These were eventful days in Grange Lane, when gossip was not nearly
rapid enough to follow the march of events. When Mr Wentworth went to
lunch with his family, the two sisters kept together in the
drawing-room, which seemed again re-consecrated to the purposes of
life. Lucy had not much inclination just at that moment to move out of
her chair; she was not sociable, to tell the truth, nor disposed to
talk even about the new prospects which were brightening over both.
She even took out her needlework, to the disgust of her sister. "When
there are so many things to talk about, and so much to be considered,"
Miss Wodehouse said, with a little indignation; and wondered within
herself whether Lucy was really insensible to "what had happened," or
whether the sense of duty was strong upon her little sister even in
the height of her happiness. A woman of greater experience or
discrimination might have perceived that Lucy had retired into that
sacred silence, sweetest of all youthful privileges, in which she
could dream over to herself the wonderful hour which had just come to
an end, and the fair future of which it was the gateway. As for Miss
Wodehouse herself, she was in a flutter, and could not get over the
sense of haste and confusion which this last new incident had brought
upon her. Things were going too fast around her, and the timid woman
was out of breath. Lucy's composure at such a moment, and, above all,
the production of her needlework, was beyond the comprehension of the
elder sister.
"My dear," said Miss Wodehouse, with an effort, "I don't doubt that
these poor people are badly off, and I am sure it is very good of you
to work for them; but if you will only think how many things there are
to do! My darling, I am afraid you will have to--to make your own
dresses in future, which is what I never thought to see," she said,
putting her handkerchief to her eyes; "and we have not had any talk
about anything, Lucy, and there are so many things to think of!" Miss
Wodehouse, who was moving about the room as she spoke, began to lift
her own books and special property off the centre table. The books
were principally ancient Annuals in pretty bindings, which no
representation on Lucy's part could induce her to think out of date;
and among her other possessions was a little desk in Indian mosaic, of
ivory, which had been an institution in the house from Lucy's earliest
recollection. "And these are yours, Lucy dear," said Miss Wodehouse,
standing up on a chair to take down from the wall two little pictures
which hung side by side. They were copies both, and neither of great
value; one representing the San Sisto Madonna, and the other a sweet
St Agnes, whom Lucy had in her earlier days taken to her heart. Lucy's
slumbering attention was roused by this sacrilegious act. She gave a
little scream, and dropped her work out of her hands.
"What do I mean?" said Miss Wodehouse; "indeed, Lucy dear, we must
look it in the face. It is not our drawing-room any longer, you know."
Here she made a pause, and sighed; but somehow a vision of the other
drawing-room which was awaiting her in the new rectory, made the
prospect less doleful than it might have been. She cleared up in a
surprising way as she turned to look at her own property on the table.
"My cousin Jack gave me this," said the gentle woman, brushing a
little dust off her pretty desk. "When it came first, there was
nothing like it in Carlingford, for that was before Colonel Chiley and
those other Indian people had settled here. Jack was rather fond of
me in those days, you know, though I never cared for him," the elder
sister continued, with a smile. "Poor fellow! they said he was not
very happy when he married." Though this was rather a sad fact, Miss
Wodehouse announced it not without a certain gentle satisfaction.
"And, Lucy dear, it is our duty to put aside our own things; they were
all presents, you know," she said, standing up on the chair again to
reach down the St Agnes, which, ever since Lucy had been confirmed,
had hung opposite to her on the wall.
"Oh, don't, don't!" cried Lucy. In that little bit of time, not more
than five minutes as it appeared, the familiar room, which had just
heard the romance of her youth, had come to have a dismantled and
desolate look. The agent of this destruction, who saw in her mind's
eye a new scene, altogether surpassing the old, looked complacently
upon her work, and piled the abstracted articles on the top of each
other, with a pleasant sense of property.
