X

It may be easily supposed after this that Mr. Wentworth and his proceedings were sufficiently overlooked and commented upon in Carlingford. The Miss Wentworths took old Major Brown’s house for six months, which, as everybody knows, is next door to Dr. Marjoribanks. It was just after Letty Brown’s marriage, and the poor old Major was very glad to go away and pay a round of visits, and try to forget that his last daughter had gone the way of all the rest. There was a summerhouse built in the corner of the garden, with a window in the outer wall looking on to Grange Lane, from which everything that happened could be inspected; and there was always somebody at that window when the Perpetual Curate passed by. Then he began to have a strange painful feeling that Lucy watched too, and was observing all his looks and ways, and what he did and said in these changed times. It was a strange difference from the sweet half-conscious bond between them which existed of old, when they walked home together from Wharfside, talking of the district and the people, in the tender union of unspoken love and fellowship. Not that they were altogether parted now; but Lucy contrived to leave the schoolroom most days before the young priest could manage to disrobe himself, and was seldom to be seen on the road lingering on her errands of kindness as she used to do. But still she knew all he was about, and watched, standing in doubt and wonder of him, which was at least a great deal better than indifference. On the whole, however, it was a cloudy world through which the Perpetual Curate passed as he went from his lodgings, where the whistle of the new lodger had become a great nuisance to him, past the long range of garden-walls, the sentinel window where Miss Dora looked out watching for him, and Mr. Wodehouse’s green door which he no longer entered every day. Over the young man’s mind, as he went out to his labours, there used to come that sensation of having nobody to fall back upon, which is of all feelings the most desolate. Amid all those people who were watching him, there was no one upon whom he could rest, secure of understanding and sympathy. They were all critical⁠—examining, with more or less comprehension, what he did; and he could not think of anybody in the world just then who would be content with knowing that he did it, and take that as warranty for the act, unless, perhaps, his poor aunt Dora, whose opinion was not important to the young man. It was not a pleasant state of mind into which these feelings threw him; and the natural result was, that he grew more and more careful about the rubric, and confined his sermons, with increasing precision, to the beautiful arrangements of the Church. They were very clever little sermons, even within these limitations, and an indifferent spectator would probably have been surprised to find how much he could make out of them; but still it is undeniable that a man has less scope, not only for oratory, but for all that is worthy of regard in human speech, when, instead of the everlasting reciprocations between heaven and earth, he occupies himself only with a set of ecclesiastical arrangements, however perfect. The people who went to St. Roque’s found this out, and so did Mr. Wentworth; but it did not alter the system pursued by the troubled Curate. Perhaps he gave himself some half-conscious credit for it, as being against his own interests; for there was no mistaking the countenance of Miss Leonora, when now and then, on rare occasions, she came to hear her nephew preach.

All this, however, was confined to St. Roque’s, where there was a somewhat select audience, people who agreed in Mr. Wentworth’s views; but things were entirely different at Wharfside, where the Perpetual Curate was not thinking about himself, but simply about his work, and how to do it best. The bargemen and their wives did not know much about the Christian year; but they understood the greater matters which lay beneath: and the women said to each other, sometimes with tears in their eyes, that there was nothing that the clergyman didn’t make plain; and that if the men didn’t do what was right, it was none o’ Mr. Wentworth’s fault. The young priest indemnified himself in “the district” for much that vexed him elsewhere. There was no question of Skelmersdale, or of any moot point there, but only a quantity of primitive people under the original conditions of humanity, whose lives might be amended, and consoled, and elevated. That was a matter about which Mr. Wentworth had no doubt. He put on his surplice with the conviction that in that white ephod the truest embodiment of Christian purity was brought within sight of the darkened world. He was not himself, but a Christian priest, with power to deliver and to bless, when he went to Wharfside.

Easter had been early that year, and Ascension Day was in the beginning of May, one of those sweet days of early summer which still occur now and then to prove that the poets were right in all they say of the tenderest month of the year. Mr. Wentworth had done duty at St. Roque’s, and afterwards at Wharfside. The sweet day and the sweet season had moved his heart. He was young, and it was hard to live shut up within himself without any sympathy either from man or woman. He had watched the grey cloak gliding out as his rude congregation dispersed, and went away quicker than was his wont, with a stronger longing than usual to overtake Lucy, and recover his place beside her. But she was not to be seen when he got into Prickett’s Lane. He looked up the weary length of the street, and saw nothing but the children playing on the pavement, and some slovenly mothers at the doors. It was a very disenchanting prospect. He went on again in a kind of gloomy discontent, displeased with everything. What was the good of it all? he said to himself⁠—weariness, and toil, and trouble, and nothing ever to come of it. As for the little good he was doing in Wharfside, God did not need his poor exertions; and, to tell the truth, going on at St. Roque’s, however perfect the rubric and pretty the church, was, without any personal stimulant of happiness, no great prospect for the Perpetual Curate. Such was the tenor of his thoughts, when he saw a black figure suddenly emerge out of one of the houses, and stand at the door, throwing a long shadow over the pavement. It was the Rector who was standing there in Mr. Wentworth’s favourite district, talking to a shopkeeper who had always been on the opposition side. The young Anglican raised his drooping head instantly, and recovered his interest in the general world.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Wentworth,” said the Rector. “I have been speaking to this worthy man about the necessities of the district. The statistics are far from being satisfactory. Five thousand souls, and no provision for their spiritual wants; it is a very sad state of affairs. I mean to take steps immediately to remedy all that.”

