bad, very bad, I am sorry to say, " said Mr Morgan;"for the unhappy young man's own sake, an investigation is absolutelynecessary. As for you, Elsworthy, everybody must be sorry for you. Have you no idea where he could have taken the poor girl?--that is, "said the uncautious Rector, "supposing that he is guilty--of which Iam afraid there does not seem much doubt. "

"There aint no doubt, " said Elsworthy; "there aint nobody else ascould have done it. Just afore my little girl was took away, sir, MrWentworth went off of a sudden, and it was said as he was a-going hometo the Hall. I was a-thinking of sending a letter anonymous, to ask ifit was known what he was after. I read in the papers the other day ashis brother was a-going over to Rome. There don't seem to be none o'them the right sort; which it's terrible for two clergymen. I wasthinking of dropping a bit of a note anonymous--"

"No--no--no, " said the Rector, "that would never do; nothing of thatsort, Elsworthy. If you thought it likely she was there, the properthing would be to go and inquire; nothing anonymous--no, no; that is athing I could not possibly countenance, " said Mr Morgan. He pushedaway his pen and paper, and got very red and uncomfortable. If eitherof the critics up-stairs, his wife, or his predecessor in the Rectory, could but know that he was having an anonymous letter suggested tohim--that anybody ventured to think him capable of being an accomplicein such proceedings! The presence of these two in the house, thoughthey were most probably at the moment engaged in the calmest abstractconversation, and totally unaware of what was going on in the library, had a great effect upon the Rector. He felt insulted that any mancould venture to confide such an intention to him almost within thehearing of his wife. "If I am to take up your case, everything must beopen and straightforward, " said Mr Morgan; while Elsworthy, who sawthat he had said something amiss, without precisely understandingwhat, took up his hat as a resource, and once more began to polish itround and round in his hands. 

"I didn't mean no harm, sir, I'm sure, " he said; "I don't seem to seeno other way o' finding out; for I aint like a rich man as can go andcome as he pleases; but I won't say no more, since it's displeasing toyou. If you'd give me the list of names, sir, as you have decided onto be the committee, I wouldn't trouble you no longer, seeing asyou've got visitors. Perhaps, if the late Rector aint going awaydirectly, he would take it kind to be put on the committee; and he's agentleman as I've a great respect for, though he wasn't not to say theman for Carlingford, " said Elsworthy, with a sidelong look. He beganto feel the importance of his own position as the originator of acommittee, and at the head of the most exciting movement which hadbeen for a long time in Carlingford, and could not help beingsensible, notwithstanding his affliction, that he had a distinction tooffer which even the late Rector might be pleased to accept. 

"I don't think Mr Proctor will stay, " said Mr Morgan; "and if he doesstay, I believe he is a friend of Mr Wentworth's. " It was only afterhe had said this that the Rector perceived the meaning of the words hehad uttered; then, in his confusion and vexation, he got up hastilyfrom the table, and upset the inkstand in all the embarrassment ofthe moment. "Of course that is all the greater reason for having hisassistance, " said Mr Morgan, in his perplexity; "we are all friends ofMr Wentworth. Will you have the goodness to ring the bell? There arefew things more painful than to take steps against a brotherclergyman, if one did not hope it would be for his benefit in theend. Oh, never mind the table. Be so good as to ring the bellagain--louder, please. "

"There aint nothing equal to blotting-paper, sir, " said Elsworthy, eagerly. "With a bit o' blotting-paper I'd undertake to rub outink-stains out o' the finest carpet--if you'll permit me. It aint but asmall speck, and it'll be gone afore you could look round. It's twentytimes better nor lemon-juice, or them poisonous salts as you're alwaysnervous of leaving about. Look you here, sir, if it aint a-sopping upbeautiful. There aint no harm done as your respected lady could be putout about; and I'll take the list with me, if you please, to show to mywife, as is a-breaking her heart at home, and can't believe as we'llever get justice. She says as how the quality always takes a gentleman'spart against us poor folks, but that aint been my experience. Don't youtouch the carpet, Thomas--there aint a speck to be seen when theblotting-paper's cleared away. I'll go home, not to detain you no more, sir, and cheer up the poor heart as is a-breaking, " said Elsworthy, getting up from his knees where he had been operating upon the carpet. He had got in his hand the list of names which Mr Morgan had put down asreferees in this painful business, and it dawned faintly upon the Rectorfor the moment that he himself was taking rather an undignified positionas Elsworthy's partisan. 

"I have no objection to your showing it to your wife, " said Mr Morgan;"but I shall be much displeased if I hear any talk about it, Elsworthy;and I hope it is not revenge you are thinking of, which is a veryunchristian sentiment, " said the Rector, severely, "and not likely toafford comfort either to her or to you. "

"No, sir, nothing but justice, " said Elsworthy, hoarsely, as he backedout of the room. Notwithstanding this statement, it was with veryunsatisfactory sensations that Mr Morgan went up-stairs. He felt somehowas if the justice which Elsworthy demanded, and which he himself hadsolemnly declared to be pursuing the Curate of St Roque's, waswonderfully like revenge. "All punishment must be more or lessvindictive, " he said to himself as he went up-stairs; but that fact didnot make him more comfortable as he went into his wife's drawing-room, where he felt more like a conspirator and assassin than an EnglishRector in broad daylight, without a mystery near him, had any right tofeel. This sensation confused Mr Morgan much, and made him moreperemptory in his manner than ever. As for Mr Proctor, who was only aspectator, and felt himself on a certain critical eminence, thesuggestion that occurred to his mind was, that he had come in at the endof a quarrel, and that the conjugal firmament was still in a state ofdisturbance: which idea acted upon some private projects in the hiddenmind of the Fellow of All-Souls, and produced a state of feeling littlemore satisfactory than that of the Rector of Carlingford. 

"I hope Mr Proctor is going to stay with us for a day or two, " said MrsMorgan. "I was just saying it must look like coming home to come to thehouse he used to live in, and which was even furnished to his owntaste, " said the Rector's wife, shooting a little arrow at the lateRector, of which that good man was serenely unconscious. All this time, while they had been talking, Mrs Morgan had scarcely been able to keepfrom asking who could possibly have suggested such a carpet. MrProctor's chair was placed on the top of one of the big bouquets, whichexpanded its large foliage round him with more than Easternprodigality--but he was so little conscious of any culpability of hisown in the matter, that he had referred his indignant hostess to one ofthe leaves as an illustration of the kind of diaper introduced into thenew window which had lately been put up in the chapel of All-Souls. "Anaturalistic treatment, you know, " said Mr Proctor, with the utmostserenity; "and some people objected to it, " added the unsuspicious man. 

"I should have objected very strongly, " said Mrs Morgan, with a littleflush. "If you call that naturalistic treatment, I consider itperfectly out of place in decoration--of every kind--" Mr Proctorhappened to be looking at her at the moment, and it suddenly occurredto him that Miss Wodehouse never got red in that uncomfortable way, which was the only conclusion he drew from the circumstance, havinglong ago forgotten that any connection had ever existed betweenhimself and the carpet on the drawing-room in Carlingford Rectory. Headdressed his next observation to Mr Morgan, who had just come in. 

"I saw Mr Wodehouse's death in the 'Times, '" said Mr Proctor, "and Ithought the poor young ladies might feel--at least they might think ita respect--or, at all events, it would be a satisfaction to one'sself, " said the late Rector, who had got into a mire of explanation. "Though he was far from being a young man, yet having a young daughterlike Miss Lucy--"

"Poor Lucy!" said Mr Morgan. "I hope that wretched fellow, youngWentworth"--and here the Rector came to a dead stop, and felt that hehad brought the subject most to be avoided head and shoulders into theconversation, as was natural to an embarrassed man. The consequencewas that he got angry, as might have been expected. "My dear, you mustnot look at me as you do. I have just been hearing all the evidence. No unbiassed mind could possibly come to any other decision, " said MrMorgan, with exasperation. Now that he had committed himself, hethought it was much the best thing to go in for it wholly, withouthalf measures, which was certainly the most straightforward way. 

"What has happened to Wentworth?" said Mr Proctor. "He is a young manfor whom I have a great regard. Though he is so much younger than Iam, he taught me some lessons while I was in Carlingford which I shallnever forget. If he is in any trouble that I can help him in, I shallbe very glad to do it, both for his sake and for--" Mr Proctor slurredover the end of his sentence a little, and the others were occupiedwith their own difficulties, and did not take very much notice--for itwas difficult to state fully the nature and extent of Mr Wentworth'senormities after such a declaration of friendship. "I met him on myway here, " said the Fellow of All-Souls, "not looking quite as he usedto do. I supposed it might be Mr Wodehouse's death, perhaps. " All MrProctor's thoughts ran in that channel of Mr Wodehouse's death, which, after all, though sad enough, was not so great an event to thecommunity in general as the late Rector seemed to suppose. 

It was Mrs Morgan at length who took heart to explain to Mr Proctorthe real state of affairs. "He has been a very good clergyman for fiveyears, " said Mrs Morgan; "he might behave foolishly, you know, aboutWharfside, but then that was not his fault so much as the fault of theRector's predecessors. I am sure I beg your pardon, Mr Proctor--I didnot mean that you were to blame, " said the Rector's wife; "but, notwithstanding all the work he has done, and the consistent life hehas led, there is nobody in Carlingford who is not quite ready tobelieve that he has run away with Rosa Elsworthy--a common little girlwithout any education, or a single idea in her head. I suppose she iswhat you would call pretty, " said the indignant woman. "Everybody isjust as ready to believe that he is guilty as if he were a stranger ora bad character. " Mrs Morgan stopped in an abrupt manner, because herquick eyes perceived a glance exchanged between the two gentlemen. MrProctor had seen a good deal of the world in his day, as he was fondof saying now and then to his intimate friends: and he had learned atthe university and other places that a girl who is "what you wouldcall pretty, " counts for a great deal in the history of a young man, whether she has any ideas in her head or not. He did not, any morethan the people of Carlingford, pronounce at once on _a priori_evidence that Mr Wentworth must be innocent. The Curate's "consistentlife" did not go for much in the opinion of the middle-aged Fellow ofAll-Souls, any more than of the less dignified populace. He said, "Dear me, dear me!" in a most perplexed and distressed tone, while MrsMorgan kept looking at him; and looked very much as if he were temptedto break forth into lamentations over human nature, as Mr Morganhimself had done. 

"I wonder what the Miss Wodehouses think of it, " he said at last. "Onewould do a great deal to keep them from hearing such a thing; but Iwonder how they are feeling about it, " said Mr Proctor--and clearlydeclined to discuss the matter with Mrs Morgan, who was counsel forthe defence. When the Rector's wife went to her own room to dress fordinner, it is very true that she had a good cry over her cup of tea. She was not only disappointed, but exasperated, in that impatientfeminine nature of hers. Perhaps if she had been less sensitive, shewould have had less of that redness in her face which was so great atrouble to Mrs Morgan. These two slow middle-aged men, without anyintuitions, who were coming lumbering after her through all kind ofmuddles of evidence and argument, exasperated the more rapid woman. Tobe sure, they understood Greek plays a great deal better than she did;but she was penetrated with the liveliest impatience of their dulnessall the same. Mrs Morgan, however, like most people who are in advanceof their age, felt her utter impotence against that blank wall of dullresistance. She could not make them see into the heart of things asshe did. She had to wait until they had attacked the question in theorthodox way of siege, and made gradual entrance by dint of hardlabour. All she could do to console herself was, to shed certain hottears of indignation and annoyance over her tea, which, however, wasexcellent tea, and did her good. Perhaps it was to show her sense ofsuperiority, and that she did not feel herself vanquished, that, afterthat, she put on her new dress, which was very much too nice to bewasted upon Mr Proctor. As for Mr Leeson, who came in as usual just intime for dinner, having heard of Mr Proctor's arrival, she treated himwith a blandness which alarmed the Curate. "I quite expected you, forwe have the All-Souls pudding to-day, " said the Rector's wife, and shesmiled a smile which would have struck awe into the soul of any curatethat ever was known in Carlingford. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

It was the afternoon of the same day on which Mr Proctor arrived inCarlingford that Mr Wentworth received the little note from MissWodehouse which was so great a consolation to the Perpetual Curate. Bythat time he had begun to experience humiliations more hard to bear thananything he had yet known. He had received constrained greetings fromseveral of his most cordial friends; his people in the district, all butTom Burrows, looked askance upon him; and Dr Marjoribanks, who had nevertaken kindly to the young Anglican, had met him with satirical remarksin his dry Scotch fashion, which were intolerable to the Curate. Inthese circumstances, it was balm to his soul to have his sympathy oncemore appealed to, and by those who were nearest to his heart. The nextday was that appointed for Mr Wodehouse's funeral, to which Mr Wentworthhad been looking forward with a little excitement--wondering, withindignant misery, whether the covert insults he was getting used towould be repeated even over his old friend's grave. It was while thiswas in his mind that he received Miss Wodehouse's little note. It wasvery hurriedly written, on the terrible black-edged paper which, to sucha simple soul as Miss Wodehouse, it was a kind of comfort to use in themoment of calamity. "Dear Mr Wentworth, " it said, "I am in greatdifficulty, and don't know what to do: come, I beg of you, and tell mewhat is best. My dear Lucy insists upon going to-morrow, and I can'tcross her when her heart is breaking, and I don't know what to do. Please to come, if it were only for a moment. Dear, dear papa, and allof us, have always had such confidence in you!" Mr Wentworth was seated, very disconsolate, in his study when this appeal came to him: he wasrather sick of the world and most things in it; a sense of wrongeclipsed the sunshine for the moment, and obscured the skies; but it wascomforting to be appealed to--to have his assistance and his protectionsought once more. He took his hat immediately and went up the sunnyroad, on which there was scarcely a passenger visible, to the closed-uphouse, which stood so gloomy and irresponsive in the sunshine. MrWodehouse had not been a man likely to attract any profound love in hislifetime, or sense of loss when he was gone; but yet it was possible tothink, with the kindly, half-conscious delusion of nature, that had _he_been living, he would have known better; and the Curate went into thedarkened drawing-room, where all the shutters were closed, except thoseof the little window in the corner, where Lucy's work-table stood, andwhere a little muffled sunshine stole in through the blind. Everythingwas in terribly good order in the room. The two sisters had been livingin their own apartments, taking their forlorn meals in the littleparlour which communicated with their sleeping chambers, during thisweek of darkness; and nobody had come into the drawing-room except thestealthy housemaid, who contemplated herself and her new mourning for anhour at a stretch in the great mirror without any interruption, whileshe made "tidy" the furniture which nobody now disturbed. Into thissombre apartment Miss Wodehouse came gliding, like a gentle ghost, inher black gown. She too, like John and the housemaid and everybodyabout, walked and talked under her breath. There was now no man in thehouse entitled to disturb those proprieties with which a femalehousehold naturally hedges round all the great incidents of life; andthe affairs of the family were all carried on in a whisper, inaccordance with the solemnity of the occasion--a circumstance which hadnaturally called the ghost of a smile to the Curate's countenance as hefollowed John up-stairs. Miss Wodehouse herself, though she was pale, and spent half her time, poor soul! in weeping, and had, besides, livingencumbrances to trouble her helpless path, did not look amiss in herblack gown. She came in gliding without any noise, but with a littleexpectation in her gentle countenance. She was one of the people whomexperience never makes any wiser; and she could not help hoping to bedelivered from her troubles this time, as so often before, as soon asshe should have transferred them to somebody else's shoulders, and taken"advice. "

"Lucy has made up her mind that we are to go to-morrow, " said MissWodehouse, drying her tears. "It was not the custom in my young days, Mr Wentworth, and I am sure I don't know what to say; but I can't bearto cross her, now that she has nobody but me. She was always the bestchild in the world, " said the poor lady--"far more comfort to poordear papa than I ever could be; but to hear her talk you would thinkthat she had never done anything. And oh, Mr Wentworth, if that wasall I should not mind; but we have always kept things a secret fromher; and now I have had a letter, and I don't know what it is possibleto do. "

"A letter from your brother?" asked Mr Wentworth, eagerly. 

"From Tom, " said the elder sister; "poor, poor Tom! I am sure papaforgave him at the last, though he did not say anything. Oh, MrWentworth, he was such a nice boy once; and if Lucy only knew, and Icould summon up the courage to tell her, and he would change his ways, as he promised--don't think me fickle or changeable, or look as if Ididn't know my own mind, " cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with a fresh flowof tears; "but oh, Mr Wentworth, if he only would change his ways, ashe promised, think what a comfort it would be to us to have him athome!"

"Yes, " said the Curate, with a little bitterness. Here was anotherinstance of the impunities of wickedness. "I think it very likelyindeed that you will have him at home, " said Mr Wentworth--"almostcertain; the wonder is that he went away. Will you tell me where hedates his letter from? I have a curiosity to know. "

"You are angry, " said the anxious sister. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, I know hedoes not deserve anything else, but you have always been so kind. Iput his letter in my pocket to show you--at least, I am sure Iintended to put it in my pocket. We have scarcely been in this roomsince--since--" and here Miss Wodehouse broke down, and had to take alittle time to recover. "I will go and get the letter, " she said, asat last she regained her voice, and hurried away through the partialdarkness with her noiseless step, and the long black garments whichswept noiselessly over the carpet. Mr Wentworth for his part went tothe one window which was only veiled by a blind, and comforted himselfa little in the sunshine. The death atmosphere weighed upon the youngman and took away his courage. If he was only wanted to pave the wayfor the reception of the rascally brother for whose sins he feltconvinced he was himself suffering, the consolation of being appealedto would be sensibly lessened, and it was hard to have no other way ofclearing himself than by criminating Lucy's brother, and bringingdishonour upon her name. While he waited for Miss Wodehouse's return, he stood by Lucy's table, with very little of the feeling which hadonce prompted him to fold his arms so caressingly with an impulse oftenderness upon the chair which stood beside it. He was so muchabsorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear at first the soundof a hesitating hand upon the door, which at length, when repeated, went to the Curate's heart. He turned round rapidly, and saw Lucystanding on the threshold in her profound mourning. She was very pale, and her blue eyes looked large and full beyond their naturalappearance, dilated with tears and watching; and when they met thoseof Mr Wentworth, they filled full like flower-cups with dew; butbesides this Lucy made no demonstration of her grief. After thatmomentary hesitation at the door, she came in and gave the Curate herhand. Perhaps it was a kind of defiance, perhaps a natural yearning, which drew her out of her chamber when she heard of his presence; bothsentiments sprang out of the same feeling; and the Curate, when helooked at her, bethought himself of the only moment when he had beenable to imagine that Lucy loved him; that moment by her father'sbedside, of which the impression had been dulled since then by a crowdof events, when she looked with such reproach and disappointment andindignation into his face. 

"I heard you were here, " said Lucy, "and I thought you might think itstrange not to see us both. " And then she paused, perhaps finding itless easy than she thought to explain why she had come. "We ought tothank you, Mr Wentworth, for your kindness, though I--"

"You were angry with me, " said the Curate. "I know you thought meheartless; but a man must bear to be misconceived when he has duty todo, " the young clergyman added, with a swelling heart. Lucy did notknow the fuller significance of his words; and there was a loftinessin them which partly affronted her, and set all her sensitivewoman-pride in arms against him. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said, faltering, and then the two stoodbeside each other in silence, with a sense of estrangement. As forLucy, all the story about Rosa Elsworthy, of which she had not yetheard the last chapter, rushed back upon her mind. Was it to seelittle Rosa's lover that she had come out of the darkness of her room, with a natural longing for sympathy which it was impossible torestrain? The tenderness of the instinctive feeling which had movedher, went back upon her heart in bitterness. That he must have divinedwhy she had come, and scorned her for it, was the mildest suppositionin Lucy's mind. She could almost have imagined that he had come onpurpose to elicit this vain exhibition of regard, and triumph over it;all this, too, when she was in such great trouble and sorrow, andwanted a little compassion, a little kindness, so much. This was thestate of mind to which Lucy had come, in five minutes after sheentered the room, when Miss Wodehouse came back with the letter. Theelder sister was almost as much astonished at Lucy's presence as ifshe had been the dead inhabitant who kept such state in the darkenedhouse. She was so startled that she went back a step or two when sheperceived her, and hastily put the letter in her pocket, and exclaimedher sister's name in a tone most unlike Miss Wodehouse's naturalvoice. 

"I came down-stairs because--I mean they told me Mr Wentworth washere, " said Lucy, who had never felt so weak and so miserable in herlife, "and I wanted to thank him for all his kindness. " It was herefor the first time that Lucy broke down. Her sorrow was so great, herlonging for a word of kindness had been so natural, and her shame andself-condemnation at the very thought that she was able to think ofanything but her father, were so bitter, that the poor girl's forces, weakened by watching, were not able to withstand them. She sank intothe chair that stood nearest, and covered her face with her hands, andcried as people cry only at twenty. And as for Mr Wentworth, he had noright to take her in his arms and comfort her, nor to throw himself ather feet and entreat her to take courage. All he could do was to standhalf a yard, yet a whole world, apart looking at her, his heartbeating with all the remorseful half-angry tenderness of love. Sinceit was not his to console her, he was almost impatient of her tears. 

"Dear, I have been telling Mr Wentworth about to-morrow, " said MissWodehouse, weeping too, as was natural, "and he thinks--he thinks--oh, my darling! and so do I--that it will be too much for you. When I wasyoung it never was the custom; and oh, Lucy, remember that ladies arenot to be expected to have such command over their feelings, " said poorMiss Wodehouse, dropping on her knees by Lucy's chair. Mr Wentworthstood looking on in a kind of despair. He had nothing to say, and noright to say anything; even his presence was a kind of intrusion. But tobe referred to thus as an authority against Lucy's wishes, vexed him inthe most unreasonable way. 

"Mr Wentworth does not know me, " said Lucy, under her breath, wipingaway her tears with a trembling, indignant hand. "If we had had abrother, it might have been different; but there must be somebody therethat loves him, " said the poor girl, with a sob, getting up hastily fromher chair. She could not bear to stay any longer in the room, which shehad entered with a vague sense of possible consolation. As for theCurate, he made haste to open the door for her, feeling the restraint ofhis position almost intolerable. "_I_ shall be there, " he said, stoppingat the door to look into the fair, pallid face which Lucy would scarcelyraise to listen. "Could you not trust _me_?" It looked like giving him apledge of something sacred and precious to put her hand into his, whichwas held out for it so eagerly. But Lucy could not resist the softeningof nature; and not even Miss Wodehouse, looking anxiously after them, heard what further words they were that Mr Wentworth said in her ear. "Iam for your service, however and wherever you want me, " said the Curate, with a young man's absolutism. Heaven knows he had enough to do with hisown troubles; but he remembered no obstacle which could prevent him fromdedicating all his time and life to her as he spoke. When Lucy reachedher own room, she threw herself upon the sofa, and wept like a womaninconsolable; but it was somehow because this consolation, subtle andsecret, had stolen into her heart that her tears flowed so freely. AndMr Wentworth returned to her sister relieved, he could not have toldwhy. At all events, come what might, the two had drawn together again intheir mutual need. 

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, how can I cross her?" said Miss Wodehouse, wringingher hands. "If we had a brother--did you hear what she said? Here ishis letter, and I hope you will tell me candidly what you think. If wecould trust him--if we could but trust him! I daresay you think mevery changeable and foolish; but now we are alone, " said the poorlady, "think what a comfort it would be if he only would change hisways as he promised! Lucy is a great deal more use than I am, andunderstands things; but still we are only two women, " said the eldersister. "If you think we could put any dependence upon him, MrWentworth, I would never hesitate. He might live with us, and have hislittle allowance. " Miss Wodehouse paused, and raised her anxious faceto the Curate, pondering the particulars of the liberality sheintended. "He is not a boy, " she went on. "I daresay now he must feelthe want of the little comforts he once was used to; and though he isnot like what he used to be, neither in his looks nor his manners, people would be kind to him for our sakes. Oh, Mr Wentworth, don't youthink we might trust him?" said the anxious woman, looking in theCurate's face. 

All this time Mr Wentworth, with an impatience of her simplicity whichit was difficult to restrain, was reading the letter, in which heperceived a very different intention from any divined by Miss Wodehouse. The billet was disreputable enough, written in pencil, and without anydate. 

 "MARY, --I mean to come to my father's funeral, " wrote Mr Wodehouse's disowned son. "Things are changed now, as I said they would be. I and a friend of mine have set everything straight with Waters, and I mean to come in my own name, and take the place I have a right to. How it is to be after this depends on how you behave; but things are changed between you and me, as I told you they would be; and I expect you won't do anything to make 'em worse by doing or saying what's unpleasant. I add no more, because I hope you'll have sense to see what I mean, and to act accordingly. --Your brother, "THOMAS WODEHOUSE. "

"You see he thinks I will reproach him, " said Miss Wodehouse, anxiously; perhaps it had just glanced across her own mind thatsomething more important still might have dictated language sodecided. "He has a great deal more feeling than you would suppose, poor fellow! It is very touching in him to say, 'the place he has aright to'--don't you think so, Mr Wentworth? Poor Tom! if we could buttrust him, and he would change his ways as he promised! Oh, MrWentworth, don't you think I might speak of it to him to-morrow? If wecould--bury--everything--in dear papa's grave, " cried the poor lady, once more breaking down. Mr Wentworth took no notice of MissWodehouse's tears. They moved him with sentiments entirely differentfrom those with which he regarded Lucy's. He read the note over againwithout any attempt to console her, till she had struggled back intocomposure; but even then there was nothing sympathetic in the Curate'svoice. 

"And I think you told me you did not know anything about the will?" hesaid, with some abruptness, making no account whatever of thesuggestion she had made. 

"No, " said Miss Wodehouse; "but my dear father was a business man, MrWentworth, and I feel quite sure--quite--"

"Yes, " said the Perpetual Curate; "nor of the nature of his property, perhaps?" added the worldly-minded young man whom poor Miss Wodehousehad chosen for her adviser. It was more than the gentle woman couldbear. 

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, you know I am not one to understand, " cried thepoor lady. "You ask me questions, but you never tell me what you thinkI should do. If it were only for myself, I would not mind, but I haveto act for Lucy, " said the elder sister, suddenly sitting upright anddrying her tears. "Papa, I am sure, did what was best for us, " shesaid, with a little gentle dignity, which brought the Curate back tohis senses; "but oh, Mr Wentworth, look at the letter, and tell me, for my sister's sake, what am I to do?"

The Curate went to the window, from which the sunshine was stealingaway, to consider the subject; but he did not seem to derive muchadditional wisdom from that sacred spot, where Lucy's work-table stoodidle. "We must wait and see, " he said to himself. When he came back toMiss Wodehouse, and saw the question still in her eyes, it onlybrought back his impatience. "My dear Miss Wodehouse, instead ofspeculating about what is to happen, it would be much better toprepare your sister for the discovery she must make to-morrow, " saidMr Wentworth; "I cannot give any other advice, for my part. I think itis a great pity that you have kept it concealed so long. I beg yourpardon for speaking so abruptly, but I am afraid you don't know allthe trouble that is before you. We are all in a great deal oftrouble, " said the Perpetual Curate, with a little unconscioussolemnity. "I can't say I see my way through it; but you ought toprepare her--to see--her brother. " He said the words with a degree ofrepugnance which he could not conceal, and which wounded hiscompanion's tender heart. 

"He was so different when he was young, " said Miss Wodehouse, with asuppressed sob--"he was a favourite everywhere. You would not havelooked so if you had known him then. Oh, Mr Wentworth, promise me thatyou will not turn your back upon him if he comes home, after all yourkindness. I will tell Lucy how much you have done for him, " said MissWodehouse. She was only half-conscious of her own gentle artifice. Shetook the Curate's hand in both her own before he left her, and said itwas such a comfort to have his advice to rely upon; and she believedwhat she said, though Mr Wentworth himself knew better. The poor ladysat down in Lucy's chair, and had a cry at her ease after he wentaway. She was to tell Lucy--but how? and she sat pondering this hardquestion till all the light had faded out of the room, and the littlewindow which was not shuttered dispersed only a grey twilight throughthe empty place. The lamp, meantime, had been lighted in the littleparlour where Lucy sat, very sad, in her black dress, with 'InMemoriam' on the table by her, carrying on a similar strain in herheart. She was thinking of the past, so many broken scenes of whichkept flashing up before her, all bright with indulgent love andtenderness--and she was thinking of the next day, when she was to seeall that remained of her good father laid in his grave. He was notvery wise nor remarkable among men, but he had been the tenderestfather to the child of his old age; and in her heart she was prayingfor him still, pausing now and then to think whether it was right. Thetears were heavy in her young eyes, but they were natural tears, andLucy had no more thought that there was in the world anything sadderthan sorrow, or that any complications lay in her individual lot, thanthe merest child in Prickett's Lane. She thought of going back to thedistrict, all robed and invested in the sanctity of her grief--shethought it was to last for ever, as one has the privilege of thinkingwhen one is young; and it was to this young saint, tender towards allthe world, ready to pity everybody, and to save a whole race, if thathad been possible, that Miss Wodehouse went in, heavy and burdened, with her tale of miserable vice, unkindness, estrangement. How was itpossible to begin? Instead of beginning, poor Miss Wodehouse, overpowered by her anxieties and responsibilities, was taken ill andfainted, and had to be carried to bed. Lucy would not let her talkwhen she came to herself; and so the only moment of possiblepreparation passed away, and the event itself, which one of them knewnothing of, and the other did not understand, came in its own person, without any _avant-couriers_, to open Lucy's eyes once for all. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Mr Wentworth had to go into Carlingford on some business when he leftMiss Wodehouse; and as he went home again, having his head full of somany matters, he forgot for the moment what most immediately concernedhimself, and was close upon Elsworthy's shop, looking into the window, before he thought of it. Elsworthy himself was standing behind thecounter, with a paper in his hand, from which he was expoundingsomething to various people in the shop. It was getting late, and thegas was lighted, which threw the interior into very bright relief to MrWentworth outside. The Curate was still only a young man, though he wasa clergyman, and his movements were not always guided by reason or soundsense. He walked into the shop, almost before he was aware what he wasdoing. The people were inconsiderable people enough--cronies ofElsworthy--but they were people who had been accustomed to look up veryreverentially to the Curate of St Roque's and Mr Wentworth was far frombeing superior to their disapproval. There was a very visible stir amongthem as he entered, and Elsworthy came to an abrupt stop in hiselucidations, and thrust the paper he had been reading into a drawer. Dead and sudden silence followed the entrance of the Curate. PeterHayles, the druggist, who was one of the auditors, stole to the doorwith intentions of escape, and the women, of whom there were two orthree, looked alarmed, not knowing what might come of it. As for MrWentworth, there was only one thing possible for him to say. "Have youheard anything of Rosa, Elsworthy?" he asked, with great gravity, fixinghis eyes upon the man's face. The question seemed to ring into all thecorners. Whether it was innocence or utter abandonment nobody couldtell, and the spectators held their breath for the answer. Elsworthy, for his part, was as much taken by surprise as his neighbours. He grewvery pale and livid in his sudden excitement, and lost his voice, andstood staring at the Curate like a man struck dumb. Perhaps Mr Wentworthgot bolder when he saw the effect he had produced. He repeated thequestion, looking towards poor Mrs Elsworthy, who had jumped from herhusband's side when he came in. The whole party looked like startledconspirators to Mr Wentworth's eyes, though he had not the least ideawhat they had been doing. "Have you heard anything of Rosa?" he askedagain; and everybody looked at Elsworthy, as if he were the guilty man, and had suborned the rest; which, indeed, in one sense, was not far frombeing the case. 

When Elsworthy came to himself, he gave Mr Wentworth a sidelongdangerous look. "No, sir--nothing, " said Rosa's uncle. "Them as hashidden her has hidden her well. I didn't expect to hear not yet, " saidElsworthy. Though Mr Wentworth did not know what he meant, his littleaudience in the shop did, and showed, by the slightest murmur in theworld, their conviction that the arrow had gone home, which naturallyacted like a spur upon the Curate, who was not the wisest man in theworld. 

"I am very sorry to see you in so much distress, " said the young man, looking at Mrs Elsworthy's red eyes, "but I trust things will turn outmuch better than you imagine. If I can do anything to help you, letme know, " said Mr Wentworth. Perhaps it was foolish to say so much, knowing what he did, but unfortunately prudence was not the rulingprinciple at that moment in the Curate's soul. 

"I was a-thinking of letting you know, sir, " said the clerk of StRoque's, with deadly meaning; "leastways not me, but them as has takenme by the hand. There's every prospect as it'll all be known aforelong, " said Elsworthy, pushing his wife aside and following MrWentworth, with a ghastly caricature of his old obsequiousness, to thedoor. "There's inquiries a-being made as was never known to fail. Forone thing, I've written to them as knows a deal about the movements ofa party as is suspected--not to say as I've got good friends, " saidRosa's guardian, standing upon the step of his own door, and watchingthe Curate out into the darkness. Mr Wentworth could not altogetherrestrain a slight thrill of unpleasant emotion, for Elsworthy, standing at his door with the light gleaming over him from behind, andhis face invisible, had an unpleasant resemblance to a wild beastwaiting for his prey. 

"I am glad to think you are likely to be so successful. Send me wordas soon as you know, " said the Curate, and he pursued his way homeafterwards, with feelings far from pleasant. He saw something wasabout to come of this more than he had thought likely, and the crisiswas approaching. As he walked rapidly home, he concluded withinhimself to have a conversation with the Rector next day after MrWodehouse's funeral, and to ask for an investigation into the wholematter. When he had come to this conclusion, he dismissed the subjectfrom his mind as far as was possible, and took to thinking of theother matters which disturbed his repose, in which, indeed, it wasvery easy to get perplexed and bewildered to his heart's content. Anyhow, one way and another, the day of poor Mr Wodehouse's funeralmust necessarily be an exciting and momentous day. 

Mr Wentworth had, however, no idea that its interest was to begin soearly. When he was seated at breakfast reading his letters, a note wasbrought to him, which, coming in the midst of a lively chronicle ofhome news from his sister Letty, almost stopped for the moment thebeating of the Curate's heart. It took him so utterly by surprise, that more violent sentiments were lost for the moment in mere wonder. He read it over twice before he could make it out. It was from theRector, and notwithstanding his wife's remonstrances, and his ownqualms of doubt and uncertainty, this was what Mr Morgan said:--

 "DEAR SIR, --It is my painful duty to let you know that certain rumours have reached my ears very prejudicial to your character as a clergyman, and which I understand to be very generally current in Carlingford. Such a scandal, if not properly dealt with, is certain to have an unfavourable effect upon the popular mind, and injure the clergy in the general estimation--while it is, as I need not point out to you, quite destructive of your own usefulness. Under the circumstances, I have thought it my duty, as Rector of the parish, to take steps for investigating these reports. Of course I do not pretend to any authority over you, nor can I enforce in any way your participation in the inquiry or consent to it; but I beg to urge upon you strongly, as a friend, the advantage of assenting freely, that your innocence (if possible) may be made apparent, and your character cleared. I enclose the names of the gentlemen whose assistance I intend to request for this painful duty, in case you should object to any of them; and would again urge you, _for your own sake_, the expediency of concurrence. I regret to say that, though I would not willingly prejudge any man, much less a brother clergyman, I do not feel that it would be seemly on my part, under the circumstances, to avail myself of your assistance today in the burial-service for the late Mr Wodehouse. --Believe me, very sincerely yours, "W. MORGAN. "

When Mr Wentworth looked up from this letter, he caught sight of hisface in the mirror opposite, and gazed into his own eyes like a manstupefied. He had not been without vexations in eight-and-twenty yearsof a not uneventful life, but he had never known anything like themisery of that moment. It was nearly four hours later when he walkedslowly up Grange Lane to the house, which before night might own sodifferent a master, but he had found as yet no time to spare for theWodehouses--even for Lucy--in the thoughts which were all occupied bythe unlooked-for blow. Nobody could tell, not even himself, the mentaldiscipline he had gone through before he emerged, rather stern, butperfectly calm, in the sunshine in front of the closed-up house. If itwas not his to meet the solemn passenger at the gates with words ofhope, at least he could do a man's part to the helpless who had stillto live; but the blow was cruel, and all the force of his nature wasnecessary to sustain it. All Carlingford knew, by the evidence of itssenses, that Mr Wentworth had been a daily visitor of the dead, andone of his most intimate friends, and nobody had doubted for a momentthat to him would be assigned as great a portion of the service as hisfeelings permitted him to undertake. When the bystanders saw him jointhe procession, a thrill of surprise ran through the crowd; butnobody--not even the man who walked beside him--ventured to triflewith the Curate's face so far as to ask why. The Grand Inquisitorhimself, if such a mythical personage exists any longer, could nothave invented a more delicate torture than that which the respectableand kind-hearted Rector of Carlingford inflicted calmly, withoutknowing it, upon the Curate of St Roque's. How was Mr Morgan to knowthat the sting would go to his heart? A Perpetual Curate without adistrict has nothing to do with a heart so sensitive. The Rector puton his own robes with a peaceful mind, feeling that he had done hisduty, and, with Mr Leeson behind him, came to the church door withgreat solemnity to meet the procession. He read the words which areso sweet and so terrible with his usual reading-desk voice as he readthe invitations every Sunday. He was a good man, but he was middle-aged, and not accessible to impression from the mere aspect of death; and hedid not know Mr Wodehouse, nor care much for anything in the matter, except his own virtue in excluding the Perpetual Curate from any sharein the service. Such was the Rector's feeling in respect to thisfuneral, which made so much commotion in Carlingford. He felt that hewas vindicating the purity of his profession as he threaded his waythrough the pathetic hillocks, where the nameless people were lying, topoor Mr Wodehouse's grave. 

This, however, was not the only thing which aroused the wonder andinterest of the townspeople when the two shrinking, hooded femalefigures, all black and unrecognisable, rose up trembling to follow theirdead from the church to the grave. Everybody saw with wonder that theirplace was contested, and that somebody else, a man whom no one knew, thrust himself before them, and walked alone in the chief mourner'splace. As for Lucy, who, through her veil and her tears, saw nothingdistinctly, this figure, which she did not know, struck her only with avague astonishment. If she thought of it at all, she thought it amistake, simple enough, though a little startling, and went on, doingall she could to support her sister, saying broken prayers in her heart, and far too much absorbed in the duty she was performing to think whowas looking on, or to be conscious of any of the attendingcircumstances, except Mr Morgan's voice, which was not the voice she hadexpected to hear. Miss Wodehouse was a great deal more agitated thanLucy. She knew very well who it was that placed himself before her, asserting his own right without offering any help to his sisters; andvague apprehensions, which she herself could not understand, came overher just at the moment when she required her strength most. As therewere no other relations present, the place of honour next to the twoladies had been tacitly conceded to Mr Proctor and Mr Wentworth; and itwas thus that the Curate rendered the last service to his old friend. Itwas a strange procession, and concentrated in itself all that was mostexciting in Carlingford at the moment. Everybody observed and commentedupon the strange man, who, all remarkable and unknown, with his greatbeard and sullen countenance, walked by himself as chief mourner. Whowas he? and whispers arose and ran through the outskirts of the crowd ofthe most incredible description. Some said he was an illegitimate sonwhom Mr Wodehouse had left all his property to, but whom the ladies knewnothing of; some that it was a strange cousin, whom Lucy was to becompelled to marry or lose her share; and after a while people comparednotes, and went back upon their recollections, and began to ask eachother if it was true that Tom Wodehouse died twenty years ago in theWest Indies? Then behind the two ladies--poor ladies, whose fate washanging in the balance, though they did not know it--came Mr Wentworthin his cap and gown, pale and stern as nobody ever had seen him beforein Carlingford, excluded from all share in the service, which Mr Leeson, in a flutter of surplice and solemnity, was giving his valuableassistance in. The churchyard at Carlingford had not lost its semi-ruralair though the town had increased so much, for the district was veryhealthy, as everybody knows, and people did not die before their time, as in places less favoured. The townspeople, who knew Mr Wodehouse sowell, lingered all about among the graves, looking with neighbourly, calm regret, but the liveliest curiosity. Most of the shopkeepers atthat end of George Street had closed their shops on the mournfuloccasion, and felt themselves repaid. As for Elsworthy, he stood with agroup of supporters round him, as near as possible to the funeralprocession; and farther off in the distance, under the trees, was a muchmore elegant spectator--an unlikely man enough to assist at such aspectacle, being no less a person than Jack Wentworth, in theperfection of an English gentleman's morning apparel, perfectly at hisease and indifferent, yet listening with close attention to all thescraps of talk that came in his way. The centre of all this wondering, curious crowd, where so many passions and emotions and schemes andpurposes were in full tide, and life was beating so strong and vehement, was the harmless dead, under the heavy pall which did not veil him soentirely from the living as did the hopes and fears and curiousspeculations which had already sprung up over him, filling up his place. Among the whole assembly there was not one heart really occupied bythoughts of him, except that of poor Lucy, who knew nothing of all theabsorbing anxieties and terrors that occupied the others. She had stilla moment's leisure for her natural grief. It was all she could do tokeep upright and support her sister, who had burdens to bear which Lucyknew nothing of; but still, concealed under her hood and veil, seeingnothing but the grave before her, hearing nothing but the sacred wordsand the terrible sound of "dust to dust, " the young creature stoodsteadfast, and gave the dead man who had loved her his due--lastoffering of nature and love, sweeter to anticipate than any honours. Nobody but his child offered to poor Mr Wodehouse that last right ofhumanity, or made his grave sacred with natural tears. 

When they went back sadly out of all that blinding sunshine into thedarkened house, it was not all over, as poor Lucy had supposed. Shehad begun to come to herself and understand once more the looks of thepeople about her, when the old maid, who had been the attendant of thesisters during all Lucy's life, undid her wrappings, and in heragitation of the moment kissed her white cheek, and held her in herarms. "Oh, Miss Lucy, darling, don't take on no more than you canhelp. I'm sore, sore afeared that there's a deal of trouble afore youyet, " said the weeping woman. Though Lucy had not the smallestpossible clue to her meaning, and was almost too much worn out to becurious, she could not help a vague thrill of alarm. "What is it, Alland?" she said, rising up from the sofa on which she had thrownherself. But Alland could do nothing but cry over her nursling andconsole her. "Oh, my poor dear! oh, my darling! as he never would havelet the wind of heaven to blow rough upon her!" cried the old servant. And it was just then that Miss Wodehouse, who was trembling all overhysterically, came into the room. 

"We have to go down-stairs, " said the elder sister. "Oh Lucy, mydarling, it was not my fault at first. I should have told you lastnight to prepare you, and I had not the heart. Mr Wentworth has toldme so often--"

"Mr Wentworth?" said Lucy. She rose up, not quite knowing where shewas; aware of nothing, except that some sudden calamity, under whichshe was expected to faint altogether, was coming to her by means of MrWentworth. Her mind jumped at the only dim possibility that seemed toglimmer through the darkness. He must be married, she supposed, orabout to be married; and it was this they insulted her by thinkingthat she could not bear. There was not a particle of colour in herface before, but the blood rushed into it with a bitterness of shameand rage which she had never known till now. "I will go down with youif it is necessary, " said Lucy; "but surely this is a strange time totalk of Mr Wentworth's affairs. " There was no time to explain anythingfarther, for just then old Mrs Western, who was a distant cousin, knocked at the door. "God help you, my poor dear children!" said theold lady; "they are all waiting for you down-stairs, " and it was withthis delusion in her mind, embittering every thought, that Lucy wentinto the drawing-room where they were all assembled. The madness ofthe idea did not strike her somehow, even when she saw the graveassembly, which it was strange to think could have been broughttogether to listen to any explanation from the Perpetual Curate. Hewas standing there prominent enough among them, with a certain air ofsuppressed passion in his face, which Lucy divined almost withoutseeing it. For her own part, she went in with perfect firmness, supporting her sister, whose trembling was painful to see. There wasno other lady in the room except old Mrs Western, who would not sitdown, but hovered behind the chairs which had been placed for thesisters near the table at which Mr Waters was standing. By the side ofMr Waters was the man who had been at the funeral, and whom nobodyknew, and a few gentlemen who were friends of the family were in theroom--the Rector, by virtue of his office, and Mr Proctor and DrMarjoribanks; and any one whose attention was sufficiently disengagedto note the details of the scene might have perceived John, who hadbeen fifteen years with Mr Wodehouse, and the old cook in her blackgown, who was of older standing in the family than Alland herself, peeping in, whenever it was opened, through the door. 

"Now that the Miss Wodehouses are here, we may proceed to business, "said Mr Waters. "Some of the party are already aware that I have animportant communication to make. I am very sorry if it comes abruptlyupon anybody specially interested. My late partner, much respectedthough he has always been, was a man of peculiar views in manyrespects. Dr Marjoribanks will bear me out in what I say. I had beenhis partner for ten years before I found this out, highly important asit will be seen to be; and I believe Mr Wentworth, though an intimatefriend of the family, obtained the information by a kind ofaccident--"

The stranger muttered something in his beard which nobody could hear, and the Perpetual Curate interposed audibly. "Would it not be best tomake the explanations afterwards?" said Mr Wentworth--and he changedhis own position and went over beside old Mrs Western, who was leaningupon Lucy's chair. He put his own hand on the back of the chair withan involuntary impulse. As for Lucy, her first thrill of nervousstrength had failed her: she began to get confused and bewildered; butwhatever it was, no insult, no wound to her pride or affections, wascoming to her from that hand which she knew was on her chair. Sheleaned back a little, with a long sigh. Her imagination could notconceive anything important enough for such a solemn intimation, andher attention began to flag in spite of herself. No doubt it wassomething about that money which people thought so interesting. Meanwhile Mr Waters went on steadily with what he had to say, notsparing them a word of the preamble; and it was not till ten minuteslater that Lucy started up with a sudden cry of incredulity andwonder, and repeated his last words. "His son!--whose son?" criedLucy. She looked all round her, not knowing whom to appeal to in hersudden consternation. "We never had a brother, " said the child of MrWodehouse's old age; "it must be some mistake. " There was a dead pauseafter these words. When she looked round again, a sickening convictioncame to Lucy's heart that it was no mistake. She rose up withoutknowing it, and looked round upon all the people, who were watchingher with various looks of pity and curiosity and spectator-interest. Mr Waters had stopped speaking, and the terrible stranger made a stepforward with an air that identified him. It was at him that Mr Proctorwas staring, who cleared his voice a great many times, and cameforward to the middle of the room and looked as if he meant to speak;and upon him every eye was fixed except Mr Wentworth's, who waswatching Lucy, and Miss Wodehouse's, which were hidden in her hands. "We never had a brother, " she repeated, faltering; and then, in theextremity of her wonder and excitement, Lucy turned round, withoutknowing it, to the man whom her heart instinctively appealed to. "Isit true?" she said. She held out her hands to him with a kind ofentreaty not to say so. Mr Wentworth made no reply to her question. Hesaid only, "Let me take you away--it is too much for you, " bendingdown over her, without thinking what he did, and drawing her handthrough his arm. "She is not able for any more, " said the Curate, hurriedly; "afterwards we can explain to her. " If he could haveremembered anything about himself at the moment, it is probable thathe would have denied himself the comfort of supporting Lucy--he, a manunder ban; but he was thinking only of her, as he stood facing themall with her arm drawn through his; upon which conjunction the Rectorand the late Rector looked with a grim aspect, disposed to interfere, but not knowing how. 

