“Oh, Mr. Wentworth, how can I cross her?” said Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands. “If we had a brother—did you hear what she said? Here is his letter, and I hope you will tell me candidly what you think. If we could trust him—if we could but trust him! I daresay you think me very changeable and foolish; but now we are alone,” said the poor lady, “think what a comfort it would be if he only would change his ways as he promised! Lucy is a great deal more use than I am, and understands things; but still we are only two women,” said the elder sister. “If you think we could put any dependence upon him, Mr. Wentworth, I would never hesitate. He might live with us, and have his little allowance.” Miss Wodehouse paused, and raised her anxious face to the Curate, pondering the particulars of the liberality she intended. “He is not a boy,” she went on. “I daresay now he must feel the want of the little comforts he once was used to; and though he is not like what he used to be, neither in his looks nor his manners, people would be kind to him for our sakes. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, don’t you think we might trust him?” said the anxious woman, looking in the Curate’s face.
All this time Mr. Wentworth, with an impatience of her simplicity which it was difficult to restrain, was reading the letter, in which he perceived a very different intention from any divined by Miss Wodehouse. The billet was disreputable enough, written in pencil, and without any date.
Mary—I mean to come to my father’s funeral,
wrote Mr. Wodehouse’s disowned son.
Things are changed now, as I said they would be. I and a friend of mine have set everything straight with Waters, and I mean to come in my own name, and take the place I have a right to. How it is to be after this depends on how you behave; but things are changed between you and me, as I told you they would be; and I expect you won’t do anything to make ’em worse by doing or saying what’s unpleasant. I add no more, because I hope you’ll have sense to see what I mean, and to act accordingly.—Your brother,
“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
