The Perpetual Curate

profound love in his lifetime, or sense of loss when he was gone; but yet it was possible to think, with the kindly, half-conscious delusion of nature, that had he been living, he would have known better; and the Curate went into the darkened drawing-room, where all the shutters were closed, except those of the little window in the corner, where Lucy’s worktable stood, and where a little muffled sunshine stole in through the blind. Everything was in terribly good order in the room. The two sisters had been living in their own apartments, taking their forlorn meals in the little parlour which communicated with their sleeping chambers, during this week of darkness; and nobody had come into the drawing-room except the stealthy housemaid, who contemplated herself and her new mourning for an hour at a stretch in the great mirror without any interruption, while she made “tidy” the furniture which nobody now disturbed. Into this sombre apartment Miss Wodehouse came gliding, like a gentle ghost, in her black gown. She too, like John and the housemaid and everybody about, walked and talked under her breath. There was now no man in the house entitled to disturb those proprieties with which a female household naturally hedges round all the great incidents of life; and the affairs of the family were all carried on in a whisper, in accordance with the solemnity of the occasion⁠—a circumstance which had naturally called the ghost of a smile to the Curate’s countenance as he followed John upstairs. Miss Wodehouse herself, though she was pale, and spent half her time, poor soul! in weeping, and had, besides, living encumbrances to trouble her helpless path, did not look amiss in her black gown. She came in gliding without any noise, but with a little expectation in her gentle countenance. She was one of the people whom experience never makes any wiser; and she could not help hoping to be delivered from her troubles this time, as so often before, as soon as she should have transferred them to somebody else’s shoulders, and taken “advice.”

“Lucy has made up her mind that we are to go tomorrow,” said Miss Wodehouse, drying her tears. “It was not the custom in my young days, Mr. Wentworth, and I am sure I don’t know what to say; but I can’t bear to cross her, now that she has nobody but me. She was always the best child in the world,” said the poor lady⁠—“far more comfort to poor dear papa than I ever could be; but to hear her talk you would think that she had never done anything. And oh, Mr. Wentworth, if that was all I should not mind; but we have always kept things a secret from her; and now I have had a letter, and I don’t know what it is possible to do.”

“A letter from your brother?” asked Mr. Wentworth, eagerly.

“From Tom,” said the elder sister; “poor, poor Tom! I am sure papa forgave him at the last, though he did not say anything. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, he was such a nice boy once; and if Lucy only knew, and I could summon up the courage to tell her, and he would change his ways, as he promised⁠—don’t think me fickle or changeable, or look as if I didn’t know my own mind,” cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with a fresh flow of tears; “but oh, Mr. Wentworth, if he only would change his ways, as he promised, think what a comfort it would be to us to have him at home!”

“Yes,” said the Curate, with a little bitterness. Here was another instance of the impunities of wickedness. “I think it very likely indeed that you will have him at home,” said Mr. Wentworth⁠—“almost certain; the wonder is that he went away. Will you tell me where he dates his letter from? I have a curiosity to know.”

“You are angry,” said the anxious sister. “Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I know he does not deserve anything else, but you have always been so kind. I put his letter in my pocket to show you⁠—at least, I am sure I intended to put it in my pocket. We have scarcely been in this room since⁠—since⁠—” and here Miss Wodehouse broke down, and had to take a little time to recover. “I will go and get the letter,” she said, as at last she regained her voice, and hurried away through the partial darkness with her noiseless step, and the long black garments which swept noiselessly over the carpet. Mr. Wentworth for his part went to the one window which was only veiled by a blind, and comforted himself a little in the sunshine. The death atmosphere weighed upon the young man and took away his courage. If he was only wanted to pave the way for the reception of the rascally brother for whose sins he felt convinced he was himself suffering, the consolation of being appealed to would be sensibly lessened, and it was hard to have no other way of clearing himself than by criminating Lucy’s brother, and bringing dishonour upon her name. While he waited for Miss Wodehouse’s return, he stood by Lucy’s table, with very little of the feeling which had once prompted him to fold his arms so caressingly with an impulse of tenderness upon the chair which stood beside it. He was so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear at first the sound of a hesitating hand upon the door, which at length, when repeated, went to the Curate’s heart. He turned round rapidly, and saw Lucy standing on the threshold in her profound mourning. She was very pale, and her blue eyes looked large and full beyond their natural appearance, dilated with tears and watching; and when they met those of Mr. Wentworth, they filled full like flower-cups with dew; but besides this Lucy made no demonstration of her grief. After that momentary hesitation at the door, she