"All this may be very interesting to you, " said the stranger out ofhis beard; "if Lucy don't know her brother, it is no fault of mine. MrWaters has only said half he has got to say; and as for the rest, tosum it up in half-a-dozen words, I'm very glad to see you in my house, gentlemen, and I hope you will make yourselves at home. Where nobodyunderstands, a man has to speak plain. I've been turned out all mylife and, by Jove! I don't mean to stand it any longer. The girls canhave what their father's left them, " said the vagabond, in his momentof triumph. "They aint my business no more than I was theirs. Theproperty is freehold, and Waters is aware that I'm the heir. "

Saying this, Wodehouse drew a chair to the table, and sat down withemphasis. He was the only man seated in the room, and he kept hisplace in his sullen way amid the excited group which gathered roundhim. As for Miss Wodehouse, some sense of what had happened penetratedeven her mind. She too rose up and wiped her tears from her face, andlooked round, pale and scared, to the Curate. "I was thinking--ofspeaking to Lucy. I meant to ask her--to take you back, Tom, " said theelder sister. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, tell me, for heaven's sake, what doesit mean?"

"If I had only been permitted to explain, " said Mr Waters; "my worthypartner died intestate--his son is his natural heir. Perhaps we need notdetain the ladies longer, now that they understand it. All the rest canbe better arranged with their representative. I am very sorry to add totheir sufferings today, " said the polite lawyer, opening the door;"everything else can be made the subject of an arrangement. " He held thedoor open with a kind of civil coercion compelling their departure. Thefamiliar room they were in no longer belonged to the Miss Wodehouses. Lucy drew her arm out of Mr Wentworth's, and took her sister's hand. 

"You will be our representative, " she said to him, out of the fulnessof her heart. When the door closed, the Perpetual Curate took up hisposition, facing them all with looks more lofty than belonged even tohis Wentworth blood. They had kept him from exercising his office athis friend's grave, but nobody could take from him the still noblerduty of defending the oppressed. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

When the door closed upon Lucy and her sister, Mr Wentworth stood byhimself, facing the other people assembled. The majority of them weremore surprised, more shocked, than he was; but they were huddledtogether in their wonder at the opposite end of the table, and hadsomehow a confused, half-conscious air of being on the other side. 

"It's a very extraordinary revelation that has just been made to us, "said Dr Marjoribanks. "I am throwing no doubt upon it, for my part; butmy conviction was, that Tom Wodehouse died in the West Indies. He wasjust the kind of man to die in the West Indies. If it's you, " said theDoctor, with a growl of natural indignation, "you have the constitutionof an elephant. You should have been dead ten years ago, at the veryleast; and it appears to me there would be some difficulty in provingidentity, if anybody would take up that view of the question. " As hespoke, Dr Marjoribanks walked round the new-comer, looking at him withmedical criticism. The Doctor's eyes shot out fiery hazel gleams as hecontemplated the heavy figure. "More appearance than reality, " hemuttered to himself, with a kind of grim satisfaction, poising aforefinger in air, as if to prove the unwholesome flesh; and then hewent round to the other elbow of the unexpected heir. "The thing is now, what you mean to do for them, to repair your father's neglect, " he said, tapping peremptorily on Wodehouse's arm. 

"There is something else to be said in the mean time, " said MrWentworth. "I must know precisely how it is that a state of affairs sodifferent from anything Mr Wodehouse could have intended has come about. The mere absence of a will does not seem to me to explain it. I shouldlike to have Mr Brown's advice--for my own satisfaction, if nothingelse. "

"The parson has got nothing to do with it, that I can see, " saidWodehouse, "unless he was looking for a legacy, or that sort of thing. As for the girls, I don't see what right I have to be troubled; theytook deuced little trouble with me. Perhaps they'd have taken me in asa sort of footman without pay--you heard what they said, Waters? ByJove! I'll serve Miss Mary out for that, " said the vagabond. Then hepaused a little, and, looking round him, moderated his tone. "I'vebeen badly used all my life, " said the prodigal son. "They would nevergive me a hearing. They say I did heaps of things I never dreamt of. Mary aint above thinking of her own interest--"

Here Mr Proctor came forward from the middle of the room where he hadbeen standing in a perplexed manner since the ladies went away. "Hold--hold your tongue, sir!" said the late Rector; "haven't you doneenough injury already--" When he had said so much, he stopped asabruptly as he had begun, and seemed to recollect all at once that hehad no title to interfere. 

"By Jove!" said Wodehouse, "you don't seem to think I know whatbelongs to me, or who belongs to me. Hold _your_ tongue, Waters; I canspeak for myself. I've been long enough snubbed by everybody that hada mind. I don't mean to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Anyman who pleases can consult John Brown. I recollect John Brown as wellas anybody in Carlingford. It don't matter to me what he says, or whatanybody says. The girls are a parcel of girls, and I am my father'sson, as it happens. I should have thought the parson had enough on hishands for one while, " said the new heir, in the insolence of triumph. "He tried patronising me, but that wouldn't answer. Why, there's hisbrother, Jack Wentworth, his elder brother, come down here purposelyto manage matters for me. He's the eldest son, by Jove! and one of thegreatest swells going. He has come down here on purpose to do thefriendly thing by me. We're great friends, by Jove! Jack Wentworth andI; and yet here's a beggarly younger brother, that hasn't a penny--"

"Wodehouse, " said Mr Wentworth, with some contempt, "sit down and bequiet. You and I have some things to talk of which had better not bediscussed in public. Leave Jack Wentworth's name alone, if you arewise, and don't imagine that I am going to bear your punishment. Besilent, sir!" cried the Curate, sternly; "do you suppose I ask anyexplanations from you? Mr Waters, I want to hear how this has comeabout? When I saw you in this man's interest some time ago, you werenot so friendly to him. Tell me how it happens that he is now yourclient, and that you set him forth as the heir!"

"By Jove, the parson has nothing to do with it! Let him find it out, "muttered Wodehouse in his beard; but the words were only half audible, and the vagabond's shabby soul was cowed in spite of himself. He gavethe lawyer a furtive thrust in the arm as he spoke, and looked at hima little anxiously; for the position of a man standing lawfully on hisnatural rights was new to Wodehouse; and all his certainty of thefacts did not save him from a sensation of habit which suggested thatclose examination was alarming, and that something might still befound out. As for Mr Waters, he looked with placid contempt at theman, who was not respectable, and still had the instincts of avagabond in his heart. 

"I am perfectly ready to explain, " said the irreproachable solicitor, who was quite secure in his position. "The tone of the request, however, might be modified a little; and as I don't, any more than MrWodehouse, see exactly what right Mr Wentworth has to demand--"

"I ask an explanation, not on my own behalf, but for the MissWodehouses, who have made me their deputy, " said the Curate, "fortheir satisfaction, and that I may consult Mr Brown. You seem toforget that all _he_ gains they lose; which surely justifies theirrepresentative in asking how did it come about?"

It was at this point that all the other gentlemen present pressedcloser, and evinced an intention to take part. Dr Marjoribanks was thefirst to speak. He took a pinch of snuff, and while he consumed itlooked from under his grizzled sandy eyebrows with a perplexingmixture of doubt and respect at the Perpetual Curate. He was a man ofsome discrimination in his way, and the young man's lofty looksimpressed him a little in spite of himself. 

"Not to interrupt the explanation, " said Dr Marjoribanks, "which we'llall be glad to hear--but Mr Wentworth's a young man, not possessed, sofar as I am aware, of any particular right;--except that he has beenvery generous and prompt in offering his services, " said the Doctor, moved to the admission by a fiery glance from the Curate's eye, whichsomehow did not look like the eye of a guilty man. "I was thinking, anold man, and an old friend, like myself, might maybe be a betterguardian for the ladies' interests--"

Mr Proctor, who had been listening very anxiously, was seized with acough at this moment, which drowned out the Doctor's words. It was apreparatory cough, and out of it the late Rector rushed into speech. "I have come from--from Oxford to be of use, " said the new champion. "My time is entirely at my own--at Miss Wodehouse's--at the MissWodehouses' disposal. I am most desirous to be of use, " said MrProctor, anxiously. And he advanced close to the table to prefer hisclaim. 

"Such a discussion seems quite unnecessary, " said Mr Wentworth, withsome haughtiness. "I shall certainly do in the mean time what has beenintrusted to me. At present we are simply losing time. "

"But--" said the Rector. The word was not of importance nor utteredwith much resolution, but it arrested Mr Wentworth more surely thanthe shout of a multitude. He turned sharp round upon his adversary, and said "Well?" with an air of exasperation; while Wodehouse, who hadbeen lounging about the room in a discomfited condition, drew near tolisten. 

"I am comparatively a stranger to the Miss Wodehouses, " said MrMorgan; "still I am their clergyman; and I think with Dr Marjoribanks, that a young man like Mr Wentworth, especially a man so seriouslycompromised--"

"Oh, stop! I do think you are all a great deal too hard upon MrWentworth, " said the lawyer, with a laugh of toleration, whichWodehouse echoed behind him with a sense of temerity that made hislaughter all the louder. He was frightened, but he was glad to makehimself offensive, according to his nature. Mr Wentworth stood alone, for his part, and had to put up with the laugh as he best could. 

"If any one here wishes to injure me with the Miss Wodehouses, anopportunity may easily be found, " said the Curate, with as muchcomposure as he could muster; "and I am ready to relinquish my chargewhen they call on me to do so. In the mean time, this is not the placeto investigate my conduct. Sit down, sir, and let us be free of yourinterference for this moment at least, " he said, fiercely, turning tothe new heir. "I warn you again, you have nothing but justice to expectat my hands. Mr Waters, we wait your explanations. " He was the tallestman in the room, which perhaps had something to do with it; theyoungest, best born, and best endowed. That he would have carried theday triumphantly in the opinion of any popular audience, there could beno kind of doubt. Even in this middle-aged unimpressionable assembly, his indignant self-control had a certain influence. When he drew a chairtowards the table and seated himself, the others sat down unawares, andthe lawyer began his story without any further interruption. Theexplanation of all was, that Mr Wodehouse, like so many men, had anambition to end his days as a country gentleman. He had set his heartfor years on an estate in the neighbourhood of Carlingford, and had justcompleted his long-contemplated purchase at the moment of his lastseizure. Nobody knew, except the Curate and the lawyer, what the causeof that seizure was. They exchanged looks without being aware of it, andWodehouse, still more deeply conscious, uttered, poor wretch! a kind ofgasp, which sounded like a laugh to the other horrified spectators. After all, it was his crime which had brought him his good fortune, for there had been an early will relating to property which existedno longer--property which had been altogether absorbed in thenewly-acquired estate. "I have no doubt my late excellent partner wouldhave made a settlement had the time been permitted him, " said Mr Waters. "I have not the slightest doubt as to his intentions; but the end wasvery unexpected at the last. I suppose death always is unexpected whenit comes, " said the lawyer, with a little solemnity, recollecting thatthree of his auditors were clergymen. "The result is painful in manyrespects; but law is law, and such accidents cannot be entirely avoided. With the exception of a few trifling personal matters, and thefurniture, and a little money at the bank, there is nothing but freeholdproperty, and of course the son takes that. I can have no possibleobjection to your consulting Mr Brown; but Mr Brown can give you nofurther information. " If there had been any little hope of possibleredress lingering in the mind of the perplexed assembly, this brought itto a conclusion. The heir, who had been keeping behind with an impulseof natural shame, came back to the table when his rights were so clearlyestablished. He did not know how to behave himself with a good grace, but he was disposed to be conciliatory, as far as he could, especiallyas it began to be disagreeably apparent that the possession of hisfather's property might not make any particular difference in theworld's opinion of himself. 

"It aint my fault, gentlemen, " said Wodehouse. "Of course, I expectedthe governor to take care of the girls. I've been kept out of it fortwenty years, and that's a long time. By Jove! I've never known whatit was to be a rich man's son since I was a lad. I don't say I won'tdo something for the girls if they behave to me as they ought; and asfor you, gentlemen, who were friends of the family, I'll always beglad to see you in my house, " he said, with an attempt at a friendlysmile. But nobody took any notice of the overtures of the new heir. 

"Then they have nothing to depend upon, " said Mr Proctor, whose agitatedlooks were the most inexplicable feature of the whole--"no shelter even;no near relations I ever heard of--and nobody to take care of Lucy if--"Here he stopped short and went to the window, and stood looking out in astate of great bewilderment. The late Rector was so buried in his ownthoughts, whatever they might be, that he did not pay any attention tothe further conversation which went on behind him--of which, however, there was very little--and only came to himself when he saw Mr Wentworthgo rapidly through the garden. Mr Proctor rushed after the PerpetualCurate. He might be seriously compromised, as Mr Morgan said; but hewas more sympathetic than anybody else in Carlingford under presentcircumstances; and Mr Proctor, in his middle-aged uncertainty, could nothelp having a certain confidence in the young man's promptitude andvigour. He made up to him out of breath when he was just entering GeorgeStreet. Carlingford had paid what respect it could to Mr Wodehouse'smemory; and now the shutters were being taken off the shop-windows, andpeople in general were very willing to reward themselves for theirself-denial by taking what amusement they could out of the reportswhich already began to be circulated about the way in which the MissWodehouses were "left. " When the late Rector came up with the PerpetualCurate opposite Masters's shop there was quite a group of people therewho noted the conjunction. What could it mean? Was there going to be acompromise? Was Carlingford to be shamefully cheated out of the"investigation, " and all the details about Rosa Elsworthy, for which ithungered? Mr Proctor put his arm through that of the Curate of StRoque's, and permitted himself to be swept along by the greater impetusof the young man's rapid steps, for at this moment, being occupied withmore important matters, the late Rector had altogether forgotten MrWentworth's peculiar position, and the cloud that hung over him. 

"What a very extraordinary thing!" said Mr Proctor. "What could havebetrayed old Wodehouse into such a blunder! He must have known wellenough. This son--this fellow--has been living all the time, ofcourse. It is quite inexplicable to me, " said the aggrieved man. "Doyou know if there are any aunts or uncles--any people whom poor littleLucy might live with, for instance, if--" And here Mr Proctor oncemore came to a dead stop. Mr Wentworth, for his part, was so far fromthinking of her as "poor little Lucy, " that he was much offended bythe unnecessary commiseration. 

"The sisters will naturally remain together, " he said; "and, ofcourse, there are many people who would be but too glad to receivethem. Miss Wodehouse is old enough to protect her sister--though, ofcourse, the balance of character is on the other side, " said theinconsiderate young man; at which Mr Proctor winced, but made nodefinite reply. 

"So you think there are people she could go to?" said the late Rector, after a pause. "The thing altogether is so unexpected, you know. Myidea was--"

"I beg your pardon, " said the Curate; "I must see Mr Brown, and thisis about the best time to find him at home. Circumstances make itrather awkward for me to call at the Rectory just now, " he continued, with a smile smile--"circumstances over which I have no control, aspeople say; but perhaps you will stay long enough to see me put on mytrial. Good-bye now. "

"Stop a moment, " said Mr Proctor; "about this trial. Don't beaffronted--I have nothing to do with it, you know; and Morgan meansvery well, though he's stupid enough. I should like to stand yourfriend, Wentworth; you know I would. I wish you'd yield to tell me allabout it. If I were to call on you to-night after dinner--for perhapsit would put Mrs Hadwin out to give me a chop?"

The Curate laughed in spite of himself. "Fellows of All-Souls don'tdine on chops, " he said, unable to repress a gleam of amusement; "butcome at six, and you shall have something to eat, as good as I cangive you. As for telling you all about it, " said Mr Wentworth, "allthe world is welcome to know as much as I know. "

Mr Proctor laid his hand on the young man's arm, by way of soothinghim. "We'll talk it all over, " he said, confidentially; "both thisaffair, and--and the other. We have a good deal in common, if I am notmuch mistaken, and I trust we shall always be good friends, " said theinexplicable man. His complexion heightened considerably after he hadmade this speech, which conveyed nothing but amazement to the mind ofthe Curate; and then he shook hands hastily, and hurried back againtowards Grange Lane. If there had been either room or leisure in FrankWentworth's mind for other thoughts, he might have laughed or puzzledover the palpable mystery; but as it was, he had dismissed the lateRector entirely from his mind before he reached the door of Mr Brown'sroom, where the lawyer was seated alone. John Brown, who wasaltogether a different type of man from Mr Waters, held out his hand tohis visitor, and did not look at all surprised to see him. "I haveexpected a call from you, " he said, "now that your old friend is gone, from whom you would naturally have sought advice in the circumstances. Tell me what I can do for you;" and it became apparent to Mr Wentworththat it was his own affairs which were supposed to be the cause of hisapplication. It may be supposed after this that the Curate stated hisreal object very curtly and clearly without any unnecessary words, tothe unbounded amazement of the lawyer, who, being a busy man, and not afriend of the Wodehouses, had as yet heard nothing of the matter. MrBrown, however, could only confirm what had been already said. "If it isreally freehold property, and no settlement made, there cannot be anyquestion about it, " he said; "but I will see Waters to-morrow and makeall sure, if you wish it; though he dares not mislead you on such apoint. I am very sorry for the ladies, but I don't see what can be donefor them, " said Mr Brown; "and about yourself, Mr Wentworth?" Perhaps itwas because of a certain look of genuine confidence and solicitude inJohn Brown's honest face that the Curate's heart was moved. For thefirst time he condescended to discuss the matter--to tell the lawyer, with whom indeed he had but a very slight acquaintance (for John Brownlived at the other end of Carlingford, and could not be said to be insociety), all he knew about Rosa Elsworthy, and something of hissuspicions. Mr Brown, for his part, knew little of the Perpetual Curatein his social capacity, but he knew about Wharfside, which was more tothe purpose; and having himself been truly in love once in his life, commonplace as he looked, this honest man did not believe it possiblethat Lucy Wodehouse's representative could be Rosa Elsworthy'sseducer--the two things looked incompatible to the straightforwardvision of John Brown. 

"I'll attend at their investigation, " he said, with a smile, "which, if you were not particularly interested, you'd find not bad fun, MrWentworth. These private attempts at law are generally very amusing. I'll attend and look after your interests; but you had better see thatthis Tom Wodehouse, --I remember the scamp--he used to be bad enoughfor anything, --don't give you the slip and get out of the way. Findout if you can where he has been living these two days. I'll attend tothe other matter, too, " the lawyer said, cheerfully, shaking handswith his new client; and the Curate went away with a vague feelingthat matters were about to come right somehow, at which he smiled whenhe came to think of it, and saw how little foundation he had for sucha hope. But his hands were full of business, and he had no time toconsider his own affairs at this particular moment. It seemed to him akind of profanity to permit Lucy to remain under the same roof withWodehouse, even though he was her brother; and Mr Proctor's inquirieshad stimulated his own feeling. There was a certain pleasure, besides, in postponing himself and his own business, however important, to herand her concerns; and it was with this idea that he proceeded to thehouse of his aunts, and was conducted to a little private sitting-roomappropriated to the sole use of Miss Leonora, for whom he had asked. As he passed the door of the drawing-room, which was ajar, he glancedin, and saw his aunt Dora bending over somebody who wept, and heard afamiliar voice pouring out complaints, the general sound of which wasequally familiar, though he could not make out a word of the specialsubject. Frank was startled, notwithstanding his preoccupations, forit was the same voice which had summoned him to Wentworth Rectorywhich now poured out its lamentations in the Miss Wentworths'drawing-room in Carlingford. Evidently some new complication hadarisen in the affairs of the family. Miss Leonora was in her room, busy with the books of a Ladies' Association, of which she wastreasurer. She had a letter before her from the missionary employed bythe society, which was a very interesting letter, and likely to make aconsiderable sensation when read before the next meeting. Miss Leonorawas taking the cream off this piece of correspondence, enjoying atonce itself and the impression it would make. She was slightly annoyedwhen her nephew came in to disturb her. "The others are in thedrawing-room, as usual, " she said. "I can't imagine what Lewis couldbe thinking of, to bring you here. Louisa's coming can make nodifference to you. "

"So Louisa has come? I thought I heard her voice. What has happened tobring Louisa here?" said the Curate, who was not sorry to begin withan indifferent subject. Miss Leonora shook her head and took up herletter. 

"She is in the drawing-room, " said the strong-minded aunt. "If youhave no particular business with me, Frank, you had better askherself: of course, if you want me, I am at your service--butotherwise I am busy, you see. "

"And so am I, " said Mr Wentworth, "as busy as a man can be whosecharacter is at stake. Do you know I am to be tried to-morrow? Butthat is not what I came to ask you about. "

"I wish you would _tell_ me about it, " said Miss Leonora. She got upfrom her writing-table and from the missionary's letter, and abandonedherself to the impulses of nature. "I have heard disagreeable rumours. I don't object to your reserve, Frank, but things seem to be gettingserious. What does it mean?"

The Curate had been much braced in his inner man by his shortinterview with John Brown; that, and the representative position heheld, had made a wonderful change in his feelings: besides, a matterwhich was about to become so public could not be ignored. "It meansonly that a good many people in Carlingford think me a villain, " saidMr Wentworth: "it is not a flattering idea; and it seems to me, Imust say, an illogical induction from the facts of my life. Still itis true that some people think so--and I am to be tried to-morrow. Butin the mean time, something else has happened. I know you are a goodwoman, aunt Leonora. We don't agree in many things, but that does notmatter. There are two ladies in Carlingford who up to this day havebeen rich, well off, well cared for, and who have suddenly lost alltheir means, their protector, even their home. They have no relationsthat I know of. One of them is good for any exertion that may benecessary, " said the Curate, his voice softening with a far-offmasculine suggestion as of tears; "but she is young--too young tocontend with the world--and she is now suffering her first grief. Theother is old enough, but not good for much--"

"You mean the two Miss Wodehouses?" said Miss Leonora. "Their fatherhas turned out to be--bankrupt?--or something?--"

"Worse than bankrupt, " said the Curate: "there is a brother who takeseverything. Will you stand by them--offer them shelter?--I mean for atime. I don't know anybody I should care to apply to but you. "

Miss Leonora paused and looked at her nephew. "First tell me what youhave to do with them, " she asked. "If there is a brother, he is theirnatural protector--certainly not you--unless there is something Idon't know of. Frank, you know you can't marry, " said Miss Leonora, with a little vehemence, once more looking in her nephew's face. 

"No, " said Frank, with momentary bitterness; "I am not likely to makeany mistake about that--at present, at least. The brother is areprobate of whom they know nothing. I have no right to considermyself their protector--but I am their friend at least, " said theCurate, breaking off with again that softening in his voice. "They mayhave a great many friends, for anything I know; but I have confidencein you, aunt Leonora: you are not perhaps particularly sympathetic, "he went on, with a laugh; "you don't condole with Louisa, forinstance; but I could trust you with--"

"Lucy Wodehouse!" said Miss Leonora; "I don't dislike her at all, ifshe would not wear that ridiculous grey cloak; but young men don'ttake such an interest in young women without some reason for it. Whatare we to do for you, Frank?" said the strong-minded woman, looking athim with a little softness. Miss Leonora, perhaps, was not used to betaken into anybody's confidence. It moved her more than might havebeen expected from so self-possessed a woman. Perhaps no other act onthe part of her nephew could have had so much effect, had he been ableto pursue his advantage, upon the still undecided fate of Skelmersdale. 

"Nothing, " said the Curate. He met her eye very steadily, but she wastoo clear-sighted to believe that he felt as calmly as he looked. "Nothing, " he repeated again--"I told you as much before. I have beenslandered here, and here I must remain. There are no parsonages orparadises for me. "

With which speech Mr Wentworth shook hands with his aunt andwent away. He left Miss Leonora as he had left her on variousoccasions--considerably confused in her ideas. She could not enjoy anylonger the cream of the missionary's letter. When she tried to resumeher reading, her attention flagged over it. After a while she put on herbonnet and went out, after a little consultation with her maid, whoassisted her in the housekeeping department. The house was tolerablyfull at the present moment, but it was elastic. She was met at the greendoor of Mr Wodehouse's garden by the new proprietor, who staredexcessively, and did not know what to make of such an apparition. "JackWentworth's aunt, by Jove!" he said to himself, and took off his hat, meaning to show her "a little civility. " Miss Leonora thought him one ofthe attendants at the recent ceremonial, and passed him without anyceremony. She was quite intent upon her charitable mission. MrWentworth's confidence was justified. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

Mr Wentworth's day had been closely occupied up to this point. He hadgone through a great many emotions, and transacted a good deal ofbusiness, and he went home with the comparative ease of a man whoseanxieties are relieved, not by any real deliverance, but by thesoothing influence of fatigue and the sense of something accomplished. He was not in reality in a better position than when he left his housein the morning, bitterly mortified, injured, and wounded at thetenderest point. Things were very much the same as they had been, buta change had come over the feelings of the Perpetual Curate. Heremembered with a smile, as he went down Grange Lane, that Mr Proctorwas to dine with him, and that he had rashly undertaken to havesomething better than a chop. It was a very foolish engagement underthe circumstances. Mr Wentworth was cogitating within himself whetherhe could make an appeal to the sympathies of his aunt's cook forsomething worthy of the sensitive palate of a Fellow of All-Souls, when all such thoughts were suddenly driven out of his mind by theapparition of his brother Gerald--perhaps the last man in the worldwhom he could have expected to see in Carlingford. Gerald was comingup Grange Lane in his meditative way from Mrs Hadwin's door. To lookat him was enough to reveal to any clear-sighted spectator thepresence of some perpetual argument in his mind. Though he had comeout to look for Frank, his eyes were continually forsaking hisintention, catching spots of lichen on the wall and clumps of herbageon the roadside. The long discussion had become so familiar to him, that even now, when his mind was made up, he could not relinquish thehabit which possessed him. When he perceived Frank, he quickened hissteps. They met with only such a modified expression of surprise onthe part of the younger brother as was natural to a meeting of Englishkinsfolk. "I heard Louisa's voice in my aunt's drawing-room, " saidFrank; "but, oddly enough, it never occurred to me that you might havecome with her;" and then Gerald turned with the Curate. When theordinary family questions were asked and answered, a silence ensuedbetween the two. As for Frank, in the multiplicity of his own cares, he had all but forgotten his brother; and Gerald's mind, though fullof anxiety, had something of the calm which might be supposed tosubdue the senses of a dying man. He was on the eve of a change, whichappeared to him almost as great as death; and the knowledge of thatgave him a curious stillness of composure--almost a reluctance tospeak. Strangely enough, each brother at this critical moment felt itnecessary to occupy himself with the affairs of the other, and topostpone the consideration of his own. 

"I hope you have changed your mind a little since we last met, " saidFrank; "your last letter--"

"We'll talk of that presently, " said the elder brother; "in the meantime I want to know about _you_. What is all this? My father is in agreat state of anxiety. He does not seem to have got rid of his fancythat you were somehow involved with Jack--and Jack is here, " saidGerald, with a look which betokened some anxiety on his own part. "Iwish you would give me your confidence. Right or wrong, I have come tostand by you, Frank, " said the Rector of Wentworth, rather mournfully. He had been waiting at Mrs Hadwin's for the last two hours. He hadseen that worthy woman's discomposed looks, and felt that she did notshake her head for nothing. Jack had been the bugbear of the familyfor a long time past. Gerald was conscious of adding heavily at thepresent moment to the Squire's troubles. Charley was at Malta, inindifferent health; all the others were boys. There was only Frank togive the father a little consolation; and now Frank, it appeared, wasmost deeply compromised of all; no wonder Gerald was sad. And then hedrew forth the anonymous letter which had startled all the Wentworthson the previous night. "This is written by somebody who hates you, "said the elder brother; "but I suppose there must be some meaning init. I wish you would be frank with me, and tell me what it is. "

This appeal had brought them to Mrs Hadwin's door, which the Curateopened with his key before he answered his brother. The old ladyherself was walking in the garden in a state of great agitation, witha shawl thrown over the best cap, which she had put on in honour ofthe stranger. Mrs Hadwin's feelings were too much for her at thatmoment. Her head was nodding with the excitement of age, and injuredvirtue trembled in every line of her face. "Mr Wentworth, I cannot putup with it any longer; it is a thing I never was used to, " she cried, as soon as the Curate came within hearing. "I have shut my eyes to agreat deal, but I cannot bear it any longer. If I had been a commonlodging-house keeper, I could not have been treated with less respect;but to be outraged--to be insulted--"

"What is the matter, Mrs Hadwin?" said Mr Wentworth, in dismay. 

"Sir, " said the old lady, who was trembling with passion, "you maythink it no matter to turn a house upside down as mine has been sinceEaster; to bring all sorts of disreputable people about--persons whoma gentlewoman in my position ought never to have heard of. I receivedyour brother into my house, " cried Mrs Hadwin, turning to Gerald, "because he was a clergyman and I knew his family, and hoped to findhim one whose principles I could approve of. I have put up with agreat deal, Mr Wentworth, more than I could tell to anybody. I tookin his friend when he asked me, and gave him the spare room, though itwas against my judgment. I suffered a man with a beard to be seenstealing in and out of my house in the evening, as if he was afraid tobe seen. You gentlemen may not think much of that, but it was aterrible thing for a lady in my position, unprotected, and not so welloff as I once was. It made my house like a lodging-house, and so myfriends told me; but I was so infatuated I put up with it all for MrFrank's sake. But there _is_ a limit, " said the aggrieved woman. "Iwould not have believed it--I _could_ not have believed it of you--notwhatever people might say: to think of that abandoned disgraceful girlcoming openly to my door--"

"Good heavens!" cried the Curate: he seized Mrs Hadwin's hand, evidently forgetting everything else she had said. "What girl?--whomdo you mean? For heaven's sake compose yourself and answer me. Who wasit? Rosa Elsworthy? This is a matter of life and death for me, " criedthe young man. "Speak quickly: when was it?--where is she? Forheaven's sake, Mrs Hadwin, speak--"

"Let me go, sir!" cried the indignant old lady; "let me go thisinstant--this is insult upon insult. I appeal to you, Mr Gerald--tothink I should ever be supposed capable of encouraging such a horridshameless--! How dare you--how dare you name such a creature to me?"exclaimed Mrs Hadwin, with hysterical sobs. "If it were not for yourfamily, you should never enter my house again. Oh, thank you, MrGerald Wentworth--indeed I am not able to walk. I am sure I don't wantto grieve you about your brother--I tried not to believe it--I triedas long as I could not to believe it--but you hear how he speaks. Doyou think, sir, I would for a moment permit such a creature to entermy door?" she cried again, turning to Frank Wentworth as she leanedupon his brother's arm. 

"I don't know what kind of a creature the poor girl is, " said theCurate; "but I know that if you had taken her in, it would have savedme much pain and trouble. Tell me, at least, when she came, and whosaw her--or if she left any message? Perhaps Sarah will tell me, " hesaid, with a sigh of despair, as he saw that handmaiden hoveringbehind. Sarah had been a little shy of Mr Wentworth since the nightWodehouse disappeared. She had betrayed herself to the Curate, and didnot like to remember the fact. Now she came up with a little toss ofher head and a sense of equality, primed and ready with her reply. 

"I hope I think more of myself than to take notice of any sich, " saidSarah; but her instincts were more vivid than those of her mistress, and she could not refrain from particulars. "Them as saw her now, wouldn't see much in her; I never see such a changed creature, " saidSarah; "not as I ever thought anything of her looks! a bit of a shawldragged around her, and her eyes as if they would jump out of herhead. Laws! she didn't get no satisfaction here, " said the housemaid, with a little triumph. 

"Silence, Sarah!" said Mrs Hadwin; "that is not a way to speak to yourclergyman. I'll go in, Mr Wentworth, please--I am not equal to so muchagitation. If Mr Frank will come indoors, I should be glad to have anexplanation--for this sort of thing cannot go on, " said the old lady. As for the Curate he did not pay the least attention either to thedisapproval or the impertinence. 

"At what time did she come?--which way did she go?--did she leave anymessage?" he repeated; "a moment's common-sense will be of more usethan all this indignation. It is of the greatest importance to me tosee Rosa Elsworthy. Here's how it is, Gerald, " said the Curate, drivento his wit's end; "a word from the girl is all I want to make an endof all this--this disgusting folly--and you see how I am thwarted. Perhaps they will answer _you_. When did she come?--did she sayanything?" he cried, turning sharply upon Sarah, who, frightened by MrWentworth's look, and dismayed to see her mistress moving away, and tofeel herself alone opposed to him, burst at last into an alarmedstatement. 

"Please, sir, it aint no fault of mine, " said Sarah; "it was Missis assaw her. She aint been gone not half an hour. It's all happened sinceyour brother left. She come to the side-door; Missis wouldn't hearnothing she had got to say, nor let her speak. Oh, Mr Wentworth, don'tyou go after her!" cried the girl, following him to the side-door, towhich he rushed immediately. Not half an hour gone! Mr Wentworth burstinto the lane which led up to Grove Street, and where there was not asoul to be seen. He went back to Grange Lane, and inspected everycorner where she could have hid herself. Then, after a pause, hewalked impetuously up the quiet road, and into Elsworthy's shop. MrsElsworthy was there alone, occupying her husband's place, who had goneas usual to the railway for the evening papers. She jumped up from thehigh stool she was seated on when the Curate entered. "Good gracious, Mr Wentworth!" cried the frightened woman, and instinctively calledthe errand-boy, who was the only other individual within hearing. Shewas unprotected, and quite unable to defend herself if he meantanything; and it was impossible to doubt that there was meaning of themost serious and energetic kind in Mr Wentworth's face. 

"Has Rosa come back?" he asked. "Is she here? Don't stare at me, butspeak. Has she come back? I have just heard that she was at my househalf an hour ago: have you got her safe?"

It was at this moment that Wodehouse came lounging in, with his cigarappearing in the midst of his beard, and a curious look ofself-exhibition and demonstration in his general aspect. When theCurate, hearing the steps, turned round upon him, he fell back for amoment, not expecting such an encounter. Then the vagabond recoveredhimself, and came forward with the swagger which was his onlyalternative. 

"I thought you weren't on good terms here, " said Wodehouse; "who are youasking after? It's a fine evening, and they don't seem up to much in myhouse. I have asked Jack Wentworth to the Blue Boar at seven--will youcome? I don't want to bear any grudge. I don't know if they can cookanything fit to be eaten in my house. It wasn't me you were askingafter?" The fellow came and stood close, shoulder to shoulder, by thePerpetual Curate. "By Jove, sir! I've as good a right here as you--oranywhere, " he muttered, as Mr Wentworth withdrew from him. He had to sayit aloud to convince himself of the fact; for it was hard, after beingclandestine for half a lifetime, to move about freely in the daylight. As for Mr Wentworth, he fixed his eyes full on the new-comer's face. 

"I want to know if Rosa has come home, " he repeated, in the clearesttones of his clear voice. "I am told she called at Mrs Hadwin's halfan hour ago. Has she come back?"

He scarcely noticed Mrs Elsworthy's answer, for, in the mean time, thecigar dropped out of Wodehouse's beard, out of his fingers. He made aninvoluntary step back out of the Curate's way. "By Jove!" he exclaimedto himself--the news was more important to him than to either of theothers. After a minute he turned his back upon them, and kicked thecigar which he had dropped out into the street with much blunderingand unnecessary violence--but turned round and stopped short in thisoccupation as soon as he heard Mrs Elsworthy's voice. 

"She hasn't come here, " said that virtuous woman, sharply. "I've givein to Elsworthy a deal, but I never said I'd give in to take her back. She's been and disgraced us all; and she's not a drop's blood to me, "said Mrs Elsworthy. "Them as has brought her to this pass had bestlook after her; I've washed my hands of Rosa, and all belonging toher. She knows better than to come here. "

"Who's speaking of Rosa?" said Elsworthy, who just then came in withhis bundle of newspapers from the railway. "I might have know'd as itwas Mr Wentworth. Matters is going to be cleared, sir, between me andyou. If you was going to make a proposal, I aint revengeful; and I'mopen to any arrangement as is honourable, to save things coming aforethe public. I've been expecting of it. You may speak free, sir. Youneedn't be afraid of me. "

"Fool!" said the Curate, hotly, "your niece has been seen inCarlingford; she came to my door, I am told, about an hour ago. Giveup this folly, and let us make an effort to find her. I tell you shecame to my house--"

"In course, sir, " said Elsworthy; "it was the most naturalest placefor her to go. Don't you stand upon it no longer, as if you coulddeceive folks. It will be your ruin, Mr Wentworth--you know that aswell as I do. I aint no fool but I'm open to a honourable proposal, Iam. It'll ruin you--ay, and I'll ruin you, " cried Rosa's uncle, hoarsely--"if you don't change your mind afore to-morrow. It's yourlast chance, if you care for your character, is to-night. "

Mr Wentworth did not condescend to make any answer. He followedWodehouse, who had shuffled out after his cigar, and stopped him onthe step. "I wonder if it is any use appealing to your honour, " hesaid. "I suppose you were a gentleman once, and had the feelings of--"

"By Jove! I'm as good a gentleman as you are, " cried the new heir. "Icould buy you up--you and all that belongs to you, by Jove! I'm givingJack Wentworth a dinner at the Blue Boar to-night. I'm not a man to becross-questioned. It appears to me you have got enough to do if youmind your own business, " said Wodehouse, with a sneer. "You're in anice mess, though you are the parson. I told Jack Wentworth so lastnight. "

The Curate stood on the step of Elsworthy's shop with his enemybehind, and the ungrateful vagabond whom he had rescued and guarded, standing in front of him, with that sneer on his lips. It was hard torefrain from the natural impulse which prompted him to pitch thevagabond out of his way. "Look here, " he said, sharply, "you have notmuch character to lose; but a scamp is a different thing from acriminal. I will make the principal people in Carlingford aware whatwere the precise circumstances under which you came here at Easter ifyou do not immediately restore this unhappy girl to her friends. Doyou understand me? If it is not done at once I will make use of myinformation--and you know what that means. You can defy me if youplease; but in that case you had better make up your mind to theconsequences; you will have to take your place as a--"

"Stop!" cried Wodehouse, with a shiver. "We're not by ourselves--we'rein the public street. What do you mean by talking like that here? Cometo my house, Wentworth--there's a good fellow--I've ordered adinner--"

"Be silent, sir!" said the Curate. "I give you till noon to-morrow;after that I will spare you no longer. You understand what I mean. Ihave been too merciful already. To-morrow, if everything is notarranged to my satisfaction here--"

"It was my own name, " said Wodehouse, sullenly; "nobody can say itwasn't my own name. You couldn't do me any harm--you know youwouldn't, either, for the sake of the girls; I'll--I'll give them athousand pounds or so, if I find I can afford it. Come, you don't meanthat sort of thing, you know, " said the conscious criminal; "youwouldn't do me any harm. "

"If I have to fight for my own reputation I shall not spare you, "cried the Curate. "Mind what I say! You are safe till twelve o'clockto-morrow; but after that I will have no mercy--not for your sisters'sake, not for any inducement in the world. If you want to be known asa--"

"Oh Lord, don't speak so loud!--what do you mean? Wentworth, I say, hist! Mr Wentworth! By Jove, he won't listen to me!" cried Wodehouse, in an agony. When he found that the Curate was already out of hearing, the vagabond looked round him on every side with his natural instinctof suspicion. If he had known that Mr Wentworth was thinking only ofdisgrace and the stern sentence of public opinion, Wodehouse couldhave put up with it; but he himself, in his guilty imagination, jumpedat the bar and the prison which had haunted him for long. Somehow itfelt natural that such a Nemesis should come to him after themorning's triumph. He stood looking after the Curate, guilty andhorror-stricken, till it occurred to him that he might be remarked;and then he made a circuit past Elsworthy's shop-window as far as theend of Prickett's Lane, where he ventured to cross over so as to getto his own house. His own house!--the wretched thrill of terror thatwent through him was a very sufficient offset against his momentarytriumph; and this was succeeded by a flush of rage as he thought ofthe Curate's other information. What was to be done? Every moment wasprecious; but he felt an instinctive horror of venturing out again inthe daylight. When it approached the hour at which he had ordered thatdinner at the Blue Boar, the humbled hero wrapped himself in an oldovercoat which he found in the hall, and slunk into the inn like theclandestine wretch he was. He had no confidence in himself, but he hadconfidence in Jack Wentworth. He might still be able to help hisunlucky associate out. 

When Mr Wentworth reached his rooms, he found that his guest hadarrived before him, and consequently the threatened explanation withMrs Hadwin was forestalled for that night. Mr Proctor and Gerald weresitting together, not at all knowing what to talk about; for the lateRector was aware that Frank Wentworth's brother was on the verge ofRome, and was confused, and could not help feeling that his positionbetween a man on the point of perversion in an ecclesiastical point ofview, and another whose morals were suspected and whose character wascompromised, was, to say the least, a very odd position for aclergyman of unblemished orthodoxy and respectability; besides, it wasembarrassing, when he had come for a very private consultation, tofind a stranger there before him. The Curate went in very full of whathad just occurred. The events of the last two or three hours hadworked a total change in his feelings. He was no longer the injured, insulted, silent object of a petty but virulent persecution. Thecontemptuous silence with which he had treated the scandal at first, and the still more obstinate sense of wrong which latterly had shuthis lips and his heart, had given way to-day to warmer and moregenerous emotions. What would have seemed to him in the morning onlythe indignant reserve of a man unjustly suspected, appeared now afoolish and unfriendly reticence. The only thing which restrained himwas a still lingering inclination to screen Wodehouse, if possible, from a public exposure, which would throw shame upon his sisters aswell as himself. If any generosity, if any gentlemanly feeling, werestill left in the vagabond's soul, it was possible he might answer theCurate's appeal; and Mr Wentworth felt himself bound to offer nopublic explanation of the facts of the case until this last chance ofescape had been left for the criminal. But, so far as regardedhimself, his heart was opened, his wounded pride mollified, and he wasready enough to talk of what had just happened, and to explain thewhole business to his anxious companions. When he joined them, indeed, he was so full of it as almost to forget that he himself was stillbelieved the hero of the tale. "This unfortunate little girl has beenhere, and I have missed her, " he said, without in the least concealinghis vexation, and the excitement which his rapid walk had not subdued;to the great horror of Mr Proctor, who tried all he could, bytelegraphic glances, to recall the young man to a sense of that factthat Sarah was in the room. 

"I must say I think it is imprudent--highly imprudent, " said the lateRector: "they will call these women to prove that she has been hereagain; and what conclusion but one can possibly be drawn from such afact? I am very sorry to see you so unguarded. " He said this, seizingthe moment after Sarah had removed the salmon, which was very good, and was served with a sauce which pleased Mr Proctor all the more thathe had not expected much from an impromptu dinner furnished by aPerpetual Curate; but the fact was, that Gerald's arrival hadawakened Mrs Hadwin to a proper regard for her own credit, which wasat stake. 

When Sarah withdrew finally, and they were left alone, Frank Wentworthgave the fullest explanation he was able to his surprised auditors. Hetold them that it was Wodehouse, and not himself, whom Rosa had met inthe garden, and whom she had no doubt come to seek at this crisis oftheir fortunes. There was not the least doubt in his own mind thatWodehouse had carried her away, and hidden her somewhere close athand; and when he had given them all his reasons for thinking so, hishearers were of the same opinion; but Mr Proctor continued verydoubtful and perplexed, clear though the story was. He sat silent, brooding over the new mystery, while the brothers discussed theoriginal questions. 

"I cannot think why you did not go to the Rector at once and tell himall this, " said Gerald. "It is always best to put a stop to gossip. Atleast you will see him to-morrow, or let me see him--"

"The Rector is deeply prejudiced against me, " said the Perpetual Curate, "for a very unworthy reason, if he has any reason at all. He has neverasked me to explain. I shall not interfere with his investigation, " saidthe young man, haughtily; "let it go on. I have been working here forfive years, and the Carlingford people ought to know better. As for theRector, I will make no explanations to him. "

"It is not for the Rector, it is for yourself, " said Gerald; "and thisfellow Wodehouse surely has no claim--"

But at the sound of this name, Mr Proctor roused himself from hispause of bewilderment, and took the words out of Mr Wentworth's mouth. 

"He has been here since Easter; but why?" said the late Rector. "Icannot fancy why Mr Wodehouse's son should come to you when hisfather's house was so near. In hiding? why was he in hiding? He isevidently a scamp, " said Mr Proctor, growing red; "but that is not sounusual. I don't understand--I am bound to say I don't understand it. He may be the culprit, as you say; but what was he doing here?"

"I took him in at Miss Wodehouse's request. I cannot explainwhy--_she_ will tell you, " said the Curate. "As for Wodehouse, I havegiven him another chance till twelve o'clock to-morrow: if he does notmake his appearance then--"

Mr Proctor had listened only to the first words; he kept movinguneasily in his seat while the Curate spoke. Then he broke in, "Itappears I cannot see Miss Wodehouse, " he said, with an injured tone;"she does not see any one. I cannot ask for any explanation; but itseems to me most extraordinary. It is three months since Easter. If hehad been living with you all the time, there must have been someoccasion for it. I don't know what to think, for my part; and yet Ialways imagined that I was considered a friend of the family, " saidthe late Rector, with an aggrieved look. He took his glass of claretvery slowly, looking at it as if expecting to see in the purplereflection some explanation of the mystery. As for Gerald Wentworth, he relapsed into silence when he found that his arguments did notalter Frank's decision; he too was disappointed not to find hisbrother alone. He sat with his eyes cast down, and a singular look ofabstraction on his face. He had got into a new atmosphere--a differentworld. When his anxieties about Frank were satisfied, Gerald withdrewhimself altogether from the little party. He sat there, it is true, not unaware of what was going on, and even from time to time joiningin the conversation; but already a subtle change had come over Gerald. He might have been repeating an "office, " or carrying on a course ofprivate devotions, from his looks. Rome had established her dualism inhis mind. He had no longer the unity of an Englishman trained to doone thing at a time, and to do it with his might. He sat in a kind oflanguor, carrying on within himself a thread of thought, to which hisexternal occupation gave no clue; yet at the same time suffering noindication to escape him of the real condition of his mind. The threewere consequently far from being good company. Mr Proctor, who wasmore puzzled than ever as to the true state of the case, could notunburden himself of his own intentions as he had hoped to do; andafter a while the Curate, too, was silent, finding his statementsreceived, as he thought, but coldly. It was a great relief to him whenhe was called out by Sarah to speak to some one, though his absencemade conversation still more difficult for the two who were leftbehind. Mr Proctor, from the other side of the table, regarded Geraldwith a mixture of wonder and pity. He did not feel quite sure that itwas not his duty to speak to him--to expound the superior catholicityof the Church of England, and call his attention to the schismaticpeculiarities of the Church of Rome. "It might do him good to readBurgon's book, " Mr Proctor said to himself; and by way of introducingthat subject, he began to talk of Italy, which was not a bad device, and did credit to his invention. Meanwhile the Curate had gone to hisstudy, wondering a little who could want him, and, to his utterbewilderment, found his aunt Dora, veiled, and wrapped up in a greatshawl. 

"Oh, Frank, my dear, don't be angry! I couldn't help coming, " criedMiss Dora. "Come and sit down by me here. I slipped out and did noteven put on my bonnet, that nobody might know. Oh, Frank, I don't knowwhat to say. I am so afraid you have been wicked. I have just seenthat--that girl. I saw her out of my window. Frank! don't jump up likethat. I can't go on telling you if you don't stay quiet here. "

"Aunt, let me understand you, " cried the Curate. "You saw whom? RosaElsworthy? Don't drive me desperate, as all the others do with theirstupidity. You saw her? when?--where?"

