XI

Miss Dora Wentworth rose very unrefreshed next morning from her disturbed slumbers. It was hard to sit at breakfast with Leonora, and not betray to her the new anxiety; and the troubled sister ran into a countless number of digressions, which would have inevitably betrayed her had not Miss Leonora been at the moment otherwise occupied. She had her little budget of letters as usual, and some of them were more than ordinarily interesting. She too had a favourite district, which was in London, and where also a great work was going on; and her missionary, and her Scripture-readers, and her colporteur were all in a wonderful state of excitement about a new gin-palace which was being fitted out and decorated in the highest style of art on the borders of their especial domain. They were moving heaven and earth to prevent this temple of Satan from being licensed; and some of them were so very certain of the Divine acquiescence in their measures, that they announced the success of their exertions to be a test of the faithfulness of God; which Miss Leonora read out to her sisters as an instance of very touching and beautiful faith. Miss Wentworth, perhaps, was not so clear on that subject. During the course of her silent life, she had prayed for various things which it had not been God’s pleasure to grant; and just now she, too, was very anxious about Frank, who seemed to be in a bad way; so she rather shook her head gently, though she did not contravene the statement, and concluded with sadness that the government of the earth might still go on as usual, and God’s goodness remain as certain as ever, even though the public-house was licensed, or Frank did fall away. This was the teaching of experience; but aunt Cecilia did not utter it, for that was not her way. As for Miss Dora, she agreed in all the colporteur’s sentiments, and thought them beautiful, as Leonora said, and was not much disturbed by any opinion of her own, expressed or unexpressed, but interspersed her breakfast with little sighing ejaculations of the temptations of the world, and how little one knew what was passing around one, and “let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,” which could not have failed to attract Miss Leonora’s attention, and draw forth the whole story of her sister’s suspicions, had not that quick-witted iron-grey woman been, as we have already mentioned, too deeply engaged. Perhaps her nephew’s imaginary backsliding might have excited even Miss Leonora to an interest deeper than that which was awakened by the new gin-palace; but as it happened, it was the humbler intelligence alone which occupied itself with the supposed domestic calamity. Miss Dora’s breakfast was affected by it in a way which did not appear in the morning meal of her sister; for somehow the most fervent love of souls seldom takes away the appetite, as the love of some unlucky individual occasionally does.

When breakfast was over, Miss Dora made a very elaborate excuse for going out by herself. She wanted to match some wool for a blanket she was making, “For Louisa’s baby,” the devoted aunt said, with a little tremor. “Poor Louisa! if Gerald were to go any further, you know, it would be so sad for her; and one would like to help to keep up her heart, poor dear, as much as one could.”

“By means of a blanket for the bassinet in scarlet and white,” said Miss Leonora; “but it’s quite the kind of comfort for Louisa. I wonder if she ever had the smallest inkling what kind of a husband she has got. I don’t think Frank is far wrong about Gerald, though I don’t pin my faith to my nephew’s judgment. I daresay he’ll go mad or do worse with all those crotchets of his⁠—but what he married Louisa for has always been a mystery to me.”

“I suppose because he was very fond of her,” suggested Miss Dora, with humility.

“But why was he fond of her?⁠—a goose!” said the strong-minded sister, and so went about her letter-writing without further comment, leaving aunt Dora to pursue her independent career. It was with a feeling of relief, and yet of guilt, that this timid inquirer set forth on her mission, exchanging a sympathetic significant look with Miss Wentworth before she went out. If she should meet Frank at the door, looking dignified and virtuous, what could she possibly say to him? and yet, perhaps, he had only been imprudent, and did not mean anything. Miss Dora looked round her on both sides, up and down Grange Lane, as she went out into the lovely summer morning. Neither Frank nor any other soul, except some nursemaids, was to be seen along the whole line of sunny road. She was relieved, yet she was disappointed at the same time, and went slowly up towards Elsworthy’s shop, saying to herself that she was sure Frank could not mean anything. It must have been that forward little thing herself who had come up to him when he was out for his walk, or it must have been an accident. But then she remembered that she had heard the Curate call Rosa pretty; and Miss Dora wondered within herself what it mattered whether she was pretty or not, and what he had to do with it, and shook her head over the strange way men had of finding out such things. For her own part, she was sure she never looked whether the girl was pretty or not; and the anxious aunt had just come round again, by a very circuitous and perplexing course, to her original sentiment, and strengthened herself in the thought that her dear Frank could not mean anything, when she reached Elsworthy’s door.

That worthy trader was himself behind the counter, managing matters with his usual exactness. Berlin wool was one of the articles Mr. Elsworthy dealt in, besides newspapers, and books when they were ordered. Miss Dora, who wore no crinoline, stumbled over her dress in her agitation as she went in, and saw, at the first glance, little Rosa, looking very blooming and pretty, tying up a parcel at the other end of the shop. The poor lady did not know how to enter upon so difficult a question. She offered her wool humbly to be matched, and listened to Mr. Elsworthy’s sentiments on the subject. He told her how he always had his wools from the best houses in London, and could match anything as was ever made in that line, and was proud to say as he always gave satisfaction. Miss Dora could not see any opening for the inquiries she hoped to make; for how was it possible to intimate the possibility of disapproval to an establishment so perfect in all its arrangements? The probabilities are, that she would have gone away without saying anything, had not Mr. Elsworthy himself given her a chance.

