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The Perpetual Curate

by Mrs. Oliphant · English · Gutenberg #28006 · 1,089,684 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Perpetual Curate

Author: Mrs. Oliphant


        
Release date: February 5, 2009 [eBook #28006]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28006

Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PERPETUAL CURATE ***




Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









Chronicles of Carlingford.




THE
PERPETUAL CURATE

MRS OLIPHANT


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




CHAPTER I.


Carlingford is, as is well known, essentially a quiet place. There is
no trade in the town, properly so called. To be sure, there are two or
three small counting-houses at the other end of George Street, in that
ambitious pile called Gresham Chambers; but the owners of these places
of business live, as a general rule, in villas, either detached or
semi-detached, in the North-end, the new quarter, which, as everybody
knows, is a region totally unrepresented in society. In Carlingford
proper there is no trade, no manufactures, no anything in particular,
except very pleasant parties and a superior class of people--a very
superior class of people, indeed, to anything one expects to meet
with in a country town, which is not even a county town, nor the seat
of any particular interest. It is the boast of the place that it has no
particular interest--not even a public school: for no reason in the
world but because they like it, have so many nice people collected
together in those pretty houses in Grange Lane--which is, of course, a
very much higher tribute to the town than if any special inducement had
led them there. But in every community some centre of life is necessary.
This point, round which everything circles, is, in Carlingford, found in
the clergy. They are the administrators of the commonwealth, the only
people who have defined and compulsory duties to give a sharp outline to
life. Somehow this touch of necessity and business seems needful even
in the most refined society: a man who is obliged to be somewhere at a
certain hour, to do something at a certain time, and whose public duties
are not volunteer proceedings, but indispensable work, has a certain
position of command among a leisurely and unoccupied community, not to
say that it is a public boon to have some one whom everybody knows and
can talk of. The minister in Salem Chapel was everything in his little
world. That respectable connection would not have hung together half so
closely but for this perpetual subject of discussion, criticism, and
patronage; and, to compare great things with small, society in Carlingford
recognised in some degree the same human want. An enterprising or
non-enterprising rector made all the difference in the world in Grange
Lane; and in the absence of a rector that counted for anything (and poor
Mr Proctor was of no earthly use, as everybody knows), it followed, as a
natural consequence, that a great deal of the interest and influence of
the position fell into the hands of the Curate of St Roque's.

But that position was one full of difficulties, as any one acquainted
with the real state of affairs must see in a moment. Mr Wentworth's
circumstances were, on the whole, as delicate and critical as can be
imagined, both as respected his standing in Carlingford and the place
he held in his own family--not to speak of certain other personal
matters which were still more troublesome and vexatious. These last of
course were of his own bringing on; for if a young man chooses to fall
in love when he has next to nothing to live upon, trouble is sure to
follow. He had quite enough on his hands otherwise without that
crowning complication. When Mr Wentworth first came to Carlingford,
it was in the days of Mr Bury, the Evangelical rector--his last
days, 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 a
friendship of old standing with the Miss Wentworths of Skelmersdale,
Mr Francis Wentworth's aunts; and it was a long time before the old
Rector's eyes were opened to the astounding fact, that the nephew of
these precious and chosen women held "views" of the most dangerous
complexion, and indeed was as near Rome as a strong and lofty
conviction of the really superior catholicity of the Anglican Church
would permit him to be. Before he found this out, Mr Bury, who had
unlimited confidence in preaching and improving talk, had done all he
could to get the young man to "work," as the good Rector called it,
and had voluntarily placed all that difficult district about the canal
under the charge of the Curate of St Roque's. It is said that the
horror with which, after having just written to Miss Leonora Wentworth
to inform her what "a great work" his young friend was doing among the
bargemen, Mr Bury was seized upon entering St Roque's itself for the
first time after the consecration, when the young priest had arranged
everything his own way, had a very bad effect on his health, and
hastened his end. And it is indeed a fact that he died soon after,
before he had time to issue the interdict he intended against Mr
Wentworth's further exertions in the parish of Carlingford. Then came
Mr Proctor, who came into the town as if he had dropped from the
skies, and knew no more about managing a parish than a baby; and
under his exceptional incumbency Mr Wentworth became more than ever
necessary to the peace of the community. Now a new _regime_ had been
inaugurated. Mr Morgan, a man whom Miss Wodehouse described as "in the
prime 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 under
training for her future duties--two fresh, new, active, clergymanly
intellects, entirely open to the affairs of the town, and intent
upon general reformation and sound management--had just come into
possession. The new Rector was making a great stir all about him, as
was natural to a new man; and it seemed, on the whole, a highly
doubtful business whether he and Mr Wentworth would find Carlingford
big enough to hold them both.

"We could not have expected to begin quite without difficulties," said
Mrs Morgan, as she and her husband discussed the question in the
drawing-room of the Rectory. It was a pretty drawing-room, though Mr
Proctor's taste was not quite in accordance with the principles of
the new incumbent's wife: however, as the furniture was all new, and as
the former rector had no further need for it, it was of course, much the
best and most economical arrangement to take it as it stood--though the
bouquets on the carpet were a grievance which nothing but her high
Christian principles could have carried Mrs Morgan through. She looked
round as she spoke, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head:
she, too, had her share of disagreeables. "It would not look like
Christ's work, dear," said the clergyman's wife, "if we had it all our
own way."

"My dear, I hope I am actuated by higher motives than a desire to have
it all my own way," said the Rector. "I always felt sure that Proctor
would make a mess of any parish he took in hand, but I did not imagine
he would have left it to anybody who pleased to work it. You may
imagine what my feelings were to-day, when I came upon a kind of
impromptu chapel in that wretched district near the canal. I thought
it a Little Bethel, you know, of course; but instead of that, I find
young Wentworth goes there Wednesdays and Fridays to do duty, and that
there 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 all
constituted 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 soul
the Perpetual Curate's good looks and good manners had not been
without a certain softening effect. "I am so sorry. I don't wonder you
are vexed; but don't you think there must be some mistake, William? Mr
Wentworth is so gentlemanly and nice--and of very good family, too.
I don't think he would choose to set himself in opposition to the
Rector. I think there must be some mistake." "It's a very aggravating
mistake, at all events," said Mr Morgan, rising and going to the
window. It was, as we have said, a very pretty drawing-room, and the
windows opened upon as pretty a bit of lawn as you could see, with one
handsome cedar sweeping its dark branches majestically over delicious
greensward; but some people did think it was too near George Street
and the railway. Just at that moment a puff of delicate white vapour
appeared over the wall, and a sudden express-train, just released from
the cover of the station, sprang with a snort and bound across the
Rector's view, very imperfectly veiled by the lime-trees, which were
thin in their foliage as yet. Mr Morgan groaned and retreated--out of
his first exaltation he had descended all at once, as people will do
after building all their hopes upon one grand event, into great
depression and vexation, when he found that, after all, this event did
not change the face of existence, but indeed brought new proofs of
mortality in the shape of special annoyances belonging to itself in
its train. "On the whole," said the Rector, who was subject to fits of
disgust with things in general, "I am tempted to think it was a
mistake coming to Carlingford; the drawbacks quite overbalance the
advantages. I did hesitate, I remember--it must have been my better
angel: that is, my dear," he continued, recollecting himself, "I would
have hesitated had it not been for you."

Here there ensued a little pause. Mrs Morgan was not so young as she
had been ten years ago, all which time she had waited patiently for
the Fellow of All-Souls, and naturally these ten years and the
patience had not improved her looks. There was a redness on her
countenance nowadays which was not exactly bloom; and it stretched
across her cheeks, and over the point of her nose, as she was
painfully aware, poor lady. She was silent when she heard this,
wondering with a passing pang whether he was sorry? But being a
thoroughly sensible woman, and above indulging in those little appeals
by which foolish ones confuse the calm of matrimonial friendship, she
did 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 the
wife of the Rector of Carlingford; "but I suppose every place has its
disadvantages; and then there is such good society; and a town like
this is the very place for your talents; and when affairs are in your
own hands--"

"It is very easy talking," said the vexed Rector. "Society and
everybody would turn upon me if I interfered with Wentworth--there's
the 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, exactly
as if it were his own parish. What led me to the place was seeing
some ladies in grey cloaks--exactly such frights as you used to make
yourself, my dear--flickering about. He has got up a sisterhood, I
have no doubt; and to find all this in full operation in one's own
parish, without so much as being informed of it! and you know I don't
approve 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 that
subject," said Mrs Morgan. "I daresay so will the ladies here. Who
were they? Did you speak to them? or perhaps they belonged to St
Roque's."

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

Mrs Morgan was moved to utter a little cry. "And their father is
churchwarden!" said the indignant woman. "Really, William, this is too
much--without even consulting you! But it is easy to see how _that_
comes about. Lucy Wodehouse and young Wentworth are--; well, I don't
know if they are engaged--but they are always together, walking and
talking, and consulting with each other, and so forth--a great deal
more than I could approve of; but that poor elder sister, you know,
has no authority--nor indeed any experience, poor thing," said the
Rector's wife; "that's how it is, no doubt." "Engaged!" said the
Rector. 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 you
have been, my dear; but a young man may be in love without interfering
with another man's parish. I can't forgive that," said Mr Morgan,
recovering himself; "he must be taught to know better; and it is very
hard upon a clergyman," continued the spiritual ruler of Carlingford,
"that he cannot move in a matter like this without incurring a storm
of godless criticism. If I were sending Wentworth out of my parish, I
shouldn't wonder if the 'Times' had an article upon it, denouncing me
as an indolent priest and bigot, that would neither work myself nor
let 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 the
circumstances," said the Rector; "and I should just like to know what
he would have done in a parish like this, with the Dissenters on one
side, and a Perpetual Curate without a district meddling on the other.
Ah, my dear," continued Mr Morgan, "I daresay they had their troubles
in those days; but facing a governor or so now and then, or even
passing a night in the stocks, is a very different thing from a
showing-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 thinks
anything can be done to the church."

"Dear, you wouldn't mind the 'Times' if it were your duty?" said the
Rector'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 a
sense of humour; and the two went out to the architect's to ascertain
the result of his cogitations over the church. They passed that sacred
edifice in their way, and went in to gaze at it with a disgust which
only an unhappy priest of high culture and aesthetic tastes, doomed to
officiate in a building of the eighteenth century, of the churchwarden
period of architecture, could fully enter into. "Eugh!" said Mr Morgan,
looking round upon the high pews and stifling galleries with an expressive
contraction of his features--his wife looked on sympathetic; and it was
at this unlucky moment that the subject of their late conference made
his appearance cheerfully from behind the ugly pulpit, in close
conference with Mr Folgate. The pulpit was a three-storeyed mass, with
the reading-desk and the clerk's desk beneath--a terrible eyesore to the
Rector and his wife.

"I can fancy the expediency of keeping the place in repair," said the
Curate of St Roque's, happy in the consciousness of possessing a
church which, though not old, had been built by Gilbert Scott, and
cheerfully unconscious of the presence of his listeners; "but to
beautify a wretched old barn like this is beyond the imagination of
man. Money can't do everything," said the heedless young man as he
came lounging down the middle aisle, tapping contemptuously with his
cane upon the high pew-doors. "I wonder where the people expected to
go to who built Carlingford Church? Curious," continued the young
Anglican, 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, somewhat
sternly, from where he stood, under shelter of the heavy gallery. Mr
Wentworth was shortsighted, like most people nowadays. He put up his
glass hastily, and then hurried forward, perhaps just a little
abashed. When he had made his salutations, however, he returned
undismayed to the charge.

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

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

"I can only say I sympathise with you profoundly," said young
Wentworth, with great seriousness. "Such a terrible church must be a
great trial. I wish I had any advice worth offering; but it is my hour
for a short service down at the canal, and I can't keep my poor
bargees waiting. Good morning. I hope you'll come and give us your
countenance, Mrs Morgan. There's no end of want and trouble at
Wharfside."

"Is Mr Wentworth aware, I wonder, that Wharfside is in the parish of
Carlingford?" said the Rector, with involuntary severity, as the young
priest withdrew calmly to go to his "duty." Mr Folgate, who supposed
himself to be addressed, smiled, and said, "Oh yes, of course," and
unfolded his drawings, to which the clerical pair before him lent a
disturbed attention. They were both in a high state of indignation by
this time. It seemed indispensable that something should be done to
bring to his senses an intruder so perfectly composed and at his
ease.




CHAPTER II.


Meanwhile Mr Wentworth, without much thought of his sins, went down
George Street, meaning to turn off at the first narrow turning which
led down behind the shops and traffic, behind the comfort and beauty
of the little town, to that inevitable land of shadow which always
dogs the sunshine. Carlingford proper knew little about it, except
that it increased the poor-rates, and now and then produced a fever.
The minister of Salem Chapel was in a state of complete ignorance on
the subject. The late Rector had been equally uninformed. Mr Bury, who
was Evangelical, had the credit of disinterring the buried creatures
there about thirty years ago. It was an office to be expected of that
much-preaching man; but what was a great deal more extraordinary, was
to find that the only people now in Carlingford who knew anything
about Wharfside, except overseers of the poor and guardians of the
public peace, were the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's--who had nothing
particular to do with it, and who was regarded by many sober-minded
persons with suspicion as a dilettante Anglican, given over to floral
ornaments and ecclesiastical upholstery--and some half-dozen people of
the very _elite_ of society, principally ladies residing in Grange
Lane.

Mr Wentworth came to a hesitating pause at the head of the turning
which would have led him to Wharfside. He looked at his watch and saw
there was half an hour to spare. He gave a wistful lingering look down
the long line of garden-walls, pausing upon one point where the
blossomed boughs of an apple-tree overlooked that enclosure. There
was quite time to call and ask if the Miss Wodehouses were going down
to the service this afternoon; but was it duty? or, indeed, putting
that question aside, was it quite right to compound matters with his
own heart's desire and the work he was engaged in, in this undeniable
fashion? The young priest crossed the street very slowly, swinging his
cane and knitting his brows as he debated the question. If it had been
one of the bargemen bringing his sweetheart, walking with her along
the side of the canal to which Spring and sweet Easter coming on, and
Love, perhaps, always helpful of illusions, might convey a certain
greenness and sentiment of nature--and echoing her soft responses to
the afternoon prayers--perhaps the Curate might have felt that such
devotion was not entirely pure and simple. But somehow, before he was
aware of it, his slow footstep had crossed the line, and he found
himself in Grange Lane, bending his steps towards Mr Wodehouse's door.
For one thing, to be sure, the Canticles in the evening service could
always be sung when Lucy's sweet clear voice was there to lead the
uncertain 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 further
hesitation to the green door over which hung the apple-blossoms,
totally untroubled in his mind as to what the reverend pair were
thinking whom he had left behind him in the ugly church; and
unconscious that his impromptu chapel at Wharfside, with its little
carved reading-desk, and the table behind, contrived so as to look
suspiciously like an altar, was a thorn in anybody's side. Had his
mind been in a fit condition at that moment to cogitate trouble, his
thoughts would have travelled in a totally different direction, but in
the mean time Mr Wentworth was very well able to put aside his
perplexities. The green door opened just as he reached it, and Lucy
and her elder sister came out in those grey cloaks which the Rector
had slandered. They were just going to Wharfside to the service, and
of course they were surprised to see Mr Wentworth, who did not knock
at that green door more than a dozen times in a week, on the average.
The Curate walked between the sisters on their way towards their
favourite "district." Such a position would scarcely have been
otherwise than agreeable to any young man. Dear old Miss Wodehouse was
the gentlest of chaperones. Old Miss Wodehouse people called her, not
knowing why--perhaps because that adjective was sweeter than the harsh
one of middle age which belonged to her; and then there was such a
difference between her and Lucy. Lucy was twenty, and in her sweetest
bloom. Many people thought with Mr Wentworth that there were not other
two such eyes in Carlingford. Not that they were brilliant or
penetrating, but as blue as heaven, and as serene and pure. So many
persons thought, and the Perpetual Curate among them. The grey cloak
fell in pretty folds around that light elastic figure; and there was
not an old woman in the town so tender, so helpful, so handy as Lucy
where trouble was, as all the poor people knew. So the three went down
Prickett's Lane, which leads from George Street towards the canal--not
a pleasant part of the town by any means; and if Mr Wentworth was
conscious of a certain haze of sunshine all round and about him,
gliding over the poor pavement, and here and there transfiguring some
baby bystander gazing open-mouthed at the pretty lady, could any
reasonable man be surprised?

