When they went back sadly out of all that blinding sunshine into the darkened house, it was not all over, as poor Lucy had supposed. She had begun to come to herself and understand once more the looks of the people about her, when the old maid, who had been the attendant of the sisters during all Lucy’s life, undid her wrappings, and in her agitation of the moment kissed her white cheek, and held her in her arms. “Oh, Miss Lucy, darling, don’t take on no more than you can help. I’m sore, sore afeared that there’s a deal of trouble afore you yet,” said the weeping woman. Though Lucy had not the smallest possible clue to her meaning, and was almost too much worn out to be curious, she could not help a vague thrill of alarm. “What is it, Alland?” she said, rising up from the sofa on which she had thrown herself. But Alland could do nothing but cry over her nursling and console her. “Oh, my poor dear! oh, my darling! as he never would have let the wind of heaven to blow rough upon her!” cried the old servant. And it was just then that Miss Wodehouse, who was trembling all over hysterically, came into the room.
“We have to go downstairs,” said the elder sister. “Oh Lucy, my darling, it was not my fault at first. I should have told you last night to prepare you, and I had not the heart. Mr. Wentworth has told me so often—”
“Mr. Wentworth?” said Lucy. She rose up, not quite knowing where she was; aware of nothing, except that some sudden calamity, under which she was expected to faint altogether, was coming to her by means of Mr. Wentworth. Her mind jumped at the only dim possibility that seemed to glimmer through the darkness. He must be married, she supposed, or about to be married; and it was this they insulted her by thinking that she could not bear. There was not a particle of colour in her face before, but the blood rushed into it with a bitterness of shame and rage which she had never known till now. “I will go down with you if it is necessary,” said Lucy; “but surely this is a strange time to talk of Mr. Wentworth’s affairs.” There was no time to explain anything farther, for just then old Mrs. Western, who was a distant cousin, knocked at the door. “God help you, my poor dear children!” said the old lady; “they are all waiting for you downstairs,” and it was with this delusion in her mind, embittering every thought, that Lucy went into the drawing-room where they were all assembled. The madness of the idea did not strike her somehow, even when she saw the grave assembly, which it was strange to think could have been brought together to listen to any explanation from the Perpetual Curate. He was standing there prominent enough among them, with a certain air of suppressed passion in his face, which Lucy divined almost without seeing it. For her own part, she went in with perfect firmness, supporting her sister, whose trembling was painful to see. There was no other lady in the room except old Mrs. Western, who would not sit down, but hovered behind the chairs which had been placed for the sisters near the table at which Mr. Waters was standing. By the side of Mr. Waters was the man who had been at the funeral, and whom nobody knew, and a few gentlemen who were friends of the family were in the room—the Rector, by virtue of his office, and Mr. Proctor and Dr. Marjoribanks; and anyone whose attention was sufficiently disengaged to note the details of the scene might have perceived John, who had been fifteen years with Mr. Wodehouse, and the old cook in her black gown, who was of older standing in the family than Alland herself, peeping in, whenever it was opened, through the door.
“Now that the Miss Wodehouses are here, we may proceed to business,” said Mr. Waters. “Some of the party are already aware that I have an important communication to make. I am very sorry if it comes abruptly upon anybody specially interested. My late partner, much respected though he has always been, was a man of peculiar views in many respects. Dr. Marjoribanks will bear me out in what I say. I had been his partner for ten years before I found this out, highly important as it will be seen to be; and I believe Mr. Wentworth, though an intimate friend of the family, obtained the information by a kind of accident—”
The stranger muttered something in his beard which nobody could hear, and the Perpetual Curate interposed audibly. “Would it not be best to make the explanations afterwards?” said Mr. Wentworth—and he changed his own position and went over beside old Mrs. Western, who was leaning upon Lucy’s chair. He put his own hand on the back of the chair with an involuntary impulse. As for Lucy, her
