It was the afternoon of the same day on which Mr Proctor arrived in
Carlingford that Mr Wentworth received the little note from Miss
Wodehouse which was so great a consolation to the Perpetual Curate. By
that time he had begun to experience humiliations more hard to bear than
anything he had yet known. He had received constrained greetings from
several of his most cordial friends; his people in the district, all but
Tom Burrows, looked askance upon him; and Dr Marjoribanks, who had never
taken kindly to the young Anglican, had met him with satirical remarks
in his dry Scotch fashion, which were intolerable to the Curate. In
these circumstances, it was balm to his soul to have his sympathy once
more appealed to, and by those who were nearest to his heart. The next
day was that appointed for Mr Wodehouse's funeral, to which Mr Wentworth
had been looking forward with a little excitement--wondering, with
indignant misery, whether the covert insults he was getting used to
would be repeated even over his old friend's grave. It was while this
was in his mind that he received Miss Wodehouse's little note. It was
very hurriedly written, on the terrible black-edged paper which, to such
a simple soul as Miss Wodehouse, it was a kind of comfort to use in the
moment of calamity. "Dear Mr Wentworth," it said, "I am in great
difficulty, and don't know what to do: come, I beg of you, and tell me
what is best. My dear Lucy insists upon going to-morrow, and I can't
cross her when her heart is breaking, and I don't know what to do.
Please to come, if it were only for a moment. Dear, dear papa, and all
of us, have always had such confidence in you!" Mr Wentworth was seated,
very disconsolate, in his study when this appeal came to him: he was
rather sick of the world and most things in it; a sense of wrong
eclipsed the sunshine for the moment, and obscured the skies; but it was
comforting to be appealed to--to have his assistance and his protection
sought once more. He took his hat immediately and went up the sunny
road, on which there was scarcely a passenger visible, to the closed-up
house, which stood so gloomy and irresponsive in the sunshine. Mr
Wodehouse had not been a man likely to attract any profound love in his
lifetime, or sense of loss when he was gone; but yet it was possible to
think, with the kindly, half-conscious delusion of nature, that had _he_
been living, he would have known better; and the Curate went into the
darkened drawing-room, where all the shutters were closed, except those
of the little window in the corner, where Lucy's work-table stood, and
where a little muffled sunshine stole in through the blind. Everything
was in terribly good order in the room. The two sisters had been living
in their own apartments, taking their forlorn meals in the little
parlour which communicated with their sleeping chambers, during this
week of darkness; and nobody had come into the drawing-room except the
stealthy housemaid, who contemplated herself and her new mourning for an
hour at a stretch in the great mirror without any interruption, while
she made "tidy" the furniture which nobody now disturbed. Into this
sombre apartment Miss Wodehouse came gliding, like a gentle ghost, in
her black gown. She too, like John and the housemaid and everybody
about, walked and talked under her breath. There was now no man in the
house entitled to disturb those proprieties with which a female
household naturally hedges round all the great incidents of life; and
the affairs of the family were all carried on in a whisper, in
accordance with the solemnity of the occasion--a circumstance which had
naturally called the ghost of a smile to the Curate's countenance as he
followed John up-stairs. Miss Wodehouse herself, though she was pale,
and spent half her time, poor soul! in weeping, and had, besides, living
encumbrances to trouble her helpless path, did not look amiss in her
black gown. She came in gliding without any noise, but with a little
expectation in her gentle countenance. She was one of the people whom
experience never makes any wiser; and she could not help hoping to be
delivered from her troubles this time, as so often before, as soon as
she should have transferred them to somebody else's shoulders, and taken
"advice."
"Lucy has made up her mind that we are to go to-morrow," said Miss
Wodehouse, drying her tears. "It was not the custom in my young days,
Mr Wentworth, and I am sure I don't know what to say; but I can't bear
to cross her, now that she has nobody but me. She was always the best
child in the world," said the poor lady--"far more comfort to poor
dear papa than I ever could be; but to hear her talk you would think
that she had never done anything. And oh, Mr Wentworth, if that was
all I should not mind; but we have always kept things a secret from
her; and now I have had a letter, and I don't know what it is possible
to do."
"A letter from your brother?" asked Mr Wentworth, eagerly.
"From Tom," said the elder sister; "poor, poor Tom! I am sure papa
forgave him at the last, though he did not say anything. Oh, Mr
Wentworth, he was such a nice boy once; and if Lucy only knew, and I
could summon up the courage to tell her, and he would change his ways,
as he promised--don't think me fickle or changeable, or look as if I
didn't know my own mind," cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with a fresh flow
of tears; "but oh, Mr Wentworth, if he only would change his ways, as
he promised, think what a comfort it would be to us to have him at
home!"