"And your little chair and work-table are yours," said Miss Wodehouse;
"they were always considered yours. You worked the chair yourself,
though perhaps Miss Gibbons helped you a little; and the table you
know, was sent home the day you were eighteen. It was--a present, you
remember. Don't cry, my darling, don't cry; oh, I am sure I did not
mean anything!" cried Miss Wodehouse, putting down the St Agnes and
flying to her sister, about whom she threw her arms. "My hands are all
dusty, dear," said the repentant woman; "but you know, Lucy, we must
look it in the face, for it is not our drawing-room now. Tom may come
in any day and say--oh, dear, dear, here is some one coming
up-stairs!"
Lucy extricated herself from her sister's arms when she heard
footsteps outside. "If it is anybody who has a right to come, I
suppose we are able to receive them," she said, and sat erect over her
needlework, with a changed countenance, not condescending so much as
to look towards the door.
"But what if it should be Tom? Oh, Lucy dear, don't be uncivil to
him," said the elder sister. Miss Wodehouse even made a furtive
attempt to replace the things, in which she was indignantly stopped by
Lucy. "But, my dear, perhaps it is Tom," said the alarmed woman, and
sank trembling into a chair against the St Agnes, which had just been
deposited there.
"It does not matter who it is," said Lucy, with dignity. For her own
part, she felt too much aggrieved to mention his name--aggrieved by
her own ignorance, by the deception that had been practised upon her,
by the character of the man whom she was obliged to call her brother,
and chiefly by his existence, which was the principal grievance of
all. Lucy's brief life had been embellished, almost ever since she had
been capable of independent action, by deeds and thoughts of mercy.
With her whole heart she was a disciple of Him who came to seek the
lost; notwithstanding, a natural human sentiment in her heart
protested against the existence of this man, who had brought shame and
distress into the family without any act of theirs, and who injured
everybody he came in contact with. When the thought of Rosa Elsworthy
occurred to her, a burning blush came upon Lucy's cheek--why were such
men permitted in God's world? To be sure, when she came to be aware of
what she was thinking, Lucy felt guilty, and called herself a
Pharisee, and said a prayer in her heart for the man who had upset all
her cherished ideas of her family and home; but, after all, _that_ was
an after-thought, and did not alter her instinctive sense of repulsion
and indignation. All this swept rapidly through her mind while she sat
awaiting the entrance of the person or persons who were approaching
the door. "If it is the--owner of the house, it will be best to tell
him what things you mean to remove," said Lucy; and before Miss
Wodehouse could answer, the door was opened. They started, however, to
perceive not Wodehouse, but a personage of very different appearance,
who came in with an easy air of polite apology, and looked at them
with eyes which recalled to Lucy the eyes which had been gazing into
her own scarcely an hour ago. "Pardon me," said this unlooked-for
visitor; "your brother, Miss Wodehouse, finds some difficulty in
explaining himself to relations from whom he has been separated so
long. Not to interfere with family privacy, will you let me assist at
the conference?" said Jack Wentworth. "My brother, I understand, is a
friend of yours, and your brother--is a--hem--friend of mine," the
diplomatist added, scarcely able to avoid making a wry face over the
statement. Wodehouse came in behind, looking an inch or two taller for
that acknowledgment, and sat down, confronting his sisters, who were
standing on the defensive. The heir, too, had a strong sense of
property, as was natural, and the disarrangement of the room struck
him in that point of view, especially as Miss Wodehouse continued to
prop herself up against the St Agnes in the back of her chair.
Wodehouse looked from the wall to the table, and saw what appeared to
him a clear case of intended spoliation. "By Jove! they didn't mean to
go empty-handed," said the vagabond, who naturally judged according to
his own standard, and knew no better. Upon which Lucy, rising with
youthful state and dignity, took the explanation upon herself.
"I do not see why we should have the mortification of a spectator,"
said Lucy, who already, having been engaged three-quarters of an hour,
felt deeply disinclined to reveal the weak points of her own family to
the inspection of the Wentworths. "All that there is to explain can be
done very simply. Thank you, I will not sit down. Up to this time we
may be allowed to imagine ourselves in our own--in our father's house.
What we have to say is simple enough."
"But pardon me, my dear Miss Wodehouse--" said Jack Wentworth.