"Oh Frank, Frank! to think it should put you in such a way--such agirl as that! Oh, my dear boy, if I had thought you cared so much, Inever would have come to tell you. It wasn't to encourage you--itwasn't. Oh, Frank, Frank! that it should come to this!" cried MissDora, shrinking back from him with fright and horror in her face. 

"Come, we have no time to lose, " said the Curate, who was desperate. He picked up her shawl, which had fallen on the floor, and bundled herup in it in the most summary way. "Come, aunt Dora, " said theimpetuous young man; "you know you were always my kindest friend. Nobody else can help me at this moment. I feel that you are going tobe my deliverer. Come, aunt Dora--we must go and find her, you and I. There is not a moment to lose. "

He had his arm round her, holding on her shawl. He raised her up fromher chair, and supported her, looking at her as he had not done beforesince he was a boy at school, Miss Dora thought. She was toofrightened, too excited, to cry, as she would have liked to do; butthe proposal was so terrible and unprecedented that she leaned backtrembling on her nephew's arm, and could not move either to obey or toresist him. "Oh, Frank, I never went after any improper person in mylife, " gasped aunt Dora. "Oh, my dear, don't make me do anything thatis wrong; they will say it is my fault!" cried the poor lady, gradually feeling herself obliged to stand on her feet and collect herforces. The shawl fell back from her shoulders as the Curate withdrewhis arm. "You have lost my large pin, " cried aunt Dora, in despair;"and I have no bonnet. And oh! what will Leonora say? I never, neverwould have come to tell you if I had thought of this. I only came towarn you, Frank. I only intended--"

"Yes, " said the Curate. The emergency was momentous, and he dared notlose patience. He found her large pin even, while she stood trembling, and stuck it into her shawl as if it had been a skewer. "You neverwould have come if you had not been my guardian angel, " said thedeceitful young man, whose heart was beating high with anxiety andhope. "Nobody else would do for me what you are going to do--but Ihave always had confidence in my aunt Dora. Come, come! We have not amoment to lose. "

This was how he overcame Miss Dora's scruples. Before she knew whathad happened she was being hurried through the clear summer night pastthe long garden-walls of Grange Lane. The stars were shining overhead, the leaves rustling on all sides in the soft wind--not a soul to beseen in the long line of darkling road. Miss Dora had no breath tospeak, however much disposed she might have been. She could notremonstrate, having full occasion for all her forces to keep her feetand her breath. When Mr Wentworth paused for an instant to ask "whichway did she go?" it was all Miss Dora could do to indicate with herfinger the dark depths of Prickett's Lane. Thither she was immediatelycarried as by a whirlwind. With a shawl over her head, fastenedtogether wildly by the big pin--with nothing but little satinslippers, quite unfit for the exertion required of them--with anagonised protest in her heart that she had never, never in her lifegone after any improper person before--and, crowning misfortune ofall, with a horrible consciousness that she had left the garden-dooropen, hoping to return in a few minutes, Miss Dora Wentworth, singlewoman as she was, and ignorant of evil, was whirled off in pursuit ofthe unfortunate Rosa into the dark abysses of Prickett's Lane. 

While this terrible Hegira was taking place, Mr Proctor sat oppositeGerald Wentworth, sipping his claret and talking of Italy. "Perhapsyou have not read Burgon's book, " said the late Rector. "There is agood deal of valuable information in it about the Catacombs, and heenters at some length into the question between the Roman Church andour own. If you are interested in that, you should read it, " said MrProctor; "it is a very important question. "

"Yes, " said Gerald; and then there followed a pause. Mr Proctor didnot know what to make of the faint passing smile, the abstracted look, which he had vaguely observed all the evening; and he looked soinquiringly across the table that Gerald's new-born dualism cameimmediately into play, to the great amazement of his companion. MrWentworth talked, and talked well; but his eyes were still abstracted, his mind was still otherwise occupied; and Mr Proctor, whose ownintelligence was in a state of unusual excitement, perceived the factwithout being at all able to explain it. An hour passed, and both thegentlemen looked at their watches. The Curate had left them abruptlyenough, with little apology; and as neither of them had much interestin the other, nor in the conversation, it was natural that the host'sreturn should be looked for with some anxiety. When the two gentlemenhad said all they could say about Italy--when Mr Proctor had given alittle sketch of his own experiences in Rome, to which his companiondid not make the usual response of narrating his--the two came to adead pause. They had now been sitting for more than two hours overthat bottle of Lafitte, many thoughts having in the mean time crossedMr Proctor's mind concerning the coffee and the Curate. Where could hehave gone? and why was there not somebody in the house with senseenough to clear away the remains of dessert, and refresh the weariedinterlocutors with the black and fragrant cup which cheers allstudents? Both of the gentlemen had become seriously uneasy by thistime; the late Rector got up from the table when he could bear it nolonger. "Your brother must have been called away by somethingimportant, " said Mr Proctor, stiffly. "Perhaps you will kindly make myexcuses. Mr Morgan keeps very regular hours, and I should not like tobe late--"

"It is very extraordinary. I can't fancy what can be the reason--itmust be somebody sick, " said Gerald, rising too, but not looking byany means sure that Frank's absence had such a laudable excuse. 

"Very likely, " said the late Rector, more stiffly than ever. "You areliving here, I suppose?"

"No; I am at Miss Wentworth's--my aunt's, " said Gerald. "I will walkwith you;" and they went out together with minds considerably excited. Both looked up and down the road when they got outside the garden-gate:both had a vague idea that the Curate might be visible somewhere inconversation with somebody disreputable; and one being his friend andthe other his brother, they were almost equally disturbed about theunfortunate young man. Mr Proctor's thoughts, however, were mingled witha little offence. He had meant to be confidential and brotherly, and theoccasion had been lost; and how was it possible to explain the rudenesswith which Mr Wentworth had treated him? Gerald was still more seriouslytroubled. When Mr Proctor left him, he walked up and down Grange Lane inthe quiet of the summer night, watching for his brother. Jack came homesmoking his cigar, dropping Wodehouse, whom the heir of the Wentworthsdeclined to call his friend, before he reached his aunts' door, and asmuch surprised as it was possible for him to be, to find Geraldlingering, meditating, along the silent road; but still Frank didnot come. By-and-by a hurried light gleamed in the window of thesummer-house, and sounds of commotion were audible in the orderlydwelling of the Miss Wentworths; and the next thing that happened wasthe appearance of Miss Leonora, also with a shawl over her head, at thegarden-door. Just then, when they were all going to bed, Collins, MissDora's maid, had come to the drawing-room in search of her mistress. Shewas not to be found anywhere, though her bonnets and all her outdoorgear were safe in their place. For the first time in her life the entirefamily were startled into anxiety on Miss Dora's account. As for MrsGerald Wentworth, she jumped at once to the conclusion that the poorlady was murdered, and that Frank must have something to do with it, andfilled the house with lamentations. Nobody went to bed, not even auntCecilia, who had not been out of her room at eleven o'clock forcenturies. Collins had gone into the summer-house and was turning overeverything there as if she expected to find her mistress's body in thecupboard or under the sofa; Lewis, the butler, was hunting through thegarden with a lantern, looking under all the bushes. No incident soutterly unaccountable had occurred before in Miss Dora Wentworth's life. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The first investigation into the character of the Rev. F. C. Wentworth, Curate of St Roque's was fixed to take place in the vestryof the parish church, at eleven o'clock on the morning of the daywhich followed this anxious night. Most people in Carlingford wereaware that the Perpetual Curate was to be put upon his trial on thatsunny July morning; and there was naturally a good deal of curiosityamong the intelligent townsfolk to see how he looked, and what was theaspect of the witnesses who were to bear testimony for or against him. It is always interesting to the crowd to see how a man looks at agreat crisis of his life--or a woman either, for that matter; and if ahuman creature, at the height of joy, or in the depths of sorrow, is aspectacle to draw everybody's eyes, there is a still greater dramaticinterest in the sight when hope and fear are both in action, and thealternative hangs between life or death. It was life or death to MrWentworth, though the tribunal was one which could inflict nopenalties. If he should be found guilty, death would be a light doomto the downfall and moral extinction which would make an end of theunfaithful priest; and, consequently, Carlingford had reason for itscuriosity. There was a crowd about the back entrance which led to theshabby little sacristy where Mr Morgan and Mr Leeson were accustomedto robe themselves; and scores of people strayed into the churchitself, and hung about, pretending to look at the improvements whichthe Rector called restorations. Mrs Morgan herself, looking very pale, was in and out half-a-dozen times in the hour, talking with terriblescience and technicalism to Mr Finial's clerk of works, who could notmake her see that she was talking Gothic--a language which had nothingto do with Carlingford Church, that building being of the Revolutionor churchwarden epoch. She was a great deal too much agitated at thatmoment to be aware of the distinction. As for Mr Wentworth, it wasuniversally agreed that, though he looked a little flushed andexcited, there was no particular discouragement visible in his face. He went in to the vestry with some eagerness, not much like a culpriton his trial. The Rector, indeed, who was heated and embarrassed anddoubtful of himself, looked more like a criminal than the real hero. There were six of the amateur judges, of whom one had felt his heartfail him at the last moment. The five who were steadfast were MrMorgan, Dr Marjoribanks, old Mr Western (who was a distant cousin ofthe Wodehouses, and brother-in-law, though old enough to be hergrandfather, of the beautiful Lady Western, who once lived in GrangeLane), and with them Mr Centum, the banker, and old Colonel Chiley. MrProctor, who was very uneasy in his mind, and much afraid lest heshould be called upon to give an account of the Curate's behaviour onthe previous night, had added himself as a kind of auxiliary to thisjudicial bench. Mr Waters had volunteered his services as counsellor, perhaps with the intention of looking after the interests of a verydifferent client; and to this imposing assembly John Brown had walkedin, with his hands in his pockets, rather disturbing the composure ofthe company in general, who were aware what kind of criticism hiswas. While the bed of justice was being arranged, a very odd littlegroup collected in the outer room, where Elsworthy, in a feverishstate of excitement, was revolving about the place from the door tothe window, and where the Miss Hemmings sat up against the wall, withtheir drapery drawn up about them, to show that they were of differentclay from Mrs Elsworthy, who, respectful but sullen, sat on the samebench. The anxious public peered in at the door whenever it had achance, and took peeps through the window when the other privilege wasimpossible. Besides the Miss Hemmings and the Elsworthys there wasPeter Hayles, who also had seen something, and the wife of anothershopkeeper at the end of George Street; and there was the MissHemmings' maid, who had escorted them on that eventful night of Rosa'sdisappearance. Not one of the witnesses had the smallest doubt as tothe statement he or she was about to make; they were entirelyconvinced of the righteousness of their own cause, and the justice ofthe accusation, which naturally gave a wonderful moral force to theirtestimony. Besides--but that was quite a different matter--they allhad their little grudges against Mr Wentworth, each in his secretheart. 

When Elsworthy was called in to the inner room it caused a littlecommotion amid this company outside. The Miss Hemmings looked at eachother, not with an agreeable expression of face. "They might have hadthe politeness to call us first, " Miss Sophia said to her sister; andMiss Hemmings shook her head and sighed, and said, "Dear Mr Bury!" anobservation which meant a great deal, though it did not seem perfectlyrelevant. "Laws! I'll forget everything when I'm took in there, " saidthe shopkeeper's wife to Miss Hemmings' maid; and the ladies drewstill closer up, superior to curiosity, while the others stretchedtheir necks to get a peep into the terrible inner room. 

It was indeed a formidable tribunal. The room was small, so that theunfortunate witness was within the closest range of six pairs ofjudicial eyes, not to speak of the vigilant orbs of the two lawyers, and those of the accused and his supporters. Mr Morgan, by right ofhis position, sat at the end of the table, and looked very severely atthe first witness as he came in--which Elsworthy did, carrying his hatbefore him like a kind of shield, and polishing it carefully round andround. The Rector was far from having any intention of discouragingthe witness, who was indeed his mainstay; but the anxiety of hispeculiar position, as being at once counsel for the prosecution, andchief magistrate of the bed of justice, gave an unusual sternness tohis face. 

"Your name is George Elsworthy, " said the Rector, filling his pen withink, and looking penetratingly in the witness's face. 

"George Appleby Elsworthy, " said Rosa's uncle, a little alarmed; "notas I often signs in full; for you see, sir, it's a long name, andlife's short, and it aint necessary in the way of business--"

"Stationer and newsmonger in Carlingford, " interrupted the Rector; "Ishould say in Upper Grange Lane, Carlingford; aged--?"

"But it doesn't appear to me that newsmonger is a correct expression, "said old Mr Western, who was very conversational; "newsmonger means agossip, not a tradesman; not that there is any reason why a tradesmanshould not be a gossip, but--"

"Aged?" said Mr Morgan, holding his pen suspended in the air. "I willsay newsvendor if that will be better--one cannot be tooparticular--Aged--?"

"He is come to years of discretion, " said Dr Marjoribanks, "that's allwe need; don't keep us all day waiting, man, but tell your story aboutthis elopement of your niece. When did it take place, and what are thefacts? Never mind your hat, but say out what you have got to say. "

"You are much too summary, Doctor, " said Mr Morgan, with a littleoffence; but the sense of the assembly was clearly with DrMarjoribanks--so that the Rector dashed in 45 as the probable age ofthe witness, and waited his further statement. 

After this there was silence, and Elsworthy began his story. Henarrated all the facts of Rosa's disappearance, with an intention andbias which made his true tale a wonderful tacit accusation. Rage, revenge, a sense of wrong, worked what in an indifferent narrator onlythe highest skill could have wrought. He did not mention the Curate'sname, but arranged all his facts in lines like so many trains ofartillery. How Rosa was in the habit of going to Mrs Hadwin's (it wascontrary to Elsworthy's instinct to bring in at this moment anyreference to Mr Wentworth) every night with the newspaper--"not as Isent her of errands for common--keeping two boys for the purpose, "said the injured man; "but, right or wrong, there's where she'd go ascertain as the night come. I've seen her with my own eyes go into MrsHadwin's garden-door, which she hadn't no need to go in but for beingencouraged; and it would be half an hour at the least afore she cameout. "

"But, bless me! that was very imprudent of you, " cried Mr Proctor, whoup to this time had not uttered a word. 

"There was nobody there but the old lady and her maids--except theclergyman, " said Elsworthy. "It wasn't my part to think as she couldget any harm from the clergyman. She wouldn't hear no remonstrancesfrom me; she _would_ go as regular as the evening come. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mr Waters, who saw John Brown's humorous eye gleaminground upon the little assembly; "but let us come to the immediatematter in hand. Your niece disappeared from Carlingford on the--?"

"Yes, yes, " said Mr Western, "we must not sink into conversation;that's the danger of all unofficial investigations. It seems naturalto let him tell his story as he likes: but here we have got somebodyto keep us in order. It's natural, but it aint law--is it, Brown?"

"I don't see that law has anything to do with it, " said John Brown, with a smile. 

"Order! order!" said the Rector, who was much goaded and aggravated bythis remark. "I request that there may be no conversation. The witnesswill proceed with what he has to say. Your niece disappeared on the15th. What were the circumstances of her going away?"

"She went down as usual with the newspaper, " said Elsworthy; "it had gotto be a custom as regular as regular. She stopped out later nor common, and my wife and me was put out. I don't mind saying, gentlemen, " saidthe witness, with candour, "as my missis and I wasn't altogether of thesame mind about Rosa. She was late, but I can't say as I was anxious. Itwasn't above a week afore that Mr Wentworth himself brought her homesafe, and it was well known as he didn't like her to be out at night; soI was easy in my mind, like. But when eleven o'clock came, and there wasno denying of its being past hours, I began to get a little fidgety. Istepped out to the door, and I looked up and down, and saw nobody; so Itook up my hat and took a turn down the road--"

At this moment there was a little disturbance outside. A voice atwhich the Curate started was audible, asking entrance. "I must see MrWentworth immediately, " this voice said, as the door was partiallyopened; and then, while his sons both rose to their feet, the Squirehimself suddenly entered the room. He looked round upon the assembledcompany with a glance of shame and grief that went to the Curate'sheart. Then he bowed to the judges, who were looking at him with anuncomfortable sense of his identity, and walked across the room to thebench on which Gerald and Frank were seated together. "I beg yourpardon, gentlemen, " said the Squire, "if I interrupt your proceedings;but I have only this moment arrived in Carlingford, and heard what wasgoing on, and I trust I may be allowed to remain, as my son's honouris concerned. " Mr Wentworth scarcely waited for the assent whicheverybody united in murmuring, but seated himself heavily on thebench, as if glad to sit down anywhere. He suffered Frank to grasp hishand, but scarcely gave it; nor, indeed, did he look, except once, with a bitter momentary glance at the brothers. They were sons afather might well have been proud of, so far as external appearanceswent; but the Squire's soul was bitter within him. One was about toabandon all that made life valuable in the eyes of the sober-mindedcountry gentleman. The other--"And I could have sworn by Frank, " themortified father was saying in his heart. He sat down with a dulldogged composure. He meant to hear it all, and have it proved to himthat his favourite son was a villain. No wonder that he wasdisinclined to respond to any courtesies. He set himself down almostwith impatience that the sound of his entrance should have interruptedthe narrative, and looked straight in front of him, fixing his eyes onElsworthy, and taking no notice of the anxious glances of the possibleculprit at his side. 

"I hadn't gone above a step or two when I see Mr Hayles at his door. Isaid to him, 'It's a fine evening, '--as so it was, and the starsshining. 'My Rosa aint been about your place, has she?' I says; and hesays, 'No. ' But, gentlemen, I see by the look of his eye as he hadmore to say. 'Aint she come home yet?' says Mr Hayles--"

"Stop a moment, " said John Brown. "Peter Hayles is outside, I think. If the Rector wishes to preserve any sort of legal form in thisinquiry, may I suggest that a conversation repeated is not evidence?Let Elsworthy tell what he knows, and the other can speak forhimself. "

"It is essential we should hear the conversation, " said the Rector, "since I believe it was of importance. I believe it is an importantlink in the evidence--I believe--"

"Mr Morgan apparently has heard the evidence before, " said theinexorable John Brown. 

Here a little commotion arose in the bed of justice. "Hush, hush, "said Dr Marjoribanks; "the question is, What has the witness got tosay of his own knowledge? Go on, Elsworthy; we can't possibly spendthe whole day here. Never mind what Hayles said, unless hecommunicated something about the girl. "

"He told me as the Miss Hemmings had seen Rosa, " said Elsworthy, slowly; "had seen her at nine, or half after nine--I won't be surewhich--at Mrs Hadwin's gate. "

"The Miss Hemmings are outside. Let the Miss Hemmings be called, " saidMr Proctor, who had a great respect for Mr Brown's opinion. 

But here Mr Waters interposed. "The Miss Hemmings will be calledpresently, " he said; "in the mean time let this witness be heard out;afterwards his evidence will be corroborated. Go on, Elsworthy. "

"The Miss Hemmings had seen my Rosa at Mrs Hadwin's gate, " repeatedElsworthy, "a-standing outside, and Mr Wentworth a-standing inside;there aint more respectable parties in all Carlingford. It was them assaw it, not me. Gentlemen, I went back home. I went out again. I wentover all the town a-looking for her. Six o'clock in the morning come, and I had never closed an eye, nor took off my clothes, nor even satdown upon a chair. When it was an hour as I could go to a gentleman'shouse and no offence, I went to the place as she was last seen. Me andMr Hayles, we went together. The shutters was all shut but on onewindow, which was Mr Wentworth's study. We knocked at the garden-door, and I aint pretending that we didn't make a noise; and, gentlemen, itwasn't none of the servants--it was Mr Wentworth hisself as opened thedoor. "

There was here a visible sensation among the judges. It was a pointthat told. As for the Squire, he set his stick firmly before him, andleaned his clasped hands upon it to steady himself. His healthful, ruddy countenance was paling gradually. If it had been an apostle whospoke, he could not have taken in more entirely the bitter tale. 

"It was Mr Wentworth hisself, gentlemen, " said the triumphant witness;"not like a man roused out of his sleep, but dressed and shaved, andhis hair brushed, as if it had been ten instead o' six. It's wellknown in Carlingford as he aint an early man; and gentlemen here knowsit as well as me. I don't pretend as I could keep my temper. I givehim my mind, gentlemen, being an injured man; but I said as--if he dohis duty by her--"

"Softly a moment, " said Mr Brown. "What had Mr Wentworth's aspect atsix o'clock in the morning to do with Rosa Elsworthy's disappearanceat nine on the previous night?"

"I don't see that the question is called for at the present moment, "said Mr Waters. "Let us hear what reasons you have for attributing toMr Wentworth an unusual degree of interest in your niece. "

"Sir, " said Elsworthy, "he come into my shop as regular as the day; henever come but he asked after Rosa, or spoke to her if she was there. One night he walked all the way up Grange Lane and knocked at my doorand brought her in all of a glow, and said I wasn't to send her outlate no more. My missis, being a woman as is very particular, wasstruck, and thought as harm might come of it; and, not to be talkedof, we sent Rosa away. And what does Mr Wentworth do, but the momenthe hears of it comes right off to my shop! He had been at his ownhome, sir, a-visiting his respected family, " said Elsworthy, turningslightly towards the side of the room where the father and sons sattogether. "He came to my shop with his carpet-bag as he come off therailway, and he gave me my orders as I was to bring Rosa back. What hesaid was, 'Directly, ' that very day. I never had no thought but whathis meaning was honourable--being a clergyman, " said the witness, witha heavy sigh; and then there ensued a little pause. 

"The Miss Hemmings had better be called now, " said Mr Waters. "Elsworthy, you can retire; but we may require you again, so you hadbetter not go away. Request Miss Hemmings to do us the favour ofcoming here. "

The Squire lifted his heavy eyes when the next witness entered. Shemade a very solemn curtsy to the gentlemen, and sat down on the chairwhich somebody placed for her. Being unsupported, a lady--not to sayan unmarried lady profoundly conscious of the fact--among a number ofmen, Miss Hemmings was naturally much agitated. She was the eldest andthe softest-hearted; and it occurred to her for the first time, as shegave a frightened look towards the Curate, that he was like herfavourite younger brother, who had died ever so many years ago--athought which, for the first time, made her doubtful of her testimony, and disposed to break down in her evidence. 

"You were in Grange Lane on the evening of the 15th ultimo, " said MrMorgan, after he had carefully written down her name, "about nineo'clock?"

"Oh yes, Mr Morgan, " said the poor lady; "we were at St Roque'sCottage drinking tea with Mrs Bland, who was lodging with Mrs Smith inthe same rooms Mrs Rider used to have. I put the note of invitation inmy pocket in case there should be any doubt; but, indeed, poor MrsBland was taken very ill on the 16th, and Dr Marjoribanks was called, and he knows it could not be any other evening--and besides--"

"About nine o'clock, " said Mr Waters; "did I understand you, it wasabout nine o'clock?"

"She was such an invalid, poor dear, " said Miss Hemmings, apologetically; "and it is such a privilege to have real Christianconversation. We dined early on purpose, and we were asked forhalf-past six. I think it must have been a little after nine; but Maryis here, and she knows what hour she came for us. Shall I call Mary, please?"

"Presently, " said the counsel for the prosecution. "Don't beagitated; one or two questions will do. You passed Mrs Hadwin's doorcoming up. Will you kindly tell the gentlemen what you saw there?"

"Oh!" cried Miss Hemmings. She looked round at the Curate again, andhe was more than ever like Willie who died. "I--I don't take muchnotice of what I see in the streets, " she said, faltering; "and thereare always so many poor people going to see Mr Wentworth. " Here thepoor lady stopped short. She had never considered before what harm herevidence might do. Now her heart smote her for the young man who waslike Willie. "He is so very kind to all the poor people, " continuedthe unwilling witness, looking doubtfully round into all the facesnear her; "and he's such a young man, " she added, in her tremulousway. It was Miss Sophia who was strong-minded; all the poor women inBack Grove Street were perfectly aware that their chances were doubledwhen they found Miss Jane. 

"But you must tell us what you saw all the same, " said Dr Marjoribanks. "I daresay Mr Wentworth wishes it as much as we do. "

The Curate got up and came forward with one of his impulses. "I wishit a great deal more, " he said. "My dear Miss Hemmings, thank you foryour reluctance to say anything to harm me; but the truth can'tpossibly harm me: tell them exactly what you saw. "

Miss Hemmings looked from one to another, and trembled more and more. "Iam sure I never meant to injure Mr Wentworth, " she said; "I only said Ithought it was imprudent of him--that was all I meant. Oh, I am sure, ifI had thought of this, I would rather have done anything than say it. And whatever Sophia might have imagined, I assure you, gentlemen, _I_never, never for a moment thought Mr Wentworth meant any harm. "

"Never mind Mr Wentworth, " said Mr Brown, who now took the matter inhand. "When you were passing Mrs Hadwin's house about nine o'clock onthe evening of the 15th, you saw some one standing at the door. MrWentworth particularly wishes you to say who it was. "

"Oh, Mr Brown--oh, Mr Morgan, " cried the poor lady; "it was littleRosa Elsworthy. She was a designing little artful thing. When she wasin my Sunday class, she was always thinking of her vanities. MrWentworth was talking to her at the garden-door. I daresay he wasgiving her good advice; and oh, gentlemen, if you were to question mefor ever and ever, that is all I have got to say. "

"Did you not hear what they were talking about?" said Mr Proctor. "If itwas good advice--" The late Rector stopped short, and grew red, and feltthat his supposition was that of a simpleton. "You heard what they weretalking about? What did they say?" he concluded, peremptorily, in a tonewhich frightened the reluctant witness more and more. 

"I did not hear a single word, " she cried--"not a word. That is all Iknow about it. Oh, please, let me go away. I feel very faint. I shouldlike a little cold water, please. I did not hear a word--not a word. Ihave told you everything I have got to say. "

Everybody looked more serious when Miss Hemmings stumbled from herchair. She was so frightened at her own testimony, and so unwilling togive it, that its importance was doubled in the eyes of theinexperienced judges. The Squire gave a low groan under his breath, and turned his eyes, which had been fixed upon her, on the groundinstead; but raised them immediately, with a gleam of anxiety as hisson again rose from his side. All that the Curate meant to do was togive the trembling lady his arm, and lead her out; but the entireassembly, with the exception of John Brown, started and stared as ifhe had been about to take instant revenge upon the frightened woman. Miss Hemmings burst into tears when Mr Wentworth set a chair for herby the door, and brought her a glass of water, in the outer room; andjust then somebody knocked and gave him a note, with which he returnedto the presence of the awful tribunal. Miss Sophia Hemmings wascorroborating her sister's statement when the Perpetual Curatere-entered. He stood behind her quite quietly, until she had finished, with a slight smile upon his lips, and the note in his hand. DrMarjoribanks was not partial to Miss Sophia Hemmings. She was neverill herself, and rarely permitted even her sister to enjoy the gentlesatisfaction of a day's sickness. The old Doctor looked instead at thePerpetual Curate. When Miss Hemmings withdrew, Dr Marjoribanksinterposed. "It appears to me that Mr Wentworth has something to say, "said the Doctor. "It is quite necessary that he should have a hearingas well as the rest of us. Let Peter Hayles wait a moment, till wehear what Mr Wentworth has to say. "

"It is not yet time for us to receive Mr Wentworth's statement, " saidthe Rector. "He shall certainly be heard in his own defence at theproper time. Mr Waters, call Peter Hayles. "

"One moment, " said the Curate. "I have no statement to make, and I canwait till you have heard what everybody has to say, if the Rectorwishes it; but it might save time and trouble to hear me. I haveanother witness whom, up to this moment, I have been reluctant tobring forward--a witness all-important for me, whom I cannot producein so public a place, or at an hour when everybody is abroad. If youwill do me the favour to adjourn this inquiry till the evening, and tomeet then in a private house--in my own, or Miss Wentworth's, orwherever you may appoint--I think I can undertake to make this wholebusiness perfectly clear. "

"Bless me!" said Mr Proctor, suddenly. This unexpected and irrelevantbenediction was the first sound distinctly audible in the little stirof surprise, expectation, and excitement which followed the Curate'sspeech. The Squire let his stick fall out of his hands, and gropedafter it to pick it up again. Hope had suddenly all at once come intopossession of the old man's breast. As for the Rector, he was too muchannoyed at the moment to speak. 

"You should have thought of this before, " said Dr Marjoribanks. "Itwould have been just as easy to fix this meeting for the evening, andin a private house, and would have saved time. You are very welcome tomy dining-room, if you please; but I don't understand why it could nothave been settled so at once, and saved our time, " said the Doctor; towhich sentiment there were several murmurs of assent. 

"Gentlemen, " said the Curate, whose eyes were sparkling withexcitement, "you must all know in your hearts that this trial oughtnever to have taken place. I have lived among you for five years, andyou ought to have known me by this time. I have never been asked foran explanation, neither could any explanation which it was possiblefor me to make have convinced a mind prejudiced against me, " he said, after a moment's pause, with a meaning which everybody understood. "Itis only now that I feel myself able to clear up the whole matter, andit is for this reason alone that I ask you to put off your inquirytill to-night. "

"I don't feel inclined to consent to any adjournment, " said Mr Morgan;"it looks like an attempt to defeat the ends of justice. " The Rector wasvery much annoyed--more than he dared confess to himself. He believed inhis heart that young Wentworth was guilty, and he felt equally convincedthat here was some unexpected loophole through which he would escape. But public opinion was strong in Grange Lane--stronger than a newRector. The Banker and the Doctor and the Indian Colonel, not to speakof old Mr Western, were disposed to grant the request of the Curate; andwhen even Mr Proctor forsook his side, the Rector himself yielded. "Though it is against my judgment, " he said, "and I see no advantage tobe gained by it, the meeting had better be held in the Rectory, thisevening at seven o'clock. "

"Most of us dine at seven o'clock, " said Dr Marjoribanks. 

"This evening at eight o'clock, " said the Rector, severely. "I willrequest all the witnesses to be in attendance, and we must hope tofind Mr Wentworth's witness of sufficient importance to justify thechange. At eight o'clock this evening, in my house, gentlemen, " saidthe Rector. He collected his notes and went outside, and began talkingto his witnesses, while the others collected together round the tableto consult over this new phase of the affair. The three Mr Wentworthswent out together, the father between his two tall sons. The Squire'sstrength was much shaken, both in mind and body. When they were out ofthe shadow of the church, he looked up in Frank's face. 

"I hope you consider me entitled to an immediate explanation, " said MrWentworth. "When I read that anonymous letter, it went a long waytowards breaking my heart, sir; I can tell you it did. Jack here too, and your brother making up his mind as he has done, Frank. I am not aman to complain. If it were all over with me to-morrow, I shouldn't besorry, so far as I am concerned, if it weren't for the girls and thelittle children. But I always thought I could have sworn by Frank, "said the old man, mournfully. He was ever so much older since he hadsaid these words before in the long lime avenue at Wentworth Hall. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The little assembly which met in the vestry of Carlingford Church toinquire into the conduct of the Perpetual Curate, had so many differentinterests in hands when it dispersed, and so much to do, that it isdifficult for the narrator of this history to decide which thread shouldbe taken up first. Of all the interlocutors, however, perhaps Mr Proctorwas the one who had least succeeded in his efforts to explain himself, and accordingly demands in the first place the attention of an impartialhistorian. The excellent man was still labouring under much perplexitywhen the bed of justice was broken up. He began to recollect that MrWentworth's explanation on the previous night had convinced him of hisinnocence, and to see that it was indeed altogether inconceivable thatthe Curate should be guilty; but then, other matters still moredisagreeable to contemplate than Mr Wentworth's guilt came in to darkenthe picture. This vagabond Wodehouse, whom the Curate had taken in athis sister's request--what was the meaning of that mystery? Mr Proctorhad never been anyhow connected with mysteries; he was himself an onlyson, and had lived a straightforward peaceable life. Neither he nor hisestimable parents, so far as the late Rector was aware, had ever doneanything to be ashamed of; and he winced a little at the thought ofconnecting himself with concealment and secrecy. And then the Curate'ssudden disappearance on the previous evening perplexed and troubled him. He imagined all kinds of reasons for it as he walked down Grange Lane. Perhaps Miss Wodehouse, who would not receive himself, had sent for MrWentworth; perhaps the vagabond brother was in some other scrape, out ofwhich he had to be extricated by the Curate's assistance. Mr Proctor wasperfectly honest, and indeed determined, in his "intentions;" buteverybody will allow that for a middle-aged lover of fifty orthereabouts, contemplating a sensible match with a lady of suitableyears and means, to find suddenly that the object of his affections wasnot only a penniless woman, but the natural guardian of an equallypenniless sister, was startling, to say the least of it. He was a trueman, and it did not occur to him to decline the responsibilityaltogether; on the contrary, he was perhaps more eager than he wouldhave been otherwise, seeing that his elderly love had far more need ofhis devotion than he had ever expected her to have; but, notwithstanding, he was disturbed by such an unlooked-for change of circumstances, as wasnatural, and did not quite know what was to be done with Lucy. He wasfull of thoughts on this subject as he proceeded towards the house, tothe interview which, to use sentimental language, was to decide hisfate. But, to tell the truth, Mr Proctor was not in a state of very deepanxiety about his fate. The idea of being refused was too unreasonablean idea to gain much ground in his mind. He was going to offer hispersonal support, affection, and sympathy to Miss Wodehouse at the leastfortunate moment in her life; and if there was anything consolatory inmarriage at all, the late Rector sensibly concluded that it must bedoubly comforting under such circumstances, and that the offer of anhonest man's hand and house and income was not a likely thing to berejected by a woman of Miss Wodehouse's experience and good sense--notto speak of his heart, which was very honest and true and affectionate, though it had outlived the fervours of youth. Such was Mr Proctor's viewof the matter; and the chances were strong that Miss Wodehouse entirelyagreed with him--so, but for a certain shyness which made him rathernervous, it would not be correct to say that the late Rector was in astate of special anxiety about the answer he was likely to receive. Hewas, however, anxious about Lucy. His bachelor mind was familiar withall the ordinary traditions about the inexpediency of being surroundedby a wife's family; and he had a little of the primitive male sentiment, shared one way or other by most husbands, that the old system of buyinga woman right out, and carrying her off for his own sole and privatesatisfaction, was, after all, the correct way of managing such matters. To be sure, a pretty, young, unmarried sister, was perhaps the leastobjectionable encumbrance a woman could have; but, notwithstanding, MrProctor would have been glad could he have seen any feasible way ofdisposing of Lucy. It was utterly out of the question to think of hergoing out as a governess; and it was quite evident that Mr Wentworth, even were he perfectly cleared of every imputation, having himselfnothing to live upon, could scarcely offer to share his poverty withpoor Mr Wodehouse's cherished pet and darling. "I daresay she has beenused to live expensively, " Mr Proctor said to himself, wincing a littlein his own mind at the thought. It was about one o'clock when hereached the green door--an hour at which, during the few months ofhis incumbency at Carlingford, he had often presented himself at thathospitable house. Poor Mr Wodehouse! Mr Proctor could not help wonderingat that moment how he was getting on in a world where, according toordinary ideas, there are no lunch nor dinner parties, no old port norsavoury side-dishes. Somehow it was impossible to realise Mr Wodehousewith other surroundings than those of good-living and creature-comfort. Mr Proctor sighed, half for the departed, half at thought of thestrangeness of that unknown life for which he himself did not feel muchmore fitted than Mr Wodehouse. In the garden he saw the new heir sulkilymarching about among the flower-beds smoking, and looking almost as muchout of place in the sweet tranquillity of the English garden, as achurchwarden of Carlingford or a Fellow of All-Souls could look, tocarry out Mr Proctor's previous imagination, in the vague beatitude of adisembodied heaven. Wodehouse was so sick of his own company that hecame hastily forward at the sight of a visitor, but shrank a little whenhe saw who it was. 

"I suppose you have brought some news, " he said, in his sullen way. "Isuppose he has been making his statements, has he? Much I care! He maytell what lies he pleases; he can't do me any harm. I never didanything but sign my own name, by Jove! Jack Wentworth himself saysso. I don't care _that_ for the parson and his threats, " saidWodehouse, snapping his fingers in Mr Proctor's face. The late Rectordrew back a little, with a shudder of disgust and resentment. He couldnot help thinking that this fellow would most likely be hisbrother-in-law presently, and the horror he felt made itself visiblein his face. 

"I am quite unaware what you can mean, " said Mr Proctor. "I am aparson, but I never made any threats that I know of. I wish to seeMiss Wodehouse. I--I think she expects me at this hour, " he said, witha little embarrassment, turning to John, who, for his part, had beenstanding by in a way which became his position as a respectable andfaithful servant, waiting any opportunity that might come handy toshow his disgust for the new _régime_. 

"Yes, sir, " said John, promptly, and with emphasis. "My mistressexpects you, sir. She's come down to the drawing-room for the firsttime. Miss Lucy keeps her room, sir, still; she's dreadfully cut up, poor dear young lady. My mistress will be glad to see you, sir, " saidJohn. This repetition of a title which Miss Wodehouse had not been inthe habit of receiving was intended for the special advantage of thenew master, whom John had no intention of recognising in thatcapacity. "If you should know of any one, sir, as is in want of asteady servant, " the man continued, as he led the way into the house, with a shrewd glance at Mr Proctor, whose "intentions" were legibleenough to John's experienced eyes--"not as I'm afeared of gettingsuited, being well known in Carlingford; but it would come natural tobe with a friend of the family. There aint a servant in the house, sir, as will stay when the ladies go, and I think as Miss Wodehousewould speak for me, " said John, with natural astuteness. This addressmade Mr Proctor a little uneasy. It recalled to him the unpleasantside of the important transaction in which he was about to engage. Hewas not rich, and did not see his way now to any near prospect ofrequiring the services of "a steady servant, " and the thought made himsigh. 

"We'll see, " he said, with a troubled look. To persevere honourably inhis "intentions" was one thing, but to be insensible to the loss of muchhe had looked forward to was quite another. It was accordingly with agrave and somewhat disturbed expression that he went to the interviewwhich was "to decide his fate. " Miss Wodehouse was seated in thedrawing-room, looking slightly flushed and excited. Though she knew itwas very wrong to be thus roused into a new interest the day after herfather's funeral, the events altogether had been of so startling adescription that the usual decorum of an afflicted household had alreadybeen ruthlessly broken. And on the whole, notwithstanding her watchingand grief, Mr Proctor thought he had never seen the object of hisaffections looking so well as she did now in the long black dress, whichsuited her better than the faint dove colours in which she arrayedherself by preference. She was not, it is true, quite sure what MrProctor wanted in this interview he had solicited, but a certainfeminine instinct instructed her in its probable eventualities. So shesat in a subdued flutter, with a little colour fluctuating on her cheek, a tear in her eyes, and some wonder and expectation in her heart. Perhaps in her youth Miss Wodehouse might have come to such a femininecrisis before; but if so, it was long ago, and the gentle woman hadnever been given to matrimonial speculations, and was as fresh andinexperienced as any girl. The black frame in which she was set made hersoft colour look fresher and less faded. Her plaintive voice, thegeneral softness of her demeanour, looked harmonious and suitable to hercircumstances. Mr Proctor, who had by no means fallen in love with heron account of any remnants of beauty she might possess, had neveradmired her so much as he did now; he felt confused, good man, as hestood before her, and, seeing her so much younger and fairer than hisformer idea, began to grow alarmed, and wonder at his serenity. What ifshe thought him an old fogey? what if she refused him? This suppositionbrought a crimson colour to Mr Proctor's middle-aged countenance, andwas far from restoring his courage. It was a wonderful relief to himwhen she, with the instinct of a timid woman, rushed into hasty talk. 

"It was very kind of you to come yesterday, " she said; "Lucy and Iwere very grateful. We have not many relatives, and my dear father--"

"Yes, " said the late Rector, again embarrassed by the tears whichchoked her voice, "he was very much respected: that must be aconsolation to you. And he had a long life--and--and I suppose, on thewhole, a happy one, " said Mr Proctor, "with you and your sister--"

"Oh, Mr Proctor, he had a great deal to put up with, " said MissWentworth, through her tears. She had, like most simple people, aninstinctive disinclination to admit that anybody was or had beenhappy. It looked like an admission of inferiority. "Mamma's death, andpoor Tom, " said the elder sister. As she wiped her eyes, she almostforgot her own little feminine flutter of expectancy in respect to MrProctor himself. Perhaps it was not going to happen this time, and asshe was pretty well assured that it would happen one day or another, she was not anxious about it. "If I only knew what to do about Tom, "she continued, with a vague appeal in her voice. 

Mr Proctor got up from his chair and walked to the window. When hehad looked out he came back, rather surprising Miss Wodehouse byhis unlooked-for movements. "I wanted very much to have a littleconversation with you, " he said, growing again very red. "I daresay youwill be surprised--but I have accepted another living, Miss Wodehouse;"and here the good man stopped short in a terrible state ofembarrassment, not knowing what next to say. 

"Yes?" said Miss Wodehouse, interrogatively. Her heart began to beatquicker, but perhaps he was only going to tell her about the new workhe had undertaken; and then she was a woman, and had some knowledge, which came by nature, how to conduct herself on an occasion such asthis. 

"I don't know whether you recollect, " said Mr Proctor--"I shall neverforget it--one time when we all met in a house where a woman wasdying, --I mean your sister and young Wentworth, and you and I;--andneither you nor I knew anything about it, " said the late Rector, in astrange voice. It was not a complimentary way of opening his subject, and the occurrence had not made so strong an impression upon MissWodehouse as upon her companion. She looked a little puzzled, and, ashe made a pause, gave only a murmur of something like assent, andwaited to hear what more he might have to say. 

"We neither of us knew anything about it, " said Mr Proctor--"neitheryou how to manage her, nor I what to say to her, though the youngpeople did. I have always thought of you from that time. I havethought I should like to try whether I was good for anything now--ifyou would help me, " said the middle-aged lover. When he had said thishe walked to the window, and once more looked out, and came backredder than ever. "You see we are neither of us young, " said MrProctor; and he stood by the table turning over the books nervously, without looking at her, which was certainly an odd commencement for awooing. 

"That is quite true, " said Miss Wodehouse, rather primly. She hadnever disputed that fact by word or deed, but still it was notpleasant to have the statement thus thrust upon her without anyapparent provocation. It was not the sort of thing which a womanexpects to have said to her under such circumstances. "I am sure Ihope you will do better--I mean be more comfortable--this time, " shecontinued, after a pause, sitting very erect on her seat. 

"If you will help me, " said Mr Proctor, taking up one of the books andreading the name on it, which was lucky for him, for it was MissWodehouse's name, which he either had forgotten or never had known. 

And here they came to a dead stop. What was she to say? She was alittle affronted, to tell the truth, that he should remember moredistinctly than anything else her age, and her unlucky failure on thatone occasion. "You have just said that I could not manage, " said themild woman, not without a little vigour of her own; "and how thencould I help you, Mr Proctor? Lucy knows a great deal more aboutparish work than I do, " she went on in a lower tone; and for one halfof a second there arose in the mind of the elder sister a kind ofwistful half envy of Lucy, who _was_ young, and knew how to manage--afeeling which died in unspeakable remorse and compunction as soon asit had birth. 

"But Lucy would not have me, " said the late Rector; "and indeed I shouldnot know what to do with her if she would have me;--but you--It is asmall parish, but it's not a bad living. I should do all I could to makeyou comfortable. At least we might try, " said Mr Proctor, in his mostinsinuating tone. "Don't you think we might try? at least it would do--"He was going to say "no harm, " but on second thoughts rejected thatexpression. "At least I should be very glad if you would, " said theexcellent man, with renewed confusion. "It's a nice little rectory, witha pretty garden, and all that sort of thing; and--and perhaps--it mighthelp you to settle about going away--and--and I daresay there would beroom for Lucy. Don't you think you would try?" cried Mr Proctor, volunteering, in spite of himself, the very hospitality which he hadthought it hard might be required of him; but somehow his suit seemed towant backing at the actual moment when it was being made. 

As for Miss Wodehouse, she sat and listened to him till he began tofalter, and then her composure gave way all at once. "But as fortrying, " she gasped, in broken mouthfuls of speech, "that wouldnever--never do, Mr Proctor. It has to be done--done for good andall--if--if it is done at all, " sobbed the poor lady, whose voice camesomewhat muffled through her handkerchief and her tears. 

"Then it shall be for good and all!" cried Mr Proctor, with a suddenimpulse of energy. This was how it came about that Miss Wodehouse andthe late Rector were engaged. He had an idea that he might be expectedto kiss her, and certainly ought to call her Mary after this; andhovered for another minute near her seat, not at all disinclined forthe former operation. But his courage failed him, and he only drew achair a little closer and sat down, hoping she would soon stop crying. And indeed, by the time that he produced out of his pocket-book thelittle photograph of the new rectory, which he had had made for her bya rural artist, Miss Wodehouse had emerged out of her handkerchief, and was perhaps in her heart as happy in a quiet way as she had everbeen in her life. She who had never been good for much, was now, inthe time of their need, endowed with a home which she could offerLucy. It was she, the helpless one of the family, who was to be heryoung sister's deliverer. Let it be forgiven to her if, in the tumultof the moment, this was the thought that came first. 

When Miss Wodehouse went up-stairs after this agitating butsatisfactory interview, she found Lucy engaged in putting togethersome books and personal trifles of her own which were scattered aboutthe little sitting-room. She had been reading 'In Memoriam' until itvexed her to feel how inevitably good sense came in and interferedwith the enthusiasm of her grief, making her sensible that to apply toher fond old father all the lofty lauds which were appropriate to thepoet's hero would be folly indeed. He had been a good tender father toher, but he was not "the sweetest soul that ever looked with humaneyes;" and Lucy could not but stop in her reading with a kind of pangand self-reproach as this consciousness came upon her. Miss Wodehouselooked rather aghast when she found her sister thus occupied. "Did youthink of accepting Miss Wentworth's invitation, after all?" said MissWodehouse; "but, dear, I am afraid it would be awkward; and oh, Lucy, my darling, I have so many things to tell you, " said the anxioussister, who was shy of communicating her own particular news. Beforemany minutes had passed, Lucy had thrown aside all the books, and wassitting by her sister's side in half-pleased, disconcerted amazementto hear her story. Only half-pleased--for Lucy, like most other girlsof her age, thought love and marriage were things which belonged onlyto her own level of existence, and was a little vexed and disappointedto find that her elder sister could condescend to such youthfulmatters. On the whole, she rather blushed for Mary, and felt sadly asif she had come down from an imaginary pedestal. And then Mr Proctor, so old and so ordinary, whom it was impossible to think of as abridegroom, and still less as a brother. "I shall get used to itpresently, " said Lucy, with a burning flush on her cheek, and a halffeeling that she had reason to be ashamed; "but it is so strange tothink of you in that way, Mary. I always thought you were too--toosensible for that sort of thing, " which was a reproach that went toMiss Wodehouse's heart. 

"Oh, Lucy, dear, " said that mild woman, who in this view of the matterbecame as much ashamed of herself as Lucy could desire, "what could Ido? I know what you mean, at my time of life; but I could not let yoube dependent on Tom, my darling, " said Miss Wodehouse, with adeprecating appealing look. 

