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 off the sofa, and stretched out his hand for his
boots, which he had just taken off; and before he had finished it, had
walked across the room and laid hold of the railway book in use at
Carlingford, all the time reading and re-reading the important little
epistle. It was not so neat inside as out, and blurred and blotted, and
slightly illegible; and this is what the letter said:--
"Oh, Frank, dear, I am so anxious and unhappy about Gerald. I can't
tell what is the matter with him. Come directly, for heaven's sake,
and tell me what you think, and try what you can do. Don't lose a
train after you get this, but come directly--oh, come if you ever
loved any of us. I don't know what he means, but he says the most
awful things; and if he is not _mad_, as I sometimes hope, he has
forgotten his duty to his family and to me, which is far worse. I
can't explain more; but if there is any chance of anybody doing him
good, it is you. I beg you, on my knees, come directly, dear Frank. I
never was in such a state in my life. I shall be left so that nobody
will be able to tell what I am; and my heart is bursting. Never mind
business or anything; but come, come directly, whether it is night or
day, to your broken-hearted sister,
"LOUISA."
"_P.S._--In great haste, and _so_ anxious to see you."
Half an hour after, Mr Wentworth, with a travelling-bag in his hand, was
once more hastening up Grange Lane towards the railway station. His face
was somewhat grey, as the lamps shone on it. He did not exactly know
what he was anxious about, nor what might have happened at Wentworth
Rectory before he could get there; but the express train felt slow to
his anxious thoughts as it flashed out of the station. Mr Morgan and his
wife were in their garden, talking about the encounter in Prickett's
Lane, when the train plunged past, waking all the echoes; and Mrs
Morgan, by way of making a diversion, appealed to the Rector about those
creepers, with which she hoped in a year or two to shut out the sight of
the railway. "The Virginian creeper would be the best," said the
Rector's wife; and they went in to calculate the expenses of bringing Mr
Wentworth before Dr Lushington. Miss Dora, at very nearly the same
moment, was confiding to her sister Cecilia, under vows of secrecy, the
terrible sight she had seen from the summer-house window. They went to
bed with very sad hearts in consequence, both these good women. In the
mean time, leaving all these gathering clouds behind him, leaving his
reputation and his work to be discussed and quarrelled over as they
might, the Perpetual Curate rushed through the night, his heart aching
with trouble and anxiety, to help, if he could--and if not, at least to
stand by--Gerald, in this unknown crisis of his brother's life.