eady 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 prayer-book 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 to-day the colour
rose to his face, and he understood that Dr Marjoribanks did not think
him qualified to carry comfort or instruction to a sick-bed. 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 sick-room. 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 s