Mr Wentworth went upon his way, after he had parted from Mrs Morgan,
with a moment's gratitude; but he had not gone half-a-dozen steps
before that amiable sentiment yielded to a sense of soreness and
vexation. He had almost acknowledged that he was conscious of the
slander against which he had made up his mind to present a blank front
of unconsciousness and passive resistance, and he was angry with
himself for his susceptibility to this unexpected voice of kindness.
He was going home, but he did not care for going home. Poor Mrs
Hadwin's anxious looks of suspicion had added to the distaste with
which he thought of encountering again the sullen shabby rascal to
whom he had given shelter. It was Saturday night, and he had still his
sermon to prepare for the next day; but the young man was in a state
of disgust with all the circumstances of his lot, and could not make
up his mind to go in and address himself to his work as he ought to
have done. Such a sense of injustice and cruelty as possessed him was
not likely to promote composition, especially as the pulpit addresses
of the Curate of St Roque's were not of a declamatory kind. To think
that so many years' work could be neutralised in a day by a sudden
breath of scandal, made him not humble or patient, but fierce and
resentful. He had been in Wharfside that afternoon, and felt convinced
that even the dying woman at No. 10 Prickett's Lane had heard of Rosa
Elsworthy; and he saw, or imagined he saw, many a distrustful
inquiring glance thrown at him by people to whom he had been a kind
of secondary Providence. Naturally the mere thought of the failing
allegiance of the "district" went to Mr Wentworth's heart. When he
turned round suddenly from listening to a long account of one poor
family's distresses, and saw Tom Burrows, the gigantic bargeman, whose
six children the Curate had baptised in a lump, and whose baby had
been held at the font by Lucy Wodehouse herself, looking at him
wistfully with rude affection, and something that looked very much
like pity, it is impossible to describe the bitterness that welled up
in the mind of the Perpetual Curate. Instead of leaving Wharfside
comforted as he usually did, he came away wounded and angry, feeling
to its full extent the fickleness of popular sympathy. And when he
came into Grange Lane and saw the shutters closed, and Mr Wodehouse's
green door shut fast, as if never more to open, all sources of
consolation seemed to be shut against him. Even the habit he had of
going into Elsworthy's to get his newspaper, and to hear what talk
might be current in Carlingford, contributed to the sense of utter
discomfort and wretchedness which overwhelmed him. Men in other
positions have generally to consult the opinion of their equals only;
but all sorts of small people can plant thorns in the path of a priest
who has given himself with fervour to the duties of his office. True
enough, such clouds blow by, and sometimes leave behind a sky clearer
than before; but that result is doubtful, and Mr Wentworth was not of
the temper to comfort himself with philosophy. He felt ingratitude
keenly, as men do at eight-and-twenty, even when they have made up
their minds that gratitude is a delusion; and still more keenly, with
deep resentment and indignation, he felt the horrible doubt which had
diffused itself around him, and seemed to be looking at him out of
everybody's eyes. In such a state of mind one bethinks one's self of
one's relations--those friends not always congenial, but whom one
looks to instinctively, when one is young, in the crisis of life. He
knocked at his aunts' door almost without knowing it, as he went down
Grange Lane, after leaving Mrs Morgan, with vague sentences of his
sermon floating in his mind through all the imbroglio of other
thoughts. Even aunt Dora's foolish affection might have been a little
comfort at the moment, and he could not but be a little curious to
know whether they had heard Elsworthy's story, and what the
patronesses of Skelmersdale thought of the matter. Somehow, just then,
in the midst of his distresses, a vision of Skelmersdale burst upon
the Perpetual Curate like a glimpse of a better world. If he could but
escape there out of all this sickening misconception and ingratitude--if
he could but take Lucy into his protecting arms, and carry her away far
from the clouds that were gathering over her path as well as his own.
The thought found vent in an impatient long-drawn sigh, and was then
expelled contemptuously from the young man's bosom. If a hundred
Skelmersdales were in his power, here, where his honour had been
attacked, it was necessary to remain, in the face of all obstacles, till
it was cleared.
