It was the same afternoon that Mr Wentworth failed to attend, as he had
never been known to fail before, at the afternoon's school which he had
set up in Prickett's Lane for the young bargemen, who between the
intervals of their voyages had a little leisure at that hour of the day.
It is true there was a master provided, and the presence of the
Perpetual Curate was not indispensable; but the lads, among whom,
indeed, there were some men, were so much used to his presence as to get
restless at their work on this unprecedented emergency. The master knew
no other resource than to send for Miss Lucy Wodehouse, who was known to
be on the other side of Prickett's Lane at the moment, superintending a
similar educational undertaking for the benefit of the girls. It was, as
may be supposed, embarrassing to Lucy to be called upon to render an
account of Mr Wentworth's absence, and invited to take his place in this
public and open manner; but then the conventional reticences were
unknown in Wharfside, and nobody thought it necessary to conceal his
certainty that the Curate's movements were better known to Lucy than to
anybody else. She had to make answer with as much composure as possible
in the full gaze of so many pairs of curious eyes, that she did not know
why Mr Wentworth was absent--"Somebody is sick, perhaps," said Lucy,
repeating an excuse which had been made before for the Perpetual Curate;
"but I hope it does not make any difference," she went on, turning round
upon all the upturned heads which were neglecting their work to stare at
her. "Mr Wentworth would be grieved to think that his absence did his
scholars any injury." Lucy looked one of the ringleaders in the eyes as
she spoke, and brought him to his senses--all the more effectually, to
be sure, because she knew all about him, and was a familiar figure to
the boy, suggesting various little comforts, for which, in Prickett's
Lane, people were not ungrateful. But when she went back again to her
girls, the young lady found herself in a state of excitement which was
half annoyance and half a kind of shy pleasure. To be sure, it was quite
true that they did belong to each other; but at the same time, so long
as she was Lucy Wodehouse, she had no right to be called upon to
represent "the clergyman," even in "the district" which was so important
to both. And then it occurred to her to remember that if she remained
Lucy Wodehouse that was not the Curate's fault--from which thought she
went on to reflect that going away with Mr and Mrs Proctor when they
were married was not a charming prospect, not to say that it involved a
renunciation of the district for the present at least, and possibly for
ever; for if Mr Wentworth could not marry as long as he was a perpetual
curate, it followed of necessity that he could not marry until he had left
Carlingford--an idea which Lucy turned over in her mind very seriously
as she walked home, for this once unattended. A new light seemed to be
thrown upon the whole matter by this thought. To consent to be married
simply for her own happiness, to the disadvantage in any respect of her
husband, was an idea odious to this young woman, who, like most young
women, preferred to represent even to herself that it was for _his_
happiness that she permitted herself to be persuaded to marry; but if
duty were involved, that was quite another affair. It was quite evident
to Lucy, as she walked towards Grange Lane, that the Curate would not be
able to find any one to take her place in the district; perhaps
also--for she was honest even in her self-delusions--Lucy was aware that
she might herself have objections to the finding of a substitute; and
what then? Was the great work to be interrupted because she could not
bear the idea of possibly diminishing some of his external comforts by
allowing him to have his way, and to be what he considered happy? Such
was the wonderful length to which her thoughts had come when she reached
the garden-door, from which Mr Wentworth himself, flushed and eager,
came hastily out as she approached. So far from explaining his
unaccountable absence, or even greeting her with ordinary politeness,
the young man seized her by the arm and brought her into the garden with
a rapidity which made her giddy. "What is it--what do you mean?" Lucy
cried with amazement as she found herself whirled through the sunshine
and half carried up the stairs. Mr Wentworth made no answer until he had
deposited her breathless in her own chair, in her own corner, and then
got down on his knee beside her, as men in his crazy circumstances are
not unapt to do.
"Lucy, look here. I was a perpetual curate the other day when you said
you would have me," said the energetic lover, who was certainly out of
his wits, and did not know what he was saying--"and you said you did
not mind?"
"I said it did not matter," said Lucy, who was slightly piqued that he
did not recollect exactly the form of so important a decision. "I knew
well enough you were a perpetual curate. Has anything happened, or are
you going out of your mind?"
