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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 <ir a chorister's surjilice was scarcely
worth sufferinpf martyrdom for. This horrihle sug-
gestion, true essence of'an unheroic ajre, which will
not suffer a man to he ahsolutely sure of anything,
disturbed his prayer as he knelt down in silence to ask
God's hlessing. Easter, tt» be sure, was lovely enough
of itself without the jrarland, and !Mr. Wentworth knew
well enouj^h that his white-robed singers were no im-
maculate angel-band. It was Satan himself, surely, and
no inferior imp, Avho shot that sudden arrow into the
young man's heart as he tried to say his private prayer;
for the Curate of St. K«j(jue's was not only a fervent
Anglican, but also a young Englishman satis reprochc,
with all the sensitive, almost fantastic, delicacy of
honour which belongs to that development of humanity;
and not for a dozen worlds would he have sacrificed a
lily or a surplice on this particular Easter, when all
his worldly hopes hung in the balance. But to think
at this crowning moment that a villanous doubt of the
benefit of these surplices and lilies should seize his
troubled heart! for just then the strains of the organ
died away in lengthened whispers, and Miss Leonora
Wentworth, severe and awful, swept up through the
middle aisle. It was under these terrible circumstances
that the Perpetual Cm-ate, ^yii\x his heart throbbing and
his head aching, began to intone the morning serv-ice
on that Easter Sunday, ever after a day so memorable
in the records of St. Koque's.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 47
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Wkntworth's sermon on Easter Sunday was
one whicli lie himself long rememlicred, though it is
doubtful whether any of his congregation had memories
as faithful. To tell the truth, the young man put a
black cross upon it with his blackest ink, a memorial
of meaning unknown to anybody but himself. It was
a curious little sermon, such as may still be heard in
some Anglican pulpits. Though he had heart and
mind enough to conceive something of those natural
depths of divine significance and human intere.st, which
arc the very es.«ence of the Easter festival, it was not
into these that Mr. Wentworth entered in his sermon.
He spoke, in very choice little sentences, of the bene-
ficence of the Church in appointing such a feast, and
of all the beautiful arrangements she had made for the
keeping of it. But even in the speaking, in the ex-
cited state of mind he was in, it occurred to the young
man to see, by a sudden flash of illumination, how
much higher, how much more catholic, after all, his
teaching would have been, could he but have once
ignored the Church, and gone direct, as Nature bade,
to that empty grave in which all the hopes of humanity
liad been entombed. He saw it by gleams of that per-
verse light which seemed more Satanic than heavenly
in the moments it chose for shining, while he was
preaching his little sermon about the Church and her
beautiful institution of Easter, just a.s he had seen the
non-importance of his lily-wreath and surplices as he
was about to sufl"er martyrdom for them. All these
circumstances were hard uj)on the young man. Look-
48 THE PEnPETl'AL CITRATE,
ing down Htraifjht into the severe iron-grey eyes of hin
aunt Leonora, lie could not of course so much as mod-
ify a single sentence of the discourse he was uttering,
no more than he could j>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 c<mie with me?" he said, as
they stood together at the door of St. Koque's. Mr.
Wentworth felt as if he had caught the beginning
threads of a good many different lines of thought, which
he would be glad to be alone to work out.
"You'll come back with me to the inn to hyich?"
said Miss Dora. "Oli, Frank, my dear, remember your
Ciiristian feelings, and don't make a breach in the
family. It will be bad enough to f;\ce your poor dear
father, after he knows what Leonora means to do-, and
I do so want to talk to you," said the poor woman,
eagerly clinging to his arm. "You always were fond
of your poor aunt Dora, Frank; when you were quite
a little trot you used always to like me best; and in
the holiday times, when you came down from Harrow,
I used always to hear all your troubles. If you would
only have confidence in me now!"
"But what if I have no troubles to confide?" said
The Perpetual Curate. I. 4
50 THE I'EKl'RTUAL CURATE.
Mr. Wentwortli; *';i man and a boy arc very different
thiugs. Come, aunt iJora, I'll see you Hate to your
inn. What should 1 have to grumhle about? 1 have
plenty to do, and it is Easter; and few men can have
everything,'' their own way."
" Vou wcm't acknowlt'dj^e that you're vexed," said
aunt Dora, almost crying under her veil, "but I win
see it all the same. Yoti alw.ays were such a true
Weutworth; but if you only would give in and say
that y(»u are disappointed and angry with us all, I
coulil l)ear it better, Frank. 1 wouhl not feel then that
you thought it my fault! And oh, Frank, dear, you
don't consider how disappointed your poor dear aunt
Leonora was! It's just as liard upon us," she continued,
pressing his arm in her eagerness, "as it is up<in you.
We had all so set dur hearts on having yon at Skelmers-
dale. Don't you think, if you were giving your mind
to it, you might see things in a difterent light?"' with
another pressure of his arm. "(Jh, Frank, what does
it matter, after all, if the heart is right, whether you
read the service in your natural voice, or give that
little ([uaver at the end? I am sure, for my part "
"My dear aunt," said Mr. Went worth, naturally in-
censed by this manner of description, "I must be
allowed to say that my convictions are fixed, and not
likely to be altered. I am a priest, and you are — a
woman." He stopped short, with perhaps a little bit-
terness. It was very true she was a woman, unqualified
to teach, but yet she and her sisters were absolute in
Skelmersdale. He made a little gulp of his momentary
irritation, and walked on in silence, with j\[iss Dora's
kind wistful liand clinging to his arm.
"But, dear Frank, among us Protestants, you know,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 51
there is no sacerdotal caste," said !Miss Dora, op-
portunely recollecting some scrap of an Exeter Hall
speech. "We are all kings and priests to God. Oh,
Frank, it is CJerald's example that has led yon away.
I am sure, before you went to Oxford you were never
at all a ritualist — even Leonora tlionght you such a
pious hoy, and I am sure yoiu* good sense must teach
you " faltered aunt Dbra, trying her sister's grand
tone.
"Hush, hush; I can't have you begin to argue with
me; you are not my aunt Leonora," said the ('urate,
half amused in spite of liimsolf This encouraged tlie
anxious woman, and, clasping his arm closer than ever,
she poured out all her heart.
"Oh, Frank, if you could only modify your views
a little! It is not that tliere is any difference between
your views and ours, except just in words, my dear.
Flowers are very pretty decorations, and 1 know you
look very nice in your surplice; and I am sure, for my
[)art, I sliould not mind — but then that is not carrying
tlie Word of God to the people, as Leonora says. If
the lieart is right, what does it matter al)out the altar?"
said aunt Dora, unconsciously falling u])on the very
argument tliat had occurred to her nepliew's perplexed
mind in the pulpit. "Even tliough I was in such
trouble, I can't tell you what a happiness it was to take
the sacrament from your hands, my dear, dear boy;
and but for these flowers and things that could do
nobody any good, jioor dear Leonora, who is very fond
of you, tliough [lerliaps you don't think it, could have
had that happiness too. Oh, Frank, don't you think
you could give up these things that don't matter? If
you were just to tell Leonora you have been thinking
4->j
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<ik hands with her resolutely,
and walked back again all the way down Grange
Lane, past the green door, to his own house. Nobody
was about the green door at that particular moment to
ask him in to luncheon, as sometimes hajipened. He
walked down all the way to Mrs. Hadwins, with some-
thing of the sensations of a man who ha.s just gone
through a dreadful operation, and feels, with a kind of
dull surprise after, that everything around him is just
the same as before. He had come througli a fiery trial,
though nobody knew of it; and just at this moment,
when he wanted all liis strength, how strange to feel
that haunting sense of an unnecessary sacrifice — that
troubled new vein of thought which would be worked
out, and which concerned matters more important than
Skelmersdale, weighty as that was. He took his ser-
mon out of his pocket when he got home, and marked
a cross upon it, as we have already said-, but, being
still a young man, he Avas thankful to snatch a morsel
THK I'KkFKTUAL CltUATB. 55
of luncb, and hasten out ajj^ain to his duty, instead of
staying to ar^ue the question Avith himself. He went
to No. 10 Prickett's Lane, and was a long time with
tlie sick woman, listening to all the woeful tale of a
trouoled life, whicli tlic poor sick creature had been
contemplating tor days and days, in her solitude,
through those strange exaggerated death-gleams which
Miss Leonora Wentworth would have called "the light
of eternity." Slic remembered all sorts of sins, great
and small, which tilled her with nervous terrors-, and
it was not till close upon the hour for the Wharfside
service, that the Curate could Iciivve his tremulous
penitent. The schoolroom was particularly full that
day. Easter, perhaps, had touched the hearts — it cer-
tainly had refreshed the toilettes — of the bargemen's
wives and daughters. Some of them felt an inward
conviction that tlicir new ribbons were undoubtedly
owing to the clergyman's inllucnce, and that Tom and
Jim would have bestowed the money otherwise before
the Church planted her pickets in this corner of the
enemy's cam}); and the conviction, though not of an
elevated description, was a great deal better than no
conviction at all. Mr. "Wentwortli's little sermon to
them was a great imjirovemont upon his sermon at St.
Roque's. He told them About the empty grave of
Christ, and how He called the weeping woman by her
name, and showed her the earnest of the end of all
sorrows. There were some people who cried, thinking
of the dead Avho were si ill waiting for E.ister, which
was more than anybody did when lilr. Wentworth dis-
coursed upon the beautiful institutions of the Church's
year; and a great many of the congregation stayed to
see Tom Burrows's six children come up for baptism,
;>() 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 enlightene<I character of soul. They believed
they were doing a great work for 'i'om Uurrows's six
children, calling Cod to His jiromise on their behalf,
and setting the little feet straight for the gates of the
eternal city, and in their young love and faith their
hearts rose. ]*crha])s it was fotdish of Mr. Wentworth
to suffer himself to walk home again thereafter, as of
old, with the Miss Wodehouses — but it was so usual,
and, after all, they were going the same way. But it
Avas a very silent walk, to the wonder of the elder
sister, who could not understand what it meant. "The
AVliarfside service always does me good,"' said Mr.
Wentworth, with a sigh. ''And me, too," said Lucy;
and then they talked a little aliout the poor woman in
No. 10. But that Easter Sunday was not like other
Sundays, though Miss Wodebouse could not tell why.
TJTE PKUPFTTtrAL C'tTRATR. 57
CHAPTER V.
Nkxt day the ]\[iss Wentwortlis made a solemn call
afc the Kec'tory, liavinj^ known an aunt of Mrs. ]\[or,uan
at some period of (licir history, and boinp- much disposed,
besides, with natural curiosity, to ascertain all about
their nephew's circumstances. Their entrance iuterrui)ted
a consultation between the Kector and his wife. Mr.
Mor^'an was slij;htly heated, and had evidently been
talkinj^ about si>mcthinj; 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. <l'ltATK.
Sidney," suitl Mrs. Morjruii, with ^uMlilii-d eii(lmhi;iMi).
"Mr. Morf^jui, Miss Wpjjtworth. It was such a dear little
liousc that lI('riiiita;,'o. I spoilt SDiiie very hajijiy days
there. Oh yos, I recollet-t Skelniorsdale perfectly; hut,
to tell the truth, there is mie ni' the cler}jy in ('arliii^-
tord called Weiitworth, ami J tliou^^ht it nii^^lit be some
relations of his coming to call."
"Just so," said Miss Wontworth, settlinp^ herself in
the neare.st easy-chair.
"And so it is," cried Miss Dora; "we are his aunt«,
dear hoy — we are very f(»nd of him. We came on
purpose to .see him. We are so ^la<l (<• he.ir that be
is liked in Cirlinprford."
"Oh — yes," said the Rector's wife, ami nohody else
took any notice of Miss Dora's little outburst. As for
Mr. Morjran, he addressed Miss Leonora as if she bad
done somelhin^jc particularly nauj^hty, and be bad a
great mind to pve her an impo.sition. "You have not
been very lonp: in Carlinjrford, 1 suppose," said the
Rector, as if that Avere a sin.
"Only since .Saturday," said Miss Leonora. "We
came to see Mr. Frank AVentwortb, who is at St. Roque's.
I don't know what your bishop is about, to permit all
those flowers and candlesticks. For my part, I never
disguise my sentiments. I mean to tell my nephew
plainly that bis way of conducting the service is far
from being to my mind."
"Leonora, dear, perhaps Mr. Morgan would speak
to Frauk about it," interposed Miss Dora, anxiously;
" he "was always a dear boy, and advice was never lost
upon bim. From one that he respected so much as he
must respect the Rector "
"I beg your pardon. I quite decline interfering
THE PKRrEXrAL CT/KATE. 59
with Mr. Went worth; he is not at all uiuler my juris-
diction. Indeed," said the Hector, Avith a smile of
anjj:or, "1 mi^jht be more truly said to be under his,
ior he is {rood en()u;;h to hoi]) in my })arish without
consulting me; but that is not to tlic purpose. I would
not for the world attempt to interfere with St. Koque's."
"Dear, I am sure Mr. Wontworth is very nice, and
everything we have seen of him in private we have
liked very much," said Mrs. Morgan, with an anxious
look at her husband. She was a good-natured woman,
and the handsome Curate had imj)ressed her favourably,
notwithstanding his misdoings. "As for a little too
much of the rubric, I think that is not a bad fault in
a young man. It gets softened down with a little ex-
jicrienco; and 1 do like proper solemnity in the services
of the Ciiureh."
"I don't call intoning proper solemnity," said Miss
Leontjra. "The Church is a missionary institution, that
is my idea. Unless you arc really bringing in the
perishing and saving souls, what is tlie good? and
souls will never be saved by Easter decorations. I
don't know what my nejihew may have done to offend
you, Mr. Morgan; but it is very sad to us, who have
very strong convictions on the subject, to see him
wasting his time so. I daresay there is ])lenty of
licathonism in Carlingford which might be attacked in
the lirst ])lace."
"I prefer not to discuss the subject," said the
liector. "So long as Mr. Wentworth, or any other
clergyman, keeps to his own sphere of duty, I should
be the last in the world to interfere with him."
"You are offended with Frank," said Miss Leonora,
fixing her iron-grey eyes upon Mr. Morgan. "So am
()<» THR I'RRI'KTI'AL CL'KATE.
1; but 1 hhould lje i^^lsid if you would tell mc all about
it. 1 have jjarticular reasons for wisliiii^' to know. Aftor
all, be is only a youn^r man," slie continued, witli <bat
instinct of kindred wliicli dislikes to liear censure from
any li]»s but its own. "I don't tliink tbere can be
anytiiinj; more tban inadvertence in it. I sliould be
j^lad if you would tell me wbat you object to in bim.
I tliink it is probable tliat be may remain a lonp: time
in ( 'arlin^^ford ," said Miss Leonttra, witb cbarmiufr
candour, "and it would be ])leasant if we coidd iieljt
to set bim rip:bt. Your advice and exj)erience mifrbt
be <»f so mucb use to bim.' Slie was not aware of tbe
covert sarcasm of ber sjieecb. She did not know that
tbe Ixector's actual exj»erience, tliou{!rb be was half as
old apiiu as ber ncjdu'W, bore no coni|iarison to tbat
of tbe Perjietual Curate. She spoke in j^ood faitjj and
ji^ood nature, not moved in ber own convictions ol'
wbat nnist be done in re.spect to Skelmersdale, but
very williuir, if that were possible, to do a good turn
to Frank.
"I am sure, dear, wbat we bave seen of jVFr. Weut-
worth in })rivate, Ave bave liked very mucb," said tbe
Rector's sensible wife, witb a deprecatiufr g-lance towards
ber husband. The Rector took no notice of tbe .erlance;
lie grew slightly red in his serious middle-aged face,
and cleared his throat several times before he began
to speak.
"The fixct is, I have reason to be dissatisfied with
Mr. Weutworth, as regards my own parish," said Mr.
Morgan: "personally I have nothing to say against him
— quite the reverse; probably, as you say, it arises
from inadvertence, as he is still a very young man;
but "
THE rEliPETUAL CURATE. 61
"What has lie done?" said Miss Leonora, pricking
up her ears.
Once more Mr. Morgan cleared his throat, but this
time it was to keep down the rising anger of which he
was unpleasantly sensible. "I don't generally enter
into such matters with pcnjdc whom they don't con-
cern," he said, with a touch of his natural asperity;
"but as you are Mr. Wentworth's relation . He has
taken a step perfectly unjustifiable in every respect; he
lias at the present moment a mission going on in my
parish, in entire independence, I will not say defiance,
of me. My dear, it is unnecessary to look at me so
(leprecatingly. I am indignant at having such a liberty
taken with me. I don't pretend not to be indignant.
Mr. Wentworth is a very young man, and may not
know any better; but it is the most unwarranta])lc in-
trusion upon a clergyman's rights. I beg your pardon,
Miss Wentworth: you have nothing to do with my
grievances; but the fact is, my wife and I were dis-
cussing this very unpleasant matter when you came in."
"A mission in your parish?" said Miss Leonora,
her iron-grey eyes lighting up with a sparkle which did
not look like indignation; at this point it was neces-
sary that Miss Dora should throw herself into the
l)reach.
"Oh, Mr. Morgan, I am sure my dear Frank does
not mean it!" cried the unlucky peacemaker; "he would
not for the world do anything to Avound anybody's
feelings — it must be a mistake."
"Mr. ]\Iorgan would not have mentioned it if we
had not just been talking as you came in," said the
Rector's wife, by way of smoothing down his raffled
temper and giving him time to recover. "I feel sure
G2 xnn pkki'kti:al citrate.
it is a rnistako, and that everything will come rif^ht as
soon as they can talk it over Ijy themselves. The last
Kector was not at all a workinj^ clerj^yman— and per-
liajis Mr. Wcntwortli felt it was his duty — and n(»w T
daresay he i'orf^ets tiia( it is not his own parish. It will
all conic right after a time."
"But the mission is effective, I suppose, or you
would not object to it?" said Miss Leonora, who,
though a very religious woman, was not a peacemaker;
and the Ivector, whose tc'iiij)er was hasty, swallowed
the hait. lie entered into his grievances more fully
Uian his wife thought consistent with his dignity. She
sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor, tracing the ob-
jectionable ])attern of the carjiet with her foot, but too
mucli vexed for the moment to think of those bouquets
which were so severe a cross to her on ordinary occa-
sions. I^erhaps she was thinking secretly to herself
how much better one knows a man after being married
to him three months than after being engaged to him
ten years; but the discovery that he was merely a man
after all, with very ordinary defects in his character,
did not lessen her loyalty. She sat with her eyes bent
upon the carpet, feeling a little hot and uncomfortable
as her husband disclosed his weakness, and watching
her opportunities to rush in and say a softening word
now and tlien. The chances were, perhaps, on the
whole, that the wife grew more loyal, if that were
possible, as she perceived the necessity of standing by
him and backing him out. The Kector went very fully
into the subject, being drawn out by Miss Leonora's
questions, and betrayed an extent of information
strangely opposed to the utter ignorance which he had
displayed at Mr. Wodehouse's party. He knew the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 63
hours of Mr. Wentwortli's services, aud the number of
people who attended, and eveii about Tom liurrows's
six children wlio had been baptised the day before.
Somehow Mr. Morj^an took this last particular as a
special offence; it was this which had roused him
beyond his usual self-control. Six little heathens brought
into the Christian fold in his own parisli witliout per-
mission of the Rector! It was indeed enough to try any
clergyman's temjjer. Through the entire narrative Miss
Dora broke in now and then with a little wail expres-
sive of her general dismay and grief, and certainty
that her dear Frank did not mean it. iVIrs. Morgan
repeated apart to ]\[iss Wentworth with a troubled brow
the fact that all they had seen of Mr. Wentworth in
private they had liked very much; to which aunt Cecilia
answered, "(^uite so," Avath her beautiful smile; while
Miss Leonora sat and listened, jtutting artful questions,
and fixing the heated ]\ector with that iron-grey eye,
out of which the sparkle of incipient light had not
faded. Mr. Morgan naturally said a great deal more
than he meant to say, and after it was said he was
sorry; but he did not show the latter sentiment excejit
by silence and an uneasy rustling about the room just
before the j\Iiss Wentworths rose to go — a sign apparent
to his wife, though to nobody else. He gave Miss
Wentworth his arm to the door with an embarrassed
courtesy. "If you are going to stay any time at
Carlingford, I trust we shall see more of you," said
Mr. Morgan: "I ought to beg your pardon for taking
uj) so nnich time with ray affairs;" and (lie licctor was
much taken aback when Miss Wentworth answered,
"Thank you, that is just what I was thinking." He
went back to his troubled wife in great perplexity
64 TIIK IKKI'K'H'AL CURATE.
What was it tliat was just what she was tliiiikin{?V —
that he would sec more ol" them, (»r tliat he h.-id Kp«)kcii
too imu'h of" his own atVairs?
"You think I ha\e l»ecn an^ry and made an idiot
of myself," said Mr. Morpm to his wife, who was
stand in;^ lookinf; from a safe distance through the
curtains at the three ladies, who were holdinj^ a con-
sultation with their servant out of the window of the
solenni chariot provided l»y the Blue lioar, as to where
they were to {^o to next.
"Nonsense, dear; but 1 wi.sli you had not said
quite so much about Mr. Wentworth," said the Rector's
wife, soizinf^, with female art, on a cause for her an-
noyance which W(»uld not wound her Welshman's
ammir propria "for I rather think he is dejjendent on
Ills aunts. They have tlie livin;,' of Skelmersdale, I
know, and I remember now that their nej)hew was to
have had it. I hope this won't turn them a'j'ainst him,
dear," said Mrs. Morg^an, avIio did not care the least
in the world about Skelmersdale, looking anxiously in
her husband's face.
This was the climax of the Rector's trouble. "Why
did not you tell me that before?" he said, with con-
jugal injustice, and went off to his .study with a dis-
turbed mind, thinking that jierhaps he had injured his
own chances of getting rid of the Perpetual Curate.
If Mrs. Morgan had permitted herself to soliloquise
after he was gone, the matter of her thoughts might
have been interesting; but as neither ladies nor
gentlemen in the nineteenth century are given to that
useful medium of disclosing their sentiments, the veil
of privacy must remain over the mind of the Rector's
wife. She got her gardening gloves and scissors, and
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 65
went out immediately after, and had an animated dis-
cussion with the gardener about the best means of
chjthing that bit of wall, over which every railway
train was visible wliich left or entered Carlinj^ford.
That functionary was of opinion that when the lime-
trees "growed a bit" all would be right: but Mrs.
Morgan was reluctant to await the slow processes of
nature. She forgot her vexations about Mr. Went-
worth in consideration of the still more palpable in-
convenience of the passing train.
CHAPTER VI.
Miss Doka Wkntworth relapsed into suppressed
sobbing when the three ladies were once more on their
way. Between each little access a few broken words
fell from the poor lady's lips. "I am sure dear Frank
did not mean it," she .said; it was all the plea his
champion could find for him.
"He did not mean what? to do his duty and save
souls?" said Miss Leonora — "is that what he didn't
mean? It looks very much as if he did, though — as
well as he knew how."
"Quite so, Leonora," said Miss Wentworth.
"But he could not mean to vex the Kector," said
Miss Dora — "my poor dear Frank: of course he meant
it for the very best. I wonder you don't think so,
Leonora — you who are so fond of missions. I told you
what I heard him saying to the young lady — all about
the sick peo})le he was going to visit, and the children.
He is a faithful shepherd, though you won't think so;
and I am sure he means nothing but "
The Perpeiual Curate. I. ■^
00 TUK rKKl'ETUAL CL'KATE.
"His iliit\ , I iliiiik," said the iron-grey sister,
resolutely iiKlitlcroiit to Miss Dora's little siiifts, and
turning her ^.ize out f»f tjio window, unluckily just at
the luonient when the carriage was jjassinj^ Mastery's
shop, where some cii^^ravini^s were hanj^in^ ot" a
suspiciously devotional character. 'J'he name over the
door, and the asj)ect of the shop-window, were terribly
sujj<i;estive, and the line profile <»f" the Perpetual Curate
was just visiltle within to the keen eyes ot" his aunt.
Miss J)ora, for her part, dried hers, and, heginning to
see some dayliji^ht, addres.sed herself anxiously to the
task of obscuring it, and damaging once more her
favourite's chance.
"Ah, Leonora, if he had but a sjdiere of his own,"
cried Miss Dora, "where he would have other things
to think of than the rubric, and decorations, and sister-
hoods! I don't wish any harm to poor dear old Mr.
Shirley, I am sure; but when Frank is in the Rec-
tory "
"I thought you understood that Frank would not
do for the Rectory," said Miss Leonora. "Sisterhoods!
— look here, there's a young lady in a grey cloak, and
1 think she's going into that shop: if Frank carries on
that sort of thing, I shall think him a greater fool
than ever. Who is that girl?"
"I'm sure I don't know, dear," said Miss Dora,
with unexampled wisdom. And she comforted her
conscience that she did not know, for she had for-
gotten Lucy's name. So there was no tangible evidence
to confirm Miss Leonora's doubts, and the carriage
from the Blue Boar rattled down Prickett's Lane to
the much amazement of that locality. When they got
to the grimy caual-bauks, Miss Leonora stopped the
THE PKUPETUAh ClfltATE. 67
vehicle and got out. She declined the attendance of
her trembling sister, and inarched along the black
pavement, dispersing with the great waves of her
drapery the wondering children about, who swarmed
as children will swarm in such localities. Arrived at
the schoolroom, Miss Leonora found sundry written
notices hung up in a little wooden frame inside the
open door. All sorts of charitable businesses were
carried on about the basement of the house; and a
curt little notice about the Provident Society diversi-
fied the list of services which was hung up for the
advantage of the ignorant. Clearly the Curate of St.
Roque's meant it. "As well as he knows how," his
aunt allowed to herself, with a softening sentiment;
but, pushing her inquiries further, was shown up to
the schoolroom, and stood pondering by the side of the
reading-desk, looking at the table which was contrived
to be so like an altar. The Curate, who could not
have dreamed of such a visit, and whose mind had
been much occupied and indifferent to externals on the
day before, had left various things lying about, which
were carefully collected for him upon a bench. Among
them was a little pocket copy of Thomas «i Keni))is,
from which, when the jealous aunt opened it, certain
little German prints, such as were to be had by tlie
score at Masters's, dropped out, some of them unob-
jectionable enough. But if the Good Shepherd could
not be found fault with, the feelings of Miss Leonora
may be imagined when the meek face of a monkish
saint, inscribed with some villanous Latin inscription,
a legend which began with the terrible words Ora pro
nobis ^ became suddenly visible to her troubled eyes.
She put away the book as if it had stung her, and
C8 THK I'KKHETLJAL CURATE.
made a precipitate retreat. She sliook her head as she
descended the stair — she re-entered the carriaf^e in
gloomy silence. When it returned up Prickett's Lane,
tiie three ladies again saw their nephew, this time en-
tering at the door of No. 10. He had his jirayer-book
under his arm, and Miss Leonora seized upon this
professional syndxd to wreak her wrath upon it. "I
wonder if he can't pray by a sick woman without his
prayer-book?" she cried. "I never was so provoked
in my life. Uow is it he doesn't know better? His
father is not jjious, but he isn't a Puseyite, and old
uncle Weutworth was very sound — he was brought up
under the jiure Gospel. How is it that the boys are
so foolish, Dora?" said Miss Leonora, sharply, "it
must be your doing. You have told them tales and
things, and put true piety out of tlieir head."
"My doing!" said Miss Dora, faintly, but she was
too nnich startled by the suddenness of the attack to
make any coherent remonstrance. Miss Leonora tossed
back her angry head, and pursued that inspiration,
finding it a relief in her perplexity.
"It must be all your doing," she said. "How can
I tell that you are not a Jesuit in disguise? one has
read of such a thing. The boys were as good, nice,
pious boys as one could wish to see; and there's
(lerald on the point of perversion, and Frank . I
tell you, Dora, it must be your fault."
"That was always my opinion," said Miss Cecilia;
and the accused, after a feeble attempt at speech, could
find nothing better to do than to drop her veil once
more and cry under it. It was very hard, but she was
not quite unaccustomed to it. However, the dis-
coveries of the day were important enough to prevent
THK I'KRPKTIJAL OUUATE. 69
the immediate departure which Miss Leonora had in-
tended. She wrote a note with her own hands to her
nephew, asking him to dinner. "We meant to have
g^one away to-day, but should like to see you first,"
she said in her note. "Come and dine — we mayn't
have anythin^: pleasant to say, but I don't suppose
you expect that. It's a pity we don't see eye to eye."
Such was the intimation received by Mr. Wentworth
when he got homo, very tired, in the afternoon, lie
had been asking himself whether, under the circum-
stances, it would not be proper for him to return some
books of Mr. Wodeliouse's which he had in liis pos-
sessi<m, of course by way of breaking off his too-
familiar, too-frec|uont intercourse. lie had been re-
jiresenting to himself that lie would make tliis call after
their dinner would be over, at the hour when Mr.
Wodchouse reposed in his easy-chab*, and the two
sisters were generally to be found alone in the draw-
ing-room. Pcrliaj)s ho might have an opportunity of
intimating the partial farewell he meant to take of
them. When he got JMiss Leonora's note, the Curate's
countenance clouded over. He said, "Another night
lost," with indignant candour. It was hard enough to
give up his WDrldly prospects, but he thought he had
made up his mind to that. HoAvever, refusal was im-
possible. It was still daylight when he went u]j
Grange Lane to the Blue Boar. He was early, and
went languidly along the well-known road. Nobody
was about at that hour. In those closed, embowered
houses, people were prejjaring for dinner, the great
event of the day, and Mr. Wentworth was aware of
that. Perhaps he had expected to see somebody — Mr.
Wodehouse going home, most likely, in order that he
70 Tim l'KR1>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 t<i learn that
the Rector has anything to do v ith it," said the youufr
Evangelist of "NVharfside.
"It is in his parish, and he thinks he has," said
Miss Leonora. "1 wish you could see your duty more
clearly, Frank. You seem to me, you know, to have
a kind of zeal, but not according to knowledge. If
you were carrying the real Gospel to the poor people,
I shouldn't be disposed to blame you; for the limits of
a parish are but poor things to pause for when souls are
perishing; but to break the law for the sake of diffus-
ing the rubric and propagating Tractarianism "
"Oh, Leonora, how can you be so harsh and cruel?"'
cried Miss Dora; "only think what you are doing. I
don't say anything about disappointing Frank, and
perhaps injuring his prospects for life; for, to be sure,
he is a true Weutworth, and won't acknowledge that:
THE PEUPEIUAL CUUATE. 79
but think of iny poor dear brother, with so many sons
as he has to provide for, and so much on his mind;
and think of ourselves and all that we have planned
so often. Chily think what you have talked of over
and over; how nice it would be wlien he was old enough
to take the Rectory, and many .Julia Trench "
"Aunt Dora," said the Curate, rising;" from tiie table,
"1 shall have to go away if you make such appeals
on my behalf. And besides, it is only ri{?ht to tell
you that, whatever my circumstances were, I never
could nor would marry Julia Trench. It is cruel and
unjust to brinjj in her nanu\ Don't let us hear any
more of this, if you have any regard for me."
"Quite so, Frank," said Miss Wentworth; "that is
exactly what 1 was thinking." Miss Cecilia was not
in the habit of making deuutustratinns, but she put out
her delicate (dd hand tu point her nephew to his seat
again, and gave a soft sliglit j)ressure to his as she
touched it. Old Miss Wentworth was a kind of dumb
lovely idol to her nephews; she rarely said anything
to them, but they worshipped lier all the same for her
beauty and those sweet languid tendernesses which slie
showed them once in ten years or so. 'J'iie I'erjietual
Curate was much touclied by tkis manifestation, lie
kissed his old aunt's beautiful hand as reverently as if
it had been a saint's. "I knew- you would understand
me," he said, looking gratefully at her lovely old face;
which exclamation, however, was a simjile utterance of
gratitude, and would not have borne investigation.
When we had resumed his seat and his orange, Miss
Leonora cleared her throat for a grand address.
"Frank might as well tell us he would not have
Skelmersdale," she said. "Julia Trench has <|uitc
80 rnv. i-KitrKTi^M. cirate.
ntlior jtrospocls, 1 am f^lsid to say, though Dora talks
like a fool on this suhject as well as on many others.
Mr. Shirley is not dead yet, and I don't think he means
(o die, for my jtart; and .lulia would never leave her
uncle. Ik'sides, I don't tidnk any iiulucement in the
world would make her disj^uise herself like a Bister of
Mercy. 1 hojie she knows hetter. And it is a pity
that Frank should learn t(» think (»f Skelmersdale as if
it were a I'amily livin;r," continued Miss Leonora.
"For my part, I think peojde detached from immediate
ties as we are, are under all the jrreater resjtonsibility.
But as you are likely to stay in (Jarlinj^ford, Frank,
perhaps we could help you with the Rector," she con-
cluded blandly, as she ate her biscuit. The Curate,
who Avas also a Wentwortii, had (piite recovered him-
self ere this speech was over, and jiro\ed himself equal
to the occasion.
"If the Kector objects to wliat I am doing, I dare-
say he will tell me of it," .'^aid Mr. Wentworth, with in-
describable suavity. "I had the consent of the two
former rectors to my mission in their jiarish, and I
don't mean to give up such a work without a cause.
But I am et(ually obliged to you, my dear aunt, and
I hope Mr. Shirley Avill live for ever. How long are
you going to stay in Carlingfordy Some of the people
would like to call on you, if you remain longer. There
are some great friends of mine here; and as I have
every prospect of being perpetually the Curate, as you
kindly observe, perhaps it might be good for me if
I was seen to have such unexceptionable relation-
ships "
"Satire is lost upon me," said Miss Leonora, "and
we are going to-morrow. Here comes the coffee. I
THU I'JJRPliXUAL CURATL'. 81
did not think it had been so late. We shall leave by
an early train, and yon can come and see us off, if you
have time."
"1 shall certainly find time," said the nephew, with
equal politeness; "and now you will permit me to say
good-night, for I have a — one of my sick people to
visit. I heard he was ill only as I came here, and
had not time to call," added the Curate, with unneces-
sary explanitoriness, and took leave of his aunt Cecilia,
who softly })ut something into his liand as she bade
him good-night. jMiss Dora, for her part, went with
him to the door, and lingered leaning on his arm,
down the long passage, .all unaware, poor lady, that
his heart was beating with impatience to get away,
and that tlie disappointment for which she wanted to
console him had at the present moment not the slightest
real hold upon his [)erverse heart. "(>h, 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<l more.
"Is Mr. Wnil(.'l)(iii.st' ill? AVhat has hapjfcuedy"
said tlie astonished youn}^ man. The windows (*f the
liuUKO were f^leaminj; hospitahly (»ver the dark j;arden,
withont any ajijiearance of ;;l<joui the drawin;.?-rooni
windows especially, which ho knew so well, bri;;htly
Ii*^htod, one of them open, and the bound of the jiiano
and Lucy's voice stealinf; out like a ceUstial reality
into the darknos.s. liy the time he had become fully
sensible of all these particulars his a;ritatcd cumjianion
had found her breath.
"Mr. \Ventw(»rth, don't think me mad," said Miss
Wodehousc; "I have conic out to sj)oak to you, for I
am in ijreat distress. I (h»u't know what (o d(j uuIckh
you will help me. (Jh no, dou't look at the house —
nobody knows in the house; I would die rather than
have them know. Hush, hush! don't make any noise.
Is that some one lookinj; out at the door?"
And just then the door wa,s opened, and Mr. Wode-
house's sole male servant looked out, and round the
garden, as if he had heard something to excite hia
curiosity or surprise. Miss Wodehouse grasped the
arm of the Perpetual Curate, and held him with an
energy wliicli was almost violence. "Hush, hush, hush,"
she said, with her voice almost at his ear. The excite-
ment of this mild woman, the perfectly inexplicable
mystery of the meeting, overwhelmed young Went-
worth. He could think of nothing less than that she
had lost her senses, and in his turn he took her hands
and held her fast.
"What is the matter';:' I cannot tell you how anxioiuj,
TTTR rRT^rETrAL PFR ATE. 85
liow cHstressed I am. What lias liappened?" said llie
youn.^ man, under his breath.
"My father has some suspicion," slie answered,
after a pause — "lie came home early to-day lookinj^
ill. You heard of it, Mr. Wentworth — it was your
note that decided me. (Jh, heaven help us! it is so
hard to know what to do. I have never been used to
act for mysi'lf, and 1 feel as helpless as a baby. The
only comfort 1 have was that it happened on Easter
Sunday," said the j)oor gentlewoman, incoherently;
"and oh! if it should prove a rising from the dead! If
you saw me, Mr. Wentworth, you would see I look
ten years older; and f can't tell how it is, but 1 think
my father has susjiicinns-, — he looked so ill — oh, so ill
— when he came home to-night. Hush! hark! did you
hear anything? I daren't tell Lucy, not that I couldn't
trust her, but it is cruel when a young creature is
happy, to let her know such miseries. (Jh, Mr. Went-
worth, I daresay I am not telling you what it is, after
all. I don't know what 1 am saying— wait till I can
think. It was on Ea.ster Sunday, after we came home
from Wharfside; you remember we all came home to-
gether, and both Lucy and you were so quiet. I could
not understand how it was you were so quiet, but 1
was not thinking of any trouble — and then all at once
there he was."
"Who?" said the Curate, forgetting caution in his
bewilderment.
Once more the door opened, and John appeared
on the steps, this time with a lantern and the watch-
dog, a great brown mastiff, by his side, evidently with
the intention of sofirchintr the irarden for the owners
86 TIIK I'KKJ'BTUAIi CIJKATB.
<if those furtive voicew. Mr. Wontworlli drew the arm
(»f his treiiibliiipj c<)iiij)ani()U within his own. "I don't
know what you want of me, hut whatever it is, trust
to me like — like a hrotlior," he said, with a siph.
"But now conjpose yourself; we must };o into the
house: it will not do for you to lie found here." He
led her up the j^'ravel-walk into the light of (he lantern,
which the vigilant guardian of the house was flashing
among the hushes as he set out upon his rounds. Jolin
fell hack aiiia/cd hut respectful when he saw his mis-
tress and the familiar visitor. "Beg your pardon,
ma'am, hut I knew there was voices, and I didn't
know as any of the family was in the garden," said
the man, discomfited. It was all Mr. Wentworth could
do to hold up the trembling figure hy his side. As
John retreated, she gathered a little fortitude. Perhaps
it was easier for her to tell her hurried tremulous
story, as he guided her hack to tlie house, than it
would have been in uninterrupted leisure and quiet.
The family tragedy fell in broken sentences from her
lips, as the Curate bent down his a.stonished ear to
listen. He was totally un})re]tared for the secret which
only her helplessness and weakness and anxiety to
serve her father could have drawn from Miss Wode-
house's lips; and it had to be told so hurriedly that
Mr. "Wentworth scarcely knew what it w^as, cxcejit a
terrible unsuspected shadow overhanging the powerful
house, until he had time to thiuk it all over. There
was no such time at this moment. His trembling com-
panion left him as soon as they reached the house, to
"compose herself," as she said. "Wlien he saw her
face in the light of the hall lamp it was ghastly, and
quivering with agitation, looking not ten years, as she
THB I'ERPETUAL CUUATE. 87
said, but a hundred years older thau when, iu the
sweet precision of her Sunday dress and looks, old
Miss Wodchouse had hidden him good-bye at tlie green
door. He went up to the drawing-room, notwithstand-
ing, with as calm a countenance as he himself could
collect, to pay the visit which, in this few minutes,
had so entirely changed its character. IMr. Wentworth
felt as if he were in a dream when he walked into the
familiar room, and saw every tiling exactly as he had
])icturcd it to liimself half an liour ago. Lucy, wlio
had left the piano, was seated iu her low chair agaiu,
not working, but talking to Mr. Wodehouse, who lay
on the sofa, looking a trifle less rosy than usual, like
a man who had had a fright, or been startled by some
possible sliadow of a gliost. To walk into the room,
into the bright household glow, and smile and shake
hands with them, feeling all the time tliat he knew
more about them thau they themselves did, was the
strangest sensation to the young man. lie asked how
Mr. Wodelumse did, witii a voice which, to himself,
sounded hollow and unnatural, aiul sat down beside
the iuvalid, almost turning his back upon Lucy in his
bewilderment. It was indeed with a great effort that
Mr. Wentworth mastered himself and was able to listen
to what his companion said.
"We are all right," said Mr. Wodehouse — "a trifle
of a headache or so — nothing to make a talk about;
but Molly has forsaken us, and we were just about
getting bored with each other, Lucy and I; a third
person was all we wanted to make us happy — eh?
Well, I thought you looked at the door very often —
perha])S I was mistaken — but I could have sworn you
were listening and looking for somebody. No wonder
00 THE PRRPETUAL CURATE.
either — I don't tliink so. I slioiild have done just tlie
same at your age."
"Indeed, papa, yon are quite mistaken," said Lucy.
"I suppose that means that I cannot amuse you by
myself, thoiigh I have been trying all the evening.
Perhaps Mr. Wentworth will be more fortunate." And,
either for shame of being supposed to look for him, or
in a little innocent pique, she moved away from where
she was sitting, and rang for tea, and left the two
gentlemen to talk to each other. That is to say, Mr.
Wodehouse talked, and the Perpetual Curate sat look-
ing vaguely at the fair figure which flitted about the
room, and wondering if he were awake, or the world
still in its usual place. After a while Miss Wodehouse
came in, very tremulous and pale, and drojiped into
the first chair she could find, and pretended to occuj^y
herself over her knitting. She had a headache, Lucy
said; and Mr. Wentworth sat watching while the
younger sister tended the elder, bringing her tea,
kissing her, persuading her to go and lie down, taking
all kinds of affectionate trouble to cheer tlie pale
woman, who looked over Lucy's fair head with eyes
full of meaning to the bewildered visitor, who was the
only one there who understood what her trouble meant.
When he got up to go away, she wrung his hand with
a pitiful gaze which went to his heart. "Let me
know!" she said in a whisper; and, not satisfied still,
went to the door with, him, and lingei'cd upon the stair,
following slowly. "Oh, Mr. WentAvorth! be sure you
let me know," she repeated, again looking wistfully
after him as he disappeared into the dark garden,
going out. The stars were still shining, the spring
dews lying sweet upon the plants and turf. It was a
THE PnrtPETUAL CURATE. 89
lovelier niglit now tban wlieu Mr. Wentworth liad said
so to little Rosa Elsworthy an hour ago; but mists
were rising from tlie earth, and clouds creeping over
the sky, to the startled imagination of the Perpetual
Curate. He had found out by practical experiment,
almost for the first time, that tliere were more things
in earth and heaven than are dreamt of in the
philosophy of youth.
CHAPTER VIII.
It was the next morning after this when Mrs.
Hadwin's strange lodger first appeared in the astonished
house. He was the strangest lodger to be taken into
a house of such perfect respectability, a house in
Grange Lane; and it came to be currently reported in
Carlingford after a time, when people knew more
about it, that even the servants could not tell when or
how he arrived, but had woke up one morning to find
a pair of boots standing outside the closed door of the
green room, which the good old lady kept for com-
pany, with sensations which it would be impossible to
describe. Such a pair of boots they were too — muddy
beyond expression, with old mud which liarl not been
brushed off for days — ^worn shapeless, and patched at
the sides; the strangest contrast to a handsome jiair of
Mr. Wentworth's, wliich he, contrary to his usual neat
habits, had kicked off in his sitting-room, and which
Sarah, the housemaid, had brought and set down on
the landing, close by these mysterious and unaccount-
able articles. When -the bell of the green room rang
an hour or tWo later, Sarah and the cook, who hap-
90 IIIK IKKl'KTIAl. CntATE.
|)eiie(l to be sliiiidin;; t<i;,'etlif'r, jmnjiod three yards
apart and stared at each other; tlie sound j^ave them
both "a turn." Hiil they soon jrot perfectly well used
to that bell ficiui tiie green room. It ranj; very often
in the day, lor "the f^entlenian" chose to sit tliere
more than half his time; and if other people were
private about him, it was a fjreat deal more than he
was about himself. He even .sent the boots to be
mended, (o Sarah's shame and confusion. For the
credit of the house, the girl invented a story about
them to calm the cobbler's suspicions. "They was the
easiest boots the gentleman had, being troubled with
tender feet; and he wasn't a-going to give them uji
because they was shabby," said Sarah. He sent down
his shabby clothes to be brushed, and wore Mr. Went-
worth's linen, to the indignation of the household. But
he was not a man to be concealed in a comer. From
where he sat in the green ro<jm, he whistled so beauti-
fully that Mrs. Hadwin's own pet canary paused
astonished to listen, and the butcher's boy stole into
the kitchen surreptitiously to try if he could learn the
art : and while he whistled, he tilled the tidy room with
parings and cuttings of wood, and carved out all kinds
of pretty articles witli his knife. But though he rang
his bell so often, and was so tiresome with his litter,
and gave so much trouble, Sarah's heart, after a while,
melted to "the gentleman." He made her a present
of a needlecase, and was very ci^^l-spoken — more so
a great deal than the Curate of St. Roque's; and such
a subject of talk and curiosity had certainly not been
in Carlingford for a hundred years.
As for Mrs. Hadwin, slie never gave any explana-
tion at all on the subject, but accepted the fact of a
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 91
new inmate cliecrfully, as if she knew all about it. Of
course she could not ask any of her nieces to visit her
while tiie p;reen room was occupied-, and as they were
all rather larf!:e, interferinjj^, managing women, })erhaps
the old lady was not very sorry. Mr. Wcntworth him-
self was still less explanatory. When Mr. Wodehouse
said to liim, "What is this I hear about a brother of
yours? — they tell me you've got a brfither staying
with you. Well, that's what I hear. Why don't you
bring him up to dinner? Come to-morrow;" the Per-
jietual Curate calmly answered, "Thank you; bxit
tliere is no brother of mine in Carlingford ," and took
no further notice. Naturally, however, this strange
a})parition was much discussed in Grange Lane; the
servants first, and then the ladies, became curious
about him. Sometimes, in the evenings, he might be
seen coming out of Mrs. Hadwin's garden door — a
shabby figure, walking softly in liis patched boots.
There never was light enough for any one to see him;
but he had a great beard, and smoked a short little
jtipe, and had evidently no regard for apjiearances. It
was a kind of thing which few people approved of.
Mrs. lladwin ought not to permit it, some ladies said;
and a still greater number were of opinion that, ratlier
than endure so strange a fellow-lodger, the Curate
ought to withdraw, and find fresh lodgings. '^IMiis was
before the time when the public began to associate the
stranger in a disagreeable way with Mr. Wentworth.
Before they came to that, the people in Grange Lane
bethought themselves of all Mrs. Hadwin's connections,
to find out if there might not be some of them under
hiding; and, of course, that excellent woman had a
nephew or two whose conduct was not perfect; and
92 rrii: vf.rpeti'ai, rrRAXK.
llioii it Ciinio Id Ito rojtorlofi that it was Mr. Wcntworth'n
brother — that it was an unfortunate college chum of
his — that it was somebody who had npeculated, and
whom the (Pirate had }r<>ne shares with: but, in the
mean time, no real iniormation {'(UiM be obtained about
this mysteri(»us stranj^er. The butcher's boy, wlmse
senses were (|uickened by min;;led admiration and
envy, heard him Avhistlinp: all day long, Bometimes
liiddcn amon;x the trees in the fcarden, sometimes from
llic o|ion wimlow of the green room, where, indeed.
Lady "Western's jjage was ready to take his oath he
had once seen the audacious unknr»wn leaning <»ut in
the twiliirhl, sujoking a pipe. Hut no trap of conver-
sation, however ingenious — and many traps were laid
for Mr. Wentworth — ever elicited from the Perpetual
Curate any acknowledgment of the other lodger's
existence. 'Die young Anglican oj)ened his fine eyes
a little wider than usual when he was asked sympa-
thetically whether so many people in the house did
not interfere with his quiet. "Mrs. Iladwin's talk is
very gentle," said the Curate-, "she never disturbs me."
And the mistress of the house was equally obtuse, and
would not comprehend any allusion. The little house-
hold came to be very much talked of in Carlingford
in consequence; and to meet that shabby figure in the
evening, when one chanced to be out for a walk, made
one's company sought after in the best circles of
society: though the fact is, that people began to be
remiss in calling iipon Mrs. Hadwin, and a great many
only left their cards as soon as it became evndent that
she did not mean to give any explanation. To have
the Curate to stay with her was possible, without in-
fringing upon her position; but matters became very
THli I'EUi'KlUAL CUUATii. 93
(liffereut wlien she slioweil herself willing to take "any
one," even when in e(jui vocal aj)j)arel and patched
boots.
Probably tlie (Uiratc had his own troubles durinj]^
this period of his liistory. lie was noticed to be a
little quick and sliort in his temper for some time after
Easter. For one thing, his aunts did not go away;
they stayed iu the Blue Boar, and sent for him to
dinner, till the Curate's impatience grew almost beytmd
bearing. It was a discipline upon which he had not
calculated, and which exceeded the bounds of endur-
ance, especially as Miss Leonora (juestioned him in-
cessantly about his "work," and still dangled before
him, like an unattainable sweetmeat before a child,
the comforts and advantages of Skelmersdale, where
poor old Mr. Shirley had rallied for the fiftieth time.
The situation altogether was very tempting to Miss
Leonora-, she could not make up her mind to go away
and leave such a very pretty quarrel in progress; and
there can be no doubt that it woiUd have been highly
gratifying to her vanity as an Evangelical woman to
have had her nephew brought to task for missionary
work carried on in another man's parish, even thougli
that work was not couducted entirely on her own prin-
ciples. She lingered, accordingly, with a great hanker-
ing after Wharfside, to which Mr. Wentworth steadily
declined to affcjrd her any access. She went to the
afternoon service sometimes, it is true, but only to be
afflicted in her soul by the sight of Miss Wodehouse
and Lucy in their grey cloaks, not to speak of the
rubric to which the Curate was so faithful. It was a
trying experience to his Evangelical aunt; but at the
same time it was "a great work;" and she could not
94 niK VKKPKTrAL ( THATK.
;^ive iij( tlio liojio dl' liciiif; 5il)le one time or f»ther to
.•i|)j)roj)riiite (lie crodit of it, ami win liiiii over to her
own "views." W that consiinuiiation c(»uld hut he
attained, every tliinj; wouhl hecome simple; and Miss
Leon«)ra was a true Wentwortli, and wanted to see her
nepliew in Skehnorsdale: so it may easily he under-
stood that, under jtresent fircunislances, there were
f^reat attractions for her in (Jarlin^^^ford.
It was, accordingly, with a l)eatin;^ heart that Miss
Dora, feeliuf; a little as she nii{;ht have heen supjiosed
to feel thirty years hefore, had she ever stolen forth
from the well-j)rotected enclosure of Skelmersdale Park
to see a lover, put on her lionnet in the early twilight,
and, escapinj^ with difliculfy the li\ely olisorvations of
her maid, went trcnuilously doMu Grange Lane to her
nephew's house. She had never yet visited Frank,
and this visit was unquestionahly clandestine. But
then the news with wliich her heart was heating were
important enougli to justify the stej) she was taking —
at least so slie whisjiered to herself; though whether
dear Frank would he jdeased, or whether he would
still think it "my fault," poor Miss Dora could not
make up her mind. Nothing happened in the quiet
road, where there were scarcely any passengers, and
tlie poor lady arrived with a trembling sen.se of escape
from unknown perils at Mrs. Hadwin's garden door.