"Yes," said the Curate, with a little bitterness. Here was another
instance of the impunities of wickedness. "I think it very likely
indeed that you will have him at home," said Mr Wentworth--"almost
certain; the wonder is that he went away. Will you tell me where he
dates his letter from? I have a curiosity to know."
"You are angry," said the anxious sister. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, I know he
does not deserve anything else, but you have always been so kind. I
put his letter in my pocket to show you--at least, I am sure I
intended to put it in my pocket. We have scarcely been in this room
since--since--" and here Miss Wodehouse broke down, and had to take a
little time to recover. "I will go and get the letter," she said, as
at last she regained her voice, and hurried away through the partial
darkness with her noiseless step, and the long black garments which
swept noiselessly over the carpet. Mr Wentworth for his part went to
the one window which was only veiled by a blind, and comforted himself
a little in the sunshine. The death atmosphere weighed upon the young
man and took away his courage. If he was only wanted to pave the way
for the reception of the rascally brother for whose sins he felt
convinced he was himself suffering, the consolation of being appealed
to would be sensibly lessened, and it was hard to have no other way of
clearing himself than by criminating Lucy's brother, and bringing
dishonour upon her name. While he waited for Miss Wodehouse's return,
he stood by Lucy's table, with very little of the feeling which had
once prompted him to fold his arms so caressingly with an impulse of
tenderness upon the chair which stood beside it. He was so much
absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear at first the sound
of a hesitating hand upon the door, which at length, when repeated,
went to the Curate's heart. He turned round rapidly, and saw Lucy
standing on the threshold in her profound mourning. She was very pale,
and her blue eyes looked large and full beyond their natural
appearance, dilated with tears and watching; and when they met those
of Mr Wentworth, they filled full like flower-cups with dew; but
besides this Lucy made no demonstration of her grief. After that
momentary hesitation at the door, she came in and gave the Curate her
hand. Perhaps it was a kind of defiance, perhaps a natural yearning,
which drew her out of her chamber when she heard of his presence; both
sentiments sprang out of the same feeling; and the Curate, when he
looked at her, bethought himself of the only moment when he had been
able to imagine that Lucy loved him; that moment by her father's
bedside, of which the impression had been dulled since then by a crowd
of events, when she looked with such reproach and disappointment and
indignation into his face.
"I heard you were here," said Lucy, "and I thought you might think it
strange not to see us both." And then she paused, perhaps finding it
less easy than she thought to explain why she had come. "We ought to
thank you, Mr Wentworth, for your kindness, though I--"
"You were angry with me," said the Curate. "I know you thought me
heartless; but a man must bear to be misconceived when he has duty to
do," the young clergyman added, with a swelling heart. Lucy did not
know the fuller significance of his words; and there was a loftiness
in them which partly affronted her, and set all her sensitive
woman-pride in arms against him.
"I beg your pardon," she said, faltering, and then the two stood
beside each other in silence, with a sense of estrangement. As for
Lucy, all the story about Rosa Elsworthy, of which she had not yet
heard the last chapter, rushed back upon her mind. Was it to see
little Rosa's lover that she had come out of the darkness of her room,
with a natural longing for sympathy which it was impossible to
restrain? The tenderness of the instinctive feeling which had moved
her, went back upon her heart in bitterness. That he must have divined
why she had come, and scorned her for it, was the mildest supposition
in Lucy's mind. She could almost have imagined that he had come on
purpose to elicit this vain exhibition of regard, and triumph over it;
all this, too, when she was in such great trouble and sorrow, and
wanted a little compassion, a little kindness, so much. This was the
state of mind to which Lucy had come, in five minutes after she
entered the room, when Miss Wodehouse came back with the letter. The
elder sister was almost as much astonished at Lucy's presence as if
she had been the dead inhabitant who kept such state in the darkened
house. She was so startled that she went back a step or two when she
perceived her, and hastily put the letter in her pocket, and exclaimed
her sister's name in a tone most unlike Miss Wodehouse's natural
voice.
"I came down-stairs because--I mean they told me Mr Wentworth was
here," said Lucy, who had never felt so weak and so miserable in her
life, "and I wanted to thank him for all his kindness." It was here
for the first time that Lucy broke down. Her sorrow was so great, her
longing for a word of kindness had been so natural, and her shame and
self-condemnation at the very thought that she was able to think of
anything but her father, were so bitter, that the poor girl's forces,
weakened by watching, were not able to withstand them. She sank into
the chair that stood nearest, and covered her face with her hands, and
cried as people cry only at twenty. And as for Mr Wentworth, he had no
right to take her in his arms and comfort her, nor to throw himself at
her feet and entreat her to take courage. All he could do was to stand
half a yard, yet a whole world, apart looking at her, his heart
beating with all the remorseful half-angry tenderness of love. Since
it was not his to console her, he was almost impatient of her tears.
