VI

Miss Dora Wentworth relapsed into suppressed sobbing when the three ladies were once more on their way. Between each little access a few broken words fell from the poor lady’s lips. “I am sure dear Frank did not mean it,” she said; it was all the plea his champion could find for him.

“He did not mean what? to do his duty and save souls?” said Miss Leonora⁠—“is that what he didn’t mean? It looks very much as if he did, though⁠—as well as he knew how.”

“Quite so, Leonora,” said Miss Wentworth.

“But he could not mean to vex the Rector,” said Miss Dora⁠—“my poor dear Frank: of course he meant it for the very best. I wonder you don’t think so, Leonora⁠—you who are so fond of missions. I told you what I heard him saying to the young lady⁠—all about the sick people he was going to visit, and the children. He is a faithful shepherd, though you won’t think so; and I am sure he means nothing but⁠—”

“His duty, I think,” said the iron-grey sister, resolutely indifferent to Miss Dora’s little sniffs, and turning her gaze out of the window, unluckily just at the moment when the carriage was passing Masters’s shop, where some engravings were hanging of a suspiciously devotional character. The name over the door, and the aspect of the shopwindow, were terribly suggestive, and the fine profile of the Perpetual Curate was just visible within to the keen eyes of his aunt. Miss Dora, for her part, dried hers, and, beginning to see some daylight, addressed herself anxiously to the task of obscuring it, and damaging once more her favourite’s chance.

“Ah, Leonora, if he had but a sphere of his own,” cried Miss Dora, “where he would have other things to think of than the rubric, and decorations, and sisterhoods! I don’t wish any harm to poor dear old Mr. Shirley, I am sure; but when Frank is in the Rectory⁠—”

“I thought you understood that Frank would not do for the Rectory,” said Miss Leonora. “Sisterhoods!⁠—look here, there’s a young lady in a grey cloak, and I think she’s going into that shop: if Frank carries on that sort of thing, I shall think him a greater fool than ever. Who is that girl?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, dear,” said Miss Dora, with unexpected wisdom. And she comforted her conscience that she did not know, for she had forgotten Lucy’s name. So there was no tangible evidence to confirm Miss Leonora’s doubts, and the carriage from the Blue Boar rattled down Prickett’s Lane to the much amazement of that locality. When they got to the grimy canal-banks, Miss Leonora stopped the vehicle and got out. She declined the attendance of her trembling sister, and marched along the black pavement, dispersing with the great waves of her drapery the wondering children about, who swarmed as children will swarm in such localities. Arrived at the schoolroom, Miss Leonora found sundry written notices hung up in a little wooden frame inside the open door. All sorts of charitable businesses were carried on about the basement of the house; and a curt little notice about the Provident Society diversified the list of services which was hung up for the advantage of the ignorant. Clearly the Curate of St. Roque’s meant it. “As well as he knows how,” his aunt allowed to herself, with a softening sentiment; but, pushing her inquiries further, was shown up to the schoolroom, and stood pondering by the side of the reading-desk, looking at the table which was contrived to be so like an altar. The Curate, who could not have dreamed of such a visit, and whose mind had been much occupied and indifferent to externals on the day before, had left various things lying about, which were carefully collected for him upon a bench. Among them was a little pocket copy of Thomas à Kempis, from which, when the jealous aunt opened it, certain little German prints, such as were to be had by the score at Masters’s, dropped out, some of them unobjectionable enough. But if the Good Shepherd could not be found fault with, the feelings of Miss Leonora may be imagined when the meek face of a monkish saint, inscribed with some villainous Latin inscription, a legend which began with the terrible words Ora pro nobis, became suddenly visible to her troubled eyes. She put away the book as if it had stung her, and made a precipitate retreat. She shook her head as she descended the stair⁠—she re-entered the carriage in gloomy silence. When it returned up Prickett’s Lane, the three ladies again saw their nephew, this time entering the door of No. 10. He had his prayerbook under his arm, and Miss Leonora seized upon this professional symbol to wreak her wrath upon it. “I wonder if he can’t pray by a sick woman without his prayerbook?” she cried. “I never was so provoked in my life. How is it he doesn’t know better? His father is not pious, but he isn’t a Puseyite, and old uncle Wentworth was very sound⁠—he was brought up under the pure Gospel. How is that the boys are so foolish, Dora?” said Miss Leonora, sharply; “it must be your doing. You have told them tales and things, and put true piety out of their head.”

