“Then they have nothing to depend upon,” said Mr. Proctor, whose agitated looks were the most inexplicable feature of the whole—“no shelter even; no near relations I ever heard of—and nobody to take care of Lucy if—” Here he stopped short and went to the window, and stood looking out in a state of great bewilderment. The late Rector was so buried in his own thoughts, whatever they might be, that he did not pay any attention to the further conversation which went on behind him—of which, however, there was very little—and only came to himself when he saw Mr. Wentworth go rapidly through the garden. Mr. Proctor rushed after the Perpetual Curate. He might be seriously compromised, as Mr. Morgan said; but he was more sympathetic than anybody else in Carlingford under present circumstances; and Mr. Proctor, in his middle-aged uncertainty, could not help having a certain confidence in the young man’s promptitude and vigour. He made up to him out of breath when he was just entering George Street. Carlingford had paid what respect it could to Mr. Wodehouse’s memory; and now the shutters were being taken off the shopwindows, and people in general were very willing to reward themselves for their self-denial by taking what amusement they could out of the reports which already began to be circulated about the way in which the Miss Wodehouses were “left.” When the late Rector came up with the Perpetual Curate opposite Masters’s shop there was quite a group of people there who noted the conjunction. What could it mean? Was there going to be a compromise? Was Carlingford to be shamefully cheated out of the “investigation,” and all the details about Rosa Elsworthy, for which it hungered? Mr. Proctor put his arm through that of the Curate of St. Roque’s, and permitted himself to be swept along by the greater impetus of the young man’s rapid steps, for at this moment, being occupied with more important matters, the late Rector had altogether forgotten Mr. Wentworth’s peculiar position, and the cloud that hung over him.
“What a very extraordinary thing!” said Mr. Proctor. “What could have betrayed old Wodehouse into such a blunder! He must have known well enough. This son—this fellow—has been living all the time, of course. It is quite inexplicable to me,” said the aggrieved man. “Do you know if there are any aunts or uncles—any people whom poor little Lucy might live with, for instance, if—” And here Mr. Proctor once more came to a dead stop. Mr. Wentworth, for his part, was so far from thinking of her as “poor little Lucy,” that he was much offended by the unnecessary commiseration.
“The sisters will naturally remain together,” he said; “and, of course, there are many people who would be but too glad to receive them. Miss Wodehouse is old enough to protect her sister—though, of course, the balance of character is on the other side,” said the inconsiderate young man; at which Mr. Proctor winced, but made no definite reply.
“So you think there are people she could go to?” said the late Rector, after a pause. “The thing altogether is so unexpected, you know. My idea was—”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Curate; “I must see Mr. Brown, and this is about the best time to find him at home. Circumstances make it rather awkward for me to call at the Rectory just now,” he continued, with a smile—“circumstances over which I have no control, as people say; but perhaps you will stay long enough to see me put on my trial. Goodbye now.”
“Stop a moment,” said Mr. Proctor; “about this trial. Don’t be affronted—I have nothing to do with it, you know; and Morgan means very well, though he’s stupid enough. I should like to stand your friend, Wentworth; you know I would. I wish you’d yield to tell me all about it. If I were to call on you tonight after dinner—for perhaps it would put Mrs. Hadwin out to give me a chop?”
The Curate laughed in spite of himself. “Fellows of All Souls don’t dine on chops,” he said, unable to repress a gleam of amusement; “but come at six, and you shall have something to eat, as good as I can give you. As for telling you all about it,” said Mr. Wentworth, “all the world is welcome to know as much as I know.”
Mr. Proctor laid his hand on the young man’s arm, by way of soothing him. “We’ll talk it all over,” he said, confidentially; “both this affair, and—and the other. We have a good deal in common, if I am not much mistaken, and I trust we shall always be good friends,” said the inexplicable man. His complexion heightened considerably after he had made this speech, which conveyed nothing but amazement to the mind of the Curate; and then he shook hands hastily, and hurried back again towards Grange Lane. If there had been either room or leisure in Frank Wentworth’s mind for other thoughts, he might have laughed or puzzled over the palpable mystery; but as it was, he had dismissed the late Rector entirely from his mind before he reached the door of Mr. Brown’s room, where the lawyer was seated alone. John Brown, who was altogether a different type of man from Mr. Waters, held out his hand to his visitor, and did not look at all surprised to see him. “I have expected a call from you,” he said, “now that your old friend is gone, from whom you would naturally have sought advice in the circumstances. Tell me what I can do for you;” and it became apparent to