For Miss Dora was of opinion, like some few other
ladies, that to walk alone down the quietest of streets
was to lay herself open to unheard-of dangers. She
put out her trembling hand to ring the bell, thinking
her perils over — for of course Frank would walk home
with her — when the door suddenly opened, and a ter-
rible apparition, quite unconscious of anybody stand-
TIIR I'KRPKTUAL f'URATK. 95
in^ there, marclicfl sdviiirlit out u\t<n\ j\[iss Dora, who
gave a little scream, and staggered haekwards, think-
ing the worst horrors she had dreamed of" were aliout
to be realised. Tliey were so close together that the
terrified lady took in every detail of his appearance.
She .saw the patclied hoots and that shabby coat which
Sarah the housemaid felt tiiat she rather demeaned her-
.self by brushing. It looked too small for him, as coats
will do wiien they get .shabby; and, to comj)letc the
alarming appearance of tiic man, he had no hat, but
only a little travelling-cap surmounting the redundancy
of hair, mustache, and beard, which were enough ol"
tiieniselves to strike any nervous woman with terror.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," cried poor Miss Dora,
hysterically; "I wanted to see Mr. AVentworth:" and
she stood, trembling and jianting for breath, holding
by the wall, not (juitc sure that this apparition could
be aj)peased by any amount of aj)ologies. It was a
great comfort to her when (he mf»nster took oft' its caj),
and when she })erceived, I)y the undulations of the
beard, soinetliiug like a smile upon its hidden lijis. "1
believe Mr. Wentworth is at church," said the new
lodger: "may I have the pleasure of seeing you safely
across to St. Roque's?" At which sjjeech Miss Dora
trembled more and more, and said, faintly, "No, thank
you" — for who could tell what the man's intentions
might Ije? The result was, however, that he only put
on his cap again, and went off' like any other human
creature in the other direction, and that slowly; with
tremulous steps Miss Dora pursued her way to her
nephew's pretty churcli. She could not have described,
as she herself said, what a relief it was to her, after
all this, to take Frank's arm, as she met him at the
96 I III: l'i:urETi:AL tUUATK.
door oi Si. K'i(i|iic's. He was coniiiiff out, and llic
younj; lady w itii (he ;,'roy cloak had been one of the
coii;^ro^'a(i()ii; and, to tell the truth, Miss Dora was an
uuwek-oiin! addition just (hen to the party. Lucy's
eouiin;,' had been accidental, and it was very sweet to
Mr. Wcntwortli to be able to conclude that he wa«
obliged to walk home with her. 'JMicy were both C(»m-
iufi; out from their evenin;; devotions into the traiKjuIl
spring twilight, very j^lad of the charmed (juiet, and
liapjiy somehow to liud themselves alone together.
That had happened but seldom of late; and a certain
expectation of s(»methin{; that mif,'-ht happen hovered
over the heads of Lucy and the Curate. It did not
matter that he daretl not say to her M'hat was in his
heart. Mr. AVent worth was only a young man after
all, and the thrill of a possible revelation was upon
him in that half-hour uj)on which he was entering with
so profound a sense nf hajipiness. And then it was
an accidental meeting, ami if anything did happen,
they could not blame themselves as if they had sought
this 02)poi:tunity of being together. 1'he circumstances
were such that they might call it providential, if any-
thing came of it. But just as the two had made their
first step out of the church, where the organ was still
murmuring low in the darkness, and where the music
of the last Amen, in which he had recognised Lucy's
voice, had not quite died from the Curate's ears, to
meet Miss Dora, pale and fluttered, full of news and
distress, wuth no other thought in her mind but to ap-
propriate her dear Frank, and take his arm and gain
his ear! It was very hard upon the Perpetual Curate.
As for Lucy, she, of course, did not say anything, but
merely arranged her veil and greeted Miss Weutworth
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 97
sweetly. Lucy walked im tho other side of the Curate,
sayin^^ little as ]\Iiss Dora's oa^^or sliower of questions
and remarks ran on. Perhaps she had a little insight
info Mr. Wentworth's feelings, and no doubt it was
rather tantalising. When they came to Mrs. Hadwin's
door, the young Anglican made a spasmodic effort,
which in his heart he felt to be unprincipled, and
wliich, had it been successful, would have totally taken
away the accidental and unpremeditated character of
this walk with Lucy, which lie could not find it in his
heart to relinquish. He proposed that his aunt should
go in and rest while he saw Miss Wodehouse safely
home — he was sure she was tired, he said eagerly.
"No, my dear, not at all," said Miss Dora; "it is such
a pleasant evening, and I know Miss Wodehouse's is
not very far off. I should like the walk, and, besides,
it is too late, you know, to see Mrs. Hadwin, and I
sliould not like to go in without calling on her; and
besides "
Mr. Wentworth in his aggravation gave a mo-
niontary sudden glance at Lucy when she had no ex-
jiectation of it. That glance of disappointment — of
disgust — of love and longing, was no more intentional
than their meeting; could lie help it, if it revealed that
heart wliich was in such a state of commotion and im-
patience? Anyhow, the look gave Lucy sufficient oc-
cupation to keep her very (piiet on the other side while
Miss Dora maundered on.
"I met the strangest man coming out when I was
going to ring your bell. You will think it very foolish,
Frank, but lie frightened me," she said. "A man with
a terrible beard, and a — a shabby man, my dear. Who
could it be? Not a person to be seen coming out of a
The Perpetual Curate. I. "*
98 TUB PEUrETUAL CURATE.
house where a clergyman lives. Ue could not be any
friend of yours?"
"The odior lodj^er, I suppose," said the Curate,
hrielly. "When nre you goinj; away?"
"(,)h, my dear boy, we are not going away, 1 came
to tell you. But, Frank, you don't mean to say thai
such a man as that hedges in Mrs. Hadwin's house? 1
don't think it is safe for you — I dont think it is re-
spectable. I'eople might tliink he was a friend of
yours. I wonder if Miss Wodehouse baa ever seen
him — a great man with a beard? To be sure, a man
might have a beard and yet be respectable; but I am
sure, if Miss AVndehouse saw him, she would agrcf
with me in thinking Frank, my dear boy, what
is the matter? Have I said anything wrong?"
"Nothing that I know of," said the Curate, who
had given her arm a little angry pressure to stop the
stream of utterance— "only that I am not interested in
the other lodger. Tell me about your going away."
"But I must appeal to Miss AVodehou.se: it is for
your own sake, my dear Frank," said aunt Dora — "a
clergyman should be so careful. "I don't know what
your aunt Leonora would say. Don't you tliink to see
a man like that coming out of Mr. Wentworth"s house
is not as it should be? I assure ^-ou he frightened
me."
"I don't think I have seen him," said Lucy. "But
shouldn't a clergyman's house be like the church,
open to good and bad? — for it is to the wicked and
the miserable you are sent," said the Sister of Mercy,
lowering her voice and glancing up at the Perpetual
Cm-ate. They could have clasped each other's hands
at the moment, almost without being aware that it was
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 99
any personal feeling which made their agreement of
sentiment so sweet. As for Miss Dora, she went on
leaning on her nephew's arm, totally unconscious of
the suppressed raptxire and elevation in wliicli the two
were moving at the other side.
"That is very true. I am sure your aunt Leonora
would approve of that, dear," said Miss Dora, with a
little answering pressure on her nephew's arm — "but
still I have a feeling that a clergyman should always
take care to be respectable. Not that he should neglect
the wicked," continued the poor aunt, apologetically,
"for a poor sinner turning fri»m the evil of his ways is
the — the most interesting — sight in the world, even to
the angels, you know; but to lice with them in the
same house, my dear — I am sure that is what I never
could advise, nor Leonora either; and Mrs. Hadwin
ought to know better, and have him away. Don't you
know who he is, Frank? I could not be content with-
out finding out, if it was me."
"I have nothing to do with him," said the Curate,
hurriedly: "it is a subject I don't want to discuss.
Never mind him. What do you mean by saying you
are not going away?"
"My dear, Leonora has been thinking it all over,"
said Miss Dora, "and we are so anxious about you.
Leonora is very fond of you, though she does not show
it; and you know the Meritons have just come home
from India, and have not a house to go to. So you
see we thought, as you are not quite so comfortable as
we could wish to see you, Frank — and perhaps we
might be of some use — and Mr. Shirley is better again,
and no immediate settlement has to be made about
Skelmersdale ; — that on the whole, if Leonora and you
100 IHK I'KKI'ETLAL CIJKATE.
were to see nxire oi" each other — oh, iny dear hoy,
dr)n't he 80 hasty; it was all her own doiiif^— it was
not my fault.'
"Fault! I am sorry to he the occasicm of ho many
arrangements," said Mr. Wentworth, with his stiff
manner; "hut, of course, if you like to stay in Carl-
in<;ford I shall he very happy — thoufrh there is not
much preaching; here that will suit my aunt Leonora:
as for Mr. .Shirley, 1 hope he'll live for ever. 1 was at
No. 10 to-day," continued the Curate, turning his head
to the other side, and changing his tone in a manner
marvellous to Miss Dora. "I don't think she can live
much longer. Yi>u have done a great deal to smooth
her way in this last stage. Poor S(ju1I she thinks she
has heon a great sinner,'' said the young man, with a
kind of wondering pity. lie had a great deal to vex
him in his own person, and he knew of some skeletons
very near at hand, hut somehow at that moment it was
hard to think of the extremities of mortal trouhle, of
death and anguish — those dark deeps of life hy which
Lucy and he sometimes stood together in their youth
and happiness. A marvelling remorseful pity came to
his heart. He could not helieve in misery, with Lucy
walking softly in the spring twilight hy his side.
"But, Frank, you are not taking any notice of
what I say,"' said Miss Dora, with something like a
suppressed sob. "1 don't doubt your sick people are
very important, but I thought you would take some
interest. I came down to tell you, all the way by my-
self."
"My sister would like to call on you, Miss "Went-
worth," said Lucy, interposing. "Gentlemen never
understand what one says. Perhaps we could be of
THE PEKf'BTUAL CURATE. lOl
some use to you if you are going to settle in Carling-
ford. I think she has liecn a great deal better since
she confessed," continued the charitable Sister, looking
up to the Curate, and, like him, dropping her voice.
"The absolution was such a comfort. Now she seems
to feel as if she could die. And she has so little to
live for!" said Lucy, with a sigh of sympathetic feel-
ing, remorseful too. Somehow it seemed cruel to feel
so young, so hopeful, so capable of happiness, with
such desolation close at hand.
"Not even duty," said the Curate; "and to think
that the Church should hesitate to remove the last
barriers out of the way! I would not be a priest if I
were debarred from the power of delivering such a poor
soul."
"Oh, Frank," said Miss Dora, with a long breath
of fright and horror, '''' irhat are you saying? Oh, my
dear, don't say it over again, I don't want to hear it!
I hope when we are dying we .shall all feel what great
great sinners we are," said the poor lady, who, between
vexation and mortification, was ready to cry, "and not
think that one is l^etter than another. Oh, my dear,
there is that man again! Do you think it is safe to
meet him in such a lonely road? If he comes across
and speaks to me any more I .shall faint," cried poor
Miss Dora, whose opinions were not quite in accordance
with her feelings. Mr. Wentworth did not say any-
thing to soothe her, but with his unoccupied hand he
made an involuntary movement towards Lucy's cloak,
and plucked at it to bring her nearer, as the bearded
stranger loomed dimly past, looking at the group.
Lucy felt the touch, and wondered and looked up at
102 THE rKRPBTUAL CI'KATE.
bim in the darkness. She could not coinprehend the
Curate's fiicc.
"Are you nlVaid of him?"' she said, with a slight
smile-, "if it is (jiily his lieurd I am not alarmed; and
here is paj)a cominj^ to meet me. 1 thought you would
have come for mo sooner, papa. Has anything hap-
pened?" said liUcy, taking Mr. Wodehouse's arm, who
had suddenly ajipcared from underneath the lamp, still
unlightcd, at Dr. Marjoril)anks's door. She clung to
her father with unusual eagerness, M'illiug enough to
escajto from the darknes.s and the Curate's side, and all
the tremulous sensations of the hour.
"What could happen?" said Mr. Wodehouse, who
still looked "limp" from his recent illness, "though I
hear tlicre are doul>tful people ahout; so they tell me
— but you ought to know liost, AVentworth. Who is
that fellow in the beard that went by on the other
side? Not little Lake the drawing-master? Fancied I
had seen the build of the man before — eh? — a stranger?
Well, it's a mistake, perhaj)s. Can't be sure of any-
thing nowadays-, — memory failing. Well, that's what
the doctor says. Come in and rest and see Molly; as
for me, I'm not good for much, but you won't get
better company than the girls, or else that's what folks
tell me. Who did you say that fellow was?" said the
churchwarden, leaning across his daughter to see IVIr.
Wentworth's face.
"I don't know anything about him," said the Curate
of St. Roque's.
And curiously enough silence fell upon the little
party, nobody could tell how; — for two minutes, which
looked like twenty, no one spoke. Then Lucy roused
herself apparently with a little eflfort. "We seem to
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 103
talk of nothing but the man with the beard to-night,"
she said. "Mary knows everything that goes on in
Carlingford — she will tell us about him; and if Miss
Wentworth thinks it too late to come in, we Avill say
good-night," she continued, with a little decision of
tone, which was not iucouij)rehensible to the Perpetual
Curate. Perhaps she was a little provoked and troubled
in her own person. To say so much in looks and so
little in words, was a mode of procedure wliich puzzled
Lucy. It fretted her, because it looked unworthy of
Iier hero. She witlidrew within tlie green door, iiolding
her father's arm fast, and talking to him, while ]Mr.
Wentworth strained his ears after the voice, which he
thought he could have singled out from a thousand
voices. Perhaps Lucy talked to drown her thoughts-,
and tiie Curate went away dumb and abstracted, with
his aunt leaning on his arm on the other side of the
wall. He could not be interested, as Miss Dora expected
him to be, in the Miss Wentworths' plans. He con-
ducted her to the Blue Boar languidly, with an evident
indilVerence to the fact that his aunt Leonora was about
to liecome a permanout resident in Carlingford. He
said "Good-night" kindly to little liosa Elsworthy,
looking out with bright eyes into the darkness at the
door of her uncle's shop; but he said little to Miss
Uora, who could not tell what to make of him, and
swallowed her tears as quietly as possible under her
veil. When he had deposited his aunt safely at the
inn, the Perpetual Curate liastened down Grange Lane
at a great pace. The tirst sound he heard on enter-
ing Mrs. Hadwin's garden was the clear notes of
the stranger's whistle among the trees; and with an
impatient exclamation Mr. Wentworth sought his fellow-
lOl IIIK FKHIEIIAI. (TKATE.
lodfjer, who was sinokin^ jik UHual, |)acinjf up and
down a hIukKmI walk, where, even in daylight, h«; was
pretty well fdiicoaled from ohsorvation. 'J'he Curate
looked as if ho iiad a little discontent and repu«rnance
to pet over before he could address the anonymous
individual who whistled so cheerily under the trees.
When ho did speak it was an embarrassed and not
very intelliplde call.
"I say-— are you there? I want to speak to you,''
said Mr. Wentworth.
"Yes," said the stranj^er, turning: sharply round.
"I am here, a dog without a name. What have you
got to say?"
"Only that you must lio more careful," said Mr.
Wentworth apiin. with a little stiffness. "You will be
recogui.sed if you don't mind. I have just been asked
who you were by — somebody who thought he had seen
you before."
"By whom?"
"Well, by Mr. Wodehouse," said the Curate. "I
may as well tell yu; if you mean to keef> up this con-
cealment you must take care."
"By Jove!" said the stranger, and then he whfttled
a few bars of the air which Mr. Wentwortb's arrival
had interrupted. "What is a fellow to do?" he said,
after that interjection. "I sometimes think I had better
risk it all — eh! don't you think so? I can't shut my-
self up for ever here."
"That must be as you think best," said the Perpe-
tual Curate, in whom there appeared no movement of
sympathy; and he said no more, though the doubtful
individual by his side lifted an undecided look to his
face, and once more murmured in perplexed tones a
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 105
troubled exclamation: "A man must have a little amuse-
ment somehow," the stranjior said, with an airgrieved
voice; and then abruptly left his unsociable companion,
and went oft" to his room, where he summoned Sarah
to bring lights, and tried to talk to her a little in utter
dearth of society. Mr. Wentworth stayed behind, pac-
ing up and down the darkening walk. The Curate's
thoughts were far from satisfactory. There was not
much comfort anywhere, let him look where he pleased.
When a man has no spot in all his horizon on which
his eye can rest with comfort, there is something more
discouraging in the prospect than a positive calamity.
He could not take refuge even in the imaginations of
his love, for it was clear enough that already a .senti-
ment of surprise had risen in Lucy's mind, and her
tranquillity was shaken. And perhaps he had done
rashly to plunge into other people's troubles — he upon
whom a curious committee of aunts were now to sit en
pennanence. He Avent in to write his sermon, far from
being so assured of tilings in general as tliat discourse
was when it was written, though it was a little relief
to his mind to fall back upon an authority somewhere,
and to refer, in tenns which were perhaps too absolute
to be altogether free of doubt, to the Church, which
had arranged everything for her children in one de-
partment of their concerns at least. If it were only as
easy to know what ought to be done in one's personal
affairs as to decide what was the due state of mind ex-
pected by the Church on the second Sunday after
Easter! But being under that guidance, at least he
could not go wrong in his sermon, which was one point
of ease amid the many tribulations of the Curate of
St. Roque's.
106 Tin; I'RRPETl'AL CIRATE.
CHAPTER IX.
"If they are going to stay in Carlingford, perhaps
we coukl be of use to them? Yes, Lucy, and I am
sure anydiinj,' we couhl do for Mr. Wentworth "
said Miss Wodehouse. "I wonder wliat liouse they
will get. 1 am going to Elswortiiy's about some paper,
and we can ask liim if he knows where they are going.
That poor little Rosa .should have some one to take
care of her. I often wonder whether it would be kind
to sjic?ak to Mrs. Elswortliy about it, Lucy; she is a
sensible woman. The little thing stands at the door
in the evening, and talks to people who are passing,
and I am afraid there are some people who are unprin-
cipled, and tell her she is pretty, and say things to
her," said Miss Wodehouse, shaking her head; "it is a
great pity. Even Mr. Wentworth is a great deal more
civil to that little thing than he would be if she had
not such a pretty face."
"I said you knew everything that went on in Carl-
ingford," said Lucy, as they went out together from
the green door, not in their grey cloaks this time; "but
I forgot to ask you about one thing that puzzled us last
night — who is the man in tlie beard who lives at JVIrs.
Had win's? Mr. Wentworth will not tell anybody about
him, and I think he knows."
"Who is the man in the beard?" said Miss Wode-
house, with a gasp. She grew very pale, and turned
away her head and shivered ^"isibly. "How very cold
it is!" she said, with her teeth chattering; "did you
think it was so cold? I — I don't know any men with
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 107
beards; and it is so strange of you to say I know
everything' that goes on in Carlingford. Don't stop to
speak to that little girl just now. Did you say she
came from Prickett's Lane? No. 10? It is very right
to go to see the sick, but, indeed, I don't approve of
your attendance upon that poor woman, Lucy. When
I was a girl I dared not have gone away by myself
as you do, and she might not be a proper person.
There is a carriage that I don't know standing before
Elsworthy's shop."
"But you have not told me yet about the man with
the beard," said Lucy, whose curiosity was excited.
She looked at her sister keenly with an investigating
look, and poor Miss Wodehouse was fain to draw her
shawl close round lier, and com])lain again of the cold.
"I told you I did not know," she said, with a com-
plaining tone in her voice. "It is strange you should
think I knew, it looks as if you thought me a gossip,
Lucy. I wonder who these people can be coming out
of the carriage? My dear," said the elder sister, feel-
ing within herself tliat an attack upon the enemy's
country was the best means of meeting any sally — "I
don't think you should go down to Prickett's Lane just
now. I saw Mr. Wentworth pass a little while ago,
and people might say you went to meet each other. I
can't keep people from talking, Lucy, and you are
both so young; and you know I spoke to you before
about your meeting so often. It will be a great deal
better for you to come with me to call on his aunts."
"Only that my poor patient wants me," said Lucy.
"Must I not do my duty to a poor woman who is
dying, because Mr. Wentworth is in Prickett's Lane?
There is no reason why I should be afraid of meeting
1U8 TUB I'EKI'ETIAL CITRATK.
Mr. Woiitwortli," said tlio y<»un» district-visitor, sovrrely;
jind the elder sister saw tlmt Lucy spoke in a different
tone from that in whicli she had answered her before.
She did not extin<*Tiish Miss Wodehonse l)y a reference
to the p^reat M'ork. She treated the matter more as a
personal one to-day, and a shadow — a very g^host of
irritation — was in Lucy's voice. The two crossed tlie
street silently after that to Elsworthy's, where a group
of ladies were visible, who had come out of the strange
carriage. One of them was seated in a chair by the
counter, another was reading a list which Mr. Elsworthy
had just presented to her, and the third, who was not
so tall as her sister, was pressing up to it on tiptoe,
trying to read it too. '^That is Miss Dora Wentworth,"
said Lucy, ."and the other, I suppose, is Miss Leonora,
who is so very Low-Church. I think I can see the
Miss Hemmings coming down George Street. If I were
to go in I should be in a dreadful minority, but you
are Low-Church in your heart too."
"No, dear; only reasonable," said Miss Wodehouse,
apologetically. "I don't go so far as you and ]tfr.
Wentw^orth do, but I like the service to be nicely done,
and the — the authority of the Church respected too.
As I have never met Miss Wentworth, you had better
come in and introduce me. There is Rosa looking out
of the front window, Lucy. I really must speak to
Mrs. Elsworthy about that child. What a lovely old
lady that is sittiug by the counter! Say I am your
sister, and then, if you are resolved upon Prickett's
Lane, you can go away."
"They ai-e the two who wear the grey cloaks,"
said Miss Leonora Wentworth to herself, as the in-
troduction was effected. "I am glad to make your ac-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE 109
Huaintance, Miss Wodeliouse. We are going to Kstay
in Carlingford for a time, and to know a few pious
families will be a great advantage. We don't go much
into society, in the usual sense of the word — but, I am
sure, to make the acquaintance of ladies who help my
nephew so much in his work, is sure to be an ad-
vantage. I should like so much to hear from you how
he gets on, for he does not say a great deal about it
himself."
"He is so good and so nice," said kind Miss Wode-
house, "he never makes a fuss about anything he does.
1 am sure, to see such young creatures so pious and
so devoted, always goes to my heart. When we were
young it used to be so different — we took our own
pleasure, and never thought of our fellow-creatures.
And the young people are so good nowadays," said the
gentle woman, falling instinctively into her favourite
sentiment. Miss Leonora looked at her with critical
eyes.
"We are none of us good," said that iron-grey
woman, whose neutral tints were so different from the
soft dove-colour of her new acquaintance; "it does not
become such sinful creatures to talk of anybody being
good. Good works may only be beautiful sins, if they
are not done in a true spirit," said Miss Leonora, turn-
ing to her list of furnished houses with a little contempt.
But the Miss Ilemmings had come in while she was
speaking, and it was seldom that such edifying talk
was heard Carlingford.
"That is such a beautiful sentiment — oh, if we only
bore it ahvays in mind!" murmured the eldest Miss
Hemmings. "Mr. Elsworthy, I hope you have got the
tracts I ordered. They are so much wanted here. Poor
11<» THE I'ERl'ETLAL CURATE.
dear Mr. liury would not hcdieve his oyes if he could
see Carliii^rford now, j^^iven up to Puseyism and Kitual-
ism — but <^i)t)d men are taken away from the evil to
come. I will pay for them now, please."
"If you wish it, ma'am," said Mr. El.swortliy.
"The town is changed; I don't say nothinfij difforeut-,
but bcin;,^ in the ritual lino as you say, you won't find
no church as it's better done than in JSt. Koque's. Mr.
Wentworth never spares no pain.s, ma'am, on anything
as he takes up. I've heard a deal of cler^rymen in my
day, but /«> reading: is beautiful; I can't say as I ever
heard readinj^ as could e(|ual it;— and them choristers,
though tiiey're hawful to manage, is trained as I never
see boys trained in mi/ life afore. There's one of them
houses, ma'am," continued the optimist, turning to Miss
Wentworth, "as is a beauty. Miss Wodehouse can
tell you what it is; no lady in the land could desire a
handsomer drawing-room; and as for the kitchings, —
I don't pretend to be a judge up-stairs, but being
brought up a blacksmith, I know what's what in a
kitching-range. If you had all Grange Lane to dinner,
there's a range as is equal to it," said Mr. Elsworthy
with enthusiasm — "and my wife will show you the
'ouse."
"I knew 3Ir. Bury," said Miss Leonora; "he was
a precious man. Perhaps you have heard him men-
tion the Miss Wentworths? I am very sorry to hear
that there is no real work going on in the town. It is
very sad that there should be nobody able to enter into
the labours of such a saint."
"Indeed," said Miss Wodehouse, who was excited,
in spite of herself, by this conversation, "I think the
Carlingford people go quite as much to church as in
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. Ill
Mr. Bury's days. I don't think there is loss religion
than there nsed to be: there are not so many prayer
meetings, perhaps; but "
"There is nothing the carnal mind dislikes so much
as prayer meetings," said Miss Hemmings. "There is
a house in Grove Street, if Miss Wentworth is looking
for a house. I don't know much about the kitclien-
range, but I know it belongs to a very pious family,
and they wish so much to let it. My sister and I
would be so glad to take you there. It is not in the
gay world, like Grange Lane."
"But you might want to ask people to dinner; and
then we should be so near Frank," said Miss Dora,
whispering at her sister's elbow. As for the second
Miss Hemmings, she was dull of comprehension, and
did not quite make out who the strangers were.
"It is so sad to a feeling mind to see the mum-
meries that go on at St. Ko(|ue's," said this obtuse
sister; "and I am afraid poor Mr. Wentworth must be
in a bad way. They say there is the strangest man
in his house — some relation of his — and he daren't be
seen in the daylight; and people begin to think there
must be something wrong, and that Mr. Wentworth
himself is involved; but what can you expect when
there is no true Christian principle?" asked Miss
Hemmings, triumphantly. It was a dreadful moment for
the bystanders; for Miss Leonora turned round upon this
new intelligence wdth keen eyes and attention ; and Miss
Dora interposed, weeping; and Miss Wodehouse grew
so pale, that Mr. Elsworthy rushed for cold water, and
thought she was going to faint. "Tell me all about this,"
said Miss Leonora, with peremptory and commanding
tones. "Oh, Leonora, I am sure my dear Frank has
112 THK PER!>EIl AL CURATE.
notliinj^ to ilu with it, if there is anything wrong,"
cried Miss Dora. Even Miss Wentworth herself was
niovecl out of her hahitnal smile. She said, "lie is my
nephew" — an ohservation which she had never been
lioard to make hefore, and which covered the second
Miss Ileniniings with confusion. As for Miss Wode-
house, she retreated very fast to a seat beliind Miss
Cecilia, and said nothing. The two who had arrived
last slunk back upon each other with fiery glances of
mutual reproach. The former three stood together in
this emergency, full of curiosity, and perhaps a little
anxiety. In this jjosition of afl'air.s, Mr. Elsworthy,
being the only impartial i)Crs<jn present, took the
management of matters into his own hands.
"Miss Hemmings and ladies, if you'll allow /«<-,"
said Mr. Elsworthy, "it ain't no more than a mistake.
The new gentleman as is staying at Mrs. Hadwin's
may be an unfortunate gentleman f(jr anything as I
can tell; but he ain't no relation of our clergyman.
There ain't nobody belonging to Mr. Wentworth," said
the clerk of St. Roque's, "but is a credit both to him
and to Carlingford. There's his brother, the Rev. Mr.
Wentworth, as is the finest-spoken man, to be a clergy-
man, as I ever set eyes on; and there's respected ladies
as needn't be named more particular. But the gen-
tleman as is the subject of conversation is no more
like Mr. Wentworth than -^asking pardon for the
liberty — I am. 1 may say as I have opportunities for
knowing more than most," said Mr. Elsworthy, mo-
destly, "me and Rosa; for if there's a thing Mr. Went-
worth is particular about, it's having his papers the
first moment; and ladies as knows me knows as I am
one that never says more nor the truth. Not saying
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 113
a word against the gentleman — as is a most respect-
able gentleman, for anything I know against him — he
ain't no connection of Mr. Wentworth. He's IVIrs.
Hadwin's lodger; and I wouldn't say as he isn't a re-
lation there; but our clerg}Tiian has got no more to do
with him than the babe unborn."
Mr. Elsworthy wiped his forehead after he had made
this speech, and looked round for the approbation
which he was aware he had deserved; and Miss Leo-
nora Wentworth threw a glance of disdainful observa-
tion upon the unhappy lady who had caused this dis-
turbance. "If your wife will come with us, we will
go and look at the house," she said, graciously. "I
daresay if it is in Grange Lane it will suit us very
well. My nephew is a very young man. Miss Wode-
house," said Miss Leonora, who had not passed over
the agitation of that gentle woman without some secret
comments; "he does not take advice in his work,
though it might be of great assistance to him; but I
hope he'll grow older and wiser, as indeed he cannot
help doing if he lives. I hope you and your pretty
sister will come to see us when we're settled;— I don't
see any sense, you know, in your grey cloaks — I'm old,
and you won't mind me saying so; but I know what
Frank Wentworth is," said the indignant aunt making
a severe curtsy accompanied by lightning glances at
the shrinking background of female figures, as she
went out of the shop.
"Oh, Leonora! I always said you were fond of
him, though you never would show it," cried poor Miss
Dora. "She is a great deal more affectionate than she
will let anybody believe; and my dear Frank means
nothing but good," cried the too zealous champion.
The rerpelnd CuraU, I, "
114 TUB I'EUPETUAl- f'URATn.
Miss Leonora luriicd Itack uj)()ii tlic tliresliold of the
shop.
"You will ])leasc to let me know what Dissenting
chapels there are in the town, and what are the hours
of the services," she said. "There must surely Ije a
Bethesda, or Zion, or something — Salem V yes, to be
sure; — pcrhajis there's somebody there that jireaches
the gospel. Send me word," said the peremj»tory wo-
man; and jioor Miss Dora relapsed into her usual
melancholy condition, and stole into the carriage in
a broken-hearted manner, weeping under her veil.
After which Miss Wodehouse went home, not hav-
ing much heart for further visits. That is to say, she
went all the way down Grange Lane, somewJiat tremu-
lous and uncertain in her steps, and went as far as
Mrs. Hadwin's, and hesitated at the door as if she
meant to call there; but, thinking better of it, went on
a little farther with very lingering ste})S, as if she did
not know what she Avanted. When she came back
again, the door of Mrs. Iladwin's garden was open,
and the butcher's boy stood blocking up the way,
listening Avith all his ears to the notes of the whistle,
soft and high and clear like the notes of a bird, which
came audibly from among the trees. ]\[iss Wodehouse
gave a little start when she heard it : again she hesitated,
and looked iu with such a wistful face that Sarah, the
housemaid, who had been about to slam the door
hastily upon the too tender butcher, involuntarily held
it wide open for the expected visitor. "No, not to-day,
thank you," said Miss Wodehouse. "I hope your
xiiistress is quite well; give her my love, and say I
meant to come in, but I have a bad headache. No,
thank you; not to-day." She went away after that
1?HE PERPETUAL CURATE. Il5
witli a Avouclerful expression of face, and readied Lome
long before Lucy had come back from Prick ett's Lane.
Miss Wodehouse was not good for much in the house.
She went to the little boudoir up-stairs, and lay down
on the sofa, and had some tea broiight lier by an
anxious maid. She was very nervous, trembling she
could not say why, and took up a novel Avhich was
lying on the sofa, and read the most affecting scene,
and cried over it; and then her sweet old face cleared,
and she felt better. When Lucy came in she kissed
her sister, and drew down the blinds, and brouglit her
the third volume, and then went away herself to arrange
the dessert, and see that everything was in order for
one of Mr. Wodehouse's little parties. These were
their respective parts in the house; and surely a more
peaceful, and orderly, and affectionate house, was not
to be found that spring evening, either in England or
Grange Lane.
CHAPTER X.
It may be easily supposed after this that Mr.
Wentworth and his proceedings were sufficiently over-
looked and commented upon in Carlingford. The Miss
Wentworths took old Major Brown's house for six
months, which, as everybody knows, is next door to
Dr. Marjoribanks. It was just after Letty Brown's
marriage, and the poor old Major was very glad to go
away and pay a round of visits, and try to forget that
his last daughter had gone the way of all the rest.
There was a summer-house built in the corner of the
garden, with a window in the outer wall looking on
116 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
to Grange Lane, from which everything that happened
could be inspected; and there was always somebody at
that window when the Perpetual Curate passed by.
Then he began to have a strange painful feeling that
Lucy watched too, and was observing all his looks and
ways, and what he did and said in these changed
times. It was a strange difference from the sweet half-
conscious bond between them which existed of old,
when they walked home together from AVharfside, talk-
ing of the district and the people, in the tender union
of unspoken love and fellowship. Not that they were
altogether parted now; but Lucy contrived to leave the
schoolroom most days before the young priest could
manage to disrobe himself, and was seldom to be seen
on the road lingering on her errands of kindness as
she used to do. But still she knew all he was about,
and Avatched, standing in doubt and wonder of him,
which was at least a great deal better than indifference.
On the whole, however, it was a cloudy world through
which the Perpetual Curate passed as he went from
his lodgings, where the whistle of the new lodger had
become a great nuisance to him, past the long range
of garden walls, the sentinel window where IVIiss Dora
looked out watching for him, and Mr. "Wodehouse's
green door wliich he no longer entered every day.
Over the young man's mind, as he went out to his
labours, there used to come that sensation of having
nobody to fall back upon, which is of all feelings the
most desolate. Amid all those people who were watch-
ing him, there was no one upon whom he could rest,
secure of understanding and sympathy. They were
all critical — examining, with more or less comprehen-
sion, what he did; and he could not think of anybody
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 117
lu the world just then who would be content with
knowing that he did it, and take that as a warranty
for the act, unless, perhaps, his poor aunt Dora, whose
opinion was not impoi-tant to the young man. It was
not a pleasant state of mind into which these feelings
threw him; and the natural result was, that he grew
more and more careful about the rubric, and contined
his sermons, Avith increasing precision, to the beautiful
arrangements of the Churcli. They were very clever
little sermons, even within these limitations, and an
indifferent spectator would probably have been sur-
prised to find how much he could make out of them;
but still it is undeniable that a man has less scope, not
only for oratory, but for all that is worthy of regard
in human speech, when, instead of the everlasting re-
ciprocations between heaven and earth, he occupies
himself only with a set of ecclesiastical arrangements,
however perfect. The people who went to St. Eoque's
found this out, and so did Mr. Wentworth; but it did
not alter the system pursued by the troubled Curate.
Perhaps he gave himself some half-conscious credit for
it, as being against his own interests; for there was no
mistaking the countenance of Miss Leonora, when now
and then, on rare occasions, she came to hear her
nephew preach.
All this, however, was confined to St. Roque's,
where there was a somewhat select audience, people
who agreed in Mr. Wentworth's views; but things were
entirely different at Wharfside, where the Perpetual
Curate was not thinking about himself, but simply
about his work, and how to do it best. The bargemen
and their wives did not know much about the Chris-
tian year; but they understood the greater matters
118 TIIK PEni'ETUAL Cl'RATE.
which lay benoatli: ami tlio woincii said (o cadi othor,
Hoinctimes with tears in their eyes, that there was iio-
tliinf^ that tlie ch'r;ryiriaii diiliTt make jthiiii; and tliat
if the men didn't dn what was rif;^ht. it wjus none o'
Mr. Wcntworth's fault. Tlie yoiinj? j>riost indemnified
himself in "the district" for much that vexed him else-
where. Tliere was no ((uestion of Skelmersdale, or of
any moot jioint there, hut only a <|uantity of jirimitive
peoj)le under the ori^rinal conditions rif humanity, whose
lives mif^ht be amended, and consoled, and elevated.
That was a matter about which Mr. Wentworth had no
doubt, lie j)ut on his surjdice with the conviction that
in that white ej)hod the truest embodiment of Christian
])urity was brou;rht within sifrht of the darkened world.
Ho was not himself, but a Christian priest, with power
to deliver and to bless, when he went to Wharfside.
Easter had been early that year, and Ascension
Day was in the begiuninfr of May, one of those sweet
days of early summer whicli still occur now and then
to prove that the poets were rijjht in all they say of
the tendercst month of the year. Mr. Wentworth had
done duty at St. Roque's, and afterwards at Wliarfside.
The sweet day and the sweet season had moved his
heart. He was young, and it was hard to live shut up
within himself without any sympathy either from man
or woman. He had watched the grey cloak jrliding
out as his rude congregation dispersed, and went away
quicker than was liis wont, with a stronger longing
than usual to overtake Lucy, and recover his place be-
side her. But she was not to be seen when he got
into Prickett's Lane. He looked up the weary length
of the street, and saw nothing but the children playing
on the pavement, and some slovenly mothers at the
THE PERPETUAL CUUATE. 119
doors. It was a very cliseucliauting prospect, lie weut
on again in a kind of gloomy discontent, displeased
with everything. What was the good of it all? he
said to himself — weariness, and toil, and trouble, and
nothing ever to come of it. As for the little good he
was doing in/\\niarfside, God did not need his poor
exertions; and, to tell the truth, going on at St. Koque's,
however perfect the rubric and pretty the church, was,
without any personal stimulant of hapjjiness, no great
prospect for the Perjtetual Curate. Such was the tenor
of his thoughts, when he saw a black figure suddenly
emerge out of one of the houses, and stand at the door,
throwing a long shadow over the jfavemeut. It was
the Hector who was standing there in Mr. Wentworth's
favourite district, talking to a shopkeeper who had al-
ways been on the opposition side. The young Anglican
raised his drooping head instantly, and recovered his
interest in the general world.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Went worth," said the Rector.
"I have been speaking to this worthy man aboiit the
necessities of the district. The statistics are far from
being satisfactory. Five thousand souls, and no pro-
vision for their spiritual wants; it is a very sad state
of affairs. I mean to take steps immediately to remedy
all that."
"A bit of a IMcthody chapel, that's all," said the
opposition shopkeeper; "and the schoolroom, as Mr.
Wentworth "
"Yes, I have heard of that," said the Rector,
blandly; — somebf)dy had advised Mr. Morgan to change
his tactics, and this was the first evidence of the new
policy — "I hear you have been doing what little you
could to mend matters. It is very laudable zeal in so
120 Tin: ii:in-F:TrAL ci iiatk.
young a man. But, of course, as you were without
authority, and had so little in your power, it could
only be a very temporary ex]>edient. I am very much
obliged to you for your good intentions."
"I beg your pardon," said the Perpetual Curate,
rousing up as at the sound of the trumpet, "I don't
care in the least about my good intentions; but you
have been much deceived if you have not understood
that there is a great work going on in Wharfside. I
hope, Saimders, you have had no hand in deceiving
Mr. Morgan. I .shall be glad to show you my statistics,
whicli are more satisfactory than the town li.sts," said
Mr. Went worth. "The schcjolroom is consecrated; and
but that I thought we had better work slowly and
steadily, there is many a district in worse condition
which has its church and its incumbent. I shall be
very happy to give you all possible information; it is
best to go to the fountainhead."
"The fountainhead!" said the Rector, who began
not unnaturally to lose his temper. "Are you aware,
sir, that Wharfside is in my parish?"
"And so is St. Koque's, I suppose," said the Curate,
affably. "I have no district, but I have my cure of
souls all the same. As for Wharfside, the Rector of
Carlingford never has had anji;hing to do with it. Mr.
Bury and Mr. Proctor made it over to me. I act upon
their authority; but I should like to prove to you it is
something more thau a temporary expedient," said the
young Anglican, with a smile. Mr. Morgan was grad-
ually getting very hot and fluslied. His temper got
the better of bim; he could not tolerate to be thus
bearded on his own ground.
"It appears to me the most extraordinary assump-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 121
tion," said tLe Rector. "I can't fancy that you are
ignorant of the laAv. I repeat, Wharfside is in my
parish; and on wliat ground you can possibly justify
such an incredible intrusion "
"Perhaps we might find a fitter place to discuss
the matter," said the Curate, with great suavity. "If
you care to go to the schoolroom, we could be quiet
there."
"No, sir. I don't care to go to the schoolroom. I
decline to have anything to do with such an unwar-
rantable attempt to interfere with my rights," said Mr.
Morgan. "I don't want to know Avhat plausible argu-
ments you may have to justify yourself. The fact re-
mains, .sir, that Wharfside is in my parish. If you
have anything to say against that, I will listen to you,"
said the irascible Kector. His Welsh blood was up; he
even raised his voice a little, with a kind of half-
feminine excitement, common to the Celtic race; and
the consequence was that Mr. Wentworth, who stood
perfectly calm to receive the storm, had all the ad-
vantage in the world over Mr. Morgan. The Perpetual
Curate bowed with immovable composure, and felt him-
self master of the field.
"In that case, it will perhaps be better not to say
anything," he said; "but I think you will find dif-
ficulties in the way. Wharfside has some curious priv-
ileges, and pays no rates; but I have never taken up
that ground. The two previous rectors made it over to
me, and the work is too important to be ignored. I
have had thoughts of applying to have it made into an
ecclesiastical district," said the Curate, with candour,
"not tbinking that the Rector of Carlingford, with so
much to occupy him, would care to interfere with my
122 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
labours; but, at all events, to begin another mission
here would be folly — it would be copying the tactics
of the Dissenters, if you will forgive nie for saying so,"
said Mr. Wentworth, looking calmly in the Rector's
face.
It was all Mr. Morgan could do to restrain himself.
"I am not in the habit of being schooled by my —
juniors," said the Rector, with suppressed fury. He
meant to say inferiors, but the aspect of the Perpetual
Curate checked him. Then the two stood gazing at
each other for a minute in silence. "Anything further
you may have to say, you will perhaps communicate
to my solicitor," said the elder priest. "It is well
known tliat some gentlemen of your views, Mr. Went-
worth, think it safe to do evil that go«d may come; —
that is not my opinion; and I don't mean to permit
any invasion of my rights. I have the pleasure of
wishing you good morning."
Mr. Morgan took off his hat, and gave it a little
angry flourish in the air before he put it on again. He
had challenged his young brother to the only duel per-
mitted by their cloth, and he turned to the opposition
tradesman Avith vehemence, and went in again to the
dusty little shop, where a humble assortment of gro-
ceries was displayed for the consumption of Prickett's
Lane. Mr. Wentworth remained standing outside in
much amazement, not to say amusement, and a general
sense of awakening and recovery. Next to happiness,
perhaps enmity is the most healthful stimulant of the
human mind. The Perpetual Curate woke up and
realised his position with a sense of exhilaration, if the
truth must be told. He muttered something to himself,
uncomplimentary to Mr. Morgan's good sense, as he
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 123
turned away; but it was astonishing to find how much
more lively and interesting Prickett's Lane had become
since that encounter. He went along cheerily, saying
a word now and then to the people at the doors, every
one of whom knew and recognised him, and acknow-
ledged, in a lesser or greater degree, the sway of his
bishopric. The groups he addressed made remarks after
he had passed, which showed their sense of the im-
provement in his looks. "He's more like himseF than
he's been sin' Easter," said one woman, "and none o'
that crossed look, as if things had gone contrairy; —
Lord bless you, not cross — he's a deal too good a man
for that — but crossed-lookiug; it might be crossed in
love for what I can tell." "Them as is handsome like
that seldom gets crossed in love," said another expe-
rienced observer; "but if it was fortin. Or whatever it
was, there's ne'er a one in Wharfside but wishes luck
to the parson. It ain't much matter for us women.
Them as won't strive to keep their children decent out
o' their own heads, they won't do much for a clergy-
man; but, bless you, he can do a deal with the men,
and it's them as wants looking after." "I'd like to go
to his wedding," said another. "I'd give a deal to
hear it was all settled;" and amid these affectionate
comments, Mr. Wentworth issued out of Prickett's Lane.
He went direct to Mr. Wodehousc's green door, without
making any excuses to himself. For the first time for
some weeks he went in upon the sisters and told them
all that had hajjpencd as of old. Lucy was still in her
grey cloak as she had returned from the district, and
it was with a feeling more distinct than sympathy that
she heard of this threatened attack. "It is terrible to
think that he coiild interfere Avith siTch a work out of
124 THR PERPETUAL CURATE.
jealousy of us" said the Sister of Charity, with a won-
derful liglit in her blue eyes; and she drew her low
chair nearer, and listened with eloquent looks, which
were balm to the soul of the Perpetual Curate. "But
we are not to give ujj?" she said, giving him her hand,
when he rose to go away. "Never!" said Mr. Went-
worth-, and if he held it m.ore closely and longer than
there was any particular occasion for, Lucy did not
make any oljjection at that special moment. Then it
turned out that lie had business at the other end of the
town, at the north end, where some trustee lived who
had to do with the Orphan Schools, and whom the
Curate was obliged to see; and Miss Wodehouse gave
him a timid invitation to come back to dinner. "But
you are not to go home to dress; Ave shall be quite
alone — and you must be so tired," said the elder sister,
who for some reason or other was shy of Mr. Went-
worth, and kept away from him whenever he called.
So he went in on his way back, and dined in hap-
piness and his morning coat, with a sweet conscious
return to the familiar intercourse which these few dis-
turbed weeks had interrupted. He was a different man
when he went back again down Grange Lane. Once
more the darkness was fragrant and musical about him.
When he was tired thinking of his affairs, he fell back
upon the memories of the evening, and Lucy's looks
and the "us" and "we," which were so sweet to his
ears. To have somebody behind whom one can fall
back upon to fill up the interstices of thought, — that
makes all the difference, as Mr. Wentworth found out,
between a bright and a heavy life.
When he opened the garden-door with his key,
and went softly in in the darkness, the Perpetual
THE PERPETUAL CURATE, 125
Curate was much surprised to hear voices among the
trees. He waited a little, wondering, to see who it
was; and profound was his amazement when a minute
after little Rosa Elseworthy, hastily tying her hat over
her curls, came rapidly along the Avalk from under the
big walnut tree, and essayed, with rather a tremulous
hand, to open the door. Mr. Wentworth stepped for-
ward suddenly and laid his hand on her arm. He
was very angry and indignant, and no longer the
benign superior being to whom Rosa was accustomed.
"Whom have you been talking to?" said the Curate.
"Why are jon here alone so late? What does this
mean?" He held the door close, and looked down
upon her severely while he spoke. She made a frightened
attempt to defend herself.
"Oh, please, I only came with the papers. I was
talking to — Sarah," said the little girl, with a sob of
shame and terror. "I will never do it again. Oh,
YAeasBy please, let me go! Please, Mr. Wentworth, let
me go!"
"How long have you been talking to— Sarah?"
said the Curate. "Did you ever do it before? No,
Rosa; I am going to take you home. This must not
happen any more."
"I will run all the way. Oh, don't tell my aunt,
Mr. Wentworth. I didn't mean any harm," said the
frightened creature. "You are not really coming?
Oh, Mr. Wentworth, if you tell my aunt I shall die!"
cried poor little Rosa. But she was hushed into awe
and silence when the Curate stalked forth, a grand,
half-distinguishable figure by her side, keeping pace
with her hasty, tremulous steps. She even stopped
crying, in the whirlwind of her feelings. What did he
126 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
iiK^aii? Was lie j^oiiig: to say anytliing to her? Was
it possible that he could like her, and he jealous of
her talk witli — Haraii? J'oor little foolish Kosa did
not know what to think. She had read a {^eat many
novels, and knew that it was quite usual for gen-
tlemen to fall in love with pretty little girls who were
not of their own station; — why not Avith her? 80 she
went on, half running, keeping up with Mr. Went-
worth, and sometimes stealing sly glances at him to
see what intention was in his looks. But his looks
were beyond Rosa's reading. He walked by her side
without speaking, and gave a glance up at the window
of the summer-house as they passed. And strange
enough, that evening of all others. Miss Dora, who
had been the victim of some of Miss Leonora's caustic
criticisms, had strayed forth, in melancholy mood, to
repose herself at her favourite window, and look out
at the faint stars, and comfort herself with a feeble
repetition of her favourite plea, that it was not "my
fault." The poor lady was startled out of her own
troubles by the sight of her nephew's tall unmistakable
figure; and, as bad luck would have it, Rosa's hat,
tied insecurely by her agitated fingers, blew off at the
moment, so that Mr. Weutworth's aunt became aware,
to her inexpressible horror and astonishment, who his
companion was. The unhappy Curate divined all the
thoughts that would arise in her perturbed bosom,
when he saw the indistinct figure at the window, and
said something to himself about espionage., which was
barely civil to Miss Dora, as he hurried along on his
charitable errand. He was out of one trouble into an-
other, this unlucky young man. He knocked shai'ply
at Elsworthy's closed door, and gave up his charge
THE PEKPETUAL CURATE. 127
without speaking to Kosa. "I brought her home be-
cause I thought it wrong to let her go up Grange Lane
by herself," said the Curate. "Don't thank me; but if
you have any regard for the child, don't send her out
at night again." He did not even bid Rosa good-
night, or look back at her, as she stood blushing and
sparkling in confused childish beauty, in the doorway,
but turned his back like any savage, and hastened
home again. Beft)re he entered his own apartments,
he knocked at the door of the green room, and said
something to the inmate there which produced from
that personage a growl of restrained defiance. And
after all these fatigues, it was with a sense of relief
that the Curate threw himself upon his sofa, to think
over the events of the afternoon, and to take a little
rest. He was very tired, and the consolation he had
experienced during the evening made him more dis-
posed to yield to his fatigue. He threw himself upon
the sofa, and stretched out his hand lazily for his
letters, which evidently did not excite any special ex-
pectations in his mind. There was one from his sister,
and one from an old university friend, full of the news
of the season. Last of all, there was a neat little
note, directed in a neat little hand, which anybody
who received it would naturally have left to the last,
as Mr. Wentworth did. He opened it quite deliberately,
without any appearance of interest. But as he read
the first lines, the Curate gradually gathered himself
up off the sofa, and stretched out his hand for his
boots, which he had just taken off; and before he had
finished it, had walked across the room and laid hold
of the railway book in use at Carlingford, all the time
reading and re-reading the important little epistle. It
128 THE PERPETUAL CUKATE.
was not SO neat inside as out, but blurred and
blotted, and slightly illegible; and this is what the letter
said : —
"Oil, Frank dear, I am so anxious and unhappy
about Gerald. I can't tell what is the matter with
liim. Come directly, for heaven's sake, and tell me
what you think, and try what you can do. Don't lose
a train after you get this, but come directly — oh, come
if you ever loved any of us. I don't know what he
means, but he says the most awful things; and if he
is not mad^ as I sometimes hope, he has forgotten his
duty to his family and to me, which is far worse. I
can't explain more; but if there is any chance of any-
body doing him good, it is you. I beg you, on my
knees, come directly, dear Frank. I never was in such
a state in my life. I shall be left so that nobody will
be able to tell what I am; and my heart is bursting.
