The little assembly which met in the vestry of Carlingford Church to
inquire into the conduct of the Perpetual Curate, had so many different
interests in hands when it dispersed, and so much to do, that it is
difficult for the narrator of this history to decide which thread should
be taken up first. Of all the interlocutors, however, perhaps Mr Proctor
was the one who had least succeeded in his efforts to explain himself,
and accordingly demands in the first place the attention of an impartial
historian. The excellent man was still labouring under much perplexity
when the bed of justice was broken up. He began to recollect that Mr
Wentworth's explanation on the previous night had convinced him of his
innocence, and to see that it was indeed altogether inconceivable that
the Curate should be guilty; but then, other matters still more
disagreeable to contemplate than Mr Wentworth's guilt came in to darken
the picture. This vagabond Wodehouse, whom the Curate had taken in at
his sister's request--what was the meaning of that mystery? Mr Proctor
had never been anyhow connected with mysteries; he was himself an only
son, and had lived a straightforward peaceable life. Neither he nor his
estimable parents, so far as the late Rector was aware, had ever done
anything to be ashamed of; and he winced a little at the thought of
connecting himself with concealment and secrecy. And then the Curate's
sudden disappearance on the previous evening perplexed and troubled him.
He imagined all kinds of reasons for it as he walked down Grange Lane.
Perhaps Miss Wodehouse, who would not receive himself, had sent for Mr
Wentworth; perhaps the vagabond brother was in some other scrape, out of
which he had to be extricated by the Curate's assistance. Mr Proctor was
perfectly honest, and indeed determined, in his "intentions;" but
everybody will allow that for a middle-aged lover of fifty or
thereabouts, contemplating a sensible match with a lady of suitable
years and means, to find suddenly that the object of his affections was
not only a penniless woman, but the natural guardian of an equally
penniless sister, was startling, to say the least of it. He was a true
man, and it did not occur to him to decline the responsibility
altogether; on the contrary, he was perhaps more eager than he would
have been otherwise, seeing that his elderly love had far more need of
his devotion than he had ever expected her to have; but, notwithstanding,
he was disturbed by such an unlooked-for change of circumstances, as was
natural, and did not quite know what was to be done with Lucy. He was
full of thoughts on this subject as he proceeded towards the house, to
the interview which, to use sentimental language, was to decide his
fate. But, to tell the truth, Mr Proctor was not in a state of very deep
anxiety about his fate. The idea of being refused was too unreasonable
an idea to gain much ground in his mind. He was going to offer his
personal support, affection, and sympathy to Miss Wodehouse at the least
fortunate moment in her life; and if there was anything consolatory in
marriage at all, the late Rector sensibly concluded that it must be
doubly comforting under such circumstances, and that the offer of an
honest man's hand and house and income was not a likely thing to be
rejected by a woman of Miss Wodehouse's experience and good sense--not
to speak of his heart, which was very honest and true and affectionate,
though it had outlived the fervours of youth. Such was Mr Proctor's view
of the matter; and the chances were strong that Miss Wodehouse entirely
agreed with him--so, but for a certain shyness which made him rather
nervous, it would not be correct to say that the late Rector was in a
state of special anxiety about the answer he was likely to receive. He
was, however, anxious about Lucy. His bachelor mind was familiar with
all the ordinary traditions about the inexpediency of being surrounded
by a wife's family; and he had a little of the primitive male sentiment,
shared one way or other by most husbands, that the old system of buying
a woman right out, and carrying her off for his own sole and private
satisfaction, was, after all, the correct way of managing such matters.
