A 'c: A : :>^ JTHI -^ 1 m ■ O 4 1 i;^-^,'^f,>s*Vl;.,^, •^^>-'*' *^'^;:.-nv^'""^' LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY WI 1 1 iam E. Dol e UCSB Q- COLLECTION BRITISH AUTHORS TAIICHNITZ EDITION. VOL. 1110. THE PEKPETUAL CURATE BY MRS. OLIPHANT. IN TWO VOLUMES, VOL. I. TAUCIINITZ EDITION. Cbroniclfs of Carlingforb. THE RECTOR AND TUE DOCTuu's I'AMILV 1 vol. SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols. THE I'EUl'ETLAL CURATE 2 vols. MISS M.UUOKIBANKS 2 vols. Cljronidcs of Carltnjgforb THE PERPETUAL CURATE MRS. OLIPHANT. i COPYRIGHT EDITION. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LEIPZIG BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ 187 0. The Righl of Translation, is reserved. ^^ ALLA PADRONA MIA; ED A TE, SORELLA CARISSIMA! CONSOLATRICI GENTILLISSIME BELLA DESOLATA. THE PERPETUAL CURATE. CHAPTER I. Carlingfori) is, as is well known, essentially a qniet place. Tliere is no trade in the town, pr()])crly so called. To be sure, there are two or three small counting-houses at the other end of George Street, in that ambitious pile called Gresham Chambers; but the owners of" tliese places of business live, as a general rule, in villas, either detached or semi-detached, in the North-end, the new quarter, which, as everybody knows, is a region totally unrepresented in society. In Carling- ford proper there is no trade, no manufactures, no any- thing in particular, except very pleasant parties and a suj)erior class of people— a very superior class of peo])le, indeed, to anything (me expects to meet with in a country town, which is not even a county town, nor the seat of any particular interest. It is the boast of the place that it has no particular interest — not even a [)ul)lic school: for no reason in the world but because they like it, have so many nice people collected to- gether in those pretty houses in Grange Lane — which is, of course, a very much higher tribute to the town than if any special inducement had led them there. But in every community some centre of life is neces- sary. This point, round which everything circles, is, 8 TlIK I'HUI'KTIIAL CURATE. hi Carlin^ford, found in the clergy. 'I'l'cy are the ad- ministrators of the commonwealth, the only people who have defined and comjuilsory duties to f^ive a sharp outline to life. Somehow this touch of necessity and Inisiness seems needful even in the most refined society: a man who is obliged to be somewhere at a certain hour, to do something at a certain time, and whose public duties are not volunteer ))roceedinfrs, but indis- pensable work, has a certain p(»sition of command amonfj a leisurely and unoccupied community, not to say that it is a public boon to have some one whom everybody knows and can talk of. The minister in Salem Chapel was everything to his little world. That respectable connection would not have hunjr tojrether half so closely but for tills perpetual subject of discussion, criticism, and patronaf^e; and, to compare great things with small, society in Carlingford recognised in some degree the same human want. An enterprising or non-enterprising rector made all the difference in the world in Grange Lane; and in the absence of a rector that counted for anything (and j)oor Mr. Proctor was of no earthly use, as everybody knows), it followed, as a natiiral con- sequence, that a great deal of the interest and influence of the position fell into the hands of the Curate of St. Roque's. But that position was one full of difficulties, as any one acquainted with the real state of affairs must see in a moment. Mr. "Wentworth's circumstances were, on the whole, as delicate and critical as can be imagined, both as respected his standing in Carlingford and the place he held in his own family — not to speak of certain other personal matters which were still more trouble- some and vexatious. These last of course were of his THE PKUPETUAL CURATE. own bringing on; for if a yonng man chooses to fall in love when he has next to nothing to live upon, troiible is sure to follow. He had quite enoiigh on his hands otherwise without that crowning complication. When Mr. Wentworth first came to Carlingford, it was in the days of Mr. Bury, the Evangelical rector — his last days, Avhen he had no longer his old vigour, and was very glad of "assistance,'' as he said, in his public and parish work. Mr. Bury liad a friendsliip of old stand- ing with the Miss AVcntworths of Skclmcrsdale, Mr. Francis Wentwortli's aunts; and it was a long time be- fore the old Rector's eyes were opened to tlie astound- ing fact, that the nephew of these precious and chosen women held "views" of the most dangerous complexion, and indeed was as near Rome as a strong and lofty conviction of the really superior catholicity of the Anglican Church would permit him to be. Before he found this out, Mr. Bury, who had unlimited confidence in preaching and improving talk, had done all he could to get the young man to "work," as the good Rector called it, and had voluntarily placed all tliat difiicult district about the canal under the charge of the Curate of St. Roque's. It is said that the horror with which, after having just wi-itten to Miss Leonora Wentworth to inform her what "a great work" his young friend was doing among the bargemen, Mr. Bury Avas seized upon 'entering St. Roque's itself for the first time after the consecration, when the yoixng priest had arranged everything his own way, had a very bad effect on his health, and hastened his end. And it is indeed a fact that he died soon after, before he had time to issue the interdict he intended against Mr. Wentworth's further exertions in tlie parish of Carlingford. Then came Mr, 10 THK rnnvRTiiAL crnATK. Proctf)!*, who caiiio intu the town as it' lie had dropped from tlic skies, and knew no more ahout managing a parisli than a hahy; and under liis exceptional incum- bency Mr. Wentworth became more than ever necessary to the peace of the community. Now a new regime had been inaugurated. Mr. Morgan, a man whom Miss Wodchouse dcscriljcd as "in the prime of life," newly married, with a wife also in the prime of life, who had waited for him ten years, and all that time had been under training for her future duties — two fresh, new, active, clergymanly intellects, entirely open to the aH'airs of the town, and intent upon general reforma- tion and sound management — had just come into posses- sion. The new liector was making a great stir all about him, as was natural to a new man; and it seemed, on the whole, a highly doubtful business whether he and Mr. Wentworth would find Carlingford big enough to hold them both. "We could not have expected to begin quite with- oiit difficulties," said Mrs. Morgan, as she and her hus- band discussed the question in the drawing-room of the Rectory. It was a pretty drawing-room, though Mr. Proctor's taste was not quite in accordance with the principles of the ucav incumbent's wife: however, as the furniture was all new, and as the former rector had no further need for it, it was, of course, much the best and most economical arrangement to take it as if stood — though the bouquets on the carj^et were a grievance which nothing but her high Christian princijiles could have carried Mrs. jNIorgan through. 8he looked round as she spoke, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head: she, too, had her share of disagreeables. "It would not look like Christ's work, dear," said THE PETtPETUAL CURA.TE. 11 the clergyman's wife, "if Ave had it all our own way." "My clear, I hope I am actuated by higher motives than a desire to have it all my own way," said the Rector. "I always felt sure that Proctor would make a mess of any parish he took in hand, but I did not imagine he would have left it to anybody who pleased to work it. You may imagine what my feelings were to-day when I came upon a kind of impromptu chapel in that wretched district near the canal. I thought it a Little Bethel, you know, of course; but, instead of that, I find young Wentworth goes there Wednesdays and Fridays to do duty, and tliat there is service on Sunday evening, and I can't tell what besides. It may be done from a good motive — but such a disregard of all constituted authority," said the Rector, with in- voluntary vehemence, "can never, in my opinion, be attended by good results." "Mr. Wentworth, did you say?" said Mrs. Morgan, upon whose female soul tlie Perpetual Curate's good looks and good manners had not been without a certain softening eifect. "I am so sorry. I don't wonder you are vexed-, but don't you think there miist be some mistake, William? Mr. Wentworth is so gentlemanly and nice — and of very good fixmily, too. I don't think he would choose to set himself in opposition to the Rector. I think there must be some mistake." "It's a very aggravating mistake, at all events," said Mr. Morgan, rising and going to the window. It was, as we liave said, a very pi-etty drawing-room, and the windows ojiened upon as pretty a bit of lawn as you could see, with one handsome cedar sweeping its dark branches majestically over delicious greensward; 12 THE PERPETUAL CURATE. but some j)Oojilc did tliink it was too near George Street and tlic railway. Just at that moment a puff of delicate white vapour a]>peared over the wall, and a sudden express-train, just released from the cover of the station, sprang with a snort and bound across the Rector's view, very imjierfectly veiled by the lime- trees, which were thin in their foliage as yet. Mr. Morgan groaned and retreated — out of his first exalta- tion he had descended all at once, as people will do after building all their hopes upon one grand event, into great depression and vexation, when he found that, after all, tliis event did not change the face of existence, but indeed brought new proofs of mortality in the shape of special annoyances belonging to itself in its train. "On the whole," said the Rector, who was subject to fits of disgust with things in general, "I am tempted to think it was a mistake coming to Carliugford; the drawbacks quite overbalance the advantages. I did hesitate, I remember — it must have been my better angel: that is, my dear," he continued, recollecting himself, "I would have hesitated had it not been for you." Here there ensued a little pause. Hilrs. Morgan was not so young as she had been ten years ago, all which time she had waited patiently for the Fellow of All- Souls, and naturally these ten years and the patience had not improved her looks. There was a redness on her countenance nowadays which was not exactly bloom; and it stretched across her cheeks, and over the point of her nose, as she was painfully aware, poor lady. She was silent when she heard this, wondering with a passing pang whether he was sorry? But being a thoroughly sensible woman, and above indulging iu THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 13 those little appeals by which foolish ones coufiise the calm of matrimonial friendship, she did not express the momentary feeling. "Yes, William," she said, sympathetically, casting her eyes again on the ob- jectionable carpet, and feeling that there loere draw- backs even to her happiness as the wife of the Rector of Carlingford; "but I suppose every place has its dis- advantages; and then there is such good society, and a town like this is the very place for your talents; and when aftairs are in your own hands " "It is very easy talking," said the vexed Rector. "Society and everybody would titrn upon me if I interfered with Wentworth — there's the vexation. The fellow goes about it as if he had a right. Why, there's a Provident Society and all sorts of things going on, exactly as if it were his owia parish. What led me to the place was seeing some ladies in grey cloaks — exactly such frights as you used to make yourself, my dear — flickering about. He has got up a sisterhood, I have no doubt; and to find all this in full operation in one's own parish, without so much as being informed of it! and you know I don't ajiprove of sisterhoods — never did; they are founded on a mistake." "Yes, dear. I know I gave up as soon as I knew your views on that subject," said Mrs. Morgan. "I daresay so will the ladies here. Who were they? Did you speak to them? or perhaps they belonged to St. Roque's." "Nobody belongs to St. Roque's," said the Rector, contemptuously — "it has not even a district. They were the two Miss Wodehouses." Mrs. Morgan was moved to utter a little cry. "And their father is churchwarden!" said the indignant 14 THE I'BRPETUAL CURATE. woman. "Ileally AVilliam, this is too much— without even consultiiij^ >'<'"• But it is easy to see liow that comes about. Lucy Wodehouse and young Wentworth are ; well, I don't know if they are engaged — but they are always together, walking and talking, and consulting with each other, and so forth — a great deal more than I could approve of; but that poor elder sister, you know, has no authority — nor indeed any experience, poor thing," said the Rector's Avife; "that's how it is, no doubt." "Engaged!" said the Rector. He gave a kindly glance at his wife, and melted a little. "Engaged, are they? Poor little thing! I hope she'll be as good as you have been, my dear; but a young man may be in love without interfering with another man's parish. I can't forgive that," said Mr. IMorgan, recovering him- self; "he must be taught to know better; and it is very hard upon a clergyman," continued the spiritual ruler of Carlingford, "that he cannot move in a matter like this witliout incurring a storm of godless criticism. If I were sending Wentworth out of my parish, I shouldn't wonder if the 'Times' had an article upon it, denouncing me as an indolent priest and bigot, that would neither work myself nor let my betters work; that's how these fellows talk." "But nobody could say such things of you," said Mrs. Morgan, firing up. "Of me? they'd say them of St. Paul, if he had ever been in the circumstances," said the Rector; "and I should just like to know what he would have done in a parisli like this, with the Dissenters on one side, and a Perpetual Curate without a district meddling on the other. Ah, my dear," continued Mr. Morgan, "I Till) PERrETUAL CURATE. 15 daresay they had tlieii* troubles in these days-, biit facing a governor or so now and then, or even passing a night in the stocks, is a very diflferent thing from a sho wing-up in the 'Times,' not to speak of the com- plications of duty. Let us go out and call atFolgate's, and see whether he thinks anything can be done to the church." "Dear, you wouldn't mind the 'Times' if it were your duty?" said the Rector's wife, getting up promptly to prepare for the walk. "No, I suppose not," said Mr. Morgan, not without a thrill of importance; "nor the stake," he added, with a little laugh, for he was not without a sense of humour; and the two went out to the architect's to ascertain the result of his cogitations over the church. They passed that sacred ediiice in their way, and went in to gaze at it A\'ith a disgust which only an unhappy priest of high culture and esthetic tastes, doomed to officiate in a building of the eighteenth century, of the churchwarden period of architecture, could fully enter into. "Eugh!" said Mr. Morgan, looking round upon the high pews and stifling galleries with an expressive contraction of his features — his wife looked on sympa- thetic; and it was at this unlucky moment that the subject of their late conference made his appearance cheerfully from behind the ugly pulpit, in close con- ference with Mr. Folgate. The pulpit was a three- storeyed mass, with the reading-desk and the clerk's desk beneath— a terrible eyesore to the Eector and his wife. "I can fancy the expediency of keeping the place in repair," said the Curate of St. Roque's, happy in the consciousness of possessing a church which, though 16 THE PERPETUAL CURATE. not old, liad been built by Gilbert Scott, and cheer- fully unconscious of the presence of listeners; "but to beautify a wretched old barn like this is beyond the imagination of man. Money can't do everything," said the heedless young man, as he came lounging down the middle aisle, tapping contemptuously with his cane upon the high jJew-doors. "I wonder where the people expected to go to who built Carlingford Church? Curious," continued the young Anglican, stopping in mid career, "to think of bestowing con- secration ujion anything so hideous. What a pass the world must have come to, Folgate, when this erection was counted worthy to be the house of God! After all, perhaps it is wrong to feel so strongly about it. The walls are consecrated, though they are ugly; we can't revoke the blessing. But no wonder it was an unchristian age." "We have our treasure in earthen vessels," said Mr. Morgan, somewhat sternly, from where he stood, under shelter of the heavy gallery. Mr. Wentworth was shortsighted, like most people nowadays. He put up his glass hastily, and then hurried forward, perhaps just a little abashed. When he had made his saluta- tions, however, he returned undismayed to the charge. "It's a great pity you have not something better to work upon," said the dauntless Curate; "but it is difficult to conceive what can be done with such an unhallowed type of construction. I was just saying to Folgate " "There is a great deal of cant abroad on this sub- ject," said Mr. Morgan, interrupting the young oracle. "I like good architecture, but I don't relish attributing moral qualities to bricks and mortar. The hallowing THE PEKPETUAL CURATi;. 17 iufluence ought to be within. Mr. Folgate, we were going to call at your office. Have you thought of the little suggestions I ventured to make? Oh, the draw- ings are here. Mr. Wentworth does not approve of them, I suppose?" said the Eector, turning sternly round upon the unlucky Curate of St. Roque's. "I can only say I sympathise with you profoundly," said young Wentworth, with great seriousness. "Such a terrible church must be a great trial. I wish I had any advice worth offering; but it is my hour for a short service down at the canal, and I can't keep my poor bargees waiting. Good morning. I hope you'll come and give us your countenance, Mrs. Morgan. There's no end of want and trouble at Wharfside." "Is Mr. Wentworth aware, I wonder, that Wharf- side is in the parish of Carlingford?" said the Rector, with involuntary severity, as the young priest with- drew calmly to go to his "duty." Mr. Folgate, who sujjposed himself to be addressed, smiled, and said, "Oh yes, of course," and unfolded his drawings, to which the clerical pair before him lent a disturbed at- tention. They were both in a high state of indigna- tion by this time. It seemed indispensable that some- thing should be done to bring to his senses an intruder so perfectly composed and at his ease. CHAPTER II. Meanwhile Mr. Wentworth, without much thought of his sins, went down George Street, meaning to turn off at the first narrow turning which led down behind the shops and traffic, behind the comfort and beauty The Firiidaal CamU. J. 2 J 8 THE PERPETUAL CURATE. of the little town, to that inevitable land of shadow which always dogs the sunshine. Carlingford proper knew little about it, except that it increased the poor- rates, and now and then produced a fever. The minister of Salem Chapel was in a state of complete ignorance on the subject. The late Kector had been equally uninformed, Mr. Bury, who was Evangelical, had the credit of disinterring the buried creatures there about thirty years ago. It was an office to be expected of that much-preaching man; but what was a great deal more extraordinary, Avas to find that the only people now in Carlingford who knew anything about Wharfside, except overseers of the poor and guardians of the piiblic peace, were the Perpetual Curate of St. Roque's — who had nothing particular to do with it, and who was regarded by many sober-minded persons with suspicion as a dilettante Anglican, given over to floral ornaments and ecclesiastical upholstery — and some half-dozen people of the very elite of society, principally ladies residing in Grange Lane. Mr. Weutworth came to a hesitating pause at the head of the turning which would have led him to Wharfside. He looked at his watch and saw there was half an hour to spare. He gave a wistful linger- ing look down the long line of garden- walls, pausing upon one point where the blossomed boughs of an apple-tree overlooked that enclosure. There was quite time to call and ask if the Miss Wodehouses were going down to the service this afternoon; but was it duty? or, indeed, putting that question aside, was it quite right to compound matters with his own heart's desire and the work he was engaged in, in this un- deniable fashion? The young priest crossed the street THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 19 very slowly, swinging his cane and knitting his brows as he debated the question. If it had been one of the bargemen bringing his sweetheart, walking with her along the side of the canal to which Spring and sweet Easter coming on, and Love, perhaps, always helpful of illusions, might convey a certain greenness and sentiment of nature — and echoing her soft responses to the afternoon prayers — perhaps the Curate might have felt that such devotion was not entirely pure and simple. But somehow, before he was aware of it, his slow footstep had crossed the line, and he found him- self in Grange Lane, bending his steps towards Mr. Wodehouse's door. For one thing, to be sure, the Canticles in the evening service could always be sung when Lucy's sweet clear voice was there to lead the uncertain melody; and it was good to see her singing the 'Magnificat' with that serious sweet face, "full of grace," like Mary's own. Thinking of that, Mr. Went- worth made his Avay without any further hesitation to the green door over Avhich hung the apple-blossoms, totally untroubled in his mind as to what the reverend pair were thinking whom he had left behind him in the ugly church; and unconscious that his impromptu chapel at Wharfside, with its little carved reading-desk, and the table behind, contrived so as to look suspi- ciously like an altar, was a thorn in anybody's side. Had his mind been in a fit condition at that moment to cogitate trouble, his thoughts would have travelled in a totally different direction, but in the mean time Mr. Wentworth was very well able to put aside his perplexities. The green door opened just as he reached it, and Lucy and her elder sister came out in those grey cloaks which the Rector had slandered. They 2* 20 THE PBRPETUAL CUUATE. were just going to Wharf side to tlie service, and of course they were surprised to see Mr. Wentworth, who did not knock at tliat green door more than a dozen times in a week, on the average. The Curate walked between the sisters on their way towards their favourite "district." Such a position could scarcely have been otherwise than agreeable to any young man. Dear old Miss Wodehouse was the gentlest of chaperones. Old Miss Wodehouse people called her, not knowing why — perhaps because that adjective was sweeter than the harsh one of middle age which belonged to her; and then there was such a difference between her and Lucy. Lucy was twenty, and in her sweetest bloom. Many people thought with Mr. Wentworth that there were not other two such eyes in Carlingford. Not that they were brilliant or penetrating, but as blue as heaven, and as serene and jiure. So many persons thought, and the Perpetual Curate among them. The grey cloak fell in pretty folds around that light elastic figure; and there was not an old woman in the town so