"Dear, I have been telling Mr Wentworth about to-morrow," said Miss
Wodehouse, weeping too, as was natural, "and he thinks--he thinks--oh,
my darling! and so do I--that it will be too much for you. When I was
young it never was the custom; and oh, Lucy, remember that ladies are
not to be expected to have such command over their feelings," said poor
Miss Wodehouse, dropping on her knees by Lucy's chair. Mr Wentworth
stood looking on in a kind of despair. He had nothing to say, and no
right to say anything; even his presence was a kind of intrusion. But to
be referred to thus as an authority against Lucy's wishes, vexed him in
the most unreasonable way.
"Mr Wentworth does not know me," said Lucy, under her breath, wiping
away her tears with a trembling, indignant hand. "If we had had a
brother, it might have been different; but there must be somebody there
that loves him," said the poor girl, with a sob, getting up hastily from
her chair. She could not bear to stay any longer in the room, which she
had entered with a vague sense of possible consolation. As for the
Curate, he made haste to open the door for her, feeling the restraint of
his position almost intolerable. "_I_ shall be there," he said, stopping
at the door to look into the fair, pallid face which Lucy would scarcely
raise to listen. "Could you not trust _me_?" It looked like giving him a
pledge of something sacred and precious to put her hand into his, which
was held out for it so eagerly. But Lucy could not resist the softening
of nature; and not even Miss Wodehouse, looking anxiously after them,
heard what further words they were that Mr Wentworth said in her ear. "I
am for your service, however and wherever you want me," said the Curate,
with a young man's absolutism. Heaven knows he had enough to do with his
own troubles; but he remembered no obstacle which could prevent him from
dedicating all his time and life to her as he spoke. When Lucy reached
her own room, she threw herself upon the sofa, and wept like a woman
inconsolable; but it was somehow because this consolation, subtle and
secret, had stolen into her heart that her tears flowed so freely. And
Mr Wentworth returned to her sister relieved, he could not have told
why. At all events, come what might, the two had drawn together again in
their mutual need.
"Oh, Mr Wentworth, how can I cross her?" said Miss Wodehouse, wringing
her hands. "If we had a brother--did you hear what she said? Here is
his letter, and I hope you will tell me candidly what you think. If we
could trust him--if we could but trust him! I daresay you think me
very changeable and foolish; but now we are alone," said the poor
lady, "think what a comfort it would be if he only would change his
ways as he promised! Lucy is a great deal more use than I am, and
understands things; but still we are only two women," said the elder
sister. "If you think we could put any dependence upon him, Mr
Wentworth, I would never hesitate. He might live with us, and have his
little allowance." Miss Wodehouse paused, and raised her anxious face
to the Curate, pondering the particulars of the liberality she
intended. "He is not a boy," she went on. "I daresay now he must feel
the want of the little comforts he once was used to; and though he is
not like what he used to be, neither in his looks nor his manners,
people would be kind to him for our sakes. Oh, Mr Wentworth, don't you
think we might trust him?" said the anxious woman, looking in the
Curate's face.
All this time Mr Wentworth, with an impatience of her simplicity which
it was difficult to restrain, was reading the letter, in which he
perceived a very different intention from any divined by Miss Wodehouse.
The billet was disreputable enough, written in pencil, and without any
date.
"MARY,--I mean to come to my father's funeral," wrote Mr Wodehouse's
disowned son. "Things are changed now, as I said they would be. I and
a friend of mine have set everything straight with Waters, and I mean
to come in my own name, and take the place I have a right to. How it
is to be after this depends on how you behave; but things are changed
between you and me, as I told you they would be; and I expect you
won't do anything to make 'em worse by doing or saying what's
unpleasant. I add no more, because I hope you'll have sense to see
what I mean, and to act accordingly.--Your brother,
"THOMAS WODEHOUSE."