"I hope your aunts were quite well, Mr Wentworth, when you heard from
them last," said Miss Wodehouse, "and all your people at home. In such
a small family as ours, we should go out of our wits if we did not
hear every day; but I suppose it is different where there are so many.
Lucy, when she goes from home," said the tender elder sister, glancing
at her with a half-maternal admiration--"and she might always be
visiting about if she liked--writes to me every day."

"I have nobody who cares for me enough to write every week," said the
Curate, with a look which was for Lucy's benefit. "I am not so lucky
as you. My aunts are quite well, Miss Wodehouse, and they think I had
better go up to town in May for the meetings," added Mr Wentworth,
with a passing laugh; "and the rest of my people are very indignant
that I am not of their way of thinking. There is Tom Burrows on the
other side of the street; he is trying to catch _your_ eye," said the
Curate, turning round upon Lucy; for the young man had come to such a
pass that he could not address her in an ordinary and proper way like
other people, but, because he dared not yet call her by her Christian
name as if she belonged to him, had a strange rude way of indicating
when he was speaking to her, by emphasis and action. It was singularly
different from his usual good-breeding; but Lucy somehow rather liked
it than otherwise. "He is not going to church for the sake of the
service. He is going to please _you_. He has never forgotten what you
did for that little boy of his; and, indeed, if you continue to go on
so," said Mr Wentworth, lowering his voice, and more than ever bending
his 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 innocently
in the Curate's face. "I promised the poor sick woman in the back room
to see her every day, and I could not get out any sooner. I daresay I
shall be at the schoolroom before you begin. Good-bye just now," said
the young Sister of Mercy. She went off all at once on this provoking
but unexceptionable errand, looking with calm eyes upon the dismay
which overspread the expressive countenance of her spiritual guide. Mr
Wentworth stood looking after her for a moment, stunned by the
unexpected movement. When he went on, truth compels us to own that a
thrill of disgust had taken the place of that vague general sense of
beatitude which threw beauty even upon Prickett's Lane. The Curate
gave but a sulky nod to the salutation of Tom Burrows, and walked on
in a savage mood by the side of Miss Wodehouse, around whom no nimbus
of ideal glory hovered.

"I am always afraid of its being too much for her, Mr Wentworth," said
the anxious elder sister; "it upsets me directly; but then I never was
like Lucy--I can't tell where all you young people have learned it; we
never used to be taught so in my day; and though I am twice as old as
she is, I know I am not half so much good in the world," said the kind
soul, with a gentle sigh. "I should like to see you in a parish of
your own, where you would have it all your own way. I hope Mr Morgan
won't be meddling when he comes to have time for everything. I should
almost 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, in
morose tones. "This district was given into my hands by the late
Rector. Mr Morgan's face does not matter to me."

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

"If you wish me out of the way, Miss Wodehouse, I am sorry to say you
are not likely to be gratified," said the Curate, "for I have no more
expectation of any preferment than you have. Such chances don't come
in 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, who
had his own reasons for speaking with a little asperity. "They are
more likely to have me denounced at Exeter Hall. I will join you
immediately. I must speak to these men across the street;" and the
Curate accordingly walked into a knot of loungers opposite, with a
decision of manner which Lucy's desertion had helped him to. Miss
Wodehouse, thus left alone, went on with lingering and somewhat doubtful
steps. She was not used to being in "the district" by herself. It
disturbed her mild, middle-aged habits to be left straying about here
alone among all these poor people, whom she looked at half wistfully,
half alarmed, feeling for them in her kind heart, but not at all knowing
how to get at them as the young people did. The unruly children and
gossiping mothers at the poor doors discomposed her sadly, and she was
not near so sure that her grey cloak defended her from all rudeness as
she pretended to be when assenting to the enthusiasm of Mr Wentworth and
Lucy. She made tremulous haste to get out of this scene, which she was
not adapted for, to the shelter of the schoolroom, where, at least, she
would 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 reached
that haven of shelter, was seized with a little panic for Lucy, and went
out again and watched for her at the corner of the street, feeling very
uncomfortable. It was a great relief to see her young sister coming down
alert and bright even before she was joined by Mr Wentworth, who had
carried his point with the men he had been talking to. To see them
coming down together, smiling to all those people at the doors who
disturbed the gentle mind of Miss Wodehouse with mingled sentiments of
sympathy and repulsion, bestowing nods of greeting here and there,
pausing even to say a word to a few favoured clients, was a wonderful
sight to the timid maiden lady at the corner of the street. Twenty years
ago some such companion might have been by Miss Wodehouse's side, but
never among the poor people in Prickett's Lane. Even with Lucy before
her she did not understand it. As the two came towards her, other
thoughts united with these in her kind soul. "I wonder whether anything
will ever come of it?" she said to herself, and with that wandered into
anxious reflections what this difference could be between Mr Wentworth
and his aunts: which cogitations, indeed, occupied her till the service
began, and perhaps disturbed her due appreciation of it; for if Lucy and
Mr Wentworth got attached, as seemed likely, and Mr Wentworth did not
get a living, what was to come of it? The thought made this
tender-hearted spectator sigh: perhaps she had some experience of her
own to enlighten her on such a point. At least it troubled, with
sympathetic human cares, the gentle soul which had lost the confidence
of youth.

As for the two most immediately concerned, they thought nothing at all
about aunts or livings. Whether it is the divine influence of youth,
or whether the vague unacknowledged love which makes two people happy
in each other's presence carries with it a certain inspiration, this
at least is certain, that there is an absolute warmth of devotion
arrived at in such moments, which many a soul, no longer happy, would
give all the world to reach. Such crowds and heaps of blessings fall
to these young souls! They said their prayers with all their hearts,
not aware of deriving anything of that profound sweet trust and
happiness from each other, but expanding over all the rude but
reverend worshippers around them, with an unlimited faith in their
improvement, almost in their perfection. This was what the wondering
looker-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 all
their goodness that they were able to put away their own thoughts; she
did not know it was in the very nature of those unexpressed emotions
to add the confidence of happiness to their prayers.

And after a while they all separated and went away back into the world
and the everyday hours. Young Wentworth and Lucy had not said a syllable
to each other, except about the people in "the district," and the
Provident Society; and how that sober and laudable conversation could be
called love-making, it would be difficult for the most ardent imagination
to conceive. He was to dine with them that evening; so it was for but a
very brief time that they parted when the Perpetual Curate left the
ladies at the green door, and went away to his room, to attend to some
other duties, before he arrayed himself for the evening. As for the
sisters, they went in quite comfortably, and had their cup of tea before
they dressed for dinner. Lucy was manager indoors as well as out. She
was good for a great deal more than Miss Wodehouse in every practical
matter. It was she who was responsible for the dinner, and had all the
cares of the house upon her head. Notwithstanding, the elder sister took
up her prerogative as they sat together in two very cosy easy-chairs,
in a little room which communicated with both their bed-chambers
up-stairs--a very cosy little odd room, not a dressing-room nor a
boudoir, but something between the two, where the sisters had their
private talks upon occasion, and which was consecrated by many a
libation of fragrant tea.

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

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

"That is true enough," said Miss Wodehouse, "but you know that is not
what I meant either. Lucy, are you quite sure you're going on just as
you ought--"

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

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

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

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

"No--oh no, no--to be sure not," said the disturbed monitor. "When you
say 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 not
use to be so in my young days. Girls dare not have done such things
twenty years ago--not in Carlingford, Lucy," said Miss Wodehouse;
"and, dear, I think you ought to be a little careful, for poor Mr
Wentworth'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 her
pretty mouth--"and it is quite time for you to begin dressing. You
know you don't like to be hurried, dear;" with which speech the young
housekeeper got up from her easy-chair, gave her sister a kiss as she
passed, and went away, singing softly, to her toilette. Perhaps there
was a little flutter in Lucy's heart as she bound it round with her
favourite blue ribbons. Perhaps it was this that gave a certain
startled gleam to her blue eyes, and made even her father remark them
when she went down-stairs--"It seems to me as if this child were
growing rather pretty, Molly, eh? I don't know what other people
think," said Mr Wodehouse--and perhaps Mr Wentworth, who was just
being ushered into the drawing-room at the moment, heard the speech,
for he, too, looked as if he had never found it out before. Luckily
there was a party, and no opportunity for sentiment. The party was in
honour of the Rector and his wife; and Mr Wentworth could not but be
conscious before the evening was over that he had done something to
lose the favour of his clerical brother. There was a good deal of
Church talk, as was natural, at the churchwarden's table, where three
clergymen were dining--for Mr Morgan's curate was there as well; and
the Curate of St Roque's, who was slightly hot-tempered, could not
help feeling himself disapproved of. It was not, on the whole, a
satisfactory evening. Mr Morgan talked rather big, when the ladies
went away, of his plans for the reformation of Carlingford. He went
into statistics about the poor, and the number of people who attended
no church, without taking any notice of that "great work" which Mr
Wentworth knew to be going on at Wharfside. The Rector even talked of
Wharfside, and of the necessity of exertion on behalf of that wretched
district, with a studious unconsciousness of Mr Wentworth; and all but
declined to receive better information when Mr Wodehouse proffered it.
Matters were scarcely better in the drawing-room, where Lucy was
entertaining everybody, and had no leisure for the Perpetual Curate.
He took his hat with a gloomy sentiment of satisfaction when it was
time to go away; but when the green door was closed behind him, Mr
Wentworth, with his first step into the dewy darkness, plunged
headlong into a sea of thought. He had to walk down the whole length
of 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 a
whilom curate, was permitted by public opinion, on the score of her
own unexceptionable propriety,[A] to receive a lodger without loss of
position thereby. It was moonlight, or rather it ought to have been
moonlight, and no lamps were lighted in Grange Lane, according to the
economical regulations of Carlingford; and as Mr Wentworth pursued his
way down the dark line of garden-walls, in the face of a sudden April
shower which happened to be falling, he had full scope and opportunity
for his thoughts.

These thoughts were not the most agreeable in the world. In the first
place it must be remembered that for nearly a year past Mr Wentworth had
had things his own way in Carlingford. He had been more than rector, he
had been archdeacon, or rather bishop, in Mr Proctor's time; for that
good man was humble, and thankful for the advice and assistance of his
young brother, who knew so much better than he did. Now, to be looked
upon as an unauthorised workman, a kind of meddling, Dissenterish,
missionising individual, was rather hard upon the young man. And then he
thought of his aunts. The connection, imperceptible to an ignorant
observer, which existed between the Miss Wentworths and Mr Morgan, and
Lucy, and many other matters interesting to their nephew, was a
sufficiently real connection when you came to know it. That parish of
his own which Miss Wodehouse had wished him--which would free the young
clergyman from all trammels so far as his work was concerned; and would
enable him to marry, and do everything for him--it was in the power of
the Miss Wentworths to bestow; but they were Evangelical women, very
public-spirited, and thinking nothing of their nephew in comparison with
their 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 rather
exaggerate and make a display of the difference of his own views. Not
for freedom, not for Lucy, would the Perpetual Curate temporise and
manage the matter; so the fact was that he stood at the present moment
in a very perilous predicament. But for this family living, which was,
with their mother's property, in the hands of her co-heiresses, the
three Miss Wentworths, young Frank Wentworth had not a chance of
preferment in the world; for the respectable Squire his father had
indulged in three wives and three families, and such a regiment of sons
that 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 large
one--which belonged to the Wentworths; and Frank, who was of the second,
had been educated expressly with an eye to Skelmersdale, which belonged
to his aunts. How he came at the end to differ so completely from these
excellent ladies in his religious views is not our business just at
present; but in the mean time matters were in a very critical position.
The old incumbent of Skelmersdale was eighty, and had been ill all
winter; and if the Miss Wentworths were not satisfied somehow, it was
all over with their nephew's hopes.

Such were the thoughts that occupied his mind as he walked down Grange
Lane in the dark, past the tedious, unsympathetic line of garden-walls,
with the rain in his face. The evening's entertainment had stirred up a
great many dormant sentiments. His influence in Carlingford had been
ignored by this new-comer, who evidently thought he could do what he
liked without paying any attention to the Curate of St Roque's; and,
what was a great deal worse, he had found Lucy unapproachable, and had
realised, if not for the first time, still with more distinctness than
ever before, that she did not belong to him, and that he had no more
right than any other acquaintance to monopolise her society. This last
discovery was bitter to the young man--it was this that made him set his
face to the rain, and his teeth, as if that could do any good. He had
been happy in her mere society to-day, without entering into any of the
terrible preliminaries of a closer connection. But now that was over.
She did not belong to him, and he could not bear the thought. And how
was she ever to belong to him? Not, certainly, if he was to be a Perpetual
Curate of St Roque's, or anywhere else. He felt, in the misery of the
moment, as if he could never go to that green door again, or walk by her
sweet side to that service in which they had joined so lately. He
wondered whether she cared, with a despairing pang of anxiety, through
which for an instant a celestial gleam of consciousness leaped, making
the darkness all the greater afterwards. And to think that three old
ladies, of whom it was not in the nature of things that the young man
could be profoundly reverent, should hold in their hands the absolute
power of his life, and could determine whether it was to be sweet with
hope and love, or stern, constrained, and impoverished, without Lucy or
any other immediate light! What a strange anomaly this was which met him
full 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's
ring at his own door was so much more hasty than usual that Mrs Hadwin
paused in the hall, when she had lighted her candle, to see if anything
was the matter. The little neat old lady held up her candle to look at
him as he came in, glistening all over with rain-drops.

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

"Thank you--pretty well," said the Perpetual Curate, with less suavity
than usual, and a sigh that nearly blew Mrs Hadwin's candle out. She
saw he was discomposed, and therefore, with a feminine instinct, found
more to say than usual before she made her peaceful way to bed. She
waited while Mr Wentworth lighted his candle too. "Mr Wodehouse's
parties are always pleasant," she said. "I never go out, you know; but
I like to hear of people enjoying themselves. I insist upon you going
up-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 death
waiting for me. Now, don't be polite. I insist upon you going up
first. Thank you. Now I can take my time."

And she took her time accordingly, keeping Mr Wentworth waiting on the
landing to say good-night to her, much to his silent exasperation. When
he got into the shelter of his own sitting-room, he threw himself upon
a sofa, and continued his thoughts with many a troubled addition. A
young man, feeling in a great measure the world before him, conscious of
considerable powers, standing on the very threshold of so much possible
good and happiness,--it was hideous to look up, in his excited
imagination, and see the figures of these three old ladies, worse than
Fates, standing across the prospect and barring the way.