tender, so helpful, so handy as Lucy where trouble was, as all the poor peoj)le knew. So the tliree went down Prickett's Lane, which leads from George Street towards the canal— not a pleasant part of the town by any means; and if Mr. Wentworth was conscious of a certain haze of sunshine all round and about him, glid- ing over the poor pavement, and here and there trans- figuring some baby bystander gazing open-mouthed at the pretty lady, could any reasonable man be sur- prised? "I hope your aunts were quite well, Mr. Went- worth, when you heard from them last," said Miss Wodehouse, "and all your people at home. In such a THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 21 small family as ours, we should go out of our wits if we did not hear every day; but I suppose it is dif- ferent where there are so many. Lucy, when she goes from home," said the tender elder sister, glancing at her with a half-maternal admiration — "and she might always be visiting about if she liked — writes to me every day." "I have nobody who cares for me enough to write every week," said the Curate, with a look Avhich was for Lucy's benefit. "I am not so lucky as you. My aunts are quite well, Miss Wodehouse, and they think I had better go up to town in May for the meetings," added Mr. Wentworth, with a passing laugh; "and the rest of my people are very indignant that I am not of their way of thinking. There is Tom Burrows on the other side of the street; he is trying to catch your eye," said the Curate, turning round upon Lucy; for the young man had come to such a pass that he could not address her in an ordinary and proper way like other people, but, because he dared not yet call her by her Christian name as if she belonged to him, had a strange rude way of indicating when he was speaking to her, by emphasis and action. It was singularly different from his iisual good-breeding; but Lucy some- how rather liked it than otherwise. "He is not going to church for the sake of the service. He is going to please you. He has never forgotten what you did for that little boy of his; and, indeed, if you continue to go on so," said Mr. Wentworth, lowering his voice, and more than ever bending his tall head to one side, "I shall have to put a stop to it somehow, for I am not prepared, whatever people say, to go in at once for public worship of the saints." 22 THE PERPETUAL CURATE. "I am goin^ in here to call," naid Lucy. She looked up very innocently in the Curate's face. "I promised the poor sick woman in the back room to see her every day, and I could nrit iret out any sooner. I daresay I shall be at the schoolroom before you begin. Good-bye just now," said the young Sister of Mercy. She went off all at once on this provoking but unexceptionable errand, looking with calm eyes upon the dismay which overspread the expressive coun- tenance of lier spiritual guide. Mr. Wentworth stood looking after her for a moment, stunned by the unex- pected movement. When he went on, trutli compels us to own that a thrill of disgust had taken the place of that vague general sense of beatitude which threw beauty even upon Prickett's Lane, The Curate gave but a sulky nod to the salutation of Tom Burrows, and walked on in a savage mood by the side of Miss Wodehouse, around whom no nimbus of ideal glory hovered; "I am always afraid of its being too much for her, Mr. Wentworth," said the anxious elder sister; "it upsets me directly, but then I never was like Lucy — I can't tell where all you young people have learned it-, we never used to be taught so in my day, and though I am twice as old as she is, I know I am not half so much good in the world," said the kind soul, with a gentle sigh. "I should like to see you in a parish of your own, where you would have it all your own way. I hope Mr. Morgan won't be meddling when he comes to have time for everything. I should almost think he would — though it seems unkind to say it — by his face." "I am doing nothing more than my duty," said THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 23 the Perpetual Curate, iu morose tones. "This district was given into my hands by the late Eector. Mr. Morgan's face does not matter to me." "But I should like to see you in a parish of your own," said Miss Wodehouse, meaning to please him. "You know papa always says so. St. Roque's is very nice, but " "If you wish me out of the way, Miss "Wodehouse, I am sorry to say you are not likely to be gratified," said the Curate, "for I have no more expectation of any preferment than you have. Such chances don't come in everybody's way." "But I thought your aunts, Mr. Wentworth " said poor Miss Wodehouse, who unluckily did not al- ways know when to stop. "My aunts don't approve of my principles," an- swered Mr. Wentworth, who had his own reasons for speaking with a little asperity. "They are more likely to have me denounced at Exeter Hall. I will join you immediately. I must speak to these men across the street-," and the Curate accordingly walked into a knot of loungers opposite, with a decision of manner which Lucy's desertion had helped him to. Miss Wode- house, thus left alone, went on with lingering and somewhat doubtful steps. She was not used to being in "the district" by herself It disturbed her mild, middle-aged habits to be left straying about here alone among all these poor people, whom she looked at half wistfully, half alarmed, feeling for them in her kind heart, but not at all knowing how to get at them as the young people did. The unruly children and gos- siping mothers at the poor doors discomposed her sadly, and she was not near so sure that her grey cloak de- 24 TIIR PERPETUAL CURATE. feuded ber from all rudeness as she preteudcd to be wbeu assenting to the enthusiasm of Mr. Wentworth and Lucy. She made tremulous haste to get out of this scene, which she was not adapted for, to the shelter of the schoolroom, where, at least, she would be safe. "We never were taught so in my day," she said to herself, with an unexpressed wonder which was right? but when she had reached that haven of shelter, was seized with a little panic for Lucy, and went out again and watched for her at the corner of the street, feeling very uncomfortable. It was a great relief to see her young sister coming down alert and bright even before she was joined by Mr. Wentworth, who had carried his point with the men he had been talk- ing to. To see them coming doAvn together, smiling to all those people at the doors who disturbed the gentle mind of Miss Wodehouse with mingled senti- ments of sympathy and repulsion, bestowing nods of greeting here and there, pausing even to say a word to a few favoured clients, was a wonderful sight to the timid maiden lady at the corner of the street. Twenty years ago some such companion might have been by Miss Wodehouse's side, but never among the poor people in Prickett's Lane. Even with Lucy before her she did not understand it. As the two came to- wards her, other thoughts ixnited with tliese in her kind soul. "I wonder whether anything will ever come of it?" she said to herself, and A\ath that wandered into anxious reflections what this difference could be be- tween Mr. Wentworth and his aunts: which cogita- tions, indeed, occupied her till the service began, and perhaps disturbed her due appreciation of it-, for if Lucy and Mr. Wentworth got attached, as seemed TIIE PERPETUAL CURATE. 25 likely, and Mr. Wentwortli did not get a living, what was to come of it? The thought made this tender- hearted spectator sigh: perhaps she had some ex- perience of her own to enlighten her on such a point. At least it troubled, with sympathetic human cares, the gentle soul which had lost the confidence of youth. As for the two most immediately concerned, they thought nothing at all about aunts or li\'ings. Whether it is the divine influence of youth, or whether the vague unacknowledged love which makes two people happy in each other's presence carries with it a certain in- spiration, this at least is certain, that there is an ab- solute warmth of devotion arrived at in such moments, which many a soul, no longer happy, would give all the world to reach. Such crowds and heaps of bless- ings fall to these young souls ! They said their prayers with all their hearts, not aware of deriving anything of that profound sweet trust and happiness from each other, but expanding over all the rude but reverend worshippers around them, with an unlimited faith in their improvement, almost in their perfection. This was what the wondering looker-on, scarcely able to keep her anxieties out of her jirayers, could not under- stand, having forgotten, though she did not think so, the exaltation of that time of youth, as people do. She thought it all their goodness that they were able to put away their own thoughts; she did not know it was in the very nature of those unexpressed emotions to add the confidence of hajipiness to their prayers. And after a while they all sej)arated and went away back into the world and the everyday hours. Young Wentworth and Lucy had not said a syllable to each other, except about the people in "the district," and the 26 THE PERPETUAL CTHRATE. Provident Society; and liow that sober and laudable conversation could be called love-making, it would be difficult for the most ardent imagination to conceive. He was to dine with them that evening; so it was for but a very brief time that they parted when the Per- jietual Curate left the ladies at the green door, and went away to his room, to attend to some other duties, before he arrayed himself for the evening. As for the sisters, they went in quite comfortably, and had their cup of tea before they dressed for dinner. Lucy was manager indoors as well as out. She was good for a great deal more than Miss Wodehouse in every practical matter. It was she who was responsible for the dinner, and had all the cares of the house upon her head. Not- withstanding, the elder sister took up her prerogative as they sat together in two very cosy easy-chairs, in a little room which communicated with both their bed- chambers up-stairs — a very cosy little odd room, not a dressing-room nor a boudoir, but something between the two, where the sisters had their jirivate talks upon occasion, and which was consecrated by many a liba- tion of fragrant tea. "Lucy, my dear," said Miss Wodehouse, whose gentle forehead was puckered with care, "I want to speak to you. I have not been able to get you out of my mind since ever we met Mr. Wentworth at the green door." "Was there any need for getting me out of your mind?" said smiling Lucy. "I was a safe enough in- mate, surely. I wonder how often I am out of your mind, Mary dear, night or day." "That is true enough," said Miss Wodehouse, "but THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 27 you know that is not what I meant either. Lucy, are you quite sure you're going on just as you ought " Here she made a troubled pause, and looked in the laughing face opposite, intent upon her with its startled eyes. "What have I done?" cried the younger sister. Miss Wodehouse shook her head with a great deal of seriousness. "It always begins with laughing," said the ex- perienced woman; "but if it ends without tears it will be something new to me. It's about Mr. Wentworth, Lucy. You're always together, day after day, and, my dear, such things can't go on without coming to something — what is to come of it? I have looked at it from every point of view, and I am sure I don't know." Lucy flushed intensely red, of course, at the Curate's name; perhaps she had not expected it jiist at that moment; but she kept her composure like a sensible girl as she was. "I thought it was the other side that were ques- tioned about their intentions," she said. "Am I doing anything amiss? Mr. Wentworth is the Curate of St. Roque's, and