"No indeed, " said Lucy; "that would be impossible under anycircumstances: nor on you either, Mary dear. I can do something tomake a living, and I should like it. I have always been fond of work. I will not permit you to sacrifice yourself for me, " said the youngersister, with some dignity. "I see how it has been. I felt sure it wasnot of your own accord. "

Miss Wodehouse wrung her hands with dismay and perplexity. What wasshe to do if Lucy stood out and refused her consent? She could nothumble herself so far as to confess that she rather liked Mr Proctor, and was, on the whole, not displeased to be married; for the feelingthat Lucy expected her to be too sensible for that sort of thingoverawed the poor lady. "But, Lucy, I have given him my promise, " saidpoor Miss Wodehouse. "It--it would make him very unhappy. I can't usehim badly, Lucy dear. "

"I will speak to him, and explain if it is necessary. Whateverhappens, I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me, " said Lucy. Allthe answer Miss Wodehouse could make was expressed in the tears ofvexation and mortification which rushed to her eyes. She repelled heryoung sister's ministrations for the first time in her life with hastyimpatience. Her troubles had not been few for the last twenty-fourhours. She had been questioned about Tom till she had altogether losther head, and scarcely knew what she was saying; and Lucy had notapplauded that notable expedient of throwing the shame of the familyupon Mr Wentworth, to be concealed and taken care of, which hadbrought so many vexations to the Perpetual Curate. Miss Wodehouse atlast was driven to bay. She had done all for the best, but nobody gaveher any credit for it; and now this last step, by which she had meantto provide a home for Lucy, was about to be contradicted and put astop to altogether. She put away Lucy's arm, and rejected herconsolations. "What is the use of pretending to be fond of me if I amalways to be wrong, and never to have my--my own way in anything?"cried the poor lady, who, beginning with steadiness, broke down beforeshe reached the end of her little speech. The words made Lucy open herblue eyes with wonder; and after that there followed a fullerexplanation, which greatly changed the ideas of the younger sister. After her "consent" had been at last extracted from her, and when MissWodehouse regained her composure, she reported to Lucy the greaterpart of the conversation which had taken place in the drawing-room, ofwhich Mr Proctor's proposal constituted only a part, and which touchedupon matters still more interesting to her hearer. The two sisters, preoccupied by their father's illness and death, had up to this timebut a vague knowledge of the difficulties which surrounded thePerpetual Curate. His trial, which Mr Proctor had reported to hisnewly-betrothed, had been unsuspected by either of them; and they werenot even aware of the event which had given rise to it--thedisappearance of Rosa Elsworthy. Miss Wodehouse told the story withfaltering lips, not being able to divest herself of the idea that, having been publicly accused, Mr Wentworth must be more or lessguilty; while, at the same time, a sense that her brother must havehad something to do with it, and a great reluctance to name his name, complicated the narrative. She had already got into trouble with Lucyabout this unlucky brother, and unconsciously, in her story, she tookan air of defence. "I should have thought better of Mr Wentworth if hehad not tried to throw the guilt on another, " said the perplexedwoman. "Oh, Lucy dear, between two people it is so hard to know whatto do. "

"I know what I shall do, " said Lucy, promptly; but she would notfurther explain herself. She was, however, quite roused up out of 'InMemoriam. ' She went to her desk and drew out some of the paper deeplyedged with black, which announced before words its tale of grief toall her correspondents. It was with some alarm that Miss Wodehouseawaited this letter, which was placed before her as soon as finished. This was what, as soon as she knew the story, Lucy's prompt andgenerous spirit said:--

 "DEAR MR WENTWORTH, --We have just heard of the vexations you have been suffering, to our great indignation and distress. Some people may think it is a matter with which I have no business to interfere; but I cannot have you think for a moment, that we, to whom you have been so kind, could put the slightest faith in any such accusations against you. We are not of much consequence, but we are two women, to whom any such evil would be a horror. If it is any one connected with us who has brought you into this painful position, it gives us the more reason to be indignant and angry. I know now what you meant about the will. If it was to do over again, I should do just the same; but for all that, I understand now what you meant. I understand, also, how much we owe to you, of which, up to yesterday, I was totally unaware. You ought never to have been asked to take our burden upon your shoulders. I suppose you ought not to have done it; but all the same, thank you with all my heart. I don't suppose we ever can do anything for you to show our gratitude; and indeed I do not believe in paying back. But in the mean time, thank you--and don't, from any consideration for us, suffer a stain which belongs to another to rest upon yourself. You are a clergyman, and your reputation must be clear. Pardon me for saying so, as if I were qualified to advise you; but it would be terrible to think that you were suffering such an injury out of consideration for us. --Gratefully and truly yours, "LUCY WODEHOUSE. "

The conclusion of this letter gave Lucy a good deal of trouble. Herhonest heart was so moved with gratitude and admiration that she hadnearly called herself "affectionately" Mr Wentworth's. Why should notshe? "He has acted like a brother to us, " Lucy said to herself; andthen she paused to inquire whether his conduct had indeed arisen frombrotherly motives solely. Then, when she had begun to write"faithfully" instead, a further difficulty occurred to her. Not thuslightly and unsolicited could she call herself "faithful, " for did notthe word mean everything that words could convey in any humanrelationship? When she had concluded it at last, and satisfied herscruples by the formula above, she laid the letter before her sister. This event terminated the active operations of the day in the dwellingof the Wodehouses. Their brother had not asked to see them, had notinterrupted them as yet in their retreat up-stairs, where they weresedulously waited upon by the entire household. When Miss Wodehouse'sagitation was over, she too began to collect together her books andpersonalities, and they ended by a long consultation where they wereto go and what they were to do, during the course of which the eldersister exhibited with a certain shy pride that little photograph ofthe new rectory, in which there was one window embowered in foliage, which the bride had already concluded was to be Lucy's room. Lucyyielded during this sisterly conference to sympathetic thoughts evenof Mr Proctor. The two women were alone in the world. They were stillso near the grave and the deathbed that chance words spoken withoutthought from time to time awakened in both the ready tears. Now andthen they each paused to consider with a sob what _he_ would haveliked best. They knew very little of what was going on outside at themoment when they were occupied with those simple calculations. Whatwas to become of them, as people say--what money they were to have, ormeans of living--neither was much occupied in thinking of. They hadeach other; they had, besides, one a novel and timid middle-agedconfidence, the other an illimitable youthful faith in one man in theworld. Even Lucy, whose mind and thoughts were more individual thanher sister's, wanted little else at that moment to make her happy witha tender tremulous consolation in the midst of her grief. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

While matters were thus arranging themselves in the ideas at least ofthe two sisters whose prospects had been so suddenly changed, explanations of a very varied kind were going on in the house of theMiss Wentworths. It was a very full house by this time, having beeninvaded and taken possession of by the "family" in a way which entirelyobliterated the calmer interests and occupations of the habitualinhabitants. The three ladies had reached the stage of life which knowsno personal events except those of illness and death; and the presenceof Jack Wentworth, of Frank and Gerald, and even of Louisa, reduced themaltogether to the rank of spectators, the audience, or at the utmost thechorus, of the drama; though this was scarcely the case with Miss Dora, who kept her own room, where she lay on the sofa, and received visits, and told the story of her extraordinary adventure, the only adventure ofher life. The interest of the household centred chiefly, however, in thedining-room, which, as being the least habitable apartment in the house, was considered to be most adapted for anything in the shape of business. On the way from the church to Miss Wentworth's house the Curate hadgiven his father a brief account of all the events which had led to hispresent position; but though much eased in his mind, and partlysatisfied, the Squire was not yet clear how it all came about. Hiscountenance was far from having regained that composure, which indeedthe recent course of events in the family had pretty nearly driven outof his life. His fresh light-coloured morning dress, with all its littleniceties, and the fresh colour which even anxiety could not drive awayfrom his cheeks, were somehow contradicted in their sentiment ofcheerfulness by the puckers in his forehead and the harassed look of hisface. He sat down in the big leathern chair by the fireplace, and lookedround him with a sigh, and the air of a man who wonders what will be thenext vexation. "I'd like to hear it over again, Frank, " said the Squire. "My mind is not what it used to be; I don't say I ever was clever, likeyou young fellows, but I used to understand what was said to me. Now Iseem to require to hear everything twice over; perhaps it is because Ihave had myself to say the same things over again a great many timeslately, " he added, with a sigh of weariness. Most likely his eye fell onGerald as he said so; at all events, the Rector of Wentworth moved sadlyfrom where he was standing and went to the window, where he was out ofhis father's range of vision. Gerald's looks, his movements, everyaction of his, seemed somehow to bear a symbolic meaning at this crisisin his life. He was no longer in any doubt; he had made up his mind. Helooked like a martyr walking to his execution, as he crossed the room;and the Squire looked after him, and once more breathed out of hisimpatient breast a heavy short sigh. Louisa, who had placed herself inthe other great chair at the other side of the forlorn fireplace, fromwhich, this summer afternoon, there came no cheerful light, put up herhandkerchief to her eyes and began to cry with half-audible sobs--whichcircumstances surrounding him were far from being encouraging to Frankas he entered anew into his own story--a story which he told with manyinterruptions. The Squire, who had once "sworn by Frank, " had now aterrible shadow of distrust in his mind. Jack was here on the spot, ofwhom the unfortunate father knew more harm than he had ever told, andthe secret dread that he had somehow corrupted his younger brother camelike a cold shadow over Mr Wentworth's mind. He could not slur over anypart of the narrative, but cross-examined his son to the extent of hisability, with an anxious inquisition into all the particulars. He wastoo deeply concerned to take anything for granted. He sat up in hischair with those puckers in his forehead, with that harassed look in hiseyes, making an anxious, vigilant, suspicious investigation, which waspathetic to behold. If the defendant, who was thus being examined on hishonour, had been guilty, the heart of the judge would have broken; butthat was all the more reason for searching into it with jealousparticularity, and with a suspicion which kept always gleaming out ofhis troubled eyes in sudden anxious glances, saying, "You are guilty?Are you guilty?" with mingled accusations and appeals. The accused, being innocent, felt this suspicion more hard to bear than if he hadbeen a hundred times guilty. 

"I understand a little about this fellow Wodehouse, " said the Squire;"but what I want to know is, why you took him in? What did you takehim in for, sir, at first? Perhaps I could understand the rest if youwould satisfy me of that. "

"I took him in, " said the Curate, rather slowly, "because his sisterasked me. She threw him upon my charity--she told me the danger he wasin--"

"What danger was he in?" asked the Squire. 

The Curate made a pause, and as he paused Mr Wentworth leaned forwardin his chair, with another pucker in his forehead and a still sharpergleam of suspicion in his eyes. "His father had been offended timeafter time in the most serious way. This time he had threatened togive him up to justice. I can't tell you what he had done, because itwould be breaking my trust--but he had made himself obnoxious to thelaw, " said Frank Wentworth. "To save him from the chance of beingarrested, his sister brought him to me. "

The Squire's hand shook a good deal as he took out his handkerchiefand wiped his forehead. "Perhaps it would be the best way if one hadnot too much regard for the honour of the family, " he said, tremulously, like a man under a sudden temptation; "but the sister, sir, why did she bring him to you?" he added, immediately after, withrenewed energy. Mr Wentworth was not aware that, while he wasspeaking, his eldest son had come into the room. He had his back tothe door, and he did not see Jack, who stood rather doubtfully on thethreshold, with a certain shade of embarrassment upon his ordinarycomposure. "It is not everybody that a woman would confide herbrother's life to, " said the Squire. "Who is the sister? Is she--isthere any--any entanglement that I don't know of? It will be betterfor all of us if you tell me plainly, " said the old man, with aquerulous sound in his voice. He forgot the relationship of his owngirls to Jack, and groaned within himself at what appeared almostcertain evidence that the sister of a criminal like Wodehouse had gotpossession of Frank. 

"Miss Wodehouse is about the same age as my aunt Dora, " said theCurate. It was an exaggeration which would have gone to the poorlady's heart, but Frank Wentworth, in the unconscious insolence of hisyouth, was quite unaware and careless of the difference. Then hepaused for a moment with an involuntary smile. "But I am a clergyman, sir, " he continued, seriously. "If a man in my position is good foranything, it is his business to help the helpless. I could do no goodin any other way--I took him into my house. "

"Frank, " said the Squire, "I beg your pardon. I believe in my heartyou're true and honest. If I were not driven out of my senses by onething and another, " said Mr Wentworth, with bitterness. "They make meunjust to you, sir--unjust to you! But never mind; go on. Why didn'tyou tell these fellows what you've told me? That would have settledthe business at once, without any more ado. "

"Mr Morgan is a great deal too much prejudiced against me to believeanything I said. I thought it better to let him prove to himself hisown injustice; and another still more powerful reason--" said theCurate. 

"Stop, sir, stop; I can't follow you to more than one thing at a time. Why is Mr Morgan prejudiced against you?" said the Squire, once moresitting upright and recommencing his examination. 

Frank Wentworth laughed in spite of himself, though he was far frombeing amused. "I know no reason, except that I have worked in hisparish without his permission, " he answered, briefly enough, "forwhich he threatened to have me up before somebody or other--DrLushington, I suppose, who is the new Council of Trent, and settlesall our matters for us nowadays, " said the Curate, not without alittle natural scorn, at which, however, his father groaned. 

"There is nothing to laugh at in Dr Lushington, " said the Squire. "Hegives you justice, at all events, which you parsons never give eachother, you know. You ought not to have worked in the Rector's parish, sir, without his permission. It's like shooting in another man'sgrounds. However, that's not my business;--and the other reason, sir?"said Mr Wentworth, with his anxious look. 

"My dear father, " said the Curate, touched by the anxiety in theSquire's face, and sitting down by him with a sudden impulse, "I havedone nothing which either you or I need be ashamed of. I am grievedthat you should think it necessary to examine me so closely. Wodehouseis a rascal, but I had taken charge of him; and as long as it waspossible to shield him, I felt bound to do so. I made an appeal to hishonour, if he had any, and to his fears, which are more to be dependedon, and gave him until noon to-day to consider it. Here is his note, which was given me in the vestry; and now you know the whole business, and how it is that I postponed the conclusion till to-night. "

The Squire put on his spectacles with a tremulous hand to read the notewhich his son gave him. The room was very still while he read it, nosound interrupting him except an occasional sniff from Louisa, who wasin a permanent state of whimpering, and, besides, had ceased to beinterested in Frank's affairs. Jack Wentworth, standing in thebackground behind the Squire's chair, had the whole party before him, and studied them keenly with thoughts which nobody guessed at. Geraldwas still standing by the window, leaning on it with his face only halfturned to the others. Was he thinking of the others? was he still one ofthem? or was he saying his office from some invisible breviaryabstracted into another life? That supposition looked the most liketruth. Near him was his wife, who had thrown herself, a heap of brightfluttering muslin, into the great chair, and kept her handkerchief toher red eyes. She had enough troubles of her own to occupy her, poorsoul! Just at that moment it occurred to her to think of the laburnumberries in the shrubbery at the Rectory, which, it was suddenly borne inupon her, would prove fatal to one or other of the children in herabsence;--the dear Rectory which she had to leave so soon! "And Frankwill have it, of course, " Louisa said to herself, "and marry somebody;"and then she thought of the laburnum berries in connection with hisproblematical children, not without a movement of satisfaction. Oppositeto her was the Squire, holding Wodehouse's epistle in a hand which shooka little, and reading aloud slowly as he could make it out. The note wasshort and insolent enough. While it was being read, Jack Wentworth, whowas not easily discomposed, grew red and restless. He had not dictatedit certainly, nor even suggested the wording of the epistle; but it washe who, half in scorn and half in pity of the vagabond's terrors, hadreassured Wodehouse, and convinced him that it was only the punishmentsof public opinion which the Curate could bring upon him. Hardened asJack was, he could not but be conscious that thus to stand in hisbrother's way was a shabby business enough, and to feel that he himselfand his protégé cut a very poor figure in presence of the manful oldSquire with all his burdens, and of Frank, who had, after all, nothingto explain which was not to his honour. Notwithstanding that he was atthe present moment his brother's adversary, actually working against himand prolonging his difficulties, an odd kind of contempt and indignationagainst the fools who could doubt Frank's honour possessed the prodigalat the moment. "A parcel of asses, " he said to himself; and so stood andlistened to Wodehouse's little note of defiance, which, but for hisprompting, the sullen vagabond would never have dared to send to hisformer protector. The letter itself was as follows:--

 "I have consulted my friends about what you said to-day, and they tell me it is d----d nonsense. You can't do me any harm; and I don't mean to get myself into any scrape for you. You can do what you like--I shan't take any notice. Your love affairs are no business of mine. --Yours truly, "T. WODEHOUSE"

Mr Wentworth threw the miserable scrawl on the table. "The fellow is ascoundrel, " said the Squire; "he does not seem to have a spark ofgratitude. You've done a deal too much for him already; and if thesister is as old as Dora--" he continued, after a long pause, with ahalf-humorous relaxation of his features. He was too much worn out tosmile. 

"Yes, " said the Curate. The young man was sensible of a sudden flushand heat, but did not feel any inclination to smile. Matters were veryserious just then with Frank Wentworth. He was about to shake himselffree of one vexation, no doubt; but at this moment, when LucyWodehouse was homeless and helpless, he had nothing to offer her, norany prospects even which he dared ask her to share with him. This wasno time to speak of the other sister, who was not as old as Miss Dora. He was more than ever the Perpetual Curate now. Perhaps, being aclergyman, he ought not to have been swayed by such merely humanemotions; but honour and pride alike demanded that he should remain inCarlingford, and he had no shelter to offer Lucy in the time of herneed. 

After this there followed a pause, which was far from being cheerful. Frank could not but be disconsolate enough over his prospects when theexcitement died away; and there was another big, terrible eventlooming darkly in the midst of the family, which they had not courageto name to each other. The long, uneasy pause was at length broken byLouisa, whose voice sounded in the unnatural silence like the burst ofimpatient rain which precedes a thunderstorm. 

"Now that you have done with Frank's affairs, if you have done withthem, " said Louisa, "perhaps somebody will speak to Gerald. I don'tmean in the way of arguing. If some one would only speak _sense_ tohim. You all know as well as I do how many children we've got, and--and--an--other coming, " sobbed the poor lady, "if somethingdoesn't happen to me, which I am sure is more than likely, and mightbe expected. I don't blame dear grandpapa, for he has said everything, and so have I; but I do think his brothers ought to take a little moreinterest. Oh, Frank, you know it doesn't matter for you. You are ayoung man, you can go anywhere; but when there are five childrenand--and--an--other--And how are we to live? You know what a littlebit of money I had when Gerald married me. Everybody knows Geraldnever cared for money. If I had had a good fortune it would have beenquite different, " cried poor Louisa, with a little flow of tears and aquerulous sob, as though that too was Gerald's fault. "He has not sentoff his letter yet, Frank, " said the injured wife; "if you would butspeak to him. He does not mind me or grandpapa, but he might mind you. Tell him we shall have nothing to live on; tell him--"

"Hush, " said Gerald. He came forward to the table, very pale andpatient, as became a man at the point of legal death. "I _have_ sentaway my letter. By this time I am no longer Rector of Wentworth. Donot break my heart. Do you think there is any particular in the wholematter which I have not considered--the children, yourself, everything? Hush; there is nothing now to be said. "

The Squire rose, almost as pale as his son, from his chair. "I thinkI'll go out into the air a little, " said Mr Wentworth. "There's alwayssomething new happening. Here is a son of my own, " said the old man, rising into a flush of energy, "who has not only deserted his post, but deserted it secretly, Frank. God bless my soul! don't speak to me, sir; I tell you he's gone over to the enemy as much as Charley wouldhave done if he had deserted at the Alma--and done it when nobody knewor was thinking. I used to be thought a man of honour in my day, " saidMr Wentworth, bitterly; "and it's a mean thing to say it came by theirmother's side. There's Jack--"

The eldest son roused himself up at the mention of his own name. Notwithstanding all his faults, he was not a man to stand behind backsand listen to what was said of him. He came forward with his usualease, though a close observer might have detected a flush on his face. "I am here, sir, " said the heir. "I cannot flatter myself you willhave much pleasure in seeing me; but I suppose I have still a right tobe considered one of the family. " The Squire, who had risen to hisfeet, and was standing leaning against the table when Jack advanced, returned to his chair and sat down as his eldest son confronted him. They had not met for years, and the shock was great. Mr Wentworth puthis hand to his cravat and pulled at it with an instinctive movement. The old man was still feeble from his late illness, and apprehensiveof a return of the disease of the Wentworths. He restrained himself, however, with force so passionate that Jack did not guess at themeaning of the gasp which, before the Squire was able to speak to him, convulsed his throat, and made Frank start forward to offer assistancewhich his father impatiently rejected. The Squire made, indeed, agreat effort to speak with dignity. He looked from one to another ofhis tall sons as he propped himself up by the arms of his chair. 

"You are the most important member of the family, " said Mr Wentworth;"it is long since you have been among us, but that is not our fault. If things had been different, I should have been glad of your adviceas a man of the world. Anyhow, I can't wish you to be estranged fromyour brothers, " said the Squire. It was all any one could say. Theheir of Wentworth was not to be denounced or insulted among hiskindred, but he could not be taken to their bosom. Perhaps thereception thus given him was more galling than any other could havebeen to Jack Wentworth's pride. He stood at the table by himselfbefore his father, feeling that there existed no living relationsbetween himself and any one present. He had keen intellectualperceptions, and could recognise the beauty of honour and worth aswell as most people; and the contrast between himself and the otherswho surrounded him presented itself in a very forcible light to Jack. Instead of Gerald and Frank, Wodehouse was _his_ allotted companion. For that once he was bitter, notwithstanding his habitual good-humour. 

"Yes, " he said; "it would be a pity to estrange me from my brothers. We are, on the whole, a lucky trio. I, whom my relations are civil to;and Frank, who is not acquitted yet, though he seems so confident; andGerald, who has made the greatest mistake of all--"

"Jack, " said the Curate, "nobody wants to quarrel with you. You'vedealt shabbily by me, but I do not mind. Only talk of things youunderstand--don't talk of Gerald. "

For a moment Jack Wentworth was roused almost to passion. "What isGerald that I should not understand him?" said Jack; "he and I are theoriginal brood. You are all a set of interlopers, the rest of you. What is Gerald that I should not talk of him? In the world, my dearFrank, " continued the heir, superciliously, "as the Squire himselfwill testify, a man is not generally exempted from criticism becausehe is a parson. Gerald is--"

"I am a simple Catholic layman, nothing more, " said Gerald; "not worthcriticism, having done nothing. I am aware I am as good as dead. Thereis no reason why Jack should not talk if it pleases him. It will makeno difference to me. "

"And yet, " said Frank, "it is only the other day that you told us youwere nothing if not a priest. "

Gerald turned upon him with a look of melancholy reproach that went tothe Curate's heart. "It is true I said so, " he replied, and then hemade a pause, and the light died out of his pale face. "Don't bring upthe ghosts of my dead battles, Frank. I said so only the other day. But it is the glory of the true Church, " said the convert, with asudden glow which restored colour for a moment to his face, "torestrain and subdue the last enemy, the will of man. I am content tobe nothing, as the saints were. The fight has been hard enough, but Iam not ashamed of the victory. When the law of the Church and theobedience of the saints ordain me to be nothing, I consent to it. There is nothing more to say. "

"And this is how it is to be!" cried Louisa. "He knows what is coming, and he does not care--and none of you will interfere or speak to him!It is not as if he did not know what would happen. He tells youhimself that he will be nothing; and even if _he_ can put up with itafter being a man of such consideration in the county, how am _I_ toput up with it? We have always been used to the very best society, "said poor Louisa, with tears. "The Duke himself was not more thoughtof; and now he tells you he is to be nothing!" Mrs Wentworth stoppedto dry her eyes with tremulous haste. "_He_ may not mind, " saidLouisa, "for at least he is having his own way. It is all very wellfor a man, who can do as he pleases; but it is his poor wife who willhave to suffer. I don't know who will visit me after it's all over, and people will give over asking us if we don't ask them again; andhow can we ever have anybody, with five children--or more--and only afew hundreds a-year? Oh, Frank, it kills me to think of it. Don't youthink you might speak to him again?" she whispered, stretching up tohis ear, when Gerald, with a sigh, had gone back to his window. TheSquire, too, cast an appealing glance at his younger son. 

"It is all true enough that she says, " said Mr Wentworth. "She mayn'tunderstand _him_, Frank, but she's right enough in what she's saying. If things were different between your brother and me, I'd ask hisadvice, " said the Squire, with a sigh. He gave a longing look at hiseldest son, who stood with his usual ease before the fireplace. Matters had gone a great deal too far between the father and son toadmit of the usual displeasure of an aggrieved parent--all that wasover long ago; and Mr Wentworth could not restrain a certain meltingof the heart towards his first-born. "He's not what I could wish, buthe's a man of the world, and might give us some practical advice, "said the Squire, with his anxious looks. Of what possible advantageadvice, practical or otherwise, could have been in the circumstances, it was difficult to see; but the Squire was a man of simple mind, andstill believed in the suggestions of wisdom. He still sat in theeasy-chair, looking wistfully at Jack, and with a certain faith thatmatters might even yet be mended, if the counsel of his eldest son, asa man of the world, could be had and could be trusted; when Frank, whohad an afternoon service at Wharfside, had to leave the familycommittee. Gerald, who roused up when his younger brother mentionedthe business he was going upon, looked at Frank almost as wistfully ashis father looked at Jack. "It may be the last time, " he said tohimself; "if you'll let me, I'll go with you, Frank;" and so thelittle conclave was broken up. The people in Prickett's Lane weregreatly impressed by the aspect of Gerald Wentworth, as he went, silent and pale, by his brother's side, down the crowded pavement. They thought it must be a bishop at least who accompanied the Curateof St Roque's; and the women gathered at a little distance and madetheir comments, as he stood waiting for his brother after the service. "He don't look weakly nor sickly no more nor the clergyman, " said one;"but he smiles at the little uns for all the world like my man smiledthe night he was took away. " "Smilin' or not smilin', " said another, "I don't see as it makes no matter; but I'd give a deal to know whatElsworthy and them as stands by Elsworthy can say after that. " "Maybe, then, he'd give the poor fatherless children a blessing afore he'dgo, " suggested a poor Irish widow, who, having been much under MrWentworth's hands "in her trouble, " was not quite sure now what faithshe professed, or at least which Church she belonged to. Such was theuniversal sentiment of Prickett's Lane. Meanwhile Gerald stood silent, and looked with pathetic, speechless eyes at the little crowd. He wasno priest now--he was shorn of the profession which had been his life. His hope of being able to resign all things for Christ's sake hadfailed him. Too wary and politic to maintain in a critical age andcountry the old licence of the ages of Faith, even his wife's consent, could he have obtained it, would not have opened to the convert theway into the priesthood. A greater trial had been required of him; hewas nothing, a man whose career was over. He stood idly, in a kind oflanguor, looking on while the Curate performed the duties of hisoffice--feeling like a man whom sickness had reduced to the last stageof life, and for whom no earthly business remained; while, at the sametime, his aspect struck awe, as that of a bishop at the least, to theimagination of Prickett's Lane. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Mr Morgan did not go home direct from the investigation of the morning;on the contrary, he paid various visits, and got through a considerableamount of parish business, before he turned his face towards theRectory. On the whole, his feelings were far from being comfortable. Hedid not know, certainly, who Mr Wentworth's witness was, but he had anunpleasant conviction that it was somebody who would clear the Curate. "Of course I shall be very glad, " the Rector said to himself; but it isa fact, that in reality he was far from being glad, and that a secretconviction of this sentiment, stealing into his mind, made matters stillmore uncomfortable. This private sense of wishing evil to another man, of being unwilling and vexed to think well of his neighbour, was initself enough to disturb the Rector's tranquillity; and when to this wasadded the aggravation that his wife had always been on the other side, and had warned him against proceeding, and might, if she pleased, say, "I told you so, " it will be apparent that Mr Morgan's uneasiness was notwithout foundation. Instead of going home direct to acquaint his wifewith the circumstances, about which he knew she must be curious, it waslate in the afternoon before the Rector opened his own gate. Even thenhe went through the garden with a reluctant step, feeling it still moredifficult to meet her now than it would have been at first, although hisdelay had arisen from the thought that it would be easier to encounterher keen looks after an interval. There was, however, no keen look to bedreaded at this moment. Mrs Morgan was busy with her ferns, and she didnot look up as her husband approached. She went on with her occupation, examining carefully what withered fronds there might be about herfavourite maidenhair, even when he stopped by her side. Though herhusband's shadow fell across the plants she was tending, Mrs Morgan, forthe first time in her married life, did not look up to welcome theRector. She made no demonstration, said no word of displeasure, but onlyshowed herself utterly absorbed in, and devoted to, her ferns. Therewas, to be sure, no such lover of ferns in the neighbourhood ofCarlingford as the Rector's wife. 

As for Mr Morgan, he stood by her side in a state of great discomfortand discomfiture. The good man's perceptions were not very clear, buthe saw that she had heard from some one the issue of the morning'sinquiry, and that she was deeply offended by his delay, and that, inshort, they had arrived at a serious difference, the first quarrelsince their marriage. Feeling himself in the wrong, Mr Morgannaturally grew angry too. 

"I should like to have dinner earlier to-day, " he said, with the usualindiscretion of an aggrieved husband. "Perhaps you will tell the cook, my dear. I think I should like to have it at five, if possible. Itcan't make much difference for one day. "

Mrs Morgan raised herself up from her ferns, and no doubt it was arelief to her to find herself provided with so just a cause ofdispleasure. "Much difference!" cried the Rector's wife; "it ishalf-past four now. I wonder how you could think of such a thing, William. There is some lamb, which of course is not put down to roastyet, and the ducks. If you wish the cook to give warning immediately, you may send such a message. It is just like a man to think it wouldmake no difference! But I must say, to do them justice, " said theRector's wife, "it is not like a man of your college!" When she hadfired this double arrow, she took off her gardening gloves and liftedher basket. "I suppose you told Mr Proctor that you wished to dineearly?" said Mrs Morgan, with severity, pausing on the threshold. "Ofcourse it is quite impossible to have dinner at five unless he knows. "

"Indeed I--I forgot all about Proctor, " said the Rector, who now sawthe inexpediency of his proposal. "On second thoughts, I see it doesnot matter much. But after dinner I expect some people about MrWentworth's business. It was not settled this morning, as I expected. "

"So I heard, " said Mrs Morgan. "I will tell Thomas to show them intothe library, " and she went indoors, carrying her basket. As for theRector, he stood silent, looking after her, and feeling wonderfullydiscomfited. Had she found fault with him for his delay--had she evensaid "I told you so!" it would have been less overwhelming than thisindifference. They had never had a quarrel before, and the effect wasproportionately increased. After standing bewildered at the door for afew minutes, he retired into his study, where the change in his wife'sdemeanour haunted him, and obscured Mr Wentworth. Mrs Morgan sat atthe head of the table at dinner with an equal want of curiosity. Evenwhen the subject was discussed between the Rector and Mr Proctor, sheasked no questions--a course of procedure very puzzling and trying toMr Morgan, who could not make it out. 

It was after eight o'clock before the tribunal of the morning wasreconstituted at the Rectory. Most of the gentlemen came late, and thelittle assembly brought with it a flavour of port, which modified theserious atmosphere. When the bed of justice was again formed, MrWentworth entered with the bodyguard of Wentworths, which numberedhalf as many as his judges. Half from curiosity, half from a reluctantinclination to please his father, Jack had joined the others, and theycame in together, all of them noticeable men, profoundly different, yet identified as belonging to each other by the touching bond offamily resemblance. After the four gentlemen had taken possession oftheir corner, Mr Waters made a somewhat hurried entry, bringing afterhim the sullen reluctant figure of Wodehouse, who made an awkward bowto the assembled potentates, and looked ashamed and vigilant, and veryill at ease. Mr Waters made a hasty explanation to the Rector beforehe sat down by the side of his unlucky client. "I thought it possiblethere might be some attempt made to shift the blame upon him, therefore I thought it best to bring him, " said the lawyer. Mr Morgangave him a dry little nod without answering. To tell the truth, theRector felt anything but comfortable; when he glanced up at thestranger, who was looking askance at the people in the room as if theyhad been so many policemen in disguise, a disagreeable suddenconviction that this sullen rascal looked a great deal more like theguilty man than Mr Wentworth did, came into Mr Morgan's mind, and madehim sick with annoyance and embarrassment. If it should turn out so!if it should become apparent that he, for private prejudices of hisown, had been persecuting his brother! This thought produced an actualphysical effect for the moment upon the Rector, but its immediatevisible consequence was simply to make him look more severe, almostspiteful, in a kind of unconscious self-vindication. Last of all, Elsworthy, who began to be frightened too, but whose fears weremingled with no compunction nor blame of himself, stole in and foundan uncomfortable seat on a stool near the door, where scarcely any onesaw him, by favour of Thomas, and screened by the high back of theRector's easy-chair. When all were assembled Mr Morgan spoke. 

"We are met this evening, gentlemen, to complete, if there is sufficienttime, the investigation we began this morning, " said the Rector. "I haveno doubt I express the sentiments of every one present when I say Ishall be glad--_unfeignedly_ glad, " said Mr Morgan, with a defiantemphasis, which was meant to convince himself, "to find that MrWentworth's witness is of sufficient importance to justify the delay. Aswe were interrupted this morning solely on his account, I presume itwill be most satisfactory that this witness should be called at once. "

"I should like to say something in the first place, " said the Curate. Mr Morgan made an abrupt nod indicative of his consent, and, insteadof looking at the defendant, shaded his eyes with his hand, and madefigures with his pen upon the blotting-paper. A conviction, againstwhich it was impossible to strive, had taken possession of theRector's soul. He listened to Frank Wentworth's address with a kind ofimpatient annoyance and resistance. "What is the good of saying anymore about it?" Mr Morgan was saying in his soul. "For heaven's sakelet us bury it and be done with it, and forget that we ever made suchasses of ourselves. " But at the same time the Rector knew this wasquite impossible; and as he sat leaning over his blotting-book, writing down millions after millions with his unconscious pen, helooked a very model of an unwilling listener--a prejudiced judge--aman whom no arguments could convince; which was the aspect under whichhe appeared to the Curate of St Roque's. 

"I should like to say something first, " said the Perpetual Curate. "Icould not believe it possible that I, being tolerably well known inCarlingford as I have always supposed, could be suspected by anyrational being of such an insane piece of wickedness as has been laidto my charge; and consequently it did not occur to me to vindicatemyself, as I perhaps ought to have done, at the beginning. I have beencareless all along of vindicating myself. I had an idea, " said theyoung man, with involuntary disdain, "that I might trust, if not tothe regard, at least to the common-sense of my friends--"

Here John Brown, who was near his unwary client, plucked at theCurate's coat, and brought him to a momentary half-angry pause. "Softly, softly, " said Dr Marjoribanks; "common-sense has nothing todo with facts; we're inquiring into facts at this moment; and, besides, it's a very foolish and unjustifiable confidence to trust toany man's common-sense, " said the old Doctor, with a humorous glancefrom under his shaggy eyebrows at his fellow-judges; upon which thereensued a laugh, not very agreeable in its tone, which brought theRector to a white heat of impatience and secret rage. 

"It appears to me that the witness ought to be called at once, " saidMr Morgan, "if this is not a mere expedient to gain time, and if it isintended to make any progress to-night. "

"My explanations shall be very brief, " said Frank Wentworth, facinginstantly to his natural enemy. "I have suspected from the beginningof this business who was the culprit, and have made every possibleattempt to induce him to confess, and, so far as he could, amend thewrong that he had done. I have failed; and now the confession, the_amende_, must be made in public. I will now call my witness, " saidthe Curate. But this time a commotion rose in another part of theroom. It was Wodehouse, who struggled to rise, and to get free fromthe detaining grasp of his companion. 

"By Jove! I aint going to sit here and listen to a parcel of lies!"cried the vagabond. "If I am to be tried, at least I'll have the realthing, by Jove!" He had risen up, and was endeavouring to pass MrWaters and get out, casting a suspicious defiant look round the room. The noise he made turned all eyes upon him, and the scrutiny he hadbrought upon himself redoubled his anxiety to get away. "I'll notstand it, by Jove! Waters, let me go, " said the craven, whose confusedimagination had mixed up all his evil doings together, and who alreadyfelt himself being carried off to prison. It was at this moment thatJack Wentworth rose from his place in his easy careless way, and wentforward to the table to adjust the lamp, which was flaring a little. Wodehouse dropped back into a chair as soon as he caught the eye ofthis master of his fate. His big beard moved with a subterranean gasplike the panting of a hunted creature, and all the colour that hadremained died away out of his haggard, frightened face. As for JackWentworth, he took no apparent notice of the shabby rascal whom heheld in awe. "Rather warm this room for a court of justice. I hopeFrank's witness is not fat, " said Jack, putting himself up against thewall, and lifting languidly his glass to his eye--which byplay wassomewhat startling, but totally incomprehensible, to the amateurjudges, who looked upon him with angry eyes. 

"I must request that the proceedings may not be interrupted, " said MrMorgan; and then everybody looked towards the open door: the sight theysaw there was enough to startle the calmest spectator. Elsworthy, whowas seated close by, sprang from his stool with a low resounding howl ofamazement, upsetting his lowly seat, and staggering back against thewall, in the excess of his wonder and consternation. The judgesthemselves forgot their decorum, and crowded round upon each other tostare--old Mr Western putting his arm round the Rector's neck in hiscuriosity, as if they had been two boys at a peep-show. It was MissLeonora Wentworth's erect iron-grey figure that appeared in the doorway, half leading in, half pushing before her, the unfortunate cause of allthe commotion--Rosa Elsworthy herself. A change had passed upon thelittle girl's rosy, dewy, April beauty. Her pretty dark eyes wereenlarged and anxious, and full of tears; her cheeks had paled out oftheir sweet colour, her red lips were pressed tightly together. Passionand shame had set their marks upon the child's forehead--lightly, it istrue, but still the traces were there; but beyond all other sentiments, anxiety, restless, breathless, palpitating, had possession of MrWentworth's all-important witness. It was very clear that, whatevermight be the opinion of her judges, Rosa's case was anything buthopeless in her own eyes. She came in drooping, shrinking, and abashed, as was natural; but her shame was secondary in Rosa's mind, even in themoment of her humiliation. She came to a dead stop when she had made afew steps into the room, and cast furtive glances at the dreadtribunal, and began to cry. She was trembling with nervous eagerness, with petulance and impatience. Almost all her judges, except the Rectorand Mr Proctor, had been known to Rosa from her earliest years. She wasnot afraid of them, nor cast down by any sense of overwhelmingtransgression--on the contrary, she cast an appealing look round her, which implied that they could still set everything right if they wouldexert themselves; and then she began to cry. 

"Gentlemen, before you ask any questions, " said Miss LeonoraWentworth, "I should like to explain why I am here. I came not becauseI approve of _her_, but because it is right that my nephew should havea respectable woman to take charge of the witness. She was brought tomy house last night, and has been in my charge ever since;--and I comewith her now, not because I approve of her, but because she ought tobe in charge of some woman, " said Miss Leonora, sitting down abruptlyin the chair some one had placed for her. The chair was placed closeby the spot where Rosa stood crying. Poor, pretty, forsaken child!Perhaps Miss Leonora, who sat beside her, and occupied the position ofher protector, was of all the people present the only one who had notalready forgiven Rosa, the only one who would have still been disposedto punish her, and did not pardon the weeping creature in her heart. 

"Now that you're here, Rosa, " said Dr Marjoribanks, "the only sensiblething you can do is to dry your eyes and answer the questions thathave to be put to you. Nobody will harm you if you speak the truth. Don't be frightened, but dry your eyes, and let us hear what you haveto say. "

"Poor little thing, " said old Mr Western; "of course she has done verywrong. I don't mean to defend her--but, after all, she is but a child. Poor little thing! Her mother died, you know, when she was a baby. Shehad nobody to tell her how to behave. --I don't mean to defend her, forshe has done very wrong, poor little--"

"We are falling into mere conversation, " said the Rector, severely. "Rosa Elsworthy, come to the table. The only thing you can do to makeup for all the misery you have caused to your friends, is to tell thetruth about everything. You are aged--how much? eighteen years?"

"Please, sir, only seventeen, " said Rosa; "and oh, please, sir, Ididn't mean no harm. I wouldn't never have gone, no, not a step, if hehadn't a-promised that we was to be married. Oh, please, sir--"

"Softly a little, " said John Brown, interfering. "It is not you whoare on your trial, Rosa. We are not going to question you about yourfoolishness; all that the Rector wants you to tell him is the name ofthe man who persuaded you to go away. "

At which question Rosa cried more and more. "I don't think he meant noharm either, " cried the poor little girl. "Oh, if somebody wouldplease speak to him! We couldn't be married then, but now if anybodywould take a little trouble! I told him Mr Wentworth would, if I wasto ask him; but then I thought perhaps as Mr Wentworth mightn't liketo be the one as married me, " said Rosa, with a momentary gleam ofvanity through her tears. The little simper with which the girl spoke, the coquettish looks askance at the Perpetual Curate, who stood graveand unmoved at a distance, the movement of unconscious self-deceptionand girlish vanity which for a moment distracted Rosa, had a greateffect upon the spectators. The judges looked at each other across thetable, and Dr Marjoribanks made a commentary of meditative nods uponthat little exhibition. "Just so, " said the Doctor; "maybe MrWentworth might have objected. If you tell me the man's name, _I_'llspeak to him, Rosa, " said the old Scotsman, grimly. As for the Rector, he had put down his pen altogether, and looked very much as if he werethe culprit. Certainly his shame and confusion and self-disgust weregreater than that of any one else in the room. 

"Oh, Doctor, please don't be angry. Oh, if somebody would only speakto him!" cried poor Rosa. "Oh, please, it wasn't my fault--I haven'tgot no--nobody to speak for me!" At this moment she got a glimpse ofher uncle's face, dark and angry, looming behind the Rector's chair. Rosa shrank back with a frightened movement, and caught fast hold ofMiss Leonora's dress. "Oh, please, don't let him kill me!" cried theterrified girl. She sank down at Miss Wentworth's feet, and heldtightly by her unwilling protectress. She was a frightened child, afraid of being whipped and punished; she was not an outraged woman, forsaken and miserable. Nobody knew what to do with her as shecrouched down, panting with fright and anxiety, by Miss Leonora'sside. 

"We must know who this man is, " said John Brown. "Look here, Rosa; ifanybody is to do you good, it is necessary to know the man. Rise upand look round, and tell me if you can see him here. "

After a moment's interval Rosa obeyed. She stood up trembling, restingher hand to support herself on Miss Leonora's chair--almost, shetrembled so, on Miss Leonora's shoulder. Up to this moment the ignorantlittle creature had scarcely felt the shame of her position; she hadfelt only the necessity of appealing to the kindness of people who knewher--people who were powerful enough to do very nearly what they pleasedin Carlingford; for it was in this light that Rosa, who knew no better, regarded the Doctor and her other judges. This time her eye passedquickly over those protectors. The tears were still hanging on hereyelashes; her childish bosom was still palpitating with sobs. Beyondthe little circle of light round the table, the room was comparativelyin shadow. She stood by herself, her pretty face and anxious eyesappearing over Miss Wentworth's head, her fright and her anxiety bothforgotten for the moment in the sudden hope of seeing her betrayer. There was not a sound in the room to disturb the impartiality of hersearch. Every man kept still, as if by chance he might be the offender. Rosa's eyes, bright with anxiety, with eagerness, with a feverish hope, went searching into the shadow, gleaming harmless over the Wentworthbrothers, who were opposite. Then there was a start and a loud cry. Shewas not ashamed to be led before the old men, who were sorry for her, and who could protect her; but now at last the instinct of her womanhoodseized upon the unfortunate creature. She had made an involuntary rushtowards him when she saw him first. Then she stopped short, and lookedall round her with a bewildered sudden consciousness. The blood rushedto her face, scorching and burning; she uttered a sudden cry of anguishand shame. "Oh, don't forsake me!--don't forsake me!--listen to thegentlemen!" cried poor Rosa, and fell down in a sudden agony ofself-comprehension at Wodehouse's feet. 

For a few minutes after there was nothing but confusion in the room. Elsworthy had been standing behind backs, with a half-fiendish look ofrage and disappointment on his commonplace features. "Let them help heras likes; I washes my hands of her, " he cried bitterly, when he saw herfall; and then rushed into the midst of the room, thrusting the othersout of his way. The man was beside himself with mortification, withdisgust, and fury, and at the same time with a savage natural affectionfor the creature who had baffled and disgraced him, yet still was hisown. "Let alone--let alone, I tell you! There's nobody as belongs to herbut me!" cried Elsworthy, pushing up against the Doctor, who had liftedher from the ground. As for Wodehouse, he was standing scowling downupon the pretty figure at his feet: not that the vagabond was utterlyheartless, or could look at his victim without emotion; on the contrary, he was pale with terror, thinking he had killed her, wondering in hismiserable heart if they would secure him at once, and furtively watchingthe door to see if he had a chance of escape. When Mr Waters seized hisarm, Wodehouse gave a hoarse outcry of horror. "I'll marry her--oh, Lord, I'll marry her! I never meant anything else, " the wretched mancried, as he sank back again into his chair. He thought she was dead, asshe lay with her upturned face on the carpet, and in his terror andremorse and cowardice his heart seemed to stop beating. If he could havehad a chance of escaping, he would not have hesitated to dash the oldDoctor out of his way, and rush over the body of the unhappy girl whomhe thought he had murdered. But Waters held him fast; and he sank back, panting and horrified, on his seat. "I never touched her; nobody can sayI touched her, " muttered the poor wretch to himself; and watched withfascinated eyes and the distinct apprehension of terror every movementand change of position, calculating how he might dart out when thewindow was opened--having forgotten for the moment that Jack Wentworth, as well as the companion who kept immediate watch over him, was in theroom. 

"She'll come to herself presently, " said Dr Marjoribanks. "We'll carryher up-stairs. Yes, I know you don't approve of her, Miss Wentworth;nobody said you were to approve of her. Not that I think she's aresponsible moral agent myself, " said the Doctor, lifting her up inhis vigorous arms; "but in the mean time she has to be brought tolife. Keep out of my way, Elsworthy; you should have looked betterafter the little fool. If she's not accountable for her actions, _you_are, " he went on with a growl, thrusting away with his vigorousshoulder the badly-hung frame of Rosa's uncle, who was no match forthe Doctor. Thus the poor little girl was carried away in a kind ofprocession, Miss Leonora going first. "Not that I think her worth allthis fuss, the vain little fool, " said Miss Leonora; "she'll come toherself, no fear of her;" but, notwithstanding her protest, thestrong-minded woman led the way. When the room was cleared, thegentlemen who remained took their seats mechanically, and stared ateach other. In the shame and confusion of the moment nobody could findanything to say, and the Curate was magnanimous, and did not takeadvantage of his triumph. The silence was broken by the Rector, whorose up solemnly from his chair to speak. Probably no one in the roomhad suffered so acutely as Mr Morgan; his face was crimson, his eyessuffused and angry. Frank Wentworth rose involuntarily at the samemoment, expecting, he could not tell why, to be addressed, but satdown again in a little confusion when he found that the Rector hadturned his eyes in a totally different direction. Mr Morgan put thelamp out of the way, that he might be able to transfix with the fullglow of his angry eyes the real offender, who sat only half conscious, absorbed with his own terror, by the lawyer's side. 