Never mind business Or anything; but come, come
directly, whether it is night or day, to your broken-
hearted sister, Louisa.
"P.-S. — In great haste, and so anxious to see you."
Half an hour after, Mr. Wentworth, with a travel-
ling-bag in his hand, was once more hastening up
Grange Lane towards the railway station. His face
was somewhat grey, as the lamps shone on it. He
did not exactly know what he was anxious about, nor
what might have happened at Wentworth Rectory be-
fore he covdd get there; but the express train felt slow
to his anxious thoughts as it flashed out of the station.
Mr. Morgan and his wife were in their garden, talking
about the encounter in Prickett's Lane when the train
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 129
plunged past, waking all the eclioes; and ]\Ii-s. Morgan,
by way of making a diversion, appealed to the Rector
about those creepers, with which she hoped in a year
or two to shut out the sight of the railway. "The
Virginian creeper would be the best," said the Eector's
wife; and they went in to calculate the expenses of
bringing Mr. Wentworth before Dr. Lushington. Miss
Dora, at very nearly the same moment, was confiding
to her sister Cecilia, under vows of secrecy, the terrible
sight she had seen from the summer-house window.
They went to bed with very sad hearts in consequence,
both these good women. In the mean time, leaving all
these gathering cloitds behind him, leaving his reputa-
tion and his work to be discussed and quarrelled over
as they might, the Perpetual Curate rushed through
the night, his heart achiug with trouble and anxiety,
to help, if he could — and if not, at least to stand by —
Gerald, in this unknown crisis of his brother's life.
CHAPTER XI.
Miss Dora Wentworth rose very unrefreshed next
morning from her disturbed slumbers. It was hard to
sit at breakfast with Leonora, and not betray to her
the new anxiety, and the troubled sister ran into a
countless number of digressions, which would have in-
evitably betrayed her had not Miss Leonora been at
the moment otherwise occupied. She had her little
budget of letters as usual, and some of them were more
than ordinarily interesting. She too had a favourite
district, which was in London, and where also a great
work was going on; and her missionary, and her
The Perpetual Curate. I. J
130 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Scripture-readers, and her colporteur were all in a
wonderful state of excitement about a new gin-palace
which was being fitted out and decorated in the
higliest style of art on the borders of their especial
domain. They were moving heaven and earth to
prevent this temple of Satan from being licensed-, and
some of them were so very certain of the Divine ac-
quiescence in their measures, that they announced the
success of their exertions to be a test of the faithful-
ness of God; which Miss Leonora read out to her
sisters as an instance of very touching and beautiful
faith. Miss Wentworth, perhaps, was not so clear on
that subject. During the course of her silent life, she
had prayed for various things which it had not been
God's pleasure to grant; and just now she, too, was
very anxioiis about Frank, who seemed to be in a bad
way; so she rather shook her head gently, though she
did not contravene the statement, and concluded with
sadness that the government of the earth might still
go on as usual, and God's goodness remain as certain
as ever, even though the public-house was licensed, or
Frank did fall away. This was the teaching of ex-
perience ; but aunt Cecilia did not utter it, for that was
not her way. As for Miss Dora, she agreed in all the
colporteur's sentiments, and thought them beautiful, as
Leonora said, and was not much disturbed by any
opinion of her own, expressed or unexpressed, but in-
terspersed her breakfast with little sighing ejaculations
on the temptations of the world, and how little one
knew what was passing around one, and "let him that
thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall," which could
not have failed to attract ]\Iiss Leonora's attention, and
draw forth the whole story of her sister's suspicions,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 131
had not that quick-witted iron-grey woman been, as
we have already mentioned, too deeply engaged. Per-
haps her nephew's imaginary backsliding might have
excited even Miss Leonora to an interest deeper than
that which was awakened by the new gin-palace; but
as it happened, it was the humbler intelligence alone
which occupied itself with the supposed domestic
calamity. Miss Dora's breakfast Avas affected by it in
a way which did not appear in the morning meal of
her sister; for somehow the most fervent love of souls
seldom takes away the appetite, as the love of some
unlucky individual occasionally does.
When breakfast was over, Miss Dora made a very
elaborate excuse for going out by herself. She wanted
to match some wool for a blanket she was making,
"For Louisa's baby," the devoted aunt said, with a
little tremor. "Poor Louisa! if Gerald were to go any
further, you know, it would be so sad for her; and one
would like to help to keep up her heart, poor dear, as
much as one could."
"By means of a blanket for the bassinet in scarlet
and white," said Miss Leonora; "but it's quite the kind
of comfort for Louisa. I wonder if she ever had the
smallest inkling what kind of a husband she has got.
I don't think Frank is far wrong about Gerald, though
I don't pin my faith to my nephew's judgment. I
daresay he'll go mad or do worse with all those
crotchets of his — but what he married Louisa for has
always been a mystery to me."
"I suppose because he was very fond of her," sug-
gested Miss Dora, with humility.
"But why was he fond of her? — a goose!" said
the strong-minded sister, and so went about her letter-
9«
132 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
writing without further comment, leaving aunt Dora to
pursue her independent career. It was with a feeling
of relief, and yet of guilt, that this timid inquirer set
forth on her mission, exchanging a sympathetic signifi-
cant look with Miss Wentworth before she went out.
If she should meet Frank at the door, looking dignified
and virtuous, what could she possibly say to him? and
yet, perhaps, he had only been imprudent, and did not
mean anything. Miss Dora looked round her on both
sides, up and down Grange Lane, as she went out
into the lovely summer morning. Neither Frank nor
any other soul, except some imrse-maids, was to be
seen along the whole line of simny road. She was
relieved, yet she was disappointed at the same time,
and went slowly up towards Elsworthy's shop, saying
to herself that she was sure Frank could not mean
anything. It must have been that forward little thing
herself who had come up to him when he was out for
his walk, or it must have been an accident. But then
she remembered that she had heard the Curate call
Rosa pretty; and Miss Dora wondered within herself
what it mattered whether she was pretty or not, and
what he had to do with it, and shook her head over
the strange way men had of finding out such things.
For her own part, she was sure she never looked
whether the girl was pretty or not; and the anxious
aunt had just come round again , by a very cirqjiitous
and perplexing course, to her original sentiment, and
strengthened herself in the thought that her dear Frank
could not mean anything, when she reached Elsworthy's
door.
That worthy trader was himself behind the counter,
managing matters with his usual exactness. Berlin
THE PERPETUAL CUKATE. 133
wool was one of the articles Mr. Elswortty dealt in,
besides newspapers, and books when they were ordered.
Miss Dora, who wore no crinoline, stnmbled over her
dress in her agitation as she went in, and saw, at the
first glance, little Rosa, looking very blooming and
pretty, tying np a parcel at the other end of the shop.
The poor lady did not know how to enter upon so
difficult a question. She offered her wool humbly to
be matched, and listened to Mr. Elsworthy's sentiments
upon the subject. He told her how he always had his
wools from the best houses in London, and could match
anything as was ever made in that line, and was proud
to say as he always gave satisfaction. Miss Dora could
not see any opening for the inquiries which she hoped
to make; for how was it possible to intimate the pos-
sibility of disapproval to an establishment so perfect in
all its arrangements? The probabilities are, that she
would have gone away without saying anything, had
not Mr. Elsworthy himself given her a chance.
"Miss Wodehouse has been my great help," said
the sliop-keeper; "she is the nicest lady, is Miss Wode-
house, in all Carlingford. I do respect them people;
they've had their troubles, like most families, but there
ain't many as can lay their finger on the skeleton as
is in their cupboard: they've kept things close, and
there ain't a many as knows; but Miss Wodehouse has
spoke up for me, ma'am, right and left, and most per-
sons as count for anything in Carlingford gets their
fancy articles out o' my shop. Mr. Wentworth, ma'am,
our respected clergyman, gets all his papers of me —
and partickler he is to a degree — and likes to have
'em first thing afore they're opened out o' the parcel.
It's the way with gentlemen when they're young.
134 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Mostly people ain't so partickler later in life — not as I
could tell tlie reason why, unless it may be that folks
gets used to most things, and stop looking for any-
thing new. But there ain't a many young gentlemen
like our clergyman, though I say it as shouldn't," con-
tinued Mr. Klsworthy, with a little effusion, as he
succeeded in hnding an exact match for the scarlet
wool.
"And why shouldn't you say it, Mr. I^lsworthy?"
said Miss Dora, a little tartly; "you are not in any
way particularly f()nnected with my nephew." Here
she gave an angry glance at J{osa, who had drawn
near to listen, having always in her vain little heart a
certain palpitation at Mr. Wentworth's name.
"I ask your pardon, ma'am; I'm clerk at St. Roque's.
It ain't often as we have the pleasure of seeing you
there — more's the pity," said the church ofricial, "though
I may say there ain't a church as perfect, or where
the duty is performed more beautiful, in all the country;
and there never was a clergyman as had the people's
good at heart like Mr. AVentworth — not in my time.
It ain't no matter whether you're rich or poor, young
or old, if there's a service as can be done to ever a
one in his way, oiir clergyman is the man to do it.
Why, no further gone than last night, ma'am, if you'll
believe me, that little girl there "
"Yes," said Miss Dora, eagerly, looking with what
was intended to be a very stern and forbidding aspect
in the little girl's face.
"She was a-coming up Grange Lane in the dark,"
said Mr. Elsworthy — "not as there was any need, and
me keeping two boys, but she likes a run out of an
evening — when Mr. Wentworth see her, and come up
( THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 135
to her. It ain't what many men would have done,"
said the admiring but unlucky adherent of the suspected
Curate: "he come iip, seeing as she was by herself,
and walked by her, and gave her a deal of good ad-
vice, and brought her home. Her aunt and me was
struck all of a heap to see the clergyman a-standing
at our door. 'I've brought Rosa home,' he said, mak-
ing believe a bit sharp. 'Don't send her out no more
so late at night,' and was off like a shot, not waiting
for no thanks. It's my opinion as there ain't many
such gentlemen. I can't call to mind as I ever met
with his fellow before."
"But a young creature like that ought not to have
been out so late," said Miss Dora, trying to harden
herself into severity. "I wonder very much that you
like to walk up Grange Lane in the dark. I should
think it very unpleasant, for my part-, and I am sure
I would not allow it, Mr. Elsworthy," she said firmly,
"if such a girl belonged to me."
"But, please, I wasn't walking up Grange Lane,"
said Rosa, with some haste. "I was at Mrs. Had-
win's, where Mr. "Wentwortli lives. I am sure I
did not want to trouble him," said tlie little beauty,
recovering her natural spirit as she went on, "but he
insisted on walking with me; it was all his own doing.
I am sure I didn't want him;" and here Rosa broke
off abruptly, with a consciousness in her heart that she
was being lectured. She rushed to her defensive
weapons by natural instinct, and grew crimson all
over her pretty little face, and flashed lightning out of
her eyes, which at the same time were not disinclined
to tears. All this Miss Dora made note of with a sink-
ing heart.
136 Tin: rKUPfvruAL curate.
"Do you mean to say tliat you wont to Mrs. Ilad-
win's to sec Mr. Wcntworth?" atskeil that unlucky in-
quisitor, with a world of horror in her face.
"I went with the papers," said Rosa, "and I — I
met him in the garden. I am sure it wasn't my fault,"
said the girl, bursting into petulant tears. "Nobody
has any occasion to scold me. It was Mr. Wciitworth
as would come;" and Rosa s(jbbed, and lighted up
gleams of defiance behind her tears. Miss Dora sat
looking at her with a very troubled, pale face. She
thought all her fears were true, and matters worse than
slie imagined; and being (piite unused to private intjuisi-
tions, of course she took all possible steps to create the
scandal for which she had conic to look.
"Did you ever meet him in the garden before V"
asked Miss Dora, painfully, in a low voice. During
this conversation Mr. Elsworthy had been looking on,
perplexed, not perceiving the drift of the examination.
He roused himself up to answer now — a little alarmed,
to tell the truth, by the new lights thrown on the sub-
ject, and vexed to see how unconsciously far both the
women had gone.
"It ain't easy to go into a house in Grange Lane
without meeting of some one in the garden," said Mr.
Elsworthy; "not as I mean to say it was the right
thing for Rosa to be going them errands after dark.
My orders is against that, as she knows; and what's
the good of keeping two boys if things isn't to be
done at the right time? Mr. "WentAvorth himself was
a-rcproving of me for sending out Rosa, as it might be
the last time he was here; for she's one of them as sits
in the chancel and helps in the singing, and he feels
an interest in her, natural," said the apologetic clerk.
THE PERPETUAL CimATE. 137
Miss Dora gave him a troubled look, but took no
further notice of his speech. She thought, with an
instinctive contempt for the masculine spectator, that it
was impossible he could know anything about it, and
pursued her own wiser way.
"It is very wrong of you — a girl in your position,"
said Miss Dora, as severely as she could in her soft
old voice, "to be seen walking about with a gentleman,
even when he is your clergyman, and, of course, has
nothing else in his head. Young men don't think any-
thing of it," said the rash but timid preacher; "of
course it was only to take care of you, and keep you
out of harm's way. But then you ought to think wiiat
a trouble it was to Mr. Wentworth, taking him away
from his studies — and it is not nice for a young girl
like you." Miss Dora paused to take breath, not feel-
ing quite sure in her own mind whether this was the
riglit thing to say. Perhaps it Avould have been better
to have disbelieved the fact altogether, and declared it
impossible. She was much troubled about it, as she
stood looking into the flushed tearful face, with all that
light of defiance behind the tears, and felt instinctively
that little Rosa, still only a pretty, obstinate, vain, un-
educated little girl, was more than a match for her-
self, with all her dearly-won experiences. The little
thing was bristling with a hundred natural weapons
and defences, against which Miss Dora's weak assault
liad no chance.
"If it was a trouble, he need not have come," said
Rosa, more and more convinced that Mr. Wentworth
must certainly have meant something. "I am sure /
did not want him. He insisted on coming, though I
begged him not. I don't know why I should be spoke
138 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
to like tliis," cried the little coquette, with tears, "for
I never was oue as looked at a gentleman; it's them,"
with a sob, "as comes after me."
"Rosa," said Mr. Elsworthy, much alarmed, "your
aunt is sure to be looking out for you, and I don't
want you here, not now, nor I don't want you again
for errands, and don't you forget. If it hadn't have
been that Mr. Wentworth thought you a silly little
thing, and had a kind feeling for my missis and me,
you don't think he'd have took that charge of you? —
and I won't have my clergyman, as has always been
good to me and mine, made a talk of. You'll excuse
me ma'am," he said, in an under tone, as Rosa re-
luctantly went away — not to her aunt, however, but
again to her parcel at the other end of the shop —
"she ain't used to being talked to. She's but a child,
and don't know no better: and after all," said Rosa's
uncle, with a little pride, "she is a tender-hearted little
thing — she don't know no better, ma'am; she's led
away by a kind word- — for nobody can say but she's
wonderful pretty, as is very plain to see."
"Is she?" said Miss Dora, following the little cul-
prit to the back-counter with disenchanted eyes. "Then
you had better take all the better care of her, Mr.
Elsworthy," she said, with again a little asperity. The
fact was, that Miss Dora had behaved very injudiciously,
and was partly aware of it; and then this prettiness of
little Rosa's, even though it shone at the present mo-
ment before her, was not so plain to her old-maidenly
eyes. She did not make out why everybody was so
sure of it, nor what it mattered; and very probably, if
she could have had her own way, would have liked
to give the little insignificant thing a good shake.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 139
and asked her how she dared to attract the eye
of the Perpetual Curate. As she could not do this,
however, Miss Dora gathered up her wool, and refused
to permit Mr. Elsworthy to send it home for her. "I
can cany it quite Avell myself," said the indignant
little woman. "I am sure you must have a great deal
too mucli for your boys to do, or you would not send
your niece about with the things. But if you will take
my advice, Mr. Elsworthy," said Miss Dora, "you will
take care of that poor little thing: she will be getting
ridiculous notions into her head-," and aunt Dora went
out of the shop with great solemnity, quite unaware
tliat she had done more to put ridiculous notions into
Rosa's head than could have got there by means of a
dozen darkling walks by the side of the majestic Curate,
who never paid her any compliments. Miss Dora went
away more than ever convinced in lier mind that Frank
had forgotten himself and his position, and everytliing
that was fit and seemly. She jumped to a hundred
horrible conclusions as she went sadly across Grange
Lane with her scarlet wool in her hand. What Leonora
would say to such an irremediable folly? — and how the
Squire would receive his son after such a mesalliance?
"He might change his views," said poor Miss Dora to
herself, "but he could not change his wife;" and it was
poor comfort to call liosa a designing little wretch, and
to reflect that Frank at first could not have meant
anything. The poor lady had a bad headache, and
was in a terribly depressed condition all day. When
she saw from the window of her summer-house the
pretty figure of Lucy Wodehouse in her grey cloak
pass by, she sank into tears and melancholy reflections.
But then Lucy Wodehouse's views were highly objec-
1 U) TUB I'ERl'BTUAL CITUATK.
lionable, and slie betliought liersclf of Julia Trench,
who had long ago been selected by the sisters as the
clergyman's wife of Skelinersdale. Miss Dora shook
her head over the l)lanket she was knitting for Louisa's
baJ)y, thinking of clergymen's wives in general, and
the way in which marriages came about. Who had
the ordering of these inexplicable accidonts? It was
surely not Providence, but some tricky imp or other
Avho loved confusion-, and then Miss Dora paused with
com])unction, and hoped she would be forgiven for
entertaining, even for one passing moment, such a
wicked, wicked thought.
CHAPTER XII.
On the afternoon of the same day Mr. Morgan went
home late, and frightened his wife out of her propriety
by the excitement and trouble in bis face. He could
do nothing but groan as he sat down in the drawing-
room , where she had just been gathering her work to-
gether, and putting stray matters in order, before she
went up-staii'e to make herself tidy for dinner. The
Rector paid no attention to the fact that the dinner-
hour was approaching, and only shook his head and
repeated his groan when she asked him anxiously what
was the matter. The good man was too much flushed
and heated and put out, to be able at first to answer
her questions.
"Very bad, very bad," he said, when he had re-
covered sufficient composui*e — "far worse than I feared.
My dear, I am afraid the beginning of my work in
Carlingford will be for ever associated with pain to us
THE PERPETTTAL CITRATE. 141
both. I am discouraged and distressed beyond measure
by what I have heard to-day."
"Dear William, tell me what it is," said the Rector's
wife.
"I feared it was a bad business from the first," said
the disturbed Rector. "I confess I feared, when I saw
a young man so regardless of lawful authority, that his
moral principles must be defective, but I was not
prepared for what I have heard to-day. My dear, I
am sorry to grieve you with such a story, but as you
are sure to hear it, perhaps it is better that you should
have the facts from me."
"It must be about Mr. Wentworth," said Mrs.
Morgan. She was sorry- for though she had given in
to her husband's vehemence, she herself in her own
person had always been prepossessed in favour of the
Perpetual Curate-, but she was also sensible of a feeling
of relief to know that the misfortune concerned Mr.
Wentworth, and was not specially connected with
themselves.
"Yes, it's about Mr. Wentworth," said the Rector.
He wiped his face, which was red with haste and
exhaustion, and shook his head. He was sincerely
shocked and grieved, to do him justice; but underneath
there was also a certain satisfaction in the thought that
he had foreseen it, and that his suspicions were verified.
"My dear, I am very glad he had not become intimate
in our house," said Mr. Morgan; "that would have
complicated matters sadly. I rejoice that your womanly
instincts prevented that inconvenience;" and as the
Rector began to recover himself, lie looked more severe
than ever.
"Yes," said Mrs. Morgan, with hesitation; for the
142 THE PERrEXrAL CURATE.
truth was, that licr womanly instincts had pronounced
rather distinctly in favour of tiie Curate of St. Koque's.
"I hope he has not done anything very MTong, "William.
I should be very sorry, for I think he has very good
(|uali(ies," said the Kector's wife. "We must not let
our personal objections prejudice us in respect to his
conduct otherwise. I am sure you are the last to do
that."
"I have never known an insubordinate man who
was a perfect moral character," said the Rector. "It
is very discouraging altogether; and you thought he
was engaged to Wodehouse's pretty daughter, didn't
you? I hope not — I sincerely hope not. That would
make things doubly bad; but, to be sure, when a man
is faithless to his most sacred engagements, there is
very little dependence to be placed on him in other
respects."
"But you have not told me what it is," said the
Hector's wife, with some anxiety, and she spoke the
more hastily as she saw the shadow of a curate — Mr.
Morgan's own curate, who must inevitably be invited
to stop to dinner — crossing the lawn as she spoke.
She got up and went a little nearer the window to
make sure. "There is Mr. Leeson," she said, with
some vexation. "I must run up-stairs and get ready
for dinner. Tell me what it is!"
Upon wliich the Rector, with some circumlocution,
described the apjialling occurrence of the pre%'ious night,
— how Mr. Wentworth had walked home with little
Rosa Elsworthy from his own house to hers, as had,
of course, been seen by various people. The tale had
been told with variations, which did credit to the in-
genuity of Carlingford; and Mr. Morgan's version was
THB PERPETUAL CURATE. 143
that they had walked arm in arm, in the closest con-
versation, and at an hour which was quite unseemly
for such a little person as Rosa to be abroad. The
excellent Rector gave the story with strong expressions
of disapproval; for he was aware of having raised his
wife's expectations, and had a feeling, as he related
them, that the circumstances, after all, were scarcely
sufficiently horrifying to justify his preamble. Mrs.
Morgan listened with one ear towards the door, on the
watch for Mr. Leeson's knock.
"Was that all?" said the sensible woman. "I think
it very likely it might be explained. I suppose Mr.
Leeson must have stopped to look at my ferns; he is
very tiresome with his botany. That was all! Dear,
I think it might be explained. I can't fancy Mr. Went-
worth is a man to commit himself in that way — if that
is all!" said Mrs. Morgan; "but I must run up-stairs to
change my dress."
"That was not all," said the Rector, following her
to the door. "It is said that this sort of thing has
been habitual, my dear. He takes the 'Evening Mail,'
you know, all to himself, instead of having the 'Times'
like other people, and she carries it down to his house,
and I hear of meetings in the garden, and a great deal
that is very objectionable," said Mr. Morgan, speaking
very fast in order to deliver himself before the advent
of Mr. Leeson. "I am afraid it is a very bad business.
I don't know what to do about it. I suppose I must
ask Leeson to stay to dinner? It is absurd of him to
come at six o'clock."
"Meetings in the garden?" said Mrs. Morgan, aghast.
"I don't feel as if I could believe it. There is that
tiresome man at last. Do as you like, dear, about
144 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
asking him to stay, but I must make my escape," and
the Rector's wife hastened up-stairs, divided between
vexation about Mr. Leeson and regret at the news she
had just heard. She put on her dress rather hastily,
and was conscious of a little ill-temper, for which she
was angry with herself; and the haste of her toilette,
and the excitement under which she laboured, ag-
gravated unbecomingly that redness of which Mrs.
Morgan was so painfully sensible. She was not at all
pleased with her own aj)pearance as she looked in the
glass. Perhaps that sense of looking not so well as
usual brought back to her mind a troublesome and
painful idea, which recurred to her not unfrequently
when she was in any trouble. The real Rector to
whom she was married was so diflFerent from the ideal
one who courted her; could it be possible, if they had
married in their youth instead of now, that her hus-
band would have been less open to the ill-natured sug-
gestions of the gossips in Carlingford, and less jealous
of the interferences of his young neighbour? It was
hard to think that all the self-denial and patience of
the past had done more harm than good; but though
she was conscious of his defects, she was very loyal to
him, and resolute to stand by him whatever he might
do or say; though Mrs. Morgan's "womanly instincts,"
which the Rector had quoted, were all on Mr. Weut-
worth's side, and convinced her of his innocence to
start with. On the whole, she was annoyed and un-
comfortable; what with Mr. Leeson's intrusion (which
had occurred three or four times before, and which
Mrs. Morgan felt it her duty to check) and the Rector's
uncharitableness, and her own insufficient time to dress,
and the disagreeable heightening of her complexion,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE, 145
the Rector's wife felt in rather an unchi'istian frame of
mind. She did not look well, and she did not feel
better. She was terribly civil to the Curate when she
went down-stairs, and snubbed him in the most un-
qualified way when he too began to speak about Mr.
Wentworth. "It does not seem to me to be at all a likely
story," she said, courageously, and took away Mr.
Leeson's breath.
"But I hear a very unfavourable general account,"
said the Rector, who was almost eqiially surprised. "I
hear he has been playing fast and loose Avith that very
pretty person, Miss Wodehouse, and that her friends
begin to be indignant. It is said that he has not been
nearly so much there lately, but, on the contrary, al-
Avays going to Elsworthy's, and has partly educated
this little tiling. My dear, one false step leads to an-
other. I am not so incredulous as you are. Perhaps
I have studied human nature a little more closely, and
I know that error is always fruitful; — that is my ex-
perience," said Mr. Morgan. His wife did not say any-
thing in answer to this deliverance, but she lay in wait
for the Curate, as was natural, and had her revenge
upon him as soon as his ill ftite prompted him to back
the Rector out.
"I am afraid Mr. Wentworth had always too much
confidence in himself," said the unlucky individual who
was destined to be scapegoat on this occasion; "and as
you very justly observe, one wrong act leads to another.
He has thrown himself among the bargemen on such
an equal footing that I daresay he has got to like that
kind of society. I shouldn't be surprised to find that
Rosa Elsworthy suited him better than a lady with re-
fined tastes."
The Perpciual Curale. I. 10
146 THE TEUPETUAL CURATE.
"Mr. Wentworth is a gentleman," said the Eector's
wife, with einjihasis, coming down upon the unliappy
Leeson in full battle array. "I don't think he would
go into tlie poorest house, if it were even a bargeman's,
without the same respect to the privacy of the family
as is customary among — persons of our own class, Mr.
Leeson. I can't tell how wrong or how foolish he may
have been, of course — but that he couldn't behave to
anybody in a disrespectful manner, or show himself in-
trusive, or forget the usages of good society," said Mrs.
Morgan, who was looking all the time at the unfortun-
ate Curate, "I am perfectly convinced."
It was this speech which made Mr. Morgan ".speak
seriously," as he called it, later the same night, to his
wife, about her manner to poor Leeson, who was totally
extinguished, as was to be expected. Mrs. Morgan
busied herself among her flowers all the evening, and
could not be caught to be admonished until it was time
for prayers: so that it Avas in the sacred retirement of
her own chamber that the remonstrance was delivered
at last. The Rector said he was very sorry to find that
she still gave way to temper in a manner that was un-
becoming in a clergyman's wife; he was surprised, after
all her experience, and the way in which they had both
been schooled to patience, to iind she had still to learn
that lesson: upon which Mrs. Morgan, who had been
thinking much on the subject, broke forth upon her
husband in a manner totally unprecedented, and which
took the amazed Rector altogether by surpi-ise.
"Oh, William, if we had only forestalled the lesson,
and been less prudent!" she cried in a womanish way,
which struck the Rector dumb with astonishment; "if
we hadn't been afraid to marry ten years ago, but gone
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 147
into life when we were young, and fought through it
like so many people, don't you think it would have
been better for us? Neither you nor I would have
minded what gossips said, or listened to a pack of
stories when we were five-and-twenty. I think I was
better then than I am now," said the Rector's wife.
Though she filled that elevated position, she was only
a woman, subject to outbreaks of sudden passion, and
liable to tears like the rest. Mr. Morgan looked very
blank at her as she sat there crying, sobbing with the
force of a sentiment which was probably untranslatable
to the surprised , middle-aged man. He thought it must
be her nerves wliich were in fault somehow, and though
much startled, did not inquire farther into it, having a
secret feeling in his heart that the less that was said
the better on that subject. So he did what his good
angel suggested to him, kissed his wife, and said he
was well aware what heavy calls he had made upon
her patience, and soothed her the best way that oc-
curred to him. "But you were very hard upon poor
Leeson, my dear," said the Rector, with his puzzled
look, when she had regained her composure. Perhaps
she was disappointed that she had not been able to
convey her real meaning to her husband's matter-of-fact
bosom; at all events, Mrs. Morgan recovered herself
immediately, and flashed forth with all the lively fresh-
ness of a temper in its iirst youth.
"He deserved a great deal more than I said to him,"
said the Rector's wife. "It might be an advantage to
take the furniture, as it was all new, tliough it is a
perpetual vexation to me, and worries me out of my
life-, but there was no need to take the curate, that I
can see. What right has he to come day after day at
lU*
148 TUB PERPETUAL CUUATE.
your dinner-hour? he knows we dine at six as well aS
we do ourselves; and I do believe he knows what we
have for dinner," exclaimed the incensed mistress of
the house; "for lie always makes his a])j)earauce when
we have anythinj^ he likes. I hope I know my duty,
and can put up with what cannot be mended," con-
tinued Mrs. Morgan, with a sigh, and a mental reference
to the carpet in the drawing-room; "but there are some
things really that would disturb the temper of an angel.
I don't know anybody that could endure the sight of a
man always coming unasked to dinner; — and he to
speak of Mr. "Went worth, who, if he were the greatest
sinner in the world, is always a gentleman!" Mrs.
Morgan broke off with a sparkle in her eye, which
showed that she had neither exhausted the subject, nor
was ashamed of herself; and the Rector wisely retired
from the controversy. He went to bed, and slept, good
man, and dreamt that Sir Charles Grandison had come
to be his curate in place of Mr. Leeson; and when he
woke, concluded quietly that Mrs. Morgan had "ex-
perienced a little attack on the nerves," as he explained
afterwards to Dr. Marjoribanks. Her compunctions,
her longings after the lost life which they might have
lived together, her wistful womanish sense of the im-
poverished existence, deprived of so many experiences,
on which they had entered in the dry maturity of their
middle age, remained for ever a mystery to her faithful
husband. He was very fond of her, and had a high
respect for her character; but if she had spoken Sanscrit,
he could not have had less understanding of the mean-
ing her words were intended to convey.
Notwithstanding, a vague idea that his wife was
disposed to side with Mr. Wentworth had penetrated
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 149
tlie brain of tLe Rector, and was not without its results.
He told her next morning, in his curt way, that he
thought it would be best to wait a little before taking
any steps in the Wharfside business. "If all I hear is
true, we may have to proceed in a different way against
the unhappy young man," said Mr. Morgan, solemnly,
and he took care to ascertain that Mr. Leeson had an
invitation somewhere else to dinner, which was doing
the duty of a tender husband, as everybody will allow.
CHAPTER XIII.
"I WANT to know what all this means about young
Wentworth," said Mr. Wodehouse. "He's gone off, it
appears, in a hurry, nobody knows where. Well, so
they say. To his brother's, is it? / couldn't know
that; but look here — that's not all, nor nearly all — they
say he meets that little Rosa at Elsworthy's every night,
and walks home with her, and all that sort of thing. I
tell you I don't know — that's what people say. You
ought to understand all the rights of it, you two girls.
I confess I thought it was Lucy he was after, for my
part — and a very bad match, too, and one I should
never have given my consent to. And then there is
another line talk about some fellow he's got at his
house. Wliat's the matter, Molly? — she looks as if she
was going to faint."
"Oh no," said Miss Wodehouse, faintly; "and I
don't believe a word about Rosa Elsworthy," she said,
with sudden impetuosity, a minute after. "I am sure
Mr. Wentworth could vindicate himself whenever he
likes. I daresay the one story is just as true as the
150 THE PERPETUAL CUKATE.
other; but then," said the gentle elder sister, turning
with anxious looks towards Lucy, "he is proud, as is
natural; and I shouldn't think he would enter into ex-
planations if he thought people did not trust him with-
out them."
"That is all stuff," said Mr. Wodehouse; "why
should people trust him? I don't understand trusting
a man in all sorts of equivocal circumstances, because
he's got dark eyes, &c. , and a handsome face — which
seems ijour code of morality; but I thought he was
after Lucy — that was my belief — and I want to know
if it's all off."
"It never was on, papa," said Lucy, in her clearest
voice. "I have been a great deal in the district, you
know, and Mr. Wentworth and I could not help meet-
ing each other; that is all about it: but people 'must
always have something to talk about in Carlingford.
I hope you don't think I and Rosa Elsworthy could go
together," she went on, turning round to him with a
smile. "I don't think that would be much of a com-
pliment;" and, saying this, Lucy went to get her work
out of its usual corner, and sat down opposite to her
father, with a wonderfully composed face. She was so
composed, indeed, that any interested beholder might
have been justified in thinking that the work suffered
in consequence, for it seemed to take nearly all Lucy's
strength and leisure to keep up that look.
"Oh!" said Mr. Wodehouse, "that's how it was?
Then I wonder why that confounded puppy came here
so constantly? I don't like that sort of behaviour.
Don't you go into the district any more and meet him
— that's all I've got to say."
"Because of Rosa Elsworthy?" said Lucy, with a
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 151
little smile, wliicli did not flicker naturally, but was
apt to get fixed at the corners of lier pretty moutli.
"That would never do, papa. Mr. Weutworth's private
concerns are nothing to us; but, you know, there is a
great work going on in the district, and that can't be
interfered with," said the young Sister of Mercy, look-
ing up at him with a decision which Mr. Wodehouse
was aware he could make no stand against. And when
she stopped speaking, Lucy did a little work, which
was for the district too. All this time she was admit-
ting to herself that she had been much startled by this
news about Rosa Elsworthy, — much startled. To be
sure, it was not like Mr. Wentworth, and very likely
it would impair his influence; and it was natural that
any friend taking an interest in him and the district,
should be taken a little aback by such news. Accord-
ingly, Lucy sat a little more upright than usual, and
was conscious that when she smiled, as she had just
done, the smile did not glide off again in a natural
way, but settled down into the lines of her face with
a kind of spasmodic tenacity. She could do a great
deal in the way of self-control, but she could not quite
command these refractory muscles. Mr. Wodehouse,
who was not particularly penetrating, could not quite
make her out; he saw there was something a little
different from her ordinary look about his favourite
child, but he had not insight enough to enable him to
comprehend what it was.
"And about this man who is staying at Mrs. Had-
win's?" said the perplexed churchwarden; "does any
one know who the fellow is? I don't understand how
Wentworth has got into all this hot water in a moment.
Here's the Rector in a state of fury, — and his aunts, —
152 THE PRUPKTUAL CURATE.
and now liere's tliis little bit of scandal to crown all-,
— and who is this fellow in his house?"
"It must be somebody he has taken in out of
charity," said Miss Wodehouse, with tears in her eyes;
"I am sure it is somebody whom he has opened his
doors to out of Christian charity and the goodness of
his heart. I don't understand how you can all desert
him at the first word. All the years he has been here,
you know there never was a whisper against him; and
is it in reason to think he would go so far wrong all
in a moment?" cried the faithful advocate of the Per-
petual Curate. Her Avords were addressed to Mr. Wode-
house, but her eyes sought Lucy, Avho was sitting very
upright doing her work, without any leisure to look
round. Lucy had quite enough to occupy her within
herself at that emergency, and the tearful appeal of her
elder sister had no effect upon her. As for Mr. Wode-
house, he was more and more puzzled how to interpret
these tears in his daughter's eyes.
"I don't make it out at all," said the perplexed
father, getting up to leave the room. "I hope you
weren't in love with him, Molly? you ought to have
too much sense for that. A pretty mess he'll find when
he comes home; but he must get out of it the best way
he can, for / can't help him, at least. I don't mean to
have him asked here any more — you understand, Lucy,"
he said, turning round at the door, with an emphatic
creak of his boots. But Lucy had no mind to be
seduced into any such confession of weakness.
"You are always having everybody in Carliugford
to dinner," said the young housekeeper, "and all the
clergymen, even that Mr. Leeson; and I don't see why
you should except Mr. Wentworth, papa; he has done
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 153
nothing' wicked, so far as we know. I daresay lie won't
want to bring Rosa Elsworthy witli liim; and why
shouldn't he be asked here?"' said Lucy, looking full
in his face with her bright eyes. Mr. Wodehouse was
entirely discomfited, and did not know what to say.
"I wonder if yon know what you mean yourselves,
you women," he muttered-, and then, with a shrug of
his shoulders, and a hasty "settle it as you please," the
churchwarden's boots creaked hastily out of the room,
and out of the house.
After this a dead silence fell upon the drawing-
room and its two occupants. They did not burst forth
into mutual comment upon this last piece of Carling-
ford news, as they would have done under any other
circumstances-, on the contrary, they bent over their
several occupations with quite an unusual devotion, not
exchanging so much as a look. Lucy, over her needle-
work, was the steadiest of the two; she was still at the
same point in her thoughts, owning to herself that she
was startled, and indeed shocked, by what she had
heard — that it was a great pity for Mr. Wentworth;
perhaj)s that it was not quite what might have been
expected of him, — and then she checked herself, and
went back again to her original acknowledgment. To
tell the truth, though she assured herself that she had
nothing to do with it, a strange sense of having just
passed through an unexpected illness, lay underneath
Lucy's composure. It was none of her business, to be
sure, but she could not help feeling as if she had just
had a fever, or some other sudden unlooked-for attack,
and that nobody knew of it, and that she must get well
as she best could, without any help from without.
It was quite half an hour before Miss Wodehouse
lijl Tlin I'lORl'inUAL CURATE.
j^ot Up from tlie kiiittiii<^ wliicli she had Kpoiled utterly,
tryiuf; to take uj) the dropjied stitclies witli her trein-
hliiif,' finj^ers, aud <lroi)])iuj:; others by every effort she
made. The poor lady went wistfully about the room,
wandering from corner to corner, as if in search ol"
something-, at last she took courage to speak, when she
found herself behind her young sister. "Dear, I am
sure it is not true," said Miss Wodehouse, suddenly,
with a little sob; and then she came close to Lucy's
chair, and put her hand timidly upon her sister's
shoulder. "Think how many good things you two
have done together, dear; and is it likely you are to
be parted like this?" said the injudicious comforter.
It felt rather like another attack of fever to Lucy, as
unexpected as the last.
"Don't speak so, please," said the poor girl, with
a momentary shiver. "It is about Mr. Wentworth you
mean?" she went on, after a little, without turning her
head. "I — am sorry, of course. I am afraid it will
do him — harm," and then .she made a pause, and
stumbled over her sewing with fingers which felt feeble
and powerless to the very tips — aU on account of this
fever she had had. "But I don't know any reason
why you and I should discuss it, Mary," she said, get-
ting up in her turn, not quite sure whether she could
stand at tins early period of her convalescence, but
resolved to try. "We are both Mr. Wentworth's friends
— and we need not say any harm of him. I have to
get something out of the store-room for to-night."
"But, Lucy," said the tender, trembling sister, who
did not know how to be wise and silent, "/trust him,
and you don't. Oh, my dear, it will break my heart.
I know some part of it is not true. I know one thing
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 155
in which he is quite — quite inuoceut. Oh, Lucy, my
darling, if you distrust him it will be returning evil for
good ! " cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with tears. As for
Lucy, she did not quite know what her sister said. She
only felt that it was cruel to stop her, and look at her,
and talk to her; and there woke up in her mind a
fierce sudden spark of resistance to the intolerable.
"Why do you hold me? I may have been ill, but
I can stand well enough by myself," cried Lucy, to
her sister's utter bewilderment. "That is, I — I mean,
I have other things to attend to," she cried, breaking
into a few hot tears of mortification over this self-be-
trayal; and so went away in a strange glow and tremble
of sudden passion, such as had never been seen before
in that quiet house. She went direct to the storeroom,
as she had said, and got out what was wanted; and
only after that was done permitted herself to go up to
her own room, and turn the key in her door. Thougli
she was a Sister of Mercy, and much beloved in Prickett's
Lane, she was still but one of Eve's poor petulant
women-children, and had it in her to fly at an intruder
on her suffering, like any other wounded creature. But
she did not make any wild demonstration of her pain,
even when shut up thus in her fortress. She sat down
on the sofa, in a kind of dull heaviness, looking into
vacancy. She was not positively thinking of Mr. Went-
worth, or of any one thing in particular. She was only
conscious of a terrible difference somehow in everything
about her — in the air which choked her breathing, and
the light which blinded her eyes. When she came to
herself a little, she said over and over, half-aloud, that
everything was just the same as it had always been,
and that to her at least nothing had happened; but
150 THE PERPETITAL CURATE.
that declaration, tliouj^h made with vehemence, did not
alter matters. The world altogether had sustained a
change. Tlie light that was in it was darkened, and
the heart stilled. All at once, instead of a sweet
spontaneous career, providing for its own wants day
by day, life came to look like something which re-
(juired such an amount of courage and patience and
endurance as Lucy had not at hand to support her in
the way, and her heart failed her at the moment M'hen
she found this out.
Notwithstanding, the pcojde who dined at Mr.
Wodehouse's tliat night thought it a very agreeable
little party, and more than one repeated the remark,
so familiiir to most persons in society in Carlingford —
that Wodehouse's jjarties were the pleasantest going,
though he himself was humdrum enough. Two or
three of tlie people present had heard the gossip about
Mr. "Wont worth, and discussed it, as was natural, tak-
ing different views of the subject; and poor Miss Wode-
house took up his defence so warmly, and with such
tearful vehemence, that there were smiles to be seen
on several faces. As for Lucy, she made only a very
simple remark on the subject. She said: "Mr. Went-
worth is a great friend of ours, and I think I would
rather not hear any gossip about him." Of course
there were one or two keen observers who put a subtle
meaning to this, and knew what was signified by her
looks and her ways all the evening; but, most likely,
they were altogether mistaken in their suppositions,
for nobody could possibly watch her so closely as did
Miss Wodehouse, who knew no more than the man in
the moon, at the close of the evening, whether her
young sister was very wi'etched or totally indifferent.
THE PERPETUAL CUUATE. 157
The trutli was certainly not to be discovered, for that
night at least, in Lucy's looks.
CHAPTER XIV.
The next afternoon there were signs of a consider-
able commotion in Mr. Elsworthy's shop. Rosa had
disappeared altogether, and Mrs. Elsworthy, with an
ominous redness on her cheeks, had taken the place
generally held by that more agreeable little figure.
All the symptoms of having been engaged in an affray
from which she had retired not altogether victorious
were in Mrs. Elsworthy's face, and the errand-boys
vanished from her neighbourhood with inconceivable
rapidity, and found out little parcels to deliver which
would have eluded their most anxious search in other
circumstances. Mr. Elsworthy himself occiipied his
usual place in the foreground, without the usual marks
of universal content and satisfaction with all his sur-
roundings which generally distinguished him. An in-
describable appearance of having been recently snubbed
hung about the excellent man, and his glances towards
the back-shop, and the glances directed from the back-
shop to him, told with sufficient significance the quarter
from which his humiliation had proceeded. It had
done him good, as such painful discipline generally
does; for he was clearing out some drawers in which
sundry quires of paper had broken loose and run into
confusion, Avith the aii- of a man who ought to have
done it weeks ago. As for the partner of his bosom,
she was standing in the obscure distance behind the
counter knitting a blue stocking, which was evidently
158 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
intended for no foot but Lis. There was a chair close
by, but I\Irs. Elswortliy disdained to sit down. She
stood witli her knitting, in conscious power, now and
then suffering a confession of her faith to escape her.
"There's nothing as don't go contrary in this world,"
said the discontented wife, "when a man's a fool." It
was hard upon Mr. Elsworthy that his ears were sharp,
and that lie knew exactly what this agreeable murmur
was. But he was wise in his generation, and made no
reply.
Things were in this condition when, of all persons
in Carlingford, it occurred to Miss Leonora Wentworth
to enter Mr. ElsAvorthy's shop. Not that she was alone,
or bent upon any errand of inquiry; for Miss Leonora
seldom moved about unattended by her sisters, whom
she felt it her duty to take out for exercise; and won-
derfully enough, she had not found out yet what was
the source of Miss Dora's mysteries and depression,
having been still occupied meantime by her own
"great work" in her London district, and the afFaii* of
the gin-palace, which was still undecided. She had
been talking a great deal about this gin-palace for the
last twenty-four hours; and to hear Miss Leonora, you
might have supposed that all the powers of heaven
must fiiil and be discomfited before this potent instru-
ment of evil, and that, after all, Bibles and missionaries
were much less effective than the stoppage of the
licence, upon which all her agents were bent. At all
events, such an object of interest had swept out from
her thoughts the vague figure of her nephew Frank,
and aunt Dora's mysterious anxieties on his account.
When the three ladies approached Elsworthy's, the first
thing that attracted their attention was Rosa, the little
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 159
Rosa who had beeu banished from the shop, and whom
Mrs. Elsworthy believed to be expiating her sins in a
back room, in tears and darkness; instead of which
the little girl was looking out of her favourite window,
and amusing herself much with all that was going on
in Grange Lane. Though she was fluttered by the
scolding she had received, Eosa only looked prettier
than usual with her flushed cheeks; and so many
things had been put into her nonsensical little head
during the last two days, especially by her aunt's de-
nunciations, that her sense of self-importance was very
much heightened in consequence. She looked at the
Miss Wentworths with a throb of mingled pride and
alarm, wondering whether perhaps she might know
more of them some day, if Mr. Wentworth was really
fond of her, as people said — which thought gave Rosa
a wonderful sensation of awe and delighted vanity.
Meanwhile the three Miss Wentworths looked at her
with very diverse feelings. "I must speak to these
people about that little girl, if nobody else has sense
enough to do it," said Miss Leonora; "she is evidently
going wrong as fast as she can, the little fool;" and
the iron-grey sister went into Mr. Elsworthy's in this
perfectly composed and ordinary fram.e of mind, with
her head full of the application which was to be made
to the licensing magistrates to-day, in the parish of St.
Michael, and totally unaware that anybody belonging
to herself could ever be connected witli the incautious
little coquette at the window. Miss Dora's feelings
were very different. It was much against her will that
she was going at all into this obnoxious shop, and the
eyes which she hastily uplifted to the window and
withdrew again with lively disgust and dislike, were
160 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
both angry and tearful; "Little forward shameless
thing," Miss Dora said to herself, with a little toss of
her head. As for Miss Wentworth, it was not her
custom to say anything — but she, too, looked up, and
saw tlie pretty face at the window, and secretly con-
cluded that it might all be (jiiite true, and that she had
known a young man make a fool of himself before
now for such another. So they all went in, unwitting
that they came at the end of a domestic hurricane,
and that the waters were still in a state of disturbance.
Miss Wentworth took the only chair, as was natural,
and sat down sweetly to wait for Leonora, and Miss
Dora lingered behind while her sister made her pur-
chases. Miss Leonora wanted some books —
"And I came here," she said, with engaging
candour, "because I see no other shop in this part of
the town except Masters's, which, of course, I would
not enter. It is easy enough to do without books, but
I can't afford to compromise my principles, Mr. Els-
worthy," to which Mr. Elsworthy had replied, "No,
ma'am, of course not — such a thing ain't to be ex-
pected;" with one eye upon his customer, and one
upon his belligerent Avife.
"And, by the by, if you will permit me to speak
about what does not concern me," said Miss Leonora
cheerfully, "I think you should look after that little
girl of yours more carefully; — recollect I don't mean
any offence; but she's very pretty, you know, and very
young, and vain, as a matter of course. I saw her
the other evening going down Grange Lane, a great
deal too late for such a creature to be out; and though
I don't doubt, you are very particular where she
goes " ^^
v"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 161
It was at this coujuncture that Mrs. Elsworthy,
who could not keep silence any longer, broke in
ardently, with all her knitting-needles in front of her,
disj)Osed like a kind of porcupine mail —
"I'm well known in Carlingford — better known
than most," said Mrs. Elsworthy, with a sob; "such a
thing as not being particular was never named to me.
I strive and I toil from morning to night, as all things
should be respectable and kep' in good order-, but
what's the good? Here's my heart broken, that's all;
and Elsworthy standing gaping like a gaby as he is.
There ain't nothing as don't go contrairy, when folks
is tied to a set of fools!" cried the indignant matron.
"As for pretty, I don't know nothing about it; I've
got too much to do minding my own business. Them
as has nothing to think of but stand in the shop and
twiddle their thumbs, ought to look to that; but, ma'am,
if you'll believe me, it aiu't no fault of mine. It ain't
my will to throw her in any young gentleman's way;
not to say a clergyman as we're bound to respect.
Whatever you does, ladies, — and I shouldn't wonder
at your taking away your custom, nor nothing else as
was a punishment — don't blame me!"
"But you forget, Mrs. Elsworthy, that we have no-
thing to do with it, — nothing at all; my nephew knows
very well what he is about," said Miss Dora, in in-
judicious haste. "]\Ir. Wentworth is not at all likely
to forget himself," continued that poor lady, getting
confused as her sister turned round and stared at her.
"Of course it was all out of kindness; — I — I know
Frank did not mean anything," cried the unfortunate
aunt. Leonora's look, as she turned round and fixed
The Perpetual Citrate. I. 11
162 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
her eyes upon her, took away what little breatli Miss
Dora had.
"Mr. Wentworth?" asked Miss Leonora; "I should
be glad to know, if anybody would inform me, what
Mr. Wentworth can possibly have to do with it? I
daresay you misunderstood me; I said you were to
look after that little girl — ^your niece, or whatever she
is; I did not say anything about Mr. Wentworth," said
the strong-minded sister, looking round upon them all.
For the moment she forgot all about the licence, and
turned itpon Mr. Elsworthy with an emphasis which
almost drove that troubled citizen to his knees.
"That was how I understood it," said the clerk of
St. Roque's, humbly; "there wasn't nothing said about
Mr. Wentworth — nor there couldn't be as I know of,
but what was in his favour, for there ain't many
young men like our clergyman left in the Church. It
ain't because I'm speaking to respected ladies as is his
relations; folks may talk," said Mr. Elsworthy, with a
slight faltering, "but I never see his equal; and as for
an act of kindness to an orphan child "
"The orphan child is neither here nor there," said
his angry wife, who had taken up her post by his side ;
"a dozen fathei's and mothers couldn't hare done better
by her than we've done; and to go and lay out her
snares for them as is so far above her, if you'll believe
me, ma'am, it's nigh broken my heart. She's neither
flesh nor blood o' mine," cried the aggrieved woman;
"there would have been a different tale to tell if she
had belonged to me. I'd have — murdered her, ma'am,
though it ain't proper to say so, afore we'd have gone
and raised a talk like this; it ain't my blame, if it
was my dying word," cried Mrs. Elsworthy, relapsing
THE PERPETUAL CUPvATE. 163
into angry tears: "I'm one as has always shown her a
good example, and never gone flirting about, nor cast
my eyes to one side or another for the best man as
ever walked; and to think as a respectable family
should be brought to shame through her doings, and a
gentleman as is a clergyman got himself talked about
— it's gone nigh to kill me, that's what it's done,"
sobbed the virtuous matron; "and I don't see as no-
body cares."