To be sure, a pretty, young, unmarried sister, was perhaps the least
objectionable encumbrance a woman could have; but, notwithstanding, Mr
Proctor would have been glad could he have seen any feasible way of
disposing of Lucy. It was utterly out of the question to think of her
going out as a governess; and it was quite evident that Mr Wentworth,
even were he perfectly cleared of every imputation, having himself
nothing to live upon, could scarcely offer to share his poverty with
poor Mr Wodehouse's cherished pet and darling. "I daresay she has been
used to live expensively," Mr Proctor said to himself, wincing a little
in his own mind at the thought. It was about one o'clock when he
reached the green door--an hour at which, during the few months of
his incumbency at Carlingford, he had often presented himself at that
hospitable house. Poor Mr Wodehouse! Mr Proctor could not help wondering
at that moment how he was getting on in a world where, according to
ordinary ideas, there are no lunch nor dinner parties, no old port nor
savoury side-dishes. Somehow it was impossible to realise Mr Wodehouse
with other surroundings than those of good-living and creature-comfort.
Mr Proctor sighed, half for the departed, half at thought of the
strangeness of that unknown life for which he himself did not feel much
more fitted than Mr Wodehouse. In the garden he saw the new heir sulkily
marching about among the flower-beds smoking, and looking almost as much
out of place in the sweet tranquillity of the English garden, as a
churchwarden of Carlingford or a Fellow of All-Souls could look, to
carry out Mr Proctor's previous imagination, in the vague beatitude of a
disembodied heaven. Wodehouse was so sick of his own company that he
came hastily forward at the sight of a visitor, but shrank a little when
he saw who it was.
"I suppose you have brought some news," he said, in his sullen way. "I
suppose he has been making his statements, has he? Much I care! He may
tell what lies he pleases; he can't do me any harm. I never did
anything but sign my own name, by Jove! Jack Wentworth himself says
so. I don't care _that_ for the parson and his threats," said
Wodehouse, snapping his fingers in Mr Proctor's face. The late Rector
drew back a little, with a shudder of disgust and resentment. He could
not help thinking that this fellow would most likely be his
brother-in-law presently, and the horror he felt made itself visible
in his face.
"I am quite unaware what you can mean," said Mr Proctor. "I am a
parson, but I never made any threats that I know of. I wish to see
Miss Wodehouse. I--I think she expects me at this hour," he said, with
a little embarrassment, turning to John, who, for his part, had been
standing by in a way which became his position as a respectable and
faithful servant, waiting any opportunity that might come handy to
show his disgust for the new _regime_.
"Yes, sir," said John, promptly, and with emphasis. "My mistress
expects you, sir. She's come down to the drawing-room for the first
time. Miss Lucy keeps her room, sir, still; she's dreadfully cut up,
poor dear young lady. My mistress will be glad to see you, sir," said
John. This repetition of a title which Miss Wodehouse had not been in
the habit of receiving was intended for the special advantage of the
new master, whom John had no intention of recognising in that
capacity. "If you should know of any one, sir, as is in want of a
steady servant," the man continued, as he led the way into the house,
with a shrewd glance at Mr Proctor, whose "intentions" were legible
enough to John's experienced eyes--"not as I'm afeared of getting
suited, being well known in Carlingford; but it would come natural to
be with a friend of the family. There aint a servant in the house,
sir, as will stay when the ladies go, and I think as Miss Wodehouse
would speak for me," said John, with natural astuteness. This address
made Mr Proctor a little uneasy. It recalled to him the unpleasant
side of the important transaction in which he was about to engage. He
was not rich, and did not see his way now to any near prospect of
requiring the services of "a steady servant," and the thought made him
sigh.
"We'll see," he said, with a troubled look. To persevere honourably in
his "intentions" was one thing, but to be insensible to the loss of much
he had looked forward to was quite another. It was accordingly with a
grave and somewhat disturbed expression that he went to the interview
which was "to decide his fate." Miss Wodehouse was seated in the
drawing-room, looking slightly flushed and excited. Though she knew it
was very wrong to be thus roused into a new interest the day after her
father's funeral, the events altogether had been of so startling a
description that the usual decorum of an afflicted household had already
been ruthlessly broken. And on the whole, notwithstanding her watching
and grief, Mr Proctor thought he had never seen the object of his
affections looking so well as she did now in the long black dress, which
suited her better than the faint dove colours in which she arrayed
herself by preference. She was not, it is true, quite sure what Mr
Proctor wanted in this interview he had solicited, but a certain
feminine instinct instructed her in its probable eventualities. So she
sat in a subdued flutter, with a little colour fluctuating on her cheek,
a tear in her eyes, and some wonder and expectation in her heart.
