“Thank you,” she said. “Yes, there are those poor little Bertrams I was to have seen today—if you would be so very good as to send someone to them.” Lucy lifted her eyes only as she ended this little speech. She had meant it cruelly, to be sure, and the arrow had gone home; but when she met the look that was fixed on her after her little shaft was fired, Lucy’s resolution faltered. The tears came rushing to her eyes so hot and rapid that she could not restrain them. Some trouble of her own gave poignancy to that outbreak of filial grief. “Papa is so very ill!” she said, with a sob, as a scalding drop fell upon her hand; and then got up suddenly, afraid of the consequences. But the Curate, mortified, wounded, and disheartened as he was, had no comprehension either of the bitterness or the relenting that was in Lucy’s thoughts. Rosa Elsworthy did not so much as occur to him in all his confused wonderings. He went after her to the door, too much perplexed and distressed to be indignant, as his first impulse was. She turned half round, with a tremulous little inclination of her head, which was all the good night she could venture on. But the young man was too much disturbed to permit this.
“You will give me your hand, surely,” he said, taking it, and holding it fast—a hand so different from that weak woman’s hand that clung to Gerald without any force to hold him, in Wentworth Rectory. Those reluctant fingers, so firm and so soft, which scorned any struggle to withdraw themselves, but remained passive in his with a more effectual protest still against his grasp, wrung the very heart of the Perpetual Curate. He let them go with a sigh of vexation and disappointment. “Since that is all I can do, I will do it,” he said—“that or anything else.” She had left him almost before the words were said; and it was in a very disconsolate mood that he turned back into the deserted drawing-room. To tell the truth, he forgot everything else for the moment, asking himself what it could mean; and walked about stumbling over the chairs, feeling all his little edifice of personal consolation falling to the winds, and not caring much though everything else should follow. He was in this state of mind when Miss Wodehouse came to him, moving with noiseless steps, as everybody did in the stricken house.
“Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I am so glad you have come,” said that mild woman, holding out both her hands to him. She was too much agitated to say anything more. She was not equal to the emergency, or any emergency, but sank down on a chair, and relieved herself by tears, while the Curate stood anxiously by, waiting for what she had to say to him. “My father is very ill,” she said, like Lucy, through her crying; “I don’t know what good anybody can do; but thank God you’ve come home—now I shall feel I have somebody to apply to, whatever happens,” said poor Miss Wodehouse, drying the eyes that were suffused again the next moment. Her helpless distress did not overwhelm the spectator, like Lucy’s restrained trouble, but that was natural enough.
“Tell me about it,” said Mr. Wentworth; “the cause—can I guess at the cause? it is something about your—”
“Oh hush! don’t say his name,” cried Miss Wodehouse. “Yes, yes, what else could it be? Oh, Mr. Wentworth, will you close the door, please, and see that there’s no one about. I dare not speak to you till I am sure there’s no one listening; not that I suspect anybody of listening,” said the distressed woman; “but one never knows. I am afraid it is all my fault,” she continued, getting up suddenly to see that the windows were closed. “I ought to have sent him away, instead of putting my trouble upon you; and now he is in greater danger than ever. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I meant it for the best; and now, unless you can help us, I don’t know what I am to do.”
“I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong,” said the Curate, making her sit down, and drawing a chair close to her. He took her hand, by way of compelling her attention—a fair, soft hand, too, in its restless, anxious way. He held it in a brotherly grasp, trying to restore her to coherence, and induce her to speak.
“I don’t know enough about business to tell you,” she said. “He was in danger when I threw him upon your charity; and oh, Mr. Wentworth, thank you, thank you a thousand times, for taking him in like a brother. If Lucy only knew! But I don’t feel as if I dared to tell her—and yet I sometimes think I ought, for your—I mean for all our sakes. Yes, I will try to explain it if I can; but I can’t—indeed I don’t understand,” cried the poor lady, in despair. “It is something about a bill—it was something about a bill before; and I thought I could soften papa, and persuade him to be merciful; but it has all turned to greater wretchedness and misery. The first one was paid, you know, and I thought papa might relent;—but—don’t cast us off, Mr. Wentworth—don’t go and denounce him; you might, but you will not. It would be justice, I acknowledge,” cried the weeping woman; “but there is something higher than justice even in this world. You are younger than I am, and so is Lucy; but you are better than me, you young people, and you must be more merciful too. I