“A bit of a Methody chapel, that’s all,” said the opposition shopkeeper; “and the schoolroom, as Mr. Wentworth⁠—”

“Yes, I have heard of that,” said the Rector, blandly;⁠—somebody had advised Mr. Morgan to change his tactics, and this was the first evidence of the new policy⁠—“I hear you have been doing what little you could to mend matters. It is very laudable zeal in so young a man. But, of course, as you were without authority, and had so little in your power, it could only be a very temporary expedient. I am very much obliged to you for your good intentions.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Perpetual Curate, rousing up as at the sound of the trumpet, “I don’t care in the least about my good intentions; but you have been much deceived if you have not understood that there is a great work going on in Wharfside. I hope, Saunders, you have had no hand in deceiving Mr. Morgan. I shall be glad to show you my statistics, which are more satisfactory than the town list,” said Mr. Wentworth. “The schoolroom is consecrated; and but that I thought we had better work slowly and steadily, there is many a district in worse condition which has its church and its incumbent. I shall be very happy to give you all possible information; it is best to go to the fountainhead.”

“The fountainhead!” said the Rector, who began not unnaturally to lose his temper. “Are you aware, sir, that Wharfside is in my parish?”

“And so is St. Roque’s, I suppose,” said the Curate, affably. “I have no district, but I have my cure of souls all the same. As for Wharfside, the Rector of Carlingford never had had anything to do with it. Mr. Bury and Mr. Proctor made it over to me. I act upon their authority; but I should like to prove to you it is something more than a temporary expedient,” said the young Anglican, with a smile. Mr. Morgan was gradually getting very hot and flushed. His temper got the better of him; he could not tolerate to be thus bearded on his own ground.

“It appears to me the most extraordinary assumption,” said the Rector. “I can’t fancy that you are ignorant of the law. I repeat, Wharfside is in my parish; and on what ground you can possibly justify such an incredible intrusion⁠—”

“Perhaps we might find a fitter place to discuss the matter,” said the Curate, with great suavity. “If you care to go to the schoolroom, we could be quiet there.”

“No, sir. I don’t care to go to the schoolroom. I decline to have anything to do with such an unwarrantable attempt to interfere with my rights,” said Mr. Morgan. “I don’t want to know what plausible arguments you may have to justify yourself. The fact remains, sir, that Wharfside is in my parish. If you have anything to say against that, I will listen to you,” said the irascible Rector. His Welsh blood was up; he even raised his voice a little, with a kind of half-feminine excitement, common to the Celtic race; and the consequence was that Mr. Wentworth, who stood perfectly calm to receive the storm, had all the advantage in the world over Mr. Morgan. The Perpetual Curate bowed with immovable composure, and felt himself master of the field.

“In that case, it will perhaps be better not to say anything,” he said; “but I think you will find difficulties in the way. Wharfside has some curious privileges, and pays no rates; but I have never taken up that ground. The two previous rectors made it over to me, and the work is too important to be ignored. I have had thoughts of applying to have it made into an ecclesiastical district,” said the Curate, with candour, “not thinking that the Rector of Carlingford, with so much to occupy him, would care to interfere with my labours; but at all events, to begin another mission here would be folly⁠—it would be copying the tactics of the Dissenters, if you will forgive me for saying so,” said Mr. Wentworth, looking calmly in the Rector’s face.

It was all Mr. Morgan could do to restrain himself. “I am not in the habit of being schooled by my⁠—juniors,” said the Rector, with suppressed fury. He meant to say inferiors, but the aspect of the Perpetual Curate checked him. Then the two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence. “Anything further you may have to say, you will perhaps communicate to my solicitor,” said the elder priest. “It is well known that some gentlemen of your views, Mr. Wentworth, think it safe to do evil that good may come;⁠—that is not my opinion; and I don’t mean to permit any invasion of my rights. I have the pleasure of wishing you good morning.”