"My sister is Miss Wodehouse," said Lucy. "What there is to settle had
better be arranged with our--our brother. If he will tell us precisely
when he wishes us to go away, we shall be ready. Mary is going to be
married," she went on, turning round so as to face Wodehouse, and
addressing him pointedly, though she did not look at him--to the
exclusion of Jack, who, experienced man as he was, felt disconcerted,
and addressed himself with more precaution to a task which was less easy
than he supposed.
"Oh, Lucy!" cried Miss Wodehouse, with a blush worthy of eighteen. It
was perhaps the first time that the fact had been so broadly stated,
and the sudden announcement made before two men overwhelmed the timid
woman. Then she was older than Lucy, and had picked up in the course
of her career one or two inevitable scraps of experience, and she
could not but wonder with a momentary qualm what Mr Proctor might
think of his brother-in-law. Lucy, who thought Mr Proctor only too
well off, went on without regarding her sister's exclamation.
"I do not know when the marriage is to be--I don't suppose they have
fixed it yet," said Lucy; "but it appears to me that it would save us
all some trouble if we were allowed to remain until that time. I do
not mean to ask any favour," she said, with a little more sharpness
and less dignity. "We could pay rent for that matter, if--if it were
desired. She is your sister," said Lucy, suddenly looking Wodehouse in
the face, "as well as mine. I daresay she has done as much for you as
she has for me. I don't ask any favour for her--but I would cut off my
little finger if that would please her," cried the excited young
woman, with a wildness of illustration so totally out of keeping with
the matter referred to, that Miss Wodehouse, in the midst of her
emotion, could scarcely restrain a scream of terror; "and you too
might be willing to do something; you cannot have any kind of feeling
for me," Lucy continued, recovering herself; "but you might perhaps
have some feeling for Mary. If we can be permitted to remain until her
marriage takes place, it may perhaps bring about--a feeling--more
like--relations; and I shall be able to--"
"Forgive you," Lucy was about to say, but fortunately stopped herself
in time; for it was the fact of his existence that she had to forgive,
and naturally such an amount of toleration was difficult to explain.
As for Wodehouse himself, he listened to this appeal with very mingled
feelings. Some natural admiration and liking woke in his dull mind as
Lucy spoke. He was not destitute of good impulses, nor of the ordinary
human affections. His little sister was pretty, and a lady, and clever
enough to put Jack Wentworth much more in the background than usual.
He said, "By Jove" to himself three or four times over in his beard,
and showed a little emotion when she said he could have no feeling for
her. At that point of Lucy's address he moved about uneasily in his
chair, and plucked at his beard, and felt himself anything but
comfortable. "By Jove! I never had a chance," the prodigal said, in
his undertone. "I might have cared a deal for her if I had had a
chance. She might have done a fellow good, by Jove!" mutterings of
which Lucy took no manner of notice, but proceeded with her speech.
When she had ended, and it became apparent that an answer was expected
of him, Wodehouse flushed all over with the embarrassment of the
position. He cleared his throat, he shifted his eyes, which were
embarrassed by Lucy's gaze, he pushed his chair from the table, and
made various attempts to collect himself, but at last ended by a
pitiful appeal to Jack Wentworth, who had been looking seriously on.
"You might come to a fellow's assistance!" cried Wodehouse. "By Jove!
it was for that you came here."
"The Miss Wodehouses evidently prefer to communicate with their brother
direct," said Jack Wentworth, "which is a very natural sentiment. If I
interfere, it is simply because I have had the advantage of talking the
matter over, and understanding a little of what you mean. Miss
Wodehouse, your brother is not disposed to act the part of a domestic
tyrant. He has come here to offer you the house, which must have so many
tender associations for you, not for a short period, as you wish, but
for--"
"I didn't know she was going to be married!" exclaimed Wodehouse--"that
makes all the difference, by Jove! Lucy will marry fast enough; but as
for Mary, I never thought she would hook any one at her time of life,"
said the vagabond, with a rude laugh. He turned to Lucy, not knowing any
better, and with some intention of pleasing her; but being met by a look
of indignation under which he faltered, he went back to his natural role
of sulky insolence. "By Jove! when I gave in to make such an offer, I
never thought she had a chance of getting married," said the heir. "I
aint going to give what belongs to me to another man--"
"Your brother wishes," said Jack Wentworth, calmly, "to make over the
house and furniture as it stands to you and your sister, Miss Wodehouse.
