Mr Wentworth retired to his own quarters with enough to think about for
one morning. He could not make up his mind about Wodehouse--whether he
was guilty or not guilty. It seemed incredible that, penniless as he
was, he could have succeeded in carrying off a girl so well known in
Carlingford as Rosa Elsworthy; and, if he had taken her away, how did
it happen that he himself had come back again? The Curate saw clearly
enough that his only chance for exculpating himself in the sight of
the multitude was by bringing home the guilt to somebody else; and in
proportion to the utter scorn with which he had treated Elsworthy's
insinuations at first, was his serious apprehension now of the danger
which surrounded him. He divined all that slander would make of it
with the quickened intelligence of a man whose entire life, and
reputation dearer than life, were at stake. If it could not be cleared
up--if even any investigation which he might be able to demand was not
perfectly successful--Mr Wentworth was quite well aware that the
character of a clergyman was almost as susceptible as that of a
woman, and that the vague stigma might haunt and overshadow him all
his life. The thought was overwhelming at this moment, when his first
hopes of finding a speedy solution of the mystery had come to nothing.
If he had but lived a century earlier, the chances are that no doubt
of Wodehouse's guilt would have entered his mind; but Mr Wentworth was
a man of the present age--reasonable to a fault, and apt to consider
other people as much as possible from their own point of view. He did
not see, looking at the circumstances, how Wodehouse _could_ be guilty;
and the Curate would not permit the strong instinctive certainty that he
_was_ guilty, to move his own mind from what he imagined to be its
better judgment. He was thinking it over very gloomily when his
breakfast was brought to him and his letters, feeling that he could be
sure of nobody in such an emergency, and dreading more the doubt of his
friends than the clamour of the general world. He could bear (he
imagined) to be hooted at in the streets, if it ever came to that; but
to see the faces of those who loved him troubled with a torturing doubt
of his truth was a terrible thought to the Perpetual Curate. And Lucy?
But here the young man got up indignant and threw off his fears. He
doubted her regard with a doubt which threw darkness over the whole
universe; but that she should be able for a moment to doubt his entire
devotion to her, seemed a blindness incredible. No; let who would
believe ill of him in this respect, to Lucy such an accusation must look
as monstrous as it was untrue. _She_, at least, knew otherwise; and,
taking this false comfort to his heart, Mr Wentworth took up his
letters, and presently was deep in the anxieties of his brother Gerald,
who wrote to him as to a man at leisure, and without any overwhelming
perplexities of his own. It requires a very high amount of unselfishness
in the person thus addressed to prevent a degree of irritation which is
much opposed to sympathy; and Mr Wentworth, though he was very impartial
and reasonable, was not, being still young and meaning to be happy,
unselfish to any inhuman degree. He put down Gerald's letter, after he
had read through half of it, with an exclamation of impatience which he
could not restrain, and then poured out his coffee, which had got cold
in the mean time, and gulped it down with a sense of half-comforting
disgust--for there are moments when the mortification of the flesh
is a relief to the spirit; and then it occurred to him to remember
Wodehouse's tray, which was a kind of love-offering to the shabby
vagabond, and the perfect good order in which _he_ had his breakfast;
and Mr Wentworth laughed at himself with a whimsical perception of all
that was absurd in his own position which did him good, and broke the
spell of his solitary musings. When he took up Gerald's letter again, he
read it through. A man more sympathetic, open-hearted, and unselfish
than Gerald Wentworth did not exist in the world, as his brother well
knew; but nevertheless, Gerald's mind was so entirely preoccupied that
he passed over the Curate's cares with the lightest reference
imaginable. "I hope you found all right when you got back, and nothing
seriously amiss with Jack," the elder brother wrote, and then went on to
his own affairs. All right! nothing seriously amiss! To a man who felt
himself standing on the edge of possible ruin, such expressions seemed
strange indeed.