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




CHAPTER III.


Next week was Passion Week, and full of occupation. Even if it had been
consistent either with Mr Wentworth's principles or Lucy's to introduce
secular affairs into so holy a season, they had not time or opportunity,
as it happened, which was perhaps just as well; for otherwise the
premonitory thrill of expectation which had disturbed Lucy's calm, and
the bitter exasperation against himself and his fate with which Mr
Wentworth had discovered that he dared not say anything, might have
caused an estrangement between them. As it was, the air was thundery and
ominous through all the solemn days of the Holy Week. A consciousness as
of something about to happen overshadowed even the "district," and
attracted the keen observation of the lively spectators at Wharfside.
They were not greatly up in matters of doctrine, nor perhaps did they
quite understand the eloquent little sermon which the Perpetual Curate
gave them on Good Friday in the afternoon, between his own services, by
way of impressing upon their minds the awful memories of the day; but
they were as skilful in the variations of their young evangelist's
looks, and as well qualified to decide upon the fact that there was "a
something between" him and Miss Lucy Wodehouse, as any practised
observer in the higher ranks of society. Whether the two had "'ad an
unpleasantness," as, Wharfside was well aware, human creatures under
such circumstances are liable to have, the interested community could
not quite make out; but that something more than ordinary was going on,
and that the prettiest of all the "Provident ladies" had a certain
preoccupation in her blue eyes, was a fact perfectly apparent to
that intelligent society. And, indeed, one of the kinder matrons in
Prickett's Lane had even ventured so far as to wish Miss Lucy "a 'appy
weddin' when the time comes." "And there's to be a sight o' weddings
this Easter," had added another, who was somewhat scandalised by the
flowers in the bonnet of one of the brides-elect, and proceeded to say
so in some detail. "But Miss Lucy won't wear no bonnet; the quality goes
in veils: and there never was as full a church as there will be to see
it, wishing you your 'ealth and 'appiness, ma'am, as aint no more nor
you deserve, and you so good to us poor folks." All which felicitations
and inquiries had confused Lucy, though she made her way out of them
with a self-possession which amazed her sister.

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

"Oh, Mary, how can you talk of such things at such a time?" the young
Sister of Mercy had answered once more, turning those severe eyes of
youthful devotion upon her troubled elder sister, who, to tell the
truth, not having been brought up to it, as she said, felt much the
same on Easter Eve as at other times of her life; and thus once more
the matter concluded. As for Mr Wentworth, he was much occupied on
that last day of the Holy Week with a great many important matters on
hand. He had not seen the Wodehouses since the Good Friday evening
service, which was an interval of about twenty hours, and had just
paused, before eating his bachelor's dinner, to ponder whether it
would be correct on that most sacred of vigils to steal away for half
an hour, just to ask Lucy if she thought it necessary that he should
see the sick woman at No. 10 Prickett's Lane before the morning.
It was while he was pondering this matter in his mind that Mr
Wentworth'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 some
minutes after he had read it, quite unaware of the humble presence of
the maid who stood asking, Please was she to bring up dinner? When he
came to himself, the awful "No!" with which he answered that alarmed
handmaiden almost drove her into hysterics as she escaped down-stairs.
However, Mr Wentworth immediately put his head out at the door and
called after her, "I can't wait for dinner, Sarah; I am suddenly called
out, and shall dine where I am going. Tell Cook," said the young parson,
suddenly recollecting Lucy's client, "to send what she has prepared for
me, 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 young
man went up despairingly to his bedroom to prepare himself for this
interview with his aunts. What was he to do? Already before him, in
dreadful prophetic vision, he saw all three seated in one of the
handsome open benches in St Roque's, looking indescribable horrors at
the crown of spring lilies which Lucy's own fingers were to weave for
the cross above the altar, and listening to the cadence of his own manly
tenor as it rang through the perfect little church of which he was so
proud. Yes, there was an end of Skelmersdale, without any doubt or
question now; whatever hope there might have been, aunt Dora had settled
the matter by this last move of hers--an end to Skelmersdale, and an end
of Lucy. Perhaps he had better try not to see her any more; and the poor
young priest saw that his own face looked ghastly as he looked at it in
the glass. It gave him a little comfort to meet the boy with a bundle
pinned up in snowy napkins, from which a grateful odour ascended,
bending his steps to Prickett's Lane, as he himself went out to meet his
fate. It was a last offering to that beloved "district" with which the
image of his love was blended; but he would have given his dinner to
Lucy's sick woman any day. To-night it was a greater sacrifice that was
to be required of him. He went mournfully and slowly up Grange Lane,
steeling himself for the encounter, and trying to forgive aunt Dora in
his heart. It was not very easy. Things might have turned out just the
same without any interference--that was true; but to have it all brought
on in this wanton manner by a kind foolish woman, who would wring her
hands and gaze in your face, and want to know, Oh! did you think it was
her fault? after she had precipitated the calamity, was very hard; and
it was with a very gloomy countenance, accordingly, that the Curate of
St Roque's presented himself at the Blue Boar.

The Miss Wentworths were in the very best sitting-room which the Blue
Boar contained--the style in which they travelled, with a man and two
maids, was enough to secure that; and the kitchen of that respectable
establishment was doing its very best to send up a dinner worthy of "a
party as had their own man to wait." The three ladies greeted their
nephew 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 he
was brought to her. As for aunt Dora, she ran into her dear Frank's
arms, and in the very moment of that embrace whispered in his ear the
expression of her anxiety, and the panic which always followed those
rash steps which she was in the habit of taking. "Oh, my dear, I hope
you don't think I'm to blame," she said, with her lips at his ear, and
gained but cold comfort from the Curate's face. The alarming member of
the party was Miss Leonora. She rose and made two steps forward to
meet 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 was
the sensible sister of the three, and no doubt required all the sense
she had to manage her companions. Miss Wentworth, who had been very
pretty in her youth, was now a beautiful old lady, with snow-white
hair and the most charming smile; and Miss Dora, who was only fifty,
retained the natural colour of her own scanty light-brown locks, which
wavered in weak-minded ringlets over her cheeks; but Miss Leonora was
iron-grey, without any complexion in particular, and altogether a
harder type of woman. It was she who held in her hands the fate of
Skelmersdale and of Frank Wentworth. Her terrible glance it was which
he had imagined gleaming fierce upon his lilies--Lucy's lilies, his
Easter decorations. It was by her side the alarmed Curate was made to
sit down. It was she who took the foot of the table, and was the
gentleman of the house. Her voice was of that class of voice which may
be politely called a powerful contralto. Every way she was as alarming
a critic as ever was encountered by a Perpetual Curate, or any other
young man in trouble. Mr Wentworth said feebly that this was a very
unexpected pleasure, as he met his aunt Leonora's eye.

"I hope it _is_ a pleasure," said that penetrating observer. "To tell
the 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 any
peace. 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 with
you, and see how you are getting on."

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

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

"We have been hearing such delightful things about you, my dear, from
the people of the house. Leonora is so pleased to hear how you are
labouring among the people, and doing your Master's work. We take all
the 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 her
favourite; "and we have come, you know, specially to hear you on Easter
Sunday in your own church. I am looking forward to a great treat: to
think I should never have heard you, though it is so long since you were
ordained! None of us have ever heard you--not even Leonora; but it is
such a pleasure to us all to know you are so much liked in Carlingford,"
cried the troubled woman, growing nervous at sight of the unresponsive
quiet around her. Miss Leonora by no means replied to the covert
appeals thus made to her. She left her nephew and her sister to keep up
the conversation unassisted; and as for Miss Wentworth, conversation was
not her forte.

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

"Perhaps, Dora, you will postpone your raptures about Frank's
sermon--which may be a very indifferent sermon, as he says, for anything
we can tell--till after dinner," said Miss Leonora. "We're all very glad
to see him; and he need not think any little ill-tempered speeches he
may make will disturb me. I daresay the poor boy would be glad to hear
of 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 that
you're a clergyman for an hour at least. We were down at the old Hall a
week ago, and saw your father and the rest. They are all well; and the
last boy is rather like you, if you will think that any compliment. Mrs
Wentworth is pleased, because you are one of the handsome ones, you
know. Not much fear of the Wentworths dying out of the country yet
awhile. Your father is getting at his wit's end, and does not know what
to do with Cuthbert and Guy. Three sons are enough in the army, and two
at sea; and I rather think it's as much as we can stand," continued Miss
Leonora, not without a gleam of humour in her iron-grey eyes, "to have
two in the Church
."

"That is as it may happen," said the Perpetual Curate, with a little
spirit. "If the boys are of my way of thinking, they will consider the
Church the highest of professions; but Guy and Cuthbert must go to
Australia, I suppose, like most other people, and take their chance--no
harm 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 influence
with your brother, I think he's in a bad way. I think he has a bad
attack 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 see
after Gerald. He is the sort of man who would do anything foolish, you
know. He doesn't understand what prudence means. Remember, I believe
he is a good Christian all the same. It's very incomprehensible; but
the fact is, a man may be a very good Christian, and have the least
quality of sense that is compatible with existence. I've seen it over
and over again. Gerald's notions are idiocy to me," said the sensible
but candid woman, shrugging her shoulders; "but I can't deny that he's
a good man, for all that."

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

"Quite so, Frank," echoed aunt Cecilia, with her sweet smile: it was
almost 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 all
owing to the bad advisers young men meet with at the universities; and
how can it be otherwise as long as tutors and professors are chosen just
for their learning, without any regard to their principles? What is
Greek and Latin in comparison with a pious guide for the young? We
would not have to feel frightened, as we do so often, about young
men's principles," continued aunt Dora, fixing her eyes with warning
significance on her nephew, and trying hard to open telegraphic
communications with him, "if more attention was paid at the universities
to give them sound guidance in their studies. So long as you are sound
in 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 exertions
in smoothing matters, always to make things worse.

"He would be a bold man who would call those principles unsound which
have made my brother Gerald what he is," said, with an affectionate
admiration 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 the
end and nothing less. Eat your dinner, Frank--we are not going to
argue just now. We expected to hear that another of the girls was
engaged before we came away, but it has not occurred yet. I don't
approve of young men dancing about a house for ever and ever, unless
they mean something. Do you?"

Mr Wentworth faltered at this question; it disturbed his composure
more than anything that had preceded it. "I--really I don't know," he
said, after a pause, with a sickly smile--of which all three of his
aunts took private notes, forming their own conclusions. It was, as
may well be supposed, a very severe ordeal which the poor young man
had to go through. When he was permitted to say good-night, he went
away with a sensation of fatigue more overpowering than if he had
visited 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 his
heart. How was he to continue to live--to come and go through that
familiar road--to go through all the meetings and partings, when this
last hopeless trial was over, and Lucy and he were swept apart as if
by an earthquake? If his lips were sealed henceforward, and he never
was at liberty to say what was in his heart, what would she think of
him? He could not fly from his work because he lost Skelmersdale; and
how was he to bear it? He went home with a dull bitterness in his
mind, trying, when he thought of it, to quiet the aching pulses which
throbbed all over him, with what ought to have been the hallowed
associations of the last Lenten vigil. But it was difficult, throbbing
as he was with wild life and trouble to the very finger-points, to get
himself into the shadow of that rock-hewn grave, by which, according
to 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 he
wanted at this moment was no memory of one hour, however memorable or
glorious, not even though it contained the Redeemer's grave, but the
sense of a living Friend standing by him in the great struggle, which
is the essential and unfailing comfort of a Christian's life.

Next morning he went to church with a half-conscious, youthful sense of
martyrdom, of which in his heart he was half ashamed. St Roque's was
very fair to see that Easter morning. Above the communion-table, with
all its sacred vessels, the carved oaken cross of the reredos was
wreathed tenderly with white fragrant festoons of spring lilies, sweet
Narcissus of the poets; and Mr Wentworth's choristers made another white
line, two deep, down each side of the chancel. The young Anglican took
in all the details of the scene on his way to the reading-desk as the
white procession ranged itself in the oaken stalls. At that moment--the
worst moment for such a thought--it suddenly flashed over him that,
after all, a wreath of spring flowers or a chorister's surplice was
scarcely worth suffering martyrdom for. This horrible suggestion, true
essence of an unheroic age, which will not suffer a man to be absolutely
sure of anything, disturbed his prayer as he knelt down in silence to
ask God's blessing. Easter, to be sure, was lovely enough of itself
without the garland, and Mr Wentworth knew well enough that his
white-robed singers were no immaculate angel-band. It was Satan himself,
surely, and no inferior imp, who shot that sudden arrow into the young
man's heart as he tried to say his private prayer; for the Curate of St
Roque's was not only a fervent Anglican, but also a young Englishman
_sans reproche_, with all the sensitive, almost fantastic, delicacy of
honour which belongs to that development of humanity; and not for a
dozen worlds would he have sacrificed a lily or a surplice on this
particular Easter, when all his worldly hopes hung in the balance. But
to think at this crowning moment that a villanous doubt of the benefit
of these surplices and lilies should seize his troubled heart! for just
then the strains of the organ died away in lengthened whispers, and Miss
Leonora 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 the
morning service on that Easter Sunday, ever after a day so memorable in
the records of St Roque's.




CHAPTER IV.


Mr Wentworth's sermon on Easter Sunday was one which he himself long
remembered, though it is doubtful whether any of his congregation had
memories as faithful. To tell the truth, the young man put a black cross
upon it with his blackest ink, a memorial of meaning unknown to anybody
but himself. It was a curious little sermon, such as may still be heard
in some Anglican pulpits. Though he had heart and mind enough to
conceive something of those natural depths of divine significance and
human interest, which are the very essence of the Easter festival, it
was not into these that Mr Wentworth entered in his sermon. He spoke, in
very choice little sentences, of the beneficence of the Church in
appointing such a feast, and of all the beautiful arrangements she had
made for the keeping of it. But even in the speaking, in the excited
state of mind he was in, it occurred to the young man to see, by a
sudden flash of illumination, how much higher, how much more catholic,
after all, his teaching would have been, could he but have once ignored
the Church, and gone direct, as Nature bade, to that empty grave in
which all the hopes of humanity had been entombed. He saw it by gleams
of that perverse light which seemed more Satanic than heavenly in the
moments it chose for shining, while he was preaching his little sermon
about the Church and her beautiful institution of Easter, just as he had
seen the non-importance of his lily-wreath and surplices as he was about
to suffer martyrdom for them. All these circumstances were hard upon the
young man. Looking down straight into the severe iron-grey eyes of his
aunt Leonora, he could not of course so much as modify a single sentence
of the discourse he was uttering, no more than he could permit himself
to slur over a single monotone of the service; but that sudden bewildering
perception that he could have done so much better--that the loftiest
High-Churchism of all might have been consistent enough with
Skelmersdale, had he but gone into the heart of the matter--gave a
bitterness to the deeper, unseen current of the Curate's thoughts.

Besides, it was terrible to feel that he could not abstract himself from
personal concerns even in the most sacred duties. He was conscious that
the two elder sisters went away, and that only poor aunt Dora, her
weak-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-reproachful
pressure to his hand. "Oh, Frank, my dear, I did it for the best," said
Miss Dora, with a doleful countenance; and the Perpetual Curate knew
that 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 of
the Wentworths for that moment at least.