"Sir!" said the Rector, in a tone which, severe as his voice was bynature, nobody had ever heard from his lips before, "you have put usall in a most ridiculous and painful position to-night. I don't knowwhether you are capable of feeling the vileness of your own misconductas regards the unhappy girl who has just been carried out of the room, but you certainly shall not leave the house without hearing--"

Wodehouse gave such a start at these words that Mr Morgan paused amoment. The Rector was quite unaware of the relief, the sense ofsafety, which he had inadvertently conveyed to the mind of the shabbyrascal whom he was addressing. He was then to be allowed to leave thehouse? "I'll leave the d----d place to-night, by Jove!" he muttered inhis beard, and immediately sat up upon his chair, and turned roundwith a kind of sullen vivacity to listen to the remainder of MrMorgan's speech. 

"You shall not leave this house, " said the Rector, more peremptorilystill, "without hearing what must be the opinion of every gentleman, of every honest man. You have been the occasion of bringing an utterlyunfounded accusation against a--a young clergyman, " said Mr Morgan, with a succession of gasps, "of--of the very highest character. Youhave, as I understand, sir, abused his hospitality, and--and done yourutmost to injure him when you owed him gratitude. Not content withthat, sir, " continued the Rector, "you have kept your--your veryexistence concealed, until the moment when you could injure yoursisters. You may perhaps be able to make a miserable amends for thewrong you have done to the unfortunate girl up-stairs, but you cannever make amends to me, sir, for betraying me into a ridiculousposition, and leading me to do--an--an absurd and--and incredibleinjustice--to a--to my--to Mr Frank Wentworth. Sir, you are ascoundrel!" cried Mr Morgan, breaking down abruptly in an access ofsudden fury. When the Rector had recovered himself, he turned withgreat severity to the rest of the company: "Gentlemen, my wife will beglad to see you up-stairs, " said Mr Morgan. The sound of thishospitable invitation was as if he had ordered the entire assembly tothe door; but nevertheless most of the company followed him as herose, and, without condescending to look round again, marched out ofthe library. The Squire rose with the rest, and took the hand of hisson Frank and grasped it closely. Somehow, though he believed Frankbefore, Mr Wentworth was easier in his mind after the Rector's speech. 

"I think I will go up-stairs and shake hands with him, " said theSquire, "and you had better come too, Frank. No doubt he will expectit. He spoke up very well at the last, and I entirely agree with theRector, " he said, looking sternly, but with a little curiosity, at thevagabond, who stood recovering himself, and ready to resume hishopeless swagger. It was well for Mr Wentworth that he left the roomat once, and went cheerfully up-stairs to pay his respects to MrsMorgan. The Squire said, "Thank God!" quietly to himself when he gotout of the library. "Things are mending, surely--even Jack--evenJack, " Mr Wentworth said, under his breath; and the simple gentlemansaid over a part of the general thanksgiving, as he went slowly, withan unusual gladness, up the stair. He might not have entered MrsMorgan's drawing-room with such a relieved and brightened countenancehad he stayed ten minutes longer in the library, and listened to thefurther conversation there. 

CHAPTER XL. 

"Now, Mr Wodehouse, " said Jack Wentworth, "it appears that you and Ihave a word to say to each other. " They had all risen when the othergentlemen followed Mr Morgan out of the room, and those who remainedstood in a group surrounding the unhappy culprit, and renewing hisimpression of personal danger. When he heard himself thus addressed, he backed against the wall, and instinctively took one of the chairsand placed it before him. His furtive eye sought the door and thewindow, investigating the chances of escape. When he saw that therewas none, he withdrew still a step further back, and stood at bay. 

"By Jove! I aint going to stand all this, " said Wodehouse; "as ifevery fellow had a right to bully me--it's more than flesh and bloodcan put up with. I don't care for that old fogey that's goneup-stairs; but, by Jove! I won't stand any more from men that eat mydinners, and win my money, and--"

Jack Wentworth made half a step forward with a superb smile--"My goodfellow, you should never reproach a man with his good actions, " he said;"but at the same time, having eaten your dinners, as you describe, Ihave a certain claim on your gratitude. We have had some--a--businessconnection--for some years. I don't say you have reason to be actuallygrateful for that; but, at least, it brought you now and then into thesociety of gentlemen. A man who robs a set of women, and leaves the poorcreature he has ruined destitute, is a sort of cur we have nothing tosay to, " said the heir of the Wentworths, contemptuously. "We do notpretend to be saints, but we are not blackguards; that is to say, " saidJack, with a perfectly calm and harmonious smile, "not in theory, nor inour own opinion. The fact accordingly is, my friend, that you mustchoose between _us_ and those respectable meannesses of yours. By Jove!the fellow ought to have been a shopkeeper, and as honest as--Diogenes, "said Jack. He stood looking at his wretched associate with theoverwhelming impertinence of a perfectly well-bred man, no wayconcealing the contemptuous inspection with which his cool eyestravelled over the disconcerted figure from top to toe, seeing andexaggerating all its tremors and clumsy guiltiness. The chances are, hadJack Wentworth been in Wodehouse's place, he would have been master ofthe position as much as now. He was not shocked nor indignant like hisbrothers. He was simply contemptuous, disdainful, not so much of thewickedness as of the clumsy and shabby fashion in which it had beenaccomplished. As for the offender, who had been defiant in his sulkyfashion up to this moment, his courage oozed out at his finger-endsunder Jack Wentworth's eye. 

"I am my own master, " he stammered, "nowadays. I aint to be dictatedto--and I shan't be, by Jove! As for Jack Wentworth, he's well knownto be neither more nor less--"

"Than what, Mr Wodehouse?" said the serene and splendid Jack. "Don'tinterest yourself on my account, Frank. This is my business atpresent. If you have any prayer-meetings in hand, we can spareyou--and don't forget our respectable friend in your supplications. Favour us with your definition of Jack Wentworth, Mr Wodehouse. He isneither more nor less--?"

"By Jove! I aint going to stand it, " cried Wodehouse; "if a fellow'sto be driven mad, and insulted, and have his money won from him, andmade game of--not to say tossed about as I've been among 'em, and madea drudge of, and set to do the dirty work, " said the unfortunatesubordinate, with a touch of pathos in his hoarse voice;--"I don'tmean to say I've been what I ought; but, by Jove! to be put upon asI've been, and knocked about; and at the last they haven't the pluckto stand by a fellow, by Jove!" muttered Mr Wodehouse's unlucky heir. What further exasperation his smiling superior intended to heap uponhim nobody could tell; for just as Jack Wentworth was about to speak, and just as Wodehouse had again faced towards him, half-cowed, half-resisting, Gerald, who had been looking on in silence, cameforward out of the shadow. He had seen all and heard all, from thatmoral deathbed of his, where no personal cares could again disturbhim; and though he had resigned his office, he could not belie hisnature. He came in by instinct to cherish the dawn of compunctionwhich appeared, as he thought, in the sinner's words. 

"The best thing that can happen to you, " said Gerald, at the sound ofwhose voice everybody started, "is to find out that the wages of sin arebitter. Don't expect any sympathy or consolation from those who havehelped you to do wrong. My brother tries to induce you to do a right actfrom an unworthy motive. He says your former associates will notacknowledge you. My advice to you is to forsake your former associates. My brother, " said Gerald, turning aside to look at him, "would dohimself honour if he forsook them also--but for you, here is youropportunity. You have no temptation of poverty now. Take the first step, and forsake them. I have no motive in advising you--except, indeed, thatI am Jack Wentworth's brother. He and you are different, " said Gerald, involuntarily glancing from one to the other. "And at present you havethe means of escape. Go now and leave them, " said the man who was apriest by nature. The light returned to his eye while he spoke; he wasno longer passive, contemplating his own moral death; his natural officehad come back to him unawares. He stretched his arm towards the door, thinking of nothing but the escape of the sinner. "Go, " said Gerald. "Refuse their approbation; shun their society. For Christ's sake, andnot for theirs, make amends to those you have wronged. Jack, I commandyou to let him go. "

Jack, who had been startled at first, had recovered himself longbefore his brother ceased to speak. "Let him go, by all means, " hesaid, and stood superbly indifferent by Gerald's side, whistling underhis breath a tripping lively air. "No occasion for solemnity. Thesooner he goes the better, " said Jack. "In short, I see no reason whyany of us should stay, now the business is accomplished. I wonderwould his reverence ever forgive me if I lighted my cigar?" He tookout his case as he spoke, and began to look over its contents. Therewas one in the room, however, who was better acquainted with theindications of Jack Wentworth's face than either of his brothers. Thisunfortunate, who was hanging in an agony of uncertainty over the chairhe had placed before him, watched every movement of his leader's facewith the anxious gaze of a lover, hoping to see a little correspondinganxiety in it, but watched in vain. Wodehouse had been going through afever of doubt and divided impulses. The shabby fellow was open togood impressions, though he was not much in the way of practisingthem; and Gerald's address, which, in the first place, filled him withawe, moved him afterwards with passing thrills of compunction, mingledwith a kind of delight at the idea of getting free. When his admonitorsaid "Go, " Wodehouse made a step towards the door, and for an instantfelt the exhilaration of enfranchisement. But the next moment his eyesought Jack Wentworth's face, which was so superbly careless, soindifferent to him and his intentions, and the vagabond's soulsuccumbed with a canine fidelity to his master. Had Jack shown anyinterest, any excitement in the matter, his sway might have beendoubtful; but in proportion to the sense of his own insignificance andunimportance Wodehouse's allegiance confirmed itself. He lookedwistfully towards the hero of his imagination, as that skilfulpersonage selected his cigar. He would rather have been kicked againthan left alone, and left to himself. After all, it was very true whatJack Wentworth said. They might be a bad lot, but they were gentlemen(according to Wodehouse's understanding of the word) with whom he hadbeen associated; and beatific visions of peers and baronets andhonourables, amongst whom his own shabby person had figured, withoutfeeling much below the common level, crossed his mind with all thesweetness which belongs to a past state of affairs. Yet it was stillin his power to recall these vanishing glories. Now that he was rich, and could "cut a figure" among the objects of his admiration, was thatbrilliant world to be closed upon him for ever by his own obstinacy?As these thoughts rushed through his mind, little Rosa's beauty andnatural grace came suddenly to his recollection. Nobody need know howhe had got his pretty wife, and a pretty wife she would be--a creaturewhom nobody could help admiring. Wodehouse looked wistfully at JackWentworth, who took no notice of him as he chose his cigar. Jack wasnot only the ideal of the clumsy rogue, but he was the doorkeeper ofthat paradise of disreputable nobles and ruined gentlemen which wasWodehouse's idea of good society; and from all this was he about to bebanished? Jack Wentworth selected his cigar with as much care as ifhis happiness depended on it, and took no notice of the stealthyglances thrown at him. "I'll get a light in the hall, " said Jack;"good evening to you, " and he was actually going away. 

"Look here, " said Wodehouse, hastily, in his beard; "I aint a man toforsake old friends. If Jack Wentworth does not mean anythingunreasonable, or against a fellow's honour--Hold your tongue, Waters;by Jove! I know my friends. I know you would never have been one ofthem but for Jack Wentworth. He's not the common sort, I can tell you. He's the greatest swell going, by Jove!" cried Jack's admiringfollower, "and through thick and thin he's stood by me. I aint goingto forsake him now--that is, if he don't want anything that goesagainst a fellow's honour, " said the repentant prodigal, again sinkingthe voice which he had raised for a moment. As he spoke he looked morewistfully than ever towards his leader, who said "Pshaw!" with animpatient gesture, and put back his cigar. 

"This room is too hot for anything, " said Jack; "but don't open thewindow, I entreat of you. I hate to assist at the suicide of a set ofinsane insects. For heaven's sake, Frank, mind what you're doing. Asfor Mr Wodehouse's remark, " said Jack, lightly, "I trust I never couldsuggest anything which would wound his keen sense of honour. I adviseyou to marry and settle, as I am in the habit of advising young men;and if I were to add that it would be seemly to make some provisionfor your sisters--"

"Stop there!" said the Curate, who had taken no part in the scene upto this moment. He had stood behind rather contemptuously, determinedto have nothing to do with his ungrateful and ungenerous protégé. Butnow an unreasonable impulse forced him into the discussion. "The lessthat is said on that part of the subject the better, " he said, withsome natural heat. "I object to the mixing up of names which--which noone here has any right to bandy about--"

"That is very true, " said Mr Proctor; "but still they have theirrights, " the late Rector added after a pause. "We have no right tostand in the way of their--their interest, you know. " It occurred toMr Proctor, indeed, that the suggestion was on the whole a sensibleone. "Even if they were to--to marry, you know, they might still beleft unprovided for, " said the late Rector. "I think it is quite justthat some provision should be made for that. "

And then there was a pause. Frank Wentworth was sufficiently aware afterhis first start of indignation that he had no right to interfere, as MrProctor said, between the Miss Wodehouses and their interest. He had nomeans of providing for them, of setting them above the chances offortune. He reflected bitterly that it was not in his power to offer ahome to Lucy, and through her to her sister. What he had to do was tostand by silently, to suffer other people to discuss what was to be donefor the woman whom he loved, and whose name was sacred to him. This wasa stretch of patience of which he was not capable. "I can only sayagain, " said the Curate, "that I think this discussion has gone farenough. Whatever matters of business there may be that requirearrangement had better be settled between Mr Brown and Mr Waters. So faras private feeling goes--"

"Never fear, I'll manage it, " said Jack Wentworth, "as well as a dozenlawyers. Private feeling has nothing to do with it. Have a cigar, Wodehouse? We'll talk it over as we walk home, " said the condescendingpotentate. These words dispersed the assembly, which no longer had anyobject. As Jack Wentworth sauntered out, his faithful follower pressedthrough the others to join him. Wodehouse was himself again. He gave asulky nod to the Curate, and said, "Good-night, parson, I don't owe muchto you, " and hastened out close upon the heels of his patron and leader. All the authorities of Carlingford, the virtuous people who conferredstation and respectability by a look, sank into utter insignificance inpresence of Jack. His admiring follower went after him with a swell ofpride. He was a poor enough rogue himself, hustled and abused byeverybody, an unsuccessful and shabby vagabond, notwithstanding his newfortune; but Jack was the glorified impersonation of cleverness andwickedness and triumph to Wodehouse. He grew insolent when he waspermitted to put his arm through that of his hero, and went off with himtrying to copy, in swagger and insolence, his careless step andwell-bred ease. Perhaps Jack Wentworth felt a little ashamed of himselfas he emerged from the gate of the Rectory with his shabby anddisreputable companion. He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he lookedback and saw Gerald and Frank coming slowly out together. "_Coraggio!_"said Jack to himself, "it is I who am the true philanthropist. Let us doevil that good may come. " Notwithstanding, he was very thankful not tobe seen by his father, who had wished to consult him as a man of theworld, and had shown certain yearnings towards him, which, to Jack'sinfinite surprise, awakened responsive feelings in his own unaccustomedbosom. He was half ashamed of this secret movement of natural affection, which, certainly, nobody else suspected; but it was with a sensation ofrelief that he closed the Rectory gate behind him, without havingencountered the keen inquiring suspicious glances of the Squire. Theothers dispersed according to their pleasure--Mr Waters joining theparty up-stairs, while Mr Proctor followed Jack Wentworth and Wodehouseto the door with naïve natural curiosity. When the excellent manrecollected that he was listening to private conversation, and metWodehouse's look of sulky insolence, he turned back again, muchfluttered and disturbed. He had an interest in the matter, though thetwo in whose hands it now lay were the last whom he would have chosen asconfidants; and to do him justice, he was thinking of Lucy only in hisdesire to hear what they decided upon. "Something might happen to me, "he said to himself; "and, even if all was well, she would be happier notto be wholly dependent upon her sister;" with which self-exculpatoryreflection, Mr Proctor slowly followed the others into the drawing-room. Gerald and Frank, who were neither of them disposed for society, wentaway together. They had enough to think of, without much need ofconversation, and they had walked half-way down Grange Lane beforeeither spoke. Then it was Frank who broke the silence abruptly with aquestion which had nothing to do with the business in which they hadbeen engaged. 

"And what do you mean to do?" said Frank, suddenly. It was just asthey came in sight of the graceful spire of St Roque's; and perhaps itwas the sight of his own church which roused the Perpetual Curate tothink of the henceforth aimless life of his brother. "I don'tunderstand how you are to give up your work. To-night even--"

"I did not forget myself, " said Gerald; "every man who can distinguishgood from evil has a right to advise his fellow-creature. I have notgiven up that common privilege--don't hope it, Frank, " said themartyr, with a momentary smile. 

"If I could but understand why it is that you make this terriblesacrifice!" said the Curate--"No, I don't want to argue--of course, you are convinced. I can understand the wish that our unfortunatedivision had never taken place; but I can't understand the sacrificeof a man's life and work. Nothing is perfect in this world; but atleast to do something in it--to be good for something--and with yourfaculties, Gerald!" cried the admiring and regretful brother. "Canabstract right in an institution, if that is what you aim at, be worththe sacrifice of your existence--your power of influencing yourfellow-creatures?" This Mr Wentworth said, being specially moved bythe circumstances in which he found himself--for, under any otherconditions, such sentiments would have produced the warmest oppositionin his Anglican bosom. But he was so far sympathetic that he could betolerant to his brother who had gone to Rome. 

"I know what you mean, " said Gerald; "it is the prevailing theory inEngland that all human institutions are imperfect. My dear Frank, Iwant a Church which is not a human institution. In England it seems tobe the rule of faith that every man may believe as he pleases. Thereis no authority either to decide or to punish. If you can foresee whatthat may lead us to, I cannot. I take refuge in the true Church, wherealone there is certainty--where, " said the convert, with a heightenedcolour and a long-drawn breath, "there is authority clear anddecisive. In England you believe what you will, and the result willbe one that I at least fear to contemplate; in Rome we believewhat--we must, " said Gerald. He said the words slowly, bowing his headmore than once with determined submission, as if bending under theyoke. "Frank, it is salvation!" said the new Catholic, with theemphasis of a despairing hope. And for the first time Frank Wentworthperceived what it was which had driven his brother to Rome. 

"I understand you now, " said the Perpetual Curate; "it is becausethere is no room for our conflicting doctrines and latitude of belief. Instead of a Church happily so far imperfect, that a man can put hislife to the best account in it, without absolutely delivering up hisintellect to a set of doctrines, you seek a perfect Church, in which, for a symmetrical system of doctrine, you lose the use of yourexistence!" Mr Wentworth uttered this opinion with all the morevehemence, that it was in direct opposition to his own habitual ideas;but even his veneration for his "Mother" yielded for the moment to hisstrong sense of his brother's mistake. 

"It is a hard thing to say, " said Gerald, "but it is true. If you butknew the consolation, after years of struggling among the problems offaith, to find one's self at last upon a rock of authority, ofcertainty--one holds in one's hand at last the interpretation of theenigma, " said Gerald. He looked up to the sky as he spoke, andbreathed into the serene air a wistful lingering sigh. If it wascertainty that echoed in that breath of unsatisfied nature, the soundwas sadly out of concord with the sentiment. His soul, notwithstandingthat expression of serenity, was still as wistful as the night. 

"Have you the interpretation?" said his brother; and Frank, too, looked up into the pure sky above, with its stars which stretched overthem serene and silent, arching over the town that lay behind, and ofwhich nobody knew better than he the human mysteries and wonderfulunanswerable questions. The heart of the Curate ached to think howmany problems lay in the darkness, over which that sky stretchedsilent, making no sign. There were the sorrowful of the earth, enduring their afflictions, lifting up pitiful hands, demanding of Godin their bereavements and in their miseries the reason why. There wereall the inequalities of life, side by side, evermore echoing dumblythe same awful question; and over all shone the calm sky which gave noanswer. "Have you the interpretation?" he said. "Perhaps you canreconcile freewill and predestination--the need of a universalatonement and the existence of individual virtue? But these are not tome the most difficult questions. Can your Church explain why one manis happy and another miserable?--why one has everything and abounds, and the other loses all that is most precious in life? My sister Mary, for example, " said the Curate, "she seems to bear the cross for ourfamily. Her children die and yours live. Can you explain to her why? Ihave heard her cry out to God to know the reason, and He made noanswer. Tell me, have you the interpretation?" cried the young man, onwhom the hardness of his own position was pressing at the moment. Theywent on together in silence for a few minutes, without any attempt onGerald's part to answer. "You accept the explanation of the Church inrespect to doctrines, " said the Curate, after that pause, "and consentthat her authority is sufficient, and that your perplexity isover--that is well enough, so far as it goes: but outside lies a worldin which every event is an enigma, where nothing that comes offers anyexplanation of itself; where God does not show Himself always kind, but by times awful, terrible--a God who smites and does not spare. Itis easy to make a harmonious balance of doctrine; but where is theinterpretation of life?" The young priest looked back on his memory, and recalled, as if they had been in a book, the daily problems withwhich he was so well acquainted. As for Gerald, he bowed his head alittle, with a kind of reverence, as if he had been bowing before theshrine of a saint. 

"I have had a happy life, " said the elder brother. "I have not beendriven to ask such questions for myself. To these the Church has butone advice to offer: Trust God. "

"We say so in England, " said Frank Wentworth; "it is the grand scopeof our teaching. Trust God. He will not explain Himself, nor can weattempt it. When it is certain that I must be content with this answerfor all the sorrows of life, I am content to take my doctrines on thesame terms, " said the Perpetual Curate; and by this time they had cometo Miss Wentworth's door. After all, perhaps it was not Gerald, exceptso far as he was carried by a wonderful force of human sympathy andpurity of soul, who was the predestined priest of the family. As hewent up to his own room, a momentary spasm of doubt came upon the newconvert--whether, perhaps, he was making a sacrifice of his life for amistake. He hushed the thought forcibly as it rose; such impulses wereno longer to be listened to. The same authority which made faithcertain, decided every doubt to be sin. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Next morning the Curate got up with anticipations which were far fromcheerful, and a weary sense of the monotony and dulness of life. He hadwon his little battle, it was true; but the very victory had removedthat excitement which answered in the absence of happier stimulations tokeep up his heart and courage. After a struggle like that in which hehad been engaged, it was hard to come again into the peaceable routinewithout any particular hope to enliven or happiness to cheer it, whichwas all he had at present to look for in his life; and it was harderstill to feel the necessity of being silent, of standing apart from Lucyin her need, of shutting up in his own heart the longing he had towardsher, and refraining himself from the desperate thought of uniting hisgenteel beggary to hers. That was the one thing which must not bethought of, and he subdued himself with an impatient sigh, and could notbut wonder, as he went down-stairs, whether, if Gerald had been lesssmoothly guided through the perplexing paths of life, he would havefound time for all the difficulties which had driven him to take refugein Rome. It was with this sense of hopeless restraint and incapacity, which is perhaps of all sensations the most humbling, that he wentdown-stairs, and found lying on his breakfast table, the first thingthat met his eye, the note which Lucy Wodehouse had written to him onthe previous night. As he read it, the earth somehow turned to the sun;the dubious light brightened in the skies. Unawares, he had beenwondering never to receive any token of sympathy, any word ofencouragement, from those for whom he had made so many exertions. Whenhe had read Lucy's letter, the aspect of affairs changed considerably. To be sure, nothing that she had said or could say made any differencein the facts of the case; but the Curate was young, and still liable tothose changes of atmosphere which do more for an imaginative mind thanreal revolutions. He read the letter several times over as he lingeredthrough his breakfast, making on the whole an agreeable meal, andfinding himself repossessed of his ordinary healthful appetite. He evencanvassed the signature as much in reading as Lucy had done in writingit--balancing in his mind the maidenly "truly yours" of thatsubscription with as many ingenious renderings of its possible meaningas if Lucy's letter had been articles of faith. "Truly mine, " he said tohimself, with a smile; which indeed meant all a lover could require; andthen paused, as if he had been Dr Lushington or Lord Westbury, toinquire into the real force of the phrase. For after all, it is not onlywhen signing the Articles that the bond and pledge of subscription meansmore than is intended. When Mr Wentworth was able to tear himself fromthe agreeable casuistry of this self-discussion, he got up in muchbetter spirits to go about his daily business. First of all, he had tosee his father, and ascertain what were the Squire's intentions, and howlong he meant to stay in Carlingford; and then--It occurred to thePerpetual Curate that after that, politeness demanded that he shouldcall on the Miss Wodehouses, who had, or at least one of them, expressedso frankly their confidence in him. He could not but call to thank her, to inquire into their plans, perhaps to back aunt Leonora's invitation, which he was aware had been gratefully declined. With these ideas in hismind he went down-stairs, after brushing his hat very carefully andcasting one solicitous glance in the mirror as he passed--whichpresented to him a very creditable reflection, an eidolon in perfectclerical apparel, without any rusty suggestions of a Perpetual Curacy. Yet a Perpetual Curacy it was which was his sole benefice or hope in hispresent circumstances, for he knew very well that, were all otherobjections at an end, neither Skelmersdale nor Wentworth could be keptopen for him; and that beyond these two he had not a hope ofadvancement--and at the same time he was pledged to remain inCarlingford. All this, however, though discouraging enough, did notsucceed in discouraging Mr Wentworth after he had read Lucy's letter. Hewent down-stairs so lightly that Mrs Hadwin, who was waiting in theparlour in her best cap, to ask if he would pardon her for making such amistake, did not hear him pass, and sat waiting for an hour, forgetting, or rather neglecting to give any response, when the butcher came fororders--which was an unprecedented accident. Mr Wentworth wentcheerfully up Grange Lane, meeting, by a singular chance, ever so manypeople, who stopped to shake hands with him, or at least bowed theirgood wishes and friendly acknowledgments. He smiled in himself at theseevidences of popular penitence, but was not the less pleased to findhimself reinstated in his place in the affections and respect ofCarlingford. "After all, it was not an unnatural mistake, " he said tohimself, and smiled benignly upon the excellent people who had found outthe error of their own ways. Carlingford, indeed, seemed altogether in amore cheerful state than usual, and Mr Wentworth could not but thinkthat the community in general was glad to find that it had beendeceived, and so went upon his way, pleasing himself with those maximsabout the ultimate prevalence of justice and truth, which make itapparent that goodness is always victorious, and wickedness punished, inthe end. Somehow even a popular fallacy has an aspect of truth when itsuits one's own case. The Perpetual Curate went through his aunts'garden with a conscious smile, feeling once more master of himself andhis concerns. There was, to tell the truth, even a slight shade ofself-content and approbation upon his handsome countenance. In thepresent changed state of public opinion and private feeling, he began totake some pleasure in his sacrifice. To be sure, a Perpetual Curatecould not marry; but perhaps Lucy--in short, there was no telling whatmight happen; and it was accordingly with that delicious sense ofgoodness which generally attends an act of self-sacrifice, mingled withan equally delicious feeling that the act, when accomplished, might turnout no such great sacrifice after all--which it is to be feared is themost usual way in which the sacrifices of youth are made--that theCurate walked into the hall, passing his aunt Dora's toy terrier withoutthat violent inclination to give it a whack with his cane in passingwhich was his usual state of feeling. To tell the truth, Lucy's letterhad made him at peace with all the world. 

When, however, he entered the dining-room, where the family were stillat breakfast, Frank's serenity was unexpectedly disturbed. The firstthing that met his eyes was his aunt Leonora, towering over hertea-urn at the upper end of the table, holding in her hand a letterwhich she had just opened. The envelope had fallen in the midst of theimmaculate breakfast "things, " and indeed lay, with its broad blackedge on the top of the snow-white lumps, in Miss Leonora's ownsugar-basin; and the news had been sufficiently interesting to suspendthe operations of tea-making, and to bring the strong-minded woman toher feet. The first words which were audible to Frank revealed to himthe nature of the intelligence which had produced such startlingeffects. 

"He was always a contradictory man, " said Miss Leonora; "since thefirst hour he was in Skelmersdale, he has made a practice of doingthings at the wrong time. I don't mean to reproach the poor man nowhe's gone; but when he has been so long of going, what good could itdo him to choose this particular moment, for no other reason that Ican see, except that it was specially uncomfortable to us? What mybrother has just been saying makes it all the worse, " said MissLeonora, with a look of annoyance. She had turned her head away fromthe door, which was at the side of the room, and had not perceived theentrance of the Curate. "As long as we could imagine that Frank was tosucceed to the Rectory, the thing looked comparatively easy. I begyour pardon, Gerald. Of course, you know how grieved I am--in short, that we all feel the deepest distress and vexation; but, to be sure, since you have given it up, somebody must succeed you--there can be nodoubt of that. "

"Not the least, my dear aunt, " said Gerald. 

"I am glad you grant so much. It is well to be sure of something, " saidthe incisive and peremptory speaker. "It would have been a painful thingfor us at any time to place another person in Skelmersdale while Frankwas unprovided for; but, of course, " said Miss Leonora, sitting downsuddenly, "nobody who knows me could suppose for a minute that I wouldlet my feelings stand in the way of my public duty. Still it is veryawkward just at this moment when Frank, on the whole, has been behavingvery properly, and one can't help so far approving of him--"

"I am much obliged to you, aunt Leonora, " said the Curate. 

"Oh, you are there, Frank, " said his sensible aunt; and strong-mindedthough she was, a slight shade of additional colour appeared for amoment on Miss Leonora's face. She paused a little, evidently divertedfrom the line of discourse which she had contemplated, and wavered likea vessel disturbed in its course. "The fact is, I have just had a letterannouncing Mr Shirley's death, " she continued, facing round towards hernephew, and setting off abruptly, in face of all consequences, on thenew tack. 

"I am very sorry, " said Frank Wentworth; "though I have an old grudgeat him on account of his long sermons; but as you have expected it fora year or two, I can't imagine your grief to be overwhelming, " saidthe Curate, with a touch of natural impertinence to be expected underthe circumstances. Skelmersdale had been so long thought interestingto him, that now, when it was not in the least interesting, he gotimpatient of the name. 

"I quite agree with you, Frank, " said Miss Wentworth. Aunt Cecilia hadnot been able for a long time to agree with anybody. She had been, onthe contrary, shaking her head and shedding a few gentle tears overGerald's silent submission and Louisa's noisy lamentations. Everythingwas somehow going wrong; and she who had no power to mend, at leastcould not assent, and broke through her old use and wont to shake herhead, which was a thing very alarming to the family. The entire partywas moved by a sensation of pleasure to hear Miss Cecilia say, "Iquite agree with you, Frank. "

"You are looking better this morning, my dear aunt, " said Gerald. Theyhad a great respect for each other these two; but when Miss Ceciliaturned to hear what her elder nephew was saying, her face lost themomentary look of approval it had worn, and she again, though verysoftly, almost imperceptibly, began to shake her head. 

"We were not asking for your sympathy, " said Miss Leonora, sharply. "Don't talk like a saucy boy. We were talking of our ownembarrassment. There is a very excellent young man, the curate of theparish, whom Julia Trench is to be married to. By the way, of course, this must put it off; but I was about to say, when you interrupted me, that to give it away from you at this moment, just as you had beendoing well--doing--your duty, " said Miss Leonora, with unusualhesitation, "was certainly very uncomfortable, to say the least, tous. "

"Don't let that have the slightest influence on you, I beg, " cried thePerpetual Curate, with all the pride of his years. "I hope I have beendoing my duty all along, " the young man added, more softly, a momentafter; upon which the Squire gave a little nod, partly of satisfactionand encouragement to his son--partly of remonstrance and protest tohis sister. 

"Yes, I suppose so--with the flowers at Easter, for example, " saidMiss Leonora, with a slight sneer. "I consider that I have stood byyou through all this business, Frank--but, of course, in so importanta matter as a cure of souls, neither relationship, nor, to a certainextent, approval, " said Miss Leonora, with again some hesitation, "canbe allowed to stand against public duty. We have the responsibility ofproviding a good gospel minister--"

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Leonora, " said the Squire, "but I can't help thinking that you make a mistake. I think it's aman's bounden duty, when there is a living in the family, to educateone of his sons for it. In my opinion, it's one of the duties ofproperty. You have no right to live off your estate, and spend yourmoney elsewhere; and no more have you any right to give lessthan--than your own flesh and blood to the people you have the chargeof. You've got the charge of them to--to a certain extent--soul andbody, sir, " said the Squire, growing warm, as he put down his 'Times, 'and forgetting that he addressed a lady. "I'd never have any peace ofmind if I filled up a family living with a stranger--unless, ofcourse, " Mr Wentworth added in a parenthesis--an unlikely sort ofcontingency which had not occurred to him at first--"you should happento have no second son. --The eldest the squire, the second the rector. That's my idea, Leonora, of Church and State. "

Miss Leonora smiled a little at her brother's semi-feudal, semi-paganideas. "I have long known that we were not of the same way of thinking, "said the strong-minded aunt, who, though cleverer than her brother, wastoo wise in her own conceit to perceive at the first glance the noble, simple conception of his own duties and position, which was implied inthe honest gentleman's words. "Your second son might be either a fool ora knave, or even, although neither, might be quite unfit to be intrustedwith the eternal interests of his fellow-creatures. In my opinion, theduty of choosing a clergyman is one not to be exercised without thegravest deliberation. A conscientious man would make his selectiondependent, at least, upon the character of his second son--if he hadone. We, however--"

"But then his character is _so_ satisfactory, Leonora, " cried MissDora, feeling emboldened by the shadow of visitors under whose shieldshe could always retire. "Everybody knows what a good clergyman heis--I am sure it would be like a new world in Skelmersdale if you werethere, Frank, my dear--and he preaches such beautiful sermons!" saidthe unlucky little woman, upon whom her sister immediately descended, swift and sudden, like a storm at sea. 

"We are generally perfectly of accord in our conclusions, " said MissLeonora; "as for Dora, she comes to the same end by a roundabout way. After what my brother has been saying--"

"Yes, " said the Squire, with uncomfortable looks, "I was saying toyour aunt, Frank, what I said to you about poor Mary. Since Gerald_will_ go, and since you don't want to come, the best thing to dowould be to have Huxtable. He's a very good fellow on the whole, andit might cheer her up, poor soul, to be near her sisters. Life hasbeen hard work to her, poor girl--very hard work, sir, " said theSquire, with a sigh. The idea was troublesome and uncomfortable, andalways disturbed his mind when it occurred to him. It was indeed asecret humiliation to the Squire, that his eldest daughter possessedso little the characteristic health and prosperity of the Wentworths. He was very sorry for her, but yet half angry and half ashamed, as ifshe could have helped it; but, however, he had been obliged to admit, in his private deliberations on the subject, that, failing Frank, Mary's husband had the next best right to Wentworth Rectory--anarrangement of which Miss Leonora did not approve. 

"I was about to say that we have no second son, " she said, taking up thethread of her discourse where it had been interrupted. "Our duty issolely towards the Christian people. I do not pretend to be infallible, "said Miss Leonora, with a meek air of self-contradiction; "but I shouldbe a very poor creature indeed, if, at my age, I did not know what Ibelieved, and was not perfectly convinced that I am right. Consequently(though, I repeat, Mr Shirley has chosen the most inconvenient momentpossible for dying), it can't be expected of me that I should appoint mynephew, whose opinions in most points are exactly the opposite of mine. "

"I wish, at least, you would believe what I say, " interrupted theCurate, impatiently. "There might have been some sense in all thisthree months ago; but if Skelmersdale were the high-road to everythingdesirable in the Church, you are all quite aware that I could notaccept it. Stop, Gerald; I am not so disinterested as you think, " saidFrank; "if I left Carlingford now, people would remember against methat my character had been called in question here. I can remain aperpetual curate, " said the young man, with a smile, "but I can'ttolerate any shadow upon my honour. I am sorry I came in at such anawkward moment. Good morning, aunt Leonora. I hope Julia Trench, whenshe has the Rectory, will always keep of your way of thinking. Sheused to incline a little to mine, " he said, mischievously, as he wentaway. 

"Come back, Frank, presently, " said the Squire, whose attention hadbeen distracted from his 'Times. ' Mr Wentworth began to be tired ofsuch a succession of exciting discussions. He thought if he had Frankquietly to himself he could settle matters much more agreeably; butthe 'Times' was certainly an accompaniment more tranquillising so faras a comfortable meal was concerned. 

"He can't come back presently, " said aunt Leonora. "You speak as if hehad nothing to do; when, on the contrary, he has everything todo--that is worth doing, " said that contradictory authority. "Comeback to lunch, Frank; and I wish you would eat your breakfast, Dora, and not stare at me. "

Miss Dora had come down to breakfast as an invalid, in a pretty littlecap, with a shawl over her dressing-gown. She had not yet got over heradventure and the excitement of Rosa's capture. That unusual accident, and all the applauses of her courage which had been addressed to hersince, had roused the timid woman. She did not withdraw her eyes fromher sister, though commanded to do so; on the contrary, her look grewmore and more emphatic. She meant to have made a solemn address, throwing off Leonora's yoke, and declaring her intention, in this gravecrisis of her nephew's fortunes, of acting for herself; but her feelingswere too much for Miss Dora. The tears came creeping to the corners ofher eyes, and she could not keep them back; and her attempt at dignitybroke down. "I am never consulted, " she said, with a gasp. "I don't meanto pretend to know better than Leonora; but--but I think it is veryhard that Frank should be disappointed about Skelmersdale. You may callme as foolish as you please, " said Miss Dora, with rising tears, "I knoweverybody will say it is my fault; but I must say I think it is veryhard that Frank should be disappointed. He was always brought up for it, as everybody knows; and to disappoint him, who is so good and so nice, for a fat young man, buttered all over like--like--a pudding-basin, "cried poor Miss Dora, severely adhering to the unity of her desperatemetaphor. "I don't know what Julia Trench can be thinking of; I--I don'tknow what Leonora means. "

"I am of the same way of thinking, " said aunt Cecilia, setting down, with a little gentle emphasis, her cup of tea. 

Here was rebellion, open and uncompromised. Miss Leonora was so muchtaken by surprise, that she lifted the tea-urn out of the way, andstared at her interlocutors with genuine amazement. But she provedherself, as usual, equal to the occasion. 

"It's unfortunate that we never see eye to eye just at once, " shesaid, with a look which expressed more distinctly than words couldhave done the preliminary flourish of his whip by means of which askilful charioteer gets his team under hand without touching them;"but it is very lucky that we always come to agree in the end, " sheadded, more significantly still. It was well to crush insubordinationin the bud. Not that she did not share the sentiment of her sisters;but then they were guided like ordinary women by their feelings;whereas Miss Leonora had the rights of property before her, and theapproval of Exeter Hall. 

"And he wants to marry, poor dear boy, " said Miss Dora, pale withfright, yet persevering; "and she is a dear good girl--the very personfor a clergyman's wife; and what is he to do if he is always to beCurate of St Roque's? You may say it is my fault, but I cannot help it. He always used to come to me in all his little troubles; and when hewants anything very particular, he knows there is nothing I would not dofor him, " sobbed the proud aunt, who could not help recollecting howmuch use she had been to Frank. She wiped her eyes at the thought, andheld up her head with a thrill of pride and satisfaction. Nobody couldblame her in that particular at least. "He knew he had only to tell mewhat he wanted, " said Miss Dora, swelling out her innocent plumes. Jack, who was sitting opposite, and who had been listening with admiration, thought it time to come in on his own part. 

"I hope you don't mean to forsake _me_, aunt Dora, " he said. "If apoor fellow cannot have faith in his aunt, whom can he have faith in?I thought it was too good to last, " said the neglected prodigal. "Youhave left the poor sheep in the wilderness and gone back to theninety-and-nine righteous men who need no repentance. " He put up hishandkerchief to his eyes as he spoke, and so far forgot himself as tolook with laughter in his face at his brother Gerald. As for theSquire, he was startled to hear his eldest son quoting Scripture, andlaid aside his paper once more to know what it meant. 

"I am sure I beg your pardon, Jack, " said aunt Dora, suddenly stoppingshort, and feeling guilty. "I never meant to neglect you. Poor dearboy, he never was properly tried with female society and the comfortsof home; but then you were dining out that night, " said the simplewoman, eagerly. "I should have stayed with you, Jack, _of course_, hadyou been at home. "

From this little scene Miss Leonora turned away hastily, with anexclamation of impatience. She made an abrupt end of her tea-making, and went off to her little business-room with a grim smile upon heriron-grey countenance. She too had been taken in a little by Jack'spleasant farce of the Sinner Repentant; and it occurred to her to feel alittle ashamed of herself as she went up-stairs. After all, theninety-and-nine just men of Jack's irreverent quotation were worthconsidering now and then; and Miss Leonora could not but think with alittle humiliation of the contrast between her nephew Frank and thecomfortable young Curate who was going to marry Julia Trench. He _was_fat, it could not be denied; and she remembered his chubby looks, andhis sermons about self-denial and mortification of the flesh, much as apious Catholic might think of the Lenten oratory of a fat friar. Butthen he was perfectly sound in his doctrines, and it was undeniable thatthe people liked him, and that the appointment was one which even aScotch ecclesiastical community full of popular rights could scarcelyhave objected to. According to her own principles, the strong-mindedwoman could not do otherwise. She threw herself into her arm-chair withunnecessary force, and read over the letter which Miss Trench herselfhad written. "It is difficult to think of any consolation in such abereavement, " wrote Mr Shirley's niece; "but still it is a littlecomfort to feel that I can throw myself on your sympathy, my dear andkind friend. " "Little calculating thing!" Miss Leonora said to herselfas she threw down the mournful epistle; and then she could not helpthinking again of Frank. To be sure, he was not of her way of thinking;but when she remembered the "investigation" and its result, and thesecret romance involved in it, her Wentworth blood sent a thrill ofpride and pleasure through her veins. Miss Leonora, though she wasstrong-minded, was still woman enough to perceive her nephew's motivesin his benevolence to Wodehouse; but these motives, which were strongenough to make him endure so much annoyance, were not strong enough totempt him from Carlingford and his Perpetual Curacy, where his honourand reputation, in the face of love and ambition, demanded that heshould remain. "It would be a pity to balk him in his self-sacrifice, "she said to herself, with again a somewhat grim smile, and a comparisonnot much to the advantage of Julia Trench and _her_ curate. She shutherself up among her papers till luncheon, and only emerged with astormy front when that meal was on the table; during the progress ofwhich she snubbed everybody who ventured to speak to her, and spoke toher nephew Frank as if he might have been suspected of designs upon theplate-chest. Such were the unpleasant consequences of the strugglebetween duty and inclination in the bosom of Miss Leonora; and, save forother unforeseen events which decided the matter for her, it is not byany means so certain as, judging from her character, it ought to havebeen, that duty would have won the day. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

Frank Wentworth once more went up Grange Lane, a thoughtful and a soberman. Exhilaration comes but by moments in the happiest of lives--andalready he began to remember how very little he had to be elated about, and how entirely things remained as before. Even Lucy; her letter veryprobably might be only an effusion of friendship; and at all events, what could he say to her--what did he dare in honour say? And then hismind went off to think of the two rectories, between which he had fallenas between two stools: though he had made up his mind to accept neither, he did not the less feel a certain mortification in seeing that hisrelations on both sides were so willing to bestow their gifts elsewhere. He could not tolerate the idea of succeeding Gerald in his own person, but still he found it very disagreeable to consent to the thought thatHuxtable should replace him--Huxtable, who was a good fellow enough, butof whom Frank Wentworth thought, as men generally think of theirbrothers-in-law, with a half-impatient, half-contemptuous wonder whatMary could ever have seen in so commonplace a man. To think of him asrector of Wentworth inwardly chafed the spirit of the Perpetual Curate. As he was going along, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did notperceive how his approach was watched for from the other side of the wayby Elsworthy, who stood with his bundle of newspapers under his arm andhis hat in his hand, watching for "his clergyman" with submission andapology on the surface, and hidden rancour underneath. Elsworthy was notpenitent; he was furious and disappointed. His mistake and itsconsequences were wholly humiliating, and had not in them a singlesaving feature to atone for the wounds of his self-esteem. The Curatehad not only baffled and beaten him, but humbled him in his own eyes, which is perhaps, of all others, the injury least easy to forgive. Itwas, however, with an appearance of the profoundest submission that hestood awaiting the approach of the man he had tried so much to injure. 

"Mr Wentworth, sir, " said Elsworthy, "if I was worth your while, Imight think as you were offended with me; but seeing I'm one as is sofar beneath you"--he went on with a kind of grin, intended torepresent a deprecatory smile, but which would have been a snarl hadhe dared--"I can't think as you'll bear no malice. May I ask, sir, ifthere's a-going to be any difference made?"

"In what respect, Elsworthy?" said the Curate, shortly. 

"Well, sir, I can't tell, " said the clerk of St Roque's. "If aclergyman was to bear malice, it's in his power to make things veryunpleasant. I don't speak of the place at church, which aint eitherhere nor there--it's respectable, but it aint lucrative; but if youwas to stretch a point, Mr Wentworth, by continuing the papers andsuchlike--it aint that I value the money, " said Elsworthy, "but I'vebeen a faithful servant; and I might say, if you was to take it in aright spirit, an 'umble friend, Mr Wentworth, " he continued, after alittle pause, growing bolder. "And now, as I've that unfortunatecreature to provide for, and no one knowing what's to become of her--"

"I wonder that you venture to speak of her to me, " said the Curate, with a little indignation, "after all the warnings I gave you. Butyou ought to consider that you are to blame a great deal more than sheis. She is only a child; if you had taken better care of her--but youwould not pay any attention to my warning;--you must bear theconsequences as you best can. "

"Well, sir, " said Elsworthy, "if you're a-going to bear malice, Ihaven't got nothing to say. But there aint ten men in Carlingford aswouldn't agree with me that when a young gentleman, even if he is aclergyman, takes particklar notice of a pretty young girl, it aintjust for nothing as he does it--not to say watching over her paternalto see as she wasn't out late at night, and suchlike. But bygones isbygones, sir, " said Elsworthy, "and is never more to be mentioned byme. I don't ask no more, if you'll but do the same--"

"You won't ask no more?" said the Curate, angrily; "do you think I amafraid of you? I have nothing more to say, Elsworthy. Go and lookafter your business--I will attend to mine; and when we are not forcedto meet, let us keep clear of each other. It will be better both foryou and me. "

The Curate passed on with an impatient nod; but his assailant did notintend that he should escape so easily. "I shouldn't have thought, sir, as you'd have borne malice, " said Elsworthy, hastening on afterhim, yet keeping half a step behind. "I'm a humbled man--differentfrom what I ever thought to be. I could always keep up my head aforethe world till now; and if it aint your fault, sir--as I humbly begyour pardon for ever being so far led away as to believe it was--allthe same it's along of you. "

"What do you mean?" said the Curate, who, half amused and halfindignant at the change of tone, had slackened his pace to listen tothis new accusation. 