"I think it must be that," said Mr Wentworth. "Something so
extraordinary has happened that I cannot believe it. Was I in Prickett's
Lane this afternoon as usual, or was I at home in my own room talking to
the Rector--or have I fallen asleep somewhere, and is the whole thing a
dream?"
"You were certainly not in Prickett's Lane," said Lucy. "I see what it
is. Miss Leonora Wentworth has changed her mind, and you are going to
have Skelmersdale after all. I did not think you could have made up
your mind to leave the district. It is not news that gives me any
pleasure," said the Sister of Mercy, as she loosed slowly off from her
shoulders the grey cloak which was the uniform of the district. Her
own thoughts had been so different that she felt intensely mortified
to think of the unnecessary decision she had been so near making, and
disappointed that the offer of a living could have moved her lover to
such a pitch of pleasure. "All men are alike, it seems," she said to
herself, with a little quiver in her lip--a mode of forestalling his
communications which filled the Perpetual Curate with amazement and
dismay.
"What are you thinking of?" he said. "Miss Leonora Wentworth has not
changed her mind. That would have been a natural accident enough, but
this is incredible. If you like, Lucy," he added, with an unsteady
laugh, "and will consent to my original proposition, you may marry on
the 15th, not the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's, but the Rector of
Carlingford. Don't look at me with such an unbelieving countenance. It
is quite true."
"I wonder how you can talk so," cried Lucy, indignantly; "it is all a
made-up story; you know it is. I don't like practical jokes," she went
on, trembling a little, and taking another furtive look at him--for
somehow it was too wonderful not to be true.
"If I had been making up a story, I should have kept to what was
likely," said Mr Wentworth. "The Rector has been with me all the
afternoon--he says he has been offered his father's rectory, where he
was brought up, and that he has made up his mind to accept it, as he
always was fond of the country;--and that he has recommended me to his
College for the living of Carlingford."
"Yes, yes," said Lucy, impatiently, "that is very good of Mr Morgan;
but you know you are not a member of the College, and why should you
have the living? I knew it could not be true."
"They are all a set of old--Dons," said the Perpetual Curate; "that is,
they are the most accomplished set of fellows in existence, Lucy--or at
least they ought to be--but they are too superior to take an ordinary
living, and condescend to ordinary existence. Here has Carlingford been
twice vacant within a year--which is an unprecedented event--and Buller,
the only man who would think of it, is hanging on for a colonial
bishopric, where he can publish his book at his leisure. Buller is a
great friend of Gerald's. It is incredible, _Lucia mia_, but it is
true."
"Is it true? are you _sure_ it is true?" cried Lucy; and in spite of
herself she broke down and gave way, and let her head rest on the first
convenient support it found, which turned out, naturally enough, to be
Mr Wentworth's shoulder, and cried as if her heart was breaking. It is
so seldom in this world that things come just when they are wanted; and
this was not only an acceptable benefice, but implied the entire
possession of the "district" and the most conclusive vindication of the
Curate's honour. Lucy cried out of pride and happiness and glory in him.
She said to herself, as Mrs Morgan had done at the beginning of her
incumbency, "He will be such a Rector as Carlingford has never seen."
Yet at the same time, apart from her glorying and her pride, a certain
sense of pain, exquisite though shortlived, found expression in Lucy's
tears. She had just been making up her mind to accept a share of his
lowliness, and to show the world that even a Perpetual Curate, when his
wife was equal to her position, might be poor without feeling any of the
degradations of poverty; and now she was forestalled, and had nothing to
do but accept his competence, which it would be no credit to manage
well! Such were the thoughts to which she was reduced, though she had
come home from Prickett's Lane persuading herself that it was duty only,
and the wants of the district, which moved her. Lucy cried, although not
much given to crying, chiefly because it was the only method she could
find of giving expression to the feelings which were too varied and too
complicated for words.
All Carlingford knew the truth about Mr Wentworth's advancement that
evening, and on the next day, which was Sunday, the Church of St
Roque's was as full as if the plague had broken out in Carlingford,
and the population had rushed out, as they might have done in medieval
times, to implore the succour of the physician-saint. The first
indication of the unusual throng was conveyed to Mr Wentworth in his
little vestry after the choristers had filed into the church in their
white surplices, about which, to tell the truth, the Perpetual Curate
was less interested than he had once been. Elsworthy, who had been
humbly assisting the young priest to robe himself, ventured to break
the silence when they were alone.