"What was it you did for the best?" said the Curate of St Roque's. "I
suppose, after all, it was no such great matter _hearing_ me as you
thought; but I told you I was not an ambitious preacher. This is a day
for 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 at
Skelmersdale. I hoped you would marry Julia Trench, and we should all
have been so happy; and perhaps if I had not begged Leonora to come just
now, thinking it would be so nice to take you just in your usual
way--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 to
blame."

"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--he
gave a glance at the lilies on the altar, and a sigh. The chances were
he would never marry anybody, but loyalty to Lucy demanded instant
repudiation of any other possible bride. "Where are you going, aunt
Dora; back to the Blue Boar? or will you come with me?" he said, as they
stood together at the door of St Roque's. Mr Wentworth felt as if he had
caught 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 a
breach in the family. It will be bad enough to face your poor dear
father, after he knows what Leonora means to do; and I do so want to
talk to you," said the poor woman, eagerly clinging to his arm. "You
always were fond of your poor aunt Dora, Frank; when you were quite a
little 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 your
troubles. If you would only have confidence in me now!"

"But what if I have no troubles to confide?" said Mr Wentworth; "a man
and a boy are very different things. Come, aunt Dora, I'll see you safe
to 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 crying
under her veil, "but I can see it all the same. You always were such a
true Wentworth; but if you only would give in and say that you are
disappointed and angry with us all, I could bear it better, Frank. I
would 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 her
eagerness, "as it is upon you. We had all so set our hearts on having
you at Skelmersdale. Don't you think, if you were giving your mind to
it, you might see things in a different light?" with another pressure of
his arm. "Oh, Frank, what does it matter, after all, if the heart is
right, whether you read the service in your natural voice, or give that
little quaver at the end? I am sure, for my part--"

"My dear aunt," said Mr Wentworth, naturally incensed by this manner of
description, "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." He
stopped short, with perhaps a little bitterness. It was very true she
was a woman, unqualified to teach, but yet she and her sisters were
absolute in Skelmersdale. He made a little gulp of his momentary
irritation, and walked on in silence, with Miss Dora's kind wistful hand
clinging to his arm.

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

"Hush, hush; I can't have you begin to argue with me; you are not my
aunt Leonora," said the Curate, half amused in spite of himself. This
encouraged 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 not
that there is any difference between your views and ours, except just
in words, my dear. Flowers are very pretty decorations, and I know you
look very nice in your surplice; and I am sure, for my part, I should
not 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 the
altar?" said aunt Dora, unconsciously falling upon the very argument
that had occurred to her nephew's perplexed mind in the pulpit. "Even
though I was in such trouble, I can't tell you what a happiness it was
to take the sacrament from your hands, my dear, dear boy; and but for
these flowers and things that could do nobody any good, poor dear
Leonora, 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 you
could give up these things that don't matter? If you were just to tell
Leonora you have been thinking it over, and that you see you've made a
mistake, and that in future--"

"You don't mean to insult me?" said the young man. "Hush--hush; you
don't know what you are saying. Not to be made Archbishop of
Canterbury, instead of Vicar of Skelmersdale. I don't understand how
you 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 she
did not put it back. She was no longer able to contain herself, but wept
hot 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, and
say it is my fault," said poor Miss Dora. "We have all so much pride, we
Wentworths--and you never think of our disappointment, and how we all
calculated upon having you at Skelmersdale, and how happy we were to
be, and that you were to marry Julia Trench--"

It was just at this moment that the two reached the corner of
Prickett's Lane. Lucy Wodehouse had been down there seeing the sick
woman. She had, indeed, been carrying her dinner to that poor
creature, and was just turning into Grange Lane, with her blue ribbons
hidden under the grey cloak, and a little basket in her hand. They met
full in the face at this corner, and Miss Dora's words reached Lucy's
ears, and went through and through her with a little nervous thrill.
She had not time to think whether it was pain or only surprise that
moved her, and was not even self-possessed enough to observe the
tremulous 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 at
No. 10," said Lucy. "She is very ill to-day. If you had time, it would
be 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. "Are
you coming down to the service this afternoon? I am afraid it will be
a long service, for there are all these little Burrowses, you know--"

"Yes, I am godmother," said Lucy, and smiled and gave him her hand
again as she passed him while aunt Dora looked on with curious eyes.
The poor Curate heaved a mighty sigh as he looked after the grey
cloak. 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 the
contrary, he had to turn his back upon Lucy, and walk on with aunt
Dora to the inn--at this moment a symbolical action which seemed to
embody his fate.

"Where is Wharfside? and who are the little Burrowses? and what does
the young lady mean by being godmother?" said aunt Dora. "She looks
very 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, as
your aunt Leonora always says. She says she can't bear to see people
playing at Christianity--"

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

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

"Right or wrong, I am not going into any controversy. My aunt Leonora
knows perfectly well what she is doing," said the Curate, with the best
smile he could muster; and so shook hands with her resolutely, and
walked back again all the way down Grange Lane, past the green door, to
his own house. Nobody was about the green door at that particular moment
to ask him in to luncheon, as sometimes happened. He walked down all the
way to Mrs Hadwin's, with something of the sensations of a man who has
just gone through a dreadful operation, and feels, with a kind of dull
surprise 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 at
this moment, when he wanted all his strength, how strange to feel that
haunting sense of an unnecessary sacrifice--that troubled new vein of
thought which would be worked out, and which concerned matters more
important than Skelmersdale, weighty as that was. He took his sermon out
of his pocket when he got home, and marked a cross upon it, as we have
already said; but, being still a young man, he was thankful to snatch a
morsel of lunch, and hasten out again to his duty, instead of staying to
argue the question with himself. He went to No. 10 Prickett's Lane, and
was a long time with the sick woman, listening to all the woeful tale of
a troubled life, which the poor sick creature had been contemplating for
days and days, in her solitude, through those strange exaggerated
death-gleams which Miss Leonora would have called "the light of
eternity." She remembered all sorts of sins, great and small, which
filled her with nervous terrors; and it was not till close upon the hour
for the Wharfside service, that the Curate could leave his tremulous
penitent. The schoolroom was particularly full that day. Easter,
perhaps, had touched the hearts--it certainly had refreshed the
toilettes--of the bargemen's wives and daughters. Some of them felt an
inward conviction that their new ribbons were undoubtedly owing to the
clergyman's influence, and that Tom and Jim would have bestowed the
money otherwise before the Church planted her pickets in this corner of
the enemy's camp; and the conviction, though not of an elevated
description, was a great deal better than no conviction at all. Mr
Wentworth's little sermon to them was a great improvement upon his
sermon at St Roque's. He told them about the empty grave of Christ, and
how He called the weeping woman by her name, and showed her the earnest
of the end of all sorrows. There were some people who cried, thinking of
the dead who were still waiting for Easter, which was more than anybody
did when Mr Wentworth discoursed upon the beautiful institutions of the
Church's year; and a great many of the congregation stayed to see Tom
Burrows's six children come up for baptism, preceded by the new baby,
whose infant claims to Christianity the Curate had so strongly insisted
upon, to the wakening of a fatherly conscience in the honest bargeman.
Lucy Wodehouse, without her grey cloak, stood at the font, holding that
last tiny applicant for saving grace, while all the other little
heathens were signed with the sacred cross. And strangely enough, when
the young priest and the young woman stood so near each other, solemnly
pledging, one after another, each little sun-browned, round-eyed pagan
to be Christ's faithful servant and soldier, the cloud passed away
from the firmament of both. Neither of them, perhaps, was of a very
enlightened character of soul. They believed they were doing a great
work for Tom Burrows's six children, calling God to His promise on their
behalf, and setting the little feet straight for the gates of the
eternal city; and in their young love and faith their hearts rose.
Perhaps it was foolish of Mr Wentworth to suffer himself to walk home
again thereafter, as of old, with the Miss Wodehouses--but it was so
usual, and, after all, they were going the same way. But it was a very
silent walk, to the wonder of the elder sister, who could not understand
what it meant. "The Wharfside service always does me good," said Mr
Wentworth, with a sigh. "And me, too," said Lucy; and then they talked a
little about the poor woman in No. 10. But that Easter Sunday was not
like other Sundays, though Miss Wodehouse could not tell why.




CHAPTER V.


Next day the Miss Wentworths made a solemn call at the Rectory, having
known an aunt of Mrs Morgan at some period of their history, and being
much disposed, besides, with natural curiosity, to ascertain all about
their nephew's circumstances. Their entrance interrupted a consultation
between the Rector and his wife. Mr Morgan was slightly heated, and had
evidently been talking about something that excited him; while she, poor
lady, looked just sufficiently sympathetic and indignant to withdraw
her mind from that first idea which usually suggested itself on the
entrance of visitors--which was, what could they possibly think of her
if they supposed the carpet, &c., to be her own choice? Mrs Morgan cast
her eye with a troubled look upon the big card which had been brought to
her--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 the
three ladies sailed in. Miss Leonora took the initiative, as was
natural.

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

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

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

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

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

"Only since Saturday," said Miss Leonora. "We came to see Mr Frank
Wentworth, who is at St Roque's. I don't know what your bishop is
about, to permit all those flowers and candlesticks. For my part, I
never disguise my sentiments. I mean to tell my nephew plainly that
his 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 advice
was never lost upon him. From one that he respected so much as he must
respect the Rector--"

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

"Dear, I am sure Mr Wentworth is very nice, and everything we have
seen of him in private we have liked very much," said Mrs Morgan, with
an anxious look at her husband. She was a good-natured woman, and the
handsome Curate had impressed her favourably, notwithstanding his
misdoings. "As for a little too much of the rubric, I think that is
not a bad fault in a young man. It gets softened down with a little
experience; and I do like proper solemnity in the services of the
Church."

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

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

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

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

"The fact is, I have reason to be dissatisfied with Mr Wentworth, as
regards my own parish," said Mr Morgan: "personally I have nothing to
say against him--quite the reverse; probably, as you say, it arises
from 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 keep
down the rising anger of which he was unpleasantly sensible. "I don't
generally enter into such matters with people whom they don't concern,"
he said, with a touch of his natural asperity; "but as you are Mr
Wentworth's relation--. He has taken a step perfectly unjustifiable in
every respect; he has at the present moment a mission going on in my
parish, in entire independence, I will not say defiance, of me. My
dear, it is unnecessary to look at me so deprecatingly. I am indignant
at having such a liberty taken with me. I don't pretend not to be
indignant. Mr Wentworth is a very young man, and may not know any
better; but it is the most unwarrantable intrusion upon a clergyman's
rights. I beg your pardon, Miss Wentworth: you have nothing to do with
my grievances; but the fact is, my wife and I were discussing this very
unpleasant matter when you came in."

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

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

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

"But the mission is effective, I suppose, or you would not object to
it?" said Miss Leonora, who, though a very religious woman, was not a
peacemaker; and the Rector, whose temper was hasty, swallowed the bait.
He entered into his grievances more fully than his wife thought
consistent with his dignity. She sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor,
tracing the objectionable pattern on the carpet with her foot, but too
much vexed for the moment to think of those bouquets which were so
severe a cross to her on ordinary occasions. Perhaps she was thinking
secretly to herself how much better one knows a man after being married
to him three months than after being engaged to him ten years; but the
discovery that he was merely a man after all, with very ordinary
defects, did not lessen her loyalty. She sat with her eyes bent upon the
carpet, feeling a little hot and uncomfortable as her husband disclosed
his weakness, and watching her opportunities to rush in and say a
softening word now and then. The chances were, perhaps, on the whole,
that the wife grew _more_ loyal, if that were possible, as she perceived
the necessity of standing by him and backing him out. The Rector went
very fully into the subject, being drawn out by Miss Leonora's questions,
and betrayed an extent of information strangely opposed to the utter
ignorance which he had displayed at Mr Wodehouse's party. He knew the
hours 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 day
before. Somehow Mr Morgan took this last particular as a special
offence; it was this which had roused him beyond his usual self-control.
Six little heathens brought into the Christian fold in his own parish
without the permission of the Rector! It was indeed enough to try any
clergyman's temper. Through the entire narrative Miss Dora broke in now
and then with a little wail expressive of her general dismay and grief,
and certainty that her dear Frank did not mean it. Mrs Morgan repeated
apart to Miss Wentworth with a troubled brow the fact that all they had
seen of Mr Wentworth in private they had liked very much; to which aunt
Cecilia answered, "Quite so," with her beautiful smile; while Miss
Leonora sat and listened, putting artful questions, and fixing the
heated Rector with that iron-grey eye, out of which the sparkle of
incipient light had not faded. Mr Morgan naturally said a great deal
more than he meant to say, and after it was said he was sorry; but he
did not show the latter sentiment except by silence and an uneasy
rustling about the room just before the Miss Wentworths rose to go--a
sign apparent to his wife, though to nobody else. He gave Miss Wentworth
his arm to the door with an embarrassed courtesy. "If you are going to
stay any time at Carlingford, I trust we shall see more of you," said Mr
Morgan: "I ought to beg your pardon for taking up so much time with my
affairs;" and the Rector was much taken aback when Miss Wentworth
answered, "Thank you, that is just what I was thinking." He went back to
his troubled wife in great perplexity. What was it that was just what
she was thinking?--that he would see more of them, or that he had spoken
too much of his own affairs?

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

"Nonsense, dear; but I wish you had not said quite so much about Mr
Wentworth," said the Rector's wife, seizing, with female art, on a cause
for her annoyance which would not wound her Welshman's _amour propre_,
"for I rather think he is dependent on his aunts. They have the living
of Skelmersdale, I know; and I remember now that their nephew was to
have had it. I hope this won't turn them against him, dear," said Mrs
Morgan, 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 me
that before?" he said, with conjugal injustice, and went off to his
study with a disturbed mind, thinking that perhaps he had injured his
own chances of getting rid of the Perpetual Curate. If Mrs Morgan had
permitted herself to soliloquise after he was gone, the matter of her
thoughts might have been interesting; but as neither ladies nor
gentlemen in the nineteenth century are given to that useful medium of
disclosing their sentiments, the veil of privacy must remain over the
mind of the Rector's wife. She got her gardening gloves and scissors,
and went out immediately after, and had an animated discussion with the
gardener about the best means of clothing that bit of wall, over which
every railway train was visible which left or entered Carlingford. That
functionary was of opinion that when the lime-trees "growed a bit" all
would be right: but Mrs Morgan was reluctant to await the slow processes
of nature. She forgot her vexations about Mr Wentworth in consideration
of the still  more palpable inconvenience of the passing train.




CHAPTER VI.


Miss Dora Wentworth relapsed into suppressed sobbing when the three
ladies were once more on their way. Between each little access a few
broken words fell from the poor lady's lips. "I am sure dear Frank did
not mean it," she said; it was all the plea his champion could find
for him.

