The Perpetual Curate

Canon law, but his English intelligence did not make very much of it; and the bare idea of a dispensation making that right which in itself was wrong, touched the high-minded gentleman to the quick, and brought him to a sudden standstill. He who was nothing if not a priest, stood sorrowfully looking at his contemplated martyrdom⁠—like Brother Domenico of St. Mark’s sighing on the edge of the fiery ordeal into which the Church herself would not let him plunge. If it was so, he no longer knew what to do. He would have wrapped the vestment of the new priesthood about him, though it was a garment of fire; but to stand aside in irksome leisure was a harder trial, at which he trembled. This was the new complication in which Gerald asked his brother’s sympathy and counsel. It was a long letter, curiously introspective, and full of self-argument; and it was hard work, with a mind so occupied as was that of the Perpetual Curate, to give it due attention. He put it away when he had done with his cold breakfast, and deferred the consideration of the subject, with a kind of vague hope that the family firmament might possibly brighten in that quarter at least; but the far-off and indistinct interest with which he viewed, across his own gloomy surroundings, this matter which had engrossed him so completely a few days before, was wonderful to see.

And then he paused to think what he was to do. To go out and face the slander which must already have crept forth on its way⁠—to see Elsworthy and ascertain whether he had come to his senses, and try if anything could be done for Rosa’s discovery⁠—to exert himself somehow, in short, and get rid of the feverish activity which he felt consuming him⁠—that was what he longed to do. But, on the other hand, it was Saturday, and Mr. Wentworth was conscious that it would be more dignified, and in better taste altogether, if he went on writing his sermon and took no notice of this occurrence, with which, in reality, he had nothing to do. It was difficult, but no doubt it was the best; and he tried it accordingly⁠—putting down a great many sentences which had to be scratched out again, and spoiling altogether the appearance of the sermon-paper. When a message came from Mr. Wodehouse’s about eleven o’clock, bringing the news that he was much worse and not expected to live, and begging Mr. Wentworth’s immediate presence, the Curate was as nearly glad as it was possible for a man to be under the circumstances. He had “a feeling heart,” as even Elsworthy allowed, but in such a moment of excitement any kind of great and terrible event seemed to come natural. He hastened out into the fresh morning sunshine, which still seemed thrilling with life and joy, and went up Grange Lane with a certain sense of curiosity, wondering whether everybody was already aware of what had happened. A long way off a figure which much resembled that of the Rector was visible crossing over to Dr. Marjoribanks’s door; and it occurred to the Curate that Mr. Morgan was crossing to avoid him, which brought a smile of anger and involuntary dislike to his face, and nerved him for any other encounter. The green door at Mr. Wodehouse’s⁠—a homely sign of the trouble in the house⁠—had been left unlatched, and was swinging ajar with the wind when the Curate came up; and as he went in (closing it carefully after him, for that forlorn little touch of carelessness went to his heart), he encountered in the garden Dr. Marjoribanks and Dr. Rider, who were coming out together with very grave looks. They did not stop for much conversation, only pausing to tell him that the case was hopeless, and that the patient could not possibly live beyond a day or two at most; but even in the few words that were spoken Mr. Wentworth perceived, or thought he perceived, that something had occurred to lessen him in the esteem of the shrewd old Scotch doctor, who contemplated him and his prayerbook with critical eyes. “I confess, after all, that there are cases in which written prayers are a kind of security,” Dr. Marjoribanks said in an irrelevant manner to Dr. Rider when Mr. Wentworth had passed them⁠—an observation at which, in ordinary cases, the Curate would have smiled; but today the colour rose to his face, and he understood that Dr. Marjoribanks did not think him qualified to carry comfort or instruction to a sickbed. Perhaps the old doctor had no such idea in his mind⁠—perhaps it was simply a relic of his national Presbyterianism, to which the old Scotchman kept up a kind of visionary allegiance. But whether he meant it or not, Mr. Wentworth understood it as a reproach to himself, and went on with a bitter feeling of mortification to the sickroom. He had gone with his whole heart into his priestly office, and had been noted for his ministrations to the sick and poor; but now his feelings were much too personal for the atmosphere into which he was just about to enter. He stopped at the door to tell John that he would take a stroll round the garden before he came in, as he had a headache, and went on through the walks which were sacred to Lucy, not thinking of her, but wondering bitterly whether anybody would stand by him, or whether an utterly baseless slander would outweigh all the five years of his life which he had spent among the people of Carlingford. Meanwhile John stood at the door and watched him, and of course thought it was very “queer.” “It aint as if he’d a-been sitting up all night, like our young ladies,” said John to himself, and unconsciously noted the circumstance down in his memory against the Curate.

When Mr. Wentworth entered the sickroom, he found all