"The church is very full, sir," said Elsworthy; "there's a deal of
people come, sir, after hearing the news. I don't say I've always been
as good a servant as I ought to have been; but it was all through
being led away, and not knowing no better, and putting my trust where
I shouldn't have put it. I've had a hard lesson, sir, and I've learnt
better," he continued, with a sidelong glance at the Curate's face;
"it was all a mistake."
"I was not finding fault with you, that I am aware of," said Mr
Wentworth, with a little surprise.
"No, sir," said Elsworthy, "I am aware as you wasn't finding no fault;
but there's looks as speaks as strong as words, and I can feel as you
haven't the confidence in me as you once had. I aint ashamed to say
it, sir," continued the clerk of St Roque's. "I'm one as trusted in
that girl's innocent looks, and didn't believe as she could do no
harm. She's led me into ill-feeling with my clergyman, sir, and done
me a deal o' damage in my trade, and now she's gone off without as
much as saying 'Thank you for your kindness.' It's a hard blow upon a
man as was fond of her, and I didn't make no difference, no more than
if she had been my own child."
"Well, well," said the Curate, "I daresay it was a trial to you; but
you can't expect me to take much interest in it after all that has
passed. Let bygones be bygones," said Mr Wentworth, with a smile, "as
indeed you once proposed."
"Ah! sir, that was my mistake," sighed the penitent. "I would have
'umbled myself more becoming, if I had known all as I know now. You're
a-going off to leave St Roque's, where we've all been so happy," said
Mr Elsworthy, in pathetic tones. "I don't know as I ever was as 'appy,
sir, as here, a-listening to them beautiful sermons, and a-giving my
best attention to see as the responses was well spoke out, and things
done proper. Afore our troubles began, sir, I don't know as I had a
wish in the world, unless it was to see an 'andsome painted window in
the chancel, which is all as is wanted to make the church perfect; and
now you're a-going to leave, and nobody knows what kind of a gentleman
may be sent. If you wouldn't think I was making too bold," said
Elsworthy, "it aint my opinion as you'll ever put up with poor old
Norris as is in the church. Men like Mr Morgan and Mr Proctor as had
no cultivation doesn't mind; but for a gentleman as goes through the
service as you does it, Mr Wentworth--"
Mr Wentworth laughed, though he was fully robed and ready for the
reading-desk, and knew that his congregation was waiting. He held his
watch in his hand, though it already marked the half minute after
eleven. "So you would like to be clerk in the parish church?" he said,
with what seemed a quite unnecessary amount of amusement to the
anxious functionary by his side.
"I think as you could never put up with old Norris, sir," said
Elsworthy; "as for leading of the responses, there aint such a thing
done in Carlingford Church. I don't speak for myself," said the
public-spirited clerk, "but it aint a right thing for the rising
generation; and it aint everybody as would get into your way in a
minute--for you have a way of your own, sir, in most things, and if
you'll excuse me for saying of it, you're very particular. It aint
every man, sir, as could carry on clear through the service along of
you, Mr Wentworth; and you wouldn't put up with old Norris, not for a
day."
