The Perpetual Curate

first thrill of nervous strength had failed her: she began to get confused and bewildered; but whatever it was, no insult, no wound to her pride or affections, was coming to her from that hand which she knew was on her chair. She leaned back a little, with a long sigh. Her imagination could not conceive anything important enough for such a solemn intimation, and her attention began to flag in spite of herself. No doubt it was something about that money which people thought so interesting. Meanwhile Mr. Waters went on steadily with what he had to say, not sparing them a word of the preamble; and it was not till ten minutes later that Lucy started up with a sudden cry of incredulity and wonder, and repeated his last words. “His son!⁠—whose son?” cried Lucy. She looked all round her, not knowing whom to appeal to in her sudden consternation. “We never had a brother,” said the child of Mr. Wodehouse’s old age; “it must be some mistake.” There was a dead pause after these words. When she looked round again, a sickening conviction came to Lucy’s heart that it was no mistake. She rose up without knowing it, and looked round upon all the people, who were watching her with various looks of pity and curiosity and spectator-interest. Mr. Waters had stopped speaking, and the terrible stranger made a step forward with an air that identified him. It was at him that Mr. Proctor was staring, who cleared his voice a great many times, and came forward to the middle of the room and looked as if he meant to speak; and upon him every eye was fixed except Mr. Wentworth’s, who was watching Lucy, and Miss Wodehouse’s, which were hidden in her hands. “We never had a brother,” she repeated, faltering; and then, in the extremity of her wonder and excitement, Lucy turned round, without knowing it, to the man whom her heart instinctively appealed to. “Is it true?” she said. She held out her hands to him with a kind of entreaty not to say so. Mr. Wentworth made no reply to her question. He said only, “Let me take you away⁠—it is too much for you,” bending down over her, without thinking what he did, and drawing her hand through his arm. “She is not able for any more,” said the Curate, hurriedly; “afterwards we can explain to her.” If he could have remembered anything about himself at the moment, it is probable that he would have denied himself the comfort of supporting Lucy⁠—he, a man under ban; but he was thinking only of her, as he stood facing them all with her arm drawn through his; upon which conjunction the Rector and the late Rector looked with a grim aspect, disposed to interfere, but not knowing how.

“All this may be very interesting to you,” said the stranger out of his beard; “if Lucy don’t know her brother, it is no fault of mine. Mr. Waters has only said half he has got to say; and as for the rest, to sum it up in half-a-dozen words, I’m very glad to see you in my house, gentlemen, and I hope you will make yourselves at home. Where nobody understands, a man has to speak plain. I’ve been turned out all my life and, by Jove! I don’t mean to stand it any longer. The girls can have what their father’s left them,” said the vagabond, in his moment of triumph. “They aint my business no more than I was theirs. The property is freehold, and Waters is aware that I’m the heir.”

Saying this, Wodehouse drew a chair to the table, and sat down with emphasis. He was the only man seated in the room, and he kept his place in his sullen way amid the excited group which gathered round him. As for Miss Wodehouse, some sense of what had happened penetrated even her mind. She too rose up and wiped her tears from her face, and looked round, pale and scared, to the Curate. “I was thinking⁠—of speaking to Lucy. I meant to ask her⁠—to take you back, Tom,” said the elder sister. “Oh, Mr. Wentworth, tell me, for heaven’s sake, what does it mean?”

“If I had only been permitted to explain,” said Mr. Waters; “my worthy partner died intestate⁠—his son is his natural heir. Perhaps we need not detain the ladies longer, now that they understand it. All the rest can be better arranged with their representative. I am very sorry to add to their sufferings today,” said the polite lawyer, opening the door; “everything else can be made the subject of an arrangement.” He held the door open with a kind of civil coercion compelling their departure. The familiar room they were in no longer belonged to the Miss Wodehouses. Lucy drew her arm out of Mr. Wentworth’s, and took her sister’s hand.

“You will be our representative,” she said to him, out of the fullness of her heart. When the door closed, the Perpetual Curate took up his position, facing them all with looks more lofty than belonged even to his Wentworth blood. They had kept him from exercising his office at his friend’s grave, but nobody could take from him the still nobler duty of defending the oppressed.

XXXIV

When the door closed upon Lucy and her sister, Mr. Wentworth stood by himself, facing the other people assembled. The majority of them were more surprised, more shocked, than he was; but they were huddled together in their wonder at the opposite end of the table, and had somehow a confused, half-conscious air of being on the other side.

“It’s a very extraordinary revelation that has just been made to us,” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “I am throwing no doubt upon it, for my part; but my conviction was, that Tom Wodehouse died in the West Indies. He was just the kind of man to die in the West