“My doing!” said Miss Dora, faintly; but she was too much startled by the suddenness of the attack to make any coherent remonstrance. Miss Leonora tossed back her angry head, and pursued that inspiration, finding it a relief in her perplexity.

“It must be all your doing,” she said. “How can I tell that you are not a Jesuit in disguise? one has read of such a thing. The boys were as good, nice, pious boys as one could wish to see; and there’s Gerald on the point of perversion, and Frank⁠—I tell you, Dora, it must be your fault.”

“That was always my opinion,” said Miss Cecilia; and the accused, after a feeble attempt at speech, could find nothing better to do than to drop her veil once more and cry under it. It was very hard, but she was not quite unaccustomed to it. However, the discoveries of the day were important enough to prevent the immediate departure which Miss Leonora had intended. She wrote a note with her own hands to her nephew, asking him to dinner. “We meant to have gone away today, but should like to see you first,” she said in her note. “Come and dine⁠—we mayn’t have anything pleasant to say, but I don’t suppose you expect that. It’s a pity we don’t see eye to eye.” Such was the intimation received by Mr. Wentworth when he got home, very tired, in the afternoon. He had been asking himself whether, under the circumstances, it would not be proper of him to return some books of Mr. Wodehouse’s which he had in his possession, of course by way of breaking off his too familiar, too frequent intercourse. He had been representing to himself that he would make this call after their dinner would be over, at the hour when Mr. Wodehouse reposed in his easy-chair, and the two sisters were generally to be found alone in the drawing-room. Perhaps he might have an opportunity of intimating the partial farewell he meant to take of them. When he got Miss Leonora’s note, the Curate’s countenance clouded over. He said, “Another night lost,” with indignant candour. It was hard enough to give up his worldly prospects, but he thought he had made up his mind to that. However, refusal was impossible. It was still daylight when he went up Grange Lane to the Blue Boar. He was early, and went languidly along the well-known road. Nobody was about at that hour. In those closed, embowered houses, people were preparing for dinner, the great event of the day, and Mr. Wentworth was aware of that. Perhaps he had expected to see somebody⁠—Mr. Wodehouse going home, most likely, in order that he might mention his own engagement, and account for his failure in the chance evening call which had become so much a part of his life. But no one appeared to bear his message. He went lingering past the green door, and up the silent deserted road. At the end of Grange Lane, just in the little unsettled transition interval which interposed between its aristocratic calm and the bustle of George Street, on the side next Prickett’s Lane, was a quaint little shop, into which Mr. Wentworth strayed to occupy the time. This was Elsworthy’s, who, as is well known, was then clerk at St. Roque’s. Elsworthy himself was in his shop that Easter Monday, and so was his wife and little Rosa, who was a little beauty. Rosa and her aunt had just returned from an excursion, and a prettier little apparition could not be seen than that dimpled rosy creature, with her radiant half-childish looks, her bright eyes, and soft curls of dark-brown hair. Even Mr. Wentworth gave a second glance at her as he dropped languidly into a chair, and asked Elsworthy if there was any news. Mrs. Elsworthy, who had been telling the adventures of the holiday to her goodman, gathered up her basket of eggs and her nosegay, and made the clergyman a little curtsy as she hurried away; for the clerk’s wife was a highly respectable woman, and knew her own place. But Rosa, who was only a kind of kitten, and had privileges, stayed. Mr. Wentworth was by far the most magnificent figure she had ever seen in her little life. She looked at him with awe out of her bright eyes, and thought he looked like the prince in the fairy tales.

“Any news, sir? There aint much to call news, sir⁠—not in a place like this,” said Mr. Elsworthy. “Your respected aunts, sir, ’as been down at the schoolroom. I haven’t heard anything else as I could suppose you didn’t know.”

“My aunts!” cried the Curate; “how do you know anything about my aunts?” Mr. Elsworthy smiled a complacent and familiar smile.