Miss Leonora had been woke up suddenly out of
her abstract occupations; she penetrated to the heart of
the matter while all this talk was going on. She trans-
fixed her sister Dora, who seemed much inclined to
cry like Mrs. Elsworthy, with a look which over-
whelmed that trembling woman; then she addressed
herself with great suavity to the matter in hand.
"I suppose it is this poor little foolish child who
has been getting herself talked about?" said Miss Leo-
nora. "It's a pity, to be sure, but I daresay it's not
so bad as you think. As for her laying snares for
people above her, I wouldn't be afraid of that. Poor
little thing! It's not so easy as you think laying
snares. Perhaps it's the new minister at Salem Chapel
who has been paying attention to her? I would not
take any notice of it if I were you. Don't let her loll
about at the window as she's doing, and don't let her
go out so late, and give her plenty of work to do.
My maid wants some one to help in her needlework.
Perhaps this child would do, Cecilia?" said Miss Leo-
nora. "As for her snares, poor thing, I don't feel
much afraid of them. I daresay if Mr. Wentworth had
Sunday classes for the young people as I wished him
to have, and took pains to give them proper instruc-
11*
164 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
tion, such things would n(jt happen. If you send her
to my maid, I flatter myself she will soon come to her
senses. Good morning; and you will please to send
me the books — there are some others I want you to
get for me next week," said Mr. Elsworthy's patroness.
"I will follow you, Dora, please," and Miss Leonora
swept her sisters out before her, and went upon her
way with indescribable grandeur. Even little Rosa
felt the change, where she sat at the window looking
out. The little vain creature no longer felt it possible
to believe, as slie looked after them, that she ever
could be anything to the Miss "VVentworths except a
little girl in a shop. It shook her confidence in what
people said; and it was as well for her that she with-
drew from the window at that conjuncture, and so had
an opportunity of hearing her aunt come up-stairs, and
of darting back again to the penitential darkness of her
own chamber at the back of the house — which saved
Rosa some angry words at least.
As for Miss Leonora Wentworth, she said nothing
to her sisters on this new subject. She saw them safely
home to their own apartments, and went out again
without explaining her movements. AYhen she was
gone. Miss Wentworth listened to Miss Dora's doubts
and tears ^\'ith her usual patience, but did not go into
the matter much. "It doesn't matter whether it is
your fault or not," said aunt Cecilia, with a larger
amount of words than usual, and a sharjjness very un-
common with her; "but I daresay Leonora will set it
all right." After all, the confidence which the elder
sister had in Leonora was justified. She did not en-
tirely agree with her about the "great work," nor was
disposed to connect the non-licensing of the gin-palace
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 165
in any way with the faithfulness of God : but she com-
prehended in her gentle heart that there were other
matters of which Leonora was capable. As for Miss
Dora, she went to the summer-house at last, and, seat-
ing herself at the window, cried under her breath till
she had a very bad headache, and was of no use for
any purpose under heaven. She thought nothing less
than that Leonora had gone abroad to denounce poor
Frank, and tell everybody how wicked he was; and
she was so sure her poor dear boy did not mean any-
thing! She sat Avith her head growing heavier and
heavier, watching for her sister's return, and calculat-
ing within herself how many places Leonora must have
called at, and how utterly gone by this time must be
the character of the Perpetual Curate. At last, in utter
despair, with her thin curls all limp about her poor
cheeks, Miss Dora had to go to bed and have the room
darkened, and swallow cups of green tea and other
nauseous compounds, at the will and pleasure of her
maid, who was learned in headache. The poor lady
sobbed herself to sleep after a time, and saw, in a
hideous dream, her sister Leonora marching from house
to house of poor Frank's friends, and closing door after
door with all sorts of clang and dash upon the return-
ing prodigal. "But oh, it was not my fault — oh, my
dear, she found it out herself. You do not think /
was to blame?" sobbed poor aunt Dora in her troubled
slumber; and her headache did not get any better not-
withstanding the green tea.
Miss Dora's visions were partly realised, for it was
quite true that her iron-grey sister was making a round
of calls upon Frank's friends. Miss Leonora Went-
worth went out in great state that day. She had her
166 THE PERPETUAL CITRATE.
luindsomest dress on, and the bonnet which her maid
had calculated upon as her own property, because it
was much too nice for Miss Leonora. In this impos-
ing attire she went to see Mrs. Iladwin, and was very
gracious to tliat unsuspecting Monian, and learned a
few things of whicli she had not the least conception
previously. Tiien she went to the Miss Wodehouses,
and made the elder sister there mighty uncomfortable
by her keen looks and questions; and what Miss Leo-
nora did after that was not distinctly known to any
one. She got into Prickett's Lane somehow, and
stumbled upon No. 10, much to the surprise of the in-
habitants; and before she returned home she had given
Mrs. Morgan her advice about the Virginian creeper
which WAS intended to conceal the continual passage
of the railway trains. "But I would not trust to trellis-
work. I would build up the wall a few feet higher,
and then you will have some satisfaction in your work,"
said Miss Leonora, and left the liector's wife to con-
sider the matter in rather an agreeable state of mind,
for that had been Mrs. Morgan's opinion all along.
After this last visit the active aunt returned home,
going leisurely along George Street, and down Grange
Lane, with meditative steps. Miss Leonora, of course,
would not for kingdoms have confessed that any new
light had come into her mind, or that some very ordi-
nary people in Carliugford, no one of whom she could
have confidently affirmed to be a converted person, had
left a certain vivid and novel impression upon her
thoughts. She went along much more slewly than
ixsual in this new mood of reflectiveness. She was not
thinking of the licensing magistrates of St. Michael's
nor the beautiful faith of the colporteur. Other ideas
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 167
filled her mind at the moment. Whether perhaps, after
all, a man who did his duty by rich and poor, and
could encounter all things for love and duty's sake,
was not about the best man for a parish priest, even
though he did have choristers in white surplices, and
lilies on the Easter altar? "Whether it might not be a
comfort to know that in the pretty parsonage at
Skelmersdale there was some one ready to start at a mo-
ment's notice for the help of a friend or the succour of
a soul — brother to Charley who won the Cross for
Valour, and not unworthy of the race? Some strange
moisture came into the corners of Miss Leonora's eyes.
There was Gerald too, whom the Perpetual Curate had
declared to be the best man he ever knew, and the
Evangelical woman, with all her prejudices, could not
in her heart deny it. Various other thoughts of a
similar description, but t6o shadowy to bear expression,
came in spite of herself through Miss Leonora's mind.
"We know that God heareth not sinners; but if any
man be a worshipper of God and doeth His will, him
He heareth;" and it occurred to her vaguely, for the
first time, that she was liarder to please than her
Master. Not that such an idea could get possession of
a mind so well fortified, at the first assault; but it was
strange how often the thought came back to her that
the man who had thrilled through all those people
about Prickett's Lane a kind of vague sense that they
were Christians, and not hopeless wretches, forgotten
of God; and who had taken in the mysterious lodger
at Mrs. Had win's, bearing the penalty of suspicion
without complaint, would be true at his post wherever
he might be, and was a priest of God's appointing.
Such were the strangely novel ideas which went flash-
168 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ing through Miss Leonora's mind as she went home to
dinner, ejecting summarily the new gin-palace and her
favourite colporteur. If anybody had stated them in
words, she would have indignantly scouted such lati-
tudinarian stuff; but they kept flickering in the
strangest fluctuations, coming and going, Ijringing in
native Wentworth prejudices and natural aff'ections to
overcome all other prepossessions, in the most in-
veterate, unexplainable way. For it will be apparent
that Miss Leonora, being a woman of sense, utterly
scorned the llosa Elsworthy hypothesis, and compre-
hended as nearly how it happened as it was possible
for any one unaware of the facts to do.
Such were the good and bad angels who fought
over the Curate's fate while he was away. He might
have been anxious if he had known anything about
tberfr, or had been capable of imagining any such clouds
as those which overshadowed his good name in the
lively imagination of Carlingford. But Rosa Elsworthy
never could have occurred to the unconscious young
man as a special danger, any more than the relenting
in the heart of his aunt Leonora could have dawned
upon him as a possible happiness. To tell the truth,
he had left home, so far as he himself was concerned,
in rather a happy state of mind than otherwise, with
healthful impulses of opposition to the Rector, and con-
fidence in the sympathy of Lucy. To hear that Lucy
had given him up, and that Miss Leonora and Mrs.
Morgan were the only people who believed in him,
would have gone pretty far at this moment to make
an end of the Perpetual Curate. But fortunately he
knew nothing about it; and while Lucy held her head
high with pain, and walked over the burning coals a
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 169
conscious martyr, and Miss Dora sobbed herself asleep
in her darkened room, all on his account, there was
plenty of trouble, perplexity, and distress in Wentworth
Rectory to occupy to the full all the thoughts and
powers of the Curate of St. Koque's.
CHAPTER XV.
It was mid-day, and more than twelve hours after
he had left Carlingford, before Mr. Wentworth reached
the Rectory. He had snatched a few hours' sleep in
London, where he was obliged to pause because of the
trains, which did not correspond; and accordingly,
though he was very anxious about Gerald, it was with
a mien and gait very much like his usual appearance
that he jumped out of the railway carriage at the little
station which was on his father's property, and where
everybody knew the Squire's son. Left in entire un-
certainty as he was in respect to the trouble which had
overtaken his brother, it was a little comfort to the
Curate to find that everybody looked surpi-ised to see
him, and that nobody seemed to know of any cause
demanding his jn-esence. All was well at the Hall, so
far as the station-master knew; and as for the Rector,
he had no special place in the local report with which
the handiest porter supplied "Mr. Frank" — a blessed
neglect, which was very consolatory to the heart of the
anxious brother, to whom it became evident that no-
thing had happened, and who began to hope that
Gerald's wife, who never was very wise, had been
seized with some merely fantastic terror. With this
hope he walked on briskly upon the familiar road to
170 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
liis brothers house, recovering his courage, and falling
back upon his own thoughts, and at last taking pleasure
in the idea of telling all his troubles to Gerald, and
getting strength and enlightenment from his advice.
He had come quite into this view of the subject when
he arrived at the Rectory, and saw the pretty old-
fashioned house, with its high ivied garden-walls, and
the famous cedar on the lawn, standing all secure and
sweet in the early sunshine, like something too stead-
fast to be moved, as if sorrow or conflict could never
enter there. Unconsciously to himself, the perfect tran-
quillity of everything altered the entire scope of Frank
Wentworth's thoughts. He was no longer in anxiety
about his brother. He was going to ask Gerald's
advice upon his own troubles, and lay the difficulties
and dangers of his position before the clear and lucid
eyes of the best man he ever knew.
It shook him a little out of this position, however,
to find himself admitted with a kind of scared expecta-
tion by Mrs. Gerald Wentworth's maid, who made no
exclamation of wonder at the sight of him, but opened
the door in a troubled, stealthy way, strangely unlike
the usual customs of the place. "Is my brother at
home?" said the Curate, going in with a step that rang
on the hall, and a voice that sounded into the house.
He would have proceeded straight, as usual, to Gerald's
study after this question, which was one of form merely,
but for the disturbed looks of the woman, who put up
her hand imploringly. "Oh hush! Mr. Frank; hush!
My mistress wants to see you first. She said I was to
show you into her sitting-room," said the maid, half in
a whisper, and led him hastily down a side-passage to
a little out-of-the-way room, which he knew was where
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 171
Louisa •vras "wont to retire when she had her headaches,
as was well known to all the house of Wentworth.
The Curate went in with some impatience and some
alarm to this retired apartment. His eyes, dazzled by
the sunshine, could not penetrate at first the shadowy
greenness of the room, which, what with the trees
without and the Venetian blind Avithin, was lost in a
kind of twilight, grateful enough after a while, but be-
wildering at the first moment. Out of- this darkness
somebody rose as he entered, and walked into his arms
with trembling eagerness.- "Oh, Frank, I am so thank-
ful you are come! now perhaps something may be
done; for ^jou always understood," said his little sister-
in-law, reaching up to kiss him. She was a tiny little
woman, with soft eyes and a tender little blooming
face, which he had never before seen obscured by any
cloud, or indeed moved by any particular sentiment.
Now the little firmament was all overcast, and Louisa,
it was evident, had been sitting in the shade of her
drawn blinds, having a quiet cry, and going into all
her grievances. To see such a serene creature all
clouded over and full of tears, gave the Curate a dis-
tinct shock of alarm and anxiety. He led her back to
her sofa, seeing clearer and clearer, as he watched her
face, the plaintive lines of complaint, the heavy burden
of trouble which she Avas about to cast on his shoulders.
He grew more and more afraid as he looked at her.
"Is Gerald ill?" he said, with a thrill of terror; but
even this could scarcely account for the woeful look of
all the accessories to the picture.
"Oh, Frank, I am so glad you are come!" said
Louisa through her tears. "I felt sure you would come
when you got my letter. Your father thinks I make a
172 THE PERPEIUAL CURATE.
fuss about nothing, and Cuthbert and Guy do nothing
but laugh at me, as if they could possibly know; but
you always understand me, Frank. I knew it was just
as good as sending for a brother of my own; indeed
better," said Mrs. Wentworth, wiping her eyes; "for
though Gerald is using me so badly, I would not ex-
pose him out of his own family, or have people making
remarks — oh, not for the world!"
"Expose him!" said the Curate, Avith unutterable
astonishment. "You don't mean to say you have any
complaint to make about Gerald?" The idea was so
preposterous that Frank Wentworth laughed; but it
was not a laugh pleasant to hear.
"Oh, Frank, if you but knew all," said Louisa;
"what I have had to put up with for months — all my
best feelings outraged, and so many things to endure
that were dreadful to think of. And I that was always
brought up so differently; but now," cried the poor
little woman, bursting into renewed tears, "it's come
to such a pass that it can't be concealed any longer.
I think it will break my heart; people will be sure to
say I have been to blame; and how I am ever to hold
up my head in society, and what is to be my name,
and whether I am to be considered a widow "
"A widow!" cried the Perpetual Curate, in utter
consternation.
"Or worse," sobbed Gerald's poor little wife: "it
feels like being divorced — as if one had done some-
thing wrong; and I am sure I never did anything to
deserve it; but when your husband is a Romish priest,"
cried the afflicted woman, pressing her handkerchief to
her eyes, "I would just ask anybody what are you?
You can't be his wife, because he is not allowed to
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 173
have any wife; and you can't go back to yonr maiden
name, because of the children; and how can you have
any place in society? Oh, Frank, I think I shall go
distracted," said poor Louisa; "it will feel as if one
had done something wicked, and been put out of the
pale. How can I be called Mrs. Wentworth any more
when my husband has left me? and even if he is a
priest, and can't have any wife, still he will be alive,
and I shall not have the satisfaction of being a widow
even. I am sure I don't know what I say," she con-
cluded, with a fresh outburst; "for to be a widow would
be a poor satisfaction, and I don't know how I could
ever, ever live without Gerald; but to feel as if you
were an improper person, and all the children's pro-
spects in life! — Oh, Frank!" cried the weeping Louisa,
burying her face in her handkerchief, "I think I shall
go distracted, and my heart will break."
To all this strange and unexpected revelation the
startled Curate listened like a man in a dream. Pos-
sibly his sister-in-law's representation of this danger,
as seen entirely from her own point of view, had a
more alarming effect upon him than any other state-
ment of the case. He could have gone into Gerald's
difficulties with so much sympathy and fellow-feeling
that the shock Avould have been trifling in comparison;
and between Rome and the highest level of Anglicanism
there was no such difference as to frighten the ac-
customed mind of the Curate of St. Roque's. But,
seen from Louisa's side, matters appeared very different :
here the foundations of the earth were shaking, and
life itself going to pieces; even the absurdity of her
distress made the whole business more real; and the
poor little woman, whose trouble was that she herself
174 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
would neither be a wife nor a widow, tad enough of
truth on her side to unfold a miserable picture to the
eyes of the anxious spectator. He did not know what
answer to make to her; and perhaps it was a greater
consolation to poor Louisa to be permitted to run on —
"And you know it never needed to have come to
this if Gerald had been like other people," she said,
drying her tears, and with a tone of remonstrance.
"Of course it is a family living, and it is not likely
his own father would have made any disturbance; and
there is no other family in the parish but the Skip-
withs, and they are great friends, and never would
have said a word. He might have preached in six
surplices if he had liked," cried poor Louisa — "who
would have minded? And as for confession, and all
that, I don't believe there is anybody in the world who
had done any wrong that could have helped confessing
to Gerald; he is so good — oh, Frank, you know he is
so good!" said the exasperated little wife, overcome
with fondness and admiration and impatience, "and
there is nobody in the parish that I ever heard of that
does not worship him; but when I tell him so, he
never pays the least attention. And then Edward
Plumstead and he go on talking about subscription,
and signing articles, and nonsense, till they make my
head swim. Nobody, I am sure, wants Gerald to sub-
scribe or sign articles. I am sure I would subscribe
any amount," cried the poor little woman, once more
falling into tears — "a thousand pounds if I had it,
Frank — only to make him hear reason; for why should
he leave Wentworth, where he can do what he likes,
and nobody will interfere with him? The Bishop is
an old friend of my father's, and I am sure he never
THE PEKPETUAL CURATE. 175
would say anything; and as for candles and crosses
and — anything he pleases, Frank "
Here poor Louisa paused, and put her hand on
his arm, and looked up wistfully into his face. She
wanted to convince herself that she was right, and
that the faltering dread she had behind all this, of
something more mysterious than candles or crosses —
something which she did not attempt to understand —
was no real spectre after all. "Oh, Frank, I am sure
I never would oppose him, nor your ftither, nor any-
body, and why should he go and take some dreadful
step, and upset everything?" said Mrs. Wentwortli.
"Oh, Frank! we will not even have enough to live
upon-, and as for me, if Gerald leaves me, how shall I
ever hold up ray head again, or how will anybody
know how to behave to me? I can't call myself Miss
Leighton again, after being married so long; and if I
am not his wife, what shall I be?" Her crying be-
came hysterical as she came back to this point; and
Mr. Wentworth sat by her trying to soothe her, as
wretched as herself.
"But I must see Gerald, Louisa," said the Curate;
"he has never written to me about this. Perhaps
things have not gone so far as you think; but as for
the crosses and the candles, you know, and not being
interfered with "
"I would promise to do anything he likes," cried
the weeping woman. "I never would worry him any
more about anything. After aunt Leonora was here,
perhaps I said things I should not have said; but, oh
Frank, whatever he likes to do I am sure I will give
in to it. I don't reaUy mind seeing him preach in his
surplice, only you know poor papa was so very Low-
176 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Churcli; and as for the candles, what are they to
pleasing one's husband? Oh, Frank, if you would
only tell him — I can't argue about things like a man
— tell him nobody will ever interfere, and he shall do
whatever he pleases. I trust to you to say everything^'''
said the poor wife. "You can reason with him and
explain things. Nobody understands Gerald like you.
You Avill not forsake me in my trouble, Frank? I
thought immediately of you. I knew you could help
us, if anybody could. You will tell him all I have
said," she continued, rising as Mr. Wentworth rose,
and going after him to the door, to impress once more
upon him the necessities of the case. "Oh, Frank,
remember how much depends upon it! — everything in
the world for me, and all the children's prospects in
life; and he would be miserable himself if he were to
leave us. You know he would?" said Louisa, looking
anxiously into his face, and putting her hand on his
arm. "Oh, Frank, you don't think Gerald could be
happy without the children — and me?"
The terrible thought silenced her. She stopped
crying, and a kind of tearless horror and dread came
over her face. She was not very wise, but her heart
was tender and full of love in its way. What if per-
haps this life, which had gone so smoothly over her
unthinking head without any complications, should
turn out to be a lie, and her happiness a mere delu-
sion? She could not have put her thought into words,
but the doubt suddenly came over her, putting a stop
to all her lamentations. If perhaps Gerald couU be
happy without the children and herself, what dreadful
fiction had all her joy been built upon! Such an in-
articulate terror seemed to stop the very beating of
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 1 < i
her heart. It was not a great calamity only, but an
overthrowal of all confidence in life; and she shivered
before it like a dumb creature piteously beholding an
approaching agony which it could not comprehend.
The utterance of her distress was arrested upon her
lips, — she looked up to her brother with an entreating
look, so suddenly intensified and grown desperate that
he was startled by it. It alarmed him so much that
he turned again to lead her back to her sofa, wonder-
ing what momentary passion it could be which had
woke such a sudden world of confused meaning in
Louisa's eyes.
"You may be sure he could not," said the Curate,
warmly. "Not happy, certainly, but to men like
Gerald there are things in the world dearer than hap-
piness," he said, after a little pause, with a sigh,
wondering to himself whether, if Lucy Wodehouse were
his, the dearest duty could make him consent to part
with her. "If he thinks of such a step, he must think
of it as of martyrdom — is that a comfort to you?" he
continued, bending, in his -pity and wonder, over the
trembling wife, who burst forth into fresh tears as he
spoke, and forgot her momentary horror.
"Oh, Fi'ank, go and speak to him, and tell him
how miserable I am, and what a dreadful thing it
would be; tell him everything, Frank. Oh, don't leave
him till you have persuaded him. Go, go; never mind
me," cried Mrs. Wentworth; and then she went to the
door after him once more — -"Don't say I sent for you.
He — he might not be pleased," she said, in her falter-
ing, eager voice; "and oh, Frank, consider hoAV much
hangs upon what you say." When he left her, Louisa
stood at the door watching him as he went along the
The Perpelual Cuiati. I. 1-
178 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
passage towards her husband's room. It was a forlorn
hope; but still the unreasoning, uncomprehending heart
took a little comfort from it. She watched his figure
disappearing along the narrow passage with a thrill of
mingled anxiety and hojie; arguing with Gerald,
though it was so ineffectual when she tried it, might
still be of some avail in stronger hands. His brother
understood him, and could talk to him better than any-
body else could; and though she had never convinced
anybody of anything all her life, Mrs. Wentworth had
an inalienable confidence in the effect of "being talked
to." In the momentary stimulus she went back to her
darkened room and drew up the blind, and Avent to
work in a tremulous way; but as the slow time went
on, and Frank did not return, poor Louisa's courage
failed her; her fingers refused their office, and she
began to imagine all sorts of things that might be
going on in Gerald's study. Perhaps the argument
might be going the wrong Avay; perhaps Gerald might
be angry at his brother's interference; perhaps they
might come to words — they who had been such good
friends — and it would be her fault. She jumped up
with her heart beating loud when she heard a door
opened somewhere; but when nobody came, grew sick
and faint, and hid her face, in the impatience of her
misery. Then the feeling grew upon her that those
precious moments were decisive, and that she must
make one last appeal, or her heart would burst. She
tried to resist the impulse in a feeble way, but it was
not her custom to resist impulses, and it got the better
of her; and this was why poor Louisa rushed into the
library, just as Frank thought he had made a little
advance in his pleading, and scattered his eloquence
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 179
to the winds with a set of dreadful arguments which
were all her own.
CHAPTER XVI.
The Curate of St. Roque's found his brother in his
library, looking very much as he always looked at the
first glance. But Gerald was not reading nor wi'iting
nor doing anything. He was seated in his usual chair,
by his usual table, with all the ordinary things around.
Some manuscript — lying loosely about, and looking as
if he had thrown down his pen in disgust, and pushed
it away from him in the middle of a sentence — was on
the table, and an open book in his other hand-, but
neither the book nor the manuscript occupied him-, he
was sitting leaning his head in his hands, gazing
blankly out through the window, as it appeared, at
the cedar, which flung its serene shadow over the
lawn outside. He jumped up at the sound of his
brother's voice, but seemed to recall himself with a
little difficulty even for that, and did not look much
surprised to see him. In short, Frank read in Gerald's
eyes that he would not at that moment have been
surprised to see any one, and that, in his own con-
sciousness, the emergency was great enough to justify
any unlooked-for appearance, though it might be from
heaven or from the grave.
"I am glad you have come," he said, after they
had greeted each other, his mouth relaxing ever so
slightly into the ghost of his old smile; "you and I
always understood each other, and it appears I want
interpretation now. And one interpretation supposes
12*
180 Tin: I'lCKl'ETCAL Cl'ltATJB.
many," he siiid^witli a frloain, liali" of jtathos lialf of
amusement, lif^liling' up liis face for a moment; "there
is no such thing as accepting a simple version even of
one man's thoughts. You have come at a very fit
time, Frank — that is, for me."
"I am ghad you tliink so," said tlio other hrotlier;
and then there was a jjause, neither liking to enter
upon the grand suhject which stood hctween them.
"Have you seen Louisa?" said Gerald. lie spoke
like a man who was ill, in a preoccupied interrupted
way. Like a sick man, he was occupied with himself,
with the train of thought which was always going on
in his mind whatever he might be doing, whether he
was- Avorking or resting, alone or in company. For
months back he had carried it with him everywhere.
The cedar-tree outside, upon which his thoughtful eyes
fell as he looked straight before him out of the library
window, was all garlauded with the reasonings and
questionings of this painful spring. To Frank's eyes,
Gerald's attention was fixed upon the fluttering of a
certain twig at the extremity of one of those broad
solemn immovable branches. Gerald, however, saw
not the twig, but one of his hardest difficulties, which
was twined and twined in the most inextricable way
round that little sombre cluster of spikes; and so kept
looking out, uot at the cedar, but at the whole con-
fused yet distinct array of his own troubled thoughts.
"If you have seen Louisa, she has been talking to
you, no dou.bt," he said, after another little pause,
with again the glimmer of a smile. "We have fallen
upon troubles, and we don't understand each other,
Frank. That's all very natural; she does not see
things from my point of vieM': I could not expect she
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 181
should. If I could see fioiu hers, it might be easier
for us all; but that is still less to be expected; raid it
is liard upon her, Frank — very hard," said Gerald,
turning round in his old ingenuous way, with that
faculty for seeing other people's difficulties which was
so strong a point in his character. "She is called
upon to make, after all, perhaps, the greater sacrifice
of the two; and she does not see any duty in it — the
reverse, indeed. She thinks it a sin. It is a strange
view of life, to look at it from Louisa's point. Hers
will be an unwilling, unintentional martyrdom; and it
is hard to think I should take all tlie merit, and leave
my poor little wife the sufl'ering without any com-
jjcnsation!" He began to Avalk up and down the room
with uneasy steps, as if the thought was painful, and
had to be got rid of by some sudden movement. "It
must be that God reckons with women for what they
liave endured, as with men for what they have done,"
said Gerald. He spoke with a kind of grieved cer-
tainty, which made his brother feel, to start with, the
hopelessness of all argument.
"But miist this be? Is it necessary to take such
a final, such a terrible step?" said the Perpetual
Curate.
"I think so." Gerald went to the window, to
resume his contemplation of the cedar, and stood there
with his back turned to Frank, and his eyes going
slowly over all the long processes of his self-argument,
laid u}) as they were upon those solemn levels of
shadow. "Yes — you have gone so far with me; but I
don't want to take you any farther, Frank. Perhaps,
when I have reached the pei'fect peace to which I am
looking forward, I may try to induce you to share it,
182 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
but at present there are so many pricks of the flesh.
You did not come to argue with me, did you?" and
again the half-liumorous gleam of old came over
Gerald's face as he looked roiind. "Louisa believes in
arguing," he said, as he came back to the table and
took his seat again; "not that she has ever gained
much by it, so far as I am aware. Poor girl! she
talks and talks, and fancies she is persuading me; and
aU the time my heart is bleeding for her. There it is!"
he exclaimed, suddenly hiding his face in his hands.
"This is what crushes one to tliink of. The rest is
hard enough, Heaven knows — separation from my
friends, giving up my own people, wounding and
grieving, as I know I shall, everybody who loves me.
I could bear that; but Louisa and her children — God
help me, there's the sting!"
They were both men, and strong men, not likely
to fall into any sentimental weakness; but something
between a groan and sob, wrung out of the heart of
the elder brother at the thought of the terrible sacrifice
before him, echoed with a hard sound of anguish into
the quiet. It was very different from his wife's trem-
bling, weeping, hoping agony; but it reduced the
Curate more than ever to that position of spectator
which he felt was so very far from the active part
which his poor sister expected of him.
"I don't know by what steps you have reached
this conclusion," said Frank Wentworth; "but even if
you feel it your duty to give up the Anglican Church
(in which, of course, I think you totally -m-ong," added
the High Churchman in a parenthesis), "I cannot see
why you are bound to abandon all duties whatever. I
have not come to argue with you; I daresay poor
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 183
Louisa may expect it of me, but I can't, aud you
know very well I can't. I should like to know how
it has come about all the same; but one thing only,
Gerald — a man may be a Christian without being a
priest. Louisa "
"Hush, I am a priest, or nothing. I can't re-
linquish my life!" cried the elder brother, lifting his
hands suddenly, as if to thrust away something which
threatened him. Then he rose up again and went
towards the window and his cedar, Avhich stood dark
in the sunshine, slightly fluttered at its extremities
by the light summer- wind, but throwing glorious level
lines of shadow, which the wind could not disturb,
upon the grass. The limes near, and that one delicate
feathery birch which was Mrs. Wentworth's pride, had
all some interest of their own on hand, and went on
waving, rustling, coquetting with the breezes and the
sunshine in a way which precluded any arbitrary line
of shade. But the cedar stood immovable, like a
verdant monument, sweeping its long level branches
over the lawn, passive under the light, and indifferent,
except at its very tops and edges, to the breeze. If
there had been any human sentiment in that spectator
of the ways of man, how it must have groaned and
trembled under the pitiless weight of thoughts, the sad
lines of discussion and argument and doubt, which
were entangled in its branches! Gerald Wentworth
went to his window to refer to it, as if it were a book
in which all his contests had been recorded. The thrill
of the air in it tingled through him as he stood look-
ing out; and there, without looking at Frank, except
now and then for a moment when he got excited with
his subject, he went into the history of his struggle
184 Tlin T'ERI'ETUAI. CURATE.
— a history not iinjireccdeuted or unparalloletl, such as
has been told to the world before now by men who
have gone through it, in various shapes, with various
amounts of sophistry and simjjlicity. But it is a
different thing reading of such a conflict in a book,
and hearing it from lips pallid Avith the meaning of
the words they uttered, and a heart which was about
to prove its sincerity by voluntary pangs more hard
than death. Frank Wentworth listened to his brother
with a great deal of agreement in what he said, and
again with an acute perception of mistakes on Gerald's
part, and vehement impulses of contradiction, to which,
at the same time, it was impossible to give utterance;
for there was something very solemn in the account he
was giving of himself, as he stood with his face half
turned to the anxious listener, leaning on the windoM',
looking into the cedar. Gerald did not leave any room
for argument or remonstrance; he told his brother how
he had been led from one step to another, without any
lingering touch of possibility in the narrative that he
might be induced to retrace again that painful way.
It was a path, once trode, never to be returned upon;
and already he stood steadfast at the end, looking
back mournfully, yet with a strange composure. It
would be impossible to describe the mixture of
love, admiration, impatience — even intolerance — which
swelled through the mind of the spectator, as he looked
on at this wonderful sight, nor how hard he found it
to restrain the interruptions which rvished to his li|)S,
the eager arguments which came upon him in a flood,
all his own favourite fences against the overflow of the
tide which ran in lawful bounds in his own mind, but
which had inundated his brother's. But thoug-h it was
«r
TnE PERPETUAL CURATE. 185
next to impossible to keep silence, it was altogether
impossible to break in upon Gerald's history of tliis
great battle through which he had just come. He had
come through it, it was plain; the warfare was accom-
plished, the weapons hung up, the conflict over; and
nothing could be more apparent than that he had no
intention of entering the battle-field again. When he
had ended, there was another pause.
"I am not going to argue with you," said Frank
Wentwoi-th; "I don't even need to tell you that I am
grieved to the heart. It isn't so very many years
ago," said the younger brother, almost too much touched
by the recollection to preserve his composure, "since I
took all my opinions from you; and since the time
came for independent action, I too have gone over all
this ground. My conclusions have been very different
from yours, Gerald. I see you are convinced, and I
can say nothing; but they do not convince me — you
do not convince me, nor the sight of your faith,
though that is the most touching of all arguments.
Will you go back and go over it again?" said the
Curate, spurred, by a thought of poor Louisa, to con-
tradict himself, while the Avords were still on his lips.
"No," said Gerald; "it would be of no use, Frank.
We should only grieve each other more."
"Then I give up that subject," said the younger
brother: "but tliere is one matter which I must go
back to. You. may go to Kome, and cease to be a
priest of the Anglican Church; but you cannot cease to
be a man, to bear the weight of your natural duties.
Don't turn away, but hear me. Gerald, Louisa "
"Don't say any more. Do you imagine I have
not thought of that?" said Gerald, once more, with a
186 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
gesture of pain, and something like terror; "I have
put my hand to the plough, and I cannot go back. If
I am not a priest, I am nothing." But when he came
to that point, his cedar-tree no longer gave him any
assistance; he came back to his chair, and covered his
face with his hands.
"Louisa is your wife; you are not like a man free
from the bonds of nature," said the Curate of St.
Eoque's. "It is not for me to speak of the love be-
tween you; but I hold it, as the Scripture says, for a
holy mystery, like the love of Christ for His church —
the most sacred of all bonds," said the young man,
with a certain touch of awe and emotion, as became a
young man and a true lover. He made a little pause
to regain command of himself before he continued,
"And she is dejoendent on you — outwardly, for all the
comfort of her life — and in her heart, for everything,
Gerald. I do not comprehend what that duty is which
could make you leave her, all helpless and tender, as
you know her to be, upon the mercies of the world.
She herself says" — and poor Louisa's complaint grew
into pathos under the subliming force of her advocate's
sympathy — "that she would be like a widow, and worse
than a widow. I am not the man to bid you suppress
your convictions because they will be your ruin, in
the common sense of the word; biit, Gerald — your
wife "
Gerald had bent his head down upon his clasped
hands; sometimes a great heave of his frame showed
the last struggle that was going on within him — a
struggle more jiainful, more profound, than anything
that had gone before. And tlie voice of the Curate,
who, like his brother, was nothing if not a priest, was
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 187
choked, and painful with the force of his emotion. He
drew his breath hard between his words : it was not an
argixment, but an admonition 5 an appeal, not from a
brother only, but from one who spoke with authority,
as feeling- himself accredited from God. He drew
closer towards the voluntary martyr beside him , the
humbleness of his reverential love for his elder brother
mingling in that voice of the priest, which was natural
to him, and which he did not scruple to adopt. "Gerald,
— your wife," he said, in softened but firm tones, lay-
ing his hand on his brother's arm. And it was at this
moment, when in his heart he felt that his influence
might be of some avail, and when all the powers of
his mind were gathering to bear upon this last ex-
periment, that the door opened suddenly, and poor
Louisa, all flushed and tearful, in womanish hot im-
jjatience and misery that knew no prudence, burst,
without any warning, into the room.
"I can't bear it any longer," cried the poor wife.
"I knew you were talking it all over, and deciding
what it was to be; and when one's life. is hanging on
a chance, how can one keep quiet and not interfere?
Oh, Gerald, Gerald! I have been a true wife to you.
I know I am not clever; but I would have died to do
you any good. You are not going to forsake me!"
cried poor Loiiisa, going up to him and putting her
arms round him. "I said Frank was to tell you every-
thing, but a man can never tell what is in a woman's
heart. Oh, Gerald, why should you go and kill me!
I will never oppose you any more; whatever you want,
I will give in to it as freely as if it were my own
way. I will make that my own way, Gerald, if you
will only listen to me. Whatever changes you please,
1S8 THi: PERPETUAL CrUATE.
oil Gerald, I will never say a word, nor your father,
nor any one! If the Bishop should interfere, we would
all stand up for you. There is not a soul in Went-
worth to ojjpose — you know there is not. Put any-
thing you i)lea.so in the church — preach how you please
— light the candles or anything. Gerald, you know it
is true I am saying I am not trying to deceive
you!" cried the poor soul, hewildered in her folly and
her grief
"No, Louisa, no — only you don't understand," said
her husband, with a groan: he had raised his head,
and was looking at her with a hopeless gleam of im-
patience in the pity and anguish of his eyes. He took
her little hand and held it between his own, which
were trembling with all this strain — her little tender
helpless woman's hand, formed only for soft occupa-
tions and softer caresses; it was not a hand which
could help a man in such an emergency; it was with-
out any grasp in it to take hold upon him, or force of
love to part — a clinging impotent hand, such as holds
down, but cannot raise up. He held it in a close
tremulous pressure, as she stood looking down upon
him, questioning him with eager hopeful eyes, and
taking comfort in her ignorance from his silence, and
the way in Avhich he held her. Poor Louisa concluded
she was yet to win the day.
"I will turn Puseyite too," she said with a strange
little touch of attempted laughter. "I don't want to
have any opinions different from my husband's; and
you don't think your father is likely to do anything
to drive you out of the Church? You have only given
us a terrible fright, dear," she continued, beginning to
THE PEKPEIUAL CURATE. 189
tremble again, as he shook his head and turned away
from her. "You did not really mean such a dreadful
thing as sending 7ne away. You could not do without
me, Gerald — you know you could not." Her breath
was getting short, her heart quickening in its throbs
— the smile that was quivering on her face got no re-
sponse from her husband's down-cast eyes. And then
poor Louisa lost all her courage; she threw herself
down at his feet, kneeling to him. "Oh, Gerald, it is
not because you want to get rid of me? You are not
doing it for that? If you don't stay in the Rectory,
we shall be ruined — we shall not have enough to eat!
and the Rectory will go to Frank, and your children
will be cast upon the world — ^and what, oh what is it
for, unless it is to get rid of me?" cried Mrs. Went-
worth. " You could have as much freedom as you like
here in your own living — nobody would ever interfere
or say what are you doing? and the Bishop is papa's
old friend. Oh, Gerald, be wise in time, and don't
throw away all our happiness for a fancy. If it was
anything that could not be arranged, I would not mind
so much; but if we all promise to give in to you, and
that you shall do what you please, and nobody will
interfere, how can you have the heart to make us all
so wretched? We will not even be respectable," said
the weeping woman; "a family without any father,
and a wife without her husband — and he living all the
time! Oh, Gerald, though I think I surely might be
considered as much as candles, have the altar covered
with lights if you M'ish it; and if you never took off
your surplice any more, I would never say a word.
You can do all that and stay in the Rectory. You
have not the heart — surely — surely you have not the
190 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
heart — all for an idea of your own, to bring this ter-
rible distress upon the children and me?"
"God help us all!" said Gerald, with a sigh of
despair, as he lifted her up sobbing in a hysterical
fit, and laid her on the sofa. He had to stand by her
side for a long time holding her hand, and soothing
her, with deeper and deeper shadows growing over
his face. As for Frank, after pacing the room in great
agitation for some time, after trying to interpose, and
failing, he went away in a fever of impatience and
distress into the garden, wondering whether he covild
ever find means to take up the broken thread, and
urge again upon his bi'other the argument which, but
for this fatal interruption, he thought might have
moved him. But gathering thoughts came thick upon
the Perpetual Curate. He did not go back to make
another attempt, even when he knew by the sounds
through the open windows that Louisa had been led
to her own room up-stairs. He stood outside and
looked at the troubled house, which seemed to stand
so serene and secure in the sunshine. Who could
have supposed that it was torn asunder in such a hope-
less fashion? And Louisa's suggestion came into his
mind, and drove him wild with a sense of horror and
involuntary guilt, as though he had been conspiring
against them. "The Eectory will go to Frank." Was
it his fault that at that moment a vision of Lucy Wode-
house, sweet and strong and steadfast — a delicate, firm
figure, on which a man could lean in his trouble —
suddenly rose up before the Curate's eyes? Fair as
the vision was, he would have banished it if he could,
and hated himself for being capable of conjuring it up
at such a time. Was it for him to profit by the great
THE PERPETtTAL CUIIATE. 191
calamity which would make his brother's house deso-
late? He could not endure the thought, nor himself
for finding it possible; and he was ashamed to look in
Gerald's face with even the shadow of such an imagi-
nation on his own. He tapped at the library window
after a while, and told his brother that he was going
up to the Hall. Louisa had gone up-stairs, and her
husband sat once more, vacant yet occupied, by his
writing-table. "I will follow you presently," said
Gerald. "Speak to my father without any hesitation,
Frank-, it is better to have it over while we are all to-
gether — for it must be concluded now." And the
Curate saw in the shadow of the dim apartment that
his brother lifted from the table the grand emblem of
all anguish and victory, and pressed upon it his pale
lips. The young man turned away with the shadow
of that cross standing black between him and the sun-
shine. His heart ached at the sight of the symbol
most sacred and most dear in the world. In an agony
of grief and impatience, he went away sadly through
the familiar road to his father's house. Here had he
to stand by and see this sacrifice accomplished. This
was all that had come of his mission of consolation
and help.
CHAPTER XVII.
The Curate of St. Roque's went sadly along the
road he knew so well from Wentworth Rectory to the
Hall. There was scarcely a tree nor the turning of a
hedgerow which had not its own individual memories
to the son of the soil. Here he had come to meet
Gerald returning from Eton — coming back from the
192 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
university in later days. Here he bad rushed down
to the old Eector, his childless uncle, with the copy of
the prize-list when his brother took his first-class.
Gerald, and the family pride in him, was interwoven
with the very path, and now- The young man
pressed on to the Hall with a certaii^ bitter moisture
stealing to the corner of his eye. He felt indignant
and aggrieved in his love, not at Gerald, but at the
causes which were conspiring to detach him from his
natural sphere and duties. When he recollected how
he had himself dallied Avith the same thoughts, he grew
angry with his brother's nobleness and purity, which
never could see less than its highest ideal soul in any-
thing, and with a certain fierce fit of truth, glanced
back at his own Easter lilies and choristers, feeling in-
voluntarily that he would like to tear off the flowers
and surplices and tread them under his feet. Why
was it that he, an inferior man, should be able to con-
fine himself to the mere accessories which pleased his
fancy, and could judge and reject the dangerous prin-
ciples beneath; while Gerald, the loftier, purer intel-
ligence, should get so hopelessly lost in mazes of
sophistry and false argument; to the peril of his work,
his life, and all that he could ever know of happiness?
Such were the thoughts that passed through the mind
of the Perpetual Curate as he went rapidly through
the winding country-road going "home." Perhaps he
was wrong in thinking that Gerald was thus superior
to himself; but the error was a generous one, and
the Curate held it in simplicity and with all his
heart.
Before he reached the house he saw his father walk-
ing under the lime-trees, which formed a kind of lateral
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 193.
aisle to the great avenue, which was one of the boasts
of the Wentworths. The Squire was like most squires
of no particular character; a hale, ruddy, clear-com-
plexioned, well-preserved man, looking his full age,
but retaining all the vigour of his youth. He was not
a' man of any intellect to speak of, nor did he pretend
to it; but he had that glimmering of sense which keeps
many a stupid man straight, and a certain amount of
natural sensibility and consideration for other people's
feelings which made persons who knew no better give
Mr. Wentworth credit for tact, a quality unknown to
him. He was walking slowly in a perplexed manner
under the lime-trees. They were all in glorious blossom,
filling the air with that mingled sense of fragrance and
music which is the soul of the murmurous tree: but the
short figure of the Squire, in his morning-coat, with
his perplexed looks, was not at all an accessory in
keeping with the scene. He was taking his walk in a
subdued way, pondering something — and it puzzled
him sorely in his straightforward, unprofound under-
standing. He shook his head sometimes as he went
along, sad and perplexed and unsatisfactory, among
his limes. He had got a note from Gerald that morn-
ing; and how his son could intend to give up living
and station, and wife and children, for anything in
heaven or earth, was more than the Squire could under-
stand. He started very miich when he heard Frank's
voice calling to him. Frank, indeed, was said to be,
if any one was, the Squire's weakness in the family;
he was as clever as Gerald, and he had the practical
sense which Mr. Wentworth prized as knowing himself
to possess it. If he could have wished for any one in
The Perpetual Curate. 1. lo
194 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
the present emergency, it avouM have been Frank —
and lie turned round overjoyed.
"Frank, my boy, you're heartily welcome home!"
he said, holding out his hand to him as became a
British parent — "always welcome, but particularly just
now. Where did you come from? how did you come?
have you eaten anything this morning? it's close upon
lunch, and we'll go in directly; but, my dear boy,
wait here a moment, if you're not particularly hungry,
I can't tell you how glad I am you're come. I'd rather
see you than a hundred pound!"
When Frank had thanked him, and returned his
greetings, and answered his questions (which the Squire
had forgotten), and made his own inquiries, to which
Mr. Wentworth replied only by a hasty nod, and an
"Oh yes, thank you, all well — all well," the two came
to a momentary pause: they had nothing particular to
add about their happiness in seeing each other; and
as Frank wrote to his sisters pretty regularly, there
was nothing to tell. They were quite free to plunge
at once, as is to British relatives under the trying
circumstances of a meeting a blessed possibility, into
the first great subject which happened to be at hand.
"Have you heard anything about Gerald?" said
Mr. Wentworth, abruptly; "perhaps you called there
on your way from the station? Gerald has got into a
nice mess. He wrote to tell me about it, and I can't
make head nor tail of it. Do you think he's a little
touched here?" and the Squire tapped his own round
forehead, with a troubled look: "there's no other ex-
planation possible that I can see: a good living, a nice
house, a wife that just suits him (and it's not every-
body that would suit Gerald), and a lot of fine children
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 19*3
— and he talks to me of giving up everything; as if a
man could give up everything! It's all very well talk-
ing of self-renunciation, and so forth 5 and if it meant
simply considering other peojjle, and doing anything
disagreeable for anybody's sake, I don't know a man
more likely than my son Gerald. Your brother's a fine
fellow, Frank — a noble sort of fellow, though he has
his crotchets," said the father, with a touch of in-
voluntary pathos; "but you don't mean to tell me that
my son, a man like Gerald Wentworth, has a mind to
throw away his position, and give up all the duties of
his life? He can't do it, sir! I tell you it's impos-
sible, and I won't believe it." Mr. Wentworth drew
up his shirt-collar, and kicked away a fallen branch
with his foot, and looked insulted and angry. It was
a dereliction of which he would not suppose the possi-
bility of a Wentworth being guilty. It did not strike
him as a conflict between belief and non-belief; but on
the question of a man abandoning his j)ost, whatever
it might be, the head of the house held strong views.
"I agree it's impossible; but it looks as if it were
true," said the Curate. "I don't understand it any more
than you do; but I am afraid we shall have to address
ourselves to the reality all tlie same. Gerald has made
up his mind that the Church of Kome is the only true
Church, and therefore he is in a false position in the
Church of England: he can't remain a priest of the
Anglican communion Avith such views, any more than
a man could fight against his country, or in a wrong
(piarrel "
"But, good heavens, sir!" said the Squire, inter-
rupting him, "is it a time to inquire into the quarrel
when you're on the ground? Will you tell me, sir,
13*
196 TITE PERPETUAL CURATE.
that my son Charley should have ^onc into the ques-
tion between Russia and England when he was before
Sebastopol — and deserted," said Mr. Wentworth, with
a snort of infinite scorn, "if he found the Czar had
right on his side? God bless my soul! that's .striking
at the root of everything. As for the Church of Rome,
it's Antichrist — why, every child in the village school
could tell you that; and if Gerald entertains any such
absurd ideas, the thing for him to do is to read up all
that's been written on the subject, and get rid of his
doubts as soon as possible. The short and the long of
it is," said tlie troubled Squire, who found it much the
easiest way to be angry, "that you ask me to believe
that your brother Gerald is a fool and a coward; and
I won't believe it, Frank, if you should preach to me
for a year."
"And for my part, I would stake my life on his
wisdom and his courage," said the Curate, with a little
heat; "but that is not the question— he believes that
truth and honour require him to leave his post. There
is something more involved which we might yet prevent.
I have been trying, but Louisa interrupted me — I don't
know if you realise fully what he intends. Gerald
cannot cease to be a priest — he will become a Catholic
priest when he ceases to be Rector of Wentworth — and
that implies "
"God bless my soul!" cried the bewildered Squire
— he was silent for a long time after he had uttered
that benediction. He took out Gerald's letter and read
it over while the two walked on in silence under the
lime-trees, and the paper shook in his hands, notwith-
standing all his steadiness. When he spoke again, it
was only after two or three efforts to clear his voice.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 197
"I can't make out that he says that^ Frank — I don't
see that thafs what he means," said Mr. Wentworth,
in a fainter tone than usual; and then he continued,
with more agitation, "Louisa is a dear good soul, you
know; but she's a bit of a fool, like most women. She
always takes the worst view — if she can get a good
cry out of anything, she will. It's she that's put this
fancy into your head, eh? You don't say you had it
from Gerald himself? Yoix don't mean to tell me that?
By Jove, sir! — by heaven, sir!" cried the excited
Squire, blazing up suddenly in a burst of passion, "he
can't be any son of mine For any damnable
Papistical madness to give up his wife! Why, God
bless us, he was a man, wasn't he, before he became a
priest? A priest! He's not a priest — he's a clergy-
man, and the Rector of Wentworth. I can't believe it
— I won't believe it!" said the head of the house, with
vehemence. "Tell me one of my sons is a sneak and
a traitor! — and if you weren't another of my sons, sir,
I'd knock you down for your pains." In the excite-
ment of the moment Mr. Wentworth came full force
against a projecting branch which he did not see, as
he spoke these words; but though the sudden blow half
stunned him, he did not stop in his vehement contra-
diction. "It can't be. I tell you it can't — it shan't
be, FrankJ" cried the Squire. He would not pay any
attention to the Curate's anxieties, or accept the arm
Frank offered, though he could not deny feeling faint
and giddy after the blow. It took away all the colour
from his ruddy face, and left him j)ale, with a red welt
across his forehead, and wonderfully unlike himself.
"Confound it! I told Miles to look after that three
weeks ago. If he thinks I'll stand his carelessness,
198 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
he's mistaken," said Mr. Wentwortli, by way of reliev-
ing liimself. He was a man wlio always eased his mind
by being ''ii^S^'J with somebody when anything happened
to pnt him out.
"My dear father," said tlie Curate as soon as it
was jiracticable , "I want you to listen to me and help
me; there's only one thing to be done that I can see.
Gerald is in a state of high excitement, fit for any
martyrdom. We can't keep him back from one sacri-
fice, but by all the force we can gather we must detain
him from the other. He must be shown that he can't
abandon his natural duties. He was a man before he
was a priest, as you say; he can no more give up his
duty to Louisa than he can give up his own life. It
is going on a false idea altogether; but falsehood in
anything except in argument could never be named or
dreamed of in connection with Gerald," said his bro-
ther, with some emotion; "we all know that."
