PART XII.-CHAPTER XXXVII. that his elderly love had far more need of his THE little assembly which met in the ves- devotion than he had ever expected her to try of Carlingford Church to inquire into the have; but, notwithstanding, he was disturbed conduct of the Perpetual Curate had so many by such an unlooked-for change of circumdifferent interests in hands when it dispersed, stances, as was natural, and did not quite and so much to do, that it is difficult for the know what was to be done with Lucy. He narrator of this history to decide, which was full of thoughts on this subject as he thread should be taken up first. Of all the proceeded toward the house, to the interinterlocutors, however, perhaps Mr. Proctor view which, to use sentimental language, was was the one who had least succeeded in his to decide his fate. But, to tell the truth, Mr. efforts to explain himself, and accordingly Proctor was not in a state of very deep anxidemands in the first place the attention of an ety about his fate. The idea of being refused impartial historian. The excellent man was was too unreasonable an idea to gain much still laboring under much perplexity when ground in his mind. He was going to offer the bed of justice was broken up. He began his personal support, affection, and sympato recollect that Mr. Wentworth's explana- thy to Miss Wodehouse at the least fortunate tion on the previous night had convinced him moment of her life; and if there were anyof his innocence, and to see that it was in- thing consolatory in marriage at all, the late deed altogether inconceivable that the curate rector sensibly concluded that it must be should be guilty; but then, other matters doubly comforting under such circumstances, still more disagreeable to contemplate than and that the offer of an honest man's hand Mr. Wentworth's guilt came in to darken and house and income was not a likely thing the picture. This vagabond Wodehouse, to be rejected by a woman of Miss Wodewhom the curate had taken in at his sister's house's experience and good sense,-not to request-what was the meaning of that mys- speak of his heart, which was very honest tery? Mr. Proctor had never been anyhow and true and affectionate, though it had outconnected with mysteries; he was himself an lived the fervors of youth. Such was Mr. only son, and had lived a straightforward, Proctor's view of the matter; and the chances peaceable life. Neither he nor his estimable were strong that Miss Wodehouse entirely parents, so far as the late rector was aware, agreed with him; so, but for a certain shyhad ever done anything to be ashamed of; ness which made him rather nervous, it would and he winced a little at the thought of con- not be correct to say that the late rector was necting himself with concealment and secrecy. in a state of special anxiety about the answer And then the curate's sudden disappearance he was likely to receive. He was, however, on the previous evening perplexed and troub- anxious about Lucy. His bachelor mind was led him. He imagined all kinds of reasons familiar with all the ordinary traditions about for it as he walked down Grange Lane. Per- the inexpediency of being surrounded by a haps Miss Wodehouse, who would not re- wife's family; and he had a little of the ceive himself, had sent for Mr. Wentworth; primitive male sentiment, shared one way or perhaps the vagabond brother was in some other by most husbands, that the old system other scrape, out of which he had to be ex- of buying a woman right out, and carrying tricated by the curate's assistance. Mr. her off for his own sole and private satisfacProctor was perfectly honest, and indeed, de- tion, was, after all, the correct way of mantermined, in his "intentions; " but every-aging such matters. To be sure, a pretty, body will allow that for a middle-aged lover young, unmarried sister was, perhaps, the of fifty or thereabouts, contemplating a sen- least objectionable encumbrance a woman sible match with a lady of suitable years and could have; but, notwithstanding, Mr. Procmeans, to find suddenly that the object of his tor would have been glad, could he have seen affections was, not only a penniless woman, any feasible way of disposing of Lucy. It but the natural guardian of an equally pen- was utterly out of the question to think of niless sister, was startling, to say the least of her going out as a governess; and it was it. He was a true man, and it did not occur quite evident that Mr. Wentworth, even were to him to decline the responsibility altogether; he perfectly cleared of every imputation, on the contrary, he was, perhaps, more eager having himself nothing to live upon, could than he would have been otherwise, seeing scarcely offer to share his poverty with poor Mr. Wodehouse's' cherished pet and dar- became his position as a respectable and faithling. ful servant, waiting any opportunity that might come handy to show his disgust for the new regime. "I dare say she has been used to live expensively," Mr. Proctor said to himself, wincing a little in his own mind at the thought. It was about one o'clock when he reached the green door,-an hour at which, during the few months of his incumbency at Carlingford, he had often presented himself at that hospitable house. Poor Mr. Wodehouse! Mr. Proctor could not help wondering at that moment how he was getting on in a world where, according to ordinary ideas, there are no lunch nor dinner parties, no old port nor savory side-dishes. Somehow, it was impossible to realize Mr. Wodehouse with other surroundings than those of good living and creature comfort. Mr. Proctor sighed, half for the departed, half at thought of the strangeness of that unknown life for which