"He did not mean what? to do his duty and save souls?" said Miss
Leonora--"is that what he didn't mean? It looks very much as if he
did, 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 poor
dear Frank: of course he meant it for the very best. I wonder you
don't think so, Leonora--you who are so fond of missions. I told you
what I heard him saying to the young lady--all about the sick people
he 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 indifferent
to Miss Dora's little sniffs, and turning her gaze out of the window,
unluckily just at the moment when the carriage was passing Masters's
shop, where some engravings were hanging of a suspiciously devotional
character. The name over the door, and the aspect of the shop-window,
were terribly suggestive, and the fine profile of the Perpetual Curate
was just visible within to the keen eyes of his aunt. Miss Dora, for
her part, dried hers, and, beginning to see some daylight, addressed
herself anxiously to the task of obscuring it, and damaging once more
her 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, and
decorations, and sisterhoods! I don't wish any harm to poor dear old
Mr 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 a
grey cloak, and I think she's going into _that_ shop: if Frank carries
on that sort of thing, I shall think him a greater fool than ever. Who
is 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 had
forgotten Lucy's name. So there was no tangible evidence to confirm
Miss Leonora's doubts, and the carriage from the Blue Boar rattled
down Prickett's Lane to the much amazement of that locality. When they
got to the grimy canal-banks, Miss Leonora stopped the vehicle and got
out. She declined the attendance of her trembling sister, and marched
along the black pavement, dispersing with the great waves of her
drapery the wondering children about, who swarmed as children will
swarm in such localities. Arrived at the schoolroom, Miss Leonora
found sundry written notices hung up in a little wooden frame inside
the open door. All sorts of charitable businesses were carried on
about the basement of the house; and a curt little notice about the
Provident Society diversified the list of services which was hung up
for the advantage of the ignorant. Clearly the Curate of St Roque's
meant it. "As well as he knows how," his aunt allowed to herself, with
a softening sentiment; but, pushing her inquiries further, was shown
up to the schoolroom, and stood pondering by the side of the
reading-desk, looking at the table which was contrived to be so like
an altar. The Curate, who could not have dreamed of such a visit, and
whose mind had been much occupied and indifferent to externals on the
day before, had left various things lying about, which were carefully
collected for him upon a bench. Among them was a little pocket copy of
Thomas a Kempis, from which, when the jealous aunt opened it, certain
little German prints, such as were to be had by the score at Masters's,
dropped out, some of them unobjectionable enough. But if the Good
Shepherd could not be found fault with, the feelings of Miss Leonora may
be imagined when the meek face of a monkish saint, inscribed with some
villanous Latin inscription, a legend which began with the terrible
words _Ora pro nobis_, became suddenly visible to her troubled eyes. She
put away the book as if it had stung her, and made a precipitate
retreat. She shook her head as she descended the stair--she re-entered
the carriage in gloomy silence. When it returned up Prickett's Lane, the
three 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 upon
this professional symbol to wreak her wrath upon it. "I wonder if he
can't pray by a sick woman without his prayer-book?" she cried. "I never
was so provoked in my life. How is it he doesn't know better? His father
is not pious, but he isn't a Puseyite, and old uncle Wentworth was very
sound--he was brought up under the pure Gospel. How is that the boys are
so foolish, Dora?" said Miss Leonora, sharply; "it must be your doing.
You have told them tales and things, and put true piety out of their
head."

"My doing!" said Miss Dora, faintly; but she was too much startled by
the suddenness of the attack to make any coherent remonstrance. Miss
Leonora 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 are
not a Jesuit in disguise? one has read of such a thing. The boys were
as good, nice, pious boys as one could wish to see; and there's Gerald
on the point of perversion, and Frank--I tell you, Dora, it must be
your fault."

"That was always my opinion," said Miss Cecilia; and the accused,
after a feeble attempt at speech, could find nothing better to do than
to drop her veil once more and cry under it. It was very hard, but she
was not quite unaccustomed to it. However, the discoveries of the day
were important enough to prevent the immediate departure which Miss
Leonora had intended. She wrote a note with her own hands to her
nephew, asking him to dinner. "We meant to have gone away to-day, but
should like to see you first," she said in her note. "Come and
dine--we mayn't have anything pleasant to say, but I don't suppose you
expect that. It's a pity we don't see eye to eye." Such was the
intimation received by Mr Wentworth when he got home, very tired, in
the afternoon. He had been asking himself whether, under the
circumstances, it would not be proper of him to return some books of
Mr Wodehouse's which he had in his possession, of course by way of
breaking off his too familiar, too frequent intercourse. He had been
representing to himself that he would make this call after their
dinner would be over, at the hour when Mr Wodehouse reposed in his
easy-chair, and the two sisters were generally to be found alone in
the drawing-room. Perhaps he might have an opportunity of intimating
the partial farewell he meant to take of them. When he got Miss
Leonora's note, the Curate's countenance clouded over. He said,
"Another night lost," with indignant candour. It was hard enough to
give up his worldly prospects, but he thought he had made up his mind
to that. However, refusal was impossible. It was still daylight when
he went up Grange Lane to the Blue Boar. He was early, and went
languidly along the well-known road. Nobody was about at that hour. In
those closed, embowered houses, people were preparing for dinner, the
great event of the day, and Mr Wentworth was aware of that. Perhaps he
had expected to see somebody--Mr Wodehouse going home, most likely, in
order that he might mention his own engagement, and account for his
failure in the chance evening call which had become so much a part of
his life. But no one appeared to bear his message. He went lingering
past the green door, and up the silent deserted road. At the end of
Grange Lane, just in the little unsettled transition interval which
interposed between its aristocratic calm and the bustle of George
Street, on the side next Prickett's Lane, was a quaint little shop,
into which Mr Wentworth strayed to occupy the time. This was
Elsworthy'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 his
wife and little Rosa, who was a little beauty. Rosa and her aunt had
just returned from an excursion, and a prettier little apparition
could not be seen than that dimpled rosy creature, with her radiant
half-childish looks, her bright eyes, and soft curls of dark-brown
hair. Even Mr Wentworth gave a second glance at her as he dropped
languidly into a chair, and asked Elsworthy if there was any news. Mrs
Elsworthy, who had been telling the adventures of the holiday to her
goodman, gathered up her basket of eggs and her nosegay, and made the
clergyman a little curtsy as she hurried away; for the clerk's wife
was a highly respectable woman, and knew her own place. But Rosa, who
was only a kind of kitten, and had privileges, stayed. Mr Wentworth
was by far the most magnificent figure she had ever seen in her little
life. She looked at him with awe out of her bright eyes, and thought
he looked like the prince in the fairy tales.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps there's one o' the ladies, sir, as has some friend she'd like
to put up a memorial to," said Mr Elsworthy, in insinuating tones. "A
window is a deal cheerfuller a memorial than a tombstone, and it
couldn't be described the improvement it would be to the church. I'm
sorry to hear Mr Wodehouse aint quite so well as his usual to-night; a
useful man like he is, would be a terrible loss to Carlingford; not as
it'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 old
doctor 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 his
family, sir," said Mr Elsworthy, tying up a bundle of newspapers with
a very serious face.

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

"Not serious, as I knows of," said the clerk, with solemnity; "but
being a man of a full 'abit of body--I daresay as the town would enter
into it by subscription if it was proposed as a memorial to _him_, for
he's much respected in Carlingford is Mr Wodehouse. I see him a-going
past, sir, at five o'clock, which is an hour earlier than common, and
he was looking flabby, that's how he was looking. I don't know a man
as would be a greater loss to his family; and they aint been without
their troubles either, poor souls."

"I should be sorry to think that it was necessary to sacrifice Mr
Wodehouse for the sake of our painted window," said the Curate, "as
that seems what you mean. Send over this note for me please, as I have
not time to call. No, certainly, don't send Rosa; that child is too
young 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 I
could recommend to you," said Mr Wentworth, as he hastily scribbled
his 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 into
that 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 boy
that ever lived--a real English boy, that is. Sam, take this to Mr
Wodehouse'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 could
trust with untold gold. His mother's a Dissenter, it is true, but the
principles of that boy is beautiful. I hope you haven't mentioned,
sir, as I said Mr Wodehouse was took bad? It was between ourselves, Mr
Wentworth. Persons don't like, especially when they've got to that
age, and are of a full 'abit of body, to have every little attack made
a talk about. You'll excuse me mentioning it, sir, but it was as
between ourselves."

"Perhaps you'd like me to show you my note," said the Curate, with a
smile; which, indeed, Elsworthy would have very much liked, could he
have ventured to say so. Mr Wentworth was but too glad of an excuse to
write and explain his absence. The note was not to Lucy, however,
though various little epistles full of the business of the district
had 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 stood
apart watching him with admiring eyes. He had said she was too pretty
to be sent across Grange Lane by herself at this hour, though it was
still no more than twilight; and he looked up at her for an instant as
he said the words,--quite enough to set Rosa's poor little heart
beating with childish romantical excitement. If she could but have
peeped 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, looking
at the strange ease with which that small epistle was written, and
thinking it half divine to have such mastery of words and pen. Mr
Wentworth threw it to Sam as if it were a trifle; but Rosa's lively
imagination could already conceive the possibility of living upon such
trifles and making existence out of them; so the child stood with her
pretty curls about her ears, and her bright eyes gleaming dewy over
the fair, flushed, rosebud cheeks, in a flutter of roused and innocent
imagination anticipating her fate. As for Mr Wentworth, it is doubtful
whether he saw Rosa, as he swung himself round upon the stool he was
seated on, and turned his face towards the door. Somehow he was
comforted in his mind by the conviction that it was his duty to call
at Mr Wodehouse's as he came back. The evening brightened up and
looked less dismal. The illness of the respected father of the house
did not oppress the young man. He thought not of the sick-room, but of
the low chair in one corner, beside the work-table where Lucy had
always basketfuls of sewing in hand. He could fancy he saw the work
drop on her knee, and the blue eyes raised. It was a pretty picture
that he framed for himself as he looked out with a half smile into the
blue twilight through the open door of Elsworthy's shop. And it was
clearly his duty to call. He grew almost jocular in the exhilaration
of his spirits.

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

"No, sir--no, no, sir; you're too hard upon me--there wasn't no such
meaning in my mind; but I don't make no question the ladies were
pleased with the church," said Elsworthy, with the satisfaction of a
man who had helped to produce an entirely triumphant effect. "I don't
pretend 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 we
won't say nothing about the service, considering, sir--if you won't be
offended at putting them together, as one is so far inferior--that
both you and me--"

Mr Wentworth laughed and moved off his chair. "We were not appreciated
in this instance," he said, with an odd comic look, and then went off
into a burst of laughter, which Mr Elsworthy saw no particular
occasion for. Then he took up his glove, which he had taken off to
write the note, and, nodding a kindly good-night to little Rosa, who
stood gazing after him with all her eyes, went away to the Blue Boar.
The idea, however, of his own joint performance with Mr Elsworthy not
only tickled the Curate, but gave him a half-ashamed sense of the
aspect in which he might himself appear to the eyes of matter-of-fact
people who differed with him. The joke had a slight sting, which
brought his laughter to an end. He went up through the lighted street
to the inn, wishing the dinner over, and himself on his way back again
to call at Mr Wodehouse's. For, to tell the truth, by this time he had
almost exhausted Skelmersdale, and, feeling in himself not much
different now from what he was when his hopes were still green, had
begun to look upon life itself with a less troubled eye, and to
believe in other chances which might make Lucy's society practicable
once more. It was in this altered state of mind that he presented
himself before his aunts. He was less self-conscious, less watchful,
more ready to amuse them, if that might happen to be possible, and in
reality much more able to cope with Miss Leonora than when he had been
more anxious about her opinion. He had not been two minutes in the
room before all the three ladies perceived this revolution, and each
in her own mind attempted to account for it. They were experienced
women in their way, and found a variety of reasons; but as none of
them were young, and as people _will_ forget how youth feels, not one
of them divined the fact that there was no reason, but that this
improvement of spirits arose solely from the fact that the Perpetual
Curate had been for two whole days miserable about Skelmersdale, and
had exhausted all his powers of misery--and that now youth had turned
the 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 missionary
work. I should have supposed that you would think that vulgar, and
Low-Church, and Evangelical. Indeed, I thought I heard you say you
didn't believe in preaching, Frank?--neither do I, when a man preaches
the Tracts for the Times. I was surprised to hear what you were doing
at 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 be
particular, my dear aunt, as to points of fact."

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

"But, my dear boy, I said I was sure you did not mean it," said Miss
Dora; "I told Mr Morgan I felt convinced it could be explained. Nobody
knows 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 me
for, aunt Dora? Do you know what it is we are talking of? The question
is, whether a whole lot of people, fathers and children, shall be left
to live like beasts, without reverence for God or man, or shall be
brought within the pale of the Church, and taught their duty? And you
think I don't mean it? I mean it as much as my brother Charley meant it
at the Redan," said young Wentworth, with a glow of suppressed enthusiasm,
and that natural pride in Charley (who got the Cross for valour) which
was common to all the Wentworths. But when he saw his aunt Leonora
looking at him, the Perpetual Curate stood to his arms again. "I have
still to learn that the Rector has anything to do with it," said the
young Evangelist of Wharfside.

"It is in his parish, and he thinks he has," said Miss Leonora. "I wish
you 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 were
carrying the real Gospel to the poor people, I shouldn't be disposed to
blame you; for the limits of a parish are but poor things to pause for
when souls are perishing; but to break the law for the sake of diffusing
the 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 about
disappointing Frank, and perhaps injuring his prospects for life; for,
to be sure, he is a true Wentworth, and won't acknowledge that; but
think of my poor dear brother, with so many sons as he has to provide
for, and so much on his mind; and think of ourselves and all that we
have planned so often. Only think what you have talked of over and
over; 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 to
go away if you make such appeals on my behalf. And besides, it is only
right to tell you that, whatever my circumstances were, I never could
nor would marry Julia Trench. It is cruel and unjust to bring in her
name. Don't let us hear any more of this, if you have any regard for
me."

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

"Frank might as well tell us he would not have Skelmersdale," she
said. "Julia Trench has quite other prospects, I am glad to say,
though Dora talks like a fool on this subject as well as on many
others. 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't
think any inducement in the world would make her disguise herself like
a Sister of Mercy. I hope she knows better. And it is a pity that
Frank should learn to think of Skelmersdale as if it were a family
living," continued Miss Leonora. "For my part, I think people
detached from immediate ties as we are, are under all the greater
responsibility. But as you are likely to stay in Carlingford, Frank,
perhaps we could help you with the Rector," she concluded blandly, as
she ate her biscuit. The Curate, who was also a Wentworth, had quite
recovered himself ere this speech was over, and proved himself equal
to the occasion.

"If the Rector objects to what I am doing, I daresay he will tell me
of it," said Mr Wentworth, with indescribable suavity. "I had the
consent of the two former rectors to my mission in their parish, and I
don't mean to give up such a work without a cause. But I am equally
obliged 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 would
like to call on you, if you remain longer. There are some great friends
of mine here; and as I have every prospect of being perpetually the
Curate, as you kindly observe, perhaps it might be good for me if I
was seen to have such unexceptionable relationships--"

"Satire is lost upon me," said Miss Leonora, "and we are going
to-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, if
you 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 my
sick people to visit. I heard he was ill only as I came here, and had
not time to call," added the Curate, with unnecessary explanitoriness,
and took leave of his aunt Cecilia, who softly put something into his
hand as she bade him good-night. Miss Dora, for her part, went with
him to the door, and lingered leaning on his arm, down the long
passage, all unaware, poor lady, that his heart was beating with
impatience to get away, and that the disappointment for which she
wanted to console him had at the present moment not the slightest real
hold upon his perverse heart. "Oh, my dear boy, I hope you don't think
it's my fault," said Miss Dora, with tears. "It must have come to
this, dear, sooner or later: you see, poor Leonora has such a sense of
responsibility; but it is very hard upon us, Frank, who love you so
much, that she should always take her own way."