I am one of the district visitors, and we can't help seeing a great deal of each other so long as this work goes on at Wharfside. You wouldn't like to stop a great work because we are obliged to see a good deal of — of one particular person?" said Lucy, with youthful virtue, looking in her sister's face; at which tone and look Miss Wodehouse immediately faltered, as^ the culprit knew she must. "No — oh no, no — to be sure not," said the disturbed monitor. "When you say that, I don't know how to answer you. It must be right, I suppose. I am quite sure 28 TITR PERPETUAL CrRATE. it is woudcrful to sec sucli young creatures as you, and how you can tell the right way to set about it. But things did not use to be so in my young days. Girls dare not have done such things twenty years ago — not in Cnrlingford, Lucy," said Miss Wodehouse; "and, dear, I tliink you ought to be a little careful, for poor Mr. Wentworth's sake." "I don't think Mr. Wentworth is in any particular danger," said Lucy, putting down her eup, with a slight curve at the corners of her pretty mouth — "and it is quite time for you to l>egin dressing. You know you don't like to be hurried, dear;" with which .speech the young housekeeper got up from her easy-chair, gave her sister a kiss as she passed, and went away, singing softly, to her toilette. Perhai)s there was a little flutter in Lucy's heart as she bound it round with her favourite blue ribbons. Perhaps it was this that gave a certain startled gleam to her blue eyes, and made even her father remark them when she went down- stairs — "It seems to me as if this child were growing rather pretty, Molly, ch? I don't know what other people think," said ]\[r. Wodehouse — and perhaps Mr. Wentworth, who was just being \ishered into the draw- ing-room at the moment, heard the speech, for he, too, looked as if he had never found it out before. Luckily there was a party, and no opportunity for sentiment. The party was in honour of the Rector and his wife; and Mr. Wentworth could not but be conscious before the evening was over that he had done something to lose the favoiu* of his clerical brother. There was a good deal of Church talk, as was natural, at the church- warden's table, where three clergymen were dining — for Mr. Morgan's curate was there as well; and the THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 29 Curate of St. Roque's, who was slightly hot-tempered, could not help feeliiig Inmself disapproved of. It was not, on the whole, a satisfactory evening. Mr. Morgan talked rather big, when the ladies went away, of his plans for the reformation of Carlingford. He went into statistics about the poor, and the number of people who attended no church, without taking any notice of that "great work" which Mr. Wentworth knew to bo going on at Wharfside. The Rector even talked of Wharfside, and of the necessity of exertion on behalf of that wretched district, with a stiulious unconscious- ness of Mr. Wentworth; and all but declined to receive better information when Mr. Wodehouse proffered it. Matters were scarcely better in tlic drawing-room, where Lucy was entertaining everybody, and had no leisure for tlie Perjietual Curate. He took his hat with a gloomy sentiment of satisfaction when it was time to go away, but when the green door was closed behind him, Mr. Wentworth, with his first step into the de^vy darkness, jdunged headlong into a sea of thought. He had to walk doAvn the whole length of Grange Lane to his lodging, which was in the last house of the row, a small house in a small garden, where Mrs. Hadwiu, the widow of a whilom curate, was permitted by 2Jublic opinion, on the score of her own unexceptionable pro- ])riety, * to receive a lodger without loss of position thereby. It was moonlight, or rather it ought to have been moonlight, and no lamps were lighted in Grange Lane, according to the economical regulations of Carlingford; and as Mr. Wentworth piu-sued his way down the dark line of garden-walls, in the face of a * She was a daughter of old Sir Jasper Shelton , a poor family, but vory roapectable, aad conuected with the Westerns. 30 THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. siulden April shower wliicli hapjjened to be falling, he liad full scojie and opportunity for his thoughts. 'JMieso thoughts were not the most agreeable in the world. In the first j)lace, it must be remembered that for nearly a year past Mr. Wentworth had had things his own way in Carlingford. lie had been more than rector, he had been archdeacon, or rather bishoj), in Mr. Proctor's time; for that good man was humble, and thankful for the advice and assistance of his young brother, who knew so much better than he did. Now, to be looked uj»on as an unauthorised workman, a kind of meddling, Disseuterish missionising individual, was rather hard upon the young man. And then he thought of his aunts. The connection, imj)erceptible to an ignorant observer, which existed between the Miss Wentworths and Mr. ^lurgan, and Lucy, and many other matters interesting to their nephew, was a sufH- ciently real connection when you came to know it. That parish of his own which Miss Wodehouse had wished him — which would free the young clergyman from all trammels so far as his work was concerned, and would enable him to marry, and do everything for hira — it was in the power of the Miss Wentworths to bestow, but they were Evangelical women, very public-spirited, and thinking nothing of their nephew in comparison with their duty; and he was at that time of life, and of that disjjosition, which, for fear of being supposed to wish to deceive them, would rather ex- aggerate and make a display of the dijS'ereuce of his own views. Not for freedom, not for Lucy, would the Perpetual Curate temporise and manage the matter; so the fact was that he stood at the present moment in a very perilous predicament. But for this family living, THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 31 which was, with their niother's property, in the hands of her co-heiresses, the tluee Miss Wentworths, yonng Frank Wentworth had not a chance of preferment in the world; for the respectable Sqnire his father had in- dulged in three wives and three families, and such a regiment of sons that all his influence had been fully taxed to provide for them. Gerald, the clergyman of the first lot, held the family living — not a very large one — which belonged to the Wentworths; and Frank, who was of the second, had been educated expressly with an eye to Skelmersdale, which belonged to liis aunts. How he came at tlie end to differ so com- pletely from these excellent ladies in his religious views is not our business just at present; but in the mean time matters were in a very critical position. The old incumbent of Skelmersdale was eighty, and had been ill all winter; and if the Miss Wentworths were not satisfied somehow, it was all over with their nephew's hopes. Such were the thoughts that occupied his mind as he walked down Grange Lane in the dark, past the tedious, unsympathetic line of garden-walls, with the rain in his face. The evening's entertainment had stirred up a great many dormant sentiments. His in- fluence in Carlingford had been ignored by this new- comer, who evidently thought he could do what he liked without paying any attention to the Curate of St. Roque's; and, Avhat was a great deal worse, he had found Lucy unapproacliable, and had realised, if not for the first time, still with more distinctness than ever before, that she did not belong to him, and that he had no more right than any other acquaintance to monopolise her society. This last discovery was bitter 32 THE I'liKPETUAL CUKATE. to the youiijj nifui — it was this that in.'ide him set his face to the rain, and his teeth, as if that could do any {^ood. lie had been ha|ij)y in her mere society to-day, ■witliout entcriiif,' into any of" the terrible preliminaries of a closer connection. Jiut now that was over. She did not belonj^ to him, and he could not bear the thouf^ht. And how was she ever to beloup to him? Not, certainly, if he was to be a Perpetual Curate of St. Koque's, or anywhere else. He felt, iu the misery of the moment, as if he could never p:o to that {rreen door a^jain, or walk l)y her sweet side to that ser\'ice in which they had joined so lately. He wondered whether she cared, with a dcspairiu}^ pang of anxiety, through which for an instant a celestial gleam of con- sciousness leaped, making the darkness all the greater afterwards. And to think that three, old ladies of whom it was not in the nature of things that the young man could be j)rofoundly reverent, should hold in their hands the absolute power of his life, and could determine whether it was to be sweet with hope and love, or stern, constrained, and impoverished, without Lucy or any other immediate light! What a strange anomaly this was which met him full in the face as he jjursued his thoughts! If it had been his bishop, or his college, or any fitting tribunal — but his aunts! Mr. Wentwortb's ring at his own door was so much more hasty than usual that Mrs. Hadwin paused in the hall, when she had lighted her candle, to see if anything was the matter. The little neat old lady held up her candle to look at him as he came iu, glistening all over with rain-drops. "I hope you are not wet, Mr. "Wentworth,"' she said. "It is only an April iihowcr, and we want it so THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 33 much in the gardens. And I hope you have had a nice party and a pleasant evening." "Thank you — pretty well," said the Perpetual Curate, with less suavity than usual, and a sigh that nearly blew Mrs. Hadwin's candle out. She saw he was discomposed, and therefore, with a feminine, in- stinct, found more to say than usual before she made her peaceful way to bed. She waited while Mr. Went- worth lighted his candle too. "Mr. Wodehouse's parties are always pleasant," she said. "I never go out, you know, but I like to hear of people enjoying themselves. I insist upon you going up-stairs before me, Mr. Wentworth. I have so little breath to spare, and I take such a long time going up, that you would be tired to death waiting for me. Now, don't mind being jjolite. I insist upon you going up tirst. Thank you. Now I can take my time." And she took her time accordingly, keeping Mr, Wentworth waiting on the landing to say good-night to her, much to his silent exasperation. When he got into the shelter of his own sitting-room, he threw himself upon a sofa, and continued his thoughts with many a troubled addition. A young man, feeling in a great measure the world before him, conscious of considerable powers, standing on the very threshold of so much possible good and happiness, — it was hideous to look up, in liis excited imagination, and see the figures of these three old ladies, worse than Fates, standing across the prospect and barring up the way. And Lucy, meantime, was undoing her blue ribbons with a thrill of sweet agitation in her untroubled bosom. Perhaps Mary was right, and it was about coming to The Perpetual Cioaie, I. o 34 THE PEHPETUAL CURATE. the time wlieii this lialt-fcared, lialf-hojjcd revelation could not be postponed much hnv^er. For it will be perceived that Lucy was not in much doubt of young Wentworlh's sentiments. And then she paused in tlie dark, after she had said lier j^rayers, to give one timid thought to tlu' sweet life that seemed to lie be- fore her so close at hand — in which, perhaj>s, he and she were to go out together, slie did not know where, for the help of the world and the comfort of the sor- rowful; and not trusting herself to lodk much at that ideal, said another jirayer, and went to sleep like one of God's beloved, with a tear too exquisite to be shed brimming under her long eyehixhes. At this crisis of existence, perhaps for once in her life, the woman has the best of it; for very different from Lucy's were the thoughts with which the Curate sought his restless pil- low, hearing the rain drip all tlie night, and trickle into Mrs. Hadwin's reservoirs. Tiie old lady had a passion for rain-water, and it was a gusty night. CHAPTER III. Next week was Passion Week, and full of occupa- tion. Even if it had been consistent either with Mr. Wentworth's principles or Lucy's to introduce secular affairs into so holy a season, they had not time or op- portunity, as it happened, which was perhaps just as well; for otherwise the premonitory thrill of expecta- tion which had disturbed Lucy's calm, and the bitter exasperation against himself and his fate with which Mr. Weutworth had discovered that he dared not say anything, might have caused an estrangement between THE PEKPETUAL CUKATE. 