“Satire is lost upon me,” said Miss Leonora, “and we are going tomorrow. Here comes the coffee. I did not think it had been so late. We shall leave by an early train, and you can come and see us off, if you have time.”
“I shall certainly find time,” said the nephew, with equal politeness; “and now you will permit me to say good night, for I have a—one of my sick people to visit. I heard he was ill only as I came here, and had not time to call,” added the Curate, with unnecessary explanitoriness, and took leave of his aunt Cecilia, who softly put something into his hand as she bade him good night. Miss Dora, for her part, went with him to the door, and lingered leaning on his arm, down the long passage, all unaware, poor lady, that his heart was beating with impatience to get away, and that the disappointment for which she wanted to console him had at the present moment not the slightest real hold upon his perverse heart. “Oh, my dear boy, I hope you don’t think it’s my fault,” said Miss Dora, with tears. “It must have come to this, dear, sooner or later: you see, poor Leonora has such a sense of responsibility; but it is very hard upon us, Frank, who love you so much, that she should always take her own way.”
“Then why don’t you rebel?” said the Curate, who, in the thought of seeing Lucy, was exhilarated, and dared to jest even upon the awful power of his aunt. “You are two against one; why don’t you take it into your own hands and rebel?”
Miss Dora repeated the words with an alarmed quiver. “Rebel! oh, Frank, dear, do you think we could? To be sure, we are co-heiresses, and have just as good a right as she has; and for your sake, my dear boy,” said the troubled woman, “oh, Frank, I wish you would tell me what to do! I never should dare to contradict Leonora with no one to stand by me; and then, if anything happened, you would all think I had been to blame,” said poor aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. She made him walk back and back again through the long passage, which was sacred to the chief suite of apartments at the Blue Boar. “We have it all to ourselves, and nobody can see us here; and oh, my dear boy, if you would only tell me what I ought to do?” she repeated, with wistful looks of appeal. Mr. Wentworth was too good-hearted to show the impatience with which he was struggling. He satisfied her as well as he could, and said good night half-a-dozen times. When he made his escape at last, and emerged into the clear blue air of the spring night, the Perpetual Curate had no such sense of disappointment and failure in his mind as the three ladies supposed. Miss Leonora’s distinct intimation that Skelmersdale had passed out of the region of probabilities, had indeed tingled through him at the moment it was uttered; but just now he was going to see Lucy, anticipating with impatience the moment of coming into her presence, and nothing in the world could have dismayed him utterly. He went down the road very rapidly, glad to find that it was still so early, that the shopkeepers in George Street were but just putting up their shutters, and that there was still time for an hour’s talk in that bright drawing-room. Little Rosa was standing at the door of Elsworthy’s shop, looking out into the dark street as he passed; and he said, “A lovely night, Rosa,” as he went by. But the night was nothing particular in itself, only lovely to Mr. Wentworth, as embellished with Lucy shining over it, like a distant star. Perhaps he had never in his life felt so glad that he was going to see her, so eager for her presence, as that night which was the beginning of the time when it would be no longer lawful for him to indulge in her society. He heaved a big sigh as that thought occurred to him, but it did not diminish the flush of conscious happiness; and in this mood he went down Grange Lane, with light resounding steps, to Mr. Wodehouse’s door.
But Mr. Wentworth started with a very strange sensation when the door was stealthily, noiselessly opened to him before he could ring. He could not see who it was that called him in the darkness; but he felt that he had been watched for, and that the door was thrown open very hurriedly to prevent him from making his usual summons at the bell. Such an incident was incomprehensible. He went into the dark garden like a man in a dream, with a horrible vision of Archimage and the false Una somehow stealing upon his mind, he could not tell how. It was quite dark inside, for the moon was late of rising that night, and the faint stars threw no effectual lustre down upon the trees. He had to grope before him to know where he was going, asking in a troubled voice, “Who is there? What is the matter?” and falling into more and more profound bewilderment and uneasiness.
“Hush, hush, oh hush!—Oh, Mr. Wentworth, it is I—I want to speak to you,” said an agitated voice beside him. “Come this way—this way; I don’t want anyone to hear us.” It was Miss Wodehouse who thus pitifully