The Miss Wentworths had just come up to the drawing-room after dinner
when their nephew entered. As for Miss Dora, she had seated herself by
the window, which was open, and, with her light little curls
fluttering upon her cheek, was watching a tiny puff of smoke by the
side of the great laurel, which indicated the spot occupied at this
moment by Jack and his cigar. "Dear fellow, he does enjoy the quiet,"
she said, with a suppressed little sniff of emotion. "To think we
should be in such a misery about poor dear Frank, and have Jack, about
whom we have all been so unbelieving, sent to us for a consolation. My
poor brother will be so happy," said Miss Dora, almost crying at the
thought. She was under the influence of this sentiment when the Curate
entered. It was perhaps impossible for Mr Wentworth to present himself
before his three aunts at the present crisis without a certain
consciousness in his looks; and it was well that it was twilight, and
he could not read distinctly all that was written in their
countenances. Miss Cecilia held out her lovely old hand to him first
of all. She said, "How do you do, Frank?" which was not very original,
but yet counted for a good deal in the silence. When he came up to
her, she offered him her sweet old cheek with a look of pity which
touched, and yet affronted, the Perpetual Curate. He thought it was
the wisest way to accept the challenge at once.
"It is very good of you, but you need not be sorry for me," he said, as
he sat down by her. And then there was a little pause--an awful pause;
for Miss Wentworth had no further observations to offer, and Miss Dora,
who had risen up hastily, dropped into her chair again in a disconsolate
condition, when she saw that her nephew did not take any notice of her.
The poor little woman sat down with miserable sensations, and did not
find the comfort she hoped for in contemplation of the smoke of Jack's
cigar. After all, it was Frank who was the original owner of Miss Dora's
affections. When she saw him, as she thought, in a state of guilt and
trouble, received with grim silence by the dreaded Leonora, the poor
lady began to waver greatly, divided between a longing to return to her
old allegiance, and a certain pride in the new bonds which bound her to
so great a sinner as Jack. She could not help feeling the distinction of
having such a reprobate in her hands. But the sight of Frank brought
back old habits, and Miss Dora felt at her wits' end, and could not tell
what to do.
At length Miss Leonora's voice, which was decided contralto, broke the
silence. "I am very glad to see you, Frank," said the strong-minded
aunt. "From something we heard, I supposed you had gone away for a
time, and we were rather anxious about your movements. There are so
many things going on in the family just now, that one does not know
what to think. I am glad to see you are still in Carlingford."
"I never had the least intention of going away," said Mr Wentworth.
"I can't imagine who could tell you so."
"Nobody told us," said Miss Leonora; "we drew that conclusion from
other things we heard. Dora, give Frank the newspaper with that
paragraph about Gerald. I have prophesied from the very first which
way Gerald was tending. It is very shocking of him, and I don't know
what they are to do, for Louisa is an expensive little fool; and if he
leaves the Rectory, they can't have enough to live on. If you knew
what your brother was going to do, why didn't you advise him
otherwise? Besides, he will be wretched," said the discriminating
woman. "I never approved of his ways, but I could not say anything
against his sincerity. I believe his heart was in his work; a man may
be very zealous, and yet very erroneous," said Miss Leonora, like an
oracle, out of the shadows.
"I don't know if he is erroneous or not--but I know I should like to
punch this man's head," said the Curate, who had taken the paper to
the window, where there was just light enough to make out the
paragraph. He stood looming over Miss Dora, a great black shadow
against the fading light. "All the mischief in the world comes of
these villanous papers," said Mr Wentworth. "Though I did not think
anybody nowadays believed in the 'Chronicle.' Gerald has not gone over
to Rome, and I don't think he means to go. I daresay you have agitated
yourselves unnecessarily about more than one supposed event in the
family," he continued, throwing the paper on the table. "I don't know
anything very alarming that has happened as yet, except, perhaps, the
prodigal's return," said the Perpetual Curate, with a slight touch of
bitterness. His eye had just lighted on Jack sauntering through the
garden with his cigar; and Mr Wentworth was human, and could not
entirely refrain from the expression of his sentiments.
"But oh, Frank, my dear, you are not angry about poor Jack?" said Miss
Dora. "He has not known what it was to be at home for years and years.
A stepmother is so different from an own mother, and he never has had
any opportunities; and oh, Frank, don't you remember that there is
joy in heaven?" cried the anxious aunt--"not to say that he is the
eldest son. And it is such a thing for the family to see him changing
his ways in such a beautiful spirit!" said Miss Dora. The room was
almost dark by this time, and she did not see that her penitent had
entered while she spoke.