Such was the conversation which opened this memorable Sunday to Mr
Wentworth. Opposite to him, again occupying the seat where his wife
should have been, had he possessed one, were the three Miss Wentworths,
his respected aunts, to whose opinion, however, the Curate did not feel
himself bound to defer very greatly in present circumstances; and a
large and curious congregation ranged behind them, almost as much
concerned to see how Mr Wentworth would conduct himself in this moment
of triumph, as they had been in the moment of his humiliation. It is,
however, needless to inform the friends of the Perpetual Curate that the
anxious community gained very little by their curiosity. It was not the
custom of the young Anglican to carry his personal feelings, either of
one kind or another, into the pulpit with him, much less into the
reading-desk, where he was the interpreter not of his own sentiments or
emotions, but of common prayer and universal worship. Mr Wentworth
did not even throw a little additional warmth into his utterance of
the general thanksgiving, as he might have done had he been a more
effusive man; but, on the contrary, read it with a more than ordinary
calmness, and preached to the excited people one of those terse little
unimpassioned sermons of his, from which it was utterly impossible to
divine whether he was in the depths of despair or at the summit and
crown of happiness. People who had been used to discover a great many of
old Mr Bury's personal peculiarities in his sermons, and who, of recent
days, had found many allusions which it was easy to interpret in the
discourses of Mr Morgan, retired altogether baffled from the clear and
succinct brevity of the Curate of St Roque's. He was that day in
particular so terse as to be almost epigrammatic, not using a word
more than was necessary, and displaying that power of saying a great
deal more than at the first moment he appeared to say, in which Mr
Wentworth's admirers specially prided themselves. Perhaps a momentary
human gratification in the consciousness of having utterly baffled
curiosity, passed through the Curate's mind as he took off his robes
when the service was over; but he was by no means prepared for the
ordeal which awaited him when he stepped forth from the pretty porch of
St Roque's. There his three aunts were awaiting him, eager to hear all
about it, Miss Dora, for the first time in her life, holding the
principal place. "We are going away to-morrow, Frank, and of course you
are coming to lunch with us," said aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. "Oh,
my dear boy, I am so happy, and so ashamed, to hear of it. To think you
should be provided for, and nobody belonging to you have anything to do
with it! I don't know what to say," said Miss Dora, who was half crying
as usual; "and as for Leonora, one is frightened to speak to her. Oh, I
wish you would say something to your aunt Leonora, Frank. I don't know
whether she is angry with us or with you or with herself, or what it is;
or if it is an attack on the nerves--though I never imagined she had any
nerves; but, indeed, whatever my brother may say, it looks very
like--dreadfully like--the coming-on of the Wentworth complaint. Poor
papa was just like that when he used to have it coming on; and Leonora
is not just--altogether--what you would call a female, Frank. Oh, my
dear boy, if you would only speak to her!" cried Miss Dora, who was a
great deal too much in earnest to perceive anything comical in what she
had said.
"I should think it must be an attack on the temper," said the Curate,
who, now that it was all over, felt that it was but just his aunt
Leonora should suffer a little for her treatment of him. "Perhaps some
of her favourite colporteurs have fallen back into evil ways. There was
one who had been a terrible blackguard, I remember. It is something that
has happened among her mission people, you may be sure, and nothing
about me."
"You don't know Leonora, Frank. She is very fond of you, though she
does not show it," said Miss Dora, as she led her victim in
triumphantly through the garden-door, from which the reluctant young
man could see Lucy and her sister in their black dresses just arriving
at the other green door from the parish church, where they had
occupied their usual places, according to the ideas of propriety which
were common to both the Miss Wodehouses. Mr Wentworth had to content
himself with taking off his hat to them, and followed his aunts to the
table, where Miss Leonora took her seat much with the air of a judge
about to deliver a sentence. She did not restrain herself even in the
consideration of the presence of Lewis the butler, who, to be sure,
had been long enough in the Wentworth family to know as much about its
concerns as the members of the house themselves, or perhaps a little
more. Miss Leonora sat down grim and formidable in her bonnet, which
was in the style of a remote period, and did not soften the severity
of her personal appearance. She pointed her nephew to a seat beside
her, but she did not relax her features, nor condescend to any
ordinary preliminaries of conversation. For that day even she took
Lewis's business out of his astonished hands, and herself divided the
chicken with a swift and steady knife and anatomical precision; and it
was while occupied in this congenial business that she broke forth
upon Frank in a manner so unexpected as almost to take away his
breath.
"I suppose this is what fools call poetic justice," said Miss Leonora,
"which is just of a piece with everything else that is poetical--weak
folly and nonsense that no sensible man would have anything to say to.
How a young man like you, who know how to conduct yourself in some
things, and have, I don't deny, many good qualities, can give in to
come to an ending like a trashy novel, is more than I can understand.
You are fit to be put in a book of the Good-child series, Frank, as an
illustration of the reward of virtue," said the strong-minded woman,
with a little snort of scorn; "and, of course, you are going to
marry, and live happy ever after, like a fairy tale."
"It is possible I may be guilty of that additional enormity," said the
Curate, "which, at all events, will not be your doing, my dear aunt, if
I might suggest a consolation. You cannot help such things happening,
but, at least, it should be a comfort to feel you have done nothing to
bring them about."