he himself did not feel much more fitted than Mr. Wodehouse. In the garden he saw the new heir sulkily marching about among the flower-beds, smoking, and looking almost as much out of place in the sweet tranquillity of the English garden as a churchwarden of Carlingford or a Fellow of AllSouls could look, to carry out Mr. Proctor's previous imagination, in the vague beatitude of a disembodied heaven. Wodehouse was so sick of his own company that he came hastily forward at the sight of a visitor, but shrank a little when he saw who it was. 66 I suppose you have brought some news," he said, in his sullen way. "I suppose he has been making his statements; has he? Much I care! He may tell what lies he pleases; he can't do me any harm. I never did anything but sign my own name, by Jove! Jack Wentworth himself says so. I don't care that for the parson and his threats!" said Wodehouse, snapping his fingers in Mr. Proctor's face. The late rector drew back a little, with a shudder of disgust and resentment. He could not help thinking that this fellow would, most likely, be his brother-in-law presently, and the horror he felt made itself visible in his face. "I am quite unaware what you can mean," said Mr. Proctor. "I am a parson; but I never made any threats that I know of. I wish to see Miss Wodehouse. I-I think she expects me at this hour," he said, with a little embarrassment, turning to John, who, for his part, had been standing by in a way which "Yes, sir," said John, promptly, and with emphasis. "My mistress expects you, sir. She's come down to the drawing-room for the first time. Miss Lucy keeps her room, sir, still; she's dreadfully cut up, poor dear young lady. My mistress will be glad to see you, sir," said John. This repetition of a title which Miss Wodehouse had not been in the habit of receiving was intended for the special advantage of the new master, whom John had no intention of recognizing in that capacity. "If you should know of any one, sir, as is in want of a steady servant," the man continued, as he led the way into the house, with a shrewd glance at Mr. Proctor, whose "intentions were legible enough to John's experienced eyes," not as I'm afeard of getting suited, being well known in Carlingford; but it would come natural to be with a friend of the family. There aint a servant in the house, sir, as will stay when the ladies go, and I think as Miss Wodehouse would speak for me," said John, with natural astuteness. This address made Mr. Proctor a little uneasy. It recalled to him the unpleasant side of the important transaction in which he was about to engage. He was not rich, and did not see his way now to any near prospect of requiring the services of "a steady servant," and the thought made him sigh. "We'll see," he said, with a troubled look. To persevere honorably in his "intentions" was one thing, but to be insensible to the loss of much he had looked forward to was quite another. It was, accordingly, with a grave and somewhat disturbed expression that he went to the interview which was to "decide his fate." Miss Wodehouse was seated in the drawing-room, looking slightly flushed and excited. Though she knew it. was very wrong to be thus roused into a new interest the day after her father's funeral, the events altogether had been of so startling a description that the usual decorum of an afflicted household had already been ruthlessly broken. And, on the whole, notwithstanding her watching and grief, Mr. Proctor thought he had never seen the object of his affections looking so well as she did now in the long black dress, which suited stopped short in a terrible state of embarrassment, not knowing what next to say. her better than the faint dove colors in of expectancy in respect to Mr. Proctor himwhich she arrayed herself by preference. self. Perhaps it was not going to happen She was not, it is true, quite sure what Mr. this time, and as she was pretty well assured Proctor wanted in this interview he had that it would happen one day or another, solicited; but a certain feminine instinct she was not anxious about it. "If I only instructed her in its probable eventualities. knew what to do about Tom," she continued, So she sat in a subdued flutter, with a little with a vague appeal in her voice. color fluctuating on her cheek, a tear in her Mr. Proctor got up from his chair and eyes, and some wonder and expectation in walked to the window. When he had looked her heart. Perhaps in her youth Miss Wode-out, he came back, rather surprising Miss house might have come to such a feminine Wodehouse by his unlooked-for movements. crisis before; but if so, it was long ago, and "I wanted very much to have a little conthe gentle woman had never been given to versation with you," he said, growing again matrimonial speculations, and was as fresh very red. "I dare say you will be surprised, and inexperienced as any girl. The black-but I have accepted another living, Miss frame in which she was set made her soft Wodehouse;" and here the good man color look fresher and less faded. Her plaintive voice, the general softness of her demeanor, looked harmonious and suitable to her circumstances. Mr. Proctor, who had by no means fallen in love with her on account of any remnants of beauty she might possess, had never admired her so much as he did now; he felt confused, good man, as he stood before her, and, seeing her so much younger and fairer than his former idea, began to grow alarmed, and wonder at his serenity. What if she thought him an old fogy? What if she refused, him? This supposition brought a crimson color to Mr. Proctor's middle-aged countenance, and was far from restoring his courage. It was a wonderful relief to him when