“She will know better some day,” said Miss Wodehouse, wiping her eyes; “and oh, Mr. Wentworth, if papa ever gets better—!” Here the poor lady broke down into inarticulate weeping. “But I know you will stand by us,” she said, amid her tears; “it is all the comfort I have—and Lucy—”
There was no sound of any footstep on the stair—nothing but the ticking of the timepiece on the mantelshelf, and the rustling of the curtains in the soft morning breeze which came through the open window, and Miss Wodehouse’s crying. The Curate had not expected to see Lucy, and knew in his heart that it was better they should not meet just at this moment; but, notwithstanding this, it was strange how bitter and disappointed he felt, and what an impatient longing he had for one look of her, even though it should be a look which would drive him frantic with mortified love and disappointed expectation. To know that she was under the same roof, and that she knew he was here, but kept away, and did not care to see him, was gall to his excited mind. He went away hastily, pressing poor Miss Wodehouse’s hand with a kind of silent rage. “Don’t talk about Lucy,” he said, half to himself, his heart swelling and throbbing at the sound of the name. It was the first time he had spoken it aloud to any ear but his own, and he left the house tingling with an indignation and mortification and bitter fondness which could not be expressed in words. What he was about to do was for her sake, and he thought to himself, with a forlorn pride, that she would never know it, and it did not matter. He could not tell that Lucy was glancing out furtively over the blind, ashamed of herself in her wounded heart for doing so, and wondering whether even now he was occupied with that unworthy love which had made an everlasting separation between them. If it had been anyone worthy, it would have been different, poor Lucy thought, as she pressed back the tears into her eyes, and looked out wistfully at him over the blind. She above-stairs in the sickroom, and he in the fresh garden hastening out to his work, were both thinking in their hearts how perverse life was, and how hard it was not to be happy—as indeed they well might in a general way; though perhaps one glance of the Curate’s eyes upward, one meeting of looks, might have resulted quite reasonably in a more felicitous train of thinking, at least for that day.
XXIV
When Mr. Wentworth arrived in the little vestry at St. Roque’s to robe himself for the approaching service, it was after a long and tough contest with Mr. Wodehouse’s partner, which had to a great extent exhausted his energies. Mr. Wodehouse was the leading attorney in Carlingford, the chief family solicitor in the county, a man looked upon with favourable eyes even by the great people as being himself a cadet of a county family. His partner, Mr. Waters, was altogether a different description of man. He was much more clever, and a good deal more like a gentleman, but he had not a connection in the world, and had fought his way up to prosperity through many a narrow, and perhaps, if people spoke true, many a dirty avenue to fortune. He was very glad of the chance which brought his partner’s reputation and credit thus under his power, and he was by no means disposed to deal gently with the prodigal son. That is to say, he was quite disinclined to let the family out of his clutches easily, or to consent to be silent and “frustrate the ends of justice” for anything else than an important equivalent. Mr. Wentworth had much ado to restrain his temper while the wily attorney talked about his conscience; for the Curate was clear-sighted enough to perceive at the first glance that Mr. Waters had no real intention of proceeding to extremities. The lawyer would not pledge himself to anything, notwithstanding all Mr. Wentworth’s arguments. “Wodehouse himself was of the opinion that the law should take its course,” he said; but out of respect for his partner he might wait a few days to see what turn his illness would take. “I confess that I am not adapted for my profession, Mr. Wentworth. My feelings overcome me a great deal too often,” said the sharp man of business, looking full into the Curate’s eyes, “and while the father is dying I have not the heart to proceed against the son; but I pledge myself to nothing—recollect, to nothing.” And with this and a very indignant mind Mr. Wentworth had been forced to come away. His thoughts were occupied with the contrarieties of the world as he hastened along to St. Roque’s—how one man had to bear another’s burdens in every station and capacity of life, and how another man triumphed and came to success by means of the misfortunes of his friends. It was hard to tell what made the difference, or how humankind got divided into these two great classes, for possibly enough the sharp attorney was as just in his way as the Curate; but Mr. Wentworth got no more satisfaction in thinking of it than the speculatists generally have when they investigate this strange, wayward, fantastical humanity which is never to be calculated upon. He came into the little vestry of St. Roque’s, which was a stony little room with a groined roof and windows too severely English in their character