“There’s so many a-coming and a-going here that I know most persons as comes into Carlingford,” said he; “and them three respected ladies is as good as a pictur. I saw them a-driving past and down Prickett’s Lane. They was as anxious to know all about it as⁠—as was to be expected in the circumstances,” said Mr. Elsworthy, failing of a metaphor; “and I wish you your ’ealth and ’appiness, sir, if all as I hear is true.”

“It’s a good wish,” said the Curate; “thank you, Elsworthy; but what you heard might not be true.”

“Well, sir, it looks more than likely,” said the clerk; “as far as I’ve seen in my experience, ladies don’t go inquiring into a young gentleman’s ways, not without some reason. If they was young ladies, and noways related, we know what we’d think, sir; but being old ladies, and aunts, it’s equally as clear. For my part, Mr. Wentworth, my worst wish is, that when you come into your fortune, it mayn’t lead you away from St. Roque’s⁠—not after everything is settled so beautiful, and not a thing wanted but some stained glass, as I hear a deal of people say, to make it as perfect a little church⁠—”

“Yes, it is very true; a painted window is very much wanted,” said Mr. Wentworth, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps there’s one o’ the ladies, sir, as has some friend she’d like to put up a memorial to,” said Mr. Elsworthy, in insinuating tones. “A window is a deal cheerfuller a memorial than a tombstone, and it couldn’t be described the improvement it would be to the church. I’m sorry to hear Mr. Wodehouse aint quite so well as his usual tonight; a useful man like he is, would be a terrible loss to Carlingford; not as it’s anything alarming, as far as I can hear, but being a stout man, it aint a safe thing his being took so sudden. I’ve heard the old doctor say, sir, as a man of a full ’abit might be took off at once, when a spare man would fight through. It would be a sad thing for his family, sir,” said Mr. Elsworthy, tying up a bundle of newspapers with a very serious face.

“Good heavens, Elsworthy, how you talk!” said the alarmed Curate. “What do you mean?⁠—is Mr. Wodehouse ill?⁠—seriously ill?”

“Not serious, as I knows of,” said the clerk, with solemnity; “but being a man of a full ’abit of body⁠—I daresay as the town would enter into it by subscription if it was proposed as a memorial to him, for he’s much respected in Carlingford is Mr. Wodehouse. I see him a-going past, sir, at five o’clock, which is an hour earlier than common, and he was looking flabby, that’s how he was looking. I don’t know a man as would be a greater loss to his family; and they aint been without their troubles either, poor souls.”

“I should be sorry to think that it was necessary to sacrifice Mr. Wodehouse for the sake of our painted window,” said the Curate, “as that seems what you mean. Send over this note for me please, as I have not time to call. No, certainly, don’t send Rosa; that child is too young and too⁠—too pretty to be out by herself at night. Send a boy. Haven’t you got a boy?⁠—there is a very nice little fellow that I could recommend to you,” said Mr. Wentworth, as he hastily scribbled his note with a pencil, “whose mother lives in Prickett’s Lane.”

“Thank you, sir, all the same; but I hope I don’t need to go into that neighbourhood for good service,” said Mr. Elsworthy: “as for Rosa, I could trust her anywhere; and I have a boy, sir, as is the best boy that ever lived⁠—a real English boy, that is. Sam, take this to Mr. Wodehouse’s directly, and wait for an answer. No answer?⁠—very well, sir. You needn’t wait for no answer, Sam. That’s a boy, sir, I could trust with untold gold. His mother’s a Dissenter, it is true, but the principles of that boy is beautiful. I hope you haven’t mentioned, sir, as I said Mr. Wodehouse was took bad? It was between ourselves, Mr. Wentworth. Persons don’t like, especially when they’ve got to that age, and are of a full ’abit of body, to have every little attack made a talk about. You’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir, but it was as between ourselves.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to show you my note,” said the Curate, with a smile; which, indeed, Elsworthy would have very much liked, could he have ventured to say so. Mr. Wentworth was but too glad of an excuse to write and explain his absence. The note was not to Lucy, however, though various little epistles full of the business of the district had passed between the two:⁠—

Dear Miss W.⁠—I hear your father is not quite well. I can’t call just now, as I am going to dine with my aunts, who are at the Blue Boar; but, if you will pardon the lateness of the hour, I will call as I return to ask for him.⁠—Ever yours,