"What I mean, sir, is, that if you hadn't been so good and sokind-hearted as to take into your house the--the villain as has doneit all, him and Rosa could never have known each other. I allow as itwas nothing but your own goodness as did it; but it was a black dayfor me and mine, " said the dramatist, with a pathetic turn of voice. "Not as I'm casting no blame on you, as is well known to be--"

"Never mind what I'm well known to be, " said the Curate; "the other dayyou thought _I_ was the villain. If you can tell me anything you want meto do, I will understand that--but I am not desirous to know youropinion of me, " said the careless young man. As he stood listeningimpatiently, pausing a second time, Dr Marjoribanks came out to his doorand stepped into his brougham to go off to his morning round of visits. The Doctor took off his hat when he saw the Curate, and waved it to himcheerfully with a gesture of congratulation. Dr Marjoribanks was quitestanch and honest, and would have manfully stood by his intimates indangerous circumstances; but somehow he preferred success. It waspleasanter to be able to congratulate people than to condole with them. He preferred it, and nobody could object to so orthodox a sentiment. Most probably, if Mr Wentworth had still been in partial disgrace, theDoctor would not have seen him in his easy glance down the road; butthough Mr Wentworth was aware of that, the mute congratulation had yetits effect upon him. He was moved by that delicate symptom of how thewind was blowing in Carlingford, and forgot all about Elsworthy, thoughthe man was standing by his side. 

"As you're so good as to take it kind, sir, " said the clerk of StRoque's--"and, as I was a-saying, it's well known as you're alwaysready to hear a poor man's tale--perhaps you'd let bygones be bygones, and not make no difference? That wasn't all, Mr Wentworth, " hecontinued eagerly, as the Curate gave an impatient nod, and turned togo on. "I've heard as this villain is rich, sir, by means of robbingof his own flesh and blood;--but it aint for me to trust to what folkssays, after the experience I've had, and never can forgive myself forbeing led away, " said Elsworthy; "it's well known in Carlingford--"

"For heaven's sake come to the point and be done with it, " said theCurate. "What is it you want me to do?"

"Sir, " said Elsworthy, solemnly, "you're a real gentleman, and youdon't bear no malice for what was a mistake--and you aint one to turnyour back on an unfortunate family--and Mr Wentworth, sir, you ainta-going to stand by and see me and mine wronged, as have always wishedyou well. If we can't get justice of him, we can get damages, " criedElsworthy. "He aint to be let off as if he'd done no harm--and seeingas it was along of you--"

"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate. "I have nothing to do withit. Keep out of my way, or at least learn to restrain your tongue. Nomore, not a word more, " said the young man, indignantly. He went offwith such a sweep and wind of anger and annoyance, that the slower andolder complainant had no chance to follow him. Elsworthy accordinglywent off to the shop, where his errand-boys were waiting for thenewspapers, and where Rosa lay up-stairs, weeping, in a dark room, whereher enraged aunt had shut her up. Mrs Elsworthy had shut up the poorlittle pretty wretch, who might have been penitent under betterguidance, but who by this time had lost what sense of shame and wrongher childish conscience was capable of in the stronger present sense ofinjury and resentment and longing to escape; but the angry aunt, thoughshe could turn the key on poor Rosa's unfortunate little person, couldnot shut in the piteous sobs which now and then sounded through andthrough the house, and which converted all the errand-boys withoutexception into indignant partisans of Rosa, and even moved the heart ofPeter Hayles, who could hear them at the back window where he was makingup Dr Marjoribanks's prescriptions. As the sense of injury waxedstronger and stronger in Rosa's bosom, she availed herself, like anyother irrational, irresponsible creature, of such means of revengingherself and annoying her keepers as occurred to her. "Nobody ever tookno care of me, " sobbed Rosa. "I never had no father or mother. Oh, Iwish I was dead!--and nobody wouldn't care!" These utterances, it may beimagined, went to the very heart of the errand-boys, who were collectedin a circle, plotting how to release Rosa, when Elsworthy, mortified andfurious, came back from his unsuccessful assault on the Curate. Theyscattered like a covey of little birds before the angry man, who tossedtheir papers at them, and then strode up the echoing stairs. "If youdon't hold your d----d tongue, " said Elsworthy, knocking furiously atRosa's door, "I'll turn you to the door this instant, I will, by--. "Nobody in Carlingford had ever before heard an oath issue from therespectable lips of the clerk of St Roque's. When he went down into theshop again, the outcries sank into frightened moans. Not much wonderthat the entire neighbourhood became as indignant with Elsworthy as itever had been with the Perpetual Curate. The husband and wife took uptheir positions in the shop after this, as far apart as was possiblefrom each other, both resenting in silent fury the wrong which the worldin general had done them. If Mrs Elsworthy had dared, she would haveexhausted her passion in abuse of everybody--of the Curate for not beingguilty, of her husband for supposing him to be so, and, to be sure, ofRosa herself, who was the cause of all. But Elsworthy was dangerous, notto be approached or spoken to. He went out about noon to see John Brown, and discuss with him the question of damages; but the occurrences whichtook place in his absence are not to be mixed up with the presentnarrative, which concerns Mr Frank Wentworth's visit to Lucy Wodehouse, and has nothing to do with ignoble hates or loves. 

The Curate went rapidly on to the green door, which once more lookedlike a gate of paradise. He did not know in the least what he wasgoing to do or say--he was only conscious of a state of exaltation, acondition of mind which might precede great happiness or great misery, but had nothing in it of the common state of affairs in which peopleask each other "How do you do?" Notwithstanding, the fact is, thatwhen Lucy entered that dear familiar drawing-room, where every featureand individual expression of every piece of furniture was as wellknown to him as if they had been so many human faces, it was only "Howdo you do?" that the Curate found himself able to say. The two shookhands as demurely as if Lucy had indeed been, according to thedeceptive representation of yesterday, as old as aunt Dora; and thenshe seated herself in her favourite chair, and tried to begin a littleconversation about things in general. Even in these three days, natureand youth had done something for Lucy. She had slept and rested, andthe unforeseen misfortune which had come in to distract her grief hadroused all the natural strength that was in her. As she was a littlenervous about this interview, not knowing what it might end in, Lucythought it her duty to be as composed and self-commanding as possible, and, in order to avoid all dangerous and exciting subjects, began totalk of Wharfside. 

"I have not heard anything for three or four days about the poor womanat No. 10, " she said; "I meant to have gone to see her to-day, butsomehow one gets so selfish when--when one's mind is full of affairsof one's own. "

"Yes, " said the Curate; "and speaking of that, I wanted to tell youhow much comfort your letter had been to me. My head, too, has beenvery full of affairs of my own. I thought at one time that my friendswere forsaking me. It was very good of you to write as you did. "

Upon which there followed another little pause. "Indeed the goodnesswas all on your side, " said Lucy, faltering. "If I had ever dreamt howmuch you were doing for us! but it all came upon me so suddenly. It isimpossible ever to express in words one-half of the gratitude we oweyou, " she said, with restrained enthusiasm. She looked up at him asshe spoke with a little glow of natural fervour, which brought thecolour to her cheek and the moisture to her eyes. She was not of thedisposition to give either thanks or confidence by halves; and eventhe slight not unpleasant sense of danger which gave piquancy to thisinterview, made her resolute to express herself fully. She would notsuffer herself to stint her gratitude because of the sweet suspicionwhich would not be quite silenced, that possibly Mr Wentworth lookedfor something better than gratitude. Not for any consequences, howevermuch they might be to be avoided, could she be shabby enough torefrain from due acknowledgment of devotion so great. Therefore, whilethe Perpetual Curate was doing all he could to remind himself of hiscondition, and to persuade himself that it would be utterly wrong andmean of him to speak, Lucy looked up at him, looked him in the face, with her blue eyes shining dewy and sweet through tears of gratitudeand a kind of generous admiration; for, like every other woman, shefelt herself exalted and filled with a delicious pride in seeing thatthe man of her unconscious choice had proved himself the best. 

The Curate walked to the window, very much as Mr Proctor had done, inthe tumult and confusion of his heart, and came back again with whathe had to say written clear on his face, without any possibility ofmistake. "I must speak, " said the young man; "I have no right tospeak, I know; if I had attained the height of self-sacrifice andself-denial, I might, I would be silent--but it is impossible now. " Hecame to a break just then, looking at her to see what encouragement hehad to go on; but as Lucy did nothing but listen and grow pale, he hadto take his own way. "What I have to say is not anything new, " saidthe Curate, labouring a little in his voice, as was inevitable whenaffairs had come to such a crisis, "if I were not in the cruelestposition possible to a man. I have only an empty love to lay at yourfeet; I tell it to you only because I am obliged--because, after all, love is worth telling, even if it comes to nothing. I am not going toappeal to your generosity, " continued the young man, kneeling down atthe table, not by way of kneeling to Lucy, but by way of bringinghimself on a level with her, where she sat with her head bent down onher low chair, "or to ask you to bind yourself to a man who hasnothing in the world but love to offer you; but after what has beenfor years, after all the hours I have spent here, I cannot--part--Icannot let you go--without a word--"

And here he stopped short. He had not asked anything, so that Lucy, even had she been able, had nothing to answer; and as for the younglover himself, he seemed to have come to the limit of his eloquence. He kept waiting for a moment, gazing at her in breathless expectationof a response for which his own words had left no room. Then he rosein an indescribable tumult of disappointment and mortification--unableto conclude that all was over, unable to keep silence, yet not knowingwhat to say. 

"I have been obliged to close all the doors of advancement uponmyself, " said the Curate, with a little bitterness; "I don't know ifyou understand me. At this moment I have to deny myself the dearestprivilege of existence. Don't mistake me, Lucy, " he said, afteranother pause, coming back to her with humility, "I don't venture tosay that you would have accepted anything I had to offer; but this Imean, that to have a home for you now--to have a life for you ready tobe laid at your feet, whether you would have had it or not;--whatright have I to speak of such delights?" cried the young man. "It doesnot matter to you; and as for me, I have patience--patience to consolemyself with--"

Poor Lucy, though she was on the verge of tears, which nothing but themost passionate self-restraint could have kept in, could not help apassing sensation of amusement at these words. "Not too much of thateither, " she said, softly, with a tremulous smile. "But patiencecarries the lilies of the saints, " said Lucy, with a touch of the sweetasceticism which had once been so charming to the young Anglican. Itbrought him back like a spell to the common ground on which they used tomeet; it brought him back also to his former position on his knee, which was embarrassing to Lucy, though she had not the heart to drawback, nor even to withdraw her hand, which somehow happened to be in MrWentworth's way. 

"I am but a man, " said the young lover. "I would rather have the rosesof life--but, Lucy, I am only a perpetual curate, " he continued, withher hand in his. Her answer was made in the most heartless andindifferent words. She let two big drops--which fell like hail, thoughthey were warmer than any summer rain--drop out of her eyes, and shesaid, with lips that had some difficulty in enunciating that heartlesssentiment, "I don't see what it matters to me--"

Which was true enough, though it did not sound encouraging; and itis dreadful to confess that, for a little while after, neitherSkelmersdale, nor Wentworth, nor Mr Proctor's new rectory, nor theno-income of the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's, had the smallest placein the thoughts of either of these perfectly inconsiderate young people. For half an hour they were an Emperor and Empress seated upon twothrones, to which all the world was subject; and when at the end of thattime they began to remember the world, it was but to laugh at it intheir infinite youthful superiority. Then it became apparent that toremain in Carlingford, to work at "the district, " to carry out all theancient intentions of well-doing which had been the first bond betweenthem, was, after all, the life of lives;--which was the state of mindthey had both arrived at when Miss Wodehouse, who thought they had beentoo long together under the circumstances, and could not help wonderingwhat Mr Wentworth could be saying, came into the room, rather flurriedin her own person. She thought Lucy must have been telling the Curateabout Mr Proctor and his hopes, and was, to tell the truth, a littlecurious how Mr Wentworth would take it, and a little--the veryleast--ashamed of encountering his critical looks. The condition of mindinto which Miss Wodehouse was thrown when she perceived the real stateof affairs would be difficult to describe. She was very glad and verysorry, and utterly puzzled how they were to live; and underneath allthese varying emotions was a sudden, half-ludicrous, half-humiliatingsense of being cast into the shade, which made Mr Proctor's _fiancée_laugh and made her cry, and brought her down altogether off thetemporary pedestal upon which she had stepped, not without a littlefeminine satisfaction. When a woman is going to be married, especiallyif that marriage falls later than usual, it is natural that she shouldexpect, for that time at least, to be the first and most prominentfigure in her little circle. But, alas! what chance could there be for amild, dove-coloured bride of forty beside a creature of half her age, endued with all the natural bloom and natural interest of youth?

Miss Wodehouse could not quite make out her own feelings on the subject. "Don't you think if you had waited a little it would have been wiser?"she said, in her timid way; and then kissed her young sister, and said, "I am so glad, my darling--I am sure dear papa would have been pleased, "with a sob which brought back to Lucy the grief from which she had forthe moment escaped. Under all the circumstances, however, it may well besupposed that it was rather hard upon Mr Wentworth to recollect that hehad engaged to return to luncheon with the Squire, and to preparehimself after this momentous morning's work, to face all thecomplications of the family, where still Skelmersdale and Wentworth werehanging in the balance, and where the minds of his kith and kin werealready too full of excitement to leave much room for another event. Hewent away reluctantly enough out of the momentary paradise where hisPerpetual Curacy was a matter of utter indifference, if not a tenderpleasantry, which rather increased than diminished the happiness of themoment--into the ordinary daylight world, where it was a very seriousmatter, and where what the young couple would have to live upon becamethe real question to be considered. Mr Wentworth met Wodehouse as hewent out, which did not mend matters. The vagabond was loitering aboutin the garden, attended by one of Elsworthy's errand-boys, with whom hewas in earnest conversation, and stopped in his talk to give a sulky nodand "Good morning, " to which the Curate had no desire to respond morewarmly than was necessary. Lucy was thinking of nothing but himself, andperhaps a little of the "great work" at Wharfside, which her father'sillness and death had interrupted; but Mr Wentworth, who was only a man, remembered that Tom Wodehouse would be his brother-in-law with adistinct sensation of disgust, even in the moment of his triumph--whichis one instance of the perennial inequality between the two halves ofmankind. He had to brace himself up to the encounter of all his people, while she had to meet nothing less delightful than her own dreams. Thiswas how matters came to an issue in respect of Frank Wentworth'spersonal happiness. His worldly affairs were all astray as yet, and hehad not the most distant indication of any gleam of light dawning uponthe horizon which could reconcile his duty and honour with good fortuneand the delights of life. Meanwhile other discussions were going on inCarlingford, of vital importance to the two young people who had made uptheir minds to cast themselves upon Providence. And among the variousconversations which were being carried on about the same moment inrespect to Mr Wentworth--whose affairs, as was natural, were extensivelycanvassed in Grange Lane, as well as in other less exclusivequarters--it would be wrong to omit a remarkable consultation which tookplace in the Rectory, where Mrs Morgan sat in the midst of the greatbouquets of the drawing-room carpet, making up her first matrimonialdifficulty. It would be difficult to explain what influence thedrawing-room carpet in the Rectory had on the fortunes of the PerpetualCurate; but when Mr Wentworth's friends come to hear the entire outs andins of the business, it will be seen that it was not for nothing thatMr Proctor covered the floor of that pretty apartment with roses andlilies half a yard long. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

These were eventful days in Grange Lane, when gossip was not nearlyrapid enough to follow the march of events. When Mr Wentworth went tolunch with his family, the two sisters kept together in thedrawing-room, which seemed again re-consecrated to the purposes oflife. Lucy had not much inclination just at that moment to move out ofher chair; she was not sociable, to tell the truth, nor disposed totalk even about the new prospects which were brightening over both. She even took out her needlework, to the disgust of her sister. "Whenthere are so many things to talk about, and so much to be considered, "Miss Wodehouse said, with a little indignation; and wondered withinherself whether Lucy was really insensible to "what had happened, " orwhether the sense of duty was strong upon her little sister even inthe height of her happiness. A woman of greater experience ordiscrimination might have perceived that Lucy had retired into thatsacred silence, sweetest of all youthful privileges, in which shecould dream over to herself the wonderful hour which had just come toan end, and the fair future of which it was the gateway. As for MissWodehouse herself, she was in a flutter, and could not get over thesense of haste and confusion which this last new incident had broughtupon her. Things were going too fast around her, and the timid womanwas out of breath. Lucy's composure at such a moment, and, above all, the production of her needlework, was beyond the comprehension of theelder sister. 

"My dear, " said Miss Wodehouse, with an effort, "I don't doubt thatthese poor people are badly off, and I am sure it is very good of youto work for them; but if you will only think how many things there areto do! My darling, I am afraid you will have to--to make your owndresses in future, which is what I never thought to see, " she said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; "and we have not had any talkabout anything, Lucy, and there are so many things to think of!" MissWodehouse, who was moving about the room as she spoke, began to lifther own books and special property off the centre table. The bookswere principally ancient Annuals in pretty bindings, which norepresentation on Lucy's part could induce her to think out of date;and among her other possessions was a little desk in Indian mosaic, ofivory, which had been an institution in the house from Lucy's earliestrecollection. "And these are yours, Lucy dear, " said Miss Wodehouse, standing up on a chair to take down from the wall two little pictureswhich hung side by side. They were copies both, and neither of greatvalue; one representing the San Sisto Madonna, and the other a sweetSt Agnes, whom Lucy had in her earlier days taken to her heart. Lucy'sslumbering attention was roused by this sacrilegious act. She gave alittle scream, and dropped her work out of her hands. 

"What do I mean?" said Miss Wodehouse; "indeed, Lucy dear, we mustlook it in the face. It is not our drawing-room any longer, you know. "Here she made a pause, and sighed; but somehow a vision of the otherdrawing-room which was awaiting her in the new rectory, made theprospect less doleful than it might have been. She cleared up in asurprising way as she turned to look at her own property on the table. "My cousin Jack gave me this, " said the gentle woman, brushing alittle dust off her pretty desk. "When it came first, there wasnothing like it in Carlingford, for that was before Colonel Chiley andthose other Indian people had settled here. Jack was rather fond ofme in those days, you know, though I never cared for him, " the eldersister continued, with a smile. "Poor fellow! they said he was notvery happy when he married. " Though this was rather a sad fact, MissWodehouse announced it not without a certain gentle satisfaction. "And, Lucy dear, it is our duty to put aside our own things; they wereall presents, you know, " she said, standing up on the chair again toreach down the St Agnes, which, ever since Lucy had been confirmed, had hung opposite to her on the wall. 

"Oh, don't, don't!" cried Lucy. In that little bit of time, not morethan five minutes as it appeared, the familiar room, which had justheard the romance of her youth, had come to have a dismantled anddesolate look. The agent of this destruction, who saw in her mind'seye a new scene, altogether surpassing the old, looked complacentlyupon her work, and piled the abstracted articles on the top of eachother, with a pleasant sense of property. 

"And your little chair and work-table are yours, " said Miss Wodehouse;"they were always considered yours. You worked the chair yourself, though perhaps Miss Gibbons helped you a little; and the table youknow, was sent home the day you were eighteen. It was--a present, youremember. Don't cry, my darling, don't cry; oh, I am sure I did notmean anything!" cried Miss Wodehouse, putting down the St Agnes andflying to her sister, about whom she threw her arms. "My hands are alldusty, dear, " said the repentant woman; "but you know, Lucy, we mustlook it in the face, for it is not our drawing-room now. Tom may comein any day and say--oh, dear, dear, here is some one comingup-stairs!"

Lucy extricated herself from her sister's arms when she heardfootsteps outside. "If it is anybody who has a right to come, Isuppose we are able to receive them, " she said, and sat erect over herneedlework, with a changed countenance, not condescending so much asto look towards the door. 

"But what if it should be Tom? Oh, Lucy dear, don't be uncivil tohim, " said the elder sister. Miss Wodehouse even made a furtiveattempt to replace the things, in which she was indignantly stopped byLucy. "But, my dear, perhaps it is Tom, " said the alarmed woman, andsank trembling into a chair against the St Agnes, which had just beendeposited there. 

"It does not matter who it is, " said Lucy, with dignity. For her ownpart, she felt too much aggrieved to mention his name--aggrieved byher own ignorance, by the deception that had been practised upon her, by the character of the man whom she was obliged to call her brother, and chiefly by his existence, which was the principal grievance ofall. Lucy's brief life had been embellished, almost ever since she hadbeen capable of independent action, by deeds and thoughts of mercy. With her whole heart she was a disciple of Him who came to seek thelost; notwithstanding, a natural human sentiment in her heartprotested against the existence of this man, who had brought shame anddistress into the family without any act of theirs, and who injuredeverybody he came in contact with. When the thought of Rosa Elsworthyoccurred to her, a burning blush came upon Lucy's cheek--why were suchmen permitted in God's world? To be sure, when she came to be aware ofwhat she was thinking, Lucy felt guilty, and called herself aPharisee, and said a prayer in her heart for the man who had upset allher cherished ideas of her family and home; but, after all, _that_ wasan after-thought, and did not alter her instinctive sense of repulsionand indignation. All this swept rapidly through her mind while she satawaiting the entrance of the person or persons who were approachingthe door. "If it is the--owner of the house, it will be best to tellhim what things you mean to remove, " said Lucy; and before MissWodehouse could answer, the door was opened. They started, however, toperceive not Wodehouse, but a personage of very different appearance, who came in with an easy air of polite apology, and looked at themwith eyes which recalled to Lucy the eyes which had been gazing intoher own scarcely an hour ago. "Pardon me, " said this unlooked-forvisitor; "your brother, Miss Wodehouse, finds some difficulty inexplaining himself to relations from whom he has been separated solong. Not to interfere with family privacy, will you let me assist atthe conference?" said Jack Wentworth. "My brother, I understand, is afriend of yours, and your brother--is a--hem--friend of mine, " thediplomatist added, scarcely able to avoid making a wry face over thestatement. Wodehouse came in behind, looking an inch or two taller forthat acknowledgment, and sat down, confronting his sisters, who werestanding on the defensive. The heir, too, had a strong sense ofproperty, as was natural, and the disarrangement of the room struckhim in that point of view, especially as Miss Wodehouse continued toprop herself up against the St Agnes in the back of her chair. Wodehouse looked from the wall to the table, and saw what appeared tohim a clear case of intended spoliation. "By Jove! they didn't mean togo empty-handed, " said the vagabond, who naturally judged according tohis own standard, and knew no better. Upon which Lucy, rising withyouthful state and dignity, took the explanation upon herself. 

"I do not see why we should have the mortification of a spectator, "said Lucy, who already, having been engaged three-quarters of an hour, felt deeply disinclined to reveal the weak points of her own family tothe inspection of the Wentworths. "All that there is to explain can bedone very simply. Thank you, I will not sit down. Up to this time wemay be allowed to imagine ourselves in our own--in our father's house. What we have to say is simple enough. "

"But pardon me, my dear Miss Wodehouse--" said Jack Wentworth. 

"My sister is Miss Wodehouse, " said Lucy. "What there is to settle hadbetter be arranged with our--our brother. If he will tell us preciselywhen he wishes us to go away, we shall be ready. Mary is going to bemarried, " she went on, turning round so as to face Wodehouse, andaddressing him pointedly, though she did not look at him--to theexclusion of Jack, who, experienced man as he was, felt disconcerted, and addressed himself with more precaution to a task which was less easythan he supposed. 

"Oh, Lucy!" cried Miss Wodehouse, with a blush worthy of eighteen. Itwas perhaps the first time that the fact had been so broadly stated, and the sudden announcement made before two men overwhelmed the timidwoman. Then she was older than Lucy, and had picked up in the courseof her career one or two inevitable scraps of experience, and shecould not but wonder with a momentary qualm what Mr Proctor mightthink of his brother-in-law. Lucy, who thought Mr Proctor only toowell off, went on without regarding her sister's exclamation. 

"I do not know when the marriage is to be--I don't suppose they havefixed it yet, " said Lucy; "but it appears to me that it would save usall some trouble if we were allowed to remain until that time. I donot mean to ask any favour, " she said, with a little more sharpnessand less dignity. "We could pay rent for that matter, if--if it weredesired. She is your sister, " said Lucy, suddenly looking Wodehouse inthe face, "as well as mine. I daresay she has done as much for you asshe has for me. I don't ask any favour for her--but I would cut off mylittle finger if that would please her, " cried the excited youngwoman, with a wildness of illustration so totally out of keeping withthe matter referred to, that Miss Wodehouse, in the midst of heremotion, could scarcely restrain a scream of terror; "and you toomight be willing to do something; you cannot have any kind of feelingfor me, " Lucy continued, recovering herself; "but you might perhapshave some feeling for Mary. If we can be permitted to remain until hermarriage takes place, it may perhaps bring about--a feeling--morelike--relations; and I shall be able to--"

"Forgive you, " Lucy was about to say, but fortunately stopped herselfin time; for it was the fact of his existence that she had to forgive, and naturally such an amount of toleration was difficult to explain. As for Wodehouse himself, he listened to this appeal with very mingledfeelings. Some natural admiration and liking woke in his dull mind asLucy spoke. He was not destitute of good impulses, nor of the ordinaryhuman affections. His little sister was pretty, and a lady, and cleverenough to put Jack Wentworth much more in the background than usual. He said, "By Jove" to himself three or four times over in his beard, and showed a little emotion when she said he could have no feeling forher. At that point of Lucy's address he moved about uneasily in hischair, and plucked at his beard, and felt himself anything butcomfortable. "By Jove! I never had a chance, " the prodigal said, inhis undertone. "I might have cared a deal for her if I had had achance. She might have done a fellow good, by Jove!" mutterings ofwhich Lucy took no manner of notice, but proceeded with her speech. When she had ended, and it became apparent that an answer was expectedof him, Wodehouse flushed all over with the embarrassment of theposition. He cleared his throat, he shifted his eyes, which wereembarrassed by Lucy's gaze, he pushed his chair from the table, andmade various attempts to collect himself, but at last ended by apitiful appeal to Jack Wentworth, who had been looking seriously on. "You might come to a fellow's assistance!" cried Wodehouse. "By Jove!it was for that you came here. "

"The Miss Wodehouses evidently prefer to communicate with their brotherdirect, " said Jack Wentworth, "which is a very natural sentiment. If Iinterfere, it is simply because I have had the advantage of talking thematter over, and understanding a little of what you mean. MissWodehouse, your brother is not disposed to act the part of a domestictyrant. He has come here to offer you the house, which must have so manytender associations for you, not for a short period, as you wish, butfor--"

"I didn't know she was going to be married!" exclaimed Wodehouse--"thatmakes all the difference, by Jove! Lucy will marry fast enough; but asfor Mary, I never thought she would hook any one at her time of life, "said the vagabond, with a rude laugh. He turned to Lucy, not knowing anybetter, and with some intention of pleasing her; but being met by a lookof indignation under which he faltered, he went back to his natural rôleof sulky insolence. "By Jove! when I gave in to make such an offer, Inever thought she had a chance of getting married, " said the heir. "Iaint going to give what belongs to me to another man--"

"Your brother wishes, " said Jack Wentworth, calmly, "to make over thehouse and furniture as it stands to you and your sister, Miss Wodehouse. Of course it is not to be expected that he should be sorry to get hisfather's property; but he is sorry that there should be no--no provisionfor you. He means that you should have the house--"

"But I never thought she was going to be married, by Jove!" protestedthe rightful owner. "Look here, Molly; you shall have the furniture. The house would sell for a good bit of money. I tell you, Wentworth--"

Jack Wentworth did not move from the mantlepiece where he was standing, but he cast a glance upon his unlucky follower which froze the words onhis lips. "My good fellow, you are quite at liberty to decline mymediation in your affairs. Probably you can manage them better your ownway, " said Wodehouse's hero. "I can only beg the Miss Wodehouses topardon my intrusion. " Jack Wentworth's first step towards the door letloose a flood of nameless terrors upon the soul of his victim. If hewere abandoned by his powerful protector, what would become of him? Hisvery desire of money, and the avarice which prompted him to grudgemaking any provision for his sisters, was, after all, not real avarice, but the spendthrift's longing for more to spend. The house which he wassentenced to give up represented not so much gold and silver, but somany pleasures, fine dinners, and bad company. He could order thedinners by himself, it is true, and get men like himself to eat them;but the fine people--the men who had once been fine, and who stillretained a certain tarnished glory--were, so far as Wodehouse wasconcerned, entirely in Jack Wentworth's keeping. He made a piteousappeal to his patron as the great man turned to go away. 

"I don't see what good it can do _you_ to rob a poor fellow!" criedWodehouse. "But look here, I aint going to turn against your advice. I'll give it them, by Jove, for life--that is, for Mary's life, " saidthe munificent brother. "She's twenty years older than Lucy--"

"How do you dare to subject us to such insults?" cried the indignantLucy, whose little hand clenched involuntarily in her passion. She hada great deal of self-control, but she was not quite equal to such anemergency; and it was all she could do to keep from stamping her foot, which was the only utterance of rage possible to a gentlewoman in herposition. "I would rather see my father's house desecrated by youliving in it, " she cried, passionately, "than accept it as a gift fromyour hands. Mary, we are not obliged to submit to this. Let us rathergo away at once. I will not remain in the same room with this man!"cried Lucy. She was so overwhelmed with her unwonted passion that shelost all command of the position, and even of herself, and was falsefor the moment to all her sweet codes of womanly behaviour. "How dareyou, sir!" she cried in the sudden storm for which nobody was prepared. "We will remove the things belonging to us, with which nobody has anyright to interfere, and we will leave immediately. Mary, come with me!"When she had said this, Lucy swept out of the room, pale as a littlefury, and feeling in her heart a savage female inclination to strikeJack Wentworth, who opened the door for her, with her little whiteclenched hand. Too much excited to remark whether her sister hadfollowed her, Lucy ran up-stairs to her room, and there gave way to theinevitable tears. Coming to herself after that was a terribly humblingprocess to the little Anglican. She had never fallen into a "passion"before that she knew of, certainly never since nursery times; and oftenenough her severe serene girlhood had looked reproving and surprisedupon the tumults of Prickett's Lane, awing the belligerents into atleast temporary silence. Now poor Lucy sat and cried over her downfall;she had forgotten herself; she had been conscious of an inclination tostamp, to scold, even to strike, in the vehemence of her indignation;and she was utterly overpowered by the thought of her guiltiness. "The very first temptation!" she said to herself; and made terriblereflections upon her own want of strength and endurance. To-day, too, of all days, when God had been so good to her! "If I yield to the firsttemptation like this, how shall I ever endure to the end?" cried Lucy, and in her heart thought, with a certain longing, of the sacrament ofpenance, and tried to think what she could do that would be mostdisagreeable, to the mortifying of the flesh. Perhaps if she hadpossessed a more lively sense of humour, another view of the subjectmight have struck Lucy; but humour, fortunately for the unity of humansentiment, is generally developed at a later period of life, and Lucy'sfit of passion only made her think with greater tenderness andtoleration of her termagants in Prickett's Lane. 

The three who were left down-stairs were in their different waysimpressed by Lucy's passion. Jack Wentworth, being a man of humour andcultivation, was amused, but respectful, as having still a certainfaculty of appreciating absolute purity when he saw it. As forWodehouse, he gave another rude laugh, but was cowed, in spite ofhimself, and felt involuntarily what a shabby wretch he was, recognising that fact more impressively from the contempt of Lucy'spale face than he could have done through hours of argument. MissWodehouse, for her part, though very anxious and nervous, was notwithout an interest in the question under discussion. _She_ was notspecially horrified by her brother, or anything he could say or do. Hewas Tom to her--a boy with whom she had once played, and whom she hadshielded with all her sisterly might in his first transgressions. Shehad suffered a great deal more by his means than Lucy could eversuffer, and consequently was more tolerant of him. She kept her seatwith the St Agnes in the chair behind, and watched the course ofevents with anxious steadiness. She did not care for money any morethan Lucy did; but she could not help thinking it would be verypleasant if she could produce one good action on "poor Tom's" part toplead for him against any possible criticisms of the future. MissWodehouse was old enough to know that her Rector was not an idealhero, but an ordinary man, and it was quite possible that he mightpoint a future moral now and then with "that brother of yours, mydear. " The elder sister waited accordingly, with her heart beatingquick, to know the decision, very anxious that she might have at leastone generous deed to record to the advantage of poor Tom. 

"I think we are quite decided on the point, " said Jack Wentworth. "Knowing your sentiments, Wodehouse, I left directions with Watersabout the papers. I think you will find him to be trusted, MissWodehouse, if you wish to consult him about letting or selling--"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Wodehouse, under his breath. 

"Which, I suppose, " continued the superb Jack, "you will wish to dounder the pleasant circumstances, upon which I beg to offer you mycongratulations. Now, Tom, my good fellow, I am at your service. Ithink we have done our business here. "

Wodehouse got up in his sulky reluctant way like a lazy dog. "Isuppose you won't try to move the furniture now?" he said. These werethe only adieux he intended to make, and perhaps they might have beenexpressed with still less civility, had not Jack Wentworth beenstanding waiting for him at the door. 

"Oh, Tom! I am so thankful you have done it!" cried Miss Wodehouse. "It is not that I care for the money; but oh, Tom, I am so glad tothink nobody can say anything now. " She followed them wistfully to thedoor, not giving up hopes of a kinder parting. "I think it is verykind and nice of you, and what dear papa would have wished, " said theelder sister, forgetting how all her father's plans had been broughtto nothing; "and of course you will live here all the same?" she said, with a little eagerness, "that is, till--till--as long as we arehere--"

"Good-bye, Miss Wodehouse, " said Jack Wentworth. "I don't think eitheryour brother or I will stay much longer in Carlingford. You mustaccept my best wishes for your happiness all the same. "

"You are very kind, I am sure, " said the embarrassed bride; "and oh, Tom, you will surely say good-bye? Say good-bye once as if you meantit; don't go away as if you did not care. Tom, I always was very fondof you; and don't you feel a little different to us, now you've doneus a kindness?" cried Miss Wodehouse, going out after him to thelanding-place. But Wodehouse was in no humour to be gracious. Insteadof paying any attention to her, he looked regretfully at the propertyhe had lost. 

"Good-bye, " he said, vaguely. "By Jove! I know better than JackWentworth does the value of property. We might have had a jolly month atHomburg out of that old place, " said the prodigal, with regret, as hewent down the old-fashioned oak stair. That was his farewell to thehouse which he had entered so disastrously on the day of his father'sfuneral. He followed his leader with a sulky aspect through the garden, not venturing to disobey, but yet feeling the weight of his chains. Andthis was how Wodehouse accomplished his personal share in the gift tohis sisters, of which Miss Wodehouse told everybody that it was "so goodof Tom!"

CHAPTER XLIV. 

"Going to be married!" said the Squire; "and to a sister of--I thoughtyou told me she was as old as Dora, Frank? I did not expect to meet withany further complications, " the old man said, plaintively: "of courseyou know very well I don't object to your marrying; but why on earth didyou let me speak of Wentworth Rectory to Huxtable?" cried Mr Wentworth. He was almost more impatient about this new variety in the familycircumstances than he had been of more serious family distresses. "Godbless me, sir, " said the Squire, "what do you mean by it? You take meansto affront your aunts and lose Skelmersdale; and then you put it into myhead to have Mary at Wentworth; and then you quarrel with the Rector, and get into hot water in Carlingford; and, to make an end of all, youcoolly propose to an innocent young woman, and tell me you are going tomarry--what on earth do you mean?"

"I am going to marry some time, sir, I hope, " said the PerpetualCurate, with more cheerfulness than he felt; "but not at the presentmoment. Of course we both know that is impossible. I should like youto come with me and see her before you leave Carlingford. She wouldlike it, and so should I. "

"Well, well, " said the Squire. Naturally, having been married so oftenhimself, he could not refuse a certain response to such a call upon hissympathy. "I hope you have made a wise choice, " said the experiencedfather, not without a sigh; "a great deal depends upon that--not onlyyour own comfort, sir, but very often the character of your children andthe credit of the family. You may laugh, " said Mr Wentworth, to whom itwas no laughing matter; "but long before you are as old as I am, youwill know the truth of what I say. Your mother, Frank, was a specimen ofwhat a woman ought to be--not to speak of her own children, there wasnobody else who ever knew how to manage Gerald and Jack. Of course I amnot speaking of Mrs Wentworth, who has her nursery to occupy her, " saidthe Squire, apologetically. "I hope you have made a judicious choice. "

"I hope so, too, " said Frank, who was somewhat amused by this view ofthe question--"though I am not aware of having exercised any specialchoice in the matter, " he added, with a laugh. "However, I want you tocome with me and see her, and then you will be able to judge foryourself. "

The Squire shook his head, and looked as if he had travelled back intothe heavy roll of family distresses. "I don't mean to upbraid you, Frank, " he said--"I daresay you have done what you thought was yourduty--but I think you might have taken a little pains to satisfyyour aunt Leonora. You see what Gerald has made of it, with allhis decorations and nonsense. That is a dreadful drawback with youclergymen. You fix your eyes so on one point that you get to thinkthings important that are not in the least important. Could you imaginea man of the world like Jack--he is not what I could wish, but still heis a man of the world, " said the Squire, who was capable of contradictinghimself with perfect composure without knowing it. "Can you imagine_him_ risking his prospects for a bit of external decoration? I don'tmind it myself, " said Mr Wentworth, impartially--"I don't pretend tosee, for my own part, why flowers at Easter should be considered moresuperstitious than holly at Christmas; but, bless my soul, sir, whenyour aunt thought so, what was the good of running right in her face forsuch a trifle? I never could understand you parsons, " the Squire said, with an impatient sigh--"nobody, that I know of, ever considered memercenary; but to ruin your own prospects, all for a trumpery bunch offlowers, and then to come and tell me you want to marry--"

This was before luncheon, when Frank and his father were together inthe dining-room waiting for the other members of the family, who beganto arrive at this moment, and prevented any further discussion. Afterall, perhaps, it was a little ungenerous of the Squire to press hisson so hard on the subject of those innocent Easter lilies, long agowithered, which certainly, looked at from this distance, did notappear important enough to sacrifice any prospects for. This was allthe harder upon the unfortunate Curate, as even at the time hisconviction of their necessity had not proved equal to the satisfactorysettlement of the question. Miss Wentworth's cook was an _artiste_ soirreproachable that the luncheon provided was in itself perfect; butnotwithstanding it was an uncomfortable meal. Miss Leonora, inconsequence of the contest going on in her own mind, was in anexplosive and highly dangerous condition, not safe to be spoken to;and as for the Squire, he could not restrain the chance utterances ofhis impatience. Frank, who did his best to make himself agreeable asmagnanimity required, had the mortification of hearing himselfdiscussed in different tones of disapprobation while he ate his coldbeef; for Mr Wentworth's broken sentences were not long of putting theparty in possession of the new event, and the Perpetual Curate foundhimself the object of many wondering and pitying glances, in none ofwhich could he read pure sympathy, much less congratulation. EvenGerald looked at him with a little elevation of his eyebrows, as ifwondering how anybody could take the trouble to occupy his mind withsuch trifling temporal affairs as love and marriage. It was awonderful relief to the unfortunate Curate when Miss Leonora hadfinished her glass of madeira, and rose from the table. He had noinclination to go up-stairs, for his own part. "When you are ready, sir, you will find me in the garden, " he said to his father, who wasto leave Carlingford next morning, and whom he had set his heart ontaking to see Lucy. But his walk in the garden was far from beingdelightful to Frank. It even occurred to him, for a moment, that itwould be a very good thing if a man could cut himself adrift from hisrelations at such a crisis of his life. After all, it was his ownbusiness--the act most essentially personal of his entire existence;and then, with a little softening, he began to think of the girls athome--of the little sister, who had a love-story of her own; and ofLetty, who was Frank's favourite, and had often confided to him theenthusiasm she would feel for his bride. "If she is nice, " Letty wasin the habit of adding, "and of course she will be nice, "--and at thatthought the heart of the young lover escaped, and put forth its wings, and went off into that heaven of ideal excellence and beauty, moresweet, because more vague, than anything real, which stands instead ofthe old working-day skies and clouds at such a period of life. He hadto drop down from a great height, and get rid in all haste of hiscelestial pinions, when he heard his aunt Dora calling him; and hisself-command was not sufficient to conceal, as he obeyed that summons, a certain annoyed expression in his face. 

"Frank, " said Miss Dora, coming softly after him with her handkerchiefheld over her head as a defence from the sun--"oh, Frank, I want tospeak to you. I couldn't say anything at lunch because of everybodybeing there. If you would only stop a moment till I get my breath. Frank, my dear boy, I wish you joy. I do wish you joy with all myheart. I should so like just to go and kiss her, and tell her I shalllove her for your sake. "

"You will soon love her for her own sake, " said Frank, to whom eventhis simple-minded sympathy was very grateful; "she is a great dealbetter than I am. "

"There is just one thing, " said Miss Dora. "Oh, Frank, my dear, youknow I don't pretend to be clever, like Leonora, or able to give youadvice; but there _is_ one thing. You know you have nothing to marryupon, and all has gone wrong. You are not to have Wentworth, and youare not to have Skelmersdale, and I think the family is going out ofits senses not to see who is the most worthy. You have got nothing tolive upon, my dear, dear boy!" said Miss Dora, withdrawing thehandkerchief from her head in the excitement of the moment to apply itto her eyes. 

"That is true enough, " said the Perpetual Curate; "but then we havenot made up our minds that we must marry immediately--"

"Frank, " said aunt Dora, with solemnity, breaking into his speech, "there is just _one_ thing; and I can't hold my tongue, though it maybe very foolish, and they will all say it is my fault. " It was a veryquiet summer-day, but still there was a faint rustle in the brancheswhich alarmed the timid woman. She put her hand upon her nephew's arm, and hastened him on to the little summer-house in the wall, which washer special retirement. "Nobody ever comes here, " said Miss Dora;"they will never think of looking for us here. I am sure I neverinterfere with Leonora's arrangements, nor take anything upon myself;but there is one thing, Frank--"

"Yes, " said the Curate, "I understand what you mean: you are going towarn me about love in a cottage, and how foolish it would be to marryupon nothing; but, my dear aunt, we are not going to do anything rash;there is no such dreadful haste; don't be agitated about it, " said theyoung man, with a smile. He was half amused and half irritated by theearnestness which almost took away the poor lady's breath. 

"You _don't_ know what I mean, " said aunt Dora. "Frank, you know verywell I never interfere; but I can't help being agitated when I seeyou on the brink of such a precipice. Oh, my dear boy, don't beover-persuaded. There _is_ one thing, and I must say it if I shoulddie. " She had to pause a little to recover her voice, for haste andexcitement had a tendency to make her inarticulate. "Frank, " saidMiss Dora again, more solemnly than ever, "whatever you may be obligedto do--though you were to write novels, or take pupils, or dotranslations--oh, Frank, don't look at me like that, as if I was goingcrazy. Whatever you may have to do, oh my dear, there is onething--don't go and break people's hearts, and put it off, and put itoff, till it never happens!" cried the trembling little woman, with asudden burst of tears. "Don't say you can wait, for you can't wait, andyou oughtn't to!" sobbed Miss Dora. She subsided altogether into herhandkerchief and her chair as she uttered this startling and whollyunexpected piece of advice, and lay there in a little heap, alldissolving and floating away, overcome with her great effort, while hernephew stood looking at her from a height of astonishment almost tooextreme for wondering. If the trees could have found a voice andcounselled his immediate marriage, he could scarcely have been moresurprised. 

"You think I am losing my senses too, " said aunt Dora; "but that isbecause you don't understand me. Oh Frank, my dear boy, there was oncea time!--perhaps everybody has forgotten it except me, but I have notforgotten it. They treated me like a baby, and Leonora had everythingher own way. I don't mean to say it was not for the best, " said theaggrieved woman. "I know everything is for the best, if we could butsee it: and perhaps Leonora was right when she said I never could havestruggled with--with a family, nor lived on a poor man's income. Mydear, it was before your uncle Charley died; and when we became rich, it--didn't matter, " said Miss Dora; "it was all over before then. OhFrank! if I hadn't experience I wouldn't say a word. I don't interfereabout your opinions, like Leonora. There is just _one_ thing, " criedthe poor lady through her tears. Perhaps it was the recollection ofthe past which overcame Miss Dora, perhaps the force of habit whichhad made it natural for her to cry when she was much moved; but thefact is certain, that the Squire, when he came to the door of thesummer-house in search of Frank, found his sister weeping bitterly, and his son making efforts to console her, in which some sympathy wasmingled with a certain half-amusement. Frank, like Lucy, felt temptedto laugh at the elderly romance; and yet his heart expanded warmly tohis tender little foolish aunt, who, after all, might once have beenyoung and in love like himself, though it was so odd to realise it. MrWentworth, for his part, saw no humour whatever in the scene. Hethought nothing less than that some fresh complication had takenplace. Jack had committed some new enormity, or there was bad newsfrom Charley in Malta, or unpleasant letters had come from home. "Bless my soul, sir, something new has happened, " said the Squire; andhe was scarcely reassured, when Miss Dora stumbled up from her chair ingreat confusion, and wiped the tears from her eyes. He was suspicious ofthis meeting in the summer-house, which seemed a quite unnecessaryproceeding to Mr Wentworth; and though he flattered himself heunderstood women, he could not give any reasonable explanation tohimself of Dora's tears. 

"It is nothing--nothing at all, " said Miss Dora: "it was not Frank'sdoing in the least; he is always so considerate, and such a dearfellow. Thank you, my dear boy; my head is a little better; I think Iwill go in and lie down, " said the unlucky aunt. "You are not to mindme now, for I have quite got over my little attack; I always was sonervous, " said Miss Dora; "and I sometimes wonder whether it isn't theWentworth complaint coming on, " she added, with a natural femaleartifice which was not without its effect. 

"I wish you would not talk nonsense, " said the Squire. "The Wentworthcomplaint is nothing to laugh at, but you are perfectly aware that itnever attacks women. " Mr Wentworth spoke with a little naturalirritation, displeased to have his prerogative interfered with. When aman has all the suffering attendant upon a special complaint, it ishard not to have all the dignity. He felt so much and so justlyannoyed by Miss Dora's vain pretensions, that he forgot his anxietyabout the secret conference in the summer-house. "Women take suchfantastic ideas into their heads, " he said to his son as they wentaway together. "Your aunt Dora is the kindest soul in the world; butnow and then, sir, she is very absurd, " said the Squire. He could notget this presumptuous notion out of his head, but returned to it againand again, even after they had got into Grange Lane. "It has been inour family for two hundred years, " said Mr Wentworth; "and I don'tthink there is a single instance of its attacking a woman--not evenslightly, sir, " the Squire added, with irritation, as if Frank hadtaken the part of the female members of the family, which indeed theCurate had no thought of doing. 