“Miss Wodehouse has been my great help,” said the shopkeeper; “she is the nicest lady, is Miss Wodehouse, in all Carlingford. I do respect them people; they’ve had their troubles, like most families, but there aint many as can lay their finger on the skeleton as is in their cupboard: they’ve kept things close, and there aint a many as knows; but Miss Wodehouse has spoke up for me, ma’am, right and left, and most persons as count for anything in Carlingford gets their fancy articles out o’ my shop. Mr. Wentworth, ma’am, our respected clergyman, gets all his papers of me⁠—and partickler he is to a degree⁠—and likes to have ’em first thing afore they’re opened out o’ the parcel. It’s the way with gentlemen when they’re young. Mostly people aint so partickler later in life⁠—not as I could tell the reason why, unless it may be that folks gets used to most things, and stop looking for anything new. But there aint a many young gentlemen like our clergyman, though I say it as shouldn’t,” continued Mr. Elsworthy, with a little effusion, as he succeeded in finding an exact match for the scarlet wool.

“And why shouldn’t you say it, Mr. Elsworthy?” said Miss Dora, a little tartly; “you are not in any way particularly connected with my nephew.” Here she gave an angry glance at Rosa, who had drawn near to listen, having always in her vain little heart a certain palpitation at Mr. Wentworth’s name.

“I ask your pardon, ma’am; I’m clerk at St. Roque’s. It aint often as we have the pleasure of seeing you there⁠—more’s the pity,” said the church official, “though I may say there aint a church as perfect, or where the duty is performed more beautiful, in all the country; and there never was a clergyman as had the people’s good at heart like Mr. Wentworth⁠—not in my time. It aint no matter whether you’re rich or poor, young or old, if there’s a service as can be done to ever a one in his way, our clergyman is the man to do it. Why, no further gone than last night, ma’am, if you’ll believe me, that little girl there⁠—”

“Yes,” said Miss Dora, eagerly, looking with what was intended to be a very stern and forbidding aspect in the little girl’s face.

“She was a-coming up Grange Lane in the dark,” said Mr. Elsworthy⁠—“not as there was any need, and me keeping two boys, but she likes a run out of an evening⁠—when Mr. Wentworth see her, and come up to her. It aint what many men would have done,” said the admiring but unlucky adherent of the suspected Curate: “he come up, seeing as she was by herself, and walked by her, and gave her a deal of good advice, and brought her home. Her aunt and me was struck all of a heap to see the clergyman a-standing at our door. ‘I’ve brought Rosa home,’ he said, making believe a bit sharp. ‘Don’t send her out no more so late at night,’ and was off like a shot, not waiting for no thanks. It’s my opinion as there aint many such gentlemen. I can’t call to mind as I ever met with his fellow before.”

“But a young creature like that ought not to have been out so late,” said Miss Dora, trying to harden herself into severity. “I wonder very much that you like to walk up Grange Lane in the dark. I should think it very unpleasant, for my part; and I am sure I would not allow it, Mr. Elsworthy,” she said firmly, “if such a girl belonged to me.”

“But, please, I wasn’t walking up Grange Lane,” said Rosa, with some haste. “I was at Mrs. Hadwin’s, where Mr. Wentworth lives. I am sure I did not want to trouble him,” said the little beauty, recovering her natural spirit as she went on, “but he insisted on walking with me; it was all his own doing. I am sure I didn’t want him;” and here Rosa broke off abruptly, with a consciousness in her heart that she was being lectured. She rushed to her defensive weapons by natural instinct, and grew crimson all over her pretty little face, and flashed lightning out of her eyes, which at the same time were not disinclined to tears. All this Miss Dora made note of with a sinking heart.

“Do you mean to say that you went to Mrs. Hadwin’s to see Mr. Wentworth?” asked that unlucky inquisitor, with a world of horror in her face.

“I went with the papers,” said Rosa, “and I⁠—I met him in the garden. I am sure it wasn’t my fault,” said the girl, bursting into petulant tears. “Nobody has any occasion to scold me. It was Mr. Wentworth as would come;” and Rosa sobbed, and lighted up gleams of defiance behind her tears. Miss Dora sat looking at her with a very troubled, pale face. She thought all her fears were true, and matters worse than she imagined; and being quite unused to private inquisitions, of course she took all possible steps to create the scandal for which she had come to look.

“Did you ever meet him in the garden before?” asked Miss Dora, painfully, in a low voice. During this conversation Mr. Elsworthy had been looking on, perplexed, not perceiving the drift of the examination. He roused himself up to answer now⁠—a little alarmed, to tell the truth, by the new lights thrown on the subject, and vexed to see how unconsciously far both the women had gone.

