you think if you had waited a little it would have been wiser?” she said, in her timid way; and then kissed her young sister, and said, “I am so glad, my darling—I am sure dear papa would have been pleased,” with a sob which brought back to Lucy the grief from which she had for the moment escaped. Under all the circumstances, however, it may well be supposed that it was rather hard upon
Mr. Wentworth to recollect that he had engaged to return to luncheon with the Squire, and to prepare himself after this momentous morning’s work, to face all the complications of the family, where still Skelmersdale and Wentworth were hanging in the balance, and where the minds of his kith and kin were already too full of excitement to leave much room for another event. He went away reluctantly enough out of the momentary paradise where his Perpetual Curacy was a matter of utter indifference, if not a tender pleasantry, which rather increased than diminished the happiness of the moment—into the ordinary daylight world, where it was a very serious matter, and where what the young couple would have to live upon became the real question to be considered.
Mr. Wentworth met Wodehouse as he went out, which did not mend matters. The vagabond was loitering about in the garden, attended by one of Elsworthy’s errand-boys, with whom he was in earnest conversation, and stopped in his talk to give a sulky nod and “Good morning,” to which the Curate had no desire to respond more warmly than was necessary. Lucy was thinking of nothing but himself, and perhaps a little of the “great work” at Wharfside, which her father’s illness and death had interrupted; but
Mr. Wentworth, who was only a man, remembered that Tom Wodehouse would be his brother-in-law with a distinct sensation of disgust, even in the moment of his triumph—which is one instance of the perennial inequality between the two halves of mankind. He had to brace himself up to the encounter of all his people, while she had to meet nothing less delightful than her own dreams. This was how matters came to an issue in respect of Frank Wentworth’s personal happiness. His worldly affairs were all astray as yet, and he had not the most distant indication of any gleam of light dawning upon the horizon which could reconcile his duty and honour with good fortune and the delights of life. Meanwhile other discussions were going on in Carlingford, of vital importance to the two young people who had made up their minds to cast themselves upon Providence. And among the various conversations which were being carried on about the same moment in respect to
Mr. Wentworth—whose affairs, as was natural, were extensively canvassed in Grange Lane, as well as in other less exclusive quarters—it would be wrong to omit a remarkable consultation which took place in the Rectory, where
Mrs. Morgan sat in the midst of the great bouquets of the drawing-room carpet, making up her first matrimonial difficulty. It would be difficult to explain what influence the drawing-room carpet in the Rectory had on the fortunes of the Perpetual Curate; but when
Mr. Wentworth’s friends come to hear the entire outs and ins of the business, it will be seen that it was not for nothing that
Mr. Proctor covered the floor of that pretty apartment with roses and lilies half a yard long.
XLIII
These were eventful days in Grange Lane, when gossip was not nearly rapid enough to follow the march of events. When Mr. Wentworth went to lunch with his family, the two sisters kept together in the drawing-room, which seemed again reconsecrated to the purposes of life. Lucy had not much inclination just at that moment to move out of her chair; she was not sociable, to tell the truth, nor disposed to talk even about the new prospects which were brightening over both. She even took out her needlework, to the disgust of her sister. “When there are so many things to talk about, and so much to be considered,” Miss Wodehouse said, with a little indignation; and wondered within herself whether Lucy was really insensible to “what had happened,” or whether the sense of duty was strong upon her little sister even in the height of her happiness. A woman of greater experience or discrimination might have perceived that Lucy had retired into that sacred silence, sweetest of all youthful privileges, in which she could dream over to herself the wonderful hour which had just come to an end, and the fair future of which it was the gateway. As for Miss Wodehouse herself, she was in a flutter, and could not get over the sense of haste and confusion which this last new incident had brought upon her. Things were going too fast around her, and the timid woman was out of breath. Lucy’s composure at such a moment, and, above all, the production of her needlework, was beyond the comprehension of the elder sister.
“My dear,” said Miss Wodehouse, with an effort, “I don’t doubt that these poor people are badly off, and I am sure it is very good of you to work for them; but if you will only think how many things there are to do! My darling, I am afraid you will have to—to make your own dresses in future, which is what I never thought to see,” she said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; “and we have not had any talk about anything, Lucy, and there are so many things to think of!” Miss Wodehouse, who was moving about the room as she spoke, began to lift her own books and special property off the centre table. The books were principally ancient Annuals in pretty bindings, which no representation on Lucy’s part could induce her to think out of date; and among her other possessions was a little desk in Indian