she, with the instinct of a timid woman, rushed into hasty talk. "It was very kind of you to come yesterday," she said; "Lucy and I were very grateful. We have not many relatives, and my dear father " "Yes," said the late rector, again embarrassed by the tears which choked her voice, "he was very much respected: that must be a consolation to you. And he had a long life-and-and I suppose, on the whole, a happy one," said Mr. Proctor, "with you and your sister "Oh, Mr. Proctor, he had a great deal to put up with," said Miss Wodehouse, through her tears. She had, like most simple people, an instinctive disinclination to admit that anybody was or had been happy. It looked like an admission of inferiority. "Mamma's death, and poor Tom," said the elder sister. As she wiped her eyes, she almost forgot her own little feminine flutter "Yes?" said Miss Wodehouse, interrogatively. Her heart began to beat quicker; but perhaps he was only going to tell her about the new work he had undertaken; and then she was a woman, and had some knowledge, which came by nature, how to conduct herself on an occasion such as this. "I don't know whether you recollect," said Mr. Proctor-"I shall never forget it— one time when we all met in a house where a woman was dying,—I mean your sister and young Wentworth, and you and I,—and neither you nor I knew anything about it," said the late rector, in a strange voice. It was not a complimentary way of opening his subject, and the occurrence had not made so strong an impression upon Miss Wodehouse as upon her companion. She looked a little puzzled, and, as he made a pause, gave only a murmur of something like assent, and waited to hear what more he might have to say. "We neither of us knew anything about it," said Mr. Proctor,-" neither you how to manage her, nor I what to say to her, though the young people did. I have always thought of you from that time. I have thought I should like to try whether I was good for anything now-if you would help me," said the middle-aged lover. When he had said this, he walked to the window, and once more looked out, and came back redder than ever. You see we are neither of us young," said Mr. Proctor; and he stood by the table turning over the books nervously, without looking at her, which was certainly an odd commencement for a wooing. 66 "That is quite true," said Miss Wode- suit seemed to want backing at the actual house, rather primly. She had never dis- moment when it was being made. puted the fact by word or deed, but still, it was not pleasant to have the statement thus thrust upon her without any apparent provocation. It was not the sort of thing which a woman expects to have said to her under such circumstances. "I am sure I hope you will do better-I mean be more comfortable -this time," she continued, after a pause, sitting very erect on her seat. "If you will help me," said Mr. Proctor, taking up one of the books and reading the name on it, which was lucky for him; for it was Miss Wodehouse's name, which he either had forgotten or never had known. And here they came to a dead stop. What was she to say? She was a little affronted, to tell the truth, that he should remember more distinctly than anything else her age, and her unlucky failure on that one occasion. "You have just said that I could not manage," said the mild woman, not without a little vigor of her own; "and how, then, could I help you, Mr. Proctor? Lucy knows a great deal more about parish work than 1 do," she went on in a lower tone; and for one half of a second there arose in the mind of the elder sister a kind of wistful halfenvy of Lucy, who was young, and knew how to manage, a feeling which died in unspeakable remorse and compunction as soon as it had birth. "But Lucy would not have me," said the late rector; "and indeed, I should not know what to do with her if she would have me;-but you- It is a small parish; but it's not a bad living. I should do all I could to make you comfortable. At least, we might try," said Mr. Proctor, in his most insinuating tone. "Don't you think we might try? At least, it would do " He was going to say "no harm," but on second thoughts rejected that expression. "At least, I should be very glad if you would," said the excellent man, with renewed confusion. "It's a nice little rectory, with a pretty garden, and all that sort of thing; and-and perhaps it might help you to settle about going away-and-and I dare say there would be room for Lucy. Don't you think you would try?" cried Mr. Proctor, volunteering, in spite of himself, the very hospitality which he had thought it hard might be required of him; but somehow, his As for Miss Wodehouse, she sat and listened to him till he began to falter, then her composure gave way all at once. It was not difficult to make her cry at any time, and now she broke into irrestrainable sobs and tears. "But as for trying," she gasped, in broken mouthfuls of speech, would never-never do, Mr. Proctor. It has to be done-done for good and all-if-if it is done at all," sobbed the poor lady, whose voice came somewhat muffled through her handkerchief and her tears. "that "Then it shall be for good and all!" cried Mr. Proctor, with a sudden impulse of energy. This was how it came about that Miss Wodehouse and the late rector were engaged. He had an idea that he might be expected to kiss her, and certainly ought to call her Mary after this, and hovered for another minute near her seat, not at all disinclined for the former operation. But his courage failed him, and he only drew a chair a little closer and sat down, hoping that she would soon stop crying. And indeed, by the time that he produced out of his pocket-book the little photograph of the new