35 them. As it was, the au- was thundery and ominous through all the solemn days of the Holy Week. A consciousness as of something about to hajjpeu over- shadowed even the "district," and attracted the keen observation of the lively spectators at Whartside. They were not greatly up in matters of doctrine, nor per- haps did they quite understand the eloquent little sermon whicli the Perpetual Curate gave them on Good Friday in the afternoon, between his own services, by way of impressing upon their minds the awful memories of the (l.iy; but they were as skilful in the variations of their young evangelist's looks, and as well qualified to decide upon the fact that there was "a something between" him and Miss Lucy Wodehouse, as any practised observer in the higher ranks of society. Whether the two had '"ad an unj)lcasantness," as, Wharfside was well aware, human creatures under such circumstances are liable to have, the interested community could not quite make out; but that something more than ordinary was going on, and that the prettiest of all the "Provident ladies" had a certain preoccupation in her bhxe eyes, Avas a fact perfectly apparent to that intelligent society. And, indeed, one of the kinder matrons in Prickett's Lane had even ventured so far as to wish Miss Lucy "a 'appy weddin' when the time come." "And there's to be a sight o' Aveddings this Easter," had added another, who was somewhat scandalised by the floAvers in the bonnet of one of the brides-elect, and proceeded to say so in some detail. "But Miss Lucy won't wear no bonnet; the quality goes in veils: and there never was as full a church as there Avill be to see it, wishing you your 'ealth and 'appiness, ma'am, as ain't no more nor 3* 36 THE PEUPETUAL CUKATB. you deserve, and you so good to us poor folks." All whicli felicitations and inquiries bad confused Lucy, though she made her way out of them with a self-pos- session which amazed her sister. "You see what everybody thinks, dear," said that gentle woman, when they had made their escape. "Oh, Mary, how can you talk of such things at such a time?" tlie young Sister of Mercy had answered once more, turning tliose severe eyes of youthful de- votion upon her troubled elder sister, who, to tell the truth, not having been brought up to it, as she said, felt much the same on Easter Eve as at other times of her life; and thus once more the matter concluded. As for Mr. Weutworth, he was much occupied on that last day of the Holy Week with a great many important matters on hand. He had not seen the Wodehouses since the Good Friday evening service, which was an interval of about twenty hours, and had just paused, before eating his bachelor's dinner, to ponder whether it would be correct on that most sacred of vigils to steal away for half an hour, just to ask Lucy if she thought it necessary that he should see the sick woman at No. 10 Prickett's Lane before the morning. It was while he was pondering this matter in his mind that Mr. Wentworth's heart jumped to his throat upon re- ceipt, quite suddenly, without preparation, of the fol- lowing note: — "My dearest Boy, — Your aunts Cecilia, Leonora, and I have just arrived at this excellent inn, the Blue Boar. Old Mr. Shirley at Skelmersdale is in a very bad way, poor man, and I thought the very best thing I could do iu my dearest Frank's best interests, was to THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 37 persuade them to make you quite an unexpected visits and see everytliinjS? for themselves. I am in a terrible frig'ht now lest I should have done wrong*; but my dear, dear boy knows it is always his interest that I have at heart; and Leonora is so intent on having a real gospel minister at Skelmersdale, that she never would have been content with anythinj!^ less than hearinp:^ you with her own ears. I hope and trust in Providence that you don't intone like poor Gerald. And oh, Frank, my dear boy, come directly and dine with us, and don't fly in your aunt Leonora's face, and tell me I haven't been imprudent. I thoujrht it would be best to take you unawares when you had everything pre- pared, and when we should see you just as you always are; for I am convinced Leonora and you only want to see more of each other to understand each otlier perfectly. Come, my dearest boy, and give a little comfort to your loving and anxious "Aunt Dora." Mr. Wentworth sat gazing blankly upon this hor- rible missive for some minutes after he had read it, quite unaware of the humble presence of the maid who stood asking. Please was she to bring up dinner? When he came to himself, the awful "No!" with which he answered that alarmed handmaiden almost drove her into hysterics as she escaped down-stairs. How- ever, Mr. Wentworth immediately put his head out at the door and called after her, "I can't wait for dinner, Sarah; I am suddenly called out, and shall dine where I am going. Tell Cook," said the young parson, sud- denly recollecting Lucy's client, "to send what she has prepared for me, if it is very nice, to No. 10 Prickett's 38 THE PERPKTrAT. riTRATE. Lauc. My boy will take it; and soml liiin ofi' directly^ please," with which last cfirnmissinn the youn;:^ man went up dcspairiii'^-ly to his licdroom to jtrejiare biin- self for this iutorvic'w with his aunts. Wliat was lie to do? Alroady hofore him, in dreadful j>rophetic vision, he saw all three seated in one of the handsome open benches in St. liuqne's, lookinj; indescribable hor- rors at the crown of spring lilies which Lucy's own fingers were to weave for the cross over the altar, and listening to the cadence of his own manly tenor as it rang through the perfect little church of which he was 80 proud. Yes, there was an end of Skelmersdale, without any doubt or question now, whatever hope there might have been, aunt Dora had settled the matter by this last move of hers— an end of .Skelmers- dale, and an end of Lucy. Porliaps he had better try not to see her any mure; and the poor young priest saw that his own face looked ghastly as he looked at it in the glass. It gave him a little comfort to meet the boy with a bundle pinned up in snowy napkins, from which a grateful odour ascended, bending his steps to Prickett's Lane, as he himself went rait to meet his fate. It was a last offering to that beloved "district" with which the image of his love was blended; but he would have given his dinner to Lucy's sick wo- man any day. To-night it was a greater sacrifice that was to be required of him. He went mournfully and slowly up Grange Lane, steeling himself for the en- counter, and trying to forgive aunt Dora in his heart. It was not very easy. Things might have turned out just the same without any interference — that was true; but to have it all brought on in tliis wanton manner by a kind foolish woman, who would wring her hands THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 39 and gaze iu your face, and want to kncAv, Oli! did you think it was her fault? after she had precipitated the calamity, was very hard; and it was with a very gloomy countenance, accordingly, that the Curate of St. ]{o(|uo's presented liimself at flie Blue Boar. Tlie Miss Wcntwortlis were in the very best sitting- room which the Blue Boar contained — tiie style in which they travelled, with a man and two maids, was enough to secure that; and the kitchen of that respect- able establishment was doing its very best to send uj) a dinner worthy of "a jtarty as had tiieir own man to wait." Tlie three ladies greeted tlieir uejiliew with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The eldest, jMiss Went- worth, from whom he took his second name Cecil, did not rise from her chair, but nevertheless kissed him in an affectionate dignified way when he was brought to her. As for aunt Dora, she ran into her dear Frank's arms, and in the very moment of that em- brace whispered in his ear the expression of her anxiety, and the panic winch always followed those rash steps which she was in tlie habit of taking. "Oh, my dear, I hoj)e you don't think I'm to blame," she said, with her lips at his ear, and gained but cold comfort from the Curate's face. The alarming member of the party was Miss Leonora. She rose and made two steps for- ward to meet the unfortunate young man. She shook both his hands cordially, and said she was very glad to see him, and hoped he was well. She was the sensible sister of the three, and no doubt required all the sense she had to manage her companions. Miss Wentworth, who had been very pretty in her youth, was now a beautiful old lady, with snow-white hair and the most charming smile; and Miss Dora, who was 40 I UK rEKI'tllAL ClUATE. only fifty, retained tlic natural colour of her own scanty lif^iit-hrowii loeks, wliicli wavered in weak-minded ringlets over iier clieeks; but Miss Leonora was iron- grey, without any conjplexion in particular, and al- together a harder tyjje of woman. It was she who held in her hands tlie fate of Skelmersdale and of Frank "Wentworth. Her terrible glance it was which he had imagined gleaming fierce upon his lilies — Lucy's lilies, his Piaster decorations. It was by her side the alarmed Curate was made to sit down. It was she who took the foot of the table, and was the gentleman of the house. Her voice was of that class of voice which may be politely called a powerful con- tralto. Every way she was as alarming a critic as ever was encountered by a Perpetual Curate or any other young man in trouble. Mr. Wentworth said feebly that this was a very unexpected pleasure, as he met his aunt Leonora's eye. "I hope it is a pleasure," said that penetrating ob- server. "To tell the trutii, I did not expect it would be-, but your aunt Dora thought so, and you know, when she sets her heart on anything, nobody can get any peace. Not that your aunt Cecilia and I would have come on that account, if we had not wished, for many reasons, to have some conversation with you, and see how you are getting on." "Quite so, Leonora," said Miss Wentworth, smil- ing upon her nephew, and leaning back in her chair. Then there was a little pause; for, after such a terrible address, it was not to be expected that the poor young man, who understood every word of it, could re- peat his common-place about the unlooked-for pleasure. Miss Dora of course seized the opportunity to rush in. THE PERPETIAL fl'RATE. -41 "We have been heariiif]^ such delightful tinners about you, my dear, from the people of the house. Leonora is so pleased to hear how you are labouring among the people, and doing your Master's work. We take all the happiness to ourselves, because, you know, you are our boy, Frank," said the anxious aunt, all her thin ringlets, poor lady, trembling with her eagerness to make everything comfortable for her fcwourite; "and we have come, you know, specially to hear you on Easter Sunday in your own church. I am looking for- ward to a great treat: to think I should never have heard you, though it