“It aint easy to go into a house in Grange Lane without meeting of someone in the garden,” said Mr. Elsworthy; “not as I mean to say it was the right thing for Rosa to be going them errands after dark. My orders is against that, as she knows; and what’s the good of keeping two boys if things isn’t to be done at the right time? Mr. Wentworth himself was a-reproving of me for sending out Rosa, as it might be the last time he was here; for she’s one of them as sits in the chancel and helps in the singing, and he feels an interest in her, natural,” said the apologetic clerk. Miss Dora gave him a troubled look, but took no further notice of his speech. She thought, with an instinctive contempt for the masculine spectator, that it was impossible he could know anything about it, and pursued her own wiser way.

“It is very wrong of you⁠—a girl in your position,” said Miss Dora, as severely as she could in her soft old voice, “to be seen walking about with a gentleman, even when he is your clergyman, and, of course, has nothing else in his head. Young men don’t think anything of it,” said the rash but timid preacher; “of course it was only to take care of you, and keep you out of harm’s way. But then you ought to think what a trouble it was to Mr. Wentworth, taking him away from his studies⁠—and it is not nice for a young girl like you.” Miss Dora paused to take breath, not feeling quite sure in her own mind whether this was the right thing to say. Perhaps it would have been better to have disbelieved the fact altogether, and declared it impossible. She was much troubled about it, as she stood looking into the flushed tearful face, with all that light of defiance behind the tears, and felt instinctively that little Rosa, still only a pretty, obstinate, vain, uneducated little girl, was more than a match for herself, with all her dearly-won experiences. The little thing was bristling with a hundred natural weapons and defences, against which Miss Dora’s weak assault had no chance.

“If it was a trouble, he need not have come,” said Rosa, more and more convinced that Mr. Wentworth must certainly have meant something. “I am sure I did not want him. He insisted on coming, though I begged him not. I don’t know why I should be spoke to like this,” cried the little coquette, with tears, “for I never was one as looked at a gentleman; it’s them,” with a sob, “as comes after me.”

“Rosa,” said Mr. Elsworthy, much alarmed, “your aunt is sure to be looking out for you, and I don’t want you here, not now; nor I don’t want you again for errands, and don’t you forget. If it hadn’t been that Mr. Wentworth thought you a silly little thing, and had a kind feeling for my missis and me, you don’t think he’d have took that charge of you?⁠—and I won’t have my clergyman, as has always been good to me and mine, made a talk of. You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” he said, in an under tone, as Rosa reluctantly went away⁠—not to her aunt, however, but again to her parcel at the other end of the shop⁠—“she aint used to being talked to. She’s but a child, and don’t know no better: and after all,” said Rosa’s uncle, with a little pride, “she is a tenderhearted little thing⁠—she don’t know no better, ma’am; she’s led away by a kind word⁠—for nobody can say but she’s wonderful pretty, as is very plain to see.”

“Is she?” said Miss Dora, following the little culprit to the back-counter with disenchanted eyes. “Then you had better take all the better care of her, Mr. Elsworthy,” she said, with again a little asperity. The fact was, that Miss Dora had behaved very injudiciously, and was partly aware of it; and then this prettiness of little Rosa’s, even though it shone at the present moment before her, was not so plain to her old-maidenly eyes. She did not make out why everybody was so sure of it, nor what it mattered; and very probably, if she could have had her own way, would have liked to give the little insignificant thing a good shake, and asked her how she dared to attract the eye of the Perpetual Curate. As she could not do this, however, Miss Dora gathered up her wool, and refused to permit Mr. Elsworthy to send it home for her. “I can carry it quite well myself,” said the indignant little woman. “I am sure you must have a great deal too much for your boys to do, or you would not send your niece about with the things. But if you will take my advice, Mr. Elsworthy,” said Miss Dora, “you will take care of that poor little thing: she will be getting ridiculous notions into her head;” and aunt Dora went out of the shop with great solemnity, quite unaware that she had done more to put ridiculous notions into Rosa’s head than could have got there by means of a dozen darkling walks by the side of the majestic Curate, who never paid her any compliments. Miss Dora went away more than ever convinced in her mind that Frank had forgotten himself and his position, and everything that was fit and seemly. She jumped to a hundred horrible conclusions as she went sadly across Grange Lane with her scarlet wool in her hand. What Leonora would say to such an irremediable folly?⁠—and how the Squire would receive his son after such a mésalliance? “He might change his views,” said poor Miss Dora to herself, “but he could not change his wife;” and it was poor comfort to call Rosa a designing little wretch, and to reflect that Frank at first could not have meant anything. The poor lady had a bad headache, and was in a terribly depressed condition all day. When she saw from the window of her summerhouse the pretty figure of Lucy Wodehouse in her grey cloak pass by, she sank into tears and melancholy reflections. But then Lucy Wodehouse’s views were highly objectionable, and she bethought herself of Julia Trench, who had long ago been selected by the sisters as the clergyman’s wife of Skelmersdale. Miss Dora shook her head over the blanket she was knitting for Louisa’s baby, thinking of clergymen’s wives in general, and the way in which marriages came about. Who had the ordering of these inexplicable accidents? It was surely not Providence, but some tricky imp or other who loved confusion; and then Miss Dora paused with compunction, and hoped she would be forgiven for entertaining, even for one passing moment, such a wicked, wicked thought.