lderment.

Once more the door opened, and John appeared on the steps, this time
with a lantern and the watch-dog, a great brown mastiff, by his side,
evidently with the intention of searching the garden for the owners of
those furtive voices. Mr Wentworth drew the arm of his trembling
companion within his own. "I don't know what you want of me, but
whatever it is, trust to me like--like a brother," he said, with a sigh.
"But now compose yourself; we must go into the house: it will not do for
you to be found here." He led her up the gravel-walk into the light of
the lantern, which the vigilant guardian of the house was flashing among
the bushes as he set out upon his rounds. John fell back amazed but
respectful when he saw his mistress and the familiar visitor. "Beg your
pardon, ma'am, but I knew there was voices, and I didn't know as any of
the family was in the garden," said the man, discomfited. It was all Mr
Wentworth could do to hold up the trembling figure by his side. As John
retreated, she gathered a little fortitude. Perhaps it was easier for
her to tell her hurried tremulous story, as he guided _her_ back to the
house, than it would have been in uninterrupted leisure and quiet. The
family tragedy fell in broken sentences from her lips, as the Curate
bent down his astonished ear to listen. He was totally unprepared for
the secret which only her helplessness and weakness and anxiety to serve
her father could have drawn from Miss Wodehouse's lips; and it had to be
told so hurriedly that Mr Wentworth scarcely knew what it was, except a
terrible unsuspected shadow overhanging the powerful house, until he had
time to think it all over. There was no such time at this moment. His
trembling companion left him as soon as they reached the house, to
"compose herself," as she said. When he saw her face in the light of the
hall lamp it was ghastly, and quivering with agitation, looking not ten
years, as she said, but a hundred years older than when, in the sweet
precision of her Sunday dress and looks, old Miss Wodehouse had bidden
him good-bye at the green door. He went up to the drawing-room,
notwithstanding, with as calm a countenance as he himself could collect,
to pay the visit which, in this few minutes, had so entirely changed in
character. Mr Wentworth felt as if he saw everything exactly as he had
pictured it to himself half an hour ago. Lucy, who had left the piano,
was seated in her low chair again, not working, bu