There was another pause of a few minutes, during
which they walked on side by side without even the
heart to look at each other. "If it had been Huxtable
or Plumstead, or any other fool," burst forth the Squire,
after that interval, "but Gerald!" Huxtable was the
husband of the eldest Miss Wentworth, and Plumstead
was the Squire's sister's son, so the comparison was all
in the family. "I suppose your aunt Leonora would
say such a thing was sent to bring do"WTi my pride and
keep me low," said Mr. Wentworth, bitterly. "Jack
being what he is, was it anything but natural that I
should be proud of Gerald? There never was any evil
in him, that I could see, from a child; but crotchety,
always crotchety, Frank. I can see it now. It must
have been their mother," said the Squire, meditatively;
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 199
"she died very young, poor girl! her character was not
formed. As for yotir dear mother, my boy, she was
always equal to an emergency; she would have given
us the best of advice, had she^ been spared to us this
day. Mrs. Wentworth is absorbed in her nursery, as is
natural, and I should not care to consult her much on
such a subject. But, Frank, whatever you can do or
say, trust to me to back you out," said the anxious
father of three families. "Your mother was the most
sensible woman I ever knew," he continued, with a
patriarchal composure. "Nobody could ever manage
Jack and Gerald as she did. She'd have seen at a
glance what to do now. As for Jack, he is no assist-
ance to anybody; but I consider you very like your
mother, Frank. If anybody can help Gerald, it will
be you. He has got into some ridiculous complication,
you know — that must be the explanation of it. You
have only to talk to him, and clear up the whole
affair," said the Squire, recovering himself a little. He
believed in "talking to," like Jjouisa, and like most
people who are utterly incapable of talking to any
purpose. He took some courage from the thought, and
recovered his coloi^r a little. "There is the bell for
luncheon, and I am very glad of it," he said; "a glass
of sherry will set mo all right. Don't say anything to
alarm Mrs. Wentworth. When Gerald comes, we'll re-
tire to the library, and go into the matter calmly, and
between us we will surely be able to convince him.
I'll humour him, for my part, as far as my conscience
will allow me. We miast not give in to him, Frank.
He will give it up if we show a very firm front and
yield nothing," said the Squire, looking with an un-
usually anxious eye in his son's face.
200 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"For my ])art, I will not enter into the controversy
between the Churches," said the Curate; "it is mere
waste of time. I must confine myself to the one point.
If he must forsake us, he must, and I can't stop him:
but he must not forsake his wife."
"Tut — it's impossible!" said the Squire*, "it's not
to be thought of for a moment. You must have given
vindue importance to something that was said. Things
will turn out better than you think." They were very
nearly at the great entrance when these words were
said, and Mr. "Wentworth took out his handkercliief and
held it to his forehead to veil the mark, until he could
explain it, from the anxious eye of his wife. "If the
worst should come to the worst, as you seem to think,"
he said, with a kind of sigh, "I should at least be able
to provide for you, Frank. Of course, the Rectory
would go to you; and you don't seem to have much
chance of Skelmersdale, so far as I can learn. Leo-
nora's a very difficult person to deal with. God bless
my soul!" exclaimed the Squire — "depend upon it, she
has had something to do with this business of Gerald's.
She's goaded him into it, with her Low-Church ways.
She's put poor Louisa up to worrying him; there's
where it is. I did not see how your brother could
possibly have fallen into such a blunder of his own
accord. But come to luncheon; you must be hungry.
You will think the boys grown, Frank; and I must ask
you what you think, when you have a little leisure, of
Cuthbert and Guy."
So saying, the Squire led the way into the house;
he had been much appalled by the first hint of this
threatened calamity, and was seriously distressed and
anxious still; but he was the father of many sons, and
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 201
the misfortimes oi' blunders of one could not occupy-
all his heart. And even the Curate, as he followed his
father into the house, felt that Louisa's words, so calmly-
repeated, "Of course, the Rectory will go to you,"
went tingling to his heart like an arrow, painfully re-
calling him, in the midst of his anxiety, to a sense of
his own interests and cares. Gerald was coming up
the avenue at the moment slowly, with all the feelings
of a man going to the stake. He was looking at every-
thing round as a dying man might, not knowing what
terrible revolution of life miglit have happened before
he saw them again —
"He looked on hill, and sea, and shore,
As he might never see them more."
Life was darkened over to his preoccupied eyes, and
the comjjosure of nature jarred upon him, as though it
were carelessness and indijGference to the fate which he
felt to be coming in the air. He thought nothing less
than that his father and brother were discussing him
with hearts as heavy and clouded as his own-, for even
he, in all his tolerance and impartiality, did not make
due account of the fact, that every man has his own
concerns next to him, close enough to ameliorate and
lighten the weight of his anxieties for others. The
prospect was all gloom to Gerald, who was the sufferer;
but the others found gleams of comfort in their own
horizon, which threw reflected lights upon his-, for per-
fect sympathy is not, except in dreams. There was
quite a joyful little commotion at the luncheon table
when Frank's arrival was discovered; and his sisters
were kissing him, and his young brothers shaking his
hand off, while Gerald came slowly vip, with preoccu-
pied, lingering steps, underneath the murmurous limes.
202 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
All kinds of strange miseries were appearing to him as
he pursued his way. Glimpses of scenes to come — a
dark phantasmagoria of anticipated pain. He saw his
wife and his children going away out of their happy
house; he saw himself severed from all human ties,
among alien faces and customs, working out a hard
novitiate. What could he do? His heart, so long on
the rack, was aching with dull throbs of anguish, but
he did not see any way of escape. He was a priest
by all the training, all the habits of his life; how could
he give up that service to which he was called before
everything, the most momentous work on earth? For
ease, for happiness, for even sacred love, could he de-
fraud God of the service he had vowed, and go back
to secular Avork just at the moment when the true
meaning of ecclesiastical work seemed dawning upon
him? He had decided that question before, but it came
back and back. His eyes were heavy with thought
and conflict as he went up to his father's house. All
this was wearing out his strength, and sapping his very
life. The sooner it was over the better would it be
for all.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Very little came, as was natural, of the talk in the
library, to which the entire afternoon was devoted.
The Squire, in his way, was as great an interruption
to the arguments of the Curate as was poor Louisa in
hers; and Gerald sat patiently to listen to his father's
indignant monologue, broken as it was by Frank's more
serious attacks. He was prepared for all they could
say to him, and listened to it, sometimes with a kind
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 203
of wondering smile, knowing well liow much more
strongly, backed by all bis prejudices and interests, be
bad put tbe same arguments to bimself. All tbis time
nobody discussed tbe practicability of tbe matter mucb,
nor wbat steps be meant to take: wbat immediately
occupied botb bis fatber and brotber Avas bis determina-
tion itself, and tbe reasons wbicb bad led bim to it,
wbicb tbe Squire, like Louisa, could not understand.
"If I bad made myself disagreeable," said Mr.
Wentwortb; "if I bad remonstrated with him, as Leo-
nora urged me to do; if I bad put a stop to tbe sur-
plice and so forth, and interfered with his decorations
or bis saints' days, or anything, it might have been
comprehensible. But I never said a syllable on tbe
subject. I give you my word, I never did. Why
couldn't be have sent down for Louisa now, and dined
at the Hall, as usual, when any of my sons come home?
I suppose a man may change his religion, sir, without
getting rid of his natural affections," said tbe Squire,
gazing out with puzzled looks to watch Gerald going
slowly down the avenue. "A man who talks of leaving
bis wife, and declines to dine at his father's boiise with
his brothers and sisters, is a mystery I can't under-
stand."
"I don't suppose he cares for a lively party like
ours at tbis moment," said the Curate: "I don't take
it as any sign of a Avant of affection for me."
Tbe Squii-e puffed forth a large sigh of trouble and
vexation as he came from the window. "If / were to
give in to trouble when it appears, wbat would become
of our lively party, I wonder?" be said. "I'm getting
an old man, Frank; but there's not a young man in
Christendom has more need to take care of himself,
204 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
and preserve his health, than I have. I am very well,
thank God, though I have had a touch of our Went-
worth complaint — just one touch. My father had it
ten years earlier in life, and lived to eighty, all the
same; but that is an age I shall never see. Such wor-
ries as I have would kill any man. I've not spoken
to anybody about it," said the Squire, hastily, "but
Jack is going a terrible pace just now. I've had a
good deal of bother about bills and things. He gets
worse every year; and what would become of the girls
and the little children if the estate were to come into
Jack's hands, is a thought I don't like to dwell upon,
Frank. I suppose he never writes to you?"
"Not for years past," said the Curate — "not since
I was at Oxford. Where is he now?"
"Somewhere about town, I suppose," said the
aggrieved father, "or wherever the greatest scamps col-
lect when they go out of town — that's where he is. I
could show you a little document or two, Frank — but
no," said the Squire, shutting up a drawer which he
had unlocked and partly opened, "I won't; you've
enough on your mind with Gerald, and I told you I
should be glad of your advice about Cuthbert and
Guy."
Upon which the father and son plunged into family
affairs. Cuthbert and Guy were the youngest of the
Squire's middle family — a "lot" which included Frank
and Charley and the three sisters, one of whom was
married. The domestic relations of the Wentworths
were complicated in this generation. Jack and Gerald
were of the first marriage, a period in his history
which Mr. WentAvorth himself had partly forgotten;
and the troop of children at present in the Hall nursery
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 205
were quite beyond the powers of any grown-up brother
to recognise or identify. It was vaguely understood
that "the gii'ls" knew all the small fry by head and
name, but even the Squire himself was apt to get
puzzled. With such a household, and with an heir
impending over his head like Jack, it may be sup-
posed that Mr. Wentworth's anxiety to get his younger
boys disposed of was great. Cuthbert and Guy were
arrows in the hand of the giant, but he had his quiver
so full that the best thing he could do was to draw
his bow and shoot them away into as distant and as
fresh a sphere as possible. They were sworn com-
panions and allies, but they were not clever, Mr. Went-
worth believed, and he was very glad to consult over
New Zealand and Australia, and which was best, with
their brother Frank.
"They are good boys," said their father, "but they
have not any brains to speak of — not like Gerald and
you; — though, after all, I begin to be doubtful what's
the good of brains," added the Squire, disconsolately,
"if this is all that comes of them. After building so
much on Gerald for years, and feeling that one might
live to see him a bishop — but, however, there's still
you left; you're all right, Frank?"
"Oh yes, I am all right," said the Curate, with a
sigh; "but neither Gerald nor I are the stuff that
bishops are made of," he added, laughing. "I hope
you don't dream of any such honour for me."
But the Squire was too much troubled in his mind
for laughter, "Jack was always clever, too," he said,
dolefully, "and little good has come of that. I hope
he won't disgrace the family any more than he has
done, in my time, Frank. You young fellows have all
206^ THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
your life before you-, but when a man comes to my
age, and expects a little comfort, it's hard to be dragf^ed
into the mire after his children. I did my duty by
Jack too — I can say that for myself. He had the
same training as Gerald had— the same tutor at the
University — everything just the same. How do you
account for that, sir, you that are a philosopher?" said
Mr. Wentworth again, Avith a touch of irritation. "Own
brothers both l)y father and mother; brought up in the
same house, same school and college and everything;
and all the time as difiFerent from each other as light
and darkness. How do you account for that? Though,
to be sure, here's Gerald taken to bad ways too. It
must have been some weakness by their mother's side.
Poor girl! she died too young to show it herself; but
it's come out in her children," said the vexed Squire.
"Though it's a poor sort of thing to blame them that
are gone," he added, with penitence; and he got up
and paced uneasily about the room. Who was there
else to blame? Not himself, for he had done his duty
by his boys. Mr. Wentworth never was disturbed in
mind, without, as his family were well aware, becom-
ing excited in temper too; and the unexpected nature
of the new trouble had somehow added a keener touch
of exasperation to his perennial dissatisf;\ction with his
heir. "If Jack had been the man he ought to have
been, his advice might have done some good — for a
clergyman naturally sees things in a different light
from a man of the world," said the troubled father;
and Frank perceived that he too shared in his father's
displeasure, because he was not Jack, nor a man of
the world; notwithstanding that, being Frank and a
clergyman, he was acknowledged by public opinion to
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. ^07
be the Squii'e's favourite in the family. Things con-
tinued in this uncomfortable state up to the dinner-
hour, so that the Curate, even had his own feelings
permitted it, had but little comfort in his home visit.
At dinner Mr. Wentworth did not eat, and awoke the
anxiety of his wife, who drove the old gentleman into
a state of desperation by inquiries after his health.
"Indeed, I wish you would remonstrate with your
papa, Frank," said his stepmother, who was not a great
deal older than the Curate. "After his attack he ought
to be more careful. But he never takes the least
trouble about himself, no more than if he were five-
and-twenty. After getting such a knock on the fore-
head too; and you see he eats nothing. I shall be
miserable if the doctor is not sent for to-night."
"Stuff!" cried the Squire, testily. "Perhaps you
will speak to the cook about these messes she insists
on sending up to disgust one, and leave me to take
care of my own health. Don't touch that dish, Frank;
it's poison. I am glad Gerald is not here: he'd think
we never had a dinner without that confounded mix-
ture. And then the wonder is that one can't eat!"
said Mr. Wentworth, in a tone which spread consterna-
tion round the table. Mrs. Wentworth secretly put
her handkerchief to her eyes behind the great cover,
which had not yet been removed; and one of the girls
dashed in violently to the rescue, of course making
everything worse.
"Why did not Gerald and Louisa come to din-
ner?" cried the ignorant sister. "Surely, when they
knew Frank had come, they would have liked to be
here. How very odd it was of you not to ask them.
208 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
papa! they always do come when anybody has arrived.
Why aren't they here to-night?"
"Because they don't choose to come," said the
Squire, abruptly. "If Gerald has reasons for staying
away from his father's house, what is that to you?
Butterflies," said Mr. Wentworth, looking at them in
their pretty dresses, as they sat regarding him with
dismay, "that don't understand any reason for doing
anything except liking it or not liking it. I daresay
by this time your sister knows better."
"My sister is married, papa," said Letty, with her
saucy look.
"I advise you to get married too, and learn what
life is like," said the savage Squire; and conversation
visibly flagged after this effort. When the ladies got
safely into the drawing-room, they gathered into a
corner to consult over it. They were all naturally
anxious about him after his "attack."
"Don't you remember he was just like this before
it came on?" said Mrs. Wentworth, nervously, "so
cross, and finding fault with the made dishes. Don't
you think I might send over a message to Dr. Small
— not to come on purpose, you know, but just as if it
were a call in passing?"
But the girls both agreed this would make matters
worse.
"It must be something about Jack," they both
said in a breath, in a kind of awe of the elder brother,
of whom they had a very imperfect knowledge. "And
it seems we never are to have a chance of a word
with Frank!" cried Letty, who was indignant and ex-
asperated. But at least it was a consolation that "the
boys" were no better off. All next day Cuthbert and
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. ^09
Gruy liung about in the vain hope of securing the com-
pany and attention of the visitor. He was at the
Rectory the whole morning, sometimes with Gerald,
sometimes with Louisa, as the scouts of the family,
consisting of a variety of brothers, little and big, in-
formed the anxious girls. And Louisa was seen to
cry on one of these occasions; and Gerald looked
cross, said one little spy, whereupon he had his ears
boxed, and was dismissed from the service. "As if
Gerald ever looked anything but a saint!" said the
younger sister, who was an advanced Anglican. Letty,
however, holding other views, confuted this opinion
strongly: "When one thinks of a saint, it is aunt
Leonora one thinks of," said this profane young woman.
"I'll tell you what Gerald looks like — something just
half-way between a conqueror and a martyr. I think,
of all the men I ever saw, he is my hero," said Letty,
meditatively. The youngest Miss Wentworth was not
exactly of this latter opinion, but she did not con-
tradict her sister. They were kept in a state of watch-
fulness all day, but Frank's mission remained a mystery
which they could not penetrate; and in the evening
Gerald alone made his appearance at the hall to din-
ner, explaining that Louisa had a headache. Now
Louisa's headaches were not unfrequent, but they were
known to improve in the prospect of going out to din-
ner. On the whole, the matter was wrapt in obscurity,
and the Wentworth household could not explain it.
The sisters sat up brushing their hair, and looking
very pretty in their dressing-gowns, with their bright
locks (for the Wentworth hair was golden-brown of a
Titian hue) over their shoulders, discussing the matter
till it was long past midnight; but they could make.
The Perpetual Curate. I, 14
210 THK PERPETUAL CURATE.
nothing of it, and the only conclusion they came to
was that their two clergymen brothers were occupied
in negotiating with the Squire about some secret not
known to the rest of the family, but most probably
concerning Jack. Jack was almost unknown to his
sisters, and awoke no very warm anxiety in their
minds; so they went to sleep at last in tolerable quiet,
concluding that whatever mystery there was concerned
only the first-born and least loved of the house.
While the girls pursued these innocent delibera-
tions, and reasoned themselves into conviction, the
Squire too sat late — much later than usual. He had
gone with Frank to the library, and sat there in half-
stupefied quietness, which the Curate could not see
without alarm, and from which he roused himself up
now and then to wander off into talk, which always
began with Gerald, and always came back to his own
anxieties and his disappointed hopes in his eldest
son. "If Jack had been the man he ought to have
been, I'd have telegraphed for him, and he'd have
managed it all," said the Squire, and then relapsed
once more into silence. "For neither you nor I are
men of the world, Frank," he would resume again,
after a pause of half an hour, revealing pitifully how
his mind laboured under the weight of this absorbing
thought. The Curate sat up with him in the dimly-
lighted library, feeling the silence and the darkness to
his heart. He could not assist his father in those dim
ranges of painful meditation. Grieved as he was, he
could not venture to compare his own distress with the
bitterness of the Squire, disappointed in all his hopes
and in the pride of his heart; and then the young man
saw compensations and heroisms in Gerald's case which
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 211
were invisible to the 'unlieroic eyes of Mr. Wentworth,
who looked at it entirely from a practical point of
view, and regarded with keen mortification an event
which would lay all the affairs of the Wentworths open
to general discussion, and invite the eye of the world
to a renewed examination of his domestic skeletons.
Everything had been hushed and shut up in the Hall
for at least an hour, when the Squire got up at last
and lighted his candle, and held out his hand to his
son — "This isn't a very cheerful visit for you, Frank,"
he said; "but we'll try again to-morrow, and have one
other talk with Gerald. Couldn't you read up some
books on the subject, or think of something new to say
to him? God bless my soul! if I were as young and
as much accustomed to talking as you are, I'd surely
find out some argument," said the Squire, with a mo-
mentary spark of temper, which made his son feel
more comfortable about him. "It's your business to
convince a man when he's wrong. We'll try Gerald
once more, and perhaps something may come of it; and
as for Jack " Here the Squire paused, and shook
his head, and let go his son's hand. "I supjDose it's
sitting up so late that makes one feel so cold and
wretched, and as if one saw ghosts," said Mr. Went-
worth. "Don't stay here any longer, and take care of
the candles. I ought to have been in bed two hours
ago. Good-night."
And as he walked away, the Curate could not but
observe what an aged figure it looked, moving with a
certain caution to the door. The great library was so
dim that the light of the candle which the Squire
carried in his hand was necessary to reveal his figure
clearly, and there was no mistaking his air of age and
14*
212 THE PERPETITAL CURATE.
feebleness. The Curate's thoughts were not very
agreeable wlien he was left by himself in the half-
lighted room. His imagination jumped to a picture
very possible, but grievous to think of — Jack seated in
his father's place, and "the girls" and the little chil-
dren turned out upon the world. In such a case, who
would be their protector and natural guardian? Not
Gerald, who was about to divest himself of ties still
closer and more sacred. The Curate lit his candle too,
and went hastily to his room, when that thought came
upon him. There might be circumstances still more
hopeless and appalling than the opposition of a rector
or the want of a benefice. He preferred to return to
his anxiety about Gerald, and to put away that thought,
as he went hurriedly up-stairs.
CHAPTER XIX.
"The sum of it all is, that you won't hear any
reason, Gerald," said the Squire. "What your brother
says, and what I say, are nothing-, your poor wife is
nothing-, and all a man's duties, sir, in life — all your
responsibilities, everything that is considered most
sacred "
"You may say what you will to me, father," said
Gerald. "I can't expect you should speak differently.
But you may imagine I have looked at it in every
possible light before I came to this resolution. A man
does not decide easily when everything he prizes on
earth is at stake. I cannot see with Frank's eyes, or
with yours; according to the light God has given me,
I must see with my own."
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 213
"But, God bless my soul! wliat do you mean by
seeing with your own eyes?" said the Squire. "Don't
you know that is a Protestant doctrine, sir? Do you
think they'll let you see with any eyes but theirs when
you get among a set of Papists? Instead of an easy-
going bishop, and friendly fellows for brother clergy-
men, and parishioners that think everything that's good
of you, how do you suppose you'll feel as an English-
man when you get into a dead Frenchified system,
with everything going by rule and measure, and bound
to believe just as you're told? It'll kill you, sir — that's
what will be the end of it. If you are in your grave
within the year, it will be no wonder to me."
"Amen!" said Gerald, softly. "If that is to be all,
we will not quai-rel with the result;" and he got up
and went to the window, as if to look for his cedar,
which was not there. Perhaps the absence of his
silent referee gave him a kind of comfort, though at
the same time it disappointed him in some fantastical
way, for he turned with a curious look of relief and
vexation to his brother. "We need not be always
thinking of it, even if this were to be the end," he
said. "Come down the avenue with me, Frank, and
let us talk of something else. The girls will grumble,
but they can have you later: come, I want to hear
about yourself."
Unfortunately, the Squire got up when his sons
did, which was by no means their intention; but Mr.
Wentworth was vexed and restless, and was not willing
to let Gerald off so easily. If he were mad, at least
he ought to be made duly wretched in his madness,
Mr. Wentworth thought; and he went out with them,
and arrested the words on their lips. Somehow every-
214 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
thing seemed to concur in hindering any appeal on the
part of the Curate. And Gerald, like most imaginative
men, had a power of dismissing his troubles after they
had taken their will of him. It was he who took the
conversation on himself when they went out of doors.
Finding Frank slow in his report, Gerald went into
all the country news for the instruction of his brother.
He had been down to the very depths during the two
previous days, and now he had come aloft again; for a
man cannot be miserable every moment of his life,
however heavy his burden may be. The "girls,"
whose anxieties had been much stimulated by the
renewed conference held with closed doors in the
library, stood watching them from one of the drawing-
room windows. The boldest of the two had, indeed,
got her hat to follow them, not comprehending why
Frank should be monopolised for days together by
anybody but herself, his favourite sister; but something
in the aspect of the three men, when they first ap-
peared under the lime-trees, had awed even the lively
Letty out of her usual courage. "But Gerald is talking
and laughing just as usual," she said, as she stood at
the window dangling her hat in her hand — "more than
usual, for he has been very glum all this spring. Poor
fellow! I daresay Loiaisa worries him out of his life;"
and with this easy conclusion the elder brother was
dismissed by the girls. "Perhaps Frank is going to
be married," said the other sister, who, under the lively
spur of this idea, came back to the window to gaze at
him again, and find out whether any intimation of this
alarming possibility could be gathered from the fit of
his long clerical coat, or his manner of walk, as he
sauntered along under the limes. "As if a Perpetual
wir-"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 215
Curate could marry!" said Letty, with scorn, -who
knew the world. As for little Janet, who was a tender-
hearted little soul, she folded her two hands together,
and looked at her brother's back with a great increase
of interest. "If one loved him, one would not mind
what he was," said the little maiden, who had been in
some trouble herself, and understood about such mat-
ters. So the girls talked at their window, Mrs. Went-
worth being, as usual, occupied with her nursery, and
nobody else at baud to teach them wisdom, and soon
branched off into speculations about the post-bag, which
was "due," and which, perhaps, was almost more in-
teresting, to one of them at least, than even a brother
who was going to be married.
In the mean time Gerald was talking of Huxtable
and Plumstead, the brother-in-law and cousin, who
were both clergymen in the same district, and about
the people in the village whom they had known when
they were boys, and who never grew any older.
"There is old Kilweed, for examj)le, who was Methu-
selah in those days — he's not eighty yet," he said, with
a smile and a sigh-, "it is we who grow older and
come nearer to the winter and the sunset. My father
even has come down a long way off the awful eminence
on which I used to behold him: every year that falls
on my head seems to take one off his: if we both live
long enough, we shall feel like contemporaries by-and-
by," said Gerald: "just now the advantage of years is
all on my side; and you are my junior, sir." He was
switching down the weeds among the grass with his
cane as he spoke, like any schoolboy, the air, and
perhaps a little excitement, had roused the blood to
his cheek. He did not look the same man as the pale
216 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
martyr in the library^ — not that lie bad any reason for
appearing different, but only tbat inalienable poetic
waywardness wbicb kept bim up througb bis trouble.
As for Mr. Wentwortb, be resented tbe momentary
brigbtening, wbicb be took for levity.
"I tbougbt we came out here to prolong our dis-
cussion," said tbe Squii'e. "I don't understand this
light way of talking. If you mean what you have
said, sir, I should never expect to see you smile
more."
"Tbe smiling makes little difference," said Gerald;
but he stopped short in bis talk, and there was a pause
among them till tbe postboy came up to them with his
bag, which Mr. Wentwortb, with much importance,
paused to 02)en. The young men, who had no special
interest in its contents, went on. Perhaps the absence
of their father was a relief to them. They were nearer
to each other, understood each other better than he
could do; and they quickened their pace insensibly as
they began to talk. It is easy to imagine what kind
of talk it was — entire sympathy, yet disagreement wide
as tbe poles — here for a few steps side by side, there
darting off at the most opj)Osite tangent; but they bad
begun to warm to it, and to forget everything else,
when a succession of lusty hollos from the Squire
brought them suddenly to themselves, and to a dead
stop. Wlien they looked round, he was making up to
them with choleric strides. "What the deuce do you
mean, sir, by having telegrams sent here?" cried Mr.
Wentwortb, pitching at bis son Frank an ominous ugly
envelope, in blue and red, such as the unsophisticated
mind naturally trembles at. "Beg your pardon, Gerald;
but I never can keep my temper when I see a tele-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 217
graph. I daresay it's something about Charley," said
the old man, in a slightly husky voice— "to make up
to us for inventing troubles." The Squire was a good
deal disturbed by the sight of that ill-omened message ;
and it was the better way, as he knew by experience,
to throw his excitement into the shape of anger rather
than that of grief.
"It's nothing about Charley," said Frank; and Mr.
Wentworth blew his nose violently and drew a long
breath. "I don't understand it," said the Cm-ate, who
looked scared and pale; "it seems to be from Jack;
though why he is in Carlingford, or what he has to
do "
"He's ill, sir, I suppose — dying; nothing else was
to be looked for," said the Squire, and held out his
hand, which trembled, for the telegram. "Stuff! why
shouldn't I be able to bear it? Has he been any com-
fort to me? Can't you read it, one of you?" cried the
old man.
"'John Wentworth to the Reverend '"
"God bless my soul! can't you come to Avhat he
says?"
"'Come back directly — you are wanted here; I am
in trouble, as usual; and T. W. '"
Here the Squire took a step backwards, and set
himself against a tree. "The sun comes in one's eyes,"
he said, rather feebly. "There's something poisonous
in the air to-day. Here's Gerald going out of the
Church; and here's Frank in Jack's secrets. God for-
give him! Lads, it seems you think I've had enough
of this world's good. My heir's a swindling villain,
and you know it; and here's Frank going the same
road too."
218 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
The Squire did not hear the words that both the
brothers addressed to him; he was unconscious of the
Curate's disclaimer and eager explanation that he knew
nothing about Jack, and could not understand his pre-
sence in Carlingford. The blow he had got the pre-
vious day had confused his brain outside, and these
accumulated vexations had bewildered it within. "And
I could have sworn by Frank!" said the old man,
piteoiisly, to himself, as he put up his hand unawares
and tugged at the dainty starched cravat which was
his j^ride. If they had not held him in their arms, he
would have slid down at the foot of the tree, against
which he had instinctively propped himself. The at-
tack was less alarming to Gerald, who had seen it be-
fore, than to Frank, who had only heard of it; but the
postboy was still within call, by good fortune, and was
sent off for assistance. They carried him to the Hall,
gasping for breath, and in a state of joartial unconscious-
ness, but still feebly repeating those words which went
to the Curate's heart — "I could have sworn by Frank!"
The house was in a great fright and tumult, naturally,
before they reached it, Mrs. Wentworth fainting, the
girls looking on in dismay, and the whole household
moved to awe and alarm, knowing that one time or
other Death would come so. As for the Curate of St.
Roque's, he had already made up his mind, with un-
expected anguish, not only that his father was dying,
but that his father would die under a fatal misconcep-
tion about himself; and between this overwhelming
thought, and the anxiety which nobody understood or
conld sympathise with respecting Jack's message, the
young man was almost beside himself. He went away
in utter despair from the anxious consultations of the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 219
family after the doctor had come, and kept walking up
and down before the house, waiting to hear the worst,
as he thoiight; hut yet unable, even while his father
lay dying, to keep from thinking what miserable
chance, what folly or crime, had taken Jack to Carling-
ford, and what his brother could have to do with the
owner of the initials named in his telegram. He was
lost in this twofold trouble when Gerald came out to
him with brightened looks.
"He is coming round, and the doctor says there is
no immediate danger," said Gerald; "and it is only
immediate danger one is afraid of. He was as well as
ever last time in a day or two. It is the com^ilaint of
the Wentworths, you know — ^we all die of it; but,
Frank, tell me what is this about Jack?"
"I know no more than you do," said the Curate,
when he had recovered himself a little. "I must go
back, not having done much good here, to see."
"And T. W.?" said Gerald. The elder brother
looked at the younger suspiciously, as if he Avere afraid
for him; and it was scarcely in human nature not to
feel a momentary flash of resentment.
"I tell you I know nothing about it," said Frank,
"except what is evident to any one, that Jack has
gone to Carlingford in my absence, being in trouble
somehow. I suppose he always is in trouble. I have
not heard from him before since I went there; but as
it don't seem I can be of any use here, as soon as my
father is safe, I will go back. Louisa imagined, you
know ; but she was wrong."
"Yes," said Gerald, quietly. That subject was con-
cluded, and there was no more to say.
The same evening, as the Squire continued to im-
220 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
prove, and had been able to understand bis energetic
explanation that he was entirely ignorant of Jack's
secrets, Frank Wentworth Avent back again with a very
disturbed mind. He went into the Rectory as he
passed down to the station, to say good-bye to Louisa,
who was sitting in the drawing-room with her children
round her, and her trouble considerably lightened,
though there was no particular cause for it. Dressing
for dinner had of itself a beneficial effect ujion Louisa:
she could not understand how a life could ever be
changed which was so clearly ordained of Heaven; for
if Gerald was not with her, what inducement could she
possibly have to dress for dinner? and then what
would be the good of all the pretty wardrobe with
which Providence had endowed her? Must not Provi-
dence take care that its gifts were not thus wasted?
So the world was once more set fast on its foundations,
and the pillars of earth remained unshaken, when
Frank glanced in on his way to the station to say
good-bye.
"Don't be afraid, Louisa; I don't believe he would
be allowed to do it," said the Curate in her ear. "The
Church of Rome does not go in the face of nature.
She will not take him away from you. Keep your
heart at ease as much as you can. Good-bye."
"You mean about Gerald. Oh, you don't really
think he could ever have had the heart?" said Mrs.
Wentworth. "I am so sorry you are going away
without any dinner or anything comfortable; and it
was so good of you to come, and I feel so much better.
I shall always be grateful to you, dear Frank, for
showing Gerald his mistake; and tell dear aunt Dora
I am so much obliged to her for thinking of the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 221
blanket for the bassinet. I am sure it will be lovely.
Must you go? Good-bye. I am sure you have al-
ways been like my own brotber — Frank, dear, good-
bye. Come and kiss your dear uncle, children, and
say good-bye."
This was how Louisa dismissed him after all his
efforts on her behalf. The girls were waiting for him
on the road, still full of anxiety to know why he had
come so suddenly, and was going away so soon. "We
have not had half a peep of you," said Letty; "and it
is wicked of you not to tell us; as if anybody could
sympathise like your sisters— your very own sisters,
Frank," said the young lady, with a pressure of his
arm. In such a mixed family the words meant some-
thing.
"We had made up our minds you had come to tell
pajja," said Janet, with her pretty shy look; "that was
my guess — you might tell tis her name, Frank."
"Whose name?" said the unfortunate Curate; and
the dazzling vision of Lucy Wodehouse's face, which
came upon him at the moment, was such, that the re-
luctant blood rose high in his cheeks — which, of course,
the girls were quick enough to perceive.
"It is about some girl, after all," said Letty; "oh
me! I did not think you had been like all the rest. I
thought you had other things to think of Janet may
say what she likes — but I do think it's contemptible
always to find out, when a man, who can do lots of
things, is in trouble, that it's about some gii'l or other
like one's self! I did not expect it of you, Frank —
but all the same, tell us who she is?" said the favourite
sister, clasping his arm confidentially, and drop2)ing
her voice.
222 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"There is the train. Good-bye, girls, and be sure
you write to me to-morrow how my father is," cried
the Curate. He had taken his seat before they could
ask any further questions, and in a minute or two
more Avas dashing out of the little station, catching
their smiles and adieus as he went, and turning back
last of all for another look at Gerald, who stood leaning
on his stick, looking after the train, with the mist of
preoccupation gathering again over his smiling eyes.
The Curate went back to his corner after that, and lost
himself in thoughts and anxieties still more painful.
What had Jack to do in Carlingford? what connection
had he with those initials, or how did he know their
owner? All sorts of horrible fears came over the
Curate of St. Eoque's. He had not seen his elder
brother for years, and Jack's career was not one for
any family to be proud of. Had he done something
too terrible to be hidden — too clamorous to let his
name drop out of remembrance, as M^as to be desired
for the credit of the Wentworths? This speculation
wiled the night away but drearily, as the Perpetual
Curate went back to the unknown tide of cares which
had surged in his absence into his momentarily aban-
doned place.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 223
CHAPTER XX.
Mr. Wentworth got back to Carlingford by a
happy concurrence of trains before the town had gone
to sleep. It was summer, when the clays are at the
longest, and the twilight was just falling into night as
he took his way through George Street. He went
along the familiar street with a certain terror of looking
into people's faces Avhom he met, and of asking ques-
tions, such as was natural to a man who did not know
whether something of public note might not have hap-
pened in his absence to call attention to his name. He
imagined, indeed, that he did see a strange expression
in the looks of the townsfolk he encoiintered on his
way. He thought they looked at him askance as they
made their salutations, and said something to each
other after they passed, which, indeed, in several cases
was true enough, though the cause was totally different
from any suspected by Mr. Wentworth. Anxious to
know, and yet unwilling to ask, it was with a certain
relief that the Curate saw the light gleaming out from
the open door of Elsworthy's shop as he approached.
He went in and tossed down his travelling-bag on the
counter, and threw himself on the solitary chair which
stood outside for the accommodation of customers, with
a suppressed excitement, which made his qiiestion sound
abrupt and significant to the ears of Elsworthy. "Has
anything happened since I went away?" said Mr.
Wentworth, throwing a glance round the shop, which
alarmed his faithful retainer. Somehow, though nothing
was farther from his mind than little Kosa, or any
224 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
thought of her, the Curate missed the pretty little figure
at the first glance.
"Well — no, sir-, not much as I've heard of," said
Elsworthy, with a little confusion. He was tying up
his newspajDers as iisual, but it did not require the
touch of suspicion and anxiety which gave sharpness
to the Curate's quick eyes to make it apparent that the
cord was trembling in Mr. Elsworthy's hand. "I hope
you've had a pleasant journey, sir, and a comfortable
visit — it's been but short — but we always miss you
in Carlingford, Mr. Wentworth, if it was only for a
day."
"I'll take my paper," said the young man, who
was not satisfied — "so there's no news, isn't there? —
all well, and everything going on as usual?" And
the look which the suspicious Curate bent upon Mr.
Elsworthy made that virtuous individual, as he himself
described it, "shake in his shoes."
"Much as usual, sir," said the frightened clerk, —
"nothing new as I hear of but gossip, and that ain't a
thing to interest a clergyman. There's always one re-
port or another flying about, but them follies ain't for
your hearing. Nothing more," continued Mr. Els-
worthy, conscious of guilt, and presenting a very
tremulous countenance to the inspection of his suspi-
cious auditor, "not if it was my last word — nothing
but gossip, as you wouldn't care to hear."
"I might possibly care to hear if it concerned my-
self," said the Curate, — "or anybody I am interested
in," he added, after a little pause, with rather a forced
smile — which convinced Mr. Elsworthy that his clergy-
man had heard all about Kosa, and that the days of
THE PERPETU.AL CURATE. 225
Lis own incumbency as clerk of St. Eoque's were
nitmbered.
"Well, sir, if you did bear, it ain't no blame of
mine," said tbe injured bookseller; "sucb a notion
would never bave come into my mind — no man, I
make bold to say, is more particular about keeping to
his own rank of life nor me. What you did, sir, you
did out of the kindness of your heart, and I'd sooner
sell up and go off to the end of the world than impose
upon a gentleman. Her aunt's took her away," con-
tinued Mr. Elsworthy, lowering his voice, and cau-
tiously pointing to the back of the shop — "She'll not
bother you no more."
"She! — who?" cried the Perpetual Curate, in sud-
den consternation. He was utterly bewildered by the
introduction of a female actor into the little drama,
and immediately ran over in his mind all the women
he could think of who could, by any possibility, be
involved in mysterious relations with his brother Jack.
"She's but a child," said Elsworthy, pathetically,
"she don't know nothing about the ways o' this world.
If she was a bit proud o' being noticed, there wasn't
no harm in that. But seeing as there's nothing in this
world that folks won't make a talk of when they've
started, her aunt, as is very partic'lar, has took her
away. Not as I'm meaning no reproach to you, Mr.
Wentworth; but she's a loss to us, is Rosa. She was
a cheerful little thing, say the worst of her," said Mr.
Elsworthy; "going a-singing and a-chirping out and
in the shop; and I won't deny as the place looks de-
solate, now she's away. But that ain't neither here
nor there. It Avas for her good, as my missis says.
The Perpehud Curate. I. lo
226 THE PERPETUAL CUUATE.
Most things as is unpleasant is sent for good, they tell
me; and I wouldn't — not for any comfort to myself —
have a talk got up about the clergyman "
By this time Mr. Wentworth had awakened to
a sense of the real meaning of Elsworthy's talk. He
sat upright on his chair, and looked into the face of
the worthy shopkeeper until the poor man trembled.
"A talk about tlie clergyman?" said the Curate. "About
me, do you mean? and what has little Rosa to do with
me? Have you gone crazy in Carlingford? — what is
the meaning of it all?" He sat with his elbows on
the counter, looking at his trembling adherent — look-
ing through and through him, as Elsworthy said. "I
should be glad of an explanation; what does it mean?"
said Mr. Wentworth, with a look which there was no
evading; and the clerk of St. Roque's cast an anxious
glance round him for help. He would have accepted
it from any quarter at that overwhelming moment; but
there was not even an errand-boy to divert from him
the Curate's terrible eyes.
"I — I don't know — I — can't tell how it got up,"
said the unhappy man, who had not even his "missis"
in the parlour as a moral su^iport. "One thing as I
know is, it wasn't no blame o' mine. I as good as
went down on my knees to them three respected ladies
when they come to inquire. I said as it was kindness
in you a-seeing of the child home, and didn't mean
nothing more. I ask you, sir, what could I do?"
cried Mr. Elsworthy. "Folks in Carlingford Avill talk
o' two straws if tliey're a-seen a-bloAving up Grange
Lane on the same breath o' wind. I couldn't do no
more nor contradict it," cried Rosa's guardian, getting
excited in his self-defence; "and to save your feelings,
THE PEitPKTUAL CURATE. 227
Mr. Weutworth, aud put it out o' folks's power to talk,
the missis has been and took her away."
"To save my feelings!" said the Curate, with a
laugh of contempt and vexation and impatience Avhich
it was not pleasant to hear. At another moment an
accusation so ridiculous Avould have troubled him very
little; but just now, with a sudden gleam of insight,
he saw all the complications which might spring out
of it to confuse further the path which he abeady
felt to be so burdened. "I'll tell you what, Elsworthy,"
said Mr. Wentwortlr, "if you don't want to make me
your enemy instead of your friend, yoii'll send for this
child instantly without a day's delay. Tell your wife
that my orders are that she should come back directly.
Mij feelings! do the people in Carliugford think me an
idiot, I wonder?" said the Curate, walking up and
down to relieve his mind.
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure," said ElsAVorthy, who
thought some answer was required of him. To tell
the truth, Rosa's uncle felt a little spiteful. He did
not see matters in exactly the same light as Mr. Went-
worth did. At the bottom of his heart, after all, lay
a thrill of awakened ambition. Kings and princes had
been known to many far out of their degree for the
sake of a beautiful face; and why a Perpetual Curate
should be so much more lofty in his sentiments, puzzled
and irritated the clerk of St. Roque's. "There ain't
a worm but will turn when he's trod upon," said
Mr. Elsworthy to himself; and when his temper was
roused, he became impertinent, according to the man-
ner of his kind.
Mr. Wentworth gave him a quick look, struck by
the changed tone, but unable to make out whether it
228 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
miglit not be stupidity. "You understand what I mean,
Elswortby," he said, with his loftiest air. "If Eosa
does not return instantly, I shall be seriously offended.
How you and your friends could be such utter idiots
as to get up this ridiculous fiction, I can't conceive ; but
the sooner it's over the better. I expect to see her
back to-morrow," said the Curate, taking up his bag
and looking with an absolute despotism, which ex-
asperated the man, in Elsworthy's face.
"You may be sure, sir, if she knows as you want
to see her, she'll come," said the worm which had
been trampled on; "and them as asks me why, am I
to say it was the clergyman's orders?" said Elswortby,
Iboking up in his turn with a consciousness of power.
"That means a deal, does that. I wouldn't take it
upon me to say as much, not of myself; but if them's
your orders, Mr. Wentworth "
"It appears to me, Elswortby," said the Curate,
who was inwardly in a towering passion, though out-
wardly calm enough, "either that you've been drink-
ing or that you mean to be impertinent — which is it?"
"Me! — drinking, sir?" cried the shopkeeper. "If
I bad been one as was given that way, I wouldn't
have attended to your interests not as I have done.
There ain't another man in Carlingford as has stood
up for his clergyman as I have; and as for little Rosa,
sir, most folks as had right notions would have in-
quired into that; but being as I trusted in you, I
wasn't the one to make any talk. I've said to every-
body as has asked me that there wasn't nothing in it
but kindness. I don't say as I hadn't my own thoughts
— -for gentlemen don't go walking up Grange Lane
THE PERPETUAL CUHATE. 229
with a pretty little creature like that all for nothing;
but instead o' making anything of that, or leading of
you on, or putting it in the child's head to give you
encouragement, what was it I did but send her away
afore you came home, that you mightn't be led into
temptation! And instead of feelin' grateful, you say
I've been drinking! It's a thing as I scorn to an-
swer," said Mr. Elsworthy; "there ain't no need to
make any reply — all Carlingford knows me; but as for
Rosa, if it is understood plain between us that it's your
wish, I ain't the man to interfere," continued Rosa's
guardian, with a smile which drove the Curate frantic;
"but she hasn't got no father, poor thing, and it's my
business to look after her; and I'll not bring her back,
Mr. Wentworth, unless it's understood between us
plain."
Strong language, forcible, but unclerical, was on
the Curate's lips, and it was only with an effort that
he restrained himself. "Look here, Elsworthy," he
said; "it will be better for you not to exasperate me.
You understand perfectly what I mean. I repeat, Rosa
must come back, and that instantly. It is quite un-
necessary to explain to you why I insist upon this, for
you comprehend it. Pshaw! don't let us have any
more of this absurdity," he exclaimed, impatiently.
"No more, I tell you. Your wife is not such a fool.
Let anybody who inquires about me understand that I
have come back, and am quite able to account for all
my actions," said the Curate, shouldering his bag. He
was just about leaving the shop when Elsworthy rushed
after him in an access of alarm and repentance.
"One moment, sir," cried the shopkeeper; "there
ain't no offence, Mr. Wentworth? I am sure there
230 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ain't nobody in Carlingford as means better, or would
do as much for his clergyman. One moment, sir-, there
■was one thing as I forgot to mention. Mr. Wode-
house, sir, has been took bad. There was a message
up a couple of hours ago to know when you was ex-
pected home. He's had a stroke, and they don't think
as he'll get over it — being a man of a full 'abit of
body," said Mr. Elsworthy in haste, lest the Curate
should break in on his unfinished speech, "makes it
dangerous. I've had my fears this long time past."
"A stroke," said the Curate — "a fit, do you mean?
When, and how? and, good heavens! to think that
you have been wasting my time with rubbish, and
knew this!" Mr. Wentworth tossed down his travel-
ling-bag again, and wiped his forehead nervously. He
had forgotten his real anxiety in the irritation of the
moment. Now it returned upon him with double force.
"How did it come on?" he asked, "and when?" and
stood waiting for the answer, with a world of other
questions, which he could not put to Elsworthy, hang-
ing on his lips.
"I have a deal of respect for that family, sir," said
Elsworthy, "they have had troubles as few folks in
Carlingford know of. How close they have kep' things,
to be sure! — but not so close as them that has good
memories, and can put two and two together, couldn't
call to mind. My opinion, sir, if you believe me,"
said the clerk of St. lloque's, approaching close to the
Curate's ear, "is, that it's something concerning the
son."
"The son!" said Mr. Wentworth, with a troubled
look. Then, after a pause, he added quickly, as if
' THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 231
his exclamation had been an oversight, "What son?
has Mr. Wodehouse a son?"
"To think as they should have been so close with
the clergyman!" said Elswortliy, innocently, "though
he ain't no credit that they should talk of him. He's
been gone out o' Carlingford nigh upon twenty year-,
but lie ain't dead for all tliat; and I'm told as he's
been seen about Grange Lane this last spring. I am
one as hears all the talk that's a-going on, being, as
you might say, in a public position of life. Such a
thing mightn't maybe come to your ears, sir?" he
continued, looking inquisitively in Mr. Wentworth's
face; "but wherever he is, you may be sure it's some-
thing about him as has brought on this attack on the
old man. It was last night as he was took so bad,
and a couple of hours ago, a message came up. Miss
Wodehouse (as is the nicest lady in Grange Lane, and
a great friend to me) had took a panic, and she was
a-crying for you, the man said, and wouldn't take no
denial. If I had knoAvn where you was to be found,
I'd have sent word."
"Send down my bag to my house," said the Curate,
hastily interrujiting him. "Good-night — don't forget
what I said about the other matter." Mr. Wentworth
went out of the shop with a disagreeable impression
that Elsworthy had been examining his face like an
inquisitor, and was already forming conclusions from
what he had seen there. He went away hurriedly,
with a great many vague fears in his mind. Mr.
Wodehouse's sudden illness seemed to him a kind of
repetition and echo of the Squire's, and in the troiibled
and imcertain state of his thoughts, he got to confus-
ing them together in the centre of this whirl of un-
232 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
known disaster and perplexity. Perhaps even thus it
was not all bitterness to the young man to feel his
family united with that of Lucy Wodehouse. He went
down Grange Lane in the summer darkness under the
faint stars, full of anxiety and alarm, yet not without
a thrill in his heart, a sweeter under-current of con-
scious agitation in the knowledge that he was hasten-
ing to her presence. Sudden breaks in his thoughts
revealed her, as if behind a curtain, rising to receive
him, giving him her hand, meeting his look with a
smile-, so that, on the whole, neither Gerald's disti'ess,
nor Jack's alarming call, nor his father's attack, nor
Mr. Wodehouse's illness, nor the general atmosphere
of vexation and trouble surrounding his way, could
succeed in making the young man totally wretched.
He had this little stronghold of his own to retire into.
The world could not fall to pieces so long as he con-
tinued with eager steps to devour the road which led
to Mr. Wodehouse's garden-door.
Before he had reached that goal, however, he met
a group who were evidently returning from some little
dinner in Grange Lane. Mr. Wentworth took off his
hat hastily in recognition of Mrs. Morgan, who was
walking by her husband's side, with a bright-coloured
hood over her head instead of a bonnet. The Curate,
who was a man of taste, could not help observing,
even in the darkness, and amid all his preoccupations,
how utterly the cherry-coloured trimmings of her head-
dress were out of accordance with the serious counte-
nance of the Rector's wife, who was a little heated with
her walk. She was a good woman, but she was not
fail' to look upon; and it occurred to Mr. Wentworth
to wonder if Lucy were to wait ten years for him,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 233
would the youthful grace dry and wither out of her
like this! And then all at once another idea flashed
upon his mind, without any wish of his. Like the un-
happy lover in the ballad, he was suddenly aware of
a temptation —
"How there looked him iu the face
An angel beautiful and bright,
And how he knew it was a fiend."
"Of course the Rectory will go to Frank." He
could not tell why at that moment the words rang into
his ear with such a penetrating sound. That he hated
himself for being able to think of such a possibility
made no difference. It came darting and tingling into
his mind like one of those suggestions of blasphemy
Avhich the devils whispered in Christian's ear as he
went through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He
went on faster than ever to escape from it, scarcely
observing that Mrs. Morgan, instead of simply ac-
knowledging his bow as she passed, stopped to shake
hands, and to say how glad she was he had come back
again. He thought of it afterwards with wonder and
a strange gratitude. The Eector's wife was not like
the conventional type of a pitying angel; and even
had she been so, he had not time to recognise her at
that moment as he went struggling with his demons to
Mr. Wodehouse's erreen door.
234 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
CHAPTER XXI.
When the green door was ojjened, Mr. Wentwortli
saw at a glance that there was agitation and trouble
in the house. Lights were twinkling irregularly in the
windows here and there, but the family apartment, the
cheerful drawing-room, which generally threw its steady,
cheerful blaze over the dark garden, shone but faintly
with half-extinguished lights and undrawn curtains. It
was evident at a glance that the room was deserted,
and its usual occupants engaged elsewhere. "Master's
very bad, sir," said the servant who opened the door;
"the young ladies is both with him, and a hired nurse
come in l)esidcs. The doctor don't seem to have no
great hopes, but it will be a comfort to know as you
have come back. Miss Wodehouse wanted you very
bad an hour or two ago, for they thought as master
was reviving, and could understand. I'll go and let
them know you are here."
"Don't disturb them, unless I can be of use," said
Mr. Wentworth. The look of the house, and the at-
mosphere of distress and anxiety about it, chilled him
suddenly. Ilis visions and hopes seemed guilty and
selfish as he went slowly up those familiar steps and
into the house, over which the shadow of death seemed
already lying. Ho went l)y himself into the forsaken
drawing-room, where two neglected candles were burning
feebly in a corner, and the wistful sky looking in as
if to ask why the domestic temple was thus left open
and uncared for. After the first moment he went hastily
THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
235
to the windows, and drew down the blinds in a kind
of tender impatience. He coi;ld not bear that anything
in the world, even her father's danger, should discom-
pose the sweet, good order of the place where Lucy's
image dwelt. There was her chair and her basket of
work, and on the little table a book marked with pencil-
marks, such as youthful readers love to make; and by
degrees that breath of Lucy lingering in the silent
room overcame its dreariness, and the jiainful sense of
desertion which had struck him at first. He hovered
about that corner where her usual i}lace was, feeling
in his heart that Lucy in trouble was dearer, if possible,
than Lucy in happiness, and hung over her chair, with
a mixture of reverence and tenderness and yearning,
which could never be expressed in words. It was the
divinest phase of love which was in his mind at the
moment-, for he was not thinking of himself, but of
her, and of how he could succour and comfort her,
and interpose his own true heart and life between her
and all trouble. It was at this moment that Lucy
herself entered the room; she came in softly, and sur-
prised him in the overflowing of his heart. She held
out Iier hand to him as usual, and smiled, perhaps less
brightly, but that of course arose from the circumstances
of the house; and her voice was very measiired and
steady when she spoke, less variable than of old. What
was it she said? Mr. Weutworth unconsciously left the
neighbourhood of that chair over which he had been
bending, which, to tell the truth, he had leaned his
head upon, lover-like, and perhaps even kissed for her
sake, five minutes before, • and grew red and grew pale
with a strange revulsion and tumult of feeling. He
could not tell what the difference was, or what it meant.