Miss Dora, for her part, having made this very successful diversion, escaped to the house, and to her own room, where she indulged in aheadache all the afternoon, and certain tender recollections whichwere a wonderful resource at all times to the soft-hearted woman. "Oh, my dear boy, don't be over-persuaded, " she had whispered into Frank'sear as she left him; and her remonstrance, simple as it was, had nodoubt produced a considerable effect upon the mind of the PerpetualCurate. He could not help thinking, as they emerged into the road, that it was chiefly the impatient and undutiful who secured theirhappiness. Those who were constant and patient, and able to denythemselves, instead of being rewarded for their higher qualities, were, on the contrary, put to the full test of the strength that wasin them; while those who would not wait attained what they wanted, andon the whole, as to other matters, got on just as well as theirstronger-minded neighbours. This germ of thought, it may be supposed, was stimulated into very warm life by the reflection that Lucy wouldhave to leave Carlingford with her sister, without any definiteprospect of returning again; and a certain flush of impatience cameover the young man, not unnatural in the circumstances. It seemed tohim that everybody else took their own way without waiting; and whyshould it be so certain that he alone, whose "way" implied harm to noone, should be the only man condemned to wait? Thus it will be seenthat the "just one thing" insisted on by Miss Dora was far from beingwithout effect on the mind of her nephew; upon whom, indeed, theevents of the morning had wrought various changes of sentiment. Whenhe walked up Grange Lane for the first time, it had been without anyacknowledged intention of opening his mind to Lucy, and yet he hadreturned along the same prosaic and unsympathetic line of road heraccepted lover; her accepted lover, triumphant in that fact, butwithout the least opening of any hope before him as to the conclusionof the engagement, which prudence had no hand in making. Now thefootsteps of the Perpetual Curate fell firmly, not to say a littleimpatiently, upon the road over which he had carried so many varyingthoughts. He was as penniless as ever, and as prospectless; but in thetossings of his natural impatience the young man had felt the reinshang loosely about his head, and knew that he was no more restrainedthan other men, but might, if he chose it, have his way like the restof the world. It was true enough that he might have to pay for itafter, as other people had done; but in the mean time the sense thathe was his own master was sweet, and to have his will for once seemedno more than his right in the world. While these rebellious thoughtswere going on in the Curate's mind, his father, who suspected nothing, went steadily by his side, not without a little reluctance at thethought of the errand on which he was bound. "But they can't marry foryears, and nobody can tell what may happen in that time, " Mr Wentworthsaid to himself, with the callousness of mature age, not suspectingthe different ideas that were afloat in the mind of his son. Perhaps, on the whole, he was not sorry that Skelmersdale was destinedotherwise, and that Huxtable had been spoken to about WentworthRectory; for, of course, Frank would have plunged into marriage atonce if he had been possessed of anything to marry on; and it lookedprovidential under the circumstances, as the Squire argued withhimself privately, that at such a crisis the Perpetual Curate shouldhave fallen between two stools of possible preferment, and shouldstill be obliged to content himself with St Roque's. It was hard forMr Wentworth to reconcile himself to the idea that the wife of hisfavourite son should be the sister of--; for the Squire forgot thathis own girls were Jack Wentworth's sisters, and as such might beobjected to in their turn by some other father. So the two gentlemenwent to see Lucy, who was then in a very humble frame of mind, justrecovered from her passion--one of them rather congratulating himselfon the obstacles which lay before the young couple, the other tossinghis youthful head a little in the first impulses of self-will, feelingthe reins lie loose upon him, and making up his mind to have his ownway. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

While Mr Frank Wentworth's affairs were thus gathering to a crisis, other events likely to influence his fate were also taking place inCarlingford. Breakfast had been served a full half-hour later thanusual in the Rectory, which had not improved the temper of thehousehold. Everything was going on with the most wonderful quietnessin that well-arranged house; but it was a quietness which would havemade a sensitive visitor uncomfortable, and which woke horribleprivate qualms in the mind of the Rector. As for Mrs Morgan, shefulfilled all her duties with a precision which was terrible tobehold: instead of taking part in the conversation as usual, andhaving her own opinion, she had suddenly become possessed of such aspirit of meekness and acquiescence as filled her husband with dismay. The Rector was fond of his wife, and proud of her good sense, and herjudgment, and powers of conversation. If she had been angry and foundfault with him, he might have understood that mode of procedure; butas she was not angry, but only silent, the excellent man was terriblydisconcerted, and could not tell what to do. He had done all he couldto be conciliatory, and had already entered upon a great manyexplanations which had come to nothing for want of any response; andnow she sat at the head of the table making tea with an imperturbablecountenance, sometimes making little observations about the news, perfectly calm and dignified, but taking no part in anything moreinteresting, and turning off any reference that was made to her in themost skilful manner. "Mr Morgan knows I never take any part in thegossip of Carlingford, " she said to Mr Proctor, without any intentionof wounding that good man; and he who had been in the midst ofsomething about Mr Wentworth came to an abrupt stop with the sense ofhaving shown himself as a gossip, which was very injurious to hisdignity. The late Rector, indeed, occupied a very uncomfortableposition between the married people thus engaged in the absorbingexcitement of their first quarrel. The quiet little arrows, which MrsMorgan intended only for her husband, grazed and stung him as theypassed, without missing at the same time their intended aim; and hewas the auditor, besides, of a great deal of information intended bythe Rector for his wife's benefit, to which Mrs Morgan paid no mannerof attention. Mr Proctor was not a man of very lively observation, buthe could not quite shut his eyes to the position of affairs; and thenatural effect upon his mind, in the circumstances, was to turn histhoughts towards his mild Mary, whom he did not quite recognise as yetunder her Christian name. He called her Miss Wodehouse in his hearteven while in the act of making comparisons very unfavourable to theRector's wife, and then he introduced benevolently the subject of hisnew rectory, which surely must be safe ground. 

"It is a pretty little place, " Mr Proctor said, with satisfaction: "ofcourse it is but a small living compared to Carlingford. I hope youwill come and see me, after--it is furnished, " said the bashfulbridegroom: "it is a nuisance to have all that to look after for one'sself--"

"I hope you will have somebody to help you, " said Mrs Morgan, with alittle earnestness; "gentlemen don't understand about such things. When you have one piece of furniture in bad taste, it spoils a wholeroom--carpets, for instance--" said the Rector's wife. She looked atMr Proctor so severely that the good man faltered, though he was notaware of the full extent of his guiltiness. 

"I am sure I don't know, " he said: "I told the man here to provideeverything as it ought to be; and I think we were very successful, "continued Mr Proctor, with a little complacency: to be sure, they werein the dining-room at the moment, being still at the breakfast-table. "Buller knows a great deal about that sort of thing, but then he is tooecclesiological for my taste. I like things to look cheerful, " said theunsuspicious man. "Buller is the only man that could be reckoned on ifany living were to fall vacant. It is very odd nowadays how indifferentmen are about the Church. I don't say that it is not very pleasant atAll-Souls; but a house of one's own, you know--" said Mr Proctor, looking with a little awkward enthusiasm at his recently-marriedbrother; "of course I mean a sphere--a career--"

"Oh, ah, yes, " said Mr Morgan, with momentary gruffness; "buteverything has its drawbacks. I don't think Buller would take aliving. He knows too well what's comfortable, " said the suffering man. "The next living that falls will have to go to some one out of thecollege, " said Mr Morgan. He spoke with a tone of importance andsignificance which moved Mr Proctor, though he was not rapid in hisperceptions, to look across at him for further information. 

"Most people have some crotchet or other, " said the Rector. "When aman's views are clear about subscription, and that sort of thing, hegenerally goes as far wrong the other way. Buller might go out toCentral Africa, perhaps, if there was a bishopric of Wahuma--or whatis the name, my dear, in that Nile book?"

"I have not read it, " said Mrs Morgan, and she made no further remark. 

Thus discouraged in his little attempt at amity, the Rector resumedafter a moment, "Wentworth's brother has sent in his resignation tohis bishop. There is no doubt about it any longer. I thought thatdelusion had been over, at all events; and I suppose now Wentworthwill be provided for, " said Mr Morgan, not without a little anxiety. 

"No; they are all equally crotchety, I think, " said Mr Proctor. "Iknow about them, through my--my connection with the Wodehouses, youknow. I should not wonder, for my own part, if he went after hisbrother, who is a very intelligent man, though mistaken, " the lateRector added, with respect. "As for Frank Wentworth, he is a littlehot-headed. I had a long conversation the other night with the elderbrother. I tried to draw him out about Burgon's book, but he declinedto enter into the question. Frank has made up his mind to stay inCarlingford. I understand he thinks it right on account of hischaracter being called in question here; though, of course, no one inhis senses could have had any doubt how _that_ would turn out, " saidMr Proctor, forgetting that he himself had been very doubtful aboutthe Curate. "From what I hear, they are all very crotchety, " hecontinued, and finished his breakfast calmly, as if that settled thequestion. As for Mrs Morgan, even this interesting statement had noeffect upon her. She looked up suddenly at one moment as if intendingto dart a reproachful glance at her husband, but bethought herself intime, and remained passive as before; not the less, however, was shemoved by what she had just heard. It was not Mr Wentworth she wasthinking of, except in a very secondary degree. What occupied her, andmade her reflections bitter, was the thought that her husband--the manto whom she had been faithful for ten weary years--had taken himselfdown off the pedestal on which she had placed him. "To make idols, andto find them clay, " she said plaintively in her own mind. Women wereall fools to spend their time and strength in constructing suchpedestals, Mrs Morgan thought to herself with bitterness; and as tothe men who were so perpetually dethroning themselves, how were theyto be designated? To think of her William, of whom she had once made ahero, ruining thus, for a little petty malice and rivalry, theprospects of another man! While these painful reflections were goingthrough her mind, she was putting away her tea-caddy, and preparing toleave the gentlemen to their own affairs. "We shall see you at dinnerat six, " she said, with a constrained little smile, to Mr Proctor, andwent up-stairs with her key-basket in her hand without taking anyspecial notice of the Rector. Mr Leeson was to come to dinner that daylegitimately by invitation, and Mrs Morgan, who felt it would be alittle consolation to disappoint the hungry Curate for once, wasmaking up her mind, as she went up-stairs, not to have the All-Soulspudding, of which he showed so high an appreciation. It almost seemedto her as if this spark of ill-nature was receiving a summarychastisement, when she heard steps ascending behind her. Mrs Morganobjected to have men lounging about her drawing-room in the morning. She thought Mr Proctor was coming to bestow a little more of hisconfidence upon her, and perhaps to consult her about his furnishing;and being occupied by her own troubles, she had no patience for atiresome, middle-aged lover, who no doubt was going to disappoint anddisenchant another woman. She sat down, accordingly, with a sigh ofimpatience at her work-table, turning her back to the door. Perhaps, when he saw her inhospitable attitude, he might go away and not botherher. And Mrs Morgan took out some stockings to darn, as being adiscontented occupation, and was considering within herself whatsimple preparation she could have instead of the All-Souls pudding, when, looking up suddenly, she saw, not Mr Proctor, but the Rector, standing looking down upon her within a few steps of her chair. Whenshe perceived him, it was not in nature to refrain from certainsymptoms of agitation. The thoughts she had been indulging in broughtsuddenly a rush of guilty colour to her face; but she commandedherself as well as she could, and went on darning her stockings, withher heart beating very loud in her breast. 

"My dear, " said the Rector, taking a seat near her, "I don't know whatit is that has risen between us. We look as if we had quarrelled; andI thought we had made up our minds never to quarrel. " The words wererather soft in their signification, but Mr Morgan could not helpspeaking severely, as was natural to his voice; which was perhaps, inthe present case, all the better for his wife. 

"I don't know what you may consider quarrelling, William, " said MrsMorgan, "but I am sure I have never made any complaint. "

"No, " said the Rector; "I have seen women do that before. You don'tmake any complaint, but you look as if you disapproved of everything. I feel it all the more just now because I want to consult you; and, after all, the occasion was no such--"

"I never said there was any occasion. I am sure I never made anycomplaint. You said you wanted to consult me, William?" Mrs Morganwent on darning her stockings while she was speaking, and the Rector, like most other men, objected to be spoken to by the lips only. Hewould have liked to toss the stocking out of the window, though itwas his own, and the task of repairing it was one of a devoted wife'sfirst duties, according to the code of female proprieties in whichboth the husband and wife had been brought up. 

"Yes, " said the Rector, with a sigh. "The truth is, I have just got aletter from Harry Scarsfield, who was my pet pupil long ago. He tellsme my father's old rectory is vacant, where we were all brought up. There used to be a constant intercourse between the Hall and the Rectorywhen I was a lad. They are very nice people the Scarsfields--at leastthey used to be very nice people; and Harry has his mother living withhim, and the family has never been broken up, I believe. We used toknow everybody about there, " said Mr Morgan, abandoning himself torecollections in a manner most mysterious to his wife. "There is theletter, my dear, " and he put it down upon her table, and began to playwith the reels of cotton in her workbox unconsciously, as he had notdone for a long time; which, unawares to herself, had a softeninginfluence upon Mrs Morgan's heart. 

"I do not know anything about the Scarsfields, " she said, withouttaking up the letter, "and I cannot see what you have to do with this. Does he wish you to recommend some one?" Mrs Morgan added, with amomentary interest; for she had, of course, like other people, arelation in a poor living, whom it would have been satisfactory torecommend. 

"He says I may have it if I have a mind, " said the Rector curtly, betraying a little aggravation in his tone. 

"You, William?" said Mrs Morgan. She was so much surprised that she laiddown her stocking and looked him straight in the face, which she had notdone for many days; and it was wonderful how hard she found it to keep upher reserve, after having once looked her husband in the eyes. "But it isnot much more than six months since you were settled in Carlingford, "she said, still lost in amazement. "You cannot possibly mean to make achange so soon? and then the difference of the position, " said theRector's wife. As she looked at him, she became more and more aware ofsome meaning in his face which she did not understand; and more and more, as it became necessary to understand him, the reserves and self-defencesof the first quarrel gave way and dispersed. "I don't think I quite knowwhat you mean, " she said, faltering a little. "I don't understand whyyou should think of a change. "

"A good country living is a very good position, " said the Rector; "it isnot nearly so troublesome as a town like Carlingford. There is noDissent that I know of, and no--" (here Mr Morgan paused for a moment, not knowing what word to use)--"no disturbing influences: of course Iwould not take such a step without your concurrence, my dear, " theRector continued; and then there followed a bewildering pause. MrsMorgan's first sensation after the astonishment with which she heardthis strange proposal was mortification--the vivid shame and vexation ofa woman when she is obliged to own to herself that her husband has beenworsted, and is retiring from the field. 

"If you think it right--if you think it best--of course I can havenothing to say, " said the Rector's wife; and she took up her stockingwith a stinging sense of discomfiture. She had meant that her husbandshould be the first man in Carlingford--that he should gain everybody'srespect and veneration, and become the ideal parish-priest of thatfavourite and fortunate place. Every kind of good work and benevolentundertaking was to be connected with his name, according to the visionswhich Mrs Morgan had framed when she came first to Carlingford, notwithout such a participation on her own part as should entitle her tothe milder glory appertaining to the good Rector's wife. All these hopeswere now to be blotted out ignominiously. Defeat and retreat and failurewere to be the conclusion of their first essay at life. "You are thebest judge of what you ought to do, " she said, with as much calmness asshe could muster, but she could have dropped bitter tears upon thestocking she was mending if that would have done any good. 

"I will do nothing without your consent, " said the Rector. "YoungWentworth is going to stay in Carlingford. You need not look up sosharply, as if you were vexed to think _that_ had anything to do withit. If he had not behaved like a fool, I never could have been ledinto such a mistake, " said Mr Morgan, with indignation, taking alittle walk to the other end of the room to refresh himself. "At thesame time, " said the Rector, severely, coming back after a pause, "toshow any ill-feeling would be very unchristian either on your side ormine. If I were to accept Harry Scarsfield's offer, Proctor and Iwould do all we could to have young Wentworth appointed toCarlingford. There is nobody just now at All-Souls to take the living;and however much you may disapprove of him, my dear, " said Mr Morgan, with increasing severity, "there is nothing that I know to be saidagainst him as a clergyman. If you can make up your mind to consent toit, and can see affairs in the same light as they appear to me, thatis what I intend to do--"

Mrs Morgan's stocking had dropped on her knees as she listened; then itdropped on the floor, and she took no notice of it. When the Rector hadfinally delivered himself of his sentiments, which he did in the voiceof a judge who was condemning some unfortunate to the utmost penaltiesof the law, his wife marked the conclusion of the sentence by a sob ofstrange excitement. She kept gazing at him for a few moments withoutfeeling able to speak, and then she put down her face into her hands. Words were too feeble to give utterance to her feelings at such asupreme moment. "Oh, William, I wonder if you can ever forgive me, "sobbed the Rector's wife, with a depth of compunction which he, goodman, was totally unprepared to meet, and knew no occasion for. He waseven at the moment a little puzzled to have such a despairing petitionaddressed to him. "I hope so, my dear, " he said, very sedately, as hecame and sat down beside her, and could not refrain from uttering alittle lecture upon temper, which fortunately Mrs Morgan was too muchexcited to pay any attention to. "It would be a great deal better if youdid not give way to your feelings, " said the Rector; "but in the meantime, my dear, it is your advice I want, for we must not take such astep unadvisedly, " and he lifted up the stocking that had fallen, andcontemplated, not without surprise, the emotion of his wife. Theexcellent man was as entirely unconscious that he was being put up againat that moment with acclamations upon his pedestal, as that he had at aformer time been violently displaced from it, and thrown into thecategory of broken idols. All this would have been as Sanscrit to theRector of Carlingford; and the only resource he had was to make in hisown mind certain half-pitying, half-affectionate remarks upon theinexplicable weakness of women, and to pick up the stocking which hiswife was darning, and finally to stroke her hair, which was still aspretty and soft and brown as it had been ten years ago. Under suchcircumstances a man does not object to feel himself on a platform ofmoral superiority. He even began to pet her a little, with a pleasantsense of forgiveness and forbearance. "You were perhaps a little cross, my love, but you don't think I am the man to be hard upon you, " said theRector. "Now you must dry your eyes and give me your advice--you knowhow much confidence I have always had in your advice--"

"Forgive me, William. I don't think there is any one so good as you are;and as long as we are together it does not matter to me where we are, "said the repentant woman. But as she lifted up her head, her eye fell onthe carpet, and a gleam of sudden delight passed through Mrs Morgan'smind. To be delivered from all her suspicions and injurious thoughtsabout her husband would have been a deliverance great enough for oneday; but at the same happy moment to see a means of deliverance from thesmaller as well as the greater cross of her existence seemed almost toogood to be credible. She brightened up immediately when that thoughtoccurred to her. "I think it is the very best thing you could do, " shesaid. "We are both so fond of the country, and it is so much nicer tomanage a country parish than a town one. We might have lived all ourlives in Carlingford without knowing above half of the poor people, "said Mrs Morgan, growing in warmth as she went on; "it is so differentin a country parish. I never liked to say anything, " she continued, withsubtle feminine policy, "but I never--much--cared for Carlingford. " Shegave a sigh as she spoke, for she thought of the Virginian creeper andthe five feet of new wall at that side of the garden, which had justbeen completed, to shut out the view of the train. Life does not containany perfect pleasure. But when Mrs Morgan stooped to lift up some strayreels of cotton which the Rector's clumsy fingers had dropped out of herworkbox, her eye was again attracted by the gigantic roses and tulips onthe carpet, and content and satisfaction filled her heart. 

"I have felt the same thing, my dear, " said Mr Morgan. "I don't sayanything against Mr Finial as an architect, but Scott himself could makenothing of such a hideous church. I don't suppose Wentworth will mind, "said the Rector, with a curious sense of superiority. He felt his ownmagnanimous conduct at the moment almost as much as his wife had done, and could not help regarding Carlingford Church as the gift-horse whichwas not to be examined too closely in the mouth. 

"No, " said Mrs Morgan, not without a passing sensation of doubt onthis point; "if he had only been frank and explained everything, therenever could have been any mistake; but I am glad it has all happened, "said the Rector's wife, with a little enthusiasm. "Oh, William, I havebeen such a wretch--I have been thinking--but now you are heapingcoals of fire on his head, " she cried, with a hysterical sound in herthroat. It was no matter to her that she herself scarcely knew whatshe meant, and that the good Rector had not the faintest understandingof it. She was so glad, that it was almost necessary to be guilty ofsome extravagance by way of relieving her mind. "After all Mr Proctor'scare in fitting the furniture, you would not, of course, think ofremoving it, " said Mrs Morgan; "Mr Wentworth will take it as we did; andas for Mrs Scarsfield, if you like her, William, you may be sure Ishall, " the penitent wife said softly, in the flutter and tremor of heragitation. As he saw himself reflected in her eyes, the Rector could notbut feel himself a superior person, elevated over other men's shoulders. Such a sense of goodness promotes the amiability from which it springs. The Rector kissed his wife as he got up from his seat beside her, andonce more smoothed down, with a touch which made her feel like a girlagain, her pretty brown hair. 

"That is all settled satisfactorily, " said Mr Morgan, "and now I mustgo to my work again. I thought, if you approved of it, I would writeat once to Scarsfield, and also to Buller of All-Souls. "

"Do, " said the Rector's wife--and she too bestowed, in her middle-agedway, a little caress, which was far from being unpleasant to thesober-minded man. He went down-stairs in a more agreeable frame ofmind than he had known for a long time back. Not that he understoodwhy she had cried about it when he laid his intentions before her. HadMr Morgan been a Frenchman, he probably would have imagined his wife'sheart to be touched by the graces of the Perpetual Curate; but, beingan Englishman, and rather more certain, on the whole, of her than ofhimself, it did not occur to him to speculate on the subject. He wasquite able to content himself with the thought that women wereincomprehensible, as he went back to his study. To be sure, it wasbest to understand them, if you could; but if not, it did not so verymuch matter, Mr Morgan thought; could in this pleasant condition ofmind he went down-stairs and wrote a little sermon, which ever afterwas a great favourite, preached upon all special occasions, and alwayslistened to with satisfaction, especially by the Rector's wife. 

When Mrs Morgan was left alone she sat doing nothing for an entirehalf-hour, thinking of the strange and unhoped-for change that in amoment had occurred to her. Though she was not young, she had thatsense of grievousness, the unbearableness of trouble, which belongs toyouth; for, after all, whatever female moralists may say on thesubject, the patience of an unmarried woman wearing out her youth inthe harassments of a long engagement, is something very different fromthe hard and many-sided experience of actual life. She had beenaccustomed for years to think that her troubles would be over when thelong-expected event arrived; and when new and more vexatious troublesstill sprang up after that event, the woman of one idea was not muchbetter fitted to meet them than if she had been a girl. Now that themomentary cloud had been driven off, Mrs Morgan's heart rose morewarmly than ever. She changed her mind in a moment about the All-Soulspudding, and even added, in her imagination, another dish to thedinner, without pausing to think that _that_ also was much approved byMr Leeson; and then her thoughts took another turn, and such a visionof a perfect carpet for a drawing-room--something softer and moreexquisite than ever came out of mortal loom; full of repose andtranquillity, yet not without seducing beauties of design; a carpetwhich would never obtrude itself, but yet would catch the eye bydreamy moments in the summer twilight or over the winter fire--flashedupon the imagination of the Rector's wife. It would be sweet to have ahouse of one's own arranging, where everything would be in harmony;and though this sweetness was very secondary to the other satisfactionof having a husband who was not a clay idol, but really deserved hispedestal, it yet supplemented the larger delight, and rounded off allthe corners of Mrs Morgan's present desires. She wished everybody ashappy as herself, in the effusion of the moment, and thought of LucyWodehouse, with a little glow of friendliness in which there was stilla tincture of admiring envy. All this that happy girl would havewithout the necessity of waiting for it; but then was it not theRector, the rehabilitated husband, who would be the means of producingso much happiness? Mrs Morgan rose up as lightly as a girl when shehad reached this stage, and opened her writing-desk, which was one ofher wedding-presents, and too fine to be used on common occasions. Shetook out her prettiest paper, with her monogram in violet, which washer favourite colour. One of those kind impulses which are born ofhappiness moved her relieved spirit. To give to another theconsolation of a brighter hope, seemed at the moment the most naturalway of expressing her own thankful feelings. Instead of goingdown-stairs immediately to order dinner, she sat down instead at thetable, and wrote the following note:--

 "MY DEAR MR WENTWORTH, --I don't know whether you will think me a fair-weather friend seeking you only when everybody else is seeking you, and when you are no longer in want of support and sympathy. Perhaps you will exculpate me when you remember the last conversation we had; but what I write for at present is to ask if you would waive ceremony and come to dinner with us to-night. I am aware that your family are still in Carlingford, and of course I don't know what engagements you may have; but if you are at liberty, pray come. If Mr Morgan and you had but known each other a little better things could never have happened which have been a great grief and vexation to me; and I know the Rector _wishes very much_ to have a little conversation with you, and has something to speak of in which you would be interested. Perhaps my husband might feel a little strange in asking you to overstep the barrier which somehow has been raised between you two; but I am sure if you knew each other better you would understand each other, and this is one of the things we women ought to be good for. I will take it as a proof that you consider me a friend if you accept my invitation. Our hour is half-past six. --Believe me, very sincerely, yours, "M. MORGAN. "

When she had written this note Mrs Morgan went down-stairs, stoppingat the library door in passing. "I thought I might as well ask MrWentworth to come to us to-night, as we are to have some people todinner, " she said, looking in at the door. "I thought you might liketo talk to him, William; and if his people are going away to-day, Idaresay he will feel rather lonely to-night. " Such was the Jesuiticalaspect in which she represented the flag of truce she was sending. MrMorgan was a little startled by action so prompt. 

"I should like to hear from Buller first, " said the Rector; "he mightlike to come to Carlingford himself, for anything I can tell; but, tobe sure, it can do no harm to have Wentworth to dinner, " said MrMorgan, doubtfully; "only Buller, you know, might wish--and in thatcase it might not be worth our trouble to make any change. "

In spite of herself, Mrs Morgan's countenance fell; her pretty schemeof poetic justice, her vision of tasteful and appropriate furniture, became obscured by a momentary mist. "At least it is only right to askhim to dinner, " she said, in subdued tones, and went to speak to thecook in a frame of mind more like the common level of humansatisfaction than the exultant and exalted strain to which she hadrisen at the first moment. Then she put on a black dress, and went tocall on the Miss Wodehouses, who naturally came into her mind when shethought of the Perpetual Curate. As she went along Grange Lane shecould not but observe a hackney cab, one of those which belong to therailway station, lounging--if a cab could ever be said to lounge--inthe direction of Wharfside. Its appearance specially attracted MrsMorgan's attention in consequence of the apparition of Elsworthy'sfavourite errand-boy, who now and then poked his head furtivelythrough the window, and seemed to be sitting in state inside. When shehad gone a little further she encountered Wodehouse and JackWentworth, who had just come from paying their visit to the sisters. The sight of these two revived her sympathies for the lonely women whohad fallen so unexpectedly out of wealth into poverty; but yet shefelt a little difficulty in framing her countenance to be partlysorrowful and partly congratulatory, as was necessary under thesecircumstances; for though she knew nothing of the accident which hadhappened that morning, when Lucy and the Perpetual Curate saw eachother alone, she was aware of Miss Wodehouse's special position, andwas sympathetic as became a woman who had "gone through" similarexperiences. When she had got through her visit and was going home, itstruck her with considerable surprise to see the cab still lingeringabout the corner of Prickett's Lane. Was Elsworthy's pet boydelivering his newspapers from that dignified elevation? or were theyseizing the opportunity of conveying away the unfortunate little girlwho had caused so much annoyance to everybody? When she went closer, with a little natural curiosity to see what else might be insidebesides the furtive errand-boy, the cab made a little rush away fromher, and the blinds were drawn down. Mrs Morgan smiled a little toherself with dignified calm. "As if it was anything to me!" she saidto herself; and so went home to put out the dessert with her ownhands. She even cut a few fronds of her favourite maidenhair todecorate the peaches, of which she could not help being a littleproud. "I must speak to Mr Wentworth, if he comes, to keep onThompson, " she said to herself, and then gave a momentary sigh at thethought of the new flue, which was as good as her own invention, andwhich it had cost her both time and money to arrange to hersatisfaction. The peaches were lovely, but who could tell what theymight be next year if a new Rector came who took no interest in thegarden?--for Thomson, though he was a very good servant, required tobe looked after, as indeed most good servants do. Mrs Morgan sighed alittle when she thought of all her past exertions and the pains, ofwhich she was scarcely yet beginning to reap the fruit. One manlabours, and another enters into his labours. One thing, however, wasa little consolatory, that she could take her ferns with her. But onthe whole, after the first outburst of feeling, the idea of change, notwithstanding all its advantages, was in itself, like most humanthings, a doubtful pleasure. To be sure, it was only through itsproducts that her feelings were interested about the new flue, whereasthe drawing-room carpet was a standing grievance. When it was time todress for dinner, the Rector's wife was not nearly so sure as beforethat she had never liked Carlingford. She began to forget the thoughtsshe had entertained about broken idols, and to remember a number ofinconveniences attending a removal. Who would guarantee the safetransit of the china, not to speak of the _old_ china, which was oneof the most valuable decorations of the Rectory? This kind ofbreakage, if not more real, was at least likely to force itself moreupon the senses than the other kind of fracture which this morning'sexplanation had happily averted; and altogether it was with mingledfeelings that Mrs Morgan entered the drawing-room, and found itoccupied by Mr Leeson, who always came too early, and who, on thepresent occasion, had some sufficiently strange news to tell. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

Mr Wentworth did not accept Mrs Morgan's sudden invitation, partlybecause his "people" did not leave Carlingford that evening, andpartly because, though quite amiably disposed towards the Rector, whomhe had worsted in fair fight, he was not sufficiently interested inanything he was likely to hear or see in Mr Morgan's house to move himto spend his evening there. He returned a very civil answer to theinvitation of the Rector's wife, thanking her warmly for herfriendliness, and explaining that he could not leave his father on thelast night of his stay in Carlingford; after which he went to dinnerat his aunts', where the household was still much agitated. Not tospeak of all the events which had happened and were happening, Jack, who had begun to tire of his new character of the repentant prodigal, had shown himself in a new light that evening, and was preparing toleave, to the relief of all parties. The prodigal, who no longerpretended to be penitent, had taken the conversation into his ownhands at dinner. "I have had things my own way since I came here, "said Jack; "somehow it appears I have a great luck for having thingsmy own way. It is you scrupulous people who think of others and ofsuch antiquated stuff as duty, and so forth, that get yourselves intodifficulties. My dear aunt, I am going away; if I were to remain aninmate of this house--I mean to say, could I look forward to theprivilege of continuing a member of this Christian family--anotherday, I should know better how to conduct myself; but I am going backto my bad courses, aunt Dora; I am returning to the world--"

"Oh! Jack, my dear, I hope not, " said aunt Dora, who was muchbewildered, and did not know what to say. 

"Too true, " said the relapsed sinner; "and considering all the lessonsyou have taught me, don't you think it is the best thing I could do?There is my brother Frank, who has been carrying other people about onhis shoulders, and doing his duty; but I don't see that you goodpeople are at all moved in his behalf. You leave him to fight his wayby himself, and confer your benefits elsewhere, which is an odd sortof lesson for a worldling like me. As for Gerald, you know he's avirtuous fool, as I have heard you all declare. There is nothing inthe world that I can see to prevent him keeping his living and doingas he pleases, as most parsons do. However, that's his own business. It is Frank's case which is the edifying case to me. If my convictionsof sin had gone just a step farther, " said the pitiless critic, "if Ihad devoted myself to bringing others to repentance, as is the firstduty of a reformed sinner, my aunt Leonora would not have hesitated togive Skelmersdale to me--"

"Jack, hold your tongue, " said Miss Leonora; but though her cheeksburned, her voice was not so firm as usual, and she actually failed inputting down the man who had determined to have his say. 

"Fact, my dear aunt, " said Jack; "if I had been a greater rascal thanI am, and gone a little farther, you and your people would havethought me quite fit for a cure of souls. I'd have come in for yourgood things that way as well as other ways; but here is Frank, whoeven I can see is a right sort of parson. I don't pretend to fixedtheological opinions, " said this unlooked-for oracle, with a comicglance aside at Gerald, the most unlikely person present to make anyresponse; "but, so far as I can see, he's a kind of fellow most menwould be glad to make a friend of when they were under a cloud--notthat he was ever very civil to me. I tell you, so far from rewardinghim for being of the true sort, you do nothing but snub him, that Ican see. He looks to me as good for work as any man I know; butyou'll give your livings to any kind of wretched make-believe beforeyou'll give them to Frank. I am aware, " said the heir of theWentworths, with a momentary flush, "that I have never been consideredmuch of a credit to the family; but if I were to announce my intentionof marrying and settling, there is not one of the name that would notlend a hand to smooth matters. That is the reward of wickedness, " saidJack, with a laugh; "as for Frank, he's a perpetual curate, and maymarry perhaps fifty years hence; that's the way you good people treata man who never did anything to be ashamed of in his life; and youexpect me to give up my evil courses after such a lesson? I trust I amnot such a fool, " said the relapsed prodigal. He sat looking at themall in his easy way, enjoying the confusion, the indignation, andwrath with which his address was received. "The man who gets his ownway is the man who takes it, " he concluded, with his usual composure, pouring out Miss Leonora's glass of claret as he spoke. 

Nobody had ever before seen the strong-minded woman in so muchagitation. "Frank knows what my feelings are, " she said, abruptly. "Ihave a great respect for himself, but I have no confidence in hisprinciples. I--I have explained my ideas about Church patronage--"

But here the Squire broke in. "I always said, sir, " said the old man, with an unsteady voice, "that if I ever lived to see a thing or twoamended that was undoubtedly objectionable, your brother Jack's advicewould be invaluable to the family as a--as a man of the world. I havenothing to say against clergymen, sir, " continued the Squire, withoutit being apparent whom he was addressing, "but I have always expressedmy conviction of--of the value of your brother Jack's advice as--as aman of the world. "

This speech had a wonderful effect upon the assembled family, but mostof all upon the son thus commended, who lost all his ease andcomposure as his father spoke, and turned his head stiffly to oneside, as if afraid to meet the Squire's eyes, which indeed were notseeking his, but were fixed upon the table, as was natural, considering the state of emotion in which Mr Wentworth was. As forJack, when he had steadied himself a little, he got up from his seatand tried to laugh, though the effort was far from being a successfulone. 

"Even my father applauds me, you see, because I am a scamp and don'tdeserve it, " he said, with a voice which was partially choked. "Good-bye, sir; I am going away. "

The Squire rose too, with the hazy bewildered look of which his otherchildren were afraid. 

"Good-bye, sir, " said the old man, and then made a pause before heheld out his hand. "You'll not forget what I've said, Jack, " he added, with a little haste. "It's true enough, though I haven't thatconfidence in you that--that I might have had. I am getting old, and Ihave had two attacks, sir, " said Mr Wentworth, with dignity; "andanyhow, I can't live for ever. Your brothers can make their own way inthe world, but I haven't saved all that I could have wished. When I amgone, Jack, be just to the girls and the little children, " said theSquire; and with that took his son's hand and grasped it hard, andlooked his heir full in the face. 

Jack Wentworth was not prepared for any such appeal; he was still lessprepared to discover the unexpected and inevitable sequence with whichone good sentiment leads to another. He quite faltered and broke downin this unlooked-for emergency. "Father, " he said unawares, for thefirst time for ten years, "if you wish it, I will join you in breakingthe entail. "

"No such thing, sir, " said the Squire, who, so far from being pleased, was irritated and disturbed by the proposal. "I ask you to do yourduty, sir, and not to shirk it, " the head of the house said, withnatural vehemence, as he stood with that circle of Wentworths roundhim, giving forth his code of honour to his unworthy heir. 

While his father was speaking, Jack recovered a little from hismomentary _attendrissement_. "Good-bye, sir; I hope you'll live ahundred years, " he said, wringing his father's hand, "if you don'tlast out half-a-dozen of me, as you ought to do. But I'd rather notanticipate such a change. In that case, " the prodigal went on with acertain huskiness in his voice, "I daresay I should not turn out sogreat a rascal as--as I ought to do. To-day and yesterday it has evenoccurred to me by moments that I was your son, sir, " said JackWentworth; and then he made an abrupt stop and dropped the Squire'shand, and came to himself in a surprising way. When he turned towardsthe rest of the family, he was in perfect possession of his usualcourtesy and good spirits. He nodded to them all round--with superbgood-humour. "Good-bye, all of you; I wish you better luck, Frank, andnot so much virtue. Perhaps you will have a better chance now the lostsheep has gone back to the wilderness. Good-bye to you all. I don'tthink I've any other last words to say. " He lighted his cigar with hisordinary composure in the hall, and whistled one of his favourite airsas he went through the garden. "Oddly enough, however, our friendWodehouse can beat me in that, " he said, with a smile, to Frank, whohad followed him out, "perhaps in other things too, who knows?Good-bye, and good-luck, old fellow. " And thus the heir of theWentworths disappeared into the darkness, which swallowed him up, andwas seen no more. 

But naturally there was a good deal of commotion in the house. MissLeonora, who never had known what it was to have nerves in the entirecourse of her existence, retired to her own room with a headache, tothe entire consternation of the family. She had been a strong-mindedwoman all her life, and managed everybody's affairs without beingdistracted and hampered in her career by those doubts of her ownwisdom, and questions as to her own motives, which will now and thenafflict the minds of weaker people when they have to decide forothers. But this time an utterly novel and unexpected accident hadbefallen Miss Leonora; a man of no principles at all had delivered hisopinion upon her conduct--and so far from finding his criticismcontemptible, or discovering in it the ordinary outcry of the wickedagainst the righteous, she had found it true, and by means of it hadfor perhaps the first time in her life seen herself as others saw her. Neither was the position in which she found herself one from which shecould get extricated even by any daring arbitrary exertion of will, such as a woman in difficulties is sometimes capable of. To be sure, she might still have cut the knot in a summary feminine way; mighthave said "No" abruptly to Julia Trench and her curate, and, afterall, have bestowed Skelmersdale, like any other prize or reward ofvirtue, upon her nephew Frank--a step which Miss Dora Wentworth wouldhave concluded upon at once without any hesitation. The elder sister, however, was gifted with a truer perception of affairs. Miss Leonoraknew that there were some things which could be done, and yet couldnot be done--a piece of knowledge difficult to a woman. She recognisedthe fact that she had committed herself, and got into a corner fromwhich there was but one possible egress; and as she acknowledged thisto herself, she saw at the same time that Julia Trench (for whom shehad been used to entertain a good-humoured contempt as a clever sortof girl enough) had managed matters very cleverly, and that, instead ofdispensing her piece of patronage like an optimist to the best, she had, in fact, given it up to the most skilful and persevering angler, as anyother woman might have done. The blow was bitter, and Miss Leonora didnot seek to hide it from herself, not to say that the unpleasantdiscovery was aggravated by having been thus pointed out by Jack, who inhis own person had taken her in, and cheated his sensible aunt. She felthumbled, and wounded in the tenderest point, to think that her reprobatenephew had seen through her, but that she had not been able to seethrough him, and had been deceived by his professions of penitence. Themore she turned it over in her mind, the more Miss Leonora's head ached;for was it not growing apparent that she, who prided herself so much onher impartial judgment, had been moved, not by heroic and stoicaljustice and the love of souls, but a good deal by prejudice and a gooddeal by skilful artifice, and very little indeed by that highest motivewhich she called the glory of God? And it was Jack who had set all thisbefore her clear as daylight. No wonder the excellent woman wasdisconcerted. She went to bed gloomily with her headache, and wouldtolerate no ministrations, neither of sal-volatile nor eau-de-Cologne, nor even of green tea. "It always does Miss Dora a power of good, " saidthe faithful domestic who made this last suggestion; but Miss Leonoraanswered only by turning the unlucky speaker out of the room, andlocking the door against any fresh intrusion. Miss Dora's innocentheadaches were articles of a very different kind from this, whichproceeded neither from the heart nor the digestion, but from theconscience, as Miss Leonora thought--with, possibly, a little aid fromthe temper, though she was less conscious of that. It was indeed a longseries of doubts and qualms, and much internal conflict, which resultedthrough the rapidly-maturing influences of mortification and humbledself-regard, in this ominous and awe-inspiring Headache which startledthe entire assembled family, and added fresh importance to the generalcrisis of Wentworth affairs. 

"I should not wonder if it was the Wentworth complaint, " said MissDora, with a sob of fright, to the renewed and increased indignationof the Squire. 

"I have already told you that the Wentworth complaint never attacksfemales, " Mr Wentworth said emphatically, glad to employ what soundedlike a contemptuous title for the inferior sex. 

"Yes, oh yes; but then Leonora is not exactly what you would call--afemale, " said poor Miss Dora, from whom an emergency so unexpectedhad taken all her little wits. 

While the house was in such an agitated condition, it is not to besupposed that it could be very comfortable for the gentlemen when theycame up-stairs to the drawing-room, and found domestic sovereigntyoverthrown by a headache which nobody could comprehend, and chaosreigning in Miss Leonora's place. Naturally there was, for one of theparty at least, a refuge sweet and close at hand, to which histhoughts had escaped already. Frank Wentworth did not hesitate tofollow his thoughts. Against the long years when family bonds make upall that is happiest in life, there must always be reckoned thosemoments of agitation and revolution, during which the bosom of afamily is the most unrestful and disturbing place in existence, fromwhich it is well to have a personal refuge and means of escape. ThePerpetual Curate gave himself a little shake, and drew a long breath, as he emerged from one green door in Grange Lane and betook himself toanother. He shook himself clear of all the Wentworth perplexities, allthe family difficulties and doubts, and betook himself into theparadise which was altogether his own, and where there were noconflicting interests or differences of opinion. He was in such ahurry to get there that he did not pay any attention to the generalaspect of Grange Lane, or to the gossips who were gathered roundElsworthy's door: all that belonged to a previous stage of existence. At present he was full of the grand discovery, boldly stated by hisbrother Jack--"The man who gets his own way is the man who _takes_it. " It was not an elevated doctrine, or one that had hithertocommended itself specially to the mind of the Perpetual Curate; but hecould not help thinking of his father's pathetic reliance upon Jack'sadvice as a man of the world, as he laid up in his mind the prodigal'smaxim, and felt, with a little thrill of excitement, that he was aboutto act on it; from which manner of stating the case Mr Wentworth'sfriends will perceive that self-will had seized upon him in the worstform; for he was not going boldly up to the new resolution with hiseyes open, but had resigned himself to the tide, which was graduallyrising in one united flux of love, pride, impatience, sophistry, andinclination; which he watched with a certain passive content, knowingthat the stormy current would carry him away. 

Mr Wentworth, however, reckoned without his host, as is now and thenthe case with most men, Perpetual Curates included. He walked into theother drawing-room, which was occupied only by two ladies, where thelamp was burning softly on the little table in the corner, and thewindows, half open, admitted the fragrant air, the perfumed breath andstillness and faint inarticulate noises of the night. Since the visitof Wodehouse in the morning, which had driven Lucy into her first fitof passion, an indescribable change had come over the house, which hadnow returned to the possession of its former owners, and looked againlike home. It was very quiet in the familiar room which Mr Wentworthknew so well, for it was only when excited by events "beyond theircontrol, " as Miss Wodehouse said, that the sisters could forget whathad happened so lately--the loss which had made a revolution in theirworld. Miss Wodehouse, who for the first time in her life was busy, and had in hand a quantity of mysterious calculations and lists tomake out, sat at the table in the centre of the room, with her deskopen, and covered with long slips of paper. Perhaps it was to save herRector the trouble that the gentle woman gave herself so much labour;perhaps she liked putting down on paper all the things that wereindispensable for the new establishment. At all events, she looked uponly to give Mr Wentworth a smile and sisterly nod of welcome as hecame in and made his way to the corner where Lucy sat, notunexpectant. Out of the disturbed atmosphere he had just left, thePerpetual Curate came softly into that familiar corner, feeling thathe had suddenly reached his haven, and that Eden itself could nothave possessed a sweeter peace. Lucy in her black dress, with tracesof the exhaustion of nature in her face, which was the loveliest facein the world to Mr Wentworth, looked up and welcomed him with thatlook of satisfaction and content which is the highest compliment onehuman creature can pay to another. His presence rounded off all thecorners of existence to Lucy for that moment at least, and made theworld complete and full. He sat down beside her at her work-table withno further interruption to the _tête-à-tête_ than the presence of thekind elder sister at the table, who was absorbed in her lists, andwho, even had that pleasant business been wanting, was dear andfamiliar enough to both to make her spectatorship just the sweetrestraint which endears such intercourse all the more. Thus thePerpetual Curate seated himself, feeling in some degree master of theposition; and surely here, if nowhere else in the world, the young manwas justified in expecting to have his own way. 

"They have settled about their marriage, " said Lucy, whose voice wassufficiently audible to be heard at the table, where Miss Wodehouseseized her pen hastily and plunged it into the ink, doing her best toappear unconscious, but failing sadly in the attempt. "Mr Proctor isgoing away directly to make everything ready, and the marriage is tobe on the 15th of next month. "

"And ours?" said Mr Wentworth, who had not as yet approached thatsubject. Lucy knew that this event must be far off, and was notagitated about it as yet; on the contrary, she met his looksympathetically and with deprecation after the first natural blush, and soothed him in her feminine way, patting softly with her prettyhand the sleeve of his coat. 

"Nobody knows, " said Lucy. "We must wait, and have patience. We havemore time to spare than they have, " she added, with a little laugh. "We must wait. "

"I don't see the _must_, " said the Perpetual Curate. "I have beenthinking it all over since the morning. I see no reason why I shouldalways have to give in, and wait; self-sacrifice is well enough whenit can't be helped, but I don't see any reason for postponing myhappiness indefinitely. Look here, Lucy. It appears to me at presentthat there are only two classes of people in the world--those who willwait, and those who won't. I don't mean to enrol myself among themartyrs. The man who gets his own way is the man who takes it. I don'tsee any reason in the world for concluding that I _must_ wait. "

Lucy Wodehouse was a very good young woman, a devoted Anglican, andloyal to all her duties; but she had always been known to possess aspark of spirit, and this rebellious quality came to a sudden blaze atso unlooked-for a speech. "Mr Wentworth, " said Lucy, looking theCurate in the face with a look which was equivalent to making him alow curtsy, "I understood there were two people to be consulted as tothe must or must not;" and having entered this protest, she withdrewher chair a little farther off, and bestowed her attention absolutelyupon the piece of needlework in her hand. 

If the ground had suddenly been cut away underneath Frank Wentworth'sfeet, he could not have been more surprised; for, to tell the truth, it had not occurred to him to doubt that he himself was the finalauthority on this point, though, to be sure, it was part of theconventional etiquette that the lady should "fix the day. " He satgazing at her with so much surprise that for a minute or two he couldsay nothing. "Lucy, I am not going to have you put yourself on theother side, " he said at last; "there is not to be any oppositionbetween you and me. "

"That is as it may be, " said Lucy, who was not mollified. "You seem tohave changed your sentiments altogether since the morning, and thereis no change in the circumstances, at least that I can see. "

"Yes, there is a great change, " said the young man. "If I could havesacrificed myself in earnest and said nothing--"

"Which you were quite free to do, " interrupted Lucy, who, having givenway to temper once to-day, found in herself an alarming proclivitytowards a repetition of the offence. 

"Which I was quite free to do, " said the Perpetual Curate, with asmile, "but could not, and did not, all the same. Things arealtogether changed. Now, be as cross as you please, you belong to me, _Lucia mia_. To be sure, I have no money--"

"I was not thinking of that, " said the young lady, under her breath. 

"Of course one has to think about it, " said Mr Wentworth; "but thequestion is, whether we shall be happier and better going on separatein our usual way, or making up our minds to give up something for thecomfort of being together. Perhaps you will forgive me for taking_that_ view of the question, " said the Curate, with a littleenthusiasm. "I have got tired of ascetic principles. I don't see whyit must be best to deny myself and postpone myself to other things andother people. I begin to be of my brother Jack's opinion. The childrenof this world are wiser in their generation than the children oflight. A man who will wait has to wait. Providence does not invariablyreward him after he has been tried, as we used to suppose. I amwilling to be a poor man because I can't help it; but I am not willingto wait and trust my happiness to the future when it is in my reachnow, " said the unreasonable young man, to whom it was of course aseasy as it was to Lucy to change the position of his chair, andprevent the distance between them being increased. Perhaps he mighthave carried his point even at that moment, had not Miss Wodehouse, who had heard enough to alarm her, come forward hastily in a fright onthe prudential side. 