"Then why don't you rebel?" said the Curate, who, in the thought of
seeing Lucy, was exhilarated, and dared to jest even upon the awful
power of his aunt. "You are two against one; why don't you take it
into 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 dear
boy," said the troubled woman, "oh, Frank, I wish you would tell me
what to do! I never should dare to contradict Leonora with no one to
stand by me; and then, if anything happened, you would all think I had
been to blame," said poor aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. She made him
walk back and back again through the long passage, which was sacred to
the chief suite of apartments at the Blue Boar. "We have it all to
ourselves, and nobody can see us here; and oh, my dear boy, if you
would only tell me what I ought to do?" she repeated, with wistful
looks of appeal. Mr Wentworth was too good-hearted to show the
impatience with which he was struggling. He satisfied her as well as
he could, and said good-night half-a-dozen times. When he made his
escape at last, and emerged into the clear blue air of the spring
night, the Perpetual Curate had no such sense of disappointment and
failure in his mind as the three ladies supposed. Miss Leonora's
distinct intimation that Skelmersdale had passed out of the region of
probabilities, had indeed tingled through him at the moment it was
uttered; but just now he was going to see Lucy, anticipating with
impatience the moment of coming into her presence, and nothing in the
world could have dismayed him utterly. He went down the road very
rapidly, glad to find that it was still so early, that the shopkeepers
in George Street were but just putting up their shutters, and that
there 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 out
into 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 glad
that he was going to see her, so eager for her presence, as that night
which was the beginning of the time when it would be no longer lawful
for him to indulge in her society. He heaved a big sigh as that
thought occurred to him, but it did not diminish the flush of
conscious happiness; and in this mood he went down Grange Lane, with
light resounding steps, to Mr Wodehouse's door.

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

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

"Is Mr Wodehouse ill? What has happened?" said the astonished young
man. The windows of the house were gleaming hospitably over the dark
garden, without any appearance of gloom--the drawing-room windows
especially, which he knew so well, brightly lighted, one of them open,
and the sound of the piano and Lucy's voice stealing out like a
celestial reality into the darkness. By the time he had become fully
sensible of all these particulars his agitated companion had found her
breath.

"Mr Wentworth, don't think me mad," said Miss Wodehouse; "I have come
out to speak to you, for I am in great distress. I don't know what to
do unless you will help me. Oh no, don't look at the house--nobody
knows 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 male
servant looked out, and round the garden, as if he had heard something
to excite his curiosity or surprise. Miss Wodehouse grasped the arm of
the Perpetual Curate, and held him with an energy which was almost
violence. "Hush, hush, hush," she said, with her voice almost at his
ear. The excitement of this mild woman, the perfectly inexplicable
mystery of the meeting, overwhelmed young Wentworth. He could think of
nothing less than that she had lost her senses, and in his turn he
took her hands and held her fast.

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

"My father has some suspicion," she answered, after a pause--"he came
home early to-day looking ill. You heard of it, Mr Wentworth--it was
your note that decided me. Oh, heaven help us! it is so hard to know
what to do. I have never been used to act for myself, and I feel as
helpless as a baby. The only comfort I have was that it happened on
Easter Sunday," said the poor gentlewoman, incoherently; "and oh! if
it 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, so
ill--when he came home to-night. Hush! hush! did you hear anything? I
daren't tell Lucy; not that I couldn't trust her, but it is cruel when
a young creature is happy, to let her know such miseries. Oh, Mr
Wentworth, I daresay I am not telling you what it is, after all. I
don't know what I am saying--wait till I can think. It was on Easter
Sunday, after we came home from Wharfside; you remember we all came
home together, and both Lucy and you were so quiet. I could not
understand how it was you were so quiet, but I was not thinking of any
trouble--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 time
with a lantern and the watch-dog, a great brown mastiff, by his side,
evidently with the intention of searching the garden for the owners of
those furtive voices. Mr Wentworth drew the arm of his trembling
companion within his own. "I don't know what you want of me, but
whatever 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 for
you to be found here." He led her up the gravel-walk into the light of
the lantern, which the vigilant guardian of the house was flashing among
the bushes as he set out upon his rounds. John fell back amazed but
respectful when he saw his mistress and the familiar visitor. "Beg your
pardon, ma'am, but I knew there was voices, and I didn't know as any of
the family was in the garden," said the man, discomfited. It was all Mr
Wentworth could do to hold up the trembling figure by his side. As John
retreated, she gathered a little fortitude. Perhaps it was easier for
her to tell her hurried tremulous story, as he guided _her_ back to the
house, than it would have been in uninterrupted leisure and quiet. The
family tragedy fell in broken sentences from her lips, as the Curate
bent down his astonished ear to listen. He was totally unprepared for
the secret which only her helplessness and weakness and anxiety to serve
her father could have drawn from Miss Wodehouse's lips; and it had to be
told so hurriedly that Mr Wentworth scarcely knew what it was, except a
terrible unsuspected shadow overhanging the powerful house, until he had
time to think it all over. There was no such time at this moment. His
trembling 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 the
hall lamp it was ghastly, and quivering with agitation, looking not ten
years, as she said, but a hundred years older than when, in the sweet
precision of her Sunday dress and looks, old Miss Wodehouse had bidden
him 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 in
character. Mr Wentworth felt as if he saw everything exactly as he had
pictured 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 Mr
Wodehouse, 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 possible
shadow of a ghost. To walk into the room, into the bright household
glow, and smile and shake hands with them, feeling all the time that he
knew more about them than they themselves did, was the strangest
sensation to the young man. He asked how Mr Wodehouse did, with a voice
which, to himself, sounded hollow and unnatural, and sat down beside the
invalid, almost turning his back upon Lucy in his bewilderment. It was
indeed with a great effort that Mr Wentworth mastered himself, and was
able to listen to what his companion said.

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

"Indeed, papa, you are quite mistaken," said Lucy. "I suppose that means
that I cannot amuse you by myself, though I have been trying all the
evening. Perhaps Mr Wentworth will be more fortunate." And, either for
shame 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 left
the two gentlemen to talk to each other. That is to say, Mr Wodehouse
talked, and the Perpetual Curate sat looking vaguely at the fair figure
which flitted about the room, and wondering if he were awake, or the
world still in its usual place. After a while Miss Wodehouse came in,
very tremulous and pale, and dropped into the first chair she could
find, and pretended to occupy herself over her knitting. She had a
headache, Lucy said; and Mr Wentworth sat watching while the younger
sister tended the elder, bringing her tea, kissing her, persuading her
to go and lie down, taking all kinds of affectionate trouble to cheer
the pale woman, who looked over Lucy's fair head with eyes full of
meaning to the bewildered visitor, who was the only one there who
understood what her trouble meant. When he got up to go away, she wrung
his hand with a pitiful gaze which went to his heart. "Let me know!" she
said in a whisper; and, not satisfied still, went to the door with him,
and lingered upon the stair, following slowly. "Oh, Mr Wentworth! be
sure you let me know," she repeated, again looking wistfully after him
as he disappeared into the dark garden, going out. The stars were still
shining, the spring dews lying sweet upon the plants and turf. It was a
lovelier night now than when Mr Wentworth had said so to little Rosa
Elsworthy an hour ago; but mists were rising from the earth, and clouds
creeping over the sky, to the startled imagination of the Perpetual
Curate. He had found out by practical experiments, almost for the first
time, that there were more things in earth and heaven than are dreamt of
in the philosophy of youth.




CHAPTER VIII.


It was the next morning after this when Mrs Hadwin's strange lodger
first appeared in the astonished house. He was the strangest lodger to
be taken into a house of such perfect respectability, a house in
Grange Lane; and it came to be currently reported in Carlingford after
a time, when people knew more about it, that even the servants could
not tell when or how he arrived, but had woke up one morning to find a
pair of boots standing outside the closed door of the green room,
which the good old lady kept for company, with sensations which it
would be impossible to describe. Such a pair of boots they were
too--muddy beyond expression, with old mud which had not been brushed
off for days--worn shapeless, and patched at the sides; the strangest
contrast to a handsome pair of Mr Wentworth's, which he, contrary to
his usual neat habits, had kicked off in his sitting-room, and which
Sarah, the housemaid, had brought and set down on the landing, close
by these mysterious and unaccountable articles. When the bell of the
green room rang an hour or two later, Sarah and the cook, who happened
to be standing together, jumped three yards apart and stared at each
other; the sound gave them both "a turn." But they soon got perfectly
well used to that bell from the green room. It rung very often in the
day, 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 more
than he was about himself. He even sent the boots to be mended, to
Sarah's shame and confusion. For the credit of the house, the girl
invented a story about them to calm the cobbler's suspicions. "They
was the easiest boots the gentleman had, being troubled with tender
feet; 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 Mr
Wentworth's linen, to the indignation of the household. But he was not
a man to be concealed in a corner. From where he sat in the green
room, he whistled so beautifully that Mrs Hadwin's own pet canary
paused astonished to listen, and the butcher's boy stole into the
kitchen surreptitiously to try if he could learn the art; and while he
whistled, he filled the tidy room with parings and cuttings of wood,
and carved out all kinds of pretty articles with his knife. But though
he rang his bell so often, and was so tiresome with his litter, and
gave so much trouble, Sarah's heart, after a while, melted to "the
gentleman." He made her a present of a needlecase, and was very
civil-spoken--more so a great deal than the Curate of St Roque's; and
such a subject of talk and curiosity had certainly not been in
Carlingford for a hundred years.

As for Mrs Hadwin, she never gave any explanation at all on the
subject, but accepted the fact of a new inmate cheerfully, as if she
knew all about it. Of course she could not ask any of her nieces to
visit her while the green room was occupied; and as they were all
rather large, interfering, managing women, perhaps the old lady was
not very sorry. Mr Wentworth himself was still less explanatory. When
Mr Wodehouse said to him, "What is this I hear about a brother of
yours?--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? Come
to-morrow;" the Perpetual Curate calmly answered, "Thank you; but
there's no brother of mine in Carlingford," and took no further
notice. Naturally, however, this strange apparition was much discussed
in Grange Lane; the servants first, and then the ladies, became
curious about him. Sometimes, in the evenings, he might be seen coming
out of Mrs Hadwin's garden-door--a shabby figure, walking softly in
his patched boots. There never was light enough for any one to see
him; but he had a great beard, and smoked a short little pipe, and had
evidently no regard for appearances. It was a kind of thing which few
people approved of. Mrs Hadwin ought not to permit it, some ladies
said; and a still greater number were of the opinion that, rather than
endure so strange a fellow-lodger, the Curate ought to withdraw, and
find fresh lodgings. This was before the time when the public began to
associate the stranger in a disagreeable way with Mr Wentworth. Before
they came to that, the people in Grange Lane bethought themselves of
all Mrs Hadwin's connections, to find out if there might not be some
of them under hiding; and, of course, that excellent woman had a
nephew or two whose conduct was not perfect; and then it came to
be reported that it was Mr Wentworth's brother--that it was an
unfortunate college chum of his--that it was somebody who had
speculated, and whom the Curate had gone shares with: but, in the mean
time, no real information could be obtained about this mysterious
stranger. The butcher's boy, whose senses were quickened by mingled
admiration and envy, heard him whistling all day long, sometimes
hidden among the trees in the garden, sometimes from the open window
of the green room, where, indeed, Lady Western's page was ready to
take his oath he had once seen the audacious unknown leaning out in
the twilight, smoking a pipe. But no trap of conversation, however
ingenious--and many traps were laid for Mr Wentworth--ever elicited
from the Perpetual Curate any acknowledgment of the other lodger's
existence. The young Anglican opened his fine eyes a little wider than
usual when he was asked sympathetically whether so many people in the
house did not interfere with his quiet. "Mrs Hadwin's talk is very
gentle," said the Curate; "she never disturbs me." And the mistress of
the house was equally obtuse, and would not comprehend any allusion.
The little household came to be very much talked of in Carlingford in
consequence; and to meet that shabby figure in the evening, when one
chanced to be out for a walk, made one's company sought after in the
best circles of society: though the fact is, that people began to be
remiss in calling upon Mrs Hadwin, and a great many only left their
cards as soon as it became evident that she did not mean to give any
explanation. To have the Curate to stay with her was possible, without
infringing upon her position; but matters became very different when
she showed herself willing to take "any one," even when in equivocal
apparel and patched boots.

Probably the Curate had his own troubles during this period of his
history. He was noticed to be a little quick and short in his temper for
some time after Easter. For one thing, his aunts did not go away; they
stayed in the Blue Boar, and sent for him to dinner, till the Curate's
impatience grew almost beyond bearing. It was a discipline upon which he
had 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 a
child, the comforts and advantages of Skelmersdale, where poor old Mr
Shirley had rallied for the fiftieth time. The situation altogether was
very tempting to Miss Leonora; she could not make up her mind to go away
and leave such a very pretty quarrel in progress; and there can be no
doubt that it would have been highly gratifying to her vanity as an
Evangelical woman to have had her nephew brought to task for missionary
work carried on in another man's parish, even though that work was not
conducted entirely on her own principles. She lingered, accordingly,
with a great hankering after Wharfside, to which Mr Wentworth steadily
declined to afford her any access. She went to the afternoon service
sometimes, it is true, but only to be afflicted in her soul by the sight
of Miss Wodehouse and Lucy in their grey cloaks, not to speak of the
rubric to which the Curate was so faithful. It was a trying experience
to his Evangelical aunt; but at the same time it was a "great work;" and
she could not give up the hope of being able one time or other to
appropriate the credit of it, and win him over to her own "views." If
that consummation could but be attained, everything would become simple;
and Miss Leonora was a true Wentworth, and wanted to see her nephew in
Skelmersdale: so it may easily be understood that, under present
circumstances, there were great attractions for her in Carlingford.