Such was the Curate’s note. While he scribbled it, little Rosa stood apart watching him with admiring eyes. He had said she was too pretty to be sent across Grange Lane by herself at this hour, though it was still no more than twilight; and he looked up at her for an instant as he said the words⁠—quite enough to set Rosa’s poor little heart beating with childish romantical excitement. If she could but have peeped into the note to see what he said!⁠—for perhaps, after all, there might not be anything “between” him and Miss Lucy⁠—and perhaps⁠—The poor little thing stood watching, deaf to her aunt’s call, looking at the strange ease with which that small epistle was written, and thinking it half divine to have such mastery of words and pen. Mr. Wentworth threw it to Sam as if it were a trifle; but Rosa’s lively imagination could already conceive the possibility of living upon such trifles and making existence out of them; so the child stood with her pretty curls about her ears, and her bright eyes gleaming dewy over the fair, flushed, rosebud cheeks, in a flutter of roused and innocent imagination anticipating her fate. As for Mr. Wentworth, it is doubtful whether he saw Rosa, as he swung himself round upon the stool he was seated on, and turned his face towards the door. Somehow he was comforted in his mind by the conviction that it was his duty to call at Mr. Wodehouse’s as he came back. The evening brightened up and looked less dismal. The illness of the respected father of the house did not oppress the young man. He thought not of the sickroom, but of the low chair in one corner, beside the worktable where Lucy had always basketfuls of sewing in hand. He could fancy he saw the work drop on her knee, and the blue eyes raised. It was a pretty picture that he framed for himself as he looked out with a half smile into the blue twilight through the open door of Elsworthy’s shop. And it was clearly his duty to call. He grew almost jocular in the exhilaration of his spirits.

“The Miss Wentworths don’t approve of memorial windows, Elsworthy,” he said; “and, indeed, if you think it necessary to cut off one of the chief people in Carlingford by way of supplying St. Roque’s with a little painted glass⁠—”

“No, sir⁠—no, no, sir; you’re too hard upon me⁠—there wasn’t no such meaning in my mind; but I don’t make no question the ladies were pleased with the church,” said Elsworthy, with the satisfaction of a man who had helped to produce an entirely triumphant effect. “I don’t pretend to be a judge myself of what you call ’igh art, Mr. Wentworth; but if I might venture an opinion, the altar was beautiful; and we won’t say nothing about the service, considering, sir⁠—if you won’t be offended at putting them together, as one is so far inferior⁠—that both you and me⁠—”

Mr. Wentworth laughed and moved off his chair. “We were not appreciated in this instance,” he said, with an odd comic look, and then went off into a burst of laughter, which Mr. Elsworthy saw no particular occasion for. Then he took up his glove, which he had taken off to write the note, and, nodding a kindly good night to little Rosa, who stood gazing after him with all her eyes, went away to the Blue Boar. The idea, however, of his own joint performance with Mr. Elsworthy not only tickled the Curate, but gave him a half-ashamed sense of the aspect in which he might himself appear to the eyes of matter-of-fact people who differed with him. The joke had a slight sting, which brought his laughter to an end. He went up through the lighted street to the inn, wishing the dinner over, and himself on his way back again to call at Mr. Wodehouse’s. For, to tell the truth, by this time he had almost exhausted Skelmersdale, and, feeling in himself not much different now from what he was when his hopes were still green, had begun to look upon life itself with a less troubled eye, and to believe in other chances which might make Lucy’s society practicable once more. It was in this altered state of mind that he presented himself before his aunts. He was less self-conscious, less watchful, more ready to amuse them, if that might happen to be possible, and in reality much more able to cope with Miss Leonora than when he had been more anxious about her opinion. He had not been two minutes in the room before all the three ladies perceived this revolution, and each in her own mind attempted to account for it. They were experienced women in their way, and found a variety of reasons; but as none of them were young, and as people will forget how youth feels, not one of them divined the fact that there was no reason, but that this improvement of spirits arose solely from the fact that the Perpetual Curate had been for two whole days miserable about Skelmersdale, and had exhausted all his powers of misery⁠—and that now youth had turned the tables, and he was still to see Lucy tonight.