The Rector of Wentworth, however, had enough in his mind to excuse him
for a momentary forgetfulness of others. Things had taken a different
turn with him since his brother left. He had been so busy with his
change of faith and sentiment, that the practical possibilities of the
step which he contemplated had not disturbed Gerald. He had taken it
calmly for granted that he _could_ do what he wanted to do. But a new
light had burst upon him in that respect, and changed the character of
his thoughts. Notwithstanding the conviction into which he had
reasoned himself, the Rector of Wentworth had not contemplated the
idea of becoming simply a Catholic layman. He was nothing if not a
priest, he had said, passionately. He could have made a martyr of
himself--have suffered tortures and deaths with the steadiest
endurance; but he could not face the idea of taking all meaning and
significance out of his life, by giving up the profession which he
felt to be laid upon him by orders indelible, beyond the power of
circumstances to revoke. Such was the new complication to which Gerald
had come. He was terribly staggered in his previous resolution by this
new doubt, and he wrote to pour his difficulties into the ear of his
brother. It had been Frank's question which first awoke in his mind a
doubt as to the practicability of the step he contemplated; and one of
Louisa's relations, appealed to by her in her next access of terror,
had brought this aspect of the matter still more distinctly before the
Rector of Wentworth. Gerald had been studying Canon law, but his
English intelligence did not make very much of it; and the bare idea
of a dispensation making that right which in itself was wrong, touched
the high-minded gentleman to the quick, and brought him to a sudden
standstill. He who was nothing if not a priest, stood sorrowfully
looking at his contemplated martyrdom--like Brother Domenico of St
Mark's sighing on the edge of the fiery ordeal into which the Church
herself would not let him plunge. If it was so, he no longer knew what
to do. He would have wrapped the vestment of the new priesthood about
him, though it was a garment of fire; but to stand aside in irksome
leisure was a harder trial, at which he trembled. This was the new
complication in which Gerald asked his brother's sympathy and counsel.
It was a long letter, curiously introspective, and full of self-argument;
and it was hard work, with a mind so occupied as was that of the
Perpetual Curate, to give it due attention. He put it away when he had
done with his cold breakfast, and deferred the consideration of the
subject, with a kind of vague hope that the family firmament might
possibly brighten in that quarter at least; but the far-off and
indistinct interest with which he viewed, across his own gloomy
surroundings, this matter which had engrossed him so completely a few
days before, was wonderful to see.
And then he paused to think what he was to do. To go out and face the
slander which must already have crept forth on its way--to see
Elsworthy and ascertain whether he had come to his senses, and try if
anything could be done for Rosa's discovery--to exert himself somehow,
in short, and get rid of the feverish activity which he felt consuming
him,--that was what he longed to do. But, on the other hand, it was
Saturday, and Mr Wentworth was conscious that it would be more
dignified, and in better taste altogether, if he went on writing his
sermon and took no notice of this occurrence, with which, in reality,
he had nothing to do. It was difficult, but no doubt it was the best;
and he tried it accordingly--putting down a great many sentences which
had to be scratched out again, and spoiling altogether the appearance
of the sermon-paper. When a message came from Mr Wodehouse's about
eleven o'clock, bringing the news that he was much worse and not
expected to live, and begging Mr Wentworth's immediate presence, the
Curate was as nearly glad as it was possible for a man to be under the
circumstances. He had "a feeling heart," as even Elsworthy allowed,
but in such a moment of excitement any kind of great and terrible
event seemed to come natural. He hastened out into the fresh morning
sunshine, which still seemed thrilling with life and joy, and went up
Grange Lane with a certain sense of curiosity, wondering whether
everybody was already aware of what had happened. A long way off a
figure which much resembled that of the Rector was visible crossing
over to Dr Marjoribanks's door; and it occurred to the Curate that Mr
Morgan was crossing to avoid him, which brought a smile of anger and
involuntary dislike to his face, and nerved him for any other
encounter. The green door at Mr Wodehouse's--a homely sign of the
trouble in the house--had been left unlatched, and was swinging ajar
with the wind when the Curate came up; and as he went in (closing it
carefully after him, for that forlorn little touch of carelessness
went to his heart), he encountered in the garden Dr Marjoribanks and
Dr Rider, who were coming out together with very grave looks. They did
not stop for much conversation, only pausing to tell him that the case
was hopeless, and that the patient could not possibly live beyond a
day or two at most; but even in the few words that were spoken Mr
Wentworth perceived, or thought he perceived, that something had
occurred to lessen him in the esteem of the shrewd old Scotch doctor,
who contemplated him and his prayer-book with critical eyes. "I
confess, after all, that there are cases in which written prayers are
a kind of security," Dr Marjoribanks said in an irrelevant manner to
Dr Rider when Mr Wentworth had passed them--an observation at which,
in ordinary cases, the Curate would have smiled; but to-day the colour
rose to his face, and he understood that Dr Marjoribanks did not think
him qualified to carry comfort or instruction to a sick-bed. Perhaps
the old doctor had no such idea in his mind--perhaps it was simply a
relic of his national Presbyterianism, to which the old Scotchman kept
up a kind of visionary allegiance. But whether he meant it or not, Mr
Wentworth understood it as a reproach to himself, and went on with a
bitter feeling of mortification to the sick-room. He had gone with his
whole heart into his priestly office, and had been noted for his
ministrations to the sick and poor; but now his feelings were much too
personal for the atmosphere into which he was just about to enter. He
stopped at the door to tell John that he would take a stroll round the
garden before he came in, as he had a headache, and went on through
the walks which were sacred to Lucy, not thinking of her, but
wondering bitterly whether anybody would stand by him, or whether an
utterly baseless slander would outweigh all the five years of his life
which he had spent among the people of Carlingford. Meanwhile John
stood at the door and watched him, and of course thought it was very
"queer." "It aint as if he'd a-been sitting up all night, like our
young ladies," said John to himself, and unconsciously noted the
circumstance down in his memory against the Curate.
