Frank Wentworth once more went up Grange Lane, a thoughtful and a sober
man. Exhilaration comes but by moments in the happiest of lives--and
already he began to remember how very little he had to be elated about,
and how entirely things remained as before. Even Lucy; her letter very
probably might be only an effusion of friendship; and at all events,
what could he say to her--what did he dare in honour say? And then his
mind went off to think of the two rectories, between which he had fallen
as between two stools: though he had made up his mind to accept neither,
he did not the less feel a certain mortification in seeing that his
relations on both sides were so willing to bestow their gifts elsewhere.
He could not tolerate the idea of succeeding Gerald in his own person,
but still he found it very disagreeable to consent to the thought that
Huxtable should replace him--Huxtable, who was a good fellow enough, but
of whom Frank Wentworth thought, as men generally think of their
brothers-in-law, with a half-impatient, half-contemptuous wonder what
Mary could ever have seen in so commonplace a man. To think of him as
rector of Wentworth inwardly chafed the spirit of the Perpetual Curate.
As he was going along, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not
perceive how his approach was watched for from the other side of the way
by Elsworthy, who stood with his bundle of newspapers under his arm and
his hat in his hand, watching for "his clergyman" with submission and
apology on the surface, and hidden rancour underneath. Elsworthy was not
penitent; he was furious and disappointed. His mistake and its
consequences were wholly humiliating, and had not in them a single
saving feature to atone for the wounds of his self-esteem. The Curate
had not only baffled and beaten him, but humbled him in his own eyes,
which is perhaps, of all others, the injury least easy to forgive. It
was, however, with an appearance of the profoundest submission that he
stood awaiting the approach of the man he had tried so much to injure.
"Mr Wentworth, sir," said Elsworthy, "if I was worth your while, I
might think as you were offended with me; but seeing I'm one as is so
far beneath you"--he went on with a kind of grin, intended to
represent a deprecatory smile, but which would have been a snarl had
he dared--"I can't think as you'll bear no malice. May I ask, sir, if
there's a-going to be any difference made?"
"In what respect, Elsworthy?" said the Curate, shortly.
"Well, sir, I can't tell," said the clerk of St Roque's. "If a
clergyman was to bear malice, it's in his power to make things very
unpleasant. I don't speak of the place at church, which aint either
here nor there--it's respectable, but it aint lucrative; but if you
was to stretch a point, Mr Wentworth, by continuing the papers and
suchlike--it aint that I value the money," said Elsworthy, "but I've
been a faithful servant; and I might say, if you was to take it in a
right spirit, an 'umble friend, Mr Wentworth," he continued, after a
little pause, growing bolder. "And now, as I've that unfortunate
creature to provide for, and no one knowing what's to become of her--"
"I wonder that you venture to speak of her to me," said the Curate,
with a little indignation, "after all the warnings I gave you. But
you ought to consider that you are to blame a great deal more than she
is. She is only a child; if you had taken better care of her--but you
would not pay any attention to my warning;--you must bear the
consequences as you best can."
"Well, sir," said Elsworthy, "if you're a-going to bear malice, I
haven't got nothing to say. But there aint ten men in Carlingford as
wouldn't agree with me that when a young gentleman, even if he is a
clergyman, takes particklar notice of a pretty young girl, it aint
just for nothing as he does it--not to say watching over her paternal
to see as she wasn't out late at night, and suchlike. But bygones is
bygones, sir," said Elsworthy, "and is never more to be mentioned by
me. I don't ask no more, if you'll but do the same--"
"You won't ask no more?" said the Curate, angrily; "do you think I am
afraid of you? I have nothing more to say, Elsworthy. Go and look
after your business--I will attend to mine; and when we are not forced
to meet, let us keep clear of each other. It will be better both for
you and me."
The Curate passed on with an impatient nod; but his assailant did not
intend that he should escape so easily. "I shouldn't have thought,
sir, as you'd have borne malice," said Elsworthy, hastening on after
him, yet keeping half a step behind. "I'm a humbled man--different
from what I ever thought to be. I could always keep up my head afore
the world till now; and if it aint your fault, sir--as I humbly beg
your pardon for ever being so far led away as to believe it was--all
the same it's along of you."