Perhaps in her youth Miss Wodehouse might have come to such a feminine
crisis before; but if so, it was long ago, and the gentle woman had
never been given to matrimonial speculations, and was as fresh and
inexperienced as any girl. The black frame in which she was set made her
soft colour look fresher and less faded. Her plaintive voice, the
general softness of her demeanour, looked harmonious and suitable to her
circumstances. Mr Proctor, who had by no means fallen in love with her
on account of any remnants of beauty she might possess, had never
admired her so much as he did now; he felt confused, good man, as he
stood before her, and, seeing her so much younger and fairer than his
former idea, began to grow alarmed, and wonder at his serenity. What if
she thought him an old fogey? what if she refused him? This supposition
brought a crimson colour to Mr Proctor's middle-aged countenance, and
was far from restoring his courage. It was a wonderful relief to him
when she, with the instinct of a timid woman, rushed into hasty talk.
"It was very kind of you to come yesterday," she said; "Lucy and I
were very grateful. We have not many relatives, and my dear father--"
"Yes," said the late Rector, again embarrassed by the tears which
choked her voice, "he was very much respected: that must be a
consolation to you. And he had a long life--and--and I suppose, on the
whole, a happy one," said Mr Proctor, "with you and your sister--"
"Oh, Mr Proctor, he had a great deal to put up with," said Miss
Wentworth, through her tears. She had, like most simple people, an
instinctive disinclination to admit that anybody was or had been
happy. It looked like an admission of inferiority. "Mamma's death, and
poor Tom," said the elder sister. As she wiped her eyes, she almost
forgot her own little feminine flutter of expectancy in respect to Mr
Proctor himself. Perhaps it was not going to happen this time, and as
she was pretty well assured that it would happen one day or another,
she was not anxious about it. "If I only knew what to do about Tom,"
she continued, with a vague appeal in her voice.
Mr Proctor got up from his chair and walked to the window. When he
had looked out he came back, rather surprising Miss Wodehouse by
his unlooked-for movements. "I wanted very much to have a little
conversation with you," he said, growing again very red. "I daresay you
will be surprised--but I have accepted another living, Miss Wodehouse;"
and here the good man stopped short in a terrible state of
embarrassment, not knowing what next to say.
"Yes?" said Miss Wodehouse, interrogatively. Her heart began to beat
quicker, but perhaps he was only going to tell her about the new work
he had undertaken; and then she was a woman, and had some knowledge,
which came by nature, how to conduct herself on an occasion such as
this.
"I don't know whether you recollect," said Mr Proctor--"I shall never
forget it--one time when we all met in a house where a woman was
dying,--I mean your sister and young Wentworth, and you and I;--and
neither you nor I knew anything about it," said the late Rector, in a
strange voice. It was not a complimentary way of opening his subject,
and the occurrence had not made so strong an impression upon Miss
Wodehouse as upon her companion. She looked a little puzzled, and, as
he made a pause, gave only a murmur of something like assent, and
waited to hear what more he might have to say.
"We neither of us knew anything about it," said Mr Proctor--"neither
you how to manage her, nor I what to say to her, though the young
people did. I have always thought of you from that time. I have
thought I should like to try whether I was good for anything now--if
you would help me," said the middle-aged lover. When he had said this
he walked to the window, and once more looked out, and came back
redder than ever. "You see we are neither of us young," said Mr
Proctor; and he stood by the table turning over the books nervously,
without looking at her, which was certainly an odd commencement for a
wooing.