rectory, which he had had made for her by a rural artist, Miss Wodehouse had emerged out of her handkerchief, and was perhaps in her heart as happy in a quiet way as she had ever been in her life. She who had never been good for much was now, in the time of their need, endowed with a home which she could offer Lucy. It was she, the helpless one of the family, who was to be her young sister's deliverer. Let it be forgiven to her if, in the tumult of the moment, this was the thought that came first. When Miss Wodehouse went up-stairs after this agitating but satisfactory interview, she found Lucy engaged in putting together some books and personal trifles of her own which were scattered about the little sittingroom. She had been reading" In Memoriam" until it vexed her to feel how inevitable good sense came in and interfered with the enthusiasm of her grief, making her sensible that to apply to her fond old father all the lofty lauds which were appropriate to the poet's hero would be folly indeed. He had been a good, tender father to her; but he was not" the sweetest soul that ever looked with human eyes;" and Lucy could not but stop in her awed the poor lady. "But, Lucy, I have given him my promise," said poor Miss Wodehouse. "It-it would make him very unhappy. I can't use him badly, Lucy dear." reading with a kind of pang and self-reproach | was, on the whole, not displeased to be maras this consciousness came upon her. Miss ried; for the feeling that Lucy expected her Wodehouse looked rather aghast when she to be too sensible for that sort of thing overfound her sister thus occupied. "Did you think of accepting Miss Wentworth's invitation, after all?" said Miss Wodehouse; "but, dear, I am afraid it would be awkward; and oh, Lucy, my darling, I have so many things to tell you," said the anxious sister, who "I will speak to him, and explain if it is was shy of communicating her own particu- necessary. Whatever happens, I can't let lar news. Before many minutes had passed, you sacrifice yourself for me," said Lucy. Lucy had thrown aside all the books, and All the answer Miss Wodehouse could make was sitting by her sister's side in half-pleased, was expressed in the tears of vexation and disconcerted amazement to hear her story. mortification which rushed to her eyes. She Only half pleased; for Lucy, like most other repelled her young sister's ministrations for girls of her age, thought love and marriage the first time in her life with hasty impawere things which belonged only to her own tience. Her troubles had not been few for level of existence, and was a little vexed and the last twenty-four hours. She had been disappointed to find that her elder sister questioned about Tom till she had altogether could condescend to such youthful matters. lost her head, and scarcely knew what she On the whole, she rather blushed for Mary, was saying; and Lucy had not applauded and felt sadly as if she had come down from that notable expedient of throwing the shame an imaginary pedestal. And then Mr. Proc- of the family upon Mr. Wentworth, to be tor, so old and so ordinary, whom it was concealed and taken care of, which had impossible to think of as a bridegroom, and brought so many vexations to the Perpetual still less as a brother. "I shall get used to Curate. Miss Wodehouse at last was driven it presently," said Lucy, with a burning to bay. She had done all for the best; but flush on her cheek, and a half feeling that nobody gave her any credit for it; and now she had reason to be ashamed; " but it is so this last step, by which she meant to prostrange to think of you, Mary. I always vide a home for Lucy, was about to be conthought you were too-too sensible for that tradicted and put a stop to altogether. She. sort of thing," which was a reproach that put away Lucy's arm and rejected her consowent to Miss Wodehouse's heart. lations. "What is the use of pretending to be fond of me if I am always to be wrong, and never to have my-my own way in anything?" cried the poor lady, who, beginning with steadiness, broke down before she reached the end of her little speech. The words made Lucy open her blue eyes with wonder; and after that there followed a fuller explanation, which greatly changed the ideas of the younger sister. After her "consent "' had been at last extracted from her, and when Miss Wodehouse regained her composure, she reported to Lucy the greater part of the conversation which had taken place in the drawing-room of which Mr. Proctor's proposal constituted only a part, and which touched upon matters still more interesting to her hearer. The two sisters, preoccupied by their father's illness and death, had up to this time but a vague knowledge of the difficulties which surrounded the Perpetual Curate. His trial, which Mr. Proctor had reported to his newly-betrothed, had been "Oh, Lucy dear," said the mild woman, who in this view of the matter became as much ashamed of herself as Lucy could desire," what could I do? I know what you mean, at my time of life; but I could not let you be dependent on Tom, my darling," said Miss Wodehouse, with a deprecating, appealing look. 66 'No, indeed," said Lucy; "that would be impossible under any circumstances; nor on you either, Mary dear. I can do something to make a living, and I should like it. I have always been fond of work. I will not permit you to sacrifice yourself for me," said the younger sister, with some dignity. "I see how it has been. I felt sure it was not of your own accord.” Miss Wodehouse wrung her hands with dismay and perplexity. What was she to do if Lucy stood out and refused her consent? She could not humble herself so far as to confess that she rather liked Mr. Proctor, and |