"What do you mean?" said the Curate, who, half amused and half
indignant at the change of tone, had slackened his pace to listen to
this new accusation.
"What I mean, sir, is, that if you hadn't been so good and so
kind-hearted as to take into your house the--the villain as has done
it all, him and Rosa could never have known each other. I allow as it
was nothing but your own goodness as did it; but it was a black day
for me and mine," said the dramatist, with a pathetic turn of voice.
"Not as I'm casting no blame on you, as is well known to be--"
"Never mind what I'm well known to be," said the Curate; "the other day
you thought _I_ was the villain. If you can tell me anything you want me
to do, I will understand that--but I am not desirous to know your
opinion of me," said the careless young man. As he stood listening
impatiently, pausing a second time, Dr Marjoribanks came out to his door
and stepped into his brougham to go off to his morning round of visits.
The Doctor took off his hat when he saw the Curate, and waved it to him
cheerfully with a gesture of congratulation. Dr Marjoribanks was quite
stanch and honest, and would have manfully stood by his intimates in
dangerous circumstances; but somehow he preferred success. It was
pleasanter to be able to congratulate people than to condole with them.
He preferred it, and nobody could object to so orthodox a sentiment.
Most probably, if Mr Wentworth had still been in partial disgrace, the
Doctor would not have seen him in his easy glance down the road; but
though Mr Wentworth was aware of that, the mute congratulation had yet
its effect upon him. He was moved by that delicate symptom of how the
wind was blowing in Carlingford, and forgot all about Elsworthy, though
the man was standing by his side.
"As you're so good as to take it kind, sir," said the clerk of St
Roque's--"and, as I was a-saying, it's well known as you're always
ready to hear a poor man's tale--perhaps you'd let bygones be bygones,
and not make no difference? That wasn't all, Mr Wentworth," he
continued eagerly, as the Curate gave an impatient nod, and turned to
go on. "I've heard as this villain is rich, sir, by means of robbing
of his own flesh and blood;--but it aint for me to trust to what folks
says, after the experience I've had, and never can forgive myself for
being led away," said Elsworthy; "it's well known in Carlingford--"
"For heaven's sake come to the point and be done with it," said the
Curate. "What is it you want me to do?"
"Sir," said Elsworthy, solemnly, "you're a real gentleman, and you
don't bear no malice for what was a mistake--and you aint one to turn
your back on an unfortunate family--and Mr Wentworth, sir, you aint
a-going to stand by and see me and mine wronged, as have always wished
you well. If we can't get justice of him, we can get damages," cried
Elsworthy. "He aint to be let off as if he'd done no harm--and seeing
as it was along of you--"
"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate. "I have nothing to do with
it. Keep out of my way, or at least learn to restrain your tongue. No
more, not a word more," said the young man, indignantly. He went off
with such a sweep and wind of anger and annoyance, that the slower and
older complainant had no chance to follow him. Elsworthy accordingly
went off to the shop, where his errand-boys were waiting for the
newspapers, and where Rosa lay up-stairs, weeping, in a dark room, where
her enraged aunt had shut her up. Mrs Elsworthy had shut up the poor
little pretty wretch, who might have been penitent under better
guidance, but who by this time had lost what sense of shame and wrong
her childish conscience was capable of in the stronger present sense of
injury and resentment and longing to escape; but the angry aunt, though
she could turn the key on poor Rosa's unfortunate little person, could
not shut in the piteous sobs which now and then sounded through and
through the house, and which converted all the errand-boys without
exception into indignant partisans of Rosa, and even moved the heart of
Peter Hayles, who could hear them at the back window where he was making
up Dr Marjoribanks's prescriptions. As the sense of injury waxed
stronger and stronger in Rosa's bosom, she availed herself, like any
other irrational, irresponsible creature, of such means of revenging
herself and annoying her keepers as occurred to her. "Nobody ever took
no care of me," sobbed Rosa. "I never had no father or mother. Oh, I
wish I was dead!--and nobody wouldn't care!" These utterances, it may be
imagined, went to the very heart of the errand-boys, who were collected
in a circle, plotting how to release Rosa, when Elsworthy, mortified and
furious, came back from his unsuccessful assault on the Curate. They
scattered like a covey of little birds before the angry man, who tossed
their papers at them, and then strode up the echoing stairs. "If you
don't hold your d----d tongue," said Elsworthy, knocking furiously at
Rosa's door, "I'll turn you to the door this instant, I will, by--."