It was, accordingly, with a beating heart that Miss Dora, feeling a
little as she might have been supposed to feel thirty years before,
had she ever stolen forth from the well-protected enclosure of
Skelmersdale Park to see a lover, put on her bonnet in the early
twilight, and, escaping with difficulty the lively observations of her
maid, went tremulously down Grange Lane to her nephew's house. She
had never yet visited Frank, and this visit was unquestionably
clandestine. But then the news with which her heart was beating was
important enough to justify the step she was taking--at least so she
whispered to herself; though whether dear Frank would be pleased, or
whether he would still think it "my fault," poor Miss Dora could not
make up her mind. Nothing happened in the quiet road, where there were
scarcely any passengers, and the poor lady arrived with a trembling
sense of escape from unknown perils at Mrs Hadwin's garden-door. For
Miss Dora was of opinion, like some few other ladies, that to walk
alone down the quietest of streets was to lay herself open to
unheard-of dangers. She put out her trembling hand to ring the bell,
thinking her perils over--for of course Frank would walk home with
her--when the door suddenly opened, and a terrible apparition, quite
unconscious of anybody standing there, marched straight out upon Miss
Dora, who gave a little scream, and staggered backwards, thinking the
worst horrors she had dreamed of were about to be realised. They were
so close together that the terrified lady took in every detail of his
appearance. She saw the patched boots and that shabby coat which Sarah
the housemaid felt that she rather demeaned herself by brushing. It
looked 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, but
only a little travelling-cap surmounting the redundancy of hair,
mustache, and beard, which were enough of themselves to strike any
nervous woman with terror. "Oh, I beg your pardon," cried poor Miss
Dora, hysterically; "I wanted to see Mr Wentworth;" and she stood
trembling and panting for breath, holding by the wall, not quite sure
that this apparition could be appeased by any amount of apologies. It
was a great comfort to her when the monster took off its cap, and when
she perceived, by the undulations of the beard, something like a smile
upon its hidden lips. "I believe Mr Wentworth is at church," said the
new lodger: "may I have the pleasure of seeing you safely across to St
Roque's?" At which speech Miss Dora trembled more and more, and said,
faintly, "No, thank you,"--for who could tell what the man's
intentions might be? The result was, however, that he only put on his
cap again, and went off like any other human creature in the other
direction, and that slowly; with tremulous steps Miss Dora pursued her
way to her nephew's pretty church. She could not have described, as
she herself said, what a relief it was after all this, to take Frank's
arm, as she met him at the door of St Roque's. He was coming out, and
the young lady with the grey cloak had been one of the congregation;
and, to tell the truth, Miss Dora was an unwelcome addition just then
to the party. Lucy's coming had been accidental, and it was very sweet
to Mr Wentworth to be able to conclude that he was obliged to walk
home with her. They were both coming out from their evening devotions
into the tranquil spring twilight, very glad of the charmed quiet, and
happy somehow to find themselves alone together. That had happened but
seldom of late; and a certain expectation of something that might
happen hovered over the heads of Lucy and the Curate. It did not
matter that he dared not say to her what was in his heart. Mr
Wentworth was only a young man after all, and the thrill of a possible
revelation was upon him in that half-hour upon which he was entering
with so profound a sense of happiness. And then it was an accidental
meeting, and if anything did happen, they could not blame themselves
as if they had sought this opportunity of being together. The
circumstances were such that they might call it providential, if
anything came of it. But just as the two had made their first step out
of the church, where the organ was still murmuring low in the
darkness, and where the music of the last Amen, in which he had
recognised Lucy's voice, had not quite died from the Curate's ears, to
meet Miss Dora, pale and fluttered, full of news and distress, with no
other thought in her mind but to appropriate her dear Frank, and take
his 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 arranged
her veil and greeted Miss Wentworth sweetly. Lucy walked on the other
side of the Curate, saying little as Miss Dora's eager shower of
questions and remarks ran on. Perhaps she had a little insight into Mr
Wentworth's feelings, and no doubt it was rather tantalising. When
they came to Mrs Hadwin's door, the young Anglican made a spasmodic
effort, which in his heart he felt to be unprincipled, and which, had
it been successful, would have totally taken away the accidental and
unpremeditated character of this walk with Lucy, which he could not
find it in his heart to relinquish. He proposed that his aunt should
go in and rest while he saw Miss Wodehouse safely home--he was sure
she was tired, he said, eagerly. "No, my dear, not at all," said Miss
Dora; "it is such a pleasant evening, and I know Miss Wodehouse's is
not very far off. I should like the walk, and, besides, it is too
late, you know, to see Mrs Hadwin, and I should not like to go in
without calling on her; and besides--"

Mr Wentworth in his aggravation gave a momentary sudden glance at Lucy
when she had no expectation of it. That glance of disappointment--of
disgust--of love and longing, was no more intentional than their
meeting; could he help it, if it revealed that heart which was in such
a state of commotion and impatience? Anyhow, the look gave Lucy
sufficient occupation to keep her very quiet on the other side while
Miss Dora maundered on.

"I met the strangest man coming out when I was going to ring your
bell. 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 a
clergyman lives. He could not be any friend of yours?"

"The other lodger, I suppose," said the Curate, briefly. "When are you
going 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 Mrs
Hadwin's house? I don't think it is safe for you--I don't think it is
respectable. People might think he was a friend of yours. I wonder if
Miss Wodehouse has ever seen him--a great man with a beard? To be
sure, 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 a
little angry pressure to stop the stream of utterance--"only that I am
not 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 dear
Frank," said aunt Dora--"a clergyman should be so careful. I don't
know what your aunt Leonora would say. Don't you think to see a man
like that coming out of Mr Wentworth's house is not as it should be? I
assure you he frightened me."

"I don't think I have seen him," said Lucy. "But shouldn't a clergyman's
house be like the church, open to good and bad?--for it is to the wicked
and the miserable you are sent," said the Sister of Mercy, lowering her
voice and glancing up at the Perpetual Curate. They could have clasped
each other's hands at that moment, almost without being aware that it
was any personal feeling which made their agreement so sweet. As for
Miss Dora, she went on leaning on her nephew's arm, totally unconscious
of the suppressed rapture and elevation in which the two were moving at
the 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 her
nephew's arm--"but still I have a feeling that a clergyman should
always take care to be respectable. Not that he should neglect the
wicked," continued the poor aunt, apologetically, "for a poor sinner
turning from the evil of his ways is the--the most interesting--sight
in the world, even to the angels, you know; but to _live_ with them in
the 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 him
away. Don't you know who he is, Frank? I could not be content without
finding out, if it was me."

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

"My dear, Leonora has been thinking it all over," said Miss Dora, "and
we are so anxious about you. Leonora is very fond of you, though she
does not show it; and you know the Meritons have just come home from
India, and have not a house to go to. So you see we thought, as you
are not quite so comfortable as we could wish to see you, Frank--and
perhaps we might be of some use--and Mr Shirley is better again, and
no immediate settlement has to be made about Skelmersdale;--that on
the whole, if Leonora and you were to see more of each other--oh, my
dear boy, don't be so hasty; it was all her own doing--it was not my
fault."

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

"But, Frank, you are not taking any notice of what I say," said Miss
Dora, with something like a suppressed sob. "I don't doubt your sick
people 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 we
could 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, like
him, dropping her voice. "The absolution was such a comfort. Now she
seems 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. Somehow
it 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 should
hesitate to remove the last barriers out of the way! I would not be a
priest if I were debarred from the power of delivering such a poor
soul."

"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't
want to hear it! I hope when we are dying we shall all feel what great
great sinners we are," said the poor lady, who, between vexation and
mortification, was ready to cry, "and not think that one is better
than another. Oh, my dear, there is that man again! Do you think it is
safe to meet him in such a lonely road? If he comes across and speaks
to me any more I shall faint," cried poor Miss Dora, whose opinions
were not quite in accordance with her feelings. Mr Wentworth did not
say anything to soothe her, but with his unoccupied hand he made an
involuntary movement towards Lucy's cloak, and plucked at it to bring
her nearer, as the bearded stranger loomed dimly past, looking at the
group. Lucy felt the touch, and wondered and looked up at him in the
darkness. She could not comprehend the Curate's face.

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

"What could happen?" said Mr Wodehouse, who still looked "limp" from
his recent illness, "though I hear there are doubtful people about; so
they tell me--but you ought to know best, Wentworth. Who is that
fellow in the beard that went by on the other side? Not little Lake
the drawing-master? Fancied I had seen the build of the man
before--eh?--a stranger? Well, it's a mistake, perhaps. Can't be sure
of anything nowadays;--memory failing. Well, that's what the doctor
says. Come in and rest and see Molly; as for me, I'm not good for
much, but you won't get better company than the girls, or else that's
what folks tell me. Who did you say that fellow was?" said the
churchwarden, 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 could
tell how;--for two minutes, which looked like twenty, no one spoke.
Then Lucy roused herself, apparently with a little effort. "We seem to
talk of nothing but the man with the beard to-night," she said. "Mary
knows everything that goes on in Carlingford--she will tell us about
him; and if Miss Wentworth thinks it too late to come in, we will say
good-night," she continued, with a little decision of tone, which was
not incomprehensible to the Perpetual Curate. Perhaps she was a little
provoked and troubled in her own person. To say so much in looks and
so little in words, was a mode of procedure which puzzled Lucy. It
fretted her, because it looked unworthy of her hero. She withdrew
within the green door, holding her father's arm fast, and talking to
him, while Mr Wentworth strained his ears after the voice, which he
thought he could have singled out from a thousand voices. Perhaps Lucy
talked to drown her thoughts; and the Curate went away dumb and
abstracted, with his aunt leaning on his arm on the other side of the
wall. He could not be interested, as Miss Dora expected him to be, in
the Miss Wentworths' plans. He conducted her to the Blue Boar
languidly, with an evident indifference to the fact that his aunt
Leonora was about to become a permanent resident in Carlingford. He
said "Good-night" kindly to little Rosa Elsworthy, looking out with
bright eyes into the darkness at the door of her uncle's shop; but he
said little to Miss Dora, who could not tell what to make of him, and
swallowed her tears as quietly as possible under her veil. When he had
deposited his aunt safely at the inn, the Perpetual Curate hastened
down Grange Lane at a great pace. The first sound he heard on entering
Mrs Hadwin's garden was the clear notes of the stranger's whistle
among the trees; and with an impatient exclamation Mr Wentworth sought
his fellow-lodger, who was smoking as usual, pacing up and down a
shaded walk, where, even in daylight, he was pretty well concealed
from observation. The Curate looked as if he had a little discontent
and repugnance to get over before he could address the anonymous
individual who whistled so cheerily under the trees. When he did speak
it 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 dog
without a name. What have you got to say?"

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

"By whom?"

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

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

"That must be as you think best," said the Perpetual Curate, in whom
there appeared no movement of sympathy; and he said no more, though the
doubtful individual by his side lifted an undecided look to his face,
and once more murmured in perplexed tones a troubled exclamation: "A man
must have a little amusement somehow," the stranger said, with an
aggrieved voice; and then abruptly left his unsociable companion, and
went off to his room, where he summoned Sarah to bring lights, and tried
to talk to her a little in utter dearth of society. Mr Wentworth stayed
behind, pacing up and down the darkening walk. The Curate's thoughts
were far from satisfactory. There was not much comfort anywhere, let him
look where he pleased. When a man has no spot in all his horizon on
which his eye can rest with comfort, there is something more discouraging
in the prospect than a positive calamity. He could not take refuge even
in the imaginations of his love, for it was clear enough that already a
sentiment of surprise had risen in Lucy's mind, and her tranquillity was
shaken. And perhaps he had done rashly to plunge into other people's
troubles--he upon whom a curious committee of aunts were now to sit _en
permanence_. He went in to write his sermon, far from being so assured
of things in general as that discourse was when it was written, though
it was a little relief to his mind to fall back upon an authority
somewhere, and to refer, in terms which were perhaps too absolute to be
altogether free of doubt, to the Church, which had arranged everything
for her children in one department of their concerns at least. If it
were only as easy to know what ought to be done in one's personal
affairs as to decide what was the due state of mind expected by the
Church 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 of
ease 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 use
to them? Yes, Lucy; and I am sure anything we could do for Mr
Wentworth--" 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 he
knows where they are going. That poor little Rosa should have some one
to take care of her. I often wonder whether it would be kind to speak
to Mrs Elsworthy about it, Lucy; she is a sensible woman. The little
thing stands at the door in the evening, and talks to people who are
passing, and I am afraid there are some people who are unprincipled,
and tell her she is pretty, and say things to her," said Miss
Wodehouse, shaking her head; "it is a great pity. Even Mr Wentworth is
a great deal more civil to that little thing than he would be if she
had 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 grey
cloaks this time; "but I forgot to ask you about one thing that
puzzled us last night--who is the man in the beard who lives at Mrs
Hadwin's? Mr Wentworth will not tell anybody about him, and I think he
knows."

"Who is the man in the beard?" said Miss Wodehouse, with a gasp. She
grew very pale, and turned away her head and shivered visibly. "How
very cold it is!" she said, with her teeth chattering; "did you think
it was so cold? I--I don't know any men with beards; and it is so
strange 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 came
from 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 you
do, and she might not be a proper person. There is a carriage that I
don't know standing before Elsworthy's shop."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you wish it, ma'am," said Mr Elsworthy. "The town _is_ changed; I
don'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. Mr
Wentworth 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 is
beautiful; I can't say as I ever heard reading as could equal it;--and
them choristers, though they're hawful to manage, is trained as I
never see boys trained in _my_ life afore. There's one of them houses,
ma'am," continued the optimist, turning to Miss Wentworth, "as is a
beauty. Miss Wodehouse can tell you what it is; no lady in the land
could desire a handsomer drawing-room; and as for the kitchings,--I
don't pretend to be a judge up-stairs, but being brought up a
blacksmith, I know what's what in a kitching-range. If you had all
Grange Lane to dinner, there's a range as is equal to it," said Mr
Elsworthy with enthusiasm--"and my wife will show you the 'ouse."

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

"Indeed," said Miss Wodehouse, who was excited, in spite of herself,
by this conversation, "I think the Carlingford people go quite as much
to church as in Mr Bury's days. I don't think there is less religion
than 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 Wentworth
is looking for a house. I don't know much about the kitchen-range, but I
know it belongs to a very pious family, and they wish so much to let
it. My sister and I would be so glad to take you there. It is not in the
gay world, like Grange Lane."

"But you might want to ask people to dinner; and then we should be so
near Frank," said Miss Dora, whispering at her sister's elbow. As for
the second Miss Hemmings, she was dull of comprehension, and did not
quite make out who the strangers were.

"It is so sad to a feeling mind to see the mummeries that go on at St
Roque's," said this obtuse sister; "and I am afraid poor Mr Wentworth
must be in a bad way. They say there is the strangest man in his
house--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 Mr
Wentworth himself is involved; but what can you expect when there is
no true Christian principle?" asked Miss Hemmings, triumphantly. It
was a dreadful moment for the bystanders; for Miss Leonora turned
round upon this new intelligence with keen eyes and attention; and
Miss Dora interposed, weeping; and Miss Wodehouse grew so pale, that
Mr Elsworthy rushed for cold water, and thought she was going to
faint. "Tell me all about this," said Miss Leonora, with peremptory
and commanding tones. "Oh, Leonora, I am sure my dear Frank has
nothing to do with it, if there is anything wrong," cried Miss Dora.
Even Miss Wentworth herself was moved out of her habitual smile. She
said, "He is my nephew"--an observation which she had never been heard
to make before, and which covered the second Miss Hemmings with
confusion. As for Miss Wodehouse, she retreated very fast to a seat
behind Miss Cecilia, and said nothing. The two who had arrived last
slunk back upon each other with fiery glances of mutual reproach. The
former three stood together in this emergency, full of curiosity, and
perhaps a little anxiety. In this position of affairs, Mr Elsworthy,
being the only impartial person present, took the management of
matters 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 at
Mrs Hadwin's may be an unfortunate gentleman for anything I can tell;
but he aint no relation of our clergyman. There aint nobody belonging
to Mr Wentworth," said the clerk of St Roque's, "but is a credit both
to 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. But
the gentleman as is the subject of conversation is no more like Mr
Wentworth than--asking pardon for the liberty--I am. I may say as I
have opportunities for knowing more than most," said Mr Elsworthy,
modestly, "me and Rosa; for if there's a thing Mr Wentworth is
particular about, it's having his papers the first moment; and ladies
as knows me knows I am one that never says more nor the truth. Not
saying a word against the gentleman--as is a most respectable
gentleman, for anything I know against him--he aint no connection of
Mr Wentworth. He's Mrs Hadwin's lodger; and I wouldn't say as he isn't
a relation there; but our clergyman has got no more to do with him
than the babe unborn."

Mr Elsworthy wiped his forehead after he had made this speech, and
looked round for the approbation which he was aware he had deserved;
and Miss Leonora Wentworth threw a glance of disdainful observation
upon the unhappy lady who had caused this disturbance. "If your wife
will 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 very
well. My nephew is a very young man, Miss Wodehouse," said Miss
Leonora, who had not passed over the agitation of that gentle woman
without 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 grow
older and wiser, as indeed he cannot help doing if he lives. I hope
you and your pretty sister will come to see us when we're settled;--I
don't see any sense, you know, in your grey cloaks--I'm old, and you
won't mind me saying so; but I know what Frank Wentworth is," said the
indignant aunt, making a severe curtsy, accompanied by lightning
glances at the shrinking background of female figures, as she went out
of the shop.