"You see he thinks I will reproach him," said Miss Wodehouse,
anxiously; perhaps it had just glanced across her own mind that
something more important still might have dictated language so
decided. "He has a great deal more feeling than you would suppose,
poor fellow! It is very touching in him to say, 'the place he has a
right to'--don't you think so, Mr Wentworth? Poor Tom! if we could but
trust him, and he would change his ways as he promised! Oh, Mr
Wentworth, don't you think I might speak of it to him to-morrow? If we
could--bury--everything--in dear papa's grave," cried the poor lady,
once more breaking down. Mr Wentworth took no notice of Miss
Wodehouse's tears. They moved him with sentiments entirely different
from those with which he regarded Lucy's. He read the note over again
without any attempt to console her, till she had struggled back into
composure; but even then there was nothing sympathetic in the Curate's
voice.
"And I think you told me you did not know anything about the will?" he
said, with some abruptness, making no account whatever of the
suggestion she had made.
"No," said Miss Wodehouse; "but my dear father was a business man, Mr
Wentworth, and I feel quite sure--quite--"
"Yes," said the Perpetual Curate; "nor of the nature of his property,
perhaps?" added the worldly-minded young man whom poor Miss Wodehouse
had chosen for her adviser. It was more than the gentle woman could
bear.
"Oh, Mr Wentworth, you know I am not one to understand," cried the
poor lady. "You ask me questions, but you never tell me what you think
I should do. If it were only for myself, I would not mind, but I have
to act for Lucy," said the elder sister, suddenly sitting upright and
drying her tears. "Papa, I am sure, did what was best for us," she
said, with a little gentle dignity, which brought the Curate back to
his senses; "but oh, Mr Wentworth, look at the letter, and tell me,
for my sister's sake, what am I to do?"
The Curate went to the window, from which the sunshine was stealing
away, to consider the subject; but he did not seem to derive much
additional wisdom from that sacred spot, where Lucy's work-table stood
idle. "We must wait and see," he said to himself. When he came back to
Miss Wodehouse, and saw the question still in her eyes, it only
brought back his impatience. "My dear Miss Wodehouse, instead of
speculating about what is to happen, it would be much better to
prepare your sister for the discovery she must make to-morrow," said
Mr Wentworth; "I cannot give any other advice, for my part. I think it
is a great pity that you have kept it concealed so long. I beg your
pardon for speaking so abruptly, but I am afraid you don't know all
the trouble that is before you. We are all in a great deal of
trouble," said the Perpetual Curate, with a little unconscious
solemnity. "I can't say I see my way through it; but you ought to
prepare her--to see--her brother." He said the words with a degree of
repugnance which he could not conceal, and which wounded his
companion's tender heart.
"He was so different when he was young," said Miss Wodehouse, with a
suppressed sob--"he was a favourite everywhere. You would not have
looked so if you had known him then. Oh, Mr Wentworth, promise me that
you will not turn your back upon him if he comes home, after all your
kindness. I will tell Lucy how much you have done for him," said Miss
Wodehouse. She was only half-conscious of her own gentle artifice. She
took the Curate's hand in both her own before he left her, and said it
was such a comfort to have his advice to rely upon; and she believed
what she said, though Mr Wentworth himself knew better. The poor lady
sat down in Lucy's chair, and had a cry at her ease after he went
away. She was to tell Lucy--but how? and she sat pondering this hard
question till all the light had faded out of the room, and the little
window which was not shuttered dispersed only a grey twilight through
the empty place. The lamp, meantime, had been lighted in the little
parlour where Lucy sat, very sad, in her black dress, with 'In
Memoriam' on the table by her, carrying on a similar strain in her
heart. She was thinking of the past, so many broken scenes of which
kept flashing up before her, all bright with indulgent love and
tenderness--and she was thinking of the next day, when she was to see
all that remained of her good father laid in his grave. He was not
very wise nor remarkable among men, but he had been the tenderest
father to the child of his old age; and in her heart she was praying
for him still, pausing now and then to think whether it was right. The
tears were heavy in her young eyes, but they were natural tears, and
Lucy had no more thought that there was in the world anything sadder
than sorrow, or that any complications lay in her individual lot, than
the merest child in Prickett's Lane. She thought of going back to the
district, all robed and invested in the sanctity of her grief--she
thought it was to last for ever, as one has the privilege of thinking
when one is young; and it was to this young saint, tender towards all
the world, ready to pity everybody, and to save a whole race, if that
had been possible, that Miss Wodehouse went in, heavy and burdened,
with her tale of miserable vice, unkindness, estrangement. How was it
possible to begin? Instead of beginning, poor Miss Wodehouse,
overpowered by her anxieties and responsibilities, was taken ill and
fainted, and had to be carried to bed. Lucy would not let her talk
when she came to herself; and so the only moment of possible
preparation passed away, and the event itself, which one of them knew
nothing of, and the other did not understand, came in its own person,
without any _avant-couriers_, to open Lucy's eyes once for all.