position and went over beside old Mrs Western, who was leaning
upon Lucy's chair. He put his own hand on the back of the chair with
an involuntary impulse. As for Lucy, her first thrill of nervous
strength had failed her: she began to get confused and bewildered; but
whatever it was, no insult, no wound to her pride or affections, was
coming to her from that hand which she knew was on her chair. She
leaned back a little, with a long sigh. Her imagination could not
conceive anything important enough for such a solemn intimation, and
her attention began to flag in spite of herself. No doubt it was
something about that money which people thought so interesting.
Meanwhile Mr Waters went on steadily with what he had to say, not
sparing them a word of the preamble; and it was not till ten minutes
later that Lucy started up with a sudden cry of incredulity and
wonder, and repeated his last words. "His son!--whose son?" cried
Lucy. She looked all round her, not knowing whom to appeal to in her
sudden consternation. "We never had a brother," said the child of Mr
Wodehouse's old age; "it must be some mistake." There was a dead pause
after these words. When she looked round again, a sickening conviction
came to Lucy's heart that it was no mistake. She rose up without
knowing it, and looked round upon all the people, who were watching
her with various looks of pity and curiosity and spectator-interest.
Mr Waters had stopped speaking, and the terrible stranger made a step
forward with an air that identified him. It was at him that Mr Proctor
was staring, who cleared his voice a great many times, and came
forward to the middle of the room and looked as if he meant to speak;
and upon him every eye was fixed except Mr Wentworth's, who was
watching Lucy, and Miss Wodehouse's, which were hidden in her hands.
"We never had a brother," she repeated, faltering; and then, in the
extremity of her wonder and excitement, Lucy turned round, without
knowing it, to the man whom her heart instinctively appealed to. "Is
it true?" she said. She held out her hands to him with a kind of
entreaty not to say so. Mr Wentworth made no reply to her question. He
said only, "Let me take you away--it is too much for you," bending
down over her, without thinking what he did, and drawing her hand
through his arm. "She is not able for any more," said the Curate,
hurriedly; "afterwards we can explain to her." If he could have
remembered anything about himself at th