"That is quite true," said Miss Wodehouse, rather primly. She had
never disputed that fact by word or deed, but still it was not
pleasant to have the statement thus thrust upon her without any
apparent provocation. It was not the sort of thing which a woman
expects to have said to her under such circumstances. "I am sure I
hope you will do better--I mean be more comfortable--this time," she
continued, after a pause, sitting very erect on her seat.
"If you will help me," said Mr Proctor, taking up one of the books and
reading the name on it, which was lucky for him, for it was Miss
Wodehouse's name, which he either had forgotten or never had known.
And here they came to a dead stop. What was she to say? She was a
little affronted, to tell the truth, that he should remember more
distinctly than anything else her age, and her unlucky failure on that
one occasion. "You have just said that I could not manage," said the
mild woman, not without a little vigour of her own; "and how then
could I help you, Mr Proctor? Lucy knows a great deal more about
parish work than I do," she went on in a lower tone; and for one half
of a second there arose in the mind of the elder sister a kind of
wistful half envy of Lucy, who _was_ young, and knew how to manage--a
feeling which died in unspeakable remorse and compunction as soon as
it had birth.
"But Lucy would not have me," said the late Rector; "and indeed I should
not know what to do with her if she would have me;--but you--It is a
small parish, but it's not a bad living. I should do all I could to make
you comfortable. At least we might try," said Mr Proctor, in his most
insinuating tone. "Don't you think we might try? at least it would do--"
He was going to say "no harm," but on second thoughts rejected that
expression. "At least I should be very glad if you would," said the
excellent man, with renewed confusion. "It's a nice little rectory, with
a pretty garden, and all that sort of thing; and--and perhaps--it might
help you to settle about going away--and--and I daresay there would be
room for Lucy. Don't you think you would try?" cried Mr Proctor,
volunteering, in spite of himself, the very hospitality which he had
thought it hard might be required of him; but somehow his suit seemed to
want backing at the actual moment when it was being made.
As for Miss Wodehouse, she sat and listened to him till he began to
falter, and then her composure gave way all at once. "But as for
trying," she gasped, in broken mouthfuls of speech, "that would
never--never do, Mr Proctor. It has to be done--done for good and
all--if--if it is done at all," sobbed the poor lady, whose voice came
somewhat muffled through her handkerchief and her tears.
"Then it shall be for good and all!" cried Mr Proctor, with a sudden
impulse of energy. This was how it came about that Miss Wodehouse and
the late Rector were engaged. He had an idea that he might be expected
to kiss her, and certainly ought to call her Mary after this; and
hovered for another minute near her seat, not at all disinclined for
the former operation. But his courage failed him, and he only drew a
chair a little closer and sat down, hoping she would soon stop crying.
And indeed, by the time that he produced out of his pocket-book the
little photograph of the new rectory, which he had had made for her by
a rural artist, Miss Wodehouse had emerged out of her handkerchief,
and was perhaps in her heart as happy in a quiet way as she had ever
been in her life. She who had never been good for much, was now, in
the time of their need, endowed with a home which she could offer
Lucy. It was she, the helpless one of the family, who was to be her
young sister's deliverer. Let it be forgiven to her if, in the tumult
of the moment, this was the thought that came first.