"I could not help hearing what you were saying, " said the eldersister. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, I hope you don't mean to say that you can'ttrust Providence? I am sure that is not Lucy's way of thinking. Iwould not mind, and I am sure she would not mind, beginning veryquietly; but then you have nothing, next to nothing, neither of you. It might not matter, just at the first, " said Miss Wodehouse, withserious looks; "but then--afterwards, you know, " and a vision of anursery flashed upon her mind as she spoke. "Clergymen always havesuch large families, " she said half out before she was aware, andstopped, covered with confusion, not daring to look at Lucy to seewhat effect such a suggestion might have had upon her. "I mean, " criedMiss Wodehouse, hurrying on to cover over her inadvertence ifpossible, "I have seen such cases; and a poor clergyman who has tothink of the grocer's bill and the baker's bill instead of his parishand his duty--there are some things you young people know a great dealbetter than I do, but you don't know how dreadful it is to see that. "

Here Lucy, on her part, was touched on a tender point, and interposed. "For a man to be teased about bills, " said the young housekeeper, withflushed cheeks and an averted countenance, "it must be not hispoverty, but his--his wife's fault. "

"Oh, Lucy, don't say so, " cried Miss Wodehouse; "what is a poor womanto do, especially when she has no money of her own, as you wouldn'thave? and then the struggling, and getting old before your time, andall the burdens--"

"Please don't say any more, " said Lucy; "there was no intention on--onany side to drive things to a decision. As for me, I have not a highopinion of myself. I would not be the means of diminishing anyone'scomforts, " said the spiteful young woman. "How can I be sure that Imight not turn out a very poor compensation? We settled this morninghow all that was to be, and I for one have not changed my mind--asyet, " said Lucy. That was all the encouragement Mr Wentworth got whenhe propounded his new views. Things looked easy enough when he wasalone, and suffered himself to drift on pleasantly on the changed andheightened current of personal desires and wishes; but it becameapparent to him, after that evening's discussion, that even in Edenitself, though the dew had not yet dried on the leaves, it would behighly incautious for any man to conclude that he was sure of havinghis own way. The Perpetual Curate returned a sadder and more doubtfulman to Mrs Hadwin's, to his own apartments; possibly, as the twostates of mind so often go together, a wiser individual too. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

The dinner-party at the Rectory, to which Mr Wentworth did not go, wasmuch less interesting and agreeable than it might have been had he beenpresent. As for the Rector and his wife, they could not but feelthemselves in a somewhat strange position, having between them a secretunsuspected by the company. It was difficult to refrain from showing acertain flagging of interest in the question of the church'srestoration, about which, to be sure, Mr Finial was just as muchconcerned as he had been yesterday; though Mr Morgan, and even MrsMorgan, had suffered a great and unexplainable diminution of enthusiasm. And then Mr Leeson, who was quite unaware of the turn that things hadtaken, and who was much too obtuse to understand how the Rector could beanything but exasperated against the Perpetual Curate by the failure ofthe investigation, did all that he could to make himself disagreeable, which was saying a good deal. When Mrs Morgan came into thedrawing-room, and found this obnoxious individual occupying the mostcomfortable easy-chair, and turning over at his ease the great book offerns, nature-printed, which was the pet decoration of the table, herfeelings may be conceived by any lady who has gone through a similartrial; for Mr Leeson's hands were not of the irreproachable purity whichbecomes the fingers of a gentleman when he goes out to dinner. "I knowsome people who always wear gloves when they turn over a portfolio ofprints, " Mrs Morgan said, coming to the Curate's side to protect herbook if possible, "and these require quite as much care;" and she had toendure a discussion upon the subject, which was still more trying to herfeelings, for Mr Leeson pretended to know about ferns on the score ofhaving a Wardian case in his lodgings (which belonged to his landlady), though in reality he could scarcely tell the commonest spleenwort from alycopodium. While Mrs Morgan went through this trial, it is not to bewondered at if she hugged to her heart the new idea of leavingCarlingford, and thought to herself that whatever might be the characterof the curate (if there was one) at Scarsfield, any change from MrLeeson must be for the better. And then the unfortunate man, as if hewas not disagreeable enough already, began to entertain his unwillinghostess with the latest news. 

"There is quite a commotion in Grange Lane, " said Mr Leeson. "Suchconstant disturbances must deteriorate the property, you know. Ofcourse, whatever one's opinion may be, one must keep it to one's self, after the result of the investigation; though I can't say _I_ haveunbounded confidence in trial by jury, " said the disagreeable youngman. 

"I am afraid I am very slow of comprehension, " said the Rector's wife. "I don't know in the least what you mean about trial by jury. Perhapsit would be best to put the book back on the table; it is too heavyfor you to hold. "

"Oh, it doesn't matter, " said Mr Leeson--"I mean about Wentworth, ofcourse. When a man is popular in society, people prefer to shut theireyes. I suppose the matter is settled for the present, but you and Iknow better than to believe--"

"I beg you will speak for yourself, Mr Leeson, " said Mrs Morgan, withdignity. "I have always had the highest respect for Mr Wentworth. "

"Oh, I beg your pardon, " said the disagreeable Curate. "I forgot;almost all the ladies are on Mr Wentworth's side. It appears thatlittle girl of Elsworthy's has disappeared again; that was all I wasgoing to say. "

And, fortunately for the Curate, Colonel Chiley, who entered the roomat the moment, diverted from him the attention of the lady of thehouse; and after that there was no opportunity of broaching thesubject again until dinner was almost over. Then it was perhaps theAll-Souls pudding that warmed Mr Leeson's soul; perhaps he had taken alittle more wine than usual. He took sudden advantage of that curiouslittle pause which occurs at a well-conducted dinner-table, when themeal is concluded, and the fruit (considered apparently, in orthodoxcircles, a paradisiacal kind of food which needs no blessing) aloneremains to be discussed. As soon as the manner of thanks from the footof the table was over, the Curate incautiously rushed in beforeanybody else could break the silence, and delivered his latestinformation at a high pitch of voice. 

"Has anyone heard about the Elsworthys?" said Mr Leeson; "somethingfresh has happened there. I hope your verdict yesterday will not becalled in question. The fact is, I believe that the girl has beentaken away again. They say she has gone and left a letter saying thatshe is to be made a lady of. I don't know what we are to understand bythat. There was some private service or other going on at St Roque'svery early in the morning. Marriage is a sacrament, you know. PerhapsMr Wentworth or his brother--"

"They are a queer family, the Wentworths, " said old Mr Western, "andsuch lots of them, sir--such lots of them. The old ladies seem to havesettled down here. I am not of their way of thinking, you know, butthey're very good to the poor. "

"Mr Frank Wentworth is going to succeed his brother, I suppose, " saidMr Leeson; "it is very lucky for a man who gets himself talked of tohave a family living to fall back upon--"

"No such thing--no such thing, " said Mr Proctor, hastily. "Mr FrankWentworth means to stay here. "

"Dear me!" said the disagreeable Curate, with an elaborate pause ofastonishment. "Things must be bad indeed, " added that interestingyouth, with solemnity, shaking the devoted head, upon which he did notknow that Mrs Morgan had fixed her eyes, "if his own family give himup, and leave him to starve here. They would never give him up if theyhad not very good cause. Oh, come; I shouldn't like to believe that!_I_ know how much a curate has to live on, " said Mr Leeson, with asmile of engaging candour. "Before they give him up like that, withtwo livings in the family, they must have very good cause. "

"Very good cause indeed, " said Mrs Morgan, from the head of the table. The company in general had, to tell the truth, been a little takenaback by the Curate's observations; and there was almost the entirelength of the table between the unhappy man and the Avenger. "So gooda reason, that it is strange how it should not have occurred to abrother clergyman. That is the evil of a large parish, " said theRector's wife, with beautiful simplicity; "however hard one works, onenever can know above half of the poor people; and I suppose you havebeen occupied in the other districts, and have not heard what a greatwork Mr Wentworth is doing. I have reason to know, " said Mrs Morgan, with considerable state, "that he will remain in Carlingford, in avery different position from that which he has filled hitherto. MrLeeson knows how much a curate has to live upon, but I am afraid thatis all he does know of such a life as Mr Wentworth's. " Mrs Morganpaused for a moment to get breath, for her excitement wasconsiderable, and she had many wrongs to avenge. "There is a greatdeal of difference in curates as well as in other things, " said theindignant woman. "I have reason to know that Mr Wentworth will remainin Carlingford in quite a different position. Now and then, even inthis world, things come right like a fairy tale--that is, when theauthority is in the right hands;" the Rector's wife went on, with asmile at her husband, which disarmed that astonished man. "Perhaps ifMr Leeson had the same inducement as Mr Wentworth, he too would makeup his mind to remain in Carlingford. " Mrs Morgan got up, as she madethis speech, with a rustle and sweep of drapery which seemed alladdressed to the unhappy Curate, who stumbled upon his feet like theother gentlemen, but dared not for his life have approached her toopen the door. Mr Leeson felt that he had received his _congé_, as hesank back into his chair. He was much too stunned to speculate on thesubject, or ask himself what was going to happen. Whatever was goingto happen, there was an end of _him_. He had eaten the last All-Soulspudding that he ever would have presented to him under _that_ roof. Hesank back in the depth of despair upon his seat, and suffered theclaret to pass him in the agony of his feelings. Mr Wentworth and MrsMorgan were avenged. 

This was how it came to be noised abroad in Carlingford that some greatchange of a highly favourable character was about to occur in thecircumstances and position of the Curate of St Roque's. It was discussednext day throughout the town, as soon as people had taken breath aftertelling each other about Rosa Elsworthy, who had indisputably beencarried off from her uncle's house on the previous night. When theWentworth family were at dinner, and just as the board was being spreadin the Rectory, where Mrs Morgan was half an hour later than usual, having company, it had been discovered in Elsworthy's that the prisonwas vacant, and the poor little bird had flown. Mr Wentworth was awareof a tumult about the shop when he went to the Miss Wodehouses, butwas preoccupied, and paid no attention; but Mr Leeson, who was notpreoccupied, had already heard all about it when he entered the Rectory. That day it was all over the town, as may be supposed. The poor, little, wicked, unfortunate creature had disappeared, no one knew how, at themoment, apparently, when Elsworthy went to the railway for the eveningpapers, a time when the errand-boys were generally rampant in thewell-conducted shop. Mrs Elsworthy, for her part, had seized that momentto relieve her soul by confiding to Mrs Hayles next door how she wasworrited to death with one thing and another, and did not expect to bealive to tell the tale if things went on like this for another month, but that Elsworthy was infatuated like, and wouldn't send the hussyaway, his wife complained to her sympathetic neighbour. When Elsworthycame back, however, he was struck by the silence in the house, and sentthe reluctant woman up-stairs--"To see if she's been and made away withherself, I suppose, " the indignant wife said, as she obeyed, leaving MrsHayles full of curiosity on the steps of the door. Mrs Elsworthy, however uttered a shriek a moment after, and came down, with afrightened face, carrying a large pin-cushion, upon which, skeweredthrough and through with the biggest pin she could find, Rosa haddeposited her letter of leave-taking. This important document was readover in the shop by an ever-increasing group, as the news gotabroad--for Elsworthy, like his wife, lost his head, and rushed abouthither and thither, asking wild questions as to who had seen her last. Perhaps, at the bottom, he was not so desperate as he looked, but wasrather grateful than angry with Rosa for solving the difficulty. This iswhat the poor little runaway said:--

 "DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT, --I write a line to let you know that them as can do better for me than any belonging to me has took me away for good. Don't make no reflections, please, nor blame nobody; for I never could have done no good nor had any 'appiness at Carlingford after all as has happened. I don't bear no grudge, though aunt has been so unkind; but I forgive her, and uncle also. My love to all friends; and you may tell Bob Hayles as I won't forget him, but will order all my physic regular at his father's shop. --Your affectionate niece, "ROSA. "

 "_P. S. _--Uncle has no occasion to mind, for them as has took charge of me has promised to make a lady of me, as he always said I was worthy of; and I leave all my things for aunt's relations, as I can't wear such poor clothes in my new station of life. "

Such was the girl's letter, with its natural impertinences and naturaltouch of kindness; and it made a great commotion in the neighbourhood, where a few spasmodic search-parties were made up with no realintentions, and came to nothing, as was to be expected. It was adreadful thing to be sure, to happen to a respectable family; but whenthings had gone so far, the neighbours, on the whole, were inclined tobelieve it was the best thing Rosa could have done; and the Elsworthys, husband and wife, were concluded to be of the same opinion. WhenCarlingford had exhausted this subject, and had duly discussed theprobabilities as to where she had gone, and whether Rosa could be thelady in a veil who had been handed into the express night-train by twogentlemen, of whom a railway porter bore cautious testimony, the othermysterious rumour about Mr Wentworth had its share of popular attention. It was discussed in Masters's with a solemnity becoming the occasion, everybody being convinced of the fact, and nobody knowing how it was tobe. One prevailing idea was, that Mr Wentworth's brother, who hadsucceeded to his mother's fortune (which was partly true, like mostpopular versions of family history, his mother's fortune being nowGerald's sole dependence), intended to establish a great brotherhood, upon the Claydon model, in Carlingford, of which the Perpetual Curatewas to be the head. This idea pleased the imagination of the town, whichalready saw itself talked of in all the papers, and anticipated withexcitement the sight of English brothers of St Benedict walking about inthe streets, and people from the 'Illustrated News' making drawings ofGrange Lane. To be sure, Gerald Wentworth had gone over to the Church ofRome, which was a step too far to be compatible with the Englishbrotherhood; but popular imagination, when puzzled and in a hurry, doesnot take time to master all details. Then, again, opinion wavered, andit was supposed to be the Miss Wentworths who were the agents of thecoming prosperity. They had made up their mind to endow St Roque's andapply to the Ecclesiastical Commissioners to have it erected into aparochial district, rumour reported; and the senior assistant inMasters's, who was suspected of Low-Church tendencies, was known to be asupporter of this theory. Other ideas of a vague character floatedthrough the town, of which no one could give any explanation; butCarlingford was unanimous in the conviction that good fortune was comingsomehow to the popular favourite, who a week ago had occupiedtemporarily the position of the popular _bête noire_ and impersonationof evil. "But the real sort always triumphs at the last, " was theverdict of Wharfside, which like every primitive community, believedin poetic justice; and among the bargemen and their wives muchgreater elevation than that of a district church or the headship of abrotherhood was expected "for the clergyman. " If the Queen had sentfor him immediately, and conferred upon him a bishopric, or at leastappointed him her private chaplain, such a favour would have excited nosurprise in Wharfside, where indeed the public mind was inclined to theopinion that the real use of queens and other such dignitaries was tofind out and reward merit. Mr Wentworth himself laughed when the gossipreached his ears. "My people have given away all they had to give, " hesaid to somebody who had asked the question; "and I know no prospect Ihave of being anything but a perpetual curate, unless the Queen sendsfor me and appoints me to a bishopric, as I understand is expected inPrickett's Lane. If I come to any advancement, " said the Curate of StRoque's, "it must be in social estimation, and not in worldly wealth, which is out of my way;" and he went down to Wharfside rather cheerfullythan otherwise, having begun to experience that pertinacity carries theday, and that it might be possible to goad Lucy into the experiment ofhow much her housekeeping talents were good for, and whether, with agood wife, even a Perpetual Curate might be able to live without anyparticular bother in respect to the grocer's bill. Mr Wentworth being atpresent warmly engaged in this business of persuasion, and as intent asever on having his own way, was not much affected by the Carlingfordgossip. He went his way to Wharfside all the same, where the service wasconducted as of old, and where all the humble uncertain voices werebuoyed up and carried on by the steady pure volume of liquid sound whichissued from Lucy Wodehouse's lips into the utterance of such a'Magnificat' as filled Mr Wentworth's mind with exultation. It was thewoman's part in the worship--independent, yet in a sweet subordination;and the two had come back--though with the difference that their lovewas now avowed and certain, and they were known to belong to eachother--to much the same state of feeling in which they were before theMiss Wentworths came to Carlingford, or anything uncomfortable hadhappened. They had learned various little lessons, to be sure, in theinterim, but experience had not done much more for them than it does forordinary human creatures, and the chances are that Mr Wentworth wouldhave conducted himself exactly in the same manner another time had hebeen placed in similar circumstances; for the lessons of experience, however valuable, are sometimes very slow of impressing themselves upona generous and hasty temperament, which has high ideas of honour andconsistency, and rather piques itself on a contempt for self-interestand external advantages--which was the weakness of the Curate of StRoque's. He returned to the "great work" in Wharfside with undiminishedbelief in it, and a sense of being able to serve his God and hisfellow-creatures, which, though it may seem strange to some people, wasa wonderful compensation to him for the loss of Skelmersdale. "Afterall, I doubt very much whether, under any circumstances, we could haveleft such a work as is going on here, " he said to Lucy as they came upPrickett's Lane together, where the poor woman had just died peaceablyin No. 10, and got done with it, poor soul; and the Sister of Mercy, inher grey cloak, lifted towards him the blue eyes which were full oftears, and answered with natural emphasis, "Impossible! it would havebeen deserting our post, " and drew a step closer to him in the twilightwith a sense of the sweetness of that plural pronoun which mingled sowith the higher sense that it was impossible to disjoin them. And thetwo went on under the influence of these combined sentiments, takingcomfort out of the very hardness of the world around them, in whichtheir ministrations were so much needed, and feeling an exaltation inthe "duty, " which was not for one, but for both, and a belief in thepossibility of mending matters, in which their love for each other borea large share; for it was not in human nature thus to begin the idealexistence, without believing in its universal extension, and in theamelioration of life and the world. 

"That is all they think of, " said poor Miss Wodehouse, who, betweenher wondering inspection of the two "young people" and her ownmoderate and sensible love-affairs, and the directions which it wasnecessary to give to her Rector about the furnishing of the new house, was more constantly occupied than she had ever been in her life; "butthen, if they marry, what are they to live upon? and if they don'tmarry--"

"Perhaps something will turn up my dear, " said old Mrs Western, who hadan idea that Providence was bound to provide for two good young peoplewho wanted to marry; and thus the two ladies were forced to leave thematter, where, indeed, the historian of events in Carlingford wouldwillingly leave it also, not having much faith in the rewards of virtuewhich come convenient in such an emergency. But it is only pure fictionwhich can keep true to nature, and weave its narrative in analogy withthe ordinary course of life--whereas history demands exactness inmatters of _fact_, which are seldom true to nature, or amenable to anygeneral rule of existence. 

Before proceeding, however, to the narrative of the unexpectedadvancement and promotion which awaited the Perpetual Curate, it may beas well to notice that the Miss Wentworths, who during the summer hadkindly given their house at Skelmersdale to some friends who hadreturned in the spring from India, found themselves now in a position toreturn to their own proper dwelling-place, and made preparationsaccordingly for leaving Carlingford, in which, indeed, they had nofurther occupation; for, to be sure, except to the extent of thatrespect which a man owes to his aunts, they had no special claim uponFrank Wentworth, or right to supervise his actions, save on account ofSkelmersdale, which was now fully disposed of and given away. It cannotbe said that Miss Leonora had ever fully recovered from the remarkableindisposition which her nephew Jack's final address had brought uponher. The very next morning she fulfilled her pledges as a woman ofhonour, and bestowed Skelmersdale positively and finally upon JuliaTrench's curate, who indeed made a creditable enough rector in his way;but after she had accomplished this act, Miss Leonora relapsed into oneunceasing watch upon her nephew Frank, which was far from dispelling thetendency to headache which she showed at this period for the first andonly time in her life. She watched him with a certain feeling ofexpiation, as she might have resorted to self-flagellation had she liveda few hundred years before, and perhaps suffered more acute pangs inthat act of discipline than could be inflicted by any physical scourge. The longer she studied the matter the more thoroughly was Miss Leonoraconvinced not only that the Perpetual Curate was bent on doing his duty, but that he _did_ it with all the force of high faculties, and a mindmuch more thoroughly trained, and of finer material than was possessedby the man whom she had made rector of Skelmersdale. The strong-mindedwoman bore quietly, with a kind of defiance, the sharp wounds withwhich her self-esteem was pierced by this sight. She followed up herdiscovery, and made herself more and more certain of the mistake she hadmade, not sparing herself any part of her punishment. As she pursued herinvestigations, too, Miss Leonora became increasingly sensible that itwas not his mother's family whom he resembled, as she had once thought, but that he was out and out a Wentworth, possessed of all the familyfeatures; and this was the man whom by her own act she had disinheritedof his natural share in the patronage of the family, substituting forher own flesh and blood an individual for whom, to tell the truth, shehad little respect! Perhaps if she had been able to sustain herself withthe thought that it was entirely a question of "principle, " theretrospect might not have been so hard upon Miss Leonora; but being awoman of very distinct and uncompromising vision, she could not concealfrom herself either Julia Trench's cleverness or her own mixed anddoubtful motives. Having this sense of wrong and injustice, and generalfailure of the duty of kindred towards Frank, it might have beensupposed a little comfort to Miss Leonora to perceive that he hadentirely recovered from his disappointment, and was no longer in herpower, if indeed he had ever been so. But the fact was, that if anythingcould have aggravated her personal smart, it would have been the factof Frank's indifference and cheerfulness, and evident capability ofcontenting himself with his duty and his favourite district, and hisLucy--whom, to be sure, he could not marry, being only a perpetualcurate. The spectacle came to have a certain fascination for MissWentworth. She kept watching him with a grim satisfaction, punishingherself, and at the same time comforting herself with the idea that, light as he made of it, he must be suffering too. She could not bear tothink that he had escaped clean out of her hands, and that the decisionshe had come to, which produced so much pain to herself, was innoxiousto Frank; and at the same time, though she could not tolerate hiscomposure, and would have preferred to see him angry and revengeful, hisevident recovery of spirits and general exhilaration increased MissLeonora's respect for the man she had wronged. In this condition of mindthe strong-minded aunt lingered over her preparations for removal, scorning much the rumour in Carlingford about her nephew's advancement, and feeling that she could never forgive him if by any chance promotionshould come to him after all. "He will stay where he is. He will be aperpetual curate, " Miss Leonora said, uttering what was in reality ahope under the shape of a taunt; and things were still in this positionwhen Grange Lane in general and Miss Dora in particular (from the windowof the summer-house) were startled much by the sight of the Rector, interribly correct clerical costume, as if he were going to dine with thebishop, who walked slowly down the road like a man charged with amission, and, knocking at Mrs Hadwin's door, was admitted immediately toa private conference with the Curate of St Roque's. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

It was the same afternoon that Mr Wentworth failed to attend, as he hadnever been known to fail before, at the afternoon's school which he hadset up in Prickett's Lane for the young bargemen, who between theintervals of their voyages had a little leisure at that hour of the day. It is true there was a master provided, and the presence of thePerpetual Curate was not indispensable; but the lads, among whom, indeed, there were some men, were so much used to his presence as to getrestless at their work on this unprecedented emergency. The master knewno other resource than to send for Miss Lucy Wodehouse, who was known tobe on the other side of Prickett's Lane at the moment, superintending asimilar educational undertaking for the benefit of the girls. It was, asmay be supposed, embarrassing to Lucy to be called upon to render anaccount of Mr Wentworth's absence, and invited to take his place in thispublic and open manner; but then the conventional reticences wereunknown in Wharfside, and nobody thought it necessary to conceal hiscertainty that the Curate's movements were better known to Lucy than toanybody else. She had to make answer with as much composure as possiblein the full gaze of so many pairs of curious eyes, that she did not knowwhy Mr Wentworth was absent--"Somebody is sick, perhaps, " said Lucy, repeating an excuse which had been made before for the Perpetual Curate;"but I hope it does not make any difference, " she went on, turning roundupon all the upturned heads which were neglecting their work to stare ather. "Mr Wentworth would be grieved to think that his absence did hisscholars any injury. " Lucy looked one of the ringleaders in the eyes asshe spoke, and brought him to his senses--all the more effectually, tobe sure, because she knew all about him, and was a familiar figure tothe boy, suggesting various little comforts, for which, in Prickett'sLane, people were not ungrateful. But when she went back again to hergirls, the young lady found herself in a state of excitement which washalf annoyance and half a kind of shy pleasure. To be sure, it was quitetrue that they did belong to each other; but at the same time, so longas she was Lucy Wodehouse, she had no right to be called upon torepresent "the clergyman, " even in "the district" which was so importantto both. And then it occurred to her to remember that if she remainedLucy Wodehouse that was not the Curate's fault--from which thought shewent on to reflect that going away with Mr and Mrs Proctor when theywere married was not a charming prospect, not to say that it involved arenunciation of the district for the present at least, and possibly forever; for if Mr Wentworth could not marry as long as he was a perpetualcurate, it followed of necessity that he could not marry until he had leftCarlingford--an idea which Lucy turned over in her mind very seriouslyas she walked home, for this once unattended. A new light seemed to bethrown upon the whole matter by this thought. To consent to be marriedsimply for her own happiness, to the disadvantage in any respect of herhusband, was an idea odious to this young woman, who, like most youngwomen, preferred to represent even to herself that it was for _his_happiness that she permitted herself to be persuaded to marry; but ifduty were involved, that was quite another affair. It was quite evidentto Lucy, as she walked towards Grange Lane, that the Curate would not beable to find any one to take her place in the district; perhapsalso--for she was honest even in her self-delusions--Lucy was aware thatshe might herself have objections to the finding of a substitute; andwhat then? Was the great work to be interrupted because she could notbear the idea of possibly diminishing some of his external comforts byallowing him to have his way, and to be what he considered happy? Suchwas the wonderful length to which her thoughts had come when she reachedthe garden-door, from which Mr Wentworth himself, flushed and eager, came hastily out as she approached. So far from explaining hisunaccountable absence, or even greeting her with ordinary politeness, the young man seized her by the arm and brought her into the garden witha rapidity which made her giddy. "What is it--what do you mean?" Lucycried with amazement as she found herself whirled through the sunshineand half carried up the stairs. Mr Wentworth made no answer until he haddeposited her breathless in her own chair, in her own corner, and thengot down on his knee beside her, as men in his crazy circumstances arenot unapt to do. 

"Lucy, look here. I was a perpetual curate the other day when you saidyou would have me, " said the energetic lover, who was certainly out ofhis wits, and did not know what he was saying--"and you said you didnot mind?"

"I said it did not matter, " said Lucy, who was slightly piqued that hedid not recollect exactly the form of so important a decision. "I knewwell enough you were a perpetual curate. Has anything happened, or areyou going out of your mind?"

"I think it must be that, " said Mr Wentworth. "Something soextraordinary has happened that I cannot believe it. Was I in Prickett'sLane this afternoon as usual, or was I at home in my own room talking tothe Rector--or have I fallen asleep somewhere, and is the whole thing adream?"

"You were certainly not in Prickett's Lane, " said Lucy. "I see what itis. Miss Leonora Wentworth has changed her mind, and you are going tohave Skelmersdale after all. I did not think you could have made upyour mind to leave the district. It is not news that gives me anypleasure, " said the Sister of Mercy, as she loosed slowly off from hershoulders the grey cloak which was the uniform of the district. Herown thoughts had been so different that she felt intensely mortifiedto think of the unnecessary decision she had been so near making, anddisappointed that the offer of a living could have moved her lover tosuch a pitch of pleasure. "All men are alike, it seems, " she said toherself, with a little quiver in her lip--a mode of forestalling hiscommunications which filled the Perpetual Curate with amazement anddismay. 

"What are you thinking of?" he said. "Miss Leonora Wentworth has notchanged her mind. That would have been a natural accident enough, butthis is incredible. If you like, Lucy, " he added, with an unsteadylaugh, "and will consent to my original proposition, you may marry onthe 15th, not the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's, but the Rector ofCarlingford. Don't look at me with such an unbelieving countenance. Itis quite true. "

"I wonder how you can talk so, " cried Lucy, indignantly; "it is all amade-up story; you know it is. I don't like practical jokes, " she wenton, trembling a little, and taking another furtive look at him--forsomehow it was too wonderful not to be true. 

"If I had been making up a story, I should have kept to what waslikely, " said Mr Wentworth. "The Rector has been with me all theafternoon--he says he has been offered his father's rectory, where hewas brought up, and that he has made up his mind to accept it, as healways was fond of the country;--and that he has recommended me to hisCollege for the living of Carlingford. "

"Yes, yes, " said Lucy, impatiently, "that is very good of Mr Morgan;but you know you are not a member of the College, and why should youhave the living? I knew it could not be true. "

"They are all a set of old--Dons, " said the Perpetual Curate; "that is, they are the most accomplished set of fellows in existence, Lucy--or atleast they ought to be--but they are too superior to take an ordinaryliving, and condescend to ordinary existence. Here has Carlingford beentwice vacant within a year--which is an unprecedented event--and Buller, the only man who would think of it, is hanging on for a colonialbishopric, where he can publish his book at his leisure. Buller is agreat friend of Gerald's. It is incredible, _Lucia mia_, but it istrue. "

"Is it true? are you _sure_ it is true?" cried Lucy; and in spite ofherself she broke down and gave way, and let her head rest on the firstconvenient support it found, which turned out, naturally enough, to beMr Wentworth's shoulder, and cried as if her heart was breaking. It isso seldom in this world that things come just when they are wanted; andthis was not only an acceptable benefice, but implied the entirepossession of the "district" and the most conclusive vindication of theCurate's honour. Lucy cried out of pride and happiness and glory in him. She said to herself, as Mrs Morgan had done at the beginning of herincumbency, "He will be such a Rector as Carlingford has never seen. "Yet at the same time, apart from her glorying and her pride, a certainsense of pain, exquisite though shortlived, found expression in Lucy'stears. She had just been making up her mind to accept a share of hislowliness, and to show the world that even a Perpetual Curate, when hiswife was equal to her position, might be poor without feeling any of thedegradations of poverty; and now she was forestalled, and had nothing todo but accept his competence, which it would be no credit to managewell! Such were the thoughts to which she was reduced, though she hadcome home from Prickett's Lane persuading herself that it was duty only, and the wants of the district, which moved her. Lucy cried, although notmuch given to crying, chiefly because it was the only method she couldfind of giving expression to the feelings which were too varied and toocomplicated for words. 

All Carlingford knew the truth about Mr Wentworth's advancement thatevening, and on the next day, which was Sunday, the Church of StRoque's was as full as if the plague had broken out in Carlingford, and the population had rushed out, as they might have done in medievaltimes, to implore the succour of the physician-saint. The firstindication of the unusual throng was conveyed to Mr Wentworth in hislittle vestry after the choristers had filed into the church in theirwhite surplices, about which, to tell the truth, the Perpetual Curatewas less interested than he had once been. Elsworthy, who had beenhumbly assisting the young priest to robe himself, ventured to breakthe silence when they were alone. 

"The church is very full, sir, " said Elsworthy; "there's a deal ofpeople come, sir, after hearing the news. I don't say I've always beenas good a servant as I ought to have been; but it was all throughbeing led away, and not knowing no better, and putting my trust whereI shouldn't have put it. I've had a hard lesson, sir, and I've learntbetter, " he continued, with a sidelong glance at the Curate's face;"it was all a mistake. "

"I was not finding fault with you, that I am aware of, " said MrWentworth, with a little surprise. 

"No, sir, " said Elsworthy, "I am aware as you wasn't finding no fault;but there's looks as speaks as strong as words, and I can feel as youhaven't the confidence in me as you once had. I aint ashamed to sayit, sir, " continued the clerk of St Roque's. "I'm one as trusted inthat girl's innocent looks, and didn't believe as she could do noharm. She's led me into ill-feeling with my clergyman, sir, and doneme a deal o' damage in my trade, and now she's gone off without asmuch as saying 'Thank you for your kindness. ' It's a hard blow upon aman as was fond of her, and I didn't make no difference, no more thanif she had been my own child. "

"Well, well, " said the Curate, "I daresay it was a trial to you; butyou can't expect me to take much interest in it after all that haspassed. Let bygones be bygones, " said Mr Wentworth, with a smile, "asindeed you once proposed. "

"Ah! sir, that was my mistake, " sighed the penitent. "I would have'umbled myself more becoming, if I had known all as I know now. You'rea-going off to leave St Roque's, where we've all been so happy, " saidMr Elsworthy, in pathetic tones. "I don't know as I ever was as 'appy, sir, as here, a-listening to them beautiful sermons, and a-giving mybest attention to see as the responses was well spoke out, and thingsdone proper. Afore our troubles began, sir, I don't know as I had awish in the world, unless it was to see an 'andsome painted window inthe chancel, which is all as is wanted to make the church perfect; andnow you're a-going to leave, and nobody knows what kind of a gentlemanmay be sent. If you wouldn't think I was making too bold, " saidElsworthy, "it aint my opinion as you'll ever put up with poor oldNorris as is in the church. Men like Mr Morgan and Mr Proctor as hadno cultivation doesn't mind; but for a gentleman as goes through theservice as you does it, Mr Wentworth--"

Mr Wentworth laughed, though he was fully robed and ready for thereading-desk, and knew that his congregation was waiting. He held hiswatch in his hand, though it already marked the half minute aftereleven. "So you would like to be clerk in the parish church?" he said, with what seemed a quite unnecessary amount of amusement to theanxious functionary by his side. 

"I think as you could never put up with old Norris, sir, " saidElsworthy; "as for leading of the responses, there aint such a thingdone in Carlingford Church. I don't speak for myself, " said thepublic-spirited clerk, "but it aint a right thing for the risinggeneration; and it aint everybody as would get into your way in aminute--for you have a way of your own, sir, in most things, and ifyou'll excuse me for saying of it, you're very particular. It aintevery man, sir, as could carry on clear through the service along ofyou, Mr Wentworth; and you wouldn't put up with old Norris, not for aday. "

Such was the conversation which opened this memorable Sunday to MrWentworth. Opposite to him, again occupying the seat where his wifeshould have been, had he possessed one, were the three Miss Wentworths, his respected aunts, to whose opinion, however, the Curate did not feelhimself bound to defer very greatly in present circumstances; and alarge and curious congregation ranged behind them, almost as muchconcerned to see how Mr Wentworth would conduct himself in this momentof triumph, as they had been in the moment of his humiliation. It is, however, needless to inform the friends of the Perpetual Curate that theanxious community gained very little by their curiosity. It was not thecustom of the young Anglican to carry his personal feelings, either ofone kind or another, into the pulpit with him, much less into thereading-desk, where he was the interpreter not of his own sentiments oremotions, but of common prayer and universal worship. Mr Wentworthdid not even throw a little additional warmth into his utterance ofthe general thanksgiving, as he might have done had he been a moreeffusive man; but, on the contrary, read it with a more than ordinarycalmness, and preached to the excited people one of those terse littleunimpassioned sermons of his, from which it was utterly impossible todivine whether he was in the depths of despair or at the summit andcrown of happiness. People who had been used to discover a great many ofold Mr Bury's personal peculiarities in his sermons, and who, of recentdays, had found many allusions which it was easy to interpret in thediscourses of Mr Morgan, retired altogether baffled from the clear andsuccinct brevity of the Curate of St Roque's. He was that day inparticular so terse as to be almost epigrammatic, not using a wordmore than was necessary, and displaying that power of saying a greatdeal more than at the first moment he appeared to say, in which MrWentworth's admirers specially prided themselves. Perhaps a momentaryhuman gratification in the consciousness of having utterly baffledcuriosity, passed through the Curate's mind as he took off his robeswhen the service was over; but he was by no means prepared for theordeal which awaited him when he stepped forth from the pretty porch ofSt Roque's. There his three aunts were awaiting him, eager to hear allabout it, Miss Dora, for the first time in her life, holding theprincipal place. "We are going away to-morrow, Frank, and of course youare coming to lunch with us, " said aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. "Oh, my dear boy, I am so happy, and so ashamed, to hear of it. To think youshould be provided for, and nobody belonging to you have anything to dowith it! I don't know what to say, " said Miss Dora, who was half cryingas usual; "and as for Leonora, one is frightened to speak to her. Oh, Iwish you would say something to your aunt Leonora, Frank. I don't knowwhether she is angry with us or with you or with herself, or what it is;or if it is an attack on the nerves--though I never imagined she had anynerves; but, indeed, whatever my brother may say, it looks verylike--dreadfully like--the coming-on of the Wentworth complaint. Poorpapa was just like that when he used to have it coming on; and Leonorais not just--altogether--what you would call a female, Frank. Oh, mydear boy, if you would only speak to her!" cried Miss Dora, who was agreat deal too much in earnest to perceive anything comical in what shehad said. 

"I should think it must be an attack on the temper, " said the Curate, who, now that it was all over, felt that it was but just his auntLeonora should suffer a little for her treatment of him. "Perhaps someof her favourite colporteurs have fallen back into evil ways. There wasone who had been a terrible blackguard, I remember. It is something thathas happened among her mission people, you may be sure, and nothingabout me. "

"You don't know Leonora, Frank. She is very fond of you, though shedoes not show it, " said Miss Dora, as she led her victim intriumphantly through the garden-door, from which the reluctant youngman could see Lucy and her sister in their black dresses just arrivingat the other green door from the parish church, where they hadoccupied their usual places, according to the ideas of propriety whichwere common to both the Miss Wodehouses. Mr Wentworth had to contenthimself with taking off his hat to them, and followed his aunts to thetable, where Miss Leonora took her seat much with the air of a judgeabout to deliver a sentence. She did not restrain herself even in theconsideration of the presence of Lewis the butler, who, to be sure, had been long enough in the Wentworth family to know as much about itsconcerns as the members of the house themselves, or perhaps a littlemore. Miss Leonora sat down grim and formidable in her bonnet, whichwas in the style of a remote period, and did not soften the severityof her personal appearance. She pointed her nephew to a seat besideher, but she did not relax her features, nor condescend to anyordinary preliminaries of conversation. For that day even she tookLewis's business out of his astonished hands, and herself divided thechicken with a swift and steady knife and anatomical precision; and itwas while occupied in this congenial business that she broke forthupon Frank in a manner so unexpected as almost to take away hisbreath. 

"I suppose this is what fools call poetic justice, " said Miss Leonora, "which is just of a piece with everything else that is poetical--weakfolly and nonsense that no sensible man would have anything to say to. How a young man like you, who know how to conduct yourself in somethings, and have, I don't deny, many good qualities, can give in tocome to an ending like a trashy novel, is more than I can understand. You are fit to be put in a book of the Good-child series, Frank, as anillustration of the reward of virtue, " said the strong-minded woman, with a little snort of scorn; "and, of course, you are going tomarry, and live happy ever after, like a fairy tale. "

"It is possible I may be guilty of that additional enormity, " said theCurate, "which, at all events, will not be your doing, my dear aunt, ifI might suggest a consolation. You cannot help such things happening, but, at least, it should be a comfort to feel you have done nothing tobring them about. "

To which Miss Leonora answered by another hard breath of mingled disdainand resentment. "Whatever I have brought about, I have tried to do whatI thought my duty, " she said. "It has always seemed to me a very poorsort of virtue that expects a reward for doing what it ought to do. Idon't say you haven't behaved very well in this business, but you'vedone nothing extraordinary; and why I should have rushed out of my wayto reward you for it--Oh, yes, I know you did not expect anything, " saidMiss Leonora; "you have told me as much on various occasions, Frank. Youhave, of course, always been perfectly independent, and scorned toflatter your old aunts by any deference to their convictions; and, to besure, it is nothing to you any little pang they may feel at having todispose otherwise of a living that has always been in the family. Youare of the latest fashion of Anglicanism, and we are only a parcel ofold women. It was not to be expected that our antiquated ideas could beworth as much to you as a parcel of flowers and trumpery--"

These were actually tears which glittered in Miss Leonora's eyes offiery hazel grey--tears of very diminutive size, totally unlike thebig dewdrops which rained from Miss Dora's placid orbs and made themred, but did _her_ no harm--but still a real moisture, forced out of afountain which lay very deep down and inaccessible to ordinaryefforts. They made her eyes look rather fiercer than otherwise for themoment; but they all but impeded Miss Leonora's speech, and struckwith the wildest consternation the entire party at the table, including even Lewis, who stood transfixed in the act of drawing abottle of soda-water, and, letting the cork escape him in hisamazement, brought affairs to an unlooked-for climax by hitting MissWentworth, who had been looking on with interest without taking anypart in the proceedings. When the fright caused by this unintentionalshot had subsided, Miss Leonora was found to have entirely recoveredherself; but not so the Perpetual Curate, who had changed colourwonderfully, and no longer met his accuser with reciprocal disdain. 

"My dear aunt, " said Frank Wentworth, "I wish you would not go back tothat. I suppose we parsons are apt sometimes to exaggerate triflesinto importance, as my father says. But, however, as things haveturned out, I could not have left Carlingford, " the Curate added, in atone of conciliation; "and now, when good fortune has come to meunsought--"

Miss Leonora finished her portion of chicken in one energetic gulp, and got up from the table. "Poetic justice!" she said, with a furioussneer. "I don't believe in that kind of rubbish. As long as you weregetting on quietly with your work I felt disposed to be rather proudof you, Frank. But I don't approve of a man ending off neatly like anovel in this sort of ridiculous way. When you succeed to the RectoryI suppose you will begin fighting, like the other man, with the newcurate, for working in your parish?"

"When I succeed to the Rectory, " said Mr Wentworth, getting up in histurn from the table, "I give you my word, aunt Leonora, no man shallwork in _my_ parish unless I set him to do it. Now I must be off to mywork. I don't suppose Carlingford Rectory will be the end of me, " thePerpetual Curate added, as he went away, with a smile which his auntscould not interpret. As for Miss Leonora, she tied her bonnet-stringsvery tight, and went off to the afternoon service at Salem Chapel byway of expressing her sentiments more forcibly. "I daresay he's boldenough to take a bishopric, " she said to herself; "but fortunatelywe've got _that_ in our own hands as long as Lord Shaftesbury lives;"and Miss Leonora smiled grimly over the prerogatives of her party. Butthough she went to the Salem Chapel that afternoon, and consoled herselfthat she could secure the bench of bishops from any audacious invasionof Frank Wentworth's hopes, it is true, notwithstanding, that MissLeonora sent her maid next morning to London with certain obsoleteornaments, of which, though the fashion was hideous, the jewels wereprecious; and Lucy Wodehouse had never seen anything so brilliant asthe appearance they presented when they returned shortly afterreposing upon beds of white satin in cases of velvet--"Ridiculousthings, " as Miss Leonora informed her, "for a parson's wife. "

It was some time after this--for, not to speak of ecclesiasticalmatters, a removal, even when the furniture is left behind and thereare only books, and rare ferns, and old china, to convey from onehouse to another, is a matter which involves delays--when Mr Wentworthwent to the railway station with Mrs Morgan to see her off finally, her husband having gone to London with the intention of joining her inthe new house. Naturally, it was not without serious thoughts that theRector's wife left the place in which she had made the first beginningof her active life, not so successfully as she had hoped. She couldnot help recalling, as she went along the familiar road, the hopes sovivid as to be almost certainties with which she had come intoCarlingford. The long waiting was then over, and the much-respectedera had arrived and existence had seemed to be opening in all itsfulness and strength before the two who had looked forward to it solong. It was not much more than six months ago; but Mrs Morgan hadmade a great many discoveries in the mean time. She had found out thewonderful difference between anticipation and reality; and that life, even to a happy woman married after long patience to the man of herchoice, was not the smooth road it looked, but a rough path enoughcut into dangerous ruts, through which generations of men and womenfollowed each other without ever being able to mend the way. She wasnot so sure as she used to be of a great many important matters whichit is a wonderful consolation to be certain of--but, notwithstanding, had to go on as if she had no doubts, though the clouds of a defeat, in which, certainly, no honour, though a good deal of the _prestige_of inexperience had been lost, were still looming behind. She gave alittle sigh as she shook Mr Wentworth's hand at parting. "A great manythings have happened in six months, " she said--"one never could haveanticipated so many changes in what looks so short a period of one'slife"--and as the train which she had watched so often rushed past thatnew bit of wall on which the Virginian creeper was beginning to growluxuriantly, which screened the railway from the Rectory windows, therewere tears in Mrs Morgan's eyes. Only six months and so much hadhappened!--what might not happen in all those months, in all those yearsof life which scarcely looked so hopeful as of old? She preferredturning her back upon Carlingford, though it was the least comfortableside of the carriage, and put down her veil to shield her eyes from thedust, or perhaps from the inspection of her fellow-travellers: and oncemore the familiar thought returned to her of what a different woman shewould have been had she come to her first experiences of life with thecourage and confidence of twenty or even of five-and-twenty, which wasthe age Mrs Morgan dwelt upon most kindly. And then she thought with athrill of vivid kindness and a touch of tender envy of Lucy Wodehouse, who would now have no possible occasion to wait those ten years. 

As for Mr Wentworth, he who was a priest, and knew more aboutCarlingford than any other man in the place, could not help thinking, as he turned back, of people there, to whom these six months hadproduced alterations far more terrible than any that had befallen theRector's wife:--people from whom the light of life had died out, andto whom all the world was changed. He knew of men who had beencheerful enough when Mr Morgan came to Carlingford, who now did notcare what became of them; and of women who would be glad to lay downtheir heads and hide them from the mocking light of day. He knew it, and it touched his heart with the tenderest pity of life, thecompassion of happiness; and he knew too that the path upon which hewas about to set out led through the same glooms, and was no idealcareer. But perhaps because Mr Wentworth was young--perhaps because hewas possessed by that delicate sprite more dainty than any Ariel whoputs rosy girdles round the world while his time of triumph lasts--itis certain that the new Rector of Carlingford turned back into GrangeLane without the least shadow upon his mind or timidity in histhoughts. He was now in his own domains, an independent monarch, aslittle inclined to divide his power as any autocrat; and Mr Wentworthcame into his kingdom without any doubts of his success in it, or ofhis capability for its government. He had first a little journey tomake to bring back Lucy from that temporary and reluctant separationfrom the district which propriety had made needful; but, in the meantime, Mr Wentworth trode with firm foot the streets of his parish, secure that no parson nor priest should tithe or toll in hisdominions, and a great deal more sure than even Mr Morgan had been, that henceforth no unauthorised evangelisation should take place inany portion of his territory. This sentiment, perhaps, was theprincipal difference perceptible by the community in general betweenthe new Rector of Carlingford and the late Perpetual Curate of StRoque's. 

FOOTNOTE

[1] She was the daughter of old Sir Jasper Shelton, a poor family, butvery respectable, and connected with the Westerns. 

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Contemporary spellings have been retained even when inconsistent. Asmall number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected andmissing punctuation has been silently added. 

The following additional changes have been made to the text:

 the news with which her heart was the news with which her heart was beating were beating was

 neither here not there neither here nor there

 the trouble which has overtaken the trouble which had overtaken

 wiled the night away whiled the night away

 his handkerchief to this eyes his handkerchief to his eyes

 Notwithstanding, that fact is, that Notwithstanding, the fact is, that

 than ever come out of mortal loom than ever came out of mortal loom

 Thomson Thompson