is so long since you were or- dained! None of us have ever heard you — not even Leonora; but it is such a pleasure to us all to know you are so much liked in Carlingford," cried the troubled woman, growing nervous at sight of the un- responsive quiet around her. Miss Leonora by no means replied to the covert appeals thus made to her. She left her nephew and her sister to keep uj) the con- versation unassisted; and as for Miss Wentworth, con- versation was not her forte. "I'm afraid, aunt, you will not hear anything worth such a long journey," said Mr. "Wentworth, moved, like a rash young man as he was, to display his colours at once, and cry no surrender. "I don't think an Easter Sunday is a time for much preaching; and the Church has made such ample provision for the expression of our sentiments. I am more of a humble priest tlian an ambitious preacher," said the young man, with characteristic youthful pretence of the most transparent kind. He looked in Miss Leonora's face as he spoke^ He knew the very name of priest was an offence in its way to that highly Evangelical woman; and if they '12 Tirr PERPRTrAL ( i i:ate. were to como to siufrle eoniljat, better immediately than after iutolerahle suspense and delay. "Perhaps, Dora, you will postpone your raptures about Frank's sermon — which may be a very indif- ferent sermon, as he says, for anything we can tell — till after dinner," said Miss Leonora. "We're all very glad to see liim; and he need ncjt think any little ill- tempered speeches he may make will disturb me. I daresay the jioor boy would l)e glad to hear of some of the people belonging to him instead of all that non- sense. Come to dinner, Frank. Take the other side of the table, opposite Dora; and now that you've said grace, I give you full leave to forget that you're a clergyman for an liour at least. We were down at the old Uall a week ago, and saw your father and the rest. They are all Avell; and the last boy is rather like you, if you will think that any compliment. Mrs. Wentworth is pleased, because you are one of the handsome ones, you know. Not much fear of the Wentworths dying out of the country yet awhile. Your father is getting at his wit's end, and does not know what to do with Cuthbert and Guy. Three sons are enough in the army, and two at sea; and I rather think it's as much as we can stand," continued Miss Leonora, not without a gleam of humour in her iron- grey eyes, "to have two in the Church." "That is as it may happen," said the Perpetual Curate, with a little spirit. "If the boys are of my way of thinking, they will consider the Church the highest of professions; but Guy and Cuthbert must go to Australia, I suppose, like most other people, and take their chance — no harm in that." THE PEIIPETUAL CURATE. 43 "Not a bit of harm," said the ricli auut; "they're good boys enough, and I daresay they'll get on. As for Gerald, if you have any influence with your bro- ther, I think he's in a bad way. I think he has a bad attack of liomishness coming on. If you are not in that way yourself," said ]\[iss Leonora, with a sharp glance, "I think you should go and see after Gerald. He is the sort of man who would do anything foolish, you know. He doesn't understand what prudence means. Remember, I believe he is a good Christian all the same. It's very incompreliensible; but the fact is, a man may be a very good Christian, and have the least quantity of sense that is compatible with existence. I've seen it over and over again. Gerald's notions are idiocy to me," said the sensible but candid woman, shrugging her shoulders; "but I can't deny that he's a good man, for all that." "He is the best man I ever knew," said young Wentworth, with enthusiasm. "Quite so, Frank," echoed aunt Cecilia, with her sweet smile: it was almost the only conversational effort Miss Wentworth ever made. "But it is so sad to see how he's led away," said Miss Dora-, "it is all owing to the bad advisers young men meet with at the universities; and how can it be otherwise as long as tutors and professors are chosen just for their learning, without any regard to their principles? What is Greek and Latin in comparison with a pious guide for the young? We would not have to feel frightened, as we do so often, about young men's principles," continued aunt Dora, fixing her eyes with warning significance on her nephew, and trying bard to open telegraphic communications with him, "if 1 1 THE rKKrj-rri'Ai. ciuate. more attention was jiaid at the universities to give them sound piidance in their studies. 80 long as you are sound in your principles, there is no fear of you," said the timid diplomatist, trying to aid the warning look of jier eyes liy emphasis and inflection. Poor Miss Dora! it was her unlucky fate, hy dint of her very exertions in smoothing matters, always to make things worse. "He would be a bold man who would call those principles unsound which have made my brother Gerald what he is," said, with an affectionate admiration that became him, the Curate of St. l{(»(|ue's. "It's a slavish system, notwithstanding Gerald," said Miss Leonora, with some heat; "and a false system, and leads to Antichrist at the end and nothing less. Eat your dinner, Frank — we are not going to argue just now. We expected to hear that another of the girls was engaged before we came away, but it has not occurred yet. I don't approve of young men dancing about a house for ever and ever, unless they mean something. Do you?" Mr. Wentworth faltered at this question; it disturbed, his composiire more than anything tliat had preceded it. "I — really I dont know," he said, after a pause, with a sickly smile — of which all three of the aunts took private notes, forming their own conclusions. It was, as may well be supposed, a very severe ordeal which the poor young man had to go through. When he w-as permitted to say good-night, he went away with a sensation of fatigue more overpowering than if he had visited all the houses in Wharfside. Wlien he passed the green door, over which the apple-tree rustled in the dark, it was with a pang in liis heart. How THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 45 was he to continue to live — to come and go through that familiar road — to go through all the meetings and partings, wlien this last hopeless trial was over, and Lucy and he were swept apart as if by an earthquake? If his lips Avere sealed henceforward, and he never was at liberty to say what was in his heart, what would she think of him? He could not fly from his work because lie lost Skelmersdale; and how was he to bear it? He went home with a dull bitterness in his mind, trying, when he thought of it, tu quiet the aching ])ulses which throbbed all over him, with what ought to have been the hallowed associations of the last Lenten vigil. But it was difficult, throbbing as he was with wild life and trouble to the very linger-points, to get himself into the shadow of that rock-hewn grave, by which, according to his own theory, the Church should be watching on this Easter Eve. It was hard just then to be bound to that special remembrance. What he wanted at this moment was no memory of one hour, however memor- able or glorious, not even thougli it contained the Re- deemer's grave, but the sense of a living Friend stand- ing by him in the great struggle, which is the essential and unfailing comfort of a Christian's life. Next morning he went to church with a half- conscious, youthful sense of martyrdom, of which in his heart he was half ashamed. St. Koque's Avas very fair to see that Easter morning. Above the communion- table, with all its sacred vessels, the carved oaken cross of the reredos was wreathed tenderly with white fra- grant festoons of spring lilies, sweet Narcissus of the poets; and Mr. Wentworth's choristers made another white line, two deep, down each side of the chancel. The young Anglican took in all the details of the 46 TIIK rKUPKTl'AL CURATE. scone on his way to the readinp-clesk as the white pro- cession ranf^ed itself in the oaken stalls. At that moment — the worst moment for such a thouf^ht — it suddenly Hashed over him that, after all, a wreath of spring' llowLTs erinit himself to slur over a single monotone of the service; hut that sudden be- wildering percej)tion that he could have done so much better — that the loftiest lligh-(Jhurchism of all might have been consistent enough with Skelniersdale, had he but gone into the heart of the matter — gave a bit- terness to the deeper, unseen current of the ('urate's thougiits. liesides, it \vas terriljle to Iccl that he could not abstract himself from personal concerns even in the most sacred duties, lie was conscious that the two elder sisters went away, and that only poor aunt Dora, her weak-minded ringlets limp with tears, came tremu- lous to the altar rails. When the service was over, and the young priest was disrobing himself, she came to him and gave a spasmodic, sympathetic, half- reproachful pressure to his hand. "Oh, Frank, my dear, I did it for the best,'' said Miss Dora, with a doleful countenance; and the Per])etual Curate knew that his doom was sealed. He put the best face he could upon the matter, having sufficient doubts of his own wisdom to subdue the high temper of the Went- worths for that moment at lea.st. "What was it you did for the best?"' said the Curate of St. Roque's. "I suppose, after all, it was no such great matter hearing me as you thought; but I told you I was not an ambitious preacher. This is a day for worship, not for talk." "Ah! yes," said Miss Dora; '*but oh, Frank, my dear, it is hard upon me, after all my expectations. TUE PKKPETHAL CUGATK. 49 It would have been so nice to Ifave Lad you at Skelmersdale. I hoped you would marry Julia 'i'rench, and we should all have been so haj)py, and perha[)S if" I had not begged Leonora to come just now, thinking it w(nild be so nice to take you just in your usual Avay — but she must have known sooner or later," said j)oor aunt Dora, looking: wistfully in his face. "Oh, Frank, I hope you don't think I'm to blame." "I never should have married Julia Trench," said the Curate, gloomily. Ho did not enter into the (jucstion of Miss Dora's guilt or innocence — he gave a glance at the lilies on the altar, and a sigh. The chances were he would never marry anybody, but loyalty to Lucy demanded instant repudiation of any other possible bride. "Where arc you going, aunt Dora-, back to the Blue Boar? or will you cj 52 rilK I'KKi'KTUAIi CUHATK. it over, and that you see you've made a iiiihtakc, ami that in future " "You don't mean to iuHult me?" said the younp^ man. "IIusli — hush; you don't know wliat you are sayin;^. Not to be made Archhishoj> of ('anterliury, instead of Vicar of Skelmersdale. 1 don't undcrsUmd how you could sujjgest such a thing to me." Miss Dora's veil, which she had partly lifted, here fell over her face, as it had kept doin;; all the time she was speakinj?