Nobody in Carlingford had ever before heard an oath issue from the
respectable lips of the clerk of St Roque's. When he went down into the
shop again, the outcries sank into frightened moans. Not much wonder
that the entire neighbourhood became as indignant with Elsworthy as it
ever had been with the Perpetual Curate. The husband and wife took up
their positions in the shop after this, as far apart as was possible
from each other, both resenting in silent fury the wrong which the world
in general had done them. If Mrs Elsworthy had dared, she would have
exhausted her passion in abuse of everybody--of the Curate for not being
guilty, of her husband for supposing him to be so, and, to be sure, of
Rosa herself, who was the cause of all. But Elsworthy was dangerous, not
to be approached or spoken to. He went out about noon to see John Brown,
and discuss with him the question of damages; but the occurrences which
took place in his absence are not to be mixed up with the present
narrative, which concerns Mr Frank Wentworth's visit to Lucy Wodehouse,
and has nothing to do with ignoble hates or loves.
The Curate went rapidly on to the green door, which once more looked
like a gate of paradise. He did not know in the least what he was
going to do or say--he was only conscious of a state of exaltation, a
condition of mind which might precede great happiness or great misery,
but had nothing in it of the common state of affairs in which people
ask each other "How do you do?" Notwithstanding, the fact is, that
when Lucy entered that dear familiar drawing-room, where every feature
and individual expression of every piece of furniture was as well
known to him as if they had been so many human faces, it was only "How
do you do?" that the Curate found himself able to say. The two shook
hands as demurely as if Lucy had indeed been, according to the
deceptive representation of yesterday, as old as aunt Dora; and then
she seated herself in her favourite chair, and tried to begin a little
conversation about things in general. Even in these three days, nature
and youth had done something for Lucy. She had slept and rested, and
the unforeseen misfortune which had come in to distract her grief had
roused all the natural strength that was in her. As she was a little
nervous about this interview, not knowing what it might end in, Lucy
thought it her duty to be as composed and self-commanding as possible,
and, in order to avoid all dangerous and exciting subjects, began to
talk of Wharfside.
"I have not heard anything for three or four days about the poor woman
at No. 10," she said; "I meant to have gone to see her to-day, but
somehow one gets so selfish when--when one's mind is full of affairs
of one's own."
"Yes," said the Curate; "and speaking of that, I wanted to tell you
how much comfort your letter had been to me. My head, too, has been
very full of affairs of my own. I thought at one time that my friends
were forsaking me. It was very good of you to write as you did."
Upon which there followed another little pause. "Indeed the goodness
was all on your side," said Lucy, faltering. "If I had ever dreamt how
much you were doing for us! but it all came upon me so suddenly. It is
impossible ever to express in words one-half of the gratitude we owe
you," she said, with restrained enthusiasm. She looked up at him as
she spoke with a little glow of natural fervour, which brought the
colour to her cheek and the moisture to her eyes. She was not of the
disposition to give either thanks or confidence by halves; and even
the slight not unpleasant sense of danger which gave piquancy to this
interview, made her resolute to express herself fully. She would not
suffer herself to stint her gratitude because of the sweet suspicion
which would not be quite silenced, that possibly Mr Wentworth looked
for something better than gratitude. Not for any consequences, however
much they might be to be avoided, could she be shabby enough to
refrain from due acknowledgment of devotion so great. Therefore, while
the Perpetual Curate was doing all he could to remind himself of his
condition, and to persuade himself that it would be utterly wrong and
mean of him to speak, Lucy looked up at him, looked him in the face,
with her blue eyes shining dewy and sweet through tears of gratitude
and a kind of generous admiration; for, like every other woman, she
felt herself exalted and filled with a delicious pride in seeing that
the man of her unconscious choice had proved himself the best.