When Miss Wodehouse went up-stairs after this agitating but
satisfactory interview, she found Lucy engaged in putting together
some books and personal trifles of her own which were scattered about
the little sitting-room. She had been reading 'In Memoriam' until it
vexed her to feel how inevitably good sense came in and interfered
with the enthusiasm of her grief, making her sensible that to apply to
her fond old father all the lofty lauds which were appropriate to the
poet's hero would be folly indeed. He had been a good tender father to
her, but he was not "the sweetest soul that ever looked with human
eyes;" and Lucy could not but stop in her reading with a kind of pang
and self-reproach as this consciousness came upon her. Miss Wodehouse
looked rather aghast when she found her sister thus occupied. "Did you
think of accepting Miss Wentworth's invitation, after all?" said Miss
Wodehouse; "but, dear, I am afraid it would be awkward; and oh, Lucy,
my darling, I have so many things to tell you," said the anxious
sister, who was shy of communicating her own particular news. Before
many minutes had passed, Lucy had thrown aside all the books, and was
sitting by her sister's side in half-pleased, disconcerted amazement
to hear her story. Only half-pleased--for Lucy, like most other girls
of her age, thought love and marriage were things which belonged only
to her own level of existence, and was a little vexed and disappointed
to find that her elder sister could condescend to such youthful
matters. On the whole, she rather blushed for Mary, and felt sadly as
if she had come down from an imaginary pedestal. And then Mr Proctor,
so old and so ordinary, whom it was impossible to think of as a
bridegroom, and still less as a brother. "I shall get used to it
presently," said Lucy, with a burning flush on her cheek, and a half
feeling that she had reason to be ashamed; "but it is so strange to
think of you in that way, Mary. I always thought you were too--too
sensible for that sort of thing," which was a reproach that went to
Miss Wodehouse's heart.
"Oh, Lucy, dear," said that mild woman, who in this view of the matter
became as much ashamed of herself as Lucy could desire, "what could I
do? I know what you mean, at my time of life; but I could not let you
be dependent on Tom, my darling," said Miss Wodehouse, with a
deprecating appealing look.
"No indeed," said Lucy; "that would be impossible under any
circumstances: nor on you either, Mary dear. I can do something to
make a living, and I should like it. I have always been fond of work.
I will not permit you to sacrifice yourself for me," said the younger
sister, with some dignity. "I see how it has been. I felt sure it was
not of your own accord."
Miss Wodehouse wrung her hands with dismay and perplexity. What was
she to do if Lucy stood out and refused her consent? She could not
humble herself so far as to confess that she rather liked Mr Proctor,
and was, on the whole, not displeased to be married; for the feeling
that Lucy expected her to be too sensible for that sort of thing
overawed the poor lady. "But, Lucy, I have given him my promise," said
poor Miss Wodehouse. "It--it would make him very unhappy. I can't use
him badly, Lucy dear."
"I will speak to him, and explain if it is necessary. Whatever
happens, I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me," said Lucy. All
the answer Miss Wodehouse could make was expressed in the tears of
vexation and mortification which rushed to her eyes. She repelled her
young sister's ministrations for the first time in her life with hasty
impatience. Her troubles had not been few for the last twenty-four
hours. She had been questioned about Tom till she had altogether lost
her head, and scarcely knew what she was saying; and Lucy had not
applauded that notable expedient of throwing the shame of the family
upon Mr Wentworth, to be concealed and taken care of, which had
brought so many vexations to the Perpetual Curate. Miss Wodehouse at
last was driven to bay. She had done all for the best, but nobody gave
her any credit for it; and now this last step, by which she had meant
to provide a home for Lucy, was about to be contradicted and put a
stop to altogether. She put away Lucy's arm, and rejected her
consolations. "What is the use of pretending to be fond of me if I am
always to be wrong, and never to have my--my own way in anything?"
cried the poor lady, who, beginning with steadiness, broke down before
she reached the end of her little speech. The words made Lucy open her
blue eyes with wonder; and after that there followed a fuller
explanation, which greatly changed the ideas of the younger sister.
After her "consent" had been at last extracted from her, and when Miss
Wodehouse regained her composure, she reported to Lucy the greater
part of the conversation which had taken place in the drawing-room, of
which Mr Proctor's proposal constituted only a part, and which touched
upon matters still more interesting to her hearer. The two sisters,
preoccupied by their father's illness and death, had up to this time
but a vague knowledge of the difficulties which surrounded the
Perpetual Curate. His trial, which Mr Proctor had reported to his
newly-betrothed, had been unsuspected by either of them; and they were
not even aware of the event which had given rise to it--the
disappearance of Rosa Elsworthy. Miss Wodehouse told the story with
faltering lips, not being able to divest herself of the idea that,
having been publicly accused, Mr Wentworth must be more or less
guilty; while, at the same time, a sense that her brother must have
had something to do with it, and a great reluctance to name his name,
complicated the narrative. She had already got into trouble with Lucy
about this unlucky brother, and unconsciously, in her story, she took
an air of defence. "I should have thought better of Mr Wentworth if he
had not tried to throw the guilt on another," said the perplexed
woman. "Oh, Lucy dear, between two people it is so hard to know what
to do."