236 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
He only felt in an instant, with a sense of the change
that chilled hiin to the heart, as if somehow a wall of
ice had risen between them. He could see her through
that transparent veil, and hear her speak, and perceive
the smile which cast no warmth of reflection on him-,
but in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, every-
thing in heaven and earth was changed. Lucy herself,
to her own consciousness, trembled and faltered, and
felt as if her voice and her looks must betray an
amount of emotion which she would have died rather
than show; but then Lucy had rehearsed this scene
before, and knew all she intended by it; whereas upon
the Curate, in his little flush and overflow of tenderness,
it fell like a sudden earthquake, rending his fair edifice
of happiness asunder, and casting him out into unex-
pected darkness. Sudden confusion, mortification, even
a sense of injury and bitterness, came swelling over
his heart as he set a chair for her as far away as pos-
sible from the corner in which lie had been indulging
such vain and unwarrantable dreams.
"It happened yesterday," said Lucy; "we have not
been quite able to make out what was the cause; at
least 1 have not been able to find it out. The clerks
at the office say it was something about — but that does
not matter," she went on, with her sweet politeness:
"you don't care for the details. I sometimes fancy
Mary knows more than she tells me, and I think you
are in her confidence, Mr. Wentworth. But I am not
going to ask you any questions. The doctors say he
is not suffering so much as he seems to be. It is
terrible to see him lie there . not knowing any of us,"
said Lucy, with a tremble in her voice.
"Bitt you, thought him better some time ago?" said
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 237
the Curate, whose words choked him, and who could
not endure to speak.
"Yes, about six o'clock," said Lucy, "he tried to
speak, and put Mary in a great fright, I cannot tell
why. Would you be good enough, Mr. Wentworth,"
she went on hastily, with a strange mixture of earnest-
ness and coldness, "if you know of anything she is
keeping secret, to bid her tell me? I am able to bear
anything there may be to bear — surely as well as she
is, who has had no trouble," said Lucy, softly, and for
a moment she wavered in her fixed composure, and the
wall of ice moved as if it might fall.
"Nor you?" said the Curate, bending anxiously
forward to look into her eyes. He was inexpressibly
moved and agitated by the inference, which perhaps
no listener less intensely concerned would have drawn
from what Lucy said. He could not bear that she
should have any trouble which he might not do some-
thing to relieve her of.
"Oh, no, nor I," said Lucy, quickly, and in that
moment the softening of tone disappeared entirely.
"Mary will be pleased to see you, Mr. Wentworth. I
will go and relieve her presently. Papa is asleep just
now, and I was down-stairs giving some directions
when you came in. I wanted to ask you to look after
that poor woman at No. 10. She still keeps living on,
and I have not been able to see her to-day. She misses
me Avhen I don't go," said Lucy, with a very little un-
conscious sigh. "Would you see her, please, to-morrow,
if you have time?"
"Yes, certainly," said the Curate; and then there
was a pause. "Is there nothing but this that you will
238 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
let mo do for you?" lie asked, trusting to his looks to
show the heart, which at this moment he was so much
tempted to disclose to her, but dared not. And even
in all her trouble Lucy was too much of a woman to
neglect an opportunity so tempting.
"Thank you," she said. "Yes, there are those
poor little Bertrams I was to have seen to-day — if you
would be so very good as to send some one to them."
Lucy lifted her eyes only as she ended this little
speech. She had meant it cruelly, to be sure, and the
arrow had gone home; but when she met the look that
was fixed on her after her little shaft was fired, Lucy's
resolution faltered. The tears came rushing to her eyes
so hot and rapid that she could not restrain them.
Some trouble of her own gave poignancy to that out-
break of filial grief. "Papa is so very ill!" she said,
with a sob, as a scalding drop fell upon her hand; and
then got up suddenly, afraid of the consequences. But
the Curate, mortified, wounded, and disheartened as he
was, had no comprehension either of the bitterness or
the relenting that was in Lucy's thoiights. Rosa
Elsworthy did not so much as occur to him in all his
confused wonderings. He went after her to the door,
too much perplexed and distressed to be indignant, as
his first impulse was. She turned half round, with a
tremulous little inclination of her head, Avliich was all
the good-night she could venture on. But the young
man was too much disturbed to permit this.
"You Avill give me your hand, surely," he said,
taking it, and holding it fast — a hand so different from
that weak woman's hand that clung to Gerald without
any force to hold him, in Wcutworth Rectory. Those
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 239
reluctant fingers, so firm and so soft, which scorned
any struggle to withdraw themselves, but remained
passive in his witn a more effectual protest still against
his grasp, wrung the very heart of the Perpetual Curate.
He let them go with a sigh of vexation and disappoint-
ment. "Since that is all I can do, I will do it," he
said — "that or anything else." She had left him almost
before the words were said; and it was in a very dis-
consolate mood that he turned back into the deserted
drawing-room. To tell the truth, he forgot everything
else for the moment, asking himself what it could
mean-, and walked about stumbling over the chairs,
feeling all his little edifice of personal consolation
falling to the winds, and not caring much though
everything else should follow. He was in this state
of mind when Miss Wodehouse came to him, moving
with noiseless steps, as everybody did in the stricken
house.
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I am so glad you have come,"
said that mild woman, holding out both her hands to
him. She was too much agitated to say anything more.
She was not equal to the emergency, or any emergency,
but sank down on a chair, and relieved herself by
tears, while the Curate stood anxiously by, waiting for
what she had to say to him. "My father is very ill,"
she said, like Lucy, through her crying; "I don't
know what good anybody can do ; but thank God
you've come home — now I shall feel I have somebody
to apply to, whatever happens," said poor Miss Wode-
house, drying the eyes that were suffused again the
next moment. Her helpless distress did not overwhelm
the spectator, like Lucy's restrained trouble, but that
was natural euouah.
240 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Tell me about it," said Mr. Wentworth; "the
cause — can I guess at the cause? it is something about
your " •
"Oh hush! don't say his name," cried Miss Wode-
house. "Yes, yes, what else could it be? Oh, Mr.
Wentworth, will you close the door, please, and see
that there's no one about. I dare not speak to you
till I am sure there's no one listening-, not that 1
sus2)ect anybody of listening," said the distressed
woman; "but one never knows. I am afraid it is all
my fault," she continued, getting up again suddenly
to see that the windows were closed. "I ought to
have sent him away, instead of putting my trouble
upon you; and now he is in greater danger than ever.
Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I meant it for the best; and
now, unless you can help us, I don't know Avhat I am
to do."
"I cannot help you unless you tell me what is
wrong," said the Curate, making her sit down, and
drawing a chair close to her. He took her hand, by
way of compelling her attention — a fair, soft hand too,
in its restless, anxious Avay. He held it in a brotherly
grasp, trying to restore her to coherence, and induce
her to speak.
"I don't know enough about business to tell you,"
she said. "He was in danger when I threw him upon
your charity; and oh, Mr. Wentworth, thank you, thank
you a thousand times, for taking him in like a brother.
If Lucy only knew! But I don't feel as if I dared to
tell her — and yet I sometimes think I ought, for your
—I mean for all our sakes. Yes, I will try to explain
it if I can; but I can't — indeed I don't understand,"
THi3 PJJRrETUAL CUKATK. 241
cried the poor lady, in despair. "It is something about
a bill — it was something about a bill before; and I
thought I could soften papa, and jjersuade him to be
merciful; but it has all turned to greater wretchedness
;ind misery. The first one was paid, you know, and I
thought papa might relent; — but — don't cast us off,
Mr. Wentworth — don't go and denounce him; you might,
but you Avill not. It would be justice, I acknowledge,"
cried the weeping woman; "but there is something
higher than justice even in this world. You are younger
than I am, and so is Lucy; but you are better than
me, you young people, and you must be more merci-
ful too. I have seen you going among the poor people
and among the sick, and I could not have done it; and
you won't forsake me — -oh, Mr. Wentworth, you won't
forsake me, when you know that my trouble is greater
than I can bear!"
"I will not forsake you," said the Curate; "but tell
me what it is. I have been summoned to Carlingford
by my brother, and I am bewildered and disturbed be-
yond what I can tell you "
"By your brother?" said Miss Wodehouse, with her
unfailing instinct of interest in other people. "I hope
there is no trouble in your own family, Mr. Wentworth.
One gets so selfisli when one is in great distress. I
hope he is not ill. It sounds as if there was comfort
in the very name of a brother," said the gentle woman,
drying her tears, "and I hope it is so with you; but it
isn't always so. I hope you will find he is better when
you get home. I am very, very sorry to hear that you
are in trouble too."
Mr. Wentworth got up from his chair with a sigh
of impatience. "Will nobody tell me what is the mat-
1U6 IXiiii^lnal Cr.iuL. I. 1^
242 TIIK PEUPETTTAL CURATR.
tei'V" lie said. "Mr. Wodeliouse is ill, and there is,
some mysterious cause for it; and you are miserable,
and there is a cause for that too-, and I am to do some-
thing to set things right without knowing what is
wrong. Will you not tell me? What is it? Has
your "
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, don't say anybody's name —
don't speak so loud. There may be a servant in the
staircase or something," cried Miss Wodehouse. "I
hear somebody coming now." She got up to listen,
her face growing white with panic, and went a few
steps towards the door, and then tottered into another
chair, unable to command herself. A certain sick thrill
of apprehension came over the Curate, too, as he
hastened forward. He could not tell Avhat he was
afraid of, or whether it was only the accumulated
agitation of the day that made him weak. Somebody
was coming up the stairs, and towards this room, with
a footstep more careless than those stealthy steps with
which all the servants were stealing about the house.
Whoever he was, he stopped at the door a moment,
and then looked cautiously in. When he saw the figure
of the Curate in the imperfect light, he withdrcAv his
head again as if deliberating with himself, and then,
with a sudden rush, came in, and shut the door after
him. "Confound these servants, they're always prowl-
ing about the house ," said the new-comer. He was
an alarming apparition in his great beard and his
shabbiness, and the fugitive look he had. "I couldn't
help it," he broke forth, with a si^ontaneous burst of
apology and self-defence. "I heard he was ill, and I
couldn't keep quiet. How is he? You don't mean to
say that's my fault. Molly, can't you speak to me?
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 243
How could T tell I should find you and the parson
alone here, and all safe? I might have been risking
my — my — freedom — everything I care for-, hut when
I heard he was ill, I couldn't stay quiet. Is he dying?
— what's the matter? Molly, can't you speak?"
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, somebody will see him," cried
Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands. " Oh Tom, Tom,
how could you do it? Suppose somebody was to come
in — John, or somebody. If you care for your own life,
oh, go away, go away!"
"They can't touch my life," said the stranger,
sullenly. "I daresay she doesn't know that. Nor the
parson need not look superior — there are more people
concerned than I; but if I've risked everything to hear,
you may surely tell me how the old man is."
"If it was love that brought you," said poor Miss
Wodehouse-, "but oh, Tom, you know I can't believe
that. He is very, very ill-, and it is you that have
done it," cried the mild woman, in a little gush of
passion — "you whom he has forgiven and forgiven till
his heart is sick. Go away. I tell you, go away from
the house that you have shamed. Oh, Mr. Wentworth,
take him away," she cried, turning to the Curate with
clasped hands— "tell him to hide — to fly — or he'll be
taken: he will not be forgiven this time; and if my
father — if my dear father dies " But when she got
so far her agitation interrupted her. She kept her eyes
upon the door with a wild look of terror, and waved
her helpless hands to warn the intruder away.
"If he dies, matters Avill be altered," said the
stranger-, "you and I might change places then, for
that matter. I'm going away from Carlingford. I can't
16*
244 THE I'EUPKTUAL CIJKATE.
stay in such a wrctclicd liole any lonj;or. It's jjoiit or
something?" said the man, with a tone of nature break-
ing through his bravado — "it's not anything that has
happened? Say so, and I'll never trouble you more."
"Oh, if Lucy were to see him!" said poor Miss
Wodeliouse. The words came unawares out of her
heart without any thought; but the next tiling of which
she was conscious was that the Perpetual Curate had
laid his hand on the stranger's arm, and was leading
him reluctantly away. "I will tell you all you want
to know," said Mr. Wentworth, "but not here;" and
with his hand upon the other's arm, moved him some-
how with an irresistible command, half pliysical, half
mental, to the door. Before Miss Wodeliouse could say
anything they were gone; before she could venture to
draw that long sighing breath of relief, she heard the
door below close, and the retreating footsteps in the
garden. But the sound, thankful though she ^Aas,
moved her to another burst of bitter tears. "To think
I should have to tell a stranger to take him away,"
she sobbed, out of the anguish of her heart; and sat
weeping over him with a relenting that wrung her
tender spirit, without power to move till the servant
came up with alarmed looks to ask if any one had
come in in his absence. "Oh, no; it was only Mr.
Wentworth — and a — gentleman who came to fetch
him," said Miss Wodehouse. And she got up, trem-
bling as she was, and told John he had better shut up
the house and go to bed. "For I hope jjajia will have
a better night, and we must not waste our strength,"
she said, -ndth a kind of woeful smile, which was a
wonder to John. He said Miss Wodehouse was a tender-
hearted one, to be sure, when he went down-stairs; but
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 245
tLat was no very novel piece of information to anybody
there.
Meantime the Curate went down Grange Lane with
that strange lodger of Mrs. Iladwin's, who had broken
thus into Miss Wodehouse's solitude. They did not say
much to each other as they went sullenly side by side
down the silent road; — for the stranger, whose feelings
were not complicated by any very lively sense of
gratitude, looked upon his companion as a kind of
jailer, and had an unspeakable grudge against the man
who exercised so calm an ascendancy over him-, though
to be sure it might have been difficult to resist the
moral force of the Curate of St. lioque's, who was three
inches taller than himself, and had the unbroken vigour
of youth and health to back him. As for Mr. Wcnt-
worth, he went on without speaking, with a bitterness
in his heart not to be expressed. His own j^ersonal
stronghold of happiness and. consolation had shattered
in pieces in that evening's interview, and as he went
to his own house he asked himself what he should find
in it? This wretched man, Avith whose sins he had
been hitherto but pai'tially acquainted; and Jack, Avith
whom the other had heaven knew what horrible con-
nection. Should he find a den of thieves whore he had
left only high thoughts and lofty intentions? It was
thus, after his three days' absence, that he returned
home.
216 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
CHAPTER XXII.
WiiKN ]\Ir. Wonlwortli entered Mrs. Iladwiii's p^arden
in the dark, his first ;^lancc up at tlie house sliowed
liim that a certain change had })assed on it also. The
decorous little house had been turned inside out. The
windows of his oAvn sitting-room were open, the blind
drawn up to the top, and in addition to his usual lamp
some candles were flaring wildly in the draught. He
could see into the room as he paused at the garden
door, and was able to distinguish that the table was
still covered as for dinner, and to catch the purple
gleam of the light in the claret-jug which occupied the
place of honour; but nobody Avas visible in the room.
That wildly-illuminated and open apartment stood in
strange contrast with the rest of the house, where
everything was dark, save in Mrs. Hadwin's own
chamber. The Curate proceeded on his way, after that
moment's pause, with hasty and impatient steps. On
the way up he encountered Sarah the housemaid, who
stopped in the middle of the stairs to make a frightened
little curtsy, and utter an alarmed "La!" of recognition
and surprise. But Sarah turned round as soon as she
had recovered herself, to say that her missis wanted
very bad to see Mr. Weutworth as soon as he came
home; but she was gone to bed now, and didn't he
think it would be a pity to wake her up? The Curate
gave her only a little nod of general acquiescence, as
he hurried on; but felt, notwithstanding, that this
prompt request, ready prepared for his arrival, was a
THE PERPETUAL CUKATE. 247
tacit protest against his guests, and expression of dis-
approval. Mrs. Hadwin was only his landlady, an old
woman, and not a particularly wise one, but her dis-
approval vexed the I'erpetual Curate. It was a kind
of sign of the times — those times in which it appeared
that everybody was ready to turn upon him and
embarrass his path. He had forgotten all about his
companion as he hurried into the familiar room which
was so little like itself, but yet was somehow conscious
with annoyance that the stranger followed him through
its half-shut door. The scene within was one which
was never effaced from Mr. Wentworth's memory. There
were several bottles upon the talde, which the poor
Curate knew by sight, and which had been collected
in his little cellar more for the benefit of Wharfside
than of himself Removed out of the current of air
which was playing freely through the apartment, was
some one lying on a sofa, with candles burning on a
table beside him. He was in a dressing-gown, with his
shirt open at the throat, and his languid frame ex-
tended in perfect repose to catch the refreshment of the
breeze. Clouds of languid smoke, which were too far
out of the way to feel the draught between the windows,
curled over him: he had a cigar in one hand, which
he had just taken from his lips, and Avith which he was
faintly waving off a big night-moth which had been
attracted by the lights; and a French novel, un-
mistakable in its paper cover, had closed upon the
other. Altogether a more languid figure never lay at
rest in undisturbed possession of the most legitimate
retirement. He had the Went worth hair, the golden-
brown, which, like all their other family features, even
down to their illnesses, the race was proud of, and a
248 xnF, rKni-nrrAL friRATR.
liandsomo silky ])f'ar{l. Ho li.ul lived a hard life of
pleasure and j)iuiisliincnt-, but though he had reached
middle age, there was not a hair on the handsome re-
probate's head which had changed out of its original
colour. He looked languidly up when the door opened,
but did not stop the delicate fence which he was carry-
ing on against the moth, nor the polyglot oaths whicli
he was swearing at it softly half under his breath.
"Frank, I su])poser " he said, calmly, as the Curate
came hastily forward. "How d'ye do? I am very
glad youVe come back. The country was very charm-
ing tlic first day, but that's a charm that doesn't last.
I sujjpose you've dined: or w-ill you ring and order
something?" he said, turning slowly round on his sofa.
"Accideute! the thing will kill itself after all. Would
you mind catching it in your handkerchief before you
sit down? But don't take away the candles. It's too
late to make any exertion," said the elegant jjrodigal,
leaning back languidly on his sofa; "but I assure you
that light is half my life."
The Curate was tired, heated, and indignant. He
lifted the candles away from the table, and then put
them back again, too much excited to think of the
moth. "Your arrival must have been very sudden,"
lie. said, tlirowing himself into the nearest chair. "I
was very much surprised by your message. It looks
inhospitable, but I see you make yourself quite at
home "
"Perfectly," said the elder brother, resuming his
cigar. "I always do. It is much more agreeable for
all parties. But I don't know how it is that a man's
younger brothers are always so rapid and unreasonable
TTTE PRRPETTTAL CURATK. 219
in their movements. Instead of saving that iiuliappy
insect, you Lave precipitated its fate. Poor thing! —
and it had no soul," said the intruder, with a tone of
pathos. The scene aUogcther was a curious one.
Snugly sheltered from the draught, but enjoying the
coolness of the atmosjtherc -which it produced, lay the
figure on the sofa at perfect ease and leisure, with the
light shed brightly upon him, on his shining beard,
the white cool expanse of linen at his breast, and the
bright hues of his dressing-goA\ai. Near him, fatiguetl,
(lusty, indignant, and perplexed, sat the Curate, with
the night air playing upon him, and moving his dis-
ordered hair on his forehead; Avhile at the other end
of the room hovered the stranger who had followed
Mr. Wentworth — a broad, shabby, indistinct figure,
Avho stood with his back to the others, looking vaguely
out of the window into the darkness. Over these two
tlic night air blew with no small force between the
open windows, making the candles on the centre table
flare wildly, and flapping the white tablecloth. An
occasional puff from the cigar floated now and then
across the room. It was a ])ause before the storm.
"I Avas about to say," said the I'erjjctual Curate,
"that though it might seem inhospitable, the first thing
1 had to ask was, What brought you here — and why
did you send for me?"
"Don't be abrupt, pray," said Jack, taking his
cigar from his mouth, and slightly waving the hand
that held it. "Don't let us plunge into business all at
once. You bring a sense of fatigiie into the room with
you, and the atmosphere was delightful a little while
ago. 1 flatter myself I know how to enjoy the cool of
the eA'ening. Suppose you were to — ah — refresh your-
250 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
self a little," he said, with a cliKaj)])roviii^ glance at
his brother's dusty boots, "before we begin to talk of
our affairs."
The Curate of St. Roque's got up from his chair,
feeling that he had an unchristian inclination to kick
the heir of the Wentworths. As he could not do that,
he shut the window behind him emphatically, and ex-
tinguished the flaring candles on the centre taljle. "I
detest a draught," said the Perpetual Curate, which,
unfortunately, was not a statement entirely founded on
fact, though so far true in the present instance that he
hated anything originated by the intruder. "I have
luirried home in rejily to your message, and I should
be glad to know what it means, now that I am here —
what you are in trouble about — and why you come to
me — arid what you have to do with him?"
"But you need not have deranged the temperature,"
said Jack. "Impetuosity always distresses me. All
these are questions which it will take some time to
answer. Let me persuade you, in the first place, to
make yourself comfortable. Don't mind me; I am at
the crisis of my novel, which is very interesting. I
have just been thinking how it might be adapted for
the stage — there's a character that Fechter could make
anything of. Now, my dear fellow, don't stand on
ceremony,. Take a bath and change your dress, and
in the mean time there will be time to cook something
— the cookery here is not bad for the country. After
that we'll discuss all our news. I daresay our friend
there is in no hurry," said the elder brother, opening
his book and puffing slowly towards the Curate the
languid smoke of his cigar.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 251
"But, by Jove, I atn in a hurry, though," said that
nameless individual, coming forward. "It's all very
well for you: you put a man up to everything that's
dangerous, and then you leave him in the lurch, and
say it don't matter. I daresay it don't matter to you.
All that you've done has been to share the profit —
you've notliing to do with the danger; but I'm savage
to-night, and I don't mean to stand it any more," said
the stranger, his great chest expanding with a panting
breath. He, too, looked as if he would have liked to
seize the languid spectator in his teetli and shake some
human feeling into him. Jack Wentworth raised his
eyebrows and looked at him, as he might have looked
at a wild beast in a rage.
"Sit down, savage, and be quiet," he said. "Why
should I trouble myself about you? — any fool could
get into your scrape. I am not in the habit of inter-
fering in a case of common crime. What I do, I do
out of pity," he continued, with an air of superiority,
([uite different from his tone to his brother. But this
look, which had answered before, was not successful
to-night.
"By Jove, I am savage!" said the other, setting
his teeth, "and I know enough of your ways to teach
you different behaviour. The parson has treated me
like a gentleman — like what I used to be, though he
don't like me; but you! By Jove! It was only
my own name I signed, after all," he continued after
a pause, lowering his voice; "but you, you black-
"Stop a little," said the Curate, rising up. "Though
you seem both to have forgotten it, this is my room.
252 TUB PERPETUAL CURATE.
I don't mean to liave any altercations here. I have
taken yon in for the sake of your — family," said Mr.
Wentworth, with a momentary gasp, "and you have
come because you are my brother. I don't deny any
natural claims upon me; but I am master of my own
house, and my own leisure. Get up, Jack, and tell
me what you want. When I understand what it is,
you can lounge at your will; ]jut in the mean time get
uj) and explain: and as for you, Wodehouse "
Jack Wentworth faced round on his sofa, and then,
with a kind of involuntary motion, slid his feet to the
groiind. He looked at his brother with extreme amaze-
ment as he closed his novel and tossed away the end
of his cigar. "It's much better not to mention names,"
he said, in a half-apologetic way. "Our friend here
is under a temporary cloud. His name, in fact, is —
Smith, I think." But as he spoke he sat upright, a
little startled to find that Frank, whom he remembered
only as a lad, was no longer to be coerced and con-
cussed. As for tbe other, he came forward with the
alacrity of a man who began to see some ho^ie.
"By Jove, my name is Wodehouse, though," he
said, in the argumentative tone which seemed habitual
to him; his voice came low and grumbling through his
beard. He was not of the class of triumphant sinners,
whatever wickedness he might be capable of. To tell
the trvith, he had long, long ago fjillen out of the but-
terfly stage of dissipation, and had now to be the doer
of dirty work, despised and hustled about by sucli men
as Jack Wentworth. The wages of sin had long been
bitter enough, though he had neither any hope of
freeing himself, nor any wish to do so; biit he took up
a grumbling tone of self-assertion as soon as he had
THE PERPKTUAL CURATE. 253
an opening'. "The parson treats me like a gentleman
— like what I used to be," he repeated, coming into
the light, and drawing a chair towards the table. "My
name is Wodehouse — it's my own name that I have
signed after all, by Jove!" said the unlucky prodigal.
It seemed to give him a little comfort to say that over
again, as if to convince himself.
"As for Wodehouse, I partly understand what he
has done," said the Curate. "It appears likely he has
killed his father, by the way; but I suppose you don't
count that. It is forgery in the mean time; I under-
stand as much."
"It's my name as well as his, by Jove!" inter-
rupted, hastily, the stranger, under his breath.
"Such strong terms are unnecessary," said Jack;
"everybody knows that bills are drawn to be renewed,
and nursed, and taken care of. We've had a great
fjiilure in luck as it happens, and these ones have
come down to this deuced j)lace; and the old fellow,
instead of paying them like a gentleman, has made a
row, and dropped down dead, or something. I sup-
pose you don't know any more than the Avomen have
told you. The old man made a row in the office, and
went off in fire and flame, and gave up our friend here
to his partner's tender mercies. I sent for you, as
you've taken charge of him. I suppose you have your
reasons. This is an unlikely corner to find him in,
and I supj)ose he couldn't be safer anywhere. That's
about the state of the case. I came down to look after
him, out of kind feeling," said the heir of the Went-
worths. "If you don't mean to eat any dinner, have
a cijrar."
254 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"And what have you to do with each other? what
is the connection between you?" said the Curate of
St. Roque's. "I have my reasons, as you say, for
taking- an interest in him — but you "
"I am only your elder brother," said Jack, shrugging
his shoulders and resuming his place on the sofa. "We
understand that difference. Business connection — that's
all," he said, leisurely selecting another cigar from his
case. When he had lighted it, he turned round and
fixed his eyes upon the stranger. "We don't want
any harm to haj)pen to him," he said, with a little
emphasis. "I have come here to protect him. If he
keeps quiet and doesn't show, it Avill blow over. The
keenest spy in the place could scarcely suspect him
to be here. I have come entirely on his account —
much to my own disgust — and yours," said the ex-
quisite, with another shrug. He laid back his head
and looked up to the ceiling, contemplating the fragrant
Avreaths of smoke with the air of a man perfectly at
his ease. "We don't mean him to come to any harm,"
said Jack Wentworth, and stretched out his elegant
limbs on the sofa, like a potentate satisfied that his
protection was enough to make any man secure.
"I'm too much in their secrets, by Jove!" said
poor Wodehouse, in his beard. "I do know their
secrets, though they talk so big. It's not any con-
sideration for me. It's to save themselves, by Jove,
that's what it is!" cried the indignant drudge, of whom
his superior deigned to take no notice. As for Mr.
Wentworth, he rose from his seat in a state of sup-
pressed indignation, which could not express itself
merely in words.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 255
"May I ask what share I am expected to play in
the drama?" he asked, jjushiiig his chair aside in his
excitement. The elder brother turned instinctively,
and once more slid his feet to the ground. They
looked at each other for a moment; the Curate, pale
with a passion which he could not conceal, had some-
thing in his eyes which brought shame even to Jack
Wentworth's face.
"You can betray him if you like," he said, sulkily.
"I have no — particular interest in the matter; but in
that case he had better make the best of his time and
get away. You hear?" said the master-spirit, making
a sign to Wodehouse. He had roused himself up, and
looked now like a feline creature preparing for a
spring — his eyes were cast down, but under the eye-
lids he followed his brother's movements with vigilant
observation. "If you like, you can betray him," he
repeated, slowly, understanding, as bad men so often
do, the generosities of the nature to which his own
was so much ojjposed.
And perhaps there was an undue degree of ex-
asperation in the indignant feelings which moved Mr.
Wentworth. lie kicked off his dusty boots with an
indecorum quite unusual to him, and hunted up his
sli2)pers out of the adjoining room with jjerhaps an un-
necessary amount of noise and haste. Then he went
and looked out of the window into the serene summer
darkness and the dewy garden, getting a little fresh
air upon his heated face. Last of all he came back,
peremptory and decided. "I shall not betray him,"
said the Perpetual Curate; "but I will have no further
schemes concocted nor villany carried on in my house.
256 TUK PERPETUAL CURATE.
If I consent to shield liini, and, if j)ossible, save liiin
from the law, it is neither for his sake — nor yours,"
said the indignant young man. "I suppose it is no
use saying anything about your life; but both of you
have fathers very like to die of this "
"My dear fellow," said Jack Wentworth, "we liave
gone through that 2ihase ages ago. Don't be so much
after date. I have brought down my fatlier's grey
hairs, &c., a hundred times; and, I daresay, so has he.
Don't treat us as if we were in the nursery — a parson
of advanced views like you should have something a
little more novel to say."
"And so I have," said Mr. Wentworth, with a
heightened colour. "There are capital rooms at the
Blue Boar, which you will find very comfortable, I am
sure. I don't remember that we have ever been more
than acquaintances; and to take possession of a man's
house in his absence argues a high degree of friend-
ship, as you are aware. It will l)e with difficulty that
I shall find room for myself to-night; but to-morrow,
I trust, if business requires you to remain in Carling-
ford, you will be able to find accommodation at the
Blue Boar."
The elder brother grew very red all over his face.
"I will go at once," he said, with a little start; and
then he took a second thought. "It is a poor sort of
Avay of winnixig a victory," he said, in contemptuous
tones, after he had overcome his first impulse; "but if
you choose that, it is no matter to me. I'll go to-
morrow, as you say — to pack up to-night is too much
for my energies. In the mean time it won't disturb
you, I hope, if I go on with my novel. I don't sup-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 257
pose any further civilities are necessary between you
and me," said Jack, once more putting up his feet on
the sofa. He arranged himself with an indifference
which was too genuine for bravado, opening his book,
and puffing his cigar with great coolness. He did all
but turn his back upon the others, and drew the little
table nearer to him, in utter disregard of the fact that
the Curate was leaning his arm on it. In short, he
retired from the contest with a kind of grandeur, with
his cigar and his novel, and the candles which lighted
him up placidly, and made him look like the master
of the house and the situation. There was a pause
for some minutes, during which the others looked on —
Mr. Wentworth with a jierfectly unreasonable sense of
defeat, and poor Wodehouse with that strange kind of
admiration which an unsuccessful good-for-nothing
naturally feels for a triumphant rascal. They Avere in
the shade looking on, and he in the light enjoying
himself calmly in his way. The sight put an end to
various twinges of repentance in the bosom of the
inferior sinner. Jack Wentworth, lying on the sofa in
superb indifference, victorious over all sense of right,
did more to confirm his humble admirer in the life
which he had almost made up his mind to abandon,
than even his own inclination towards forbidden plea-
sure. He was dazzled by the success of his principal;
and in comjiarison with that instructive sight, his
father's probable deathbed, his sisters' tears, and even
his own present discomfort, faded into insignificance.
What Jack Wentworth was, Tom Wodehouse could
never be; but at least he could follow his great model
humbly and afar off. These sentiments made him
The Perpetual Ornate. I. 17
258 THE PERPETUAL CUUATE.
receive but sulkily the admonitions of the Curate,
when he led the way out of the preoccupied sitting-
room; for Mr. Wentworth Avas certainly not the victor
in this passage of arms.
"I will do what I can to help you out of this,"
said the Curate, pausing within the door of Wode-
house's room, "for the sake of your — friends. But
look here, Wodehouse*, I have not -preached to you
hitherto, and I don't mean to do so now. Wlien a
man has done a crime, he is generally past preaching.
The law will punish you for forging your father's
name "
"It's my name as well as his, by Jove!" interrupted
the culprit, sullenly; "I've a right to sign it wherever
I please."
"But the law," said Mr. Wentworth, with emphasis,
"has nothing to do with the breaking of your father's
heart. If he dies, think whether the recollection will
be a comfortable one. I will save you, if I can, and
there is time, though I am compromised already, and
it may do me serious injury. If you get free and are
cleared from this, will you go away and break off your
connection with — yes, you are quite right — I mean
with my brother, whatever the connection may be? I
Avill only exert myself for you on condition that you
promise. You will go away somehow, and break off
your old habits, and try if it is possible to begin
anew?"
Wodehouse paused before he answered. The vision
of Jack in the Curate's sitting-room still dazzled him.
"You daren't say as much to your brother as you say
to me," he replied, after a while, in his sulky way;
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 259
"but I'm a gentleman, by Jove, as well as Le is."
And he threw himself down in a chair, and bit his
nails, and grumbled into his beard. "It's hard to ask
a fellow to give up his liberty," he said, without lift-
ing his eyes. Mr. Wentworth, perhaps, was a little
contemptuous of the sullen wretch who already had
involved him in so much annoyance and trouble.
"You can take your choice," he said; "the law will
respect your liberty less than I shall-," and all the
Curate's self-control could not conceal a certain amount
of disdain. •
"By Jove!" said Wodehouse, lifting up his eyes,
"if the old man should die, you'd change your tone;"
and then he stopped short and looked suspiciously at
the Curate. "There's no will, and I'm the heir," he
said, with sullen braggadocio. Mr. Wentworth was
still young, and this look made him sick with disgust
and indignation.
"Then you can take your chance," he said, im-
patiently, making a hasty stejD to the door. He would
not return, though his ungrateful guest called him back,
but went away, much excited and disgusted, to see if
the fresh aii* outside would restore his composure. On
his way down-stairs he again met Sarah, who was
hovering about in a restless state of curiosity. "I've
made up a bed for you, please, sir, in the little dress-
ing-room," said Sarah; "and, please. Cook wants to
know, wouldn't you have anything to eat?" The
question reminded Mr. Wentworth that he had eaten
nothing since luncheon, which he took in his father's
house. Human nature, which can bear great blows
with elasticity so wonderful, is apt to be put out, as
17 «
260 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
everybody knows, by their most trifling accessories, and
a man naturally feels miserable when he has had no
dinner, and has not a place to shelter him while he
snatches a necessary mouthful. "Never mind; all the
rooms are occupied to-night," said the Perpetual Curate,
feeling thoroughly wretched. But Cook and kSarah had
arranged all that, being naturally indignant that their
favourite clergyman should be "put upon" by his dis-
orderly and unexpected guests.
"I have set your tray, sir, in missis's parlour," said
Sarah, opening the door of that sanctuary, and it is
impossible to describe the sense of relief with which
the Perpetual Curate flung himself down on Mrs.
Hadwin's sofa, deranging a quantity of cushions and
elaborate crochet-work draperies without knowing it.
Here at least he was safe from intrusion. But his re-
flections were far from being agreeable as he ate his
beefsteak. Here he was, without any fault of his own,
plunged into the midst of a complication of disgrace
and vice. Perhaps already the name of Lucy Wode-
house was branded with her brother's shame; perhaps
still more overwhelming infamy might overtake, through
that means, the heir and the name of the Wentworths.
And for himself, what he had to do was to attempt
with all his powers to defeat justice, and save from
punishment a criminal for whom it was impossible to
feel either sympathy or hope. When he thought of
Jack up-stairs on the sofa over his French novel, the
heart of the Curate burned within him with indignation
and resentment; and his disgust at his other guest was,
if less intense, an equally painful sensation. It Avas
hard to waste his strength, and perhaps compromise his
character, for such men as these; but on the other hand
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 261
he saw his father, with that malady of the Wentworths
hanging over his head, doing his best to live and last,
like a coiirageoixs English gentleman as he was, for the
sake of "the girls" and the little children, who had so
little to expect from Jack; and poor stupid Mr. Wode-
house dying of the crime which assailed his own credit
as well as his son's safety. The Curate of St. Roque's
drew a long breath, and raised himself up unconsciously
to his full height as he rose to go iip-stairs. It was
he against the world at the moment, as it appeared.
He set himself to his uncongenial woi'k Avith a heart
that revolted against the evil cause of which he was
about to constitute himself the champion. But for the
Squire, who had misjudged him — for Lucy who had
received him with such icy smiles, and closed up her
heart against his entrance-, — sometimes there is a kind
of bitter sweetness in the thought of spending love and
life in one lavish and prodigal outburst upon those to
whom our hearts are bound, but whose affections make
us no return.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Curate went to breakfast next morning with a
little curiosity and a great deal of painful feeling. He
had been inhospitable to his brother, and a revulsion
had happened such as happens invariably when a
generous man is forced by external circumstances to
show himself churlish. Though .his good sense and
his pride alike prevented him from changing his reso-
lution of the previous night, still his heart had re-
262 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
lented toward Jack, and lie felt soriy and half asliamed
to meet the brother to whom he had shown so much
temper and so little kindness. It was much later than
usual when he came down-stairs, and Jack was just
coming out of the comfortable chamber which belonged
of right to his brother, when the Curate entered the
sitting-room. Jack was in his dressing-gown, as on
the previous night, and came forth humming an aii*
out of the 'Trovatore,' and looking as wholesomely
fresh and clean and dainty as the most honest gentle-
man in England. He gave his brother a good-
humoured nod, and wished him good-morning. "I am
glad to see you don't keep distressingly early hours,"
he said, between the bars of the air he was humming.
He was a man of perfect digestion, like all the Went-
worths, and got up, accordingly, in a good temper, not
disposed to make too much of any little incivility that
might have taken place. On the contrary, he helped
himself to his brother's favourite omelet with the most
engaging cheerfulness, and entered into such conversa-
tion as might be supposed to suit a Perpetual Curate
in a little country town.
"I daresay you have a good many nice people
about here," said Jack. "I've done nothing but walk
about since I came — and it does a man good to see
those fresh little women with their pink cheeks. There's
one, a sister of our friend's, I believe," he continued,
with a nod towards the door to indicate Wodehouse —
"an uncommonly pretty girl, I can tell you; and there's
a little rosebud of a creature at that shop, whom, they
tell me, you're interested in. Your living is not worth
much, I suppose? It's unlucky having two clergymen
in a family, but, to be sure, you're going in for Skel-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 263
mersdale. By' the way, that reminds me — how are
the aunts ? I have not heard anything of them for
ages. Female relations of that description generally
cling to the parsons of the race. I suppose they are
all living — all three? Such people never seem to
die."
"They are here," said the Curate, succinctly,
"living in Carlingford. I wonder nobody has told
you."
A sudden bright spark lighted in the prodigal's
eyes. "Ah, they are here, are they?" he said, after a
momentary pause; "so much the better for you; but in
justice you ought to be content with the living. I say
so as your elder brother. Gerald has the best right to
what they've got to leave. By the by, how are Gerald
and the rest? you've just been there. I suppose our
respected parent goes on multiplying. To think of
so many odious little wretches calling themselves
Wentworth is enough to make one disgusted with the
name."
"My father was very ill when I left; he has had
another attack," said the Curate. "He does not seem
able to bear any agitation. Your telegram upset him
altogether. I don't know what you've been about —
he did not tell me," continued the younger brother,
with a little emotion, "but he is very uneasy about
you."
"Ah, I daresay," said Jack; "that's natural; but
he's vronderfully tough for such an old fellow. I should
say it would take twenty attacks to finish him; and
this is the second, isn't it? I wonder how long an
interval there was between the two; it would be a
264 THE PERPETUAL CUKATE.
pretty calculation for a post-obit. Wodehouse seems to
have brought his ancestor down at the first shot almost ;
but then there's no entail in his case, and the old
fellow may have made a Avill. I beg your pardon;
you don't like this sort of talk. I forgot you were a
clergyman. I rather like this town of yours, do you
know. Sweet situation, and good for the health, I
should say. I'll take your advice, I think, about the
— how did you call it? — Black Boar. Unless, indeed,
some charitable family would take me in," said the
elder brother, with a glance from under his eyelids.
His real meaning did not in the least degree suggest
itself to the Curate, who was thinking more of what
was past than of what was to come.
"You seem to take a great interest in Wodehouse?"
said Mr. Wentworth.
"Yes; and so do you," said Jack, with a keen
glance of curiosity — "I can't tell why. My interest in
him is easily explained. If the affair came to a trial,
it might involve other people who are of retiring dis-
positions and dislike publicity. I don't mind saying,"
continued the heir of the Wentworths, laying down his
knife and fork, and looking across at his brother with
smiling candour, "that I might myself be bi'ought be
fore the world in a way which would wound my
modesty; so it must not be permitted to go any further,
you perceive. The partner has got a warrant out, but
has not put it into execution as yet. That's why I sent
for you. You are the only man, so far as I can see,
that can be of any use."
"I don't know what you mean," said the Curate,
hastily, "nor what connection you can possibly have
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 265
with Wodehouse; perhaps it is better not to inquire.
I mean to do my best for him, independent of you."
"Do," said Jack Wentworth, with a slight yawn;
"it is much better not to inquire. A clergyman rixns
the risk of hearing things that may shock him when
he enters into woi'ldly business-, but the position of
mediator is thoroughly professional. Now for the Black
Boar. I'll send for my traps when I get settled," he
said, rising in his languid way. He had made a very
good breakfast, and he was not at all disposed to
make himself uncomfortable by quarrelling with his
brother. Besides, he had a new idea in his mind. So
he gave the Curate another little good-humoured nod,
and disappeared into the sleeping-room, from which he
emerged a few minutes after with a coat replacing the
dressing-gown, ready to go out. "I daresay I shall
see you again before I leave Carlingford," he said,
and left the room with the utmost suavity. As for
Mr. Wentworth, it is probable that his brother's serenity
had quite the reverse of a soothing effect upon his
mind and temper. He rose from the table as soon as
Jack was gone, and for a long time paced about the
room composing himself, and planning what he was to
do — so long, indeed, that Sarah, after coming uj) softly
to inspect, had cleared the table and put eveiy thing
straight in the room before the Curate discovered her
presence. It was only when she came up to him at
last, with her little rustical curtsy, to say that, please,
her missis would like to see him for a moment in the
parlour, that Mr. Wentworth found out that she was
there. This interruption roused him out of his mani-
fold and complicated thoughts. "I am too busy just
now, but I will see Mrs. Hadwin to-night," he said;
266 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"and you can tell her tliat my brother has gone to get
rooms at the Blue Boar." After he had thus satisfied
the sympathetic handmaiden, the Curate crossed over
to the closed door of AVodehouse's room and knocked.
The inmate there was still in bed, as was his custom,
and answered Mr. Wentworth through his beard in a
recumbent voice, less sulky and more uncertain than
on the previous night. Poor Wodehouse had neither
the nerve nor the digestion of his more splendid as-
sociate. He had no strength of evil in himself when
he was out of the way of it; and the consequence of a
restless night was a natural amount of penitence and
shame in the morning. He met the Curate with a de-
pressed countenance, and answered all his questions
readily enough, even giving him the particulars of the
forged bills, in respect to which Thomas Wodehouse
the younger coiild not, somehow, feel so guilty as if
it had been a name different from his own which he
had affixed to those fatal bits of paper; and he did
not hesitate much to promise that he would go abroad
and try to make a new beginning if this matter could
be settled. Mr. Wentworth went out with some satis-
faction after the interview, believing in his heart that
his own remonstrances had had their due effect, as it
is so natural to believe — for he did not know, having
slept very soundly, that it had rained a good deal
during the night, and that Mrs. Had win's biggest tub
(for the old lady had a passion for rain-water) was im-
mediately under poor Wodehouse's window, and kept
him awake as it filled and ran over all through the
summer darkness. The recollection of Jack Went-
worth, even in his hour of success, was insufficient to
fortify the simple soul of his humble admirer against
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 267
that ominous sound of the unseen rain, and against the
flashes of sudden lightning that seemed to blaze into
his heart. He could not help thinking of his father's
sick-bed in those midnight hours, and of all the mel-
ancholy array of lost years which had made him no
longer "a gentleman, as he used to be," but a skulk-
ing vagabond in his native place; and his penitence
lasted till after he had had his breakfast and Mr.
Wentworth was gone. Then perhaps the other side of
the question recurred to his mind, and he began to
think that if his father died there might be no need
for his banishment; but Mr. Wentworth knew nothing
of this change in his protege's sentiments, as he went
quickly up Grange Lane. "Wharfside and all the
district had lain neglected for three long days, as the
Curate was aware, and he had promised to call at
No. 10 Prickett's Lane, and to look after the little
orphan children whom Lucy had taken charge of. His
occupations, in short, both public and private, were
overpowering, and he could not tell how he was to
get through them; for, in addition to everything else,
it was Friday, and there was a litany service at twelve
o'clock in St. Roque's. So the young priest had little
time to lose as he hurried up once again to Mr. Wode-
house's green door.
It was Miss Wodehouse who came to meet the
Curate as soon as his presence was known in the
house — Miss Wodehouse, and not Lucy, who made
way for her sister to pass her, and took no notice of
Mr. Wentworth's name. The elder sister entered very
hurriedly the little parlour down-stairs, and shut the
door fast, and came up to him with an anxious in-
quiring face. She told him her father was just the
268 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
same, in faltering tones. "And, oh, Mr. Wentworth,
has anything happened?" she exclaimed, with endless
unspeakable questions in her eyes. It was so hard
for the gentle woman to keep her secret — the very
sight of somebody who knew it was a relief to her
heart.
"I want you to give me full authority to act for
you," said the Curate. "I must go to Mr. Wode-
house's partner and discuss the whole matter."
Here Miss Wodehouse gave a little cry, and stop-
ped him suddenly, "Oh, Mr. Wentworth, it would
kill papa to know you had spoken of it to any one.
You must send him away," she said, breathless with
anxiety and terror. "To think of discussing it with
any one when even Lucy does not know !" She
spoke with so much haste and fright that it was
scarcely possible to make oiit her last words.
"Nevertheless I must speak to Mr. Waters," said
the Curate; "I am going there now. He knows all
about it already, and has a warrant for his apprehen-
sion; but we must stop that. I will undertake that it
shall be paid, and you must give me full authority to
act for you." When Miss Wodehouse met the steady
look he gave her, she veered immediately from her
fright at tlie thought of having it spoken of, to grati-
tude to him who was thus ready to take her burden
into his hands.
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, it is so good of you — it is
like a brother!" said the trembling woman; and then
she made a pause. "I say a brother," she said, draw-
ing an involuntary moral, "tliough we have never had
any good of ours; and oh, if Lucy only knew !"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 269
The Curate turned away hastily, and wrung her
hand witliout being aware of it. "No," he said, Avith
a touch of bitterness, "don't let her know. I don't
want to appeal to her gratitude;" and with that he
became silent, and fell to listening, standing in the
middle of the room, if perhaps he might catch any
sound of footsteps coming down-stairs.
"She will know better some day," said Miss Wode-
house, wiping her eyes-, "and oh, Mr. Wentworth, if
papa ever gets better !" Here the poor lady
broke down into inarticulate weeping. "But I know
you will stand by us," she said, amid her tears; "it is
all the comfort I have — and Lucy "
There was no sound of any footstej) on the stair —
nothing but the ticking of the timepiece on the mantel-
shelf, and the rustling of the curtains in the soft morn-
ing breeze which came through the open window, and
Miss Wodehouse's crying. The Curate had not ex-
pected to see Lucy, and knew in his heart that it was
better they should not meet just at this moment; but,
notwithstanding this, it was strange how bitter and
disappointed he felt, and what an impatient longing he
had for one look of her, even though it should be a
look which would drive him frantic with mortified love
and disappointed expectation. To know that she was
under the same roof, and that she knew he was here,
but kept away, and did not care to see him, was gall
to his excited mind. He went away hastily, pressing-
poor Miss Wodehouse's hand with a kind of silent
rage. "Don't talk about Lucy," he said, half to him-
self, his heart swelling and throbbing at the sound of
270 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
the name. It was the first time he had spoken it aloud
to any ear but his own, and he left the house tingling
with an indignation and mortification and bitter fond-
ness which could not be expressed in words. What
he was about to do was for her sake, and he tliought
to himself, v/ith a forlorn pride, that she would never
know it, and it did not matter. He could not tell that
Lucy was glancing out furtively over the blind,
ashamed of herself in her wounded heart for doing so,
and wondering whether even now he was occupied
with that unworthy love which had made an ever-
lasting separation between them. If it had been any
one worthy, it would have been different, poor Lucy
thought, as she pressed back the tears into her eyes,
and looked out wistfully at him over the blind. She
above-stairs in the sick-room, and he in the fresh
garden hastening out to his work, were both thinking
in their hearts how perverse life was, and how hard it
was not to be happy — as indeed they well might in a
general way; though perhaps one glance of the Curate's
eyes upward, one meeting of looks, might have re-
sulted quite unreasonably in a more felicitous train of
thinking, at least for that day.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 271
CHAPTEE XXIV.
When Mr. Wentwortli arrived in the little vestry
at St. Roque's to robe himself for the approaching
service, it was after a long and tough contest with
Mr. Wodehouse's partner, which had to a great extent
exhausted his energies. Mr. Wodehouse was the lead-
ing attorney in Carlingford, the chief family solicitor
in the county, a man looked upon with favourable
eyes even by the great people as being himself a cadet
of a county family. His partner, Mr. Waters, was al-
together a different description of man. He was much
more clever, and a good deal more like a gentleman,
but he had not a connection in the world, and had
fought his way up to prosperity through many a nar-
row, and perhaps, if people spoke true, many a dirty
avenue to fortune. He was very glad of the chance
which brought his partner's reputation and credit thus
under his power, and he was by no means disposed to
deal gently with the prodigal son. That is to say, he
was quite disinclined to let the family out of his
clutches easily, or to consent to be silent and "frustrate
the ends of justice" for anything else than an im-
portant equivalent. Mr. Wentworth had much ado to
I'estrain his temper while the wily attorney talked
about his conscience; for the Curate was clear-sighted
enough to perceive at the first glance that Mr. Waters
had no real intention of proceeding to extremities.
The lawyer would not pledge himself to anything, not-
withstanding all Mr. Wentworth's arguments. "Wode-
272 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
house himself was of the opinion that the lav/ should
take its course," he said; but out of respect for his
partner he might wait a few days to see what turn his
illness would take. "I confess that I am not adapted
for my profession, Mr. Wentworth. My feelings over-
come me a great deal too often," said the sharp man
of business, looking full into the Curate's eyes, "and
while the father is dying I have not the heart to pro-
ceed against the son; but I pledge myself to nothing
— recollect, to nothing." And with this and a very
indignant mind Mr. Wentworth had been forced to
come away. His thoughts were occupied with the
contrarieties of the world as he hastened along to St.