The Curate walked to the window, very much as Mr Proctor had done, in
the tumult and confusion of his heart, and came back again with what
he had to say written clear on his face, without any possibility of
mistake. "I must speak," said the young man; "I have no right to
speak, I know; if I had attained the height of self-sacrifice and
self-denial, I might, I would be silent--but it is impossible now." He
came to a break just then, looking at her to see what encouragement he
had to go on; but as Lucy did nothing but listen and grow pale, he had
to take his own way. "What I have to say is not anything new," said
the Curate, labouring a little in his voice, as was inevitable when
affairs had come to such a crisis, "if I were not in the cruelest
position possible to a man. I have only an empty love to lay at your
feet; I tell it to you only because I am obliged--because, after all,
love is worth telling, even if it comes to nothing. I am not going to
appeal to your generosity," continued the young man, kneeling down at
the table, not by way of kneeling to Lucy, but by way of bringing
himself on a level with her, where she sat with her head bent down on
her low chair, "or to ask you to bind yourself to a man who has
nothing in the world but love to offer you; but after what has been
for years, after all the hours I have spent here, I cannot--part--I
cannot let you go--without a word--"
And here he stopped short. He had not asked anything, so that Lucy,
even had she been able, had nothing to answer; and as for the young
lover himself, he seemed to have come to the limit of his eloquence.
He kept waiting for a moment, gazing at her in breathless expectation
of a response for which his own words had left no room. Then he rose
in an indescribable tumult of disappointment and mortification--unable
to conclude that all was over, unable to keep silence, yet not knowing
what to say.
"I have been obliged to close all the doors of advancement upon
myself," said the Curate, with a little bitterness; "I don't know if
you understand me. At this moment I have to deny myself the dearest
privilege of existence. Don't mistake me, Lucy," he said, after
another pause, coming back to her with humility, "I don't venture to
say that you would have accepted anything I had to offer; but this I
mean, that to have a home for you now--to have a life for you ready to
be laid at your feet, whether you would have had it or not;--what
right have I to speak of such delights?" cried the young man. "It does
not matter to you; and as for me, I have patience--patience to console
myself with--"
Poor Lucy, though she was on the verge of tears, which nothing but the
most passionate self-restraint could have kept in, could not help a
passing sensation of amusement at these words. "Not too much of that
either," she said, softly, with a tremulous smile. "But patience
carries the lilies of the saints," said Lucy, with a touch of the sweet
asceticism which had once been so charming to the young Anglican. It
brought him back like a spell to the common ground on which they used to
meet; it brought him back also to his former position on his knee,
which was embarrassing to Lucy, though she had not the heart to draw
back, nor even to withdraw her hand, which somehow happened to be in Mr
Wentworth's way.
"I am but a man," said the young lover. "I would rather have the roses
of life--but, Lucy, I am only a perpetual curate," he continued, with
her hand in his. Her answer was made in the most heartless and
indifferent words. She let two big drops--which fell like hail, though
they were warmer than any summer rain--drop out of her eyes, and she
said, with lips that had some difficulty in enunciating that heartless
sentiment, "I don't see what it matters to me--"
Which was true enough, though it did not sound encouraging; and it
is dreadful to confess that, for a little while after, neither
Skelmersdale, nor Wentworth, nor Mr Proctor's new rectory, nor the
no-income of the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's, had the smallest place
in the thoughts of either of these perfectly inconsiderate young people.
