“Don’t speak so, please,” said the poor girl, with a momentary shiver. “It is about Mr. Wentworth you mean?” she went on, after a little, without turning her head. “I—am sorry, of course. I am afraid it will do him—harm,” and then she made a pause, and stumbled over her sewing with fingers which felt feeble and powerless to the very tips—all on account of this fever she had had. “But I don’t know any reason why you and I should discuss it, Mary,” she said, getting up in her turn, not quite sure whether she could stand at this early period of her convalescence, but resolved to try. “We are both Mr. Wentworth’s friends—and we need not say any harm of him. I have to get something out of the storeroom for tonight.”
“But, Lucy,” said the tender, trembling sister, who did not know how to be wise and silent, “I trust him, and you don’t. Oh, my dear, it will break my heart. I know some part of it is not true. I know one thing in which he is quite—quite innocent. Oh, Lucy, my darling, if you distrust him it will be returning evil for good!” cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with tears. As for Lucy, she did not quite know what her sister said. She only felt that it was cruel to stop her, and look at her, and talk to her; and there woke up in her mind a fierce sudden spark of resistance to the intolerable.
“Why do you hold me? I may have been ill, but I can stand well enough by myself,” cried Lucy, to her sister’s utter bewilderment. “That is, I—I mean, I have other things to attend to,” she cried, breaking into a few hot tears of mortification over this self-betrayal; and so went away in a strange glow and tremble of sudden passion, such as had never been seen before in that quiet house. She went direct to the storeroom, as she had said, and got out what was wanted; and only after that was done permitted herself to go up to her own room, and turn the key in her door. Though she was a Sister of Mercy, and much beloved in Prickett’s Lane, she was still but one of Eve’s poor petulant women-children, and had it in her to fly at an intruder on her suffering, like any other wounded creature. But she did not make any wild demonstration of her pain, even when shut up thus in her fortress. She sat down on the sofa, in a kind of dull heaviness, looking into vacancy. She was not positively thinking of Mr. Wentworth, or of any one thing in particular. She was only conscious of a terrible difference somehow in everything about her—in the air which choked her breathing, and the light which blinded her eyes. When she came to herself a little, she said over and over, half-aloud, that everything was just the same as it had always been, and that to her at least nothing had happened; but that declaration, though made with vehemence, did not alter matters. The world altogether had sustained a change. The light that was in it was darkened, and the heart stilled. All at once, instead of a sweet spontaneous career, providing for its own wants day by day, life came to look like something which required such an amount of courage and patience and endurance as Lucy had not at hand to support her in the way; and her heart failed her at the moment when she found this out.
Notwithstanding, the people who dined at Mr. Wodehouse’s that night thought it a very agreeable little party, and more than once repeated the remark, so familiar to most persons in society in Carlingford—that Wodehouse’s parties were the pleasantest going, though he himself was humdrum enough. Two or three of the people present had heard the gossip about Mr. Wentworth, and discussed it, as was natural, taking different views of the subject; and poor Miss Wodehouse took up his defence so warmly, and with such tearful vehemence, that there were smiles to be seen on several faces. As for Lucy, she made only a very simple remark on the subject. She said: “Mr. Wentworth is a great friend of ours, and I think I would rather not hear any gossip about him.” Of course there were one or two keen observers who put a subtle meaning to this, and knew what was signified by her looks and her ways all the evening; but, most likely, they were altogether mistaken in their suppositions, for nobody could possibly watch her so closely as did Miss Wodehouse, who know no more than the man in the moon, at the close of the evening, whether her young sister was very wretched or totally indifferent. The truth was certainly not to be discovered, for that night at least, in Lucy’s looks.
XIV
The next afternoon there were signs of a considerable commotion in Mr. Elsworthy’s shop. Rosa had disappeared altogether, and Mrs. Elsworthy, with an ominous redness on her cheeks, had taken the place generally held by that more agreeable little figure. All the symptoms of having been engaged in an affray from which she had retired not altogether victorious were in Mrs. Elsworthy’s face, and the errand-boys vanished from her neighbourhood with inconceivable rapidity, and found out little parcels to deliver which would have eluded their most anxious search in other circumstances. Mr. Elsworthy himself occupied his usual place in the foreground, without the usual marks of universal content and satisfaction with all his surroundings which generally distinguished him. An