Of course it is not to be expected that he should be sorry to get his
father's property; but he is sorry that there should be no--no provision
for you. He means that you should have the house--"
"But I never thought she was going to be married, by Jove!" protested
the rightful owner. "Look here, Molly; you shall have the furniture.
The house would sell for a good bit of money. I tell you, Wentworth--"
Jack Wentworth did not move from the mantlepiece where he was standing,
but he cast a glance upon his unlucky follower which froze the words on
his lips. "My good fellow, you are quite at liberty to decline my
mediation in your affairs. Probably you can manage them better your own
way," said Wodehouse's hero. "I can only beg the Miss Wodehouses to
pardon my intrusion." Jack Wentworth's first step towards the door let
loose a flood of nameless terrors upon the soul of his victim. If he
were abandoned by his powerful protector, what would become of him? His
very desire of money, and the avarice which prompted him to grudge
making any provision for his sisters, was, after all, not real avarice,
but the spendthrift's longing for more to spend. The house which he was
sentenced to give up represented not so much gold and silver, but so
many pleasures, fine dinners, and bad company. He could order the
dinners by himself, it is true, and get men like himself to eat them;
but the fine people--the men who had once been fine, and who still
retained a certain tarnished glory--were, so far as Wodehouse was
concerned, entirely in Jack Wentworth's keeping. He made a piteous
appeal to his patron as the great man turned to go away.
"I don't see what good it can do _you_ to rob a poor fellow!" cried
Wodehouse. "But look here, I aint going to turn against your advice.
I'll give it them, by Jove, for life--that is, for Mary's life," said
the munificent brother. "She's twenty years older than Lucy--"
"How do you dare to subject us to such insults?" cried the indignant
Lucy, whose little hand clenched involuntarily in her passion. She had
a great deal of self-control, but she was not quite equal to such an
emergency; and it was all she could do to keep from stamping her foot,
which was the only utterance of rage possible to a gentlewoman in her
position. "I would rather see my father's house desecrated by you
living in it," she cried, passionately, "than accept it as a gift from
your hands. Mary, we are not obliged to submit to this. Let us rather
go away at once. I will not remain in the same room with this man!"
cried Lucy. She was so overwhelmed with her unwonted passion that she
lost all command of the position, and even of herself, and was false
for the moment to all her sweet codes of womanly behaviour. "How dare
you, sir!" she cried in the sudden storm for which nobody was prepared.
"We will remove the things belonging to us, with which nobody has any
right to interfere, and we will leave immediately. Mary, come with me!"
When she had said this, Lucy swept out of the room, pale as a little
fury, and feeling in her heart a savage female inclination to strike
Jack Wentworth, who opened the door for her, with her little white
clenched hand. Too much excited to remark whether her sister had
followed her, Lucy ran up-stairs to her room, and there gave way to the
inevitable tears. Coming to herself after that was a terribly humbling
process to the little Anglican. She had never fallen into a "passion"
before that she knew of, certainly never since nursery times; and often
enough her severe serene girlhood had looked reproving and surprised
upon the tumults of Prickett's Lane, awing the belligerents into at
least temporary silence. Now poor Lucy sat and cried over her downfall;
she had forgotten herself; she had been conscious of an inclination to
stamp, to scold, even to strike, in the vehemence of her indignation;
and she was utterly overpowered by the thought of her guiltiness.
"The very first temptation!" she said to herself; and made terrible
reflections upon her own want of strength and endurance. To-day, too,
of all days, when God had been so good to her! "If I yield to the first
temptation like this, how shall I ever endure to the end?" cried Lucy,
and in her heart thought, with a certain longing, of the sacrament of
penance, and tried to think what she could do that would be most
disagreeable, to the mortifying of the flesh. Perhaps if she had
possessed a more lively sense of humour, another view of the subject
might have struck Lucy; but humour, fortunately for the unity of human
sentiment, is generally developed at a later period of life, and Lucy's
fit of passion only made her think with greater tenderness and
toleration of her termagants in Prickett's Lane.