"It is very consoling to gain your approval, aunt Dora," said Jack. "My
brother Frank doesn't know me. If the Squire _will_ make a nursery of
his house, what can a man do? But a fellow can't be quite ruined as long
as he has--" aunts, the reprobate was about to say, with an inflection
of laughter intended for Frank's ear only in his voice; but he
fortunately remembered in time that Miss Leonora had an acute
intelligence, and was not to be trifled with--"As long as he has female
relations," said Jack, in his most feeling tone. "Men never sympathise
with men." He seemed to be apologising for Frank's indifference, as well
as for his own sins. He had just had a very good dinner--for the Miss
Wentworths' cook was the best in Carlingford--and Jack, whose digestion
was perfect, was disposed to please everybody, and had, in particular,
no disposition to quarrel with Frank.
"Oh, my dear, you see how humble and forgiving he is," said Miss Dora,
rising on tiptoe to whisper into the Curate's ear; "and always takes
your part whenever you are mentioned," said the injudicious aunt.
Meantime the other sisters were very silent, sitting each in the midst
of her own group of shadows. Then Miss Leonora rose with a sudden
rustling of all her draperies, and with her own energetic hand rang
the bell.
"Now the lamp is coming," said Jack, in a tone of despair, "a bright,
blank, pitiless globe like the world; and instead of this delicious
darkness, where one can see nothing distinctly, my heart will be torn
asunder for the rest of the evening by the sight of suicide. Why do we
ever have lights?" said the exquisite, laying himself down softly on
a sofa. When the lamp was brought in, Jack became visible stretched
out in an attitude of perfect repose and tranquillity, with a quiet
conscience written in every fold of his scrupulous apparel. As for
Frank, on the contrary, he was still in morning dress, and was biting
his nails, and had a cloud upon his brow which the sudden light
disclosed like a traitor before he was prepared for it. Between the
two brothers such a contrast was visible that it was not surprising if
Miss Dora, still wavering in her allegiance, went back with relief to
the calm countenance of her penitent, and owned to herself with
trembling that the Curate looked preoccupied and guilty. Perhaps Miss
Leonora came to a similar conclusion. She seated herself at her
writing-table with her usual air of business, and made a pen to a hard
point by the light of the candles, which were sacred to her particular
use.
"I heard some news this morning which pleased me very much," said Miss
Leonora. "I daresay you remember Julia Trench? You two used to be a
great deal together at one time. She is going to be married to Mr
Shirley's excellent curate, who is a young man of the highest
character. He did very well at the university, I believe," said the
patroness of Skelmersdale; "but I confess I don't care much for
academical honours. He is an excellent clergyman, which is a great
deal more to the purpose, and I thoroughly agree with his views. So,
knowing the interest we take in Julia, you may think how pleased we
were," said Miss Leonora, looking full into her nephew's face. He knew
what she meant as distinctly as if she had put it in words.
"When is old Shirley going to die?" said Jack from the sofa. "It's
rather hard upon Frank, keeping him out of the living so long; and if
I were you, I'd be jealous of this model curate," said the fine
gentleman, with a slight civil yawn. "I don't approve of model curates
upon family livings. People are apt to make comparisons," said Jack,
and then he raised his head with a little energy--"Ah, there it is,"
said the Sybarite, "the first moth. Don't be precipitate, my dear
fellow. Aunt Dora, pray sit quietly where you are, and don't disturb
our operations. It is only a moth, to be sure; but don't let us cut
short the moments of a creature that has no hereafter," said Jack,
solemnly. He disturbed them all by this eccentric manifestation of
benevolence, and flapped his handkerchief round Miss Dora, upon whose
white cap the unlucky moth, frightened by its benefactor's vehemence,
was fluttering wildly. Jack even forgot himself so far as to swear
softly in French at the frightened insect as it flew wildly off at a
tangent, not to the open window, but to Miss Leonora's candles, where
it came to an immediate end. Miss Leonora sat rather grimly looking on
at all this byplay. When her elegant nephew threw himself back once
more upon his sofa, she glanced from him to his brother with a
comparison which perhaps was not so much to the disadvantage of the
Perpetual Curate. But even Miss Leonora, though so sensible, had her
weaknesses; and she was very evangelical, and could put up with a
great deal from the sinner who had placed himself for conversion in
her hands.
"We have too great a sense of our responsibility to treat Skelmersdale
simply as a family living," she said. "Besides, Frank of course is to
have Wentworth Rectory. Gerald's perversion is a great blow; but
still, if it _is_ to be, Frank will be provided for at least. As for
our parish--"
"I beg your pardon," said the Curate; "I have not the least intention
of leaving Carlingford. At the present moment neither Skelmersdale nor
Wentworth would tempt me. I am in no doubt as to where my work lies,
and there is enough of it to satisfy any man." He could not help
thinking, as he spoke, of ungrateful Wharfside, for which he had done
so much, and the recollection brought a little flush of indignant
colour to his cheek.