To which Miss Leonora answered by another hard breath of mingled disdain
and resentment. "Whatever I have brought about, I have tried to do what
I thought my duty," she said. "It has always seemed to me a very poor
sort of virtue that expects a reward for doing what it ought to do. I
don't say you haven't behaved very well in this business, but you've
done nothing extraordinary; and why I should have rushed out of my way
to reward you for it--Oh, yes, I know you did not expect anything," said
Miss Leonora; "you have told me as much on various occasions, Frank. You
have, of course, always been perfectly independent, and scorned to
flatter your old aunts by any deference to their convictions; and, to be
sure, it is nothing to you any little pang they may feel at having to
dispose otherwise of a living that has always been in the family. You
are of the latest fashion of Anglicanism, and we are only a parcel of
old women. It was not to be expected that our antiquated ideas could be
worth as much to you as a parcel of flowers and trumpery--"
These were actually tears which glittered in Miss Leonora's eyes of
fiery hazel grey--tears of very diminutive size, totally unlike the
big dewdrops which rained from Miss Dora's placid orbs and made them
red, but did _her_ no harm--but still a real moisture, forced out of a
fountain which lay very deep down and inaccessible to ordinary
efforts. They made her eyes look rather fiercer than otherwise for the
moment; but they all but impeded Miss Leonora's speech, and struck
with the wildest consternation the entire party at the table,
including even Lewis, who stood transfixed in the act of drawing a
bottle of soda-water, and, letting the cork escape him in his
amazement, brought affairs to an unlooked-for climax by hitting Miss
Wentworth, who had been looking on with interest without taking any
part in the proceedings. When the fright caused by this unintentional
shot had subsided, Miss Leonora was found to have entirely recovered
herself; but not so the Perpetual Curate, who had changed colour
wonderfully, and no longer met his accuser with reciprocal disdain.
"My dear aunt," said Frank Wentworth, "I wish you would not go back to
that. I suppose we parsons are apt sometimes to exaggerate trifles
into importance, as my father says. But, however, as things have
turned out, I could not have left Carlingford," the Curate added, in a
tone of conciliation; "and now, when good fortune has come to me
unsought--"
Miss Leonora finished her portion of chicken in one energetic gulp,
and got up from the table. "Poetic justice!" she said, with a furious
sneer. "I don't believe in that kind of rubbish. As long as you were
getting on quietly with your work I felt disposed to be rather proud
of you, Frank. But I don't approve of a man ending off neatly like a
novel in this sort of ridiculous way. When you succeed to the Rectory
I suppose you will begin fighting, like the other man, with the new
curate, for working in your parish?"
"When I succeed to the Rectory," said Mr Wentworth, getting up in his
turn from the table, "I give you my word, aunt Leonora, no man shall
work in _my_ parish unless I set him to do it. Now I must be off to my
work. I don't suppose Carlingford Rectory will be the end of me," the
Perpetual Curate added, as he went away, with a smile which his aunts
could not interpret. As for Miss Leonora, she tied her bonnet-strings
very tight, and went off to the afternoon service at Salem Chapel by
way of expressing her sentiments more forcibly. "I daresay he's bold
enough to take a bishopric," she said to herself; "but fortunately
we've got _that_ in our own hands as long as Lord Shaftesbury lives;"
and Miss Leonora smiled grimly over the prerogatives of her party. But
though she went to the Salem Chapel that afternoon, and consoled herself
that she could secure the bench of bishops from any audacious invasion
of Frank Wentworth's hopes, it is true, notwithstanding, that Miss
Leonora sent her maid next morning to London with certain obsolete
ornaments, of which, though the fashion was hideous, the jewels were
precious; and Lucy Wodehouse had never seen anything so brilliant as
the appearance they presented when they returned shortly after
reposing upon beds of white satin in cases of velvet--"Ridiculous
things," as Miss Leonora informed her, "for a parson's wife."