When Mr Wentworth entered the sick-room, he found all very silent and
still in that darkened chamber. Lucy was seated by the bedside,
wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and looked as if she had not slept
for several nights; while Miss Wodehouse, who, notwithstanding all her
anxiety to be of use, was far more helpless than Lucy, stood on the
side next the door, with her eyes fixed on her sister, watching with
pathetic unserviceableness for the moment when she could be of some
use. As for the patient himself, he lay in a kind of stupor, from
which he scarcely ever could be roused, and showed no tokens at the
moment of hearing or seeing anybody. The scene was doubly sad, but it
was without the excitement which so often breathes in the atmosphere
of death. There was no eager listening for the last word, no last
outbreaks of tenderness. The daughters were both hushed into utter
silence; and Lucy, who was more reasonable than her sister, had even
given up those wistful beseeching looks at the patient, with which
Miss Wodehouse still regarded him, as if perhaps he might be thus
persuaded to speak. The nurse whom Dr Marjoribanks had sent to assist
them was visible through an open door, sleeping very comfortably in
the adjoining room. Mr Wentworth came into the silent chamber with all
his anxieties throbbing in his heart, bringing life at its very height
of agitation and tumult into the presence of death. He went forward to
the bed, and tried for an instant to call up any spark of intelligence
that might yet exist within the mind of the dying man; but Mr
Wodehouse was beyond the voice of any priest. The Curate said the
prayers for the dying at the bedside, suddenly filled with a great
pity for the man who was thus taking leave unawares of all this
mournful splendid world. Though the young man knew many an ordinary
sentiment about the vanity of life, and had given utterance to that
effect freely in the way of his duty, he was still too fresh in his
heart to conceive actually that any one could leave the world without
poignant regrets; and when his prayer was finished, he stood looking
at the patient with inexpressible compassion. Mr Wodehouse had scarcely
reached old age; he was well off, and only a week ago seemed to have so
much to enjoy; now, here he lay stupefied, on the edge of the grave,
unable to respond even by a look to the love that surrounded him. Once
more there rose in the heart of the young priest a natural impulse of
resentment and indignation; and when he thought of the cause of this
change, he remembered Wodehouse's threat, and roused himself from his
contemplation of the dying to think of the probable fate of those who
must live.
"Has he made his will?" said Mr Wentworth, suddenly. He forgot that it
was Lucy who was standing by him; and it was only when he caught a
glance of reproach and horror from her eyes that he recollected how
abrupt his question was. "Pardon me," he said; "you think me heartless
to speak of it at such a time; but tell me, if you know: Miss
Wodehouse, has he made his will?"
"Oh, Mr Wentworth, I don't know anything about business," said the
elder sister. "He said he would; but we have had other things to think
of--more important things," said poor Miss Wodehouse, wringing her
hands, and looking at Mr Wentworth with eyes full of warning and
meaning, beseeching him not to betray her secret. She came nearer to
the side of the bed on which Lucy and the Curate were standing, and
plucked at his sleeve in her anxiety. "We have had very different
things to think of. Oh, Mr Wentworth, what does it matter?" said the
poor lady, interposing her anxious looks, which suggested every kind
of misfortune, between the two.
"It matters everything in the world," said Mr Wentworth. "Pardon me if
I wound you--I must speak; if it is possible to rouse him, an effort
must be made. Send for Mr Waters. He must not be allowed to go out of
the world and leave your interests in the hands of--"
"Oh, hush, Mr Wentworth, hush!--oh, hush, hush! Don't say any more,"
cried Miss Wodehouse, grasping his arm in her terror.
Lucy rose from where she had been sitting at the bedside. She had
grown paler than before, and looked almost stern in her youthful
gravity. "I will not permit my father to be disturbed," she said. "I
don't know what you mean, or what you are talking of; but he is not to
be disturbed. Do you think I will let him be vexed in his last hours
about money or anybody's interest?" she said, turning upon the Curate
a momentary glance of scorn. Then she sat down again, with a pang of
disappointment added to her grief. She could not keep her heart so
much apart from him, as not to expect a little comfort from his
presence. And there had been comfort in his prayers and his looks; but
to hear him speak of wills and worldly affairs by her father's
deathbed, as any man might have done, went to Lucy's heart. She sat
down again, putting her hand softly upon the edge of the pillow, to
guard the peace of those last moments which were ebbing away so
rapidly. What if all the comfort of the world hung upon it? Could she
let her kind father be troubled in his end for anything so miserable?