For half an hour they were an Emperor and Empress seated upon two
thrones, to which all the world was subject; and when at the end of that
time they began to remember the world, it was but to laugh at it in
their infinite youthful superiority. Then it became apparent that to
remain in Carlingford, to work at "the district," to carry out all the
ancient intentions of well-doing which had been the first bond between
them, was, after all, the life of lives;--which was the state of mind
they had both arrived at when Miss Wodehouse, who thought they had been
too long together under the circumstances, and could not help wondering
what Mr Wentworth could be saying, came into the room, rather flurried
in her own person. She thought Lucy must have been telling the Curate
about Mr Proctor and his hopes, and was, to tell the truth, a little
curious how Mr Wentworth would take it, and a little--the very
least--ashamed of encountering his critical looks. The condition of mind
into which Miss Wodehouse was thrown when she perceived the real state
of affairs would be difficult to describe. She was very glad and very
sorry, and utterly puzzled how they were to live; and underneath all
these varying emotions was a sudden, half-ludicrous, half-humiliating
sense of being cast into the shade, which made Mr Proctor's _fiancee_
laugh and made her cry, and brought her down altogether off the
temporary pedestal upon which she had stepped, not without a little
feminine satisfaction. When a woman is going to be married, especially
if that marriage falls later than usual, it is natural that she should
expect, for that time at least, to be the first and most prominent
figure in her little circle. But, alas! what chance could there be for a
mild, dove-coloured bride of forty beside a creature of half her age,
endued with all the natural bloom and natural interest of youth?
Miss Wodehouse could not quite make out her own feelings on the subject.
"Don't you think if you had waited a little it would have been wiser?"
she said, in her timid way; and then kissed her young sister, and said,
"I am so glad, my darling--I am sure dear papa would have been pleased,"
with a sob which brought back to Lucy the grief from which she had for
the moment escaped. Under all the circumstances, however, it may well be
supposed that it was rather hard upon Mr Wentworth to recollect that he
had engaged to return to luncheon with the Squire, and to prepare
himself after this momentous morning's work, to face all the
complications of the family, where still Skelmersdale and Wentworth were
hanging in the balance, and where the minds of his kith and kin were
already too full of excitement to leave much room for another event. He
went away reluctantly enough out of the momentary paradise where his
Perpetual Curacy was a matter of utter indifference, if not a tender
pleasantry, which rather increased than diminished the happiness of the
moment--into the ordinary daylight world, where it was a very serious
matter, and where what the young couple would have to live upon became
the real question to be considered. Mr Wentworth met Wodehouse as he
went out, which did not mend matters. The vagabond was loitering about
in the garden, attended by one of Elsworthy's errand-boys, with whom he
was in earnest conversation, and stopped in his talk to give a sulky nod
and "Good morning," to which the Curate had no desire to respond more
warmly than was necessary. Lucy was thinking of nothing but himself, and
perhaps a little of the "great work" at Wharfside, which her father's
illness and death had interrupted; but Mr Wentworth, who was only a man,
remembered that Tom Wodehouse would be his brother-in-law with a
distinct sensation of disgust, even in the moment of his triumph--which
is one instance of the perennial inequality between the two halves of
mankind. He had to brace himself up to the encounter of all his people,
while she had to meet nothing less delightful than her own dreams. This
was how matters came to an issue in respect of Frank Wentworth's
personal happiness. His worldly affairs were all astray as yet, and he
had not the most distant indication of any gleam of light dawning upon
the horizon which could reconcile his duty and honour with good fortune
and the delights of life. Meanwhile other discussions were going on in
Carlingford, of vital importance to the two young people who had made up
their minds to cast themselves upon Providence. And among the various
conversations which were being carried on about the same moment in
respect to Mr Wentworth--whose affairs, as was natural, were extensively
canvassed in Grange Lane, as well as in other less exclusive
quarters--it would be wrong to omit a remarkable consultation which took
place in the Rectory, where Mrs Morgan sat in the midst of the great
bouquets of the drawing-room carpet, making up her first matrimonial
difficulty. It would be difficult to explain what influence the
drawing-room carpet in the Rectory had on the fortunes of the Perpetual
Curate; but when Mr Wentworth's friends come to hear the entire outs and
ins of the business, it will be seen that it was not for nothing that
Mr Proctor covered the floor of that pretty apartment with roses and
lilies half a yard long.