Mr. Morgan took off his hat, and gave it a little angry flourish in the air before he put it on again. He had challenged his young brother to the only duel permitted by their cloth, and he turned to the opposition tradesman with vehemence, and went in again to the dusty little shop, where a humble assortment of groceries were displayed for the consumption of Prickett’s Lane. Mr. Wentworth remained standing outside in much amazement, not to say amusement, and a general sense of awakening and recovery. Next to happiness, perhaps enmity is the most healthful stimulant of the human mind. The Perpetual Curate woke up and realised his position with a sense of exhilaration, if the truth must be told. He muttered something to himself, uncomplimentary to Mr. Morgan’s good sense, as he turned away; but it was astonishing to find how much more lively and interesting Prickett’s Lane had become since that encounter. He went along cheerily, saying a word now and then to the people at the doors, every one of whom knew and recognised him, and acknowledged, in a lesser or greater degree, the sway of his bishopric. The groups he addressed made remarks after he had passed, which showed their sense of the improvement in his looks. “He’s more like himsel’ than he’s bin sin’ Easter,” said one woman, “and none o’ that crossed look, as if things had gone contrairy;⁠—Lord bless you, not cross⁠—he’s a deal too good a man for that⁠—but crossed-looking; it might be crossed in love for what I can tell.” “Them as is handsome like that seldom gets crossed in love,” said another experienced observer; “but if it was fortin, or whatever it was, there’s ne’er a one in Wharfside but wishes luck to the parson. It aint much matter for us women. Them as won’t strive to keep their children decent out o’ their own heads, they won’t do much for a clergyman; but, bless you, he can do a deal with the men, and it’s them as wants looking after.” “I’d like to go to his wedding,” said another. “I’d give a deal to hear it was all settled;” and amid these affectionate comments, Mr. Wentworth issued out of Prickett’s Lane. He went direct to Mr. Wodehouse’s green door, without making any excuses to himself. For the first time for some weeks he went in upon the sisters and told them all that had happened as of old. Lucy was still in her grey cloak as she had returned from the district, and it was with a feeling more distinct than sympathy that she heard of this threatened attack. “It is terrible to think that he could interfere with such a work out of jealousy of us,” said the Sister of Charity, with a wonderful light in her blue eyes; and she drew her low chair nearer, and listened with eloquent looks, which were balm to the soul of the Perpetual Curate. “But we are not to give up?” she said, giving him her hand, when he rose to go away. “Never!” said Mr. Wentworth; and if he held it more closely and longer than there was any particular occasion for, Lucy did not make any objection at that special moment. Then it turned out that he had business at the other end of the town, at the north end, where some trustee lived who had to do with the Orphan Schools, and whom the curate was obliged to see; and Miss Wodehouse gave him a timid invitation to come back to dinner. “But you are not to go home to dress; we shall be quite alone⁠—and you must be so tired,” said the elder sister, who for some reason or other was shy of Mr. Wentworth, and kept away from him whenever he called. So he went in on his way back, and dined in happiness and his morning coat, with a sweet conscious return to the familiar intercourse which these few disturbed weeks had interrupted. He was a different man when he went back again down Grange Lane. Once more the darkness was fragrant and musical about him. When he was tired thinking of his affairs, he fell back upon the memories of the evening, and Lucy’s looks and the “us” and “we,” which were so sweet to his ears. To have somebody behind whom one can fall back upon to fill up the interstices of thought⁠—that makes all the difference, as Mr. Wentworth found out, between a bright and a heavy life.

When he opened the garden-door with his key, and went softly in in the darkness, the Perpetual Curate was much surprised to hear voices among the trees. He waited a little, wondering, to see who it was; and profound was his amazement when a minute after little Rosa Elsworthy, hastily tying her hat over her curls, came rapidly along the walk from under the big walnut-tree, and essayed, with rather a tremulous hand, to open the door. Mr. Wentworth stepped forward suddenly and laid his hand on her arm. He was very angry and indignant, and no longer the benign superior being to whom Rosa was accustomed. “Whom have you been talking to?” said the Curate. “Why are you here alone so late? What does this mean?” He held the door close, and looked down upon her severely while he spoke. She made a frightened attempt to defend herself.

“Oh, please, I only came with the papers. I was talking to⁠—Sarah,” said the little girl, with a sob of shame and terror. “I will never do it again. Oh, please, please, let me go! Please, Mr. Wentworth, let me go!”

“How long have you been talking to⁠—Sarah?” said the Curate. “Did you ever do it before? No, Rosa; I am going to take you home. This must not happen any more.”