"I know what I shall do," said Lucy, promptly; but she would not
further explain herself. She was, however, quite roused up out of 'In
Memoriam.' She went to her desk and drew out some of the paper deeply
edged with black, which announced before words its tale of grief to
all her correspondents. It was with some alarm that Miss Wodehouse
awaited this letter, which was placed before her as soon as finished.
This was what, as soon as she knew the story, Lucy's prompt and
generous spirit said:--
"DEAR MR WENTWORTH,--We have just heard of the vexations you have been
suffering, to our great indignation and distress. Some people may
think it is a matter with which I have no business to interfere; but I
cannot have you think for a moment, that we, to whom you have been so
kind, could put the slightest faith in any such accusations against
you. We are not of much consequence, but we are two women, to whom any
such evil would be a horror. If it is any one connected with us who
has brought you into this painful position, it gives us the more
reason to be indignant and angry. I know now what you meant about the
will. If it was to do over again, I should do just the same; but for
all that, I understand now what you meant. I understand, also, how
much we owe to you, of which, up to yesterday, I was totally unaware.
You ought never to have been asked to take our burden upon your
shoulders. I suppose you ought not to have done it; but all the same,
thank you with all my heart. I don't suppose we ever can do anything
for you to show our gratitude; and indeed I do not believe in paying
back. But in the mean time, thank you--and don't, from any
consideration for us, suffer a stain which belongs to another to rest
upon yourself. You are a clergyman, and your reputation must be clear.
Pardon me for saying so, as if I were qualified to advise you; but it
would be terrible to think that you were suffering such an injury out
of consideration for us.--Gratefully and truly yours,
"LUCY WODEHOUSE."
The conclusion of this letter gave Lucy a good deal of trouble. Her
honest heart was so moved with gratitude and admiration that she had
nearly called herself "affectionately" Mr Wentworth's. Why should not
she? "He has acted like a brother to us," Lucy said to herself; and
then she paused to inquire whether his conduct had indeed arisen from
brotherly motives solely. Then, when she had begun to write
"faithfully" instead, a further difficulty occurred to her. Not thus
lightly and unsolicited could she call herself "faithful," for did not
the word mean everything that words could convey in any human
relationship? When she had concluded it at last, and satisfied her
scruples by the formula above, she laid the letter before her sister.
This event terminated the active operations of the day in the dwelling
of the Wodehouses. Their brother had not asked to see them, had not
interrupted them as yet in their retreat up-stairs, where they were
sedulously waited upon by the entire household. When Miss Wodehouse's
agitation was over, she too began to collect together her books and
personalities, and they ended by a long consultation where they were
to go and what they were to do, during the course of which the elder
sister exhibited with a certain shy pride that little photograph of
the new rectory, in which there was one window embowered in foliage,
which the bride had already concluded was to be Lucy's room. Lucy
yielded during this sisterly conference to sympathetic thoughts even
of Mr Proctor. The two women were alone in the world. They were still
so near the grave and the deathbed that chance words spoken without
thought from time to time awakened in both the ready tears. Now and
then they each paused to consider with a sob what _he_ would have
liked best. They knew very little of what was going on outside at the
moment when they were occupied with those simple calculations. What
was to become of them, as people say--what money they were to have, or
means of living--neither was much occupied in thinking of. They had
each other; they had, besides, one a novel and timid middle-aged
confidence, the other an illimitable youthful faith in one man in the
world. Even Lucy, whose mind and thoughts were more individual than
her sister's, wanted little else at that moment to make her happy with
a tender tremulous consolation in the midst of her grief.