The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 32 (2/2)

“You see he thinks I will reproach him,” said Miss Wodehouse, anxiously; perhaps it had just glanced across her own mind that something more important still might have dictated language so decided. “He has a great deal more feeling than you would suppose, poor fellow! It is very touching in him to say, ‘the place he has a right to’⁠—don’t you think so, Mr. Wentworth? Poor Tom! if we could but trust him, and he would change his ways as he promised! Oh, Mr. Wentworth, don’t you think I might speak of it to him tomorrow? If we could⁠—bury⁠—everything⁠—in dear papa’s grave,” cried the poor lady, once more breaking down. Mr. Wentworth took no notice of Miss Wodehouse’s tears. They moved him with sentiments entirely different from those with which he regarded Lucy’s. He read the note over again without any attempt to console her, till she had struggled back into composure; but even then there was nothing sympathetic in the Curate’s voice.

“And I think you told me you did not know anything about the will?” he said, with some abruptness, making no account whatever of the suggestion she had made.

“No,” said Miss Wodehouse; “but my dear father was a business man, Mr. Wentworth, and I feel quite sure⁠—quite⁠—”

“Yes,” said the Perpetual Curate; “nor of the nature of his property, perhaps?” added the worldly-minded young man whom poor Miss Wodehouse had chosen for her adviser. It was more than the gentle woman could bear.

“Oh, Mr. Wentworth, you know I am not one to understand,” cried the poor lady. “You ask me questions, but you never tell me what you think I should do. If it were only for myself, I would not mind, but I have to act for Lucy,” said the elder sister, suddenly sitting upright and drying her tears. “Papa, I am sure, did what was best for us,” she said, with a little gentle dignity, which brought the Curate back to his senses; “but oh, Mr. Wentworth, look at the letter, and tell me, for my sister’s sake, what am I to do?”

The Curate went to the window, from which the sunshine was stealing away, to consider the subject; but he did not seem to derive much additional wisdom from that sacred spot, where Lucy’s worktable stood idle. “We must wait and see,” he said to himself. When he came back to Miss Wodehouse, and saw the question still in her eyes, it only brought back his impatience. “My dear Miss Wodehouse, instead of speculating about what is to happen, it would be much better to prepare your sister for the discovery she must make tomorrow,” said Mr. Wentworth; “I cannot give any other advice, for my part. I think it is a great pity that you have kept it concealed so long. I beg your pardon for speaking so abruptly, but I am afraid you don’t know all the trouble that is before you. We are all in a great deal of trouble,” said the Perpetual Curate, with a little unconscious solemnity. “I can’t say I see my way through it; but you ought to prepare her⁠—to see⁠—her brother.” He said the words with a degree of repugnance which he could not conceal, and which wounded his companion’s tender heart.

“He was so different when he was young,” said Miss Wodehouse, with a suppressed sob⁠—“he was a favourite everywhere. You would not have looked so if you had known him then. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, promise me that you will not turn your back upon him if he comes home, after all your kindness. I will tell Lucy how much you have done for him,” said Miss Wodehouse. She was only half-conscious of her own gentle artifice. She took the Curate’s hand in both her own before he left her, and said it was such a comfort to have his advice to rely upon; and she believed what she said, though Mr. Wentworth himself knew better. The poor lady sat down in Lucy’s chair, and had a cry at her ease after he went away. She was to tell Lucy⁠—but how? and she sat pondering this hard question till all the light had faded out of the room, and the little window which was not shuttered dispersed only a grey twilight through the empty place. The lamp, meantime, had been lighted in the little parlour where Lucy sat, very sad, in her black dress, with In Memoriam on the table by her, carrying on a similar strain in her heart. She was thinking of the past, so many broken scenes of which kept flashing up before her, all bright with indulgent love and tenderness⁠—and she was thinking of the next day, when she was to see all that remained of her good father laid in his grave. He was not very wise nor remarkable among men, but he had been the tenderest father to the child of his old age; and in her heart she was praying for him still, pausing now and then to think whether it was right. The tears were heavy in her young eyes, but they were natural tears, and Lucy had no more thought that there was in the world anything sadder than sorrow, or that any complications lay in her individual lot, than the merest child in Prickett’s Lane. She thought of going back to the district, all robed and invested in the sanctity of her grief⁠—she thought it was to last forever, as one has the privilege of thinking when one is young; and it was to this young saint, tender towards all the world, ready to pity everybody, and to save a whole race, if that had been possible, that Miss Wodehouse went in, heavy and burdened, with her tale of miserable vice, unkindness, estrangement. How was it possible to begin? Instead of beginning, poor Miss Wodehouse, overpowered by her anxieties and responsibilities, was taken ill and fainted, and had to be carried to bed. Lucy would not let her talk when she came to herself; and so the only moment of possible preparation passed away, and the event itself, which one of them knew nothing of, and the other did not understand, came in its own person, without any avant-couriers, to open Lucy’s eyes once for all.