“I will run all the way. Oh, don’t tell my aunt, Mr. Wentworth. I didn’t mean any harm,” said the frightened creature. “You are not really coming? Oh, Mr. Wentworth, if you tell my aunt I shall die!” cried poor little Rosa. But she was hushed into awe and silence when the curate stalked forth, a grand, half-distinguished figure by her side, keeping pace with her hasty, tremulous steps. She even stopped crying, in the whirlwind of her feelings. What did he mean? Was he going to say anything to her? Was it possible that he could like her, and be jealous of her talk with⁠—Sarah? Poor little foolish Rosa did not know what to think. She had read a great many novels, and knew that it was quite usual for gentlemen to fall in love with pretty little girls who were not of their own station;⁠—why not with her? So she went on, half running, keeping up with Mr. Wentworth, and sometimes stealing sly glances at him to see what intention was in his looks. But his looks were beyond Rosa’s reading. He walked by her side without speaking, and gave a glance up at the window of the summerhouse as they passed. And strange enough, that evening of all others, Miss Dora, who had been the victim of some of Miss Leonora’s caustic criticisms, had strayed forth, in melancholy mood, to repose herself at her favourite window, and look out at the faint stars, and comfort herself with a feeble repetition of her favourite plea, that it was not “my fault.” The poor lady was startled out of her own troubles by the sight of her nephew’s tall unmistakable figure; and, as bad luck would have it, Rosa’s hat, tied insecurely by her agitated fingers, blew off at that moment, so that Mr. Wentworth’s aunt became aware, to her inexpressible horror and astonishment, who his companion was. The unhappy Curate divined all the thoughts that would arise in her perturbed bosom, when he saw the indistinct figure at the window, and said something to himself about espionage, which was barely civil to Miss Dora, as he hurried along on his charitable errand. He was out of one trouble into another, this unlucky young man. He knocked sharply at Elsworthy’s closed door, and gave up his charge without speaking to Rosa. “I brought her home because I thought it wrong to let her go up Grange Lane by herself,” said the Curate. “Don’t thank me; but if you have any regard for the child, don’t send her out at night again.” He did not even bid Rosa good night, or look back at her, as she stood blushing and sparkling in confused childish beauty, in the doorway; but turned his back like any savage, and hastened home again. Before he entered his own apartments, he knocked at the door of the green room, and said something to the inmate there which produced from that personage a growl of restrained defiance. And after all these fatigues, it was with a sense of relief that the Curate threw himself upon his sofa, to think over the events of the afternoon, and to take a little rest. He was very tired, and the consolation he had experienced during the evening made him more disposed to yield to his fatigue. He threw himself upon the sofa, and stretched out his hand lazily for his letters, which evidently did not excite any special expectations in his mind. There was one from his sister, and one from an old university friend, full of the news of the season. Last of all, there was a neat little note, directed in a neat little hand, which anybody who received it would naturally have left to the last, as Mr. Wentworth did. He opened it quite deliberately, without any appearance of interest. But as he read the first lines, the Curate gradually gathered himself up off the sofa, and stretched out his hand for his boots, which he had just taken off; and before he had finished it, had walked across the room and laid hold of the railway book in use at Carlingford, all the time reading and rereading the important little epistle. It was not so neat inside as out, and blurred and blotted, and slightly illegible; and this is what the letter said:⁠—

Oh, Frank, dear, I am so anxious and unhappy about Gerald. I can’t tell what is the matter with him. Come directly, for heaven’s sake, and tell me what you think, and try what you can do. Don’t lose a train after you get this, but come directly⁠—oh, come if you ever loved any of us. I don’t know what he means, but he says the most awful things; and if he is not mad, as I sometimes hope, he has forgotten his duty to his family and to me, which is far worse. I can’t explain more; but if there is any chance of anybody doing him good, it is you. I beg you, on my knees, come directly, dear Frank. I never was in such a state in my life. I shall be left so that nobody will be able to tell what I am; and my heart is bursting. Never mind business or anything; but come, come directly, whether it is night or day, to your brokenhearted sister,

Half an hour after, Mr. Wentworth, with a travelling-bag in his hand, was once more hastening up Grange Lane towards the railway station. His face was somewhat grey, as the lamps shone on it. He did not exactly know what he was anxious about, nor what might have happened at Wentworth Rectory before he could get there; but the express train felt slow to his anxious thoughts as it flashed out of the station. Mr. Morgan and his wife were in their garden, talking about the encounter in Prickett’s Lane, when the train plunged past, waking all the echoes; and Mrs. Morgan, by way of making a diversion, appealed to the Rector about those creepers, with which she hoped in a year or two to shut out the sight of the railway. “The Virginian creeper would be the best,” said the Rector’s wife; and they went in to calculate the expenses of bringing Mr. Wentworth before Dr. Lushington. Miss Dora, at very nearly the same moment, was confiding to her sister Cecilia, under vows of secrecy, the terrible sight she had seen from the summerhouse window. They went to bed with very sad hearts in consequence, both these good women. In the meantime, leaving all these gathering clouds behind him, leaving his reputation and his work to be discussed and quarrelled over as they might, the Perpetual Curate rushed through the night, his heart aching with trouble and anxiety, to help, if he could⁠—and if not, at least to stand by⁠—Gerald, in this unknown crisis of his brother’s life.