— hut this time she did not jiut it back. She was no lonj^cr al»le to contain herself, Itut wept hot te.ars of distress and vexation, under the liimsy coveriuf^ of lace. "No, of course, you will not do it — you will far rather he hauphty, and say it is my fault," said poor Miss Dora. "We have all so much pride, we Wentworths — and you never think of our disappointment, and how we all calculated upon hav- ing you at .Skelmersdale, and how hapjty we were to be, and that you were to marry Julia Trench " It was just at this moment that the two reached the corner of Prickett's Lane. Lucy Wodehouse had been down there seeing the sick woman. She had, in- deed, been carrying her dinner to that j>oor creature, and w^as just turning into Grange Lane, with her blue ribbons hidden iinder the grey cloak, and a little basket in her hand. They met full in the face at this corner, and Miss Dora's words reached Lucy's ears, and went through and through her witli a little nervous thrill. She had not time to think whether it was pain or only surprise that moved her, and was not even self-possessed enough to observe the tremulous pressure of the C-urate's hand, as he shook hands with her, and introduced his auut. "I have just been to see the poor woman at THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 53 No. 10," said Lucy. "She is very ill to-day. If you liad time, it would be kind of you to see her. I think she has somethinf^ on her mind." "I will go there before I go to Wharfside," said ]\Ir. Wentworth. "Are you coming down to the service this afternoon? I am afraid it will be a long service, for there are .all these little Burrowses, you know — — " "Yes, I am godmotlier," said Lucy, and smiled and gave him her hand again as she passed him, while aunt Dora looked on with curious eyes. The poor Curate heaved a mighty sigh as he looked after the grey cloak. Not his the privilege now, to walk with her to the green door, to take her basket from the soft hand of the merciful Sister. On the contrary, he had to turn his back upftn Lucy, and walk on with aunt Dora to the inn — at this moment a symbnlical action wliich seemed to embody his fate. "AVliere is Wharfside? and wlio are tlie little Bur- rowses? and what does the youug lady mean by being godmother?" said aunt Dora. "She looks very sweet and nice-, but what is the meaning of that grey cloak? Oh, Frank, I hope you don't approve of nunneries, and that sort of thing. It is such foolishness. My dear, the Christian life is very hard, as your aunt Leonora always says. She says she can't l)ear to see people playing at Christianity " "Peoj;)le should not .speak of things they don't understand," said the Perpetual Curate. "Your Exeter- Hall men, aunt Dora, are like the old ascetics — they try to make a merit of Christianity by calling it hard and terri1)le; Init there are some .sAveet souls in the world, to whom it comes natural as sunshine in May." And the young Anglican, with a glance behind him 54 NIK riOUI-ETUAL CTKATK. from the corner nt" his cyo, followed the fair lif^ure, which he helieveil lie was never, with .*i clear conscience, to accompany any more. "Now, here is your inn," he Kaid, after a little jiause. "Wharfside is a «listrict, whore I am f^tnn}:; presently to conduct service, and the little Burrowscs are a set of little heathens, to whom I am to administer holy hajitism this Easter Sunday. Good-bye just now." "Oh, Frank, my dear, just come in for a moment, and tell Leonora — it will show her how wrong she is." said poor aunt Dora, cHnping to his arm. "Kight or wrong, I am not going into any con- troversy. My aunt Leonora knows perfectly well what she is doing," said the Curate, with the hest smile he could muster: and so sho() iiii; n:i{ri;i lAi. ( ikate. preceded l)y the new baby, wljosc infant claims to Christianity the Cnratc liad ko stronp;ly insisted npon, to tho wakenin;? of a fatherly conscience in the honest bargeman. Lucy Wodehoiise, without her ;rrey cloak, stood at tlie font, holdinf; that last tiny ajijdicant for saving' j^^race, while all tiie other little heathens were sij^ned with the sacred cross. And, strangely enough, when the young priest and the young woman stood so near each other, solemnly jdedging, one after another, each little sun-browned, round-eyed ])agan to be Christ's faithful servant .'uid soldier, the cloud jtassed away from the hrnianient uf hj»t]i. Neither of them, perhaps, was of a very enlightenemcthinj; that excited him-, while she, ])oor lady, looked just sufliciently sympathetic and in- dignant to withdraw her mind from that first idea which usually suji^f^ested itself on the entrance of visitors — which was, what could they possibly think of her if they supjiosed the carpet, ttc. , to be her own choice? Mrs. Morj^an cast her eyes with a troubled look upon the hi*,' card which had been brought to her — Miss Wentworth, Miss Leonora Weutworth, Miss Dora Went- worth. "Sisters of his, I suppose, William," she said in an undertone; "now do be civil, dear." There was no time for anything more before the three ladies sailed in. Miss Leonora took the initiative, .as was natural. " You don't remember us, I daresay," she said, taking Mrs. Morgan's hands; "we used to know your aunt Sidney, when she lived at the Hermitage. Don't you recollect the ^[iss Wentwortlis of Skclmersdale? Charley Sidney spent jjart of his furlough with us last summer, and Ada writes about you often. We could not be in Carlingford without coming to see the relation of such a dear friend." "I am so glad to see anybody who knows my aunt r>b TIIK PKUTKII Al. RTI'AI, fll'.ATK. miglit iiioiitiiiii Ills own onf^n^cinonl , niid aconimt for his failuro in tlio cliaiicc evening call wliicli liad bc- conift so luiicli a part of his life. But no one ap- peared to hoar liis incssa^^^o. lie went lin^rerinj; past the f^recn door, and np the sih'iit deserted road. At tlie end of (Iran^'e Lane, jnst in ihe little unsettled transition interval which interjiosed between it8 aristo- cratic calm and the hustle of (Jeor;:;e .Street, on the side next Prickett's Lane, was a quaint little shop, into which Mr. Wcntworlh strayed to occujiy the time. This was I'llsworthv's, who, as is well known, was then clerk at St. Uo<|ne's. Klsworthy himself was in his shop that Kaster Monday, and so w;i>i his wife and little Kosa, who was a little beauty, Kosa and lier aunt had jusf returned from an excursion, and a pret- tier litlle apparitinn could not bo seen tlian that iHmpled rosy creature, ■with her radiant half-childish b»oks, her bright eyes, and soft curls of dark brown hair. Even Mr. Wentworth gave a second glance at her as he dropped languidly into a chair, and asked Elsworthy if there was any news. Mrs. Elsworthy, who had been telling the adventures of the ludiday to her goodman, gathered up her basket of eggs and her nosegay, and made the clergyman a little curtsy as she hurried away, for the clerk's wife was a highly re- spectable woman, and knew her own place. But Rosa, who was only a kind of kitten, and had privileges, stayed. Mr. Wentworth was by far the most magnifi- cent figure she had ever seen in her little life. She looked at him with awe out of her bright eyes, and thought he looked like the prince in the fairy tales. "Any news, sir? There ain't much to call news, sir — not in a place like this," said Mr. Elsworthy. THE rnRT'RTUAL CURATE. 71 "Your respected aunts, sir, 'as been clown at the school- room. I haven't heard anything else as I could suppose you didn't know." "My aunts!" cried tlie Curate; "how do you know anylhino^ about my aunts?" Mr. P^lsworthy smiled a coni])1acent and familiar smile. "There's so many a-cominLi^ and a-^(iin<; hore that I know most persons as comes into Carlingford," said he-, "and them three respected ladies is as good as a })ictur. I saw them a-drivinj^ prist and down Prickett's Lane. They was as anxious to know all about it as — as was to be exjiccted in the circumstances," said Mr. Klsworthy, failing; of a metaphor; "and I wish you your 'ealth and 'apjiiness, sir, if all as I hear is true." "It's a {^ood wish," said the Curate; "thank you, Els- worthy: but what you heard mi';ht not be true." "Well, sir, it looks more than likely," said the clerk; "as far as I've seen in my experience, ladies don't go in({uiring into a young gentleman's ways, not without some reason. If they was young ladies, and noways related, we know what we'd think, sir; but being old ladies, and aunts, it's equally as clear. For my part, Mr. Wcntworth, my worst wish is, that when you come into your fortune, it mayn't lead you away from St. Koque's — not after everything is settled so beautiful, .and not a thing wanted but some stained glass, as I hear a deal of people say, to make it as perfect a little church " "Yes, it is very true; a painted window is very much wanted," said Afr. Wentworth, thoughtfully. "Perhaps there's one o' the ladies, sir, as has some friend she'd like to put up a memorial to," said Mr. Elsworthy, in insiniiating tones. "A window is a deal 72 THK I'KUI'KTUAL CUKATE. cheerfiiUor ;i memorial than a tomhstoiip, and it CDiildut be deHcribed the improvement it wouhl be to the church. I'm sorry to hear Mr. Wodehouse ain't quite so well as his usual to-nifjht; a useful man like he is, would be a terrible loss tr) Carlinfrt'ord; not as it's anything; alarminf^, as far as 1 can hear, but being a stout man, it ain't a safe thing his being took so sudden. I've heard the old doctor say, sir, as a man of a full 'abit might be took off at once, when a spare man would light through. It would be a sad thing for his family, sir," said Mr. Elsworthy, tying up a bundle of news- papers with a very serious face. "Good heavens, Elsworthy, how you tcilk!" said the alarmed Curate. "What do you mean? — is Mr. Wode- house ill? — seriously ill?" "Not serious, as I knows of," said the clerk, with solemnity, "but being a man of a full 'abit of body — I daresay as the town would enter into it by subscrip- tion if it was proposed as a memorial to him, for he's much respected in Carlingford is Mr. Wodehouse. I see him a-going past, sir, at five o'clock, which is an hour earlier than common, and he was looking flabby, that's how he was looking. I don't know a man as would be a greater loss to his family; and they ain't been without their troubles either, poor souls." "I should be sony to think that it was necessary to sacrifice Mr. Wodehouse for the sake of our jiainted window," said the Curate, "as that seems what you mean. Send over this note for me, please, as I have not time to call. No, certainly, don't send Rosa; that child is too young and too — too pretty to be out by herself at night. Send a boy. Haven't you got a boy? — there is a very nice little fellow that I could recom- THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 73 mend to you," said Mr. Wentworth, as he hastily scrib- liled his note with a ])t}ncil, "whose mother lives in Prickett's Lane." "Thank you^ sir, all tlio same; but I hope I don't need to go into that neighbourhood for good service," said Mr. Elsworthy: "as for Rosa, I could trust her anywhere; and I have a boy, sir, as is the best boy that ever lived — a real Englisii boy, that is. Sam, take this to Mr. "NVodehouse's directly, and wait for an an- swer. No answer? — very well, sir. You needn't wait tor no answer, Sam. That's a boy, sir, I could trust with untold gold. His mother's a Dissenter, it is true, but the principles of that boy is beautiful. I hope you haven't mentioned, sir, as I said Mr. Wodchouse was took bad? It was between ourselves, Mr. Wentworth. Persr)ns don't like, especially when they've got to that age, and are of a full 'abit of body, to have every little attack made a talk about. You'll excuse me mentioning it, sir, but it was as between ourselves." "Perhaps you'd like rae to sIioav you my note," said the Curate, with a smile; Avhich, indeed, Klswortiiy would have very much liked, could he have ventured to say so. Mr. Wentworth was but too glad of an excuse to write and explain his absence. The note was not to Lucy, however, though various little epistles full of the business of the district had passed between the two: — "Dear Miss W., — I hear your father is not quite well. I can't call just now, as 1 am going to dine with my aunts, who are at the Blue Boar; but, if you will pardon the lateness of the hour, I will call as I return to ask for him.— Ever yours, "F. C. Wentworth." 