Mr. Wentworth in his aggravation gave a momentary sudden glance at Lucy when she had no expectation of it. That glance of disappointment—of disgust—of love and longing, was no more intentional than their meeting; could he help it, if it revealed that heart which was in such a state of commotion and impatience? Anyhow, the look gave Lucy sufficient occupation to keep her very quiet on the other side while Miss Dora maundered on.
“I met the strangest man coming out when I was going to ring your bell. You will think it very foolish, Frank, but he frightened me,” she said. “A man with a terrible beard, and a—a shabby man, my dear. Who could it be? Not a person to be seen coming out of a house where a clergyman lives. He could not be any friend of yours?”
“The other lodger, I suppose,” said the Curate, briefly. “When are you going away?”
“Oh, my dear boy, we are not going away; I came to tell you. But, Frank, you don’t mean to say that such a man as that lodges in Mrs. Hadwin’s house? I don’t think it is safe for you—I don’t think it is respectable. People might think he was a friend of yours. I wonder if Miss Wodehouse has ever seen him—a great man with a beard? To be sure, a man might have a beard and yet be respectable; but I am sure, if Miss Wodehouse saw him, she would agree with me in thinking—Frank, my dear boy, what is the matter? Have I said anything wrong?”
“Nothing that I know of,” said the Curate, who had given her arm a little angry pressure to stop the stream of utterance—“only that I am not interested in the other lodger. Tell me about your going away.”
“But I must appeal to Miss Wodehouse: it is for your own sake, my dear Frank,” said aunt Dora—“a clergyman should be so careful. I don’t know what your aunt Leonora would say. Don’t you think to see a man like that coming out of Mr. Wentworth’s house is not as it should be? I assure you he frightened me.”
“I don’t think I have seen him,” said Lucy. “But shouldn’t a clergyman’s house be like the church, open to good and bad?—for it is to the wicked and the miserable you are sent,” said the Sister of Mercy, lowering her voice and glancing up at the Perpetual Curate. They could have clasped each other’s hands at that moment, almost without being aware that it was any personal feeling which made their agreement so sweet. As for Miss Dora, she went on leaning on her nephew’s arm, totally unconscious of the suppressed rapture and elevation in which the two were moving at the other side.
“That is very true. I am sure your aunt Leonora would approve of that, dear,” said Miss Dora, with a little answering pressure on her nephew’s arm—“but still I have a feeling that a clergyman should always take care to be respectable. Not that he should neglect the wicked,” continued the poor aunt, apologetically, “for a poor sinner turning from the evil of his ways is the—the most interesting—sight in the world, even to the angels, you know; but to live with them in the same house, my dear—I am sure that is what I never could advise, nor Leonora either; and Mrs. Hadwin ought to know better, and have him away. Don’t you know who he is, Frank? I could not be content without finding out, if it was me.”
“I have nothing to do with him,” said the Curate, hurriedly: “it is a subject I don’t want to discuss. Never mind him. What do you mean by saying you are not going away?”
“My dear, Leonora has been thinking it all over,” said Miss Dora, “and we are so anxious about you. Leonora is very fond of you, though she does not show it; and you know the Meritons have just come home from India, and have not a house to go to. So you see we thought, as you are not quite so comfortable as we could wish to see you, Frank—and perhaps we might be of some use—and Mr. Shirley is better again, and no immediate settlement has to be made about Skelmersdale;—that on the whole, if Leonora and you were to see more of each other—oh, my dear boy, don’t be so hasty; it was all her own doing—it was not my fault.”
“Fault! I am sorry to be the occasion of so many arrangements,” said Mr. Wentworth, with his stiff manner; “but, of course, if you like to stay in Carlingford I shall be very happy—though there is not much preaching here that will suit my aunt Leonora: as for Mr. Shirley, I hope he’ll live forever. I was at No. 10 today,” continued the Curate, turning his head to the other side, and changing his tone in a manner marvellous to Miss Dora. “I don’t think she can live much longer. You have done a great deal to smooth her way in this last stage. Poor soul! she thinks she has been a great sinner,” said the young man, with a kind of wondering pity. He had a great deal to vex him in his own person, and he knew of some skeletons very near at hand, but somehow at that moment it was hard to think of the extremities of mortal trouble, of death and anguish—those dark deeps of life by which Lucy and he sometimes stood together in