It was some time after this--for, not to speak of ecclesiastical
matters, a removal, even when the furniture is left behind and there
are only books, and rare ferns, and old china, to convey from one
house to another, is a matter which involves delays--when Mr Wentworth
went to the railway station with Mrs Morgan to see her off finally,
her husband having gone to London with the intention of joining her in
the new house. Naturally, it was not without serious thoughts that the
Rector's wife left the place in which she had made the first beginning
of her active life, not so successfully as she had hoped. She could
not help recalling, as she went along the familiar road, the hopes so
vivid as to be almost certainties with which she had come into
Carlingford. The long waiting was then over, and the much-respected
era had arrived and existence had seemed to be opening in all its
fulness and strength before the two who had looked forward to it so
long. It was not much more than six months ago; but Mrs Morgan had
made a great many discoveries in the mean time. She had found out the
wonderful difference between anticipation and reality; and that life,
even to a happy woman married after long patience to the man of her
choice, was not the smooth road it looked, but a rough path enough
cut into dangerous ruts, through which generations of men and women
followed each other without ever being able to mend the way. She was
not so sure as she used to be of a great many important matters which
it is a wonderful consolation to be certain of--but, notwithstanding,
had to go on as if she had no doubts, though the clouds of a defeat,
in which, certainly, no honour, though a good deal of the _prestige_
of inexperience had been lost, were still looming behind. She gave a
little sigh as she shook Mr Wentworth's hand at parting. "A great many
things have happened in six months," she said--"one never could have
anticipated so many changes in what looks so short a period of one's
life"--and as the train which she had watched so often rushed past that
new bit of wall on which the Virginian creeper was beginning to grow
luxuriantly, which screened the railway from the Rectory windows, there
were tears in Mrs Morgan's eyes. Only six months and so much had
happened!--what might not happen in all those months, in all those years
of life which scarcely looked so hopeful as of old? She preferred
turning her back upon Carlingford, though it was the least comfortable
side of the carriage, and put down her veil to shield her eyes from the
dust, or perhaps from the inspection of her fellow-travellers: and once
more the familiar thought returned to her of what a different woman she
would have been had she come to her first experiences of life with the
courage and confidence of twenty or even of five-and-twenty, which was
the age Mrs Morgan dwelt upon most kindly. And then she thought with a
thrill of vivid kindness and a touch of tender envy of Lucy Wodehouse,
who would now have no possible occasion to wait those ten years.
As for Mr Wentworth, he who was a priest, and knew more about
Carlingford than any other man in the place, could not help thinking,
as he turned back, of people there, to whom these six months had
produced alterations far more terrible than any that had befallen the
Rector's wife:--people from whom the light of life had died out, and
to whom all the world was changed. He knew of men who had been
cheerful enough when Mr Morgan came to Carlingford, who now did not
care what became of them; and of women who would be glad to lay down
their heads and hide them from the mocking light of day. He knew it,
and it touched his heart with the tenderest pity of life, the
compassion of happiness; and he knew too that the path upon which he
was about to set out led through the same glooms, and was no ideal
career. But perhaps because Mr Wentworth was young--perhaps because he
was possessed by that delicate sprite more dainty than any Ariel who
puts rosy girdles round the world while his time of triumph lasts--it
is certain that the new Rector of Carlingford turned back into Grange
Lane without the least shadow upon his mind or timidity in his
thoughts. He was now in his own domains, an independent monarch, as
little inclined to divide his power as any autocrat; and Mr Wentworth
came into his kingdom without any doubts of his success in it, or of
his capability for its government. He had first a little journey to
make to bring back Lucy from that temporary and reluctant separation
from the district which propriety had made needful; but, in the mean
time, Mr Wentworth trode with firm foot the streets of his parish,
secure that no parson nor priest should tithe or toll in his
dominions, and a great deal more sure than even Mr Morgan had been,
that henceforth no unauthorised evangelisation should take place in
any portion of his territory. This sentiment, perhaps, was the
principal difference perceptible by the community in general between
the new Rector of Carlingford and the late Perpetual Curate of St
Roque's.
FOOTNOTE
[1] She was the daughter of old Sir Jasper Shelton, a poor family, but
very respectable, and connected with the Westerns.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Contemporary spellings have been retained even when inconsistent. A
small number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected and
missing punctuation has been silently added.
The following additional changes have been made to the text:
the news with which her heart was the news with which her heart was
beating were beating was
neither here not there neither here nor there
the trouble which has overtaken the trouble which had overtaken
wiled the night away whiled the night away
his handkerchief to this eyes his handkerchief to his eyes
Notwithstanding, that fact is, that Notwithstanding, the fact is, that
than ever come out of mortal loom than ever came out of mortal loom
Thomson Thompson
End of Project Gutenberg's The Perpetual Curate, by Mrs [Margaret] Oliphant