"Oh, Frank, my dear," said Miss Dora in a whisper, stealing up to him,
"if it is not true, you must not mind. Oh, my dear boy, nobody will
mind it if it is not true." She put her hand timidly upon his arm as
she reached up to his ear, and at the same time the poor little woman,
who was trying all she could to serve two masters, kept one eye upon
Jack, lest her momentary return to his brother might have a disastrous
effect upon the moral reformation which she was nursing with so much
care. As for the Curate, he gave her a hasty glance, which very nearly
made an end of Miss Dora. She retired to her seat with no more courage
to say anything, unable to make out whether it was virtuous reproach
or angry guilt which looked at her so sternly. She felt her headache
coming on as she sank again upon her chair. If she could but have
stolen away to her own room, and had a good comforting cry in the
dark, it might have kept off the headache; but then she had to be
faithful to her post, and to look after the reformation of Jack.
"I have no doubt that a great work might be done in Carlingford," said
Miss Leonora, "if you would take my advice and organise matters
properly, and make due provision for the lay element. As for Sisters
of Mercy, I never had any belief in them. They only get young
clergymen into mischief," said the strong-minded aunt. "We are going
to have tea, Frank, if you will have some. Poor Mr Shirley has got
matters into very bad order at Skelmersdale, but things will be
different under the new incumbent, I hope," said Miss Leonora,
shooting a side-glance of keen inspection at the Curate, who bore it
steadily.
"I hope he will conduct himself to your satisfaction," said Mr
Wentworth, with a bland but somewhat grim aspect, from the window;
"but I can't wait for tea. I have still got some of my work to do for
to-morrow; so good-night."
"I'll walk with you, Frank," said his elder brother. "My dear aunts,
don't look alarmed; nothing can happen to me. There are few
temptations in Grange Lane; and, besides, I shall come back directly.
_I_ cannot do without my tea," said Jack, by way of consoling poor
Miss Dora, who had started with consternation at the proposal. And
the two brothers went out into the fresh evening air together, their
aunt Dora watching them from the window with inexpressible anxiety;
for perhaps it was not quite right for a clergyman to saunter out of
doors in the evening with such a doubtful member of society as Jack;
and perhaps Frank, having himself fallen into evil ways, might hinder
or throw obstacles in the way of his brother's re-establishment in the
practice of all the virtues. Miss Dora, who had to carry them both
upon her shoulders, and who got no sympathy in the present case from
her hard-hearted sisters, was fain at last to throw a shawl over her
head and steal out to that summer-house which was built into the
garden-wall, and commanded Grange Lane from its little window. There
she established herself in the darkness, an affectionate spy. There
ought to have been a moon that night, and accordingly the lamps were
not lighted at that end of Grange Lane, for the authorities in
Carlingford bore a frugal mind. But the sky had become cloudy, and the
moon shone only at intervals, which gave a certain character of
mystery and secrecy to the night. Through this uncertain light the
anxious woman saw her two nephews coming and going under the window,
apparently in the most eager conversation. Miss Dora's anxiety grew to
such a height that she opened softly a chink of the window in hopes of
being able to hear as well as to see, but that attempt was altogether
unsuccessful. Then, when they had walked about for half an hour, which
looked like two hours to Miss Dora, who was rapidly taking one of her
bad colds at the half-open window, they were joined by another figure
which she did not think she had ever seen before. The excitement was
growing tremendous, and the aspect of the three conspirators more and
more alarming, when the poor lady started with a little scream at a
noise behind her, and turning round, saw her maid, severe as a
pursuing Fate, standing at the door. "After giving me your word as you
wouldn't come no more?" said the reproachful despot who swayed Miss
Dora's soul. After that she had to make the best of her way indoors,
thankful not to be carried to her room and put into hot water, which
was the original intention of Collins. But it would be impossible to
describe the emotions of Miss Dora's mind after this glimpse into the
heart of the volcano on which her innocent feet were standing. Unless
it were murder or high treason, what could they have to plot about? or
was the mysterious stranger a disguised Jesuit, and the whole business
some terrible Papist conspiracy? Jack, who had been so much abroad,
and Gerald, who was going over to Rome, and Frank, who was in trouble
of every description, got entangled together in Miss Dora's disturbed
imagination. No reality could be so frightful as the fancies with
which she distracted herself after that peep from the summer-house;
and it would be impossible to describe the indignation of Collins, who
knew that her mistress would kill herself some day, and was aware that
she, in her own person, would get little rest that night.