Roque's — how one man had to bear another's burdens
in every station and capacity of life , and how another
man triumphed and came to success by means of the
misfortunes of his friends. It was hard to tell what
made the difference, or how humankind got divided
into these two great classes, for possibly enough the
sharp attorney was as just in his way as the Curate;
but Mr. Wentworth got no more satisfaction in think-
ing of it than the speculatists generally have when
they investigate this strange, wayward, fantastical
humanity wliich is never to be calculated upon. He
came into the little vestry of St. Roque's, which was a
stony little room with a groined roof and windows too
severely English in their character to admit any great
amount of light, with a sensation of fatigue and dis-
couragement very natural to a man who had been in-
terfering in other people's aflfairs. There was some
comfort in the litany which he was just going to say,
but not much comfort in any of the Inxman individuals
who would come into Mr. Wentworth's mind as he
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 273
paused in the midst of the suffrage for "sick persons"
and for those who "had erred and were deceived,"
that the worshippers might whisper into God's ear the
names for which their hearts Avere most concerned.
The young priest sighed heavily as he put on his sur-
plice, pondering all the obstinate selfishness and strange
contradictions of men; and it was only when he heard
a rather loud echo to his breath of weariness that he
looked up and saw Elsworthy, who was contemplating
him with a very curious expression of face. The clerk
started a little on being discovered, and began to look
over all the choristers' books and set them in readiness,
though, indeed, there were no choristers on Fridays,
but only the ladies, who chanted the responses a great
deal more sweetly, and wore no surplices. Thinking
of that, it occurred to Mr. Wentworth how much he
would miss the round full notes which always betrayed
Lucy's presence to him even when he did not see her;
and he forgot Elsworthy, and sighed again without
thinking of any comment which might be made upon
the sound.
"I'm sorry to see, sir, as you ain't in your usual
good spirits?" said that observant spectator, coming
closer up to "his clergyman." Elsworthy's eyes were
full of meanings which Mr. Wentworth could not, and
had no wish to, decipher.
"I am perfectly well, thank you," said the Perpetual
Curate, with his coldest tone. He had become suspi-
cious of the man, he could scarcely tell why.
"There's a deal of people in church this morning,"
said the clerk; and then he came closer still, and spoke
in a kind of whisper. "About that little matter as we
was speaking of, Mr. Wentworth — that's all straight,
The Periieiual Curale. I. 18
274 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
sir, and lliere ain't no occasion to be vexed. She
came back this morning," said Elsworthy, under his
breath.
"Who came back this morning?" asked the Curate,
with a little surprise. His thoughts had been so much
with Lucy that no one else occurred to him at the mo-
ment; and even while he asked this question, his busy
fancy began to wonder where she could have been, and
what motive could have taken her away?
"I couldn't mean nobody but Rosa, as I talked to
you about last night," said Elsworthy. "She's come
back, sir, as you wished; and I have heard as she was
in Carlingford last night just afore you come, Mr. Went-
worth, when I thought as she was far enough oif ; which
you'll allow, sir, whoever it was she come to see, it
wasn't the right thing, nor what her aunt and me had
reason to expect."
The Curate of St. Roque's said "Pshaw! " carelessly to
himself He was not at all interested in Rosa Elsworthy.
Instead of making any answer, he drew on the scarlet
band of his hood, and marched away gravely into the
reading-desk, leaving the vestry-door open behind him
for the clei'k to follow. The little dangers that harassed
his personal footsteps had not yet awakened so much
as an anxiety in his mind. Things much more serious
preoccupied his thoughts. He opened his prayer-book
with a consciousness of the good of it which comes to
men only now and then. At Oxford, in his day, Mr.
Wentworth had entertained his doubts like others, and
like most people was aware that there were a great
many things in heaven and earth totally unexplainable
by any philosophy. But he had always been more of
THE I^ERPETIIAL CURATE. 275
a man tlian a tliliiker, even before he became a liigli
Anglican; and being still much in earnest about most
things he had to do with, he found great comfort just
at this moment, amid all his perplexities, in the litany
he was saying. He was so absorbed in it, and so full
of that appeal out of all troubles and miseries to the
God who cannot be indifferent to His creatures, that
he was almost at the last Amen before he distinguished
that voice, which of all voices was most dear to him.
The heart of the young man swelled, when he heard
it, with a mingled thrill of sympathy and wounded
feeling. She had not left her father's sick-bed to see
7im, but she had found time to run down the sunny
road to St. Roque's to pray for the sick and the poor.
When he knelt down in the reading-desk at the end
of the service, was it wrong, instead of more abstract
supplications, that the young priest said over and over,
"God bless her," in an outburst of pity and tenderness?
And he did not try to overtake her on the road, as he
might have done had his heart been less deeply touched,
but went off with abstracted looks to Wharfside, where
all the poor people were very glad to see him, and
where his absence was spoken of as if he had been
three months instead of three days away. It was like
going back a century or two into primitive life, to go
into "the district," where civilisation did not prevail to
any very distressing extent, and where people in general
spoke their minds freely. But even when he came out
of No. 10, where the poor woman still kept on living,
Mr. Wentworth was made aware of his private troubles;
for on the opposite side of the way, where there was a
little bit of vacant ground, the Rector was standing
with some of the schismatics of Wharfside, planning
18*
276 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
liow to place the iron cliiirch whicli, it was said, he
meant to establish in the very heart of the "district,"
Mr. Morgan took off his hat very stiffly to the Per-
petual Curate, who returned up Prickett's Lane with a
heightened colour and quickened pulse. A man must
be an angel indeed who can see his Avork taken out of
his hands and betray no human emotion. Mr. Went-
Avorth went into Elsworthy's, as he went back, to write
a forcible little note to the Rector on the subject before
he returned home. It was Rosa who handed him the
paper he wanted, and he gave her a little nod without
looking at her. But when he had closed his note, and
laid it on the counter to be delivered, the Curate found
her still standing near, and looked at the little blushing
creature with some natural admiration. "So you have
come back," he said-, "but mind you don't go into
Grange Lane any more after dark, little Rosa." When
he had left the shop and finished this little matter, he
bethought himself of his aunts, whom he had not seen
since he returned. Aunt Dora was not at her usual
sentinel window when he crossed Grange Lane towards
their garden-door; and the door itself was open, and
some one from the Blue Boar was carrying in a large
portmanteau. Mr. Wentworth's curiosity was strangely
excited by the sight. He said, "Who has come, Lewis?"
to Miss Wentworth's man, who stood in the hall super-
intending the arrival, but ran up-stairs without waiting
for any answer. He felt by instinct that the visitor
was some one likely to increase the confusion of affairs,
and perplex matters more and more to himself.
But even this presentiment did not prepare him for
the astonishing sight which met his eyes when he en-
tered the drawing-room. There the three ladies were all
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 27?
assembled, regarding with different developments of
interest the new-comer, who had thrown himself, half-
reclining, on a sofa. Aunt Dora was sitting by him
with a bottle of eau-de-Cologne in her hand, for this
meeting had evidently gone to the heart of the returned
prodigal. Aunt Dora was ready to have sacrificed all
the veal in the country in honour of Jack's repentance ;
and the Curate stood outside upon the threshold, look-
ing at the scene with the strangest half-angry, half-
comical realisation of the state of mind of the elder
brother in the parable. He had himself been rather
found faixlt with, excused, and tolerated, among his re-
lations; but Jack had at once become master of the
position, and taken possession of all their sympathies.
Mr. Wentworth stood gazing at them, half-amused, and
yet more angry than amused^ — feeling, with a little in-
dignation, as was natural, that the pretended penitence
of the clever sinner was far more effective and interest-
ing than his own spotless loyalty and truth. To be
sure, they were only three old ladies — three old aunts
— and he smiled at the sight; but though he smiled,
he did not like it, and perhaps was more abrupt than
usual in his salutations. Miss Leonora was seated at
her writing-table, busy with her correspondence. The
question of the new gin-palace was not yet decided,
and she had been in the middle of a letter of encourage-
ment to her agents on the subject, reminding them
that, even though the licence was granted, the world
would still go on all the same, and that the worst pos-
sibilities must be encountered, when Jack the prodigal
made his appearance, with all the tokens of reformation
and repentance about him, to throw himself upon the
Christian charity of his relations. A penitent sinner
278 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
was too tempting a bait for even Miss Leonora's good
sense to withstand, and she had postponed her letter-
writing to hear his explanations. But Jack had told his
story by this time, and had explained how much he
wanted to withdraw out of the world in which he had
been led astray, and how sick he was of all its whirl
of temptations and disappointment-, and Miss Leonora
had returned to her letter when her younger nephew
arrived. As for Miss Wentworth, she was seated pla-
cidly in her usual easy-chair, smiling with equable
smiles upon both the young men, and lifting her beau-
tiful old cheek for Frank to kiss, just as she had lifted
it to Jack. It was Miss Dora who was most shaken
out of her allegiance-, she who had always made Frank
her special charge. Though slie had wept herself into
a day's headache on his behalf so short a time ago,
aunt Dora for the moment had allowed the more effu-
sive prodigal to supersede Frank. Instead of taking
him into her arms as usual, and clinging to him, she
only put the hand that held the eau-de-Cologne over
his shoulder as she kissed him. Jack, who had been
so dreadfully, inexpressibly wicked, and who had come
back to his aunts to be converted and restored to his
right mind, was more interesting than many curates.
She sat down again by her penitent as soon as she had
saluted his brother; and even Miss Leonora, when she
paused in her letter, turned her eyes towards Jack.
"So Gerald is actually going over to Rome," said
the strong-minded aunt. "I never expected anything
else. I had a letter from Louisa yesterday, asking me
to use my influence: as if I had any influence over
your brother! If a silly wife was any justification for
a man making an idiot of himself, Gerald might be ex-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 279
cused; but I suppose the next thing we shall hear of
will be that you have followed, him, Frank. Did you
hear anything further about Janet and that lover of
hers? In a large family like ours there is always
something troublesome going on," said Miss Leonora.
"I am not surprised to hear of your father's attack.
My father had a great many attacks, and lived to
eighty; but he had few difficulties with the female part
of his household," she continued, with a grim little
smile — for Miss Leonora rather piqued herself upon her
exemption from any known sentimental episode, even
in her youth.
"Dear Jack's return will make up for a great deal,"
said aunt Dora. "Oh, Frank, my dear, your brother
has made us all so happy. He has just been telling
us that he means to give up all his racing and betting
and wickedness; and when he has been with us a little,
and learned to ajipreciate a domestic circle " said
poor Miss Dora, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
She was so much overcome that she could not finish
the sentence. But she put her disengaged hand upon
Jack's arm and patted it, and in her heart concluded
that as soon as the blanket was done for Louisa's bas-
sinet, she would work him a pair of slippers, which
should endear more and more to him the domestic
circle, and stimulate the new-born virtue in his re-
pentant heart.
"I don't know what Jack's return may do," said
Mr. Wentworth, "but I hope you don't imagine it was
Gerald who caused my father's illness. Yoii, know
better, at least," said the indignant Curate, looking at
the hero on the sofa. That interesting reprobate lifted
his eyes with a covert gleam of humour to the iinre-
280 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
sponsive countenance of his brother, and then he stroked
his silky beard and sighed.
"My dear aunt, Frank is right," said Jack, with
a melancholy voice. "I have not concealed from you
that my father has great reason to be offended with
me. I have done very much the reverse of what I
ought to have done. I see even Frank can't forgive
me; and I don't wonder at it," said the prodigal,
"though I have done him no harm that I know of;"
and again the heir of the Wentworths sighed, and
covered his face for a moment with his hand.
"Oh, Frank," cried Miss Dora, with streaming eyes
— "oh, my dear boy! — isn't there joy in heaven over
one sinner that repenteth? You're not going to be the
wicked elder brother that grudged the prodigal his
welcome — you're not going to give way to jealousy,
Frank?"
"Hold your tongue, Dora," said the iron-grey sister;
"I daresay Frank knows a great deal better than you
do; but I want to know about Gerald, and what is to
be done. If he goes to Rome, of course you will take
Wentworth Rectory; so it will not be an unmingled
evil," said Miss Leonora, biting her pen, and throwing
a keen glance at the Curate of St. Roque's, "especially
as you and we differ so entirely in our views. I could
not consent to a])point anybody to Skelmersdale, even
if poor Mr. Shirley were to die, who did not preach
the Gospel; and it would be sad for you to spend all
your life in a Perpetual Curacy, where you could have
no income, nor ever hope to be able to marry," she
continued steadily, with her eyes fixed upon her nephew.
" Of course, if you had entered the Church for the love
THE PERPETUAL CURATE, 281
of the work, it would be a different matter," said tlie
strong-minded aunt. "But that sort of thing seems to
have gone out of fashion. I am sorry about Gerald —
very sorry; but after what I saw of him, I am not
surprised; and it is a comfort to one's mind to think
that you will be provided for, Frank." Miss Leonora
wrote a few words of the letter as she finished this
speech. What she was saying in that epistle was (in
reference to the gin-palace) that all discouragements
Avere sent by God, and that, no doubt, His meaning
was, that we should work all the harder to make way
against them. After putting down which encouraging
sentiment, she raised her eyes again, and planted her
spear in her nephew's bosom with the greatest com-
posure in the world.
"My Perpetual Curacy suits me very well," said
Mr. Wentworth, with a little pride; "and there is a
good deal to do in Carlingford. However, I did not
come here to talk about that. The Rector is going to
put up an iron church in my district," said the young
man, who was rather glad of a subject which permitted
a little of his indignation to escape. "It is very easy
to interfere with other people's work." And then he
paused, not choosing to grumble to an unsympathetic
audience. To feel that nobody cares about your feel-
ings, is better than all the rules of self-control. The
Perpetual Curate stopped instinctively with a dignified
restraint, which would have been impossible to him
under other circumstances. It was no merit of his, but
he reaped the advantage of it all the same.
"But oh, my dear," said Miss Dora, "what a com-
fort to think of what St. Paul says — 'Whether it be for
282 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
the right motive or not, Christ is still preached.' And
one never knows what chance word may touch a heart,"
said the poor little woman, shaking her limp curls
away from her cheeks. "It was you being offended
with him that made dear Jack think of coming to us;
and what a hajjpiness it is to think that he sees the
error of his ways," cried poor Miss Dora, drying her
tears. "And oh, Frank, my dear boy, I trust you will
take warning by your brother, and not run into tempta-
tion," continued the anxious aunt, remembering all her
troubles. "If joxi were to go wrong, it would take
away all the pleasure of life."
"That is just what I was thinking," said aunt
Cecilia from her easy-chair.
"For, oh, Frank, my dear," said Miss Dora, much
emboldened by this support, "you must consider that
you are a clergyman, and there are a great many things
that are wrong in a clergyman that would not matter
in another man. Oh, Leonora, if you would speak to
him, he would mind you," cried the poor lady; "for
you know a clergyman is quite different;" and Miss
Dora again stopped short, and the three aunts looked
at the bewildered Curate, who, for his part, sat gazing
at them without an idea what they could mean.
"What have I been doing that would be right in
another man?" he said, with a smile which was slightly
forced; and then he turned to Jack, who was laughing
softly under his breath, and stroking his silky beard.
The elder brother was highly amused by the situation
altogether, but Frank, as was natural, did not see it
in the same light. "What have you been saying?"
said the indignant Curate; and his eyes gave forth a
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 283
sudden light which frightened Miss Dora, and brought
her in to the rescue.
"Oh, Frank, he has not been saying anything,"
cried that troubled woman; "it is only what we have
heard everywhere. Oh, my dear boy, it is only for
your good I ever thought of speaking. There is no-
body in the world to whom your welfare is so pre-
cious," said poor Miss Dora. "Oh, Frank, if yoft and
your brother were to have any difference, I should
think it all my fault — and I always said you did not
mean anything," she said, putting herself and her eau-
de-Cologne between the two, and looking as if she
were about to throw herself into the Curate's arms.
"Oh, Frank, dear, don't blame any one else — it is my
fault I" cried aunt Dora, with tears; and the tender-
hearted foolish creature kept between them, ready to
rush in if any conflict should occur, which Avas a sup-
position much resented by the Curate of St. Roque's.
"Jack and I have no intention of fighting, I dare-
say," he said, drawing his chair away with some im-
patience; and Jack lay back on the sofa and stroked
his beard, and looked on with the greatest composure
while poor Miss Dora exhausted her alarm. "It is all
my fault," sobbed aunt Dora; "but, oh, my dear boy,
it was only for your good; and I always said you did
not mean anything," said the discomfited peacemaker.
All this, though it was highly amusing to the prodigal,
was gall and bitterness to the Perpetual Curate. It
moved him far more deeply than he could have imagined
it possible for anything spoken by his aunt Dora to
move him. Perhaps there is something in human nature
which demands to be comprehended, even where it is
aware that comprehension is impossible ; and it wounded
284 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
liim in the most luireasonable way to Lave it supposed
that he was likely to get into any quarrel with his
brother, and to see Jack thus preferred to himself.
"Don't be a fool," said Miss Leonora, sharply: "I
wish you would confine yourself to Louisa's bassinet,
and talk of things you can understand. I hope Frank
knows what he is doing better than a set of old women.
At the same time, Frank," said Miss Leonora, rising
and leading the way to the door, "I want to say a
word to you. Don't think you are above misconcep-
tion. Most people believe a lie more readily than the
truth. Dora is a fool," said the elder sister, pausing,
when she had led her nephew outside the drawing-
room door, "but so are most people; and I advise you
to be careful, and not to give occasion for any gossip;
otherwise, I don't say /disapprove of your conduct."
She had her pen in one hand, and held out the other
to him, dismissing him; and even this added to the
painful feeling in the Curate's heart.
"I should hope not," he said, somewhat stiffly;
"good-bye — my conduct is not likely to be aflPected by
any gossip, and I don't see any need for taking pre-
cautions against imaginary danger." Miss Leonora
thought her nephew looked very ungracious as he went
away. She said to herself that Frank had a great deal
of temper, and resembled his mother's family more
than the Wentworths, as she went back to her writing-
table; and though she could not disapprove of him,
she felt vexed someliow at his rectitude and his im-
patience of advice; whereas. Jack, poor fellow! who
had been a great sinner, was, according to all ap-
pearance, a great penitent also, and a true Wentworth,
witli all the family features. Such were Miss Leonora's
*HB PERPETUAL CURATE. 285
thoughts as she went back to finish her letters, and to
encourage her agents in her London district to carry
on the good work.
"God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to
perform," she wrote apropos of the gin-palace, and set
very distinctly before her spiritual retainers all that
Providence might intend by this unexpected hindrance;
and so quite contented herself about her nephew, whose
views on this and many other subjects were so dif-
ferent from her own.
Meanwhile Mr. Wentworth went about the rest of
his day's work in a not unusual, biit far from pleasant,
frame of mind. When one suddenly feels that the
sympathy upon which one calculated most surely has
been withdrawn, the shock is naturally considerable.
It might not be anything very great Avhile it lasted,
but still one feels the difference when it is taken away.
Lucy had fallen off from him; and even aunt Dora
had ceased to feel his concerns the first in the world.
He smiled at himself for the wound he felt; but that
did not remove the sting of it. After the occupations
of the day were over, when at last he was going home,
and when his work and the sense of fatigue which ac-
companied it had dulled his mind a little, the Curate
felt himself still dwelling on the same matter, con-
templating it in a half-comic point of view, as proud
men are not unapt to contemplate anything that
mortifies them. He began to realise, in a humorous
way, his own sensations as he stood at the drawing-
room door and recognised the prodigal on the sofa;
and then a smile dawned upon his lip as he thouglit
once more of the prodigal's elder brother, who regarded
that business with unsympathetic eyes and grudged
286 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
the supper. And from that he went into a half-pro-
fessional line of thought, and imagined to himself, half
smiling, how, if he had been Dr. Gumming or the
minister of Salem Chapel, he might have written a
series of sermons on the unappreciated characters of
Scripture, beginning with that virtuous uninteresting
elder brother; from which suggestion, though he was
not the minister of Salem nor Dr. Gumming, it oc-
curred to the Perpetual Gurate to follow out the idea,
and to think of such generous careless souls as Esau,
and such noble unfortunates as the peasant-king, the
mournful magnificent Saul — people not generally ap-
proved of, or enrolled among the martyrs or saints.
He was pursuing this kind of half-reverie, half-thought,
when he reached his own house. It was again late
and dark, for he had dined in the mean time, and was
going home now to write his sermon, in which, no
doubt, some of these very ideas were destined to re-
appear. He opened the garden-gate with his latch-key,
and paused, Avith an involuntary sense of the beauty
and freshness of the night, as soon as he got within
the sheltering walls. The stars were shining faint and
sweet in the summer blue, and all the shrubs and the
grass breathing forth that subdued breath of fragrance
and conscious invisible life which gives so much sweet-
ness to the night. He thought he heard whispering
voices, as he paused glancing \\]) at the sky; and then
from the side-walk he saw a little figure run, and
heard a light little footstep fluttering towards the door
which he had just closed. Mr. Wentworth started and
•went after this little flying figure with some anxiety.
Two or three of his long strides brought him up with
the escaping visitor, as she fumbled in her agitation
THE PERPBTTIAL CURATE. 287
over the liandle of the door. "You have come again,
notwithstanding what I said to you? but you must not
repeat it, Rosa," said the Curate; "no good can come
of these meetings. I will tell your uncle, if I ever find
you here again."
"Oh, no, no, please don't," cried the girl; "but,
after all, I don't mind," she said, with more con-
fidence: "he would think it was something very dif-
ferent;" and Rosa raised her eyes to the Curate's face
with a coquettish inquiry. She could not divest her-
self of the thought that Mr. Wentworth was jealous,
and did not like to have her come there for anybody
but himself.
"If you were not such a child, I sliould be very
angry," said the Curate; "as it is, I am very angry
with the person who deludes you into coming. Go
home, child," he said, opening the door to her, "and
remember I will not allow you on any pretext to come
here again."
His words were low, and perhaps Rosa did not
care much to listen; but there was quite light enough
to show them both very plainly, as he stood at the
door and she went out. Just then the Miss Hemmings
were going uji Grange Lane from a little tea-party
with their favourite maid, and all their eyes about
them. They looked very full in Mr. Wentworth's face,
and said How d'ye do? as they passed the door; and
when they had passed it, they looked at each other
with eyes which spoke volumes. Mr. Wentworth shut
the door violently with irrepressible vexation and an-
noyance when he encountered that glance. He made
no farewells, nor did he think of taking eare of Rosa
288 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
on the way home as he had done before. He was in-
tensely annoyed and vexed, he could not tell how.
And this was how it happened that the last time she
was seen in Carlingford, Kosa Elsworthy was left stand-
ing by herself in the dark at Mr. Wentworth's door.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Curate got up very early next morning. He
had his sermon to write, and it was Saturday, and all
the events of the week had naturally enough unsettled
his mind, and indisposed him for sermon- writing.
When the events of life come fast upon a man, it is
seldom that he finds much pleasure in abstract literary
composition, and the style of the Curate of St. Roque's
was not of that hortatory and impassioned character
which sometimes gives as much relief to the speaker
as excitement to the audience. So he got iip in the
early sweetness of the summer morning, when nobody
but himself was astir in the house, with the sense of
entering upon a task, and taking up work Avhich was
far from agreeable to him. When he came into the
little room which he used as a study, and threw the
window open, and breathed the delicious air of the
morning, which was all tlu-illing and trembling with
the songs of birds, Mr. Wentworth's thoughts were far
from being concentrated upon any one subject. He
sat down at his Avriting-table and arranged his pens
and paper, and wrote down the text he had selected;
and when he had done so much, and could feel that
he had made a beginning, he leaned back in his chair,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 289.
and poised the idle pen on liis finger, and abandoned
himself to his thoughts. He had so much to think
about. There was Wodehouse under the same roof,
with whom he had felt himself constrained to re-
monstrate very sharply on the previous night. There
Avas Jack, so near, and certainly come to Carlingford
on no good errand. There was Gerald, in his great
perplexity and distress, and the household at home in
their anxiety, and last, but worst of all, his fancy
would go fluttering about the doors of the sick-chamber
in Grange Lane, longing and wondering. He asked
himself what it could be which had raised that im-
palpable wall between Lucy and himself — that barrier
too strong to be overthrown, too ethereal to be com-
plained of; and wondered over and over again what
her thoughts were towards him — whether she thought
of him at all, whether she was offended, or simply in-
different? — a question which any one else who had
observed Lucy as closely could have solved without
any difficulty, but which, to the modest and true love
of the Perpetual Curate, was at present the grand doubt
of all the doubts in the universe. With this matter to
settle, and with the consciousness that it was still only
five o'clock, and that he was at least one hour before-
hand with the world, it is easy to understand why Mr.
Wentworth mused and loitered over his work, and
how, when it was nearly six o'clock, and Sarah and
the cook were beginning to stir from their sleep, there
still remained only the text written upon the sermon-
paper, which was so nicely arranged before him on the
table. "When the wicked man turnetli away from the
evil of his ways, and doeth that which is lawful and
right." — This was the text; but sitting at the open
The Perpetual Curate. I. 1"
290 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
window, looking out into the garden, where the birds,
exempt, as they seemed to think, for once from the
vulgar scrutiny of man, were singing at the pitch of
all their voices as they prepared for breakfast; and
where the sweet air of the morning breathed into his
mind a freshness and hopefulness which youth can
never resist, and seduced his thoughts away from all
the harder problems of his life to dwell upon the
sweeter trouble of that doubt about Lucy, — was not
the best means of getting on with his work. He sat
thus leaning back — sometimes dipping his pen in the
ink, and hovering over the paper for two or three
seconds at a time, sometimes reading over the words,
and making a faint effort to recall his own attention to
them-, for, on the Avhole, perhaps, it is not of much
use getting up very early in the morning when the
chief consequence of it is, that a man feels he has an
hour to spare, and a little time to jjlay before he
begins.
Mr. Wentworth was still lingering in this peaceful
pause, when he heard, in the stillness, hasty steps
coming down Grange Lane. No doubt it was some
workmen going to their work, and he felt it must be
nearly six o'clock, and dipped his pen once more in
the ink; but, the next moment, paiised again to listen,
feeling in his heart a strange conviction that the steps
would stop at his door, and that something was going
to happen. He was sure of it, and yet somehow the
sound tingled upon his heart when he heard the bell
ring, waking up echoes in the silent house. Cook and
Sarah had not yet given any signs of coming down-
stairs, and nobody stirred even at the sound of the
bell. Mr. "Wentworth put down his pen altogether, and
THE PERPETUAL CUKATE. 291
listened with an anxiety wliicli he could scarcely ac-
count for — knowing, as he said to himself, that it must
be the milk, or the baker, or somebody. But neither
the milk nor the baker would have dared to knock,
and shake, and kick the door as the new arrivals were
doing. Mr. Wentworth sat still as long as he could,
then he added to the din they were making outside by
an indignant ring of his own bell; and, finally getting
anxious, as Avas natural, and bethinking himself of his
father's attack and Mr. Wodehouse's illness, the Curate
took the matter into his own hands, and hastened down-
stairs to open the door. Mrs. Hadwin called to him as
he passed her room, thinking it was Sarah, and begging
for goodness gracious sake to knoAv directly what was
the matter; and he felt himself growing agitated as he
drew back the complicated bolts, and turned the key
in the door, which was elaborately defended, as was
natural. When he hurried out into the garden, the
songs of the birds and the morning air seemed to have
changed their character. He thought he was about to
be summoned to the deathbed of one or other of the old
men upon whom their sons had brought such misery.
He was but little acquainted with the fastenings of the
garden door, and fumbled a little over them in his
anxiety. "Wait a moment and you shall be admitted,"
he called out to those outside, who still continued to
knock; and he fancied, even in the haste and con-
fusion of the moment, that his voice caused some little
commotion among them. Mr. Wentworth opened the
door, looking anxiously out for some boy with a tele-
gram, or other such mournful messenger; but to his
utter amazement was nearly knocked down by the
sudden plunge of Elsworthy, who entered with a spring
19 «
292 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
like that of a wild animal, and whose face looked
white and haggard as he rushed in. He came against
the Curate so roughly as to drive him a step or two
farther into the garden, and naturally aroused some-
what sharply the temper of the young man, who had
already begun to regard him with disagreeable sensa-
tions as a kind of spy against himself.
"What in the world do you want at such an early
hour in the morning?" cried Mr. Wentworth — "and
what do you mean by making such a noise? Is Mr.
Wodehouse worse? or what has happened?" for, to
tell the truth, he was a little relieved to find that the
two people outside both belonged to Carlingford, and
that nowhere was there any visible apparition of a
telegraph boy.
"Don't trifle with me, Mr. Wentworth," said Els-
worthy. "I'm a poor man; but a worm as is trodden
npon turns. I want my child, sir! — give me my child.
I'll find her out if it was at the end of the world. I've
only brought down my neighbour with me as I can
trust," he continued hoarsely — "to save both your char-
acters. I don't want to make no talk; if you do
what is right by Rosa, neither me nor him will ever
say a word. I want Rosa, Mr. Wentworth. Where's
Rosa? If I had known as it was for this you wanted
her home! But I'll take my oath not to make no talk,"
cried the clerk, with passion and earnestness, which
confounded Mr. Wentworth — "if you'll promise to do
what's right by her, and let me take her home."
"Elsworthy, are you mad?" cried the Curate— "is
he out of his senses? Has anything happened to Rosa?
For heaven's sake, Hayles, don't stand there like a
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 293
man of wood, but tell me if the man's crazy, or what
he means."
"I'll come in, sir, if you've no objection, and shut
the door, not to make a talk," said Elsworthy's com-
panion, Peter Hayles, the druggist. "If it can be
managed Avithout any gossip, it'll be best for all par-
ties," said this worthy, shutting the door softly after
him. "The thing is, where's Rosa, Mr. Wentworth? I
can't think as you've got her here."
"She's all the same as my own child!" cried Els-
worthy, who was greatly excited. "I've had her and
loved her since she was a baby. I don't mean to say
as I'd 25ut myself forward to hurt her prospects if she
was married in a superior line o' life; but them as
harms Rosa has me to reckon with," he said, with a
kind of fury which sat strangely on the man. "Mr.
Wentworth, where's the cliild? God forgive you both,
you've given me a night o' weeping; but if you'll do
what's right by Rosa, and send her home in the mean
time "
"Be silent, sir!" cried the Curate. "I know no-
thing in the world about Rosa. How dare you venture
to come on such an errand to me? I don't understand
how it is," said the young man, growing red and
angry, "that you try so persistently to connect this
child with me. I have never had anything to do with
her, and I will not submit to any such impertinent
suspicion. Leave my house, sir, immediately, and don't
insult me by making such inquiries here."
Mr. Wentworth Avas very angry in the first flush of
his wrath. He did not think what misery was involved
in the question which had been addressed to him, nor
did he see for the moment the terrible calamity to
294 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Rosa wliicli was suggested by this searcli for her. He
thought only of himself, as was natural, at the first
shock— of the injurious and insulting suspicion with
which he seemed to be pursued, and of the annoyance
which she and her friends were causing him. "What
do you mean by rousing a whole household at this
hour in the morning?" cried Mr. Wentworth, as he saw
with vexation, Sarah, very startled and sleepy, come
stealing round by the kitchen door.
"You don't look as if you had wanted any rousing,"
said Elsworthy, who was too much in earnest to own
the Curate's authority. "She was seen at your door
the last thing last night, and you're in your clothes, as
bright as day, and a- waiting for us afore six o'clock in
the morning. Do you think as I've shut my eyes be-
cause it's my clergyman?" cried the injured man, pas-
sionately. "I want my little girl — my little Rosa — as
is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. If Mr.
Wentworth didn't know nothing about it, as he says,"
cried Elsworthy, with sudden insight, "he has a feelin'
heart, and he'd be grieved about the child; but he ain't
grieved, nor concei'ned, nor nothing in the Avorld but
angry, and will you tell me there ain't nothing to be
drawn from that? But it's far from my intention to
raise a talk," said the clerk, drawing closer and touch-
ing the arm of the Perpetual Curate-, "let her come
back, and if you're a man of your word, and behave
honourable by her, there shan't be nothing said in Car-
lingford. I'll stand up for you, sii*, against the world."
Mr. Wentworth shook off his assailant's hand with
a mingled sense of exasperation and sympathy. "I
tell you, upon my honour, I know nothing about her,"
he said. "But it is true enough I have been thinking
THE PEUPETUAL CITRATE. 295
only of myself," he continued, addressing llie other.
"How about the girl? When was she lost? and can't
you think of any place she can have gone to? Els
Avorthy, hear reason," cried the Curate, anxiously. "I
assure you, on my word, that I have never seen her
since I closed this garden gate upon her last night."
"And I would ask you, sir, what had l^osa to do
at your garden gate?" cried the clerk of St. Eoque's.
"He ain't denying it, Hayles; you can see as he ain't
a-denying of it. What was it as she came here for
but you? Mr. Wentworth, I've always had a great re-
spect for you," said Elsworthy. "I've respected you
as my clergyman, sir, as well as for other things; but
you're a young man, and human nature is frail. I say
again as you needn't have no fear for me. I ain't one
as likes to make a talk, and no more is Hayles. Give
up the girl, and give me your promise, and there ain't
a man living as will be the wiser-, Mr. Wentworth "
"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate, furious
with indignation and resentment. "Leave this place
instantly! If you don't want me to pitch you into the
middle of the road, hold your tongue and go away.
The man is mad!" said Mr. Wentworth, turning towards
the spectator, Hayles, and pausing to take breath. But
it was evident that this third person was by no means
on the Curate's side.
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure," said Hayles, with a
blank countenance. "It appears to me, sir, as it's an
awkward business for all parties. Here's the girl gone,
and no one knows where. When a girl don't come
back to her own 'ome all night, things look serious,
sir-, and it has been said as the last place she was
seen was at your door."
296 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Who says so?" cried Mr. Wentworth.
"Well — it was — a party, sir — a liighly respectable
party — as I have good reason to believe," said Hayles,
"being a constant customer — one as there's every con-
fidence to be put in. It's better not to name no names,
being at this period of the affair."
And at that moment, unluckily for Mr. WentAvorth,
there suddenly floated across his mind the clearest re-
collection of the Miss Hemmings, and the look they
gave him in passing. He felt a hot flush rush over
his face as he recalled it. They, then, were his ac-
cusers in the first place; and for the first time he be-
gan to realise how the tide of acciisation would surge
through Carlingford, and how circumstances Avould be
patched together, and very plausible evidence con-
cocted out of the few facts which were capable of an
inference totally opposed to the truth. The blood
rushed to his face in an overpowering glow, and then
he felt the warm tide going back u^^on his heart, and
realised the position in which he stood for the first
time in its true light.
"And if you'll let me say it, sir," said the judi-
cious Hayles, "though a man may be in a bit of a pas-
sion, and speak more strong than is called for, it ain't
unnatural in the circumstances; things may be better
than they appear," said the druggist, mildly; "I don't
say nothing against that; it may be as you've took her
away, sir (if so be as you have took her away), for to
give her a bit of education, or suchlike, before making
her your wife; but folks in general ain't expected to
know that; and when a young girl is kep' out of her
'ome for a whole night, it ain't wonderful if her friends
THE PERPETUAL CTTRATE. 297
take fright. It's a sad thing for Rosa whoever's taken
Iier away, and wherever she is."
Now, Mr. Wentworth, notwithstanding the indignant
state of mind which he was in, was emphatically of
the tolerant temper which is so curiously charactei'istic
of his generation. He could not be unreasonable even
in his own cause; he was not j)artisan enough, even in
his own behalf, to forget that there was another side
to the question, nor to see how hard and how sad was
that other side. He was moved in spite of himself to
grieve over Rosa Elsworthy's great misfortune.
"Poor little deluded child," he said, sadly; "I ac-
knowledge it is very dreadful for her and for her
friends. I can excuse a man who is mad with grief
and wretchedness and anxiety, and doesn't know what
he is saying. As for any man in his senses imagin-
ing," said the Curate again, with a flush of sudden
colour, "that I could possibly be concerned in any-
thing so base, that is simjily absurd. When Elsworthy
returns to reason , and acknowledges the folly of what
he has said, I will do anything in the world to help
him. It is unnecessary for you to wait," said Mr.
Wentworth, turning to Sarah, who had stolen up be-
hind, and caught some of the conversation, and who
was staring with round eyes of wonder, partly guess-
ing, partly inquiring, what had happ)ened — "these people
want me; go indoors and never mind."
"La, sir! Missis is a-ringing all the bells down
to know what 'as 'appened," said Sarah, holding her
ground.
This was how it was to be — the name of the Curate
of St. Roque's was to be linked to that of Rosa Els-
worthy, let the truth be what it might, in the mouths
298 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
of every maid and every mistress in Carlingford. He
was seized with a sudden apprehension of this aspect
of the matter, and it was not wonderful if Mr. Went-
worth drew his breath hard and set his teetli, as he
ordered the woman away, in a tone which could not
be disobeyed.
"I don't want to make no talk," said Elsworthy,
who during this time had made many efforts to speak;
"I've said it before, and I say it again — it's Mr. Went-
worth's fault if there's any talk. She was seen here
last night," he went on rapidly, "and afore six o'clock
this blessed morning, you, as are never known to be
stirring early, meets us at the door, all shaved and
dressed; and it ain't very difficult to see, to them as
watches the clergyman's countenance," said Elsworthy,
turning from one to another, "as everything isn't as
straight as it ought to be; but I ain't going to make
no talk, Mr. Wentworth," he went on, drawing closer,
and speaking with conciliatory softness; "me and her
aunt, sir, loves her dearly, but we're not the folks to
stand in her way, if a gentleman was to take a fancy
to Rosa. If you'll give me your word to make her
your wife honourable, and tell me where she is, tortures
AYouldn't draw no complaints from me. One moment,
sir; it ain't only that she's pretty, but she's good as
Avell — she won't do you no discredit, Mr. Wentworth.
Put her to school, or what you jilease, sir," said Rosa's
uncle; "me and my wife will never interfere, so be as
you make her your wife honoiTrable; but I ain't a worm
to be trampled on," cried Elsworthy, as the Curate,
finding him approach very closely, thrust him away
with vehement indignation; "I ain't a slave to be
pushed about. Them as brings Rosa to shame shall
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 299
come to sliame by me; I'll ruin tLe man as ruins tliat
child. You may turn me out," he cried, as the Cm-ate
laid his powerful hand ujDon his shoulder, and forced
him towards the door, "but I'll come back, and I'll
bring- all Carlingford. There shan't be a soul in the
town as doesn't know. Oh, you young viper, as I
thought was a pious clergyman! you may turn me out,
but you ain't got rid of me. My child — where's my
child?" cried the infuriated clerk, as he found himself
ejected into the road outside, and the door suddenly
closed upon him. He turned round to beat iipon it in
blind fury, and kept calling upon Rosa, and wasting
his threats and arguments upon the calm air outside.
Some of the maid-servants in the other houses came
out, broom in hand, to the green doors, to see what
was the matter, but they were not near enough to hear
distinctly, and no early wayfarers had as yet invaded
the morning quiet of Grange Lane.
Mr. Wentworth, white with excitement, and terribly
calm and self-possessed, turned to the amazed and
trembling druggist, who stiU stood inside. "Look
here, Hayles," said the Curate; "I have never seen
Rosa Elsworthy since I closed this door upon her last
night. What had brought her here I don't know — at
least she came with no intention of seeing me — and I
reproved her sharply for being out so late. This is all
I know about the affair, and all I intend to say to any
one. If that idiot outside intends to make a disturb-
ance, he must do it; I shall take no further ti-ouble to
clear myself of such an insane accusation. I think it
right to say as much to you, because you seem to have
your senses about you," said the Curate, pausing, out
of breath. He was perfectly calm, but it was impos-
300 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
sible to ignore the effect of such a scene upon ordinary
flesh and blood. His heart was beating loudly, and
his breath came short and quick. He turned away and
walked up to the house-door, and then came back
again. "You imderstand me, I suppose?" he said;
"and if Elsworthy is not mad, you had better suggest
to him not to lose his only chance of recovering Rosa
by this vain bluster to me, who know nothing about
her. I shan't be idle in the mean time," said Mr. Went-
worth. All this time Elsworthy was beating against
the door, and shouting his threats into the quiet of the
morning; and Mrs. Hadwin had thrown uj) her window,
and stood there visibly in her nightcap, trying to find
out what the noise was about, and trembling for the
respectability of her house — all which the Curate ap-
prehended with that extraordinary swiftness and breadth
of perception which comes to men at the eventful mo-
ments of life.
"I'll do my best, sir," said Hayles, who felt that
his honour was appealed to; "but it's an awkward
business for all parties, that's what it is;" and the
druggist backed out in a state of great bewilderment,
having a little struggle at the door with Elsworthy to
prevent his re-entrance. "There ain't nothing to be
got out of ^m," said Mr. Hayles, as he succeeded at
last in leading his friend away. Such was the con-
clusion of Mr. Wentworth's morning studies, and the
sermon which was to have been half written before
breakfast upon that eventful Saturday. He went back
to the house, as was natural, with very different thoughts
in his mind.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 301
CHAPTER XXVI.
Tim first thing Mr. Wentworth did was to hasten
np-stairs to Wodehouse's room. Sarah had gone be-
fore him, and was by this time talking to her mistress,
who had left the window, and stood, still in her night-
cap, at the door of her own chamber. "It's something
about Rosa Elsworthy, ma'am," said Sarah-, "she's gone
off with some one, which nothing else was to be ex-
pected-, and her uncle's been a-raving and a-raging at
Mr. Wentworth, which proves as a gentleman should
never take no notice of them shop-girls. I always
heard as she was a bad lot."
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth — if you would excuse my
nightcap," said Mrs. Hadwin — "I am so shaken and
all of a tremble with that noise; I couldn't help think-
ing it must be a murder at the least," said the little
old lady; "but I never could believe that there was
anything between you and Sarah, you may go
away; I should like to talk to Mr. Wentworth by him-
self," said Mrs. Hadwin, suddenly remembering that
Mr. Wentwoi'th's character must not be discussed in
the presence of even her favourite maid.
"Presently," said the unhappy Curate, with mingled
impatience and resignation; and, after a hasty knock
at the door, he went into Wodehouse's room, which
was opposite, so full of a furious anxiety to question
him that he had burst into speech before he perceived
that the room was empty. "Answer me this instant,"
he had cried, "where is Rosa Elsworthy?" and then he
302 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
paused, utterly taken aback. It had not occurred to
him that the culprit would be gone. He had parted
with him late on the previous night, leaving him, ac-
cording to appearances, in a state of sulky half-
penitence; and now the first impulse of his consterna-
tion was to look in all the corners for the fugitive.
The room had evidently been occupied that night-, part
of the Curate's own wardrobe, which he had bestowed
upon his guest, lay about on the chairs, and on a little
table were his tools and the bits of wood with which
he did his carving. The window was open, letting in
the fresh aii*, and altogether the apartment looked so
exactly like what it might have done had the occupant
gone out for a virtuous morning walk, that Mr. Went-
worth stopped short in blank amazement. It was a
relief to him to hear the curious Sarah still rustling in
the passage outside. He came out upon her so hastily
that Sarah was startled. Perhaps she had been so far
excited out of her usual propriety as to think of the
keyhole as a medium of information.
"Where is Wode Mr. Smith?" cried the Curate;
"he is not in his room — he does not generally get up
so early. Where is he? Did he go out last night?"
"Not as I knows of, sir," said Sarah, who grew a
little pale, and gave a second glance at the open door.
"Isn't the gentleman in his room? He do take a walk
in the morning, now and again," and Sarah cast an
alarmed look behind to see if her mistress was still
within hearing; but Mrs. Hadwin, intent upon ques-
tioning Mr. W^entworth himself, had fortunately retired
to put on her cap, and closed her door.
"Where is he?" said the Curate, firmly.
"Oh, please, sir, I don't know," said Sarah, who
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 303
was very near crying. "He's gone out for a walk,
that's all. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, don't look at me so
dreadful, and I'll tell you hall," cried the frightened,
girl, ''^hall — as true as if I Avas on my oath. He 'as a
taking way with him," said poor Sarah, to whom the
sulky and shabby rascal was radiant still with the
fascinating though faded glory of "a gentleman" —
"and he ain't one as has been used to regular hours;
and seeing as he was a friend of yours, I knew as hall
was safe, Mr. Wentworth; and oh, sir, if you'll not tell
missis, as might be angry. I didn't mean no harm;
and knowing as he was a friend of yours, I let him
have the key of the little door."
Here Sarah put her apron to her eyes; she did not
cry much into it, or wet it with her tears — but under
its cover she peeped at Mr. Wentworth, and, encouraged
by his looks, which did not seem to promise any im-
mediate catastrophe, went o\\ with her explanation.
"He's been and took a walk often in the morning,"
said Sarah, with little gasps which interrupted her
voice, "and come in as steady as steady, and nothing
happened. He's gone for a walk now, poor gentleman.
Them as goes out first thing in the morning, can't
mean no harm, Mr. Wentworth. If it was at night, it
would be different," said the apologetic Sarah. "He'll
be in afore we've done our breakfast in the kitchen;
that's his hour, for I always brings him a cup of coffee.
If you hadn't been up not till your hour, sir, you'd
never have known nothing about it;" and here even
Mrs. Hadwin's housemaid looked sharply in the Curate's
face. "I never knew you so early, sir, not since I've
been here," said Sarah; and thougli she was a partisan
304 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
of Mr. Wentwortli, it occurred even to Sarah that jjer-
haps, after all, Elsworthy might be right.
"If he comes in let me know immediately," said
the Curate; and he went to his study and shut himself
in, to think it all over with a sense of being baited
and baffled on every side. As for Sarah, she went off
in great excitement to discuss the whole business with
the cook, tossing her head as she went. "Kosa Els-
worthy, indeed!" said Sarah to herself, thinking her
own claims to admiration quite as well worth consider-
ing — and Mr. Wentworth had already lost one humble
follower in Grange Lane.
The Curate sat down at his table as before, and
gazed with a kind of exasperation at the paper and the
text out of which his sermon was to have come. "When
the wicked man turneth away from tlie evil of his
Avays" — he began to wonder bitterly whether that ever
happened, or if it was any good trying to bring it
about. If it were really the case that Wodehouse,
whom he had been labouring to save from the conse-
quences of one crime, had, at the very crisis of his
fate, perpetrated another of the basest kind, what was
the good of wasting strength in behalf of a wretch so
abandoned? Why should sucli a man be permitted to
live to bring shame and misery on everybody connected
with him? and why, when noxious vermin of every
other description were hunted down and exterminated,
should the vile human creature be spared to suck the
blood of his friends? Mr. Wentworth grew sanguinary
in his thoughts as he leaned back in his chair, and
tried to return to the train of reflection which Els-
worthy's arrival had banished. That was totally im-
possible, but another train of ideas came fast enough
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 305
to fill up the vacant space. The Curate saw himself
hemmed in on every side without any way of escape.
If he could not extract any information from Wode-
house, or if Wodehoiise denied any knowledge of Rosa,
what could he do to clear himself from an imputation
so terrible? and if, on the other hand, Wodehouse did
not come back, and so pleaded guilty, how could he
pursue and put the law upon the track of the man
whom he had just been labouring to save from justice,
and over whose head a criminal prosecution was im-
pending? Mr. Wentworth saw nothing but misery,
let him turn where he would — nothing but disgrace,
misapprehension, unjust blame. He divined, with the
instinct of a man in deadly peril, that Elsworthy, who
was a mean enough man in common circumstances,
had been inspired by the supposed injury he had
sustained into a relentless demon; and he saw distinctly
how strong the chain of evidence was against him,
and how little he could do to clear himself. As his
miseries grew upon him, he got up, as was natural,
and began to walk about the room to walk down his
impatience, if he could, and acquire sufficient compo-
sure to enable him to wait for the time when Wode-
house might be expected to arrive. Mr. Wentworth
had forgotten at the moment that Mrs. Hadwin's room
was next to his study, and that, as she stood putting
on her cap, his footsteps vibrated along the flooring,
which thrilled under her feet almost as much as under
his own. Mrs. Hadwin, as she stood before her glass
smoothing her thin little braids of white hair, and
putting on her cap, could not but wonder to herself
what could make Mr. Wentworth walk about the room
in such an agitated way. It was not by any means
The Perpdnal ^itratc. I. 20
306 THB PERPETUAL CURATE.
the custom of the Perpetual Curate, who, up to the
time of his aunt's arrival in Carlingf'ord, had known
no special disturbances in his individual career. And
then the old lady thought of that report about little
Rosa Elsworthy, which she had never believed, and
grew troubled, as old ladies are not unapt to do under
such circumstances, with all that lively faith in the
seductions of "an artful girl," and all that contemptu-
ous pity for a "poor young man," which seems to come
natural to a woman. All the old ladies in Carlingford,
male and female, were but too likely to entertain the
same sentiments, which at least, if they did nothing
else, showed a wonderful faith in the power of love
and folly common to human nature. It did not occm*
to Mrs. Hadwin any more than it did to Miss Dora,
that Mr. Wentworth's good sense and pride, and superior
cultivation, were sufficient defences against little Rosa's
dimpled cheeks and bright eyes-, and with some few
exceptions, such was likely to be the opinion of the
little world of Carlingford. Mrs. Hadwin grew more
and more anxious about the business as she felt the
boards thrill under her feet, and heard the impatient
movements in the next room; and as soon as she had
settled her cap to her satisfaction, she left her own
chamber and went to knock, as was to be expected, at
Mr. Wentworth's door.
It was just at this moment that Mr. Wentworth saw
Wodeliouse's shabby figure entering at the garden gate;
he turned round suddenly without hearing Mrs. Hadwin's
knock, and all but ran over the old lady in his haste
and eagerness — "Pardon me; I am in a great hurry,"
cried the Cui'ate, darting past her. Just at the moment
when she expected her curiosity to be satisfied, it was
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 307
ratlier liard upon Mrs. Hadwin to be dismissed so sum-
marily. She went down- stairs in a state of great
dignity, with her lace mittens on, and her hands
crossed before her. She felt she had more and more
reason for doubting human nature in general, and for
believing that the Curate of St. Roque's in particular
could not bear any close examination into his conduct.
Mrs. Hadwin sat down to her breakfast accordingly
with a sense of pitying virtue which was sweet to her
spirit, notwithstanding that she was, as she would have
frankly acknowledged, very fond of Mr. Wentworth;
she said, "Poor young man," to herself, and shook her
head over him as she poured out her solitary cup of
tea. She had never been a beauty herself, nor had she
exercised any overwhelming influence that she could
rem.ember over any one in the days of her distant
youth: but being a true woman, Mrs. Hadwin believed
in Rosa Elsworthy, and pitied, not without a certain half-
conscious female ^isdain, the weakness of the inevitable
victim. He did not dare to stop to explain to her what
it meant. He rushed out of her Avay as soon as he
saw she meant to question him. That designing girl
had got him entirely under her sway, the poor young
man!
