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.