The three who were left down-stairs were in their different ways
impressed by Lucy's passion. Jack Wentworth, being a man of humour and
cultivation, was amused, but respectful, as having still a certain
faculty of appreciating absolute purity when he saw it. As for
Wodehouse, he gave another rude laugh, but was cowed, in spite of
himself, and felt involuntarily what a shabby wretch he was,
recognising that fact more impressively from the contempt of Lucy's
pale face than he could have done through hours of argument. Miss
Wodehouse, for her part, though very anxious and nervous, was not
without an interest in the question under discussion. _She_ was not
specially horrified by her brother, or anything he could say or do. He
was Tom to her--a boy with whom she had once played, and whom she had
shielded with all her sisterly might in his first transgressions. She
had suffered a great deal more by his means than Lucy could ever
suffer, and consequently was more tolerant of him. She kept her seat
with the St Agnes in the chair behind, and watched the course of
events with anxious steadiness. She did not care for money any more
than Lucy did; but she could not help thinking it would be very
pleasant if she could produce one good action on "poor Tom's" part to
plead for him against any possible criticisms of the future. Miss
Wodehouse was old enough to know that her Rector was not an ideal
hero, but an ordinary man, and it was quite possible that he might
point a future moral now and then with "that brother of yours, my
dear." The elder sister waited accordingly, with her heart beating
quick, to know the decision, very anxious that she might have at least
one generous deed to record to the advantage of poor Tom.
"I think we are quite decided on the point," said Jack Wentworth.
"Knowing your sentiments, Wodehouse, I left directions with Waters
about the papers. I think you will find him to be trusted, Miss
Wodehouse, if you wish to consult him about letting or selling--"
"By Jove!" exclaimed Wodehouse, under his breath.
"Which, I suppose," continued the superb Jack, "you will wish to do
under the pleasant circumstances, upon which I beg to offer you my
congratulations. Now, Tom, my good fellow, I am at your service. I
think we have done our business here."
Wodehouse got up in his sulky reluctant way like a lazy dog. "I
suppose you won't try to move the furniture now?" he said. These were
the only adieux he intended to make, and perhaps they might have been
expressed with still less civility, had not Jack Wentworth been
standing waiting for him at the door.
"Oh, Tom! I am so thankful you have done it!" cried Miss Wodehouse.
"It is not that I care for the money; but oh, Tom, I am so glad to
think nobody can say anything now." She followed them wistfully to the
door, not giving up hopes of a kinder parting. "I think it is very
kind and nice of you, and what dear papa would have wished," said the
elder sister, forgetting how all her father's plans had been brought
to nothing; "and of course you will live here all the same?" she said,
with a little eagerness, "that is, till--till--as long as we are
here--"
"Good-bye, Miss Wodehouse," said Jack Wentworth. "I don't think either
your brother or I will stay much longer in Carlingford. You must
accept my best wishes for your happiness all the same."
"You are very kind, I am sure," said the embarrassed bride; "and oh,
Tom, you will surely say good-bye? Say good-bye once as if you meant
it; don't go away as if you did not care. Tom, I always was very fond
of you; and don't you feel a little different to us, now you've done
us a kindness?" cried Miss Wodehouse, going out after him to the
landing-place. But Wodehouse was in no humour to be gracious. Instead
of paying any attention to her, he looked regretfully at the property
he had lost.
"Good-bye," he said, vaguely. "By Jove! I know better than Jack
Wentworth does the value of property. We might have had a jolly month at
Homburg out of that old place," said the prodigal, with regret, as he
went down the old-fashioned oak stair. That was his farewell to the
house which he had entered so disastrously on the day of his father's
funeral. He followed his leader with a sulky aspect through the garden,
not venturing to disobey, but yet feeling the weight of his chains. And
this was how Wodehouse accomplished his personal share in the gift to
his sisters, of which Miss Wodehouse told everybody that it was "so good
of Tom!"