Lucy turned her indignant eyes upon the others with silent resolution.
It was she who was _his_ protector now.
"But it must be done," said Mr Wentworth. "You will understand me
hereafter. Miss Wodehouse, you must send for Mr Waters, and in the
mean time I will do what I can to rouse him. It is no such cruelty as
you think," said the Curate, with humility; "it is not for money or
interest only--it concerns all the comfort of your life."
This he said to Lucy, who sat defending her father. She, for her part,
looked up at him with eyes that broke his heart. At that moment of all
others, the unfortunate Curate perceived, by a sudden flash of
insight, that nothing less than love could look at him with such
force of disappointment and reproach and wounded feeling. He replied
to the look by a gesture of mingled entreaty and despair.
"What can I do?" he cried--"you have no one else to care for you. I
cannot even explain to you all that is at stake. I must act as I
ought, even though you hate me for it. Let us send for Mr Waters;--if
there is a will--"
Mr Wentworth had raised his voice a little in the excitement of the
moment, and the word caught the dull ear of the dying man. The Curate
saw instantly that there was comprehension in the flicker of the
eyelash and the tremulous movement of the hand upon the bed. It was a
new and unaccustomed part which he had now to play; he went hurriedly
to the other side and leaned over the pillow to make out the
stammering words which began to be audible. Lucy had risen up also and
stood looking at her father still with her look of defence. As the
feeble lips babbled forth unintelligible words, Lucy's face grew
sterner and sterner. As for Miss Wodehouse, she stood behind, crying
and trembling. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, do you think it is returning
life--do you think he is better?" she cried, looking wistfully at the
Curate; and between the two young people, who were leaning with looks
and feelings so different over his bed, the patient lay struggling
with those terrible bonds of weakness, labouring to find expression
for something which wrought him into a fever of excitement. While Mr
Wentworth bent his ear closer and closer, trying to make some sense of
the inarticulate torrent of sound, Lucy, inspired by grief and horror
and indignation, leaned over her father on the other side, doing
everything possible to calm him. "Oh, papa, don't say any more--don't
say any more; we understand you," she cried, and put her soft hands
upon his flushed forehead, and her cheek to his. "No more, no more!"
cried the girl in the dulled ear which could not hear. "We will do
everything you wish--we understand all," said Lucy. Mr Wentworth
withdrew vanquished in that strange struggle--he stood looking on
while she caressed and calmed and subdued into silence the dying
passion which he would have given anything in the world to stimulate
into clearer utterance. She had baffled his efforts, made him helpless
to serve her, perhaps injured herself cruelly; but all the more the
Curate loved her for it, as she expanded over her dying father, with
the white sleeves hanging loose about her arms like the white wings of
an angel, as he thought. Gradually the agony of utterance got subdued,
and then Lucy resumed her position by the bed. "He shall not be
disturbed," she said again, through lips that were parched with
emotion; and so sat watchful over him, a guardian immovable, ready to
defy all the world in defence of his peace.
Mr Wentworth turned away with his heart full. He would have liked to
go and kiss her hand or her sleeve or anything belonging to her; and
yet he was impatient beyond expression, and felt that she had baffled
and vanquished him. Miss Wodehouse stood behind, still looking on with
a half perception of what had happened; but the mind of the elder
sister was occupied with vain hopes and fears, such as inexperienced
people are subject to in the presence of death.
"He heard what you said," said Miss Wodehouse; "don't you think that
was a good sign? Oh, Mr Wentworth, sometimes I think he looks a little
better," said the poor lady, looking wistfully into the Curate's face.
Mr Wentworth could only shake his head as he hurried away.
"I must go and consult Mr Waters," he said, as he passed her. "I shall
come back presently;" and then Miss Wodehouse followed him to the door,
to beg him not to speak to Mr Waters of _anything particular_--"For papa
has no confidence in him," she said, anxiously. The Curate was nearly
driven to his wits' end as he hastened out. He forgot the clouds that
surrounded him in his anxiety about this sad household; for it seemed
but too evident that Mr Wodehouse had made no special provision for his
daughters; and to think of Lucy under the power of her unknown brother,
made Mr Wentworth's blood boil.
The shutters were all put up that afternoon in the prettiest house in
Grange Lane. The event took Carlingford altogether by surprise; but
other events just then were moving the town into the wildest
excitement; for nothing could be heard, far or near, of poor little
Rosa Elsworthy, and everybody was aware that the last time she was
seen in Carlingford she was standing by herself in the dark, at Mr
Wentworth's garden-door.