The Perpetual Curate

very silent and still in that darkened chamber. Lucy was seated by the bedside, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and looked as if she had not slept for several nights; while Miss Wodehouse, who, notwithstanding all her anxiety to be of use, was far more helpless than Lucy, stood on the side next the door, with her eyes fixed on her sister, watching with pathetic unserviceableness for the moment when she could be of some use. As for the patient himself, he lay in a kind of stupor, from which he scarcely ever could be roused, and showed no tokens at the moment of hearing or seeing anybody. The scene was doubly sad, but it was without the excitement which so often breathes in the atmosphere of death. There was no eager listening for the last word, no last outbreaks of tenderness. The daughters were both hushed into utter silence; and Lucy, who was more reasonable than her sister, had even given up those wistful beseeching looks at the patient, with which Miss Wodehouse still regarded him, as if perhaps he might be thus persuaded to speak. The nurse whom Dr. Marjoribanks had sent to assist them was visible through an open door, sleeping very comfortably in the adjoining room. Mr. Wentworth came into the silent chamber with all his anxieties throbbing in his heart, bringing life at its very height of agitation and tumult into the presence of death. He went forward to the bed, and tried for an instant to call up any spark of intelligence that might yet exist within the mind of the dying man; but Mr. Wodehouse was beyond the voice of any priest. The Curate said the prayers for the dying at the bedside, suddenly filled with a great pity for the man who was thus taking leave unawares of all this mournful splendid world. Though the young man knew many an ordinary sentiment about the vanity of life, and had given utterance to that effect freely in the way of his duty, he was still too fresh in his heart to conceive actually that anyone could leave the world without poignant regrets; and when his prayer was finished, he stood looking at the patient with inexpressible compassion. Mr. Wodehouse had scarcely reached old age; he was well off, and only a week ago seemed to have so much to enjoy; now, here he lay stupefied, on the edge of the grave, unable to respond even by a look to the love that surrounded him. Once more there rose in the heart of the young priest a natural impulse of resentment and indignation; and when he thought of the cause of this change, he remembered Wodehouse’s threat, and roused himself from his contemplation of the dying to think of the probable fate of those who must live.

“Has he made his will?” said Mr. Wentworth, suddenly. He forgot that it was Lucy who was standing by him; and it was only when he caught a glance of reproach and horror from her eyes that he recollected how abrupt his question was. “Pardon me,” he said; “you think me heartless to speak of it at such a time; but tell me, if you know: Miss Wodehouse, has he made his will?”

“Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I don’t know anything about business,” said the elder sister. “He said he would; but we have had other things to think of⁠—more important things,” said poor Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands, and looking at Mr. Wentworth with eyes full of warning and meaning, beseeching him not to betray her secret. She came nearer to the side of the bed on which Lucy and the Curate were standing, and plucked at his sleeve in her anxiety. “We have had very different things to think of. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, what does it matter?” said the poor lady, interposing her anxious looks, which suggested every kind of misfortune, between the two.

“It matters everything in the world,” said Mr. Wentworth. “Pardon me if I wound you⁠—I must speak; if it is possible to rouse him, an effort must be made. Send for Mr. Waters. He must not be allowed to go out of the world and leave your interests in the hands of⁠—”

“Oh, hush, Mr. Wentworth, hush!⁠—oh, hush, hush! Don’t say any more,” cried Miss Wodehouse, grasping his arm in her terror.

Lucy rose from where she had been sitting at the bedside. She had grown paler than before, and looked almost stern in her youthful gravity. “I will not permit my father to be disturbed,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean, or what you are talking of; but he is not to be disturbed. Do you think I will let him be vexed in his last hours about money or anybody’s interest?” she said, turning upon the Curate a momentary glance of scorn. Then she sat down again, with a pang of disappointment added to her grief. She could not keep her heart so much apart from him, as not to expect a little comfort from his presence. And there had been comfort in his prayers and his looks; but to hear him speak of wills and worldly affairs by her father’s deathbed, as any man might have done, went to Lucy’s heart. She sat down again, putting her hand softly upon the edge of the pillow, to guard the peace of those last moments which were ebbing away so rapidly. What if all the comfort of the world hung upon it? Could she let her kind father be troubled in his end for anything so miserable? Lucy turned her indignant eyes upon the others with silent resolution. It was she who was his protector now.

“But it must be done,” said Mr. Wentworth. “You will understand me hereafter. Miss Wodehouse, you must send for Mr. Waters, and in the meantime I will do what I can to rouse him. It is no such cruelty as you think,” said the Curate, with humility; “it is