"Oh, Leonora! I always said you were fond of him, though you never
would show it," cried poor Miss Dora. "She is a great deal more
affectionate than she will let anybody believe; and my dear Frank
means nothing but good," cried the too zealous champion. Miss Leonora
turned back upon the threshold of the shop.

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

After which Miss Wodehouse went home, not having much heart for
further 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 Mrs
Hadwin's, and hesitated at the door as if she meant to call there;
but, thinking better of it, went on a little farther with very
lingering steps, as if she did not know what she wanted. When she came
back again, the door of Mrs Hadwin's garden was open, and the
butcher's boy stood blocking up the way, listening with all his ears
to the notes of the whistle, soft and high and clear like the notes of
a bird which come audibly from among the trees. Miss Wodehouse gave a
little start when she heard it: again she hesitated, and looked in
with such a wistful face that Sarah, the housemaid, who had been about
to slam the door hastily upon the too tender butcher, involuntarily
held it wide open for the expected visitor. "No, not to-day thank
you," said Miss Wodehouse. "I hope your mistress is quite well; give
her 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 wonderful
expression of face, and reached home long before Lucy had come back
from Prickett's Lane. Miss Wodehouse was not good for much in the
house. She went to the little boudoir up-stairs, and lay down on the
sofa, and had some tea brought her by an anxious maid. She was very
nervous, trembling she could not say why, and took up a novel which
was lying on the sofa, and read the most affecting scene, and cried
over 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, and
brought her the third volume, and then went away herself to arrange
the dessert, and see that everything was in order for one of Mr
Wodehouse's little parties. These were their respective parts in the
house; and surely a more peaceful, and orderly, and affectionate
house, was not to be found that spring evening, either in England or
Grange Lane.




CHAPTER X.


It may be easily supposed after this that Mr Wentworth and his
proceedings were sufficiently overlooked and commented upon in
Carlingford. The Miss Wentworths took old Major Brown's house for six
months, which, as everybody knows, is next door to Dr Marjoribanks. It
was just after Letty Brown's marriage, and the poor old Major was very
glad to go away and pay a round of visits, and try to forget that his
last daughter had gone the way of all the rest. There was a
summer-house built in the corner of the garden, with a window in the
outer wall looking on to Grange Lane, from which everything that
happened could be inspected; and there was always somebody at that
window when the Perpetual Curate passed by. Then he began to have a
strange painful feeling that Lucy watched too, and was observing all
his looks and ways, and what he did and said in these changed times.
It was a strange difference from the sweet half-conscious bond between
them which existed of old, when they walked home together from
Wharfside, talking of the district and the people, in the tender union
of unspoken love and fellowship. Not that they were altogether parted
now; but Lucy contrived to leave the schoolroom most days before the
young priest could manage to disrobe himself, and was seldom to be
seen on the road lingering on her errands of kindness as she used to
do. But still she knew all he was about, and watched, standing in
doubt and wonder of him, which was at least a great deal better than
indifference. On the whole, however, it was a cloudy world through
which the Perpetual Curate passed as he went from his lodgings, where
the whistle of the new lodger had become a great nuisance to him, past
the long range of garden-walls, the sentinel window where Miss Dora
looked out watching for him, and Mr Wodehouse's green door which he no
longer entered every day. Over the young man's mind, as he went out to
his labours, there used to come that sensation of having nobody to
fall back upon, which is of all feelings the most desolate. Amid all
those people who were watching him, there was no one upon whom he
could rest, secure of understanding and sympathy. They were all
critical--examining, with more or less comprehension, what he did; and
he could not think of anybody in the world just then who would be
content with knowing that _he_ did it, and take that as warranty for
the act, unless, perhaps, his poor aunt Dora, whose opinion was not
important to the young man. It was not a pleasant state of mind into
which these feelings threw him; and the natural result was, that he
grew more and more careful about the rubric, and confined his sermons,
with increasing precision, to the beautiful arrangements of the
Church. They were very clever little sermons, even within these
limitations, and an indifferent spectator would probably have been
surprised to find how much he could make out of them; but still it is
undeniable that a man has less scope, not only for oratory, but for
all that is worthy of regard in human speech, when, instead of the
ever-lasting reciprocations between heaven and earth, he occupies
himself only with a set of ecclesiastical arrangements, however
perfect. The people who went to St Roque's found this out, and so did
Mr Wentworth; but it did not alter the system pursued by the troubled
Curate. Perhaps he gave himself some half-conscious credit for it, as
being against his own interests; for there was no mistaking the
countenance of Miss Leonora, when now and then, on rare occasions, she
came to hear her nephew preach.

All this, however, was confined to St Roque's, where there was a
somewhat select audience, people who agreed in Mr Wentworth's views;
but things were entirely different at Wharfside, where the Perpetual
Curate was not thinking about himself, but simply about his work, and
how to do it best. The bargemen and their wives did not know much
about the Christian year; but they understood the greater matters
which lay beneath: and the women said to each other, sometimes with
tears in their eyes, that there was nothing that the clergyman didn't
make plain; and that if the men didn't do what was right, it was none
o' Mr Wentworth's fault. The young priest indemnified himself in "the
district" for much that vexed him elsewhere. There was no question of
Skelmersdale, or of any moot point there, but only a quantity of
primitive people under the original conditions of humanity, whose
lives might be amended, and consoled, and elevated. That was a matter
about which Mr Wentworth had no doubt. He put on his surplice with
the conviction that in that white ephod the truest embodiment of
Christian purity was brought within sight of the darkened world. He
was not himself, but a Christian priest, with power to deliver and to
bless, when he went to Wharfside.

Easter had been early that year, and Ascension Day was in the
beginning of May, one of those sweet days of early summer which still
occur now and then to prove that the poets were right in all they say
of the tenderest month of the year. Mr Wentworth had done duty at St
Roque's, and afterwards at Wharfside. The sweet day and the sweet
season had moved his heart. He was young, and it was hard to live shut
up within himself without any sympathy either from man or woman. He
had watched the grey cloak gliding out as his rude congregation
dispersed, and went away quicker than was his wont, with a stronger
longing 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 looked
up the weary length of the street, and saw nothing but the children
playing on the pavement, and some slovenly mothers at the doors. It
was a very disenchanting prospect. He went on again in a kind of
gloomy discontent, displeased with everything. What was the good of it
all? he said to himself--weariness, and toil, and trouble, and nothing
ever 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 on
at St Roque's, however perfect the rubric and pretty the church, was,
without any personal stimulant of happiness, no great prospect for the
Perpetual Curate. Such was the tenor of his thoughts, when he saw a
black figure suddenly emerge out of one of the houses, and stand at
the door, throwing a long shadow over the pavement. It was the Rector
who was standing there in Mr Wentworth's favourite district, talking
to a shopkeeper who had always been on the opposition side. The young
Anglican raised his drooping head instantly, and recovered his
interest in the general world.

"Glad to see you, Mr Wentworth," said the Rector. "I have been
speaking to this worthy man about the necessities of the district. The
statistics are far from being satisfactory. Five thousand souls, and
no provision for their spiritual wants; it is a very sad state of
affairs. 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 had
advised Mr Morgan to change his tactics, and this was the first
evidence of the new policy--"I hear you have been doing what little
you 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 in
your power, it could only be a very temporary expedient. I am very
much obliged to you for your good intentions."

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

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

"And so is St Roque's, I suppose," said the Curate, affably. "I have
no district, but I have my cure of souls all the same. As for
Wharfside, the Rector of Carlingford never had had anything to do with
it. Mr Bury and Mr Proctor made it over to me. I act upon their
authority; but I should like to prove to you it is something more than
a temporary expedient," said the young Anglican, with a smile. Mr
Morgan was gradually getting very hot and flushed. His temper got the
better of him; he could not tolerate to be thus bearded on his own
ground.

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

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

"No, sir. I don't care to go to the schoolroom. I decline to have
anything to do with such an unwarrantable attempt to interfere with my
rights," said Mr Morgan. "I don't want to know what plausible arguments
you may have to justify yourself. The fact remains, sir, that Wharfside
is in my parish. If you have anything to say against that, I will listen
to you," said the irascible Rector. His Welsh blood was up; he even
raised 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 in
the world over Mr Morgan. The Perpetual Curate bowed with immovable
composure, and felt himself master of the field.

"In that case, it will perhaps be better not to say anything," he
said; "but I think you will find difficulties in the way. Wharfside
has some curious privileges, and pays no rates; but I have never taken
up that ground. The two previous rectors made it over to me, and the
work is too important to be ignored. I have had thoughts of applying
to have it made into an ecclesiastical district," said the Curate,
with candour, "not thinking that the Rector of Carlingford, with so
much to occupy him, would care to interfere with my labours; but at
all events, to begin another mission here would be folly--it would be
copying the tactics of the Dissenters, if you will forgive me for
saying 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 the
habit of being schooled by my--juniors," said the Rector, with
suppressed fury. He meant to say inferiors, but the aspect of the
Perpetual Curate checked him. Then the two stood gazing at each other
for a minute in silence. "Anything further you may have to say, you
will perhaps communicate to my solicitor," said the elder priest. "It
is well known that some gentlemen of your views, Mr Wentworth, think
it safe to do evil that good may come;--that is not my opinion; and I
don't mean to permit any invasion of my rights. I have the pleasure of
wishing you good morning."

Mr Morgan took off his hat, and gave it a little angry flourish in the
air before he put it on again. He had challenged his young brother to
the only duel permitted by their cloth, and he turned to the
opposition tradesman with vehemence, and went in again to the dusty
little shop, where a humble assortment of groceries were displayed for
the consumption of Prickett's Lane. Mr Wentworth remained standing
outside in much amazement, not to say amusement, and a general sense
of awakening and recovery. Next to happiness, perhaps enmity is the
most healthful stimulant of the human mind. The Perpetual Curate woke
up and realised his position with a sense of exhilaration, if the
truth must be told. He muttered something to himself, uncomplimentary
to Mr Morgan's good sense, as he turned away; but it was astonishing
to find how much more lively and interesting Prickett's Lane had
become since that encounter. He went along cheerily, saying a word now
and then to the people at the doors, every one of whom knew and
recognised him, and acknowledged, in a lesser or greater degree, the
sway of his bishopric. The groups he addressed made remarks after he
had 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;--Lord
bless you, not cross--he's a deal too good a man for that--but
crossed-looking; it might be crossed in love for what I can tell."
"Them as is handsome like that seldom gets crossed in love," said
another experienced observer; "but if it was fortin, or whatever it
was, 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 their
children decent out o' their own heads, they won't do much for a
clergyman; but, bless you, he can do a deal with the men, and it's
them as wants looking after." "I'd like to go to his wedding," said
another. "I'd give a deal to hear it was all settled;" and amid these
affectionate comments, Mr Wentworth issued out of Prickett's Lane. He
went direct to Mr Wodehouse's green door, without making any excuses
to himself. For the first time for some weeks he went in upon the
sisters and told them all that had happened as of old. Lucy was still
in her grey cloak as she had returned from the district, and it was
with a feeling more distinct than sympathy that she heard of this
threatened attack. "It is terrible to think that he could interfere
with 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 chair
nearer, and listened with eloquent looks, which were balm to the soul
of the Perpetual Curate. "But we are not to give up?" she said, giving
him her hand, when he rose to go away. "Never!" said Mr Wentworth; and
if he held it more closely and longer than there was any particular
occasion 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, at
the north end, where some trustee lived who had to do with the Orphan
Schools, and whom the curate was obliged to see; and Miss Wodehouse
gave him a timid invitation to come back to dinner. "But you are not to
go 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 Mr
Wentworth, and kept away from him whenever he called. So he went in on
his way back, and dined in happiness and his morning coat, with a sweet
conscious return to the familiar intercourse which these few disturbed
weeks had interrupted. He was a different man when he went back again
down Grange Lane. Once more the darkness was fragrant and musical about
him. When he was tired thinking of his affairs, he fell back upon the
memories of the evening, and Lucy's looks and the "us" and "we," which
were so sweet to his ears. To have somebody behind whom one can fall
back upon to fill up the interstices of thought--_that_ makes all the
difference, as Mr Wentworth found out, between a bright and a heavy
life.

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

"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 do
it again. Oh, please, _please_, let me go! Please, Mr Wentworth, let
me go!"

"How long have you been talking to--Sarah?" said the Curate. "Did you
ever do it before? No, Rosa; I am going to take you home. This must
not happen any more."

"I will run all the way. Oh, don't tell my aunt, Mr Wentworth. I didn't
mean any harm," said the frightened creature. "You are not really
coming? Oh, Mr Wentworth, if you tell my aunt I shall die!" cried poor
little Rosa. But she was hushed into awe and silence when the curate
stalked forth, a grand, half-distinguished figure by her side, keeping
pace with her hasty, tremulous steps. She even stopped crying, in the
whirlwind of her feelings. What did he mean? Was he going to say
anything to her? Was it possible that he could like her, and be jealous
of her talk with--Sarah? Poor little foolish Rosa did not know what to
think. She had read a great many novels, and knew that it was quite
usual for gentlemen to fall in love with pretty little girls who were
not of their own station;--why not with her? So she went on, half
running, keeping up with Mr Wentworth, and sometimes stealing sly
glances at him to see what intention was in his looks. But his looks
were beyond Rosa's reading. He walked by her side without speaking, and
gave a glance up at the window of the summer-house as they passed. And
strange enough, that evening of all others, Miss Dora, who had been the
victim of some of Miss Leonora's caustic criticisms, had strayed forth,
in melancholy mood, to repose herself at her favourite window, and look
out at the faint stars, and comfort herself with a feeble repetition of
her favourite plea, that it was not "my fault." The poor lady was
startled out of her own troubles by the sight of her nephew's tall
unmistakable figure; and, as bad luck would have it, Rosa's hat, tied
insecurely by her agitated fingers, blew off at that moment, so that Mr
Wentworth's aunt became aware, to her inexpressible horror and
astonishment, who his companion was. The unhappy Curate divined all the
thoughts that would arise in her perturbed bosom, when he saw the
indistinct figure at the window, and said something to himself about
_espionage_, which was barely civil to Miss Dora, as he hurried along on
his charitable errand. He was out of one trouble into another, this
unlucky young man. He knocked sharply at Elsworthy's closed door, and
gave up his charge without speaking to Rosa. "I brought her home because
I thought it wrong to let her go up Grange Lane by herself," said the
Curate. "Don't thank me; but if you have any regard for the child, don't
send her out at night again." He did not even bid Rosa good-night, or
look back at her, as she stood blushing and sparkling in confused
childish beauty, in the doorway; but turned his back like any savage,
and hastened home again. Before he entered his own apartments, he
knocked at the door of the green room, and said something to the inmate
there which produced from that personage a growl of restrained defiance.
And after all these fatigues, it was with a sense of relief that the
Curate threw himself upon his sofa, to think over the events of the
afternoon, and to take a little rest. He was very tired, and the
consolation he had experienced during the evening made him more disposed
to yield to his fatigue. He threw himself upon the sofa, and stretched
out his hand lazily for his letters, which evidently did not excite any
special expectations in his mind. There was one from his sister, and one
from an old university friend, full of the news of the season. Last of
all, there was a neat little note, directed in a neat little hand, which
anybody who received it would naturally have left to the last, as Mr
Wentworth did. He opened it quite deliberately, without any appearance
of interest. But as he read the first lines, the Curate gradually
gathered himself up o

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