74 Tin: pkuprtial ciiratk. Sticli was tlio ( 'urate's ii<»to. "Wliilo lio Kcril»ble(l it, little Kosa stood ajiurt watchin;,' liini with admiriiif; eyes. Ho had said slio was too ]ir('tty to ho sent across (Iraiifrc Lane hy horsolf at this liour, thoiifjh it was still no more than twilif^ht; and he looked up at her for an instant as lie Haid the words, — <|uite enough to sot liosa's poor little heart heatinpr with childish ro- niantical excitement. If she couhi hut have j»eejtod Into the note to sec wiiat he said! -for, jiorhaps, after all, there ini^'ht not he anything "hot ween" him and Miss Lucy — and, perhaps The j»oor little thin}^ stood watchin;;, deaf to her aunt's call, lookinj^ at the stranpe ease with which that small epistle was written, and thinking it half divine to have such mastery of words and pen. Mr. Wentworth threw it to Sam as if it were a trilie; hut Ro.sa's lively imag-ination could already conceive the possibility of living upon such triHes and making existence out of tliem; so the child stood with her pretty curls about her ears, and her bright eyes gleaming dewy over the fair, flushed, rosebud cheeks, in a flutter of roused and innocent imagination autici- ])ating her fate. As for ]\Ir. Wentworth, it is doubtful whether he saw Rosa, as he swung himself round, upon the stool he w\as seated on, and turned his face towards the door. Somehow he was comforted in his mind by the conviction that it Avas his duty to call at Mr. Wode- house's as he came back. The evening brightened up and looked less dismal. The illness of the respected father of the house did not oppress the young man. He thought not of the sick-room, but of the low chair in one corner, beside the work-ta))le where Lxicy had al- Avays basketfuls of sewing in hand. He could fancy he saw the work drop on her knee, and the blue eyes TIIR PKTIPRTUAL CimATR. 75 raised. It was a pretty picture that he framed for him- self as lie looked out with a half smile into the blue twilif^ht tJirough the open door of Elsworthy's shop. And it was clearly his duty to call. He grew almost jocular in the exhilaration of his spirits. '"J'he Miss Wentworths don't approve of memorial windows, Elsworthy," he said; "and, indeed, if you tliink it necessary to cut off one of the chief people in Carlinjrford by way of supplying 8t. Roque's with a little painted glass " "No, sir — no, no, sir; you're too hard upon me — there wasn't no such meaning in my mind; but I don't make no question the ladies were pleased with the church," said Elsworthy, with the satisfaction of a man who had helj)ed to produce an entirely triiunphaiit effect. "I don't pretend to be a judge myself of what you call 'igh art, Mr. Wentworth; but, if T might ven- ture an opinion, the altar was beautiful; and we won't say nothing about the service, considering, sir — if you won't be otfendod at putting them together, as one is so far inferior — that both you and me " Mr. Wentworth laughed and moved off his chair. "We were not appreciated in this instance," he said, with an odd comic look, and then went off into a burst of laughter, which Mr. Elsworthy saw no particular occasion for. Then he took up his glove, whicli he had taken off to write the note, and, nodding a kindly good-night to little Rosa, who stood gazing after him with all her eyes, went away to the Blue Boar. The idea, however, of his own joint performance with Mr. Elsworthy not only tickled the Curate, l>ut gave him a half-ashauied sense of the aspect in which he might himself appear to the eyes of niattcr-of-fact people who 76 IIIK I'BRl'BTUAL (THATK. differed with him. 'I'ho joke had a 8li;;ht Ktintr, which broufi^ht his laughter to an end. IIo went np throujjh the lij,'htcd street to tiie inn, wishinj: the dinner over, and hinisell" on his way hack aj^ain to wdl at Mr. AV^odehouse's. For, to tell the truth, hy this time he had almost exhausted Skelmersdale, and, feelinf? in himself not much different now from wliat he was when his hopes were still f^rocn, had hepin to look Jipon life itself with a less trouhled eye, and to believe in odier chances which mi;;lit make Lucy's society practicable once more. It was in this altered state of mind that he presented himself before his aunts. He was less self-conscious, less watchful, more ready to amuse them, if that mifjht hajij»en t(» be possible, and in reality much more able to cope with Miss Leonora than when he had been more anxious about her opin- ion. He had not been two minutes in the room before all the three ladies perceived this revolution, and each in her own mind attempted to account for it. They were experienced women in their way, and found out a variety of reasons-, but as none of them Avere young, and as people will forget how youth feels, not one of them divined the fact that there was no reason, but that this improvement of spirits arose solely from the fact that the Perj)ctual Curate had been for two whole days miserable .about Skelmersdale, and had exhausted all his powers of misery — and that now youth had turned the tables, and he was still to see Lucy to- night. THE PERPETUAL CURATlJ. 77 CHATTEK VII. "Your Rector is anji^ry at some of your proceed- ings," said Miss Leonora. "I did not think a man of your views woiild liavc cared for missionary work. I should have supposed that you woukl tliink that vulgar, and Low-Church, and Evangelical. Indeed, 1 thought I heard you say you didn't believe in preach- ing, Frank? — -neither do I, when a man preaches the Tracts for the Times. I was surj)rised to hear what you were doing at the place they call Wharfside.'' "First let me correct you in two little inaccuracies," said Mr. Wentworth, blandly, as he peeled his orange. "The Rector of C-arlingford is not my rector, and I don't preach the Tracts for the Times. Let us always be particular, my dear aunt, as to points of fact." "Exactly so," said Miss Leonora, grimly; "but, at the same time, as there seems no great likelihood of your leaving Carlingford, don't you think it would be wise to cultivate friendly relations with the Rector?" said the iron-grey inexorable aunt, looking full in his eyes as she spoke. So signilicant and ))lain a state- ment took for an instant the colour out of the Curate's cheeks — he pared his orange very carefully while he regained his composure, and it was at least half a mimxte before he found himself at leisure to reply. Miss Dora of course seized upon the opportunity, and, by way of softening matters, interposed in her unlucky person to make peace. "But, my dear boy, I said I was sure you did not mean it," said Miss Dora; "I told Mr. Morgan I felt convinced it could be explained. Nobody knows you 78 IIIK l-KUI'Kll'AI. CUilAlK KO well as I (In. Vou were always ko lii;rli-s]iinted from a iliilil, ami never would ^ive in; but 1 know very well you never could mean it, Frank." "Mean i(?" said the ('urate, with hparklinj^ eyes: "what do ytiu take me for, aunt Dora? I)o you know ^\hat it is we are talking: of? The <|Uestion is, whether u whole lot of people, fathers and children, shall lie left to live like heasts, without reverence for God or man, <»r shall he lirouf^ht within the pale of the Church, ami taiij^ht I heir duty? And you think I dont mean it? 1 mean it as much as my limther Ciiarley meant it at tlie Kedan," said younj; Went worth, with a p^low of suppreased enthusiasm, and that natural pride in ( 'harley (who j;ot the Cross for Valour) w hicb was c'limmon to all the Weutworths. liut when he saw his aunt liCouora loukin«? at him, the Perpetual Curate stood to his arms a;,'ain. "I have still th, my dear boy, 1 hope you don't think it's my fault," said Miss Dora, with tears. "It must have come to this, dear, sooner or later: you see, poor Leonora has such a sense of responsibility, but it is very hard u])on us, Frank, who love you so much, that she should always take her o^^^l way." "Then why don't you rebel?" said the Curate, wJio, in the thought of seeing Lucy, was exhilarated, and dared to jest even upon the awful power of his aunt. "You are two against one; why don't you take it into your own hands and rebel?" Miss Dora repeated the words with an alarmed quaver. "Kebel! oh Frank, dear, do you think we could? To be sure, we are co-heiresses, and have just as good a right as she has; and for your sake, my dear boy," said the ti'oubled woman, "oh, Frank, I The riqidml Curate. J. 6 82 run i'Rui'Rtual curate. wish yoii wiiiilil tell ino what to ilo! I never sjutuhl dare to contradict Leonora with no one to stand hy me; and then, if anything,' hajijiened, you would all think 1 had been to blame," said poor aunt D(»ra, clinf!;in{^ to his arm. She made him walk l)ack and hack aj^ain throuj^h the Ion;? passa/^e, which was sacred to the chief suite* of apartments at the Blue lioar. "We have it all to ourselves, and nobody can see us here; and oh, my dear boy, if you wctuld only tell me what 1 ounht to do?" she repeated, with wistful looks of appeal. Mr. Wentworth was too good-bearted to show the imj»atience with which he was strufrprliug'. He satisfied her as well as ho coidd, and said fjood-night half-a-dozen times. ^Viien he made his escape at last, and emerged into the clear blue air of the sjiring night, the l*er})etual Curate had no such sense of disappoint- ment and failure in his mind as the three ladies sup- posed, lyiiss Leonora's distinct intimation that Skel- mersdale had passed out of the region of probaldlities, had indeed tingled through him at the moment it was uttered; but just now he was going to see Lucy, an- ticipating with impatience the moment of coming into her presence, and nothing in the world could have dismayed him utterly. He went down the road very rapidly, glad to find that it was still so early, that the shopkeepers in George Street were but just putting up their shutters, and that there was still time for an liour's talk in that bright drawing-room. Little Rosa Avas standing at the door of Elsworthy's shop, looking out into the dark street as he passed; and he said, "A lovely night, Rosa," as he went by. But the night was nothing particular in itself, oidy lovely to Mr. Wentworth, as embellished ^vith Lucy shining over it, THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 8.0 like a distant star. Perhaps he had never in his lite felt so glad that he was going to see her, so eager for her presence, as that night which was the beginning of the time wlien it would be no longer lawful for hiui to indulge in her society. He heaved a big sigh as tlint thought occurred to liim, but it did not diniini^'h the flush of conscious happiness; and in this mood he went down Grange Lane, with light resounding steps, to Mr. Wodehouse's door. But Mr. Wcntworth started with a very strange sensation when the door was stcaltliily, noiselessly oj)ened to him before he could ring. Jle could not see who it was that called him in the darkness; but he felt that he had been watched for, and that the door was thrown open very hurriedly to prevent him from making his usual summons at the liell. Such an incident was incomprehensible. He went into the dark garden like a man in a dream, with a horrible vision of Archimage and the false Una somehow stealing upon his mind, he could not tell how. It was quite dark inside, for tlie moon was late of rising that night, and the faint stars threw no effectual lustre down upon the trees, lie liad to grope before him to know where he was going, asking in a troubled voice, "Who is there? What is the matter?" and falling into more and more profound Ijcwilderment and uneasiness. "Hush, hush, oh hush! — Oh, Mr. Wentworth, it is I — I want to speak to you," said an agitated voice be.side him. "Come this way — this way; I don't want any one to hear us." It was Miss Wodehouse who thus pitifully addressed the amazed Curate. She laid a tremulous hand on his arm, and drew him deeper into the shadows — into that walk where the limes and 84 TIIK I'KKI'KTUAL CUKATK. tall liliic-butilics ^rew no lliickly. Here she came to a |)auNC, aiul tiic soiiiid of the tcrriiicd |mntin(; breath in tlio silciu'o ahiniic'd iiiiii more an