“Any news, sir? There aint much to call news, sir—not in a place like this,” said Mr. Elsworthy. “Your respected aunts, sir, ’as been down at the schoolroom. I haven’t heard anything else as I could suppose you didn’t know.”
“My aunts!” cried the Curate; “how do you know anything about my aunts?” Mr. Elsworthy smiled a complacent and familiar smile.
“There’s so many a-coming and a-going here that I know most persons as comes into Carlingford,” said he; “and them three respected ladies is as good as a pictur. I saw them a-driving past and down Prickett’s Lane. They was as anxious to know all about it as—as was to be expected in the circumstances,” said Mr. Elsworthy, failing of a metaphor; “and I wish you your ’ealth and ’appiness, sir, if all as I hear is true.”
“It’s a good wish,” said the Curate; “thank you, Elsworthy; but what you heard might not be true.”
“Well, sir, it looks more than likely,” said the clerk; “as far as I’ve seen in my experience, ladies don’t go inquiring into a young gentleman’s ways, not without some reason. If they was young ladies, and noways related, we know what we’d think, sir; but being old ladies, and aunts, it’s equally as clear. For my part, Mr. Wentworth, my worst wish is, that when you come into your fortune, it mayn’t lead you away from St. Roque’s—not after everything is settled so beautiful, and not a thing wanted but some stained glass, as I hear a deal of people say, to make it as perfect a little church—”
“Yes, it is very true; a painted window is very much wanted,” said Mr. Wentworth, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps there’s one o’ the ladies, sir, as has some friend she’d like to put up a memorial to,” said Mr. Elsworthy, in insinuating tones. “A window is a deal cheerfuller a memorial than a tombstone, and it couldn’t be described the improvement it would be to the church. I’m sorry to hear Mr. Wodehouse aint quite so well as his usual tonight; a useful man like he is, would be a terrible loss to Carlingford; not as it’s anything alarming, as far as I can hear, but being a stout man, it aint a safe thing his being took so sudden. I’ve heard the old doctor say, sir, as a man of a full ’abit might be took off at once, when a spare man would fight through. It would be a sad thing for his family, sir,” said Mr. Elsworthy, tying up a bundle of newspapers with a very serious face.
“Good heavens, Elsworthy, how you talk!” said the alarmed Curate. “What do you mean?—is Mr. Wodehouse ill?—seriously ill?”
“Not serious, as I knows of,” said the clerk, with solemnity; “but being a man of a full ’abit of body—I daresay as the town would enter into it by subscription if it was proposed as a memorial to him, for he’s much respected in Carlingford is Mr. Wodehouse. I see him a-going past, sir, at five o’clock, which is an hour earlier than common, and he was looking flabby, that’s how he was looking. I don’t know a man as would be a greater loss to his family; and they aint been without their troubles either, poor souls.”
“I should be sorry to think that it was necessary to sacrifice Mr. Wodehouse for the sake of our painted window,” said the Curate, “as that seems what you mean. Send over this note for me please, as I have not time to call. No, certainly, don’t send Rosa; that child is too young and too—too pretty to be out by herself at night. Send a boy. Haven’t you got a boy?—there is a very nice little fellow that I could recommend to you,” said Mr. Wentworth, as he hastily scribbled his note with a pencil, “whose mother lives in Prickett’s Lane.”
“Thank you, sir, all the same; but I hope I don’t need to go into that neighbourhood for good service,” said Mr. Elsworthy: “as for Rosa, I could trust her anywhere; and I have a boy, sir, as is the best boy that ever lived—a real English boy, that is. Sam, take this to Mr. Wodehouse’s directly, and wait for an answer. No answer?—very well, sir. You needn’t wait for no answer, Sam. That’s a boy, sir, I could trust with untold gold. His mother’s a Dissenter, it is true, but the principles of that boy is beautiful. I hope you haven’t mentioned, sir, as I said Mr. Wodehouse was took bad? It was between ourselves, Mr. Wentworth. Persons don’t like, especially when they’ve got to that age, and are of a full ’abit of body, to have every little attack made a talk about. You’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir, but it was as between ourselves.”
“Perhaps you’d like me to show you my note,” said the Curate, with a smile; which, indeed, Elsworthy would have very much liked, could he have ventured to say so. Mr. Wentworth was but too glad of an excuse to write and explain his absence. The note was not to Lucy, however, though various little epistles full of the business of the district had passed between the two:—
Dear Miss W.—I hear your father is not quite well. I can’t call just now, as I am going to dine with my aunts, who are at the Blue Boar; but, if you will pardon the lateness of the hour, I will call as I return to ask for him.—Ever yours,
Such was the
