“My dear aunt,” said Mr. Wentworth, naturally incensed by this manner of description, “I must be allowed to say that my convictions are fixed, and not likely to be altered. I am a priest, and you are—a woman.” He stopped short, with perhaps a little bitterness. It was very true she was a woman, unqualified to teach, but yet she and her sisters were absolute in Skelmersdale. He made a little gulp of his momentary irritation, and walked on in silence, with Miss Dora’s kind wistful hand clinging to his arm.
“But, dear Frank among us Protestants, you know, there is no sacerdotal caste,” said Miss Dora, opportunely recollecting some scrap of an Exeter Hall speech. “We are all kings and priests to God. Oh, Frank, it is Gerald’s example that has led you away. I am sure, before you went to Oxford you were never at all a ritualist—even Leonora thought you such a pious boy; and I am sure your good sense must teach you—” faltered aunt Dora, trying her sister’s grand tone.
“Hush, hush; I can’t have you begin to argue with me; you are not my aunt Leonora,” said the Curate, half amused in spite of himself. This encouraged the anxious woman, and, clasping his arm closer than ever, she poured out all her heart.
“Oh, Frank, if you could only modify your views a little! It is not that there is any difference between your views and ours, except just in words, my dear. Flowers are very pretty decorations, and I know you look very nice in your surplice; and I am sure, for my part, I should not mind—but then that is not carrying the Word of God to the people, as Leonora says. If the heart is right, what does it matter about the altar?” said aunt Dora, unconsciously falling upon the very argument that had occurred to her nephew’s perplexed mind in the pulpit. “Even though I was in such trouble, I can’t tell you what a happiness it was to take the sacrament from your hands, my dear, dear boy; and but for these flowers and things that could do nobody any good, poor dear Leonora, who is very fond of you, though perhaps you don’t think it, could have had that happiness too. Oh, Frank, don’t you think you could give up these things that don’t matter? If you were just to tell Leonora you have been thinking it over, and that you see you’ve made a mistake, and that in future—”
“You don’t mean to insult me?” said the young man. “Hush—hush; you don’t know what you are saying. Not to be made Archbishop of Canterbury, instead of Vicar of Skelmersdale. I don’t understand how you could suggest such a thing to me.”
Miss Dora’s veil, which she had partly lifted, here fell over her face, as it had kept doing all the time she was speaking—but this time she did not put it back. She was no longer able to contain herself, but wept hot tears of distress and vexation, under the flimsy covering of lace. “No, of course, you will not do it—you will far rather be haughty, and say it is my fault,” said poor Miss Dora. “We have all so much pride, we Wentworths—and you never think of our disappointment, and how we all calculated upon having you at Skelmersdale, and how happy we were to be, and that you were to marry Julia Trench—”
It was just at this moment that the two reached the corner of Prickett’s Lane. Lucy Wodehouse had been down there seeing the sick woman. She had, indeed, been carrying her dinner to that poor creature, and was just turning into Grange Lane, with her blue ribbons hidden under the grey cloak, and a little basket in her hand. They met full in the face at this corner, and Miss Dora’s words reached Lucy’s ears, and went through and through her with a little nervous thrill. She had not time to think whether it was pain or only surprise that moved her, and was not even self-possessed enough to observe the tremulous pressure of the Curate’s hand, as he shook hands with her, and introduced his aunt. “I have just been to see the poor woman at No. 10,” said Lucy. “She is very ill today. If you had time, it would be kind of you to see her. I think she has something on her mind.”
“I will go there before I go to Wharfside,” said Mr. Wentworth. “Are you coming down to the service this afternoon? I am afraid it will be a long service, for there are all these little Burrowses, you know—”
“Yes, I am godmother,” said Lucy, and smiled and gave him her hand again as she passed him while aunt Dora looked on with curious eyes. The poor Curate heaved a mighty sigh as he looked after the grey cloak. Not his the privilege now, to walk with her to the green door, to