Meanwhile the Curate , without a single thought for
his landlady, made a rush to Wodehouse's room. He
did not wait for any answer to his knock, but went in,
not as a matter of policy, but because his eagerness
carried him on in spite of himself To Mr. Went-
worth's great amazement Wodehouse was undressing,
intending, apparently, to return to bed. The shabby
fugitive, looking broad and brawny in his shirt-sleeves,
turned round when he heard the voice with an angry
20*
308 THE rERPETUAL CURATE.
exclamation. His face grew black as he saw tlie Curate
at the door. "What the deuce have you to do in my
room at this hour?" he growled into his lieard. "Is a
man never to have a little peace?" and with that threw
down his coat, which he still had in his hand, and
faced round towards the intruder with snllen looks.
It was his nature to stand always on the defensive,
and he had got so much accustomed to being regarded
as a culprit, that he naturally took up the part, whether
there might be just occasion or not.
"Where have you been?" exclaimed the Curate;
"answer me truly — I can't submit to any evasion. I
know it all, Wodehouse. Where is she? where have
you hid her? If you do not give her up, I must give
you w]) to justice. Do you hear me? where is Rosa
Elswortliy? Tliis is a matter that touches my honour,
and I must know the truth."
Mr. Wentworth was so full of the subject that it
did not occur to him how much time he was giving
his antagonist to prepare his answer. Though Wode-
house was not clever, he had the instinct of a baited
animal driven to bay, and resistance and denial came
natural to a man who had been accused and condemned
all his life.
"Rosa Elsworthy?" said the vagabond, "what have
I to do with Rosa Elswortliy? A pretty man I should
be to run away with a girl-, all that I have in the
world is a shilling or two, and, by Jove, it's an ex-
pensive business, that is. You should ask your brother,"
he continued, giving a furtive glance at the Curate —
"it's more in his way, by Jove, than mine."
Mr. Wentworth was recalled to himself by this
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 309
reply. "Where is slie?" lie said, sternly, — "no trifling.
I did not ask if you had. taken her away. I ask,
where is sheV" He had. shut the door behind him,
and stood in the middle of the I'oom, facing Wode-
house, and overawing him by his superior stature,
force, and virtue. Before tlie Curate's look the eyes
of the other fell-, but he had fallen by chance on a
reasonable defence enough, and so long as he held by
that felt him.self tolerably safe.
"I don't know anything about her," he repeated-,
"how should I know anytliing about her? I ain't a
fool, by Jove, whatever I may be: a man may talk to
a pretty girl without any harm. I mayn't be as good
as a parson, but, by Jove, I ain't a fool," he mut-
tered through his beard. He had begun to speak
with a kind of sulky self-confidence-, but his voice sank
lower as he proceeded. Jack Wentworth's elegant
levity was a terrible failure in the hands of the coarser
rascal. He fell back by degrees iipon the only natural
quality which enabled him to offer any resistance.
"By Jove, I ain't an idiot," he repeated with dull
obstinacy, and iipon that statement made a stand in his
dogged, argumentative way.
"Would you like it better if I said you were a
villain?" asked the exasperated Curate. "I don't want
to discuss your cliaracter with jow. Where is Rosa
Elsworthy? She is scarcely more than a child," said
Mr. Wentworth, "and a fool, if you like. But where
is she? I warn you that unless you tell me you shall
have no more assistance from me."
"And I tell you that I don't know," said Wode-
house-, and the two men stood facing each other, one
310 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
glowing with youthful indignation, the other enveloped
in a cloud of sullen resistance. Just then there came
a soft knock at the door, and Sarah peeped in with a
coquettish air, which at no other time in her existence
had been visible in the sedate demeanour of Mrs. Had-
win's favourite handmaid. The stranger lodger was
"a gentleman," notwithstanding his shabbiness, and he
was a very civil-spoken gentleman, without a bit of
pride; and Sarah aa'hs still a woman, though she was
plain and a housemaid. "Please, sir, I've brought you
your coffee," said Sarah, and she carried in her tray,
which contained all the materials for a plentiful break-
fast. When she saw Mr. Wentworth standing in the
room, and Wodehouse in his shirt-sleeves, Sarah said,
"La!" and set down her tray hastily and vanished;
but the episode, short as it was, had not been with-
out its use to the culprit who was standing on his
defence.
"I'm not staying here on my own account," said
Wodehouse, — "it's no pleasure to me to be here. I'm
staying for your brother's sake and — other people's;
it's no pleasure to me, by Jove! I'd go to-morrow if
I had my way — but I ain't a fool," continued the
sulky defendant: "it's of no use asking me such ques-
tions. By Jove, I've other things to think of than girls;
and you know pretty well how much money I've got,"
he continued, taking out an old purse and emptying
out the few shillings it contained into his hand. When
he had thrown them about, out and in, for nearly a
minute, he turned once more upon the Curate. "I'd
like to have a little more pocket-money before I ran
away with any one," said Wodehouse, and tossed the
shillings back contemptuously. As for Mr, Weut-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 311
worth, his reasonableness once more came greatly in
his way. He began to ask himself whether this penni-
less vagabond, who seemed to have no dash or daring
in his character, could have been the man to carry
little Rosa away; and, perplexed by this idea, Mr.
Wentworth put himself unawares into the position of
his opponent, and in that character made an appeal to
his imaginary generosity and truth.
"Wodehouse," he said, seriously, "look here. I am
likely to be much annoyed about this, and perhaps in-
jured. I entreat you to tell me, if you know, where
the girl is? I've been at some little trouble for you;
be frank with me for once," said the Curate of St.
Roque's. Nothing in existence could have prevented
himself from responding to such an appeal, and he
made it with a kind of absurd confidence that there
must be some kindred depths even in the meaner
nature with which he had to deal, which would have
been to Jack Wentworth, had he seen it, a source of
inextinguishable laughter. Even Wodehouse was taken
by surprise. He did not understand Mr. Wentworth,
but a certain vague idea that the Curate was addressing
him as if he still were "a gentleman as he used to be"
— though it did not alter his resolution in any way —
brought a vague flush of shame to his unaccustomed
cheek.
"I ain't a fool," he repeated rather hastily, and
turned away not to meet the Curate's eyes. "I've got
no money — how should / know anything about her?
If I had, do you think I should have been here?" he
continued, with a sidelong look of inquiry: then he
paused and put on his coat, and in that garb felt him-
self more of a match for his opponent. "I'll tell you
312 THE PeRl'RTlTAL CURATR.
one thing' yon'll thank me for," he said, — "tlie oM
man is dying, they think. They'll be sending for yon
presently. That's more important than a talk about a
girl. I've been talked to till I'm sick," said Wode-
house, with a little burst of irrepressible natiire, "but
things may change before you all know where you
are." When he had said so much, the fear in his
heart awoke again, and he cast another look of in-
quiry and anxiety at the Curate's face. But Mr. Went-
worth was disgusted, and had no more to say.
"Everything changes — exce])t tlie heart of the churl,
wiiich can never be made bountiful," said the indignant
young j)riest. It was not a tit sentiment, perhaps, for
a preacher who had just written that text about the
wicked man turning from the evil of his ways. Mr.
Wentworth went away in a glow of indignation and
excitement, and left his guest to Sarah's bountiful
provision of hot coffee and ncAv-laid eggs, to which
Wodehouse addressed himself with a perfectly good
appetite, notwithstanding all the events of the morning,
and all the mystery of the night.
THE rr.TIPRTtJAL CURATE. 3 13
CHAPTER XXVII.
Mr. "VYentwortti retired to his own qucarters with
enough to think about for one morning. He could not
make up his mind about Wodehouse — whether he was
guilty or not guilty. It .seemed incredible that, pen-
niless as he was, he could have succeeded in carrying
oft' a girl so well known in C!arlingford as Kosa
Elsworthy; and, if he had taken her away, how did it
liappen that he himself had come back again? The
Curate saw clearly enough that his only chance for
exculpating liimself in the sight of the multitude was
by bringing home the guilt to somebody else; and in
pro[)ortion to the utter scorn with whicli he had treated
Elsworthy's insinuations at first, was his serious appre-
hension now of the danger which surrounded him. lie
divined all that slander would make of it with the
quickened intelligence of a man whose entire life, and
reputation dearer than life, were at stake. If it could
not be cleared up — if even any investigation which he
might be able to demand was not perfectly successful
— Mr. Wentworth was quite well aware that the char-
acter of a clergyman was almost as susceptible as that
of a woman, and that the vague stigma might haunt
and overshadow him all his life. The thought was
overwhelming at this moment, when his first hopes of
finding a speedy solution of the mystery had come to
nothing. If he had but lived a century earlier, the
chances are that no doubt of Wodehouse's guilt would
have entered his mind; })ut Mr. Wentworth was a man
314 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
of the present age — reasonable to a fault, and apt to
consider other people as much as possible from their
own point of view. He did not see, looking at all the
circumstances, hoAv Wodehouse could be guilty, and the
Curate would not permit the strong instinctive certainty
that he was guilty, to move his own mind from what
he imagined to be its better judgment. He was thinking
it over very gloomily when his breakfast was brought
to him and his letters, feeling that he could be sure of
nobody in such an emergency, and dreading more the
doubt of his friends than the clamour of the general
world. He could bear (he imagined) to be hooted at
in the streets, if it ever came to that-, but to see the
faces of those M^ho loved him troubled with a torturing
doubt of his truth was a terrible thought to the
Perpetual Curate. And Lucy? But here the young
man got up indignant, and threw off his fears. He
doubted her regard with a doubt which threw darkness
over the whole universe; but that she should be able
for a moment to doubt his entire devotion to her,
seemed a blindness incredible. No ; let who would
believe ill of him in this respect, to Lucy such an
accusation must look as monstrous as it was untrue.
She^ at least, knew otherwise; and, taking this false
comfort to his heart, Mr. Wentworth took up his letters,
and presently was deep in the anxieties of his brother
Gerald, who wrote to him as to a man at leisure, and
"wdthout any overwhelming perplexities of his own. It
requires a very high amount of unselfishness in the
person thus addressed to prevent a degree of irritation
which is much opposed to sympathy; and Mr. "Went-
worth, though he was very impartial and reasonable,
was not, being still young and meaning to be happy,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 315
unselfish to any inhuman degree. He put down Gerald's
letter, after he had read through half of it, with an
exclamation of impatience which he could not restrain,
and then poured out his coffee, which had got cold in
the mean time, and gulped it down Avith a sense of
half-comforting disgust — for there are moments w^hen
the mortification of the flesh is a relief to the spirit;
and then it occurred to him to remember Wodehouse's
tray, which was a kind of love-offering to the shabby
vagabond, and the perfect good order in which he had
his breakfast; and Mr. Wentworth laughed at himself
with a wliimsical perception of all that was absurd in
his own position which did him good, and broke the
spell of his solitary musings. When he took up Gerald's
letter again, he read it through. A man more sym-
pathetic, open-hearted, and unselfish than Gerald AYent-
worth did not exist in the world, as his brother well
knew; but nevertheless, Gerald's mind M^as so entirely
preoccupied that he passed over the Curate's cares with
the lightest reference imaginable. "I hope you found
all right when you got back, and nothing seriously
amiss with Jack," the elder brother wrote, and then
went on to his own affairs. All right! nothing seriously
amiss! To a man who felt himself standing on the
edge of possible ruin, such expressions seemed strange
indeed.
The Rector of Wentworth, however, had enough in
his mind to excuse him for a momentary forgetfulness
of others. Things had taken a different turn with him
since his brother left. He had been so busy with his
change of faith and sentiment, that the jDractical pos-
sibilities of the step which he contemplated had not
disturbed Gerald. He had taken it calmly for granted
316 TIIR PRnPETUAL CrUATE.
that he could do what he wanted to do. But a new
light had burst upon him in that respect, and changed
the cliaracter of his thoughts. Notwithstanding the
conviction into which he had reasoned himself, that
jteace was to be found in Rome and nowhere else, the
Rector of Wentworth had not contemplated the idea of
bec(miing simply a Catholic layman. He was nothing
if not a priest, he had said, passionately. He could
have made a martyr of liimself — have suffered tortures
and deaths with the steadiest endurance; but lie could
not face the idea of taking all meaning and significance
out of his life, by giving up the profession which he
felt to be laid upon him by orders indelible, beyond
the power of circumstances to revoke. Such was the
^new complication to which Gerald had come. He was
terribly staggered in his previous resolution by this
new doubt, and he wrote to pour his difficulties into
the ear of his brother. It had been Frank's question
which first awoke in his mind a doubt as to the prac-
ticability of the stej) he contemplated; and one of
Louisa's relations, appealed to by her in her next
access of terror, had brought this aspect of the matter
still more distinctly before the Rector of Wentworth.
Gerald had been studying Canon law, but his English
intelligence did not make very much of it; and the
bare idea of a dispensation making that right which in
itself was wrong, touched the high-minded gentleman
to the quick, and brought him to a sudden standstill.
He who was nothing if not a priest, stood sorrowfully
looking at his contemplated martyrdom — like Brother
Domenico of St. Mark's sighing on the edge of the
fiery ordeal into which the Church herself would not
let him plunge. If it was so, he no longer knew what
THE rEKPETUAL CUKATE. 317
to do. He would have ANi-ajiped tlie vestment of the
new priesthood about him, though it was a garment of
fire; but to stand aside in irksome leisure Avas a harder
trial, at which he trembled. This was the new com-
i)lication in which Gerald asked his brother's sympathy
and counsel. It was a long letter, curiously intro-
spective, and full of self-argument; and it Avas hard
work, Avith a mind so occupied as was that of the
Perpetual Curate, to give it due attention. He put it
away when he had done with his cold breakfast, and
deferred the consideration of the subject, with a kind
of vague hope that the family firmament might possibly
brighten in that (|uarter at least; but the far-off" and
indistinct interest Avith which he viewed, across his oavu
gloomy surroundings, this matter which had engrossed
him so completely a few days befoi-e, Avas wonderful
to see.
And then he paused to think AAdiat ho Avas to do.
To go out and face the slander which already must
have crept forth on ^ts way — to see Elsworthy and as-
certain Avhether he had come to his senses, and try if
anything could be done for Rosa's discoA-ery — to exert
himself somelioA\', in short, and get rid of the fe\'eris]i
activity A\diicli he felt consuming him, — that was Avhat
he longed to do. But, on the other hand, it was
Saturday, and Mr. Wentworth Avas conscious that it
Avould be more dignified, and in better taste altogether,
if he Avent on writing his sermon and took no notice
of this occurrence, Avith Avhich, in reality, he had no-
thing to do. It Avas difficult, biit no doubt it was best;
and he tried it accordingly — putting doAvn a great
many sentences Avhich had to be scratched out again,
and spoiling altogether the appearance of his sermon-
318 TIIK PERPETUAL CURATE.
paper. When a message came from Mr. Wodehouse's
about eleven o'clock, bringing the news that he was
much worse and not expected to live, and begging Mr.
Wentworth's immediate presence, the Curate was as
nearly glad as it was possible for a man to be under
the circumstances, lie liad "a feeling heart," as even
Elsworthy allowed, but in such a moment of excitement
any kind of great and terrible event seemed to come
natural. He hastened out into the fresh morning sun-
shine, which still seemed thrilling with life and joy,
and went up Grange Lane witli a certain sense of
curiosity, wondering whether everybody was already
aware of what had happened. A long way oflf a figure
which much resembled that of the Rector was visible
crossing over to Dr. Marjoribanks's door; and it occurred
to the Curate that Mr. Morgan was crossing to avoid
him, which brought a smile of anger and involuntary
dislike to his face, and nerved him for any other en-
counter. The green door at Mr. Wodehouse's — a homely
sign of the trouble in the house — had been left un-
latched, and was swinging ajar with the wind when
the Ciirate came up-, and as he Avent in (closing it
carefully after him, for that forlorn little touch of care-
lessness went to his heart), he encountered in the
garden Dr. Marjoribanks and Dr. Rider, who were
coming out together with very grave looks. They did
not stop for much conversation, only pausing to tell
him that the case was hopeless, and that the patient
could not possibly live beyond a day or two at most;
but even in the few words that were spoken Mr. Went-
Avoi'th perceived, or thought he perceived, that some-
thing had occurred to lessen him in the esteem of the
shrewd old Scotch doctor, who contemplated him and
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 319
liifi prayer-book with critical eyes. "I confess, after
all, that there are cases in which written prayers are a
kind of security," Dr. Marjoribanks said in an iiTele-
vant manner to Dr. Rider when Mr. Wentworth had
passed them — an observation *at which, in ordinary
cases, the Curate would have smiled; but to-day the
colour rose to his face, and he understood that Dr.
Marjoribanks did not think him qiialitied to carry com-
fort or instruction to a sick-bed. Perhaps the old doctor
had no such idea in his mind — perhaps it was simply
a relic of his national Presbyterianism, to which the
old Scotchman kept up a kind of visionary. allegiance.
But whether he meant it or not, Mr. Wentworth under-
stood it as a reproach to himself, and went on with a
bitter feeling of mortification to the sick-room. He had
gone with his whole heart into his priestly office, and
had been noted for his ministrations to the sick and
poor; but now his feelings were much too personal for
the atmosphere into whicli he was just about to enter.
He stopped at the door to tell John that he would
take a stroll round the garden before he came in, as
he had a headache, and went on through the walks
Avhich were sacred to Lucy, not thinking of her, but
wondering bitterly whether anybody would stand by
him, or Avhether an utterly baseless slander would out-
weigh all the five years of his life wliich he had spent
among the people of Carlingford. Meanwhile John
stood at the door and w^atched him, and of course
thought it was very "queer." ''It ain't as if he'd a-been
sitting vip all night, like our young ladies," said John
to himself, and unconsciously noted the circumstance
down in his memory against the Curate.
When Mr. Wentworth entered the sick-room, he
320 THE PERPETUAL CIFRATE.
found all very silent and still in that darkened chamber.
Lucy was seated by the bedside, wrapjied in a loose
dressing-goAvn, and looking as if she had not slept for
sevei'al nights; while Miss Wodehouse, who, notwith-
standing all her anxiety to be of use, was far more
helpless than Lucy, stood on the side next the door,
with her eyes fixed on her sister, watching with pa-
thetic unserviceableness for the moment when she
could be of some use. As for the patient himself, he
lay in a kind of stupor, from which he scarcely ever
could be roused, and showed no tokens at the moment
of hearing or seeing anybody. The scene was doubly
sad, but it was without the excitement which so often
breathes in the atmosphere of death. There was no
eager listening for the last Avord, no last outbreaks of
tenderness. The daughters Avere both hushed into
utter silence*, and Lucy, who Avas more reasonable
than her sister, had even given up those wistful be-
seecLing looks at the patient, with which Miss Wode-
house still regarded him, as if perhaps he might be
tlms persuaded to speak. The nurse whom Dr. Mar-
joribanks had sent to assist them was visible through
an open door, sleeping very comfortably in the ad-
joining room. Mr. Wentworth came into the silent
chamber Avith all his anxieties throbbing in his heart,
bringing life at its very height of agitation and tumult
into the presence of death. He went forward to the
bed, and tried for an instant to call up any spark of
intelligence that might yet exist within the mind of
the dying man; but Mr. Wodehouse was beyond the
voice of any priest. The Curate said tlie prayers for
the dying at the bedside, suddenly filled with a great
pity for the man Avho Avas thus taking leave unaAvares
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 321
of all this mournful splendid world. Though the yoimg
man knew many an ordinary sentiment about the
vanity of life, and had given utterance to that effect
freely in the way of his duty, he was still too fresh in
his heart to conceive actually that any one could leave
the world Avithout poignant regrets; and when his
prayer was finished, he stood looking at the patient
with inexpressible compassion. Mr. Wodehouse had
scarcely reached old age; he was well-off, and only a
week ago seemed to have so much to enjoy; now, here
he lay stupefied, on the edge of the grave, unable to
respond even by a look to the love that surrounded
him. Once more there rose in the heart of the young
priest a natural impulse of resentment and indignation;
and when he thought of the cause of this change, he
remembered Wodehouse's threat, and roused himself
from his contemplation of the dying to think of the
probable fate of those who must live.
"Had he made his will?" said Mr. Wentworth,
suddenly. He forgot that it was Lucy who was stand-
ing by him; and it was only when he caught a glance
of reproach and horror from her eyes that he recollected
how abrupt his question was. "Pardon me," he said;
"you think me heartless to speak of it at such a time;
but tell me, if you know: Miss Wodehouse, has he
made his will?"
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I don't know anything about
business," said the elder sister. "He said he would;
but we have had other things to think of— more im-
portant things," said poor Miss Wodehouse, wringing
her hands, and looking at Mr. Wentworth with eyes
full of warning and meaning, beseeching him not to
betray her secret. She came nearer to the side of the
The reriKlual Ciintic. I. 21
322 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
bed on which Lucy and the Curate were standing, and
plucked at his sleeve in her anxiety. "We have had
very different things to think of. Oh, Mr. Wentworth,
what does it matter?" said the poor lady, interposing
her anxious looks, which suggested every kind of mis-
fortune, between the two.
"It matters everything in the world," said Mr. Went-
worth. "Pardon me if I wound you — I must speak;
if it is possible to rouse him, an effort must be made.
Send for Mr. Waters. He must not be allowed to go
out of the world and leave your interests in the hands
of "
"Oh, hush, Mr. Wentworth, hush! — oh, hush! hush!
Don't say any more," cried Miss Wodehouse, grasping
his arm in her terror.
Lucy rose from where she had been sitting at the
bedside. She had grown paler than before, and looked
almost stern in her youthful gravity. "I will not
permit my father to be disturbed," she said. "I don't
know what you mean, or what you are talking of; but
he is not to be disturbed. Do you think I will let him
be vexed in his last hours about money or anybody's
interest?" she said, turning ujjon the Curate a momen-
tary glance of scorn. Then she sat down again, with
a pang of disappointment added to her grief She
could not keep her heart so much apart from him, as
not to expect a little comfort from his presence. And
there had been comfort in his prayers and his looks;
but to hear him speak of wills and worldly affairs by
her father's deathbed, as any other man might have
done, went to Lucy's heart. She sat down again, put-
ting her hand softly upon the edge of the pillow, to
guard the peace of those last moments which were
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 223
eLbing away so rapidly. What if all tlie comfort in
the world hung npon it? Could she let her kind
father be troubled in his end for anything so miser-
able? Lucy turned her indignant eyes upon the others
with silent resolution. It was she who was his pro-
tector now.
"But it must be done," said Mr. Wentworth. "Yoix
will understand me hereafter. Miss Wodehouse, you
must send for Mr. Waters, and in the mean time I will
do what I can to rouse him. It is no such cruelty as
you think," said the Curate, with humility; "it is not
for money or interest only — it concerns all the com-
fort of your life."
This he said to Lucy, who sat defending her father.
She, for her part, looked up at him with eyes that
broke his heart. At that moment of all others, the
unfortunate Curate perceived, by a sudden flash of in-
sight, that nothing less than love could look at him
with such force of disappointment and reproach and
wounded feeling. He replied to the look by a gesture
of mingled entreaty and despair.
"What can I do?" he cried — "you have no one
else to care for you. I cannot even explain to you all
that is at stake. I must act as I ought, even though
you hate me for it. Let us send for Mr. Waters;— if
there is a will "
Mr. Wentworth had raised his voice a little in the
excitement of the moment, and the word caught the
dull ear of the dying man. The Cui-ate saw instantly
that there was comprehension in the flicker of the eye-
lash and the tremulous movement of the hand upon
the bed. It was a new and unaccustomed part which
21*
324 THE rERPETUAL CURATE.
he had now to play; he went hurriedly to the other
side and leaned over the pillow to make out the stam-
mering words whicli began to be audible. Lucy had
risen uji also and stood looking at her father still with
her look of defence. As the feeble lij^s babbled forth
unintelligible words, Lucy's pale face grew sterner and
sterner. As for Miss Wodehouse, she stood behind,
crying and trembling. "Oh, Mr. Wentworth, do you
think it is returning life — do you think he is better?"
she cried, looking wistfully at the Curate; and between
the two young people, who were leaning with looks
and feelings so different over his bed, the patient lay
struggling with those terrible bonds of Aveakness, labour-
ing to find expression for something which wrought
him into a fever of excitement. While Mr. Wentworth
bent his ear closer and closer, trying to make some
sense of the inarticulate torrent of sound, Lucy, in-
spired by grief and horror and indignation, leaned over
her father on the other side, doing everything possible
to calm him. "Oh, papa, don't say any more — don't
say any more; we understand you," she cried, and
put her soft hands upon his flushed forehead, and
her cheek to his. "No more, no more!" cried the
girl in the dulled ear which could not hear. "We
will do everything you wish ^ we understand all,"
said Lucy. Mr. Wentworth withdrew vanquished in
that strange struggle — he stood looking on while she
caressed and calmed and subdued into silence the
dying passion which he would have given anything in
the world to stimulate into clearer utterance. She had
baffled his efforts, made him helpless to serve her, per-
haps injured herself cruelly; but all the more the
Curate loved her for it, as she expanded over her
THE rEPvPETt^VL CURATE. 325
dying fatlier, with the white sleeves hanging loose
about her arms like the white wings of an angel, as
he thought. Gradually the agony of utterance got
subdued, and then Lucy resumed her position by the
bed. "He shall not be disturbed," she said again,
tlirough lips that were parched with emotion; and so
sat watchful over him, a guardian immovable, ready to
defy all the world in defence of his peace.
Mr. Wentworth turned away with his heart full.
He would have liked to go and kiss her hand or her
sleeve or anything belonging to her; and yet he was
impatient beyond expression, and felt that she had
baffled and vanquished him. Miss Wodehouse stood
behind, still looking on with a half perception of what
had happened; but the mind of the elder sister was
occupied with vain hopes and fears, such as inex-
perienced people are subject to in the presence of
death.
"He heard what you said," said Miss Wodehouse;
"don't you think that was a good sign? Oh, Mr. Went-
worth, sometimes I think he looks a little better," said
the poor lady, looking wistfully into the Curate's face.
Mr. Wentworth could only shake his head as he hur-
ried away.
"I must go and consl^lt Mr. Waters," he said, as
he passed her. "I shall come back presently;" and
then Miss Wodehouse followed him to the door, to beg
him not to speak to Mr. Waters of anything particular
— "For papa has no confidence in him," she said,
anxiously. The Curate was nearly driven to his wits'
end as he hastened out. He forgot the clouds that
surrounded him in his anxiety about this sad house-
hold; for it seemed but too evident that Mr. Wode-
326 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
house had made no special provision for liis daughters;
and to tliink of Lucy under the power of her unknown
brother, made Mr. Wentworth's blood boil.
The shutters were all put up that afternoon in the
prettiest house in Grange Lane. The event took
Carlingford altogether by surprise; but other events
just then were moving the town into the wildest ex-
citement; for nothing could be heard, far or near, of
poor little liosa Elsworthy, and everybody was aware
that the last time she was seen in Carlingford she was
standing by herself in the dark, at Mr. Wentworth's
garden-door.
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHES.
COLLECTION
OF
BE ins II AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. nil.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
Cbroniclcs of (Larlingforb
THE
PERPETUAL CURATE
MRS. OLIPHANT.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
B E R N H A K I) T A U C II N I T Z
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THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
CHAPTER I.
Mrs. Morgan was in the jjarden watering her
favourite ferns when her husband returned home to
dinner on the day of Mr. Wodehouse's death. The
Rector was late, and she liad already changed her
dress, and was removing the withered leaves from her
prettiest plant of maidenhair, and thinking, with some
concern, of the fish, when she heard his step on the
gravel; for the cook at the Rectory was rather hasty
in her temper, and was apt to be provoking to her
mistress next morning when the Rector chose to be
late. It was a very hot day, and Mr. Morgan was
flushed and uncomfortable. To see his wife looking
so cool and tranquil in her muslin dress rather ag-
gravated him than otherwise, for she did not betray
her anxiety about the trout, but Avelcomed him with a
smile, as she felt it her duty to do, even when he was
late for dinner. The Rector looked as if all the
anxieties of the world were on his shoulders, as he
came hurriedly along the gravel; and Mrs. Morgan's
curiosity was sufficiently excited by his looks to have
overcome any consideration but that of the trout, which,
however, was too serious to be trifled with; so, instead
of asking questions, she thought it wiser simply to re-
6 THE PERPETUAL CTRATE.
iniml licr liusbMiid flial it was past six o'clock. "Din-
ner is Avaifiii^," slic said, in her comjiosecl way, and
the Rector went nj)-stairs to wash his Iiands, half dis-
posed to be anfi^ry with his wife. He found her al-
ready seated at the head of the table when he came
down after his raj)id ablutions; and though he was not
particularly (juick of perception, Mr. Morgan perceived,
by the lociks of the servant as well as the mistress,
that he was generally disapproved of throughout the
household for being half an liour too late. As for
Thomas, he was at no pains to conceal his sentiments,
but conducted himself with distant politeness towards
his master, expressing the feelings of the household
with all the greater freedom that he had been in pos-
session of the Rectory since Mr. Bury's time, and felt
himself more secure in his tenure than any incumbent,
as was natural to a man who had already outlived two
of these temporary tenants. ^Ir. Morgan was disposed
to be conciliatory when he saw the strength of the op-
posite side.
"I am a little late to-day," said the politic Rector.
"Mr. Leeson was with me, and I did not want to bring
him home to dinner. It was only on Wednesday he
dined with us, and I know you don't care for chance
guests."
"I think it shows a great want of .sense in Mr.
Leeson to think of such a thing," said Mrs. Morgan,
responding by a little flush of anger to the unlucky
Curate's name. "He might understand that people
like to be by themselves now and then. I am sur-
prised that you give in to him so much as you do,
William. Good-nature must stop somewhere, and I
think it is always best to draw a line."
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 7
"I wish it were ])ossible for everybody to draw a
line," said the Rector, mysteriously, with a sigh. "I
have heard something that has grieved me very much
to-day. I will tell you about it afterwards." When
he liad said this, Mr. Morgan addressed himself sadly
to his dinner, sighing over it, as if that had something
to do with his distress.
"Perhaps, ma'am," suggested Thomas, who was
scarcely on s])eaking terms with his master, "the
Rector mayn't have heard as Mr. Wodehouse has been
took very bad again, and ain't expected to see out the
night."
"I am very sorry," said the Rector. "Poor ladies!
it will come very hard upon them. My dear, I think
you should call and ask if you can do anything.
Troubles never come singly, it is said. I am very
sorry for that poor young creature; though, perhaps,
things have not gone so far as one imagined." The
Rector sighed again, and looked as though his secret,
whatever it might be, was almost too much for him.
The consequence, of course, was, that Thomas pro-
longed his services to the last possibility, by way of
hearing what had happened; as for Mrs. ]\[organ, she
sat on thorns, though her sense of propriety was too
great to permit her to hurry over the dinner. The
j)udding, though it was the Rector's favourite pudding,
pre])ared from a receipt only known at All-Souls, in
which the late respected Head of that learned com-
munity had concentrated all his genius, was eaten in
uneasy silence, broken only by the most transparent
attempts on both sides to make a little conversation.
Tiiomas hovered sternly over his master and mistress
all the time, exacting with inexorable severity every
8 TllK I'EKrETl AL CTKAXE.
usage of the table. He would not let them off the
very smallest detail, but insisted on handing round the
peaches, notwithstanding Mrs. Morgan's protest. "They
are the first out of the new orchard-house," said the
Rector's wife. "1 want your opinion of them. That
will do, Thomas; we have got everything now, I
think." Mrs. Morgan was a little anxious about the
peaches, having made a great many changes on her
own responsibility in the gardening department-, but
the Rector took the downy fruit as if it had been a
turnip, and notwithstanding her interest in the long*
delayed news, his wife could not but find it very pro-
voking that he took so little notice of her exertions.
"Roberts stood out against the new flue as long as
he could," said i\[rs. Morgan. "Mr. Proctor took no
interest in the garden, and everything had gone to
ruin; though I must say it was very odd that anybody
from your college, William, should be careless about
such a vital matter," said the Rector's wife, with a
little asperity. "I suppose there must be something in
the air of Carliugford which makes people indifferent."
Naturally, it was very provoking, after all the trouble
she had taken, to see her husband slicing that juicy
pulp as if it had been any ordinary market fruit.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," said Mr. Mor-
gan; "I was thinking of this story about Mr. Went-
worth. One is always making new discoveries of
the corruption of human nature. He has behaved
very badly to me; but it is very sad to see a young
man sacrifice all his prospects for the indulgence of
his passions; though that is a very seculai' way of
looking at the subject," said the Rector, shaking his
bead mournfully. "If it is bad in a worldly point
V^-
THE PERPETUAL CUBATB. V
of view, what is it in a spiritual? and in this age, too,
when it is so important to keep up the character of the
clergy!" Mr. Morgan sighed again more heavily than
ever as he poured out the single glass of port, in which
his wife joined him after dinner. "Such an occurrence
throAvs a stigma upon the whole Church, as Mr. Leeson
very justly remarked."
"I thought Mr. Leeson must have something to do
with it," said tlie Sector's wife. "What has Mr. Went-
worth been doing? When you keep a Low-Church
Curate, you never can tell what he may say. If he
had known of the All-Souls pudding he would have
come to dinner, and we should have had it at first-
hand," said Mrs. Morgan, severely. She put away her
peach in her resentment, and went to a side-table for
her work, which she always kept handy for emergen-
cies. Like her husband, Mrs. Morgan had acquired
some little "ways" in the long ten years of their
engagement, one of which was a confirmed habit of
needlework at all kinds of unnecessary moments, which
much disturbed the Rector when he had anything par-
ticular to say.
"My dear, I am very sorry to see you so much the
victim of prejudice," said Mr. Morgan. "I had hoped
that all our long experiences " and here the Rector
stopped short, troubled to see the rising colour in his
wife's face. "I don't mean to blame you, my dear,"
said the perplexed man-, "I know you were always
very patient;" and he paused, not knowing what more
to say, comforting himself with the thought that women
were incomprehensible creatures , as so many men have
done before.
"I am not patient," said the Rector's wife; "it
10 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
never was my nature. I can't help thinking sometimes
that our long experiences have done us more harm
than good; but I hope nothing will ever make me put
uj) with a Curate who tells tales about other people,
and flatters one's self, and comes to dinner without
being asked. Perhaps Mr. Wentworth is very sinful,
biit at least he is a gentleman," said Mrs. Morgan;
and she bent her head over her work, and drove her
needle so fast through the muslin she was at work upon,
tliat it glimmered and sjDarkled like summer lightning
before the spectator's dazzled eyes.
"I am sorry you are so prejudiced," said the Rector.
"It is a very unbecoming spirit, my dear, though I am
grieved to say so much to you. Mr. Leeson is a very
good young man, and he has nothing to do with this
terrible story about Mr. Wentworth. I don't wish to
sliock your feelings — but there are a great many things
in the world that one can't explain to ladies. He has
got himself into a most distressing position, and a
])ublic inquiry will be necessary. One can't help seeing
the hand of Providence in it," said the Rector, playing
reflectively with the peach on his plate.
It was at this moment that Thomas appeared at the
door to announce Mr. Leeson, who had come to talk
over the topic of the day with the Rector — being com-
fortably obtuse in his perceptions, and quite disposed
to ignore Mrs. Morgan's general demeanour towards
himself. "I am sure she has a bad temper," he would
say to his confidants in the parish; "you can see it
by the redness in her ftxcc: but I never take any no-
tice when she says rude things to me." The redness
was alarming in Mrs. Morgan's face as tlie iinlucky
man became visible at the door. She said audibly,
THE PERPETUAL CUKATE. 11
"I knew we should be interrupted!" and got up from
lier chair. "As Mr. Leeson is here, you will not want
me, William," she added, in her prccisest tones. "If
anything has happened since you came in, he will be
able to tell you about it; and jjerhaps I had better
send you your coffee here, for I have a great many
things to do." Mr. Morgan gave a little groan in his
spirit as his wife went away. To do him justice, he
had a great deal of confidence in her, and was uncon-
sciously guided by her judgment in many matters.
Talking it over with Mr. Leeson was a totally different
tiling; for whatever might be said in his defence, there
<;ould not be any doubt that the Curate ])rofessed Low-
Church principles, and had been known to drink tea
with Mr. Beecher, the new minister of Salem Chapel.
"Not that I object to Mr. Beecher because he is a
Dissenter," Mr. Morgan said, "but because, my dear,
you know, it is a totally different class of society."
When the Rector was left alone to discuss parish mat-
ters with this doubtful subordinate, instead of going into
the subject with his wife, the good man felt a pang of
disappointment; for though he professed to be reluctant
to shock her, he had been longing all the time to enter
into the story, which was certainly the most exciting
which had occixrred in Carlingford since the beginning
of his incumbency. Mrs. Morgan, for her part, went
up-stairs to the drawing-room with so much indigna-
tion about this personal grievance that she almost for-
got her curiosity. Mr. Leeson hung like a cloud over
all the advantages of Carlingford ; he put out that new
flue in the greenhouse, upon which she was rather dis-
posed to pique herself, and withered her ferns, which
everybody allowed to be the finest collection within a
12 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ten miles' circuit. This sense of disgust increased upon
her as she went into the drawing-room, where her eye
naturally caught that carpet which had been the first
cross of her married life. When she had laid down
her work, she began to plan how the offensive bouquets
might be covered with a pinafore of linen, which looked
very cool and nice in summer-time. And then the
Rector's wife reflected that in winter a floor covered
with white looked chilly, and that a woollen drugget
of an approjjriate small pattern would be better on the
whole; but no such thing was to be had without going
to London for it, which brought her mind back again
to Mr. Leeson and all the disadvantages of Carlingford.
These subjects occupied Mrs. Morgan to the exclusion
of external matters, as was natural; and when she
heard the gentlemen stir down-stairs as if with ideas
of joining her in the drawing-room, the Rector's wife
suddenly recollected that she had promised some tea
to a poor woman in Grove Street, and that she could
not do better this beautiful evening than take it in her
own person. She was very active in her district at
all times, and had proved herself an admirable clergy-
woman; but perhaps it would not have occurred to her
to go out upon a charitable errand that particular
evening had it not been for the presence of Mr. Leeson
down-stairs.
It was such a very lovely night, that Mrs. Morgan
was tempted to go farther than she intended. She
called on two or three of her favourites in Grove
Street, and was almost as friendly with them as Lucy
Wodehouse was with the people in Prickett's Lane;
but being neither pretty and young, like Lucy, nor yet
a mother Avith a nursery, qualified to talk about the
THE PERPETUAL CtTRATfi. 13
measles, her reception was not quite as enthusiastic as
it might have been. Somehow it would appear as
though our poor neighbours loved most the ministrations
of youth, which is superior to all ranks in the matter
of possibility and expectation, and inferior to all ranks
in the matter of experience; and so holds a kind of
balance and poise of nature between the small and the
great. Mrs. Morgan was vaguely sensible of her dis-
advantages in this respect as well as in others. She
never could help imagining what she might have been
had she married ten years before at the natural period,
"And even then not a girl," she said to herself in her
sensible way, as she carried this habitual thread of
thought with her along the street, past the little front
gardens, where there were so many mothers with their
children. On the other side of the way the genteel
houses frowned darkly with their staircase windows
upon the humility of Grove Street; and Mrs. Morgan
began to think within herself of the Miss Hemmings
and other spinsters, and how they got along upon this
path of life, which, after all, is never very lightsome to
behold, except in the future or the past. It was dead
present with the Rector's wife just then, and many
speculations were in her mind, as was natural. "Not
that I could not have lived unmarried," she continued
within herself, with a woman's pride; "but things
looked so different at five-and-twenty ! " and in her
heart she grudged the cares she had lost, and sighed
over this wasting of her years.
It was just then that the youngest Miss Hemmings
saw Mrs. Morgan, and crossed over to speak to her.
Miss Hemmings had left five-and-thirty behind a long
time ago, and thought the Rector's wife a happy woman
14 THi: riCKl'KTLAL CURATE.
in the bloom of youth. Wlicii she liad discovered con-
clusively that Mrs. ]\[organ would not go in to have a
cup of tea, Miss Hennning's volunteered to walk with
her to the corner; and it is not necessary to say that
she immediately plunged into the topic which at that
moment engaged all minds in Carlingford. "If I had
not seen it with my oAvn eyes, I should not have be-
lieved it," said Miss Ilemmings. "I should have thought
it a got-up story, not that I ever could have thought
it impossible, as you say — for, alas! I know well that
without grace every wickedness is more than possible
— but I saAv them with my own eyes, my dear Mrs.
Morgan; she standing outside, the bold little thing, and
he at the door — as if it was right for a clergyman to
open the door like a man-servant — and from that
moment to this she has not been seen by any living
creature in Carlingford: who can tell what may have
been done with her?" cried the horrified eyewitness.
"She has never been seen from that hour!"
"But that was only twenty- four hours ago," said
Mrs. Morgan; "she may have gone ofiF to visit some of
her friends."
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Morgan, twenty- four hours is
a long time for a girl to disappear out of her own
home," said Miss Hemmings; "and all her friends
have been sent to, and no word can be heard of her.
I am afraid it will go very hard with Mr. Wentworth;
and I am sure it looks like a judgment upon him for
all his candlesticks and flowers and things," she con-
tinued, out of breath Avith the impetuosity of her
tale.
"Do you think, then, that God makes people sin
in order to punish them?" said Mrs. Morgan, with
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 15
some tire, which shocked Miss Hernmings, who did
not quite know how to reply.
"I do so wish you would come in for a fcAv
minutes and taste our tea; my sister Sophia was just
making it when I came out. We get it from our
brother in Assam, and we think a great deal of it,"
said Miss Hemmings; "it can't jjossibly be adulterated,
you knoM^, for it comes direct from his plantation. If
you can't come in just now, I will send you some to
the Kectory, and you shall tell us how you like it.
We are quite proud of our tea. My brother has a
large plantation, and he hopes "
"Thank you," said Mrs. Morgan, "but the Rector
will be waiting for me, and I must go. It must be
very nice to have yoiu* tea direct from the plantation;
and I hope you will change your mind about Mr.
Wentworth," she continued, without much regard for
punctuation, as she shook hands at the corner. Mrs.
Morgan went down the narrow street which led to
Grange Lane, after this interview, with some commo-
tion in her mind. Slie took Mr. Wentworth's part in-
stinctively, without asking any proofs of his innocence.
The sun was just setting, and St. Roque's stood out
dark and picturesque against all the glory of the
western sky as the Rector's wife went past. She could
not lielp thinking of him, in his youth and the opening
of his career, with a kind of wistful interest. If he
had married Lucy AVodehouse, and confined himself to
his own district (but then he had no district), Mrs.
Morgan would have contemplated the two, not, indeed,
without a certain half-resentful self-reference and con-
trast, but with natural sympathy. And now, to think
of this dark and ugly blot on his fair beginning diy-
16 THE PERPETUAL CURATE,
turbed her much. When Mrs. Morg-an recollected that
she had left her husband and his Curate consulting
over this matter, she grew very hot and angry, and
felt humiliated by the thought. Was it her William,
her hero, whom she had magnified for all these ten
years, though not without occasional twinges of
enlightenment, into something great, who was thus
sitting upon his young brother with so little human
feeling and so much middle-aged jealousy? It hurt her
to think of it, though not for Mr. Wentworth's sake.
Poor Mrs. Morgan, though not at all a sentimental
person, had hoarded up her ideal so much after the
ordinary date, that it came all the harder upon her
when everything thus merged into the light of com-
mon day. She walked very fast up Grange Lane,
which was another ha])it of her maidenhood not quite
in accord with the habit of sauntering acquired during
the same period by the Fellow of All-Souls. When
Mrs. Morgan was opposite Mr. Wodehouse's, she looked
across with some interest, thinking of Lucy; and it
shocked her greatly to see the closed shutters, which
told of the presence of death. Then, a little farther
up, she could see Elsworthy in front of his shop,
which was already closed, talking vehemently to a
little group round the door. The Rector's wife crossed
the street, to avoid coming in contact with this ex-
cited party; and, as she went swiftly along under the
garden- walls , came direct, without j)erceiving it, upon
Mr. Wentworth, who was going the opposite way
They were both absorbed in their own thoughts, the
Perpetual Curate only perceiving Mrs. Morgan in time
to take off his hat to her as he passed; and, to tell the
truth, having no desire for any further intercourse.
THE PERPETUAL CURATl::. 17
Mrs. Morgan, however, was of a different mind. Slie
stopped instantly, as soon as she perceived him. "Mr.
Wentworth, it is getting late — will you walk with me
as far as the Rectory?" she said, to the Curate's great
astonishment. He could not help looking at her with
curiosity as he turned to accompany her. Mrs. Morgan
was still wearing her wedding things, which were not
now in their first freshness — not to say that the red-
ness, of which she was so painfully sensible, Avas rather
out of accordance with the orange blossoms. Then
she was rather flurried and disturbed in her mind; and,
on the whole, Mr. Wentworth ungratefully concluded
the Rector's wife to be looking her j^l^inest, as he
turned with very languid interest to see her safely
home.
"A great many things seem to be happening just
now," said Mrs. Morgan, with a good deal of embar-
rassment; "I suppose the people in Carlingford are
grateful to anybody who gives them something to talk
about."
"I don't know about the gratitude," said the
Perpetual Curate; "it is a sentiment I don't believe
in."
"You ought to believe in everything as long as
you are young," said Mrs. Morgan. "I want very
much to speak to you, Mr. Wentworth; but then I
don't know how you will receive what I am going to
say."
"I can't tell until I know what it is," said the
Curate, shutting himself up. He had an expressive
face generally, and Mrs. Morgan saw the shutters put
up, and the jealous blinds drawn over the young man's
countenance as clearly as if they had been tangible
The Ferpehtal Cwctie. 11, 2
18 TIIK PERPETUAL CURATE.
carticles. lie did not look at her, but kept swinging
his cane in bis hand, and regarding the pavement
with downcast eyes; and if the Rector's wife bad
formed any expectations of finding in the Perpetual
Curate an ingenuous young heart, open to sympathy
and criticism, she now discovered her mistake.
"If 1 run tlie risk, perhaps you will forgive me,"
said Mrs. Morgan. "I have just been hearing a dread-
ful story about you; and 1 don't believe it in the least,
Mr. Wentworth," she continued, with a little effusion;
for thougli she was very sensible, she was only a
woman, and did not realise the possibility of having
her sympathy rejected, and her favourable judgment
received with indifference.
"I am much flattered by your good opinion. What
was the dreadful story?" asked Mr. Wentworth, look-
ing at her with careless eyes. They were just oppo-
site Elsworthy's shop, and could almost hear what he
was saying, as he stood in the midst of his little group
of listeners, talking loud and vehemently. The Per-
petual Curate looked calmly at him across the road,
and turned again to Mrs. Morgan, repeating his ques-
tion, "What was the dreadful story? — one gets used
to romances," he said, with a comj)osure too elaborate
to be real; but Mrs. Morgan did not think of that.
"If you don't care about it, I need not say any-
thing," said the Eector's wife, who could not help feel-
ing affronted. "But I am so sorry that Jlr. Morgan
and you don't get on," she continued, after a little
pause. "I have no right to speak; but I take an
interest in everything that belongs to the parish. If
you would put a little confidence in my husband,
things might go on better; but, in the mean time, I
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 19
tliouglit I might say to you, on my owu account, that
I had heard this scandal, and that I don't believe in
it. If you do not understand my motive I can't help
it," said the Rector's wife, who was now eqixally ready
for friendship or for battle.
"Thanks; I understand what yoii mean," said Mr.
Wentworth, who had come to himself. "But will you
tell me what it is you don't believe in?" he asked,
with a smile which Mrs. Morgan did not quite com-
prehend.
"I will tell you," she said, with a little quiet ex-
asperation. "I don't think you would risk your pros-
])ects, and get yourself into trouble, and damage your
entire life, for the sake of any girl, however jjretty
she might be. Men don't do such things for women
nowadays, even when it is a worthy object," said the
disappointed optimist. "And I believe yoii are a great
(leal more sensible, Mr. Wentworth." There was just
that tone of mingled approval and contempt in this
speech which a woman knows how to deliver herself
of without any appearance of feeling; and which no
young man, however hlase^ can hear with composure.
"Perhaps not," he said, with a little heat and a
rising colour. "I am glad you think me so sensible."
And then there ensued a pause, upon the issue of
which depended the question of jieace or war between
these two. Mr. Wentworth's good angel, perhaps,
dropped softly through the dusky air at that moment,
and jogged his perverse charge with the tip of a
celestial wing. "And yet there might be women in
the world for whom " said the Curate; and stopped
again. "I daresay you are not anxious to know my
sentiments on the subject," he continued, with a little
2^'
20 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
laugh. "I am sorry you think so badly — I mean so
well of me."
"I don't think badly of yon," said Mrs. Morgan,
hastily. "Thank you for walking with me 5 and what-
ever happens, remember that I for one don't believe a
word of it," she said, holding out her hand. After this
little declaration of friendship, the Rector's wife returned
to the Rectory, where her husband was waiting for her,
more than ever prepared to stand up for Mr. Went-
worth. She went back to the drawing-room, forgetting all
about the carpet, and poured out the tea with satisfac-
tion, and made herself very agreeable to Mr. Finial,
the architect, who had come to talk over the restora-
tions. In that moment of stimulation she forgot all
her experience of her husband's puzzled looks, of the
half-comprehension with which he looked at her, and
the depths of stubborn determination which were far
beyond the reach of her hastier and more generous
spirit, and so went on with more satisfaction and gaiety
than she had felt possible for a long time, beating her
drums and blowing her trumpets, to the encounter in
which her female forces were so confident of victory.
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Wentworth went upon his way, after he had
parted from Mrs. Morgan, with a moment's gratitude;
but he had not gone half-a-dozen steps before that
amiable sentiment yielded to a sense of soreness and
vexation. He had almost acknowledged that he was
conscious of the slander against which he had made up
his mind to present a blank front of unconsciousness
THE PERPETITAL CURATE. 21
and passive resistance, and lie was angry witli himself
for his susceptibility to this unexpected voice of kind-
ness. He was going home, but he did not care for
going home. Poor Mrs. Hadwin's anxious looks of
suspicion had added to the distaste with which he
thought of encountering again the sullen shabby rascal
to whom he had given shelter. It was Saturday night,
and he had still his sermon to prepare for the next
day; but the young man was in a state of disgust with
all the circumstances of his lot, and could not make up
his mind to go in and address himself to his work as
he ought to have done. Such a sense of injustice and
cruelty as possessed him was not likely to promote
composition , especially as the pulpit addresses of the
Curate of St. lioque's were not of a declamatory kind.
To think that so many years' work could be neutralised
in a day by a sudden breatli of scandal, made him not
humble or patient, but fierce and resentful. He had
been in Wharfside that afternoon, and felt convinced
that even the dying woman at No. 10 Prickett's Laije
had heard of Rosa Elsworthy, and he saw, or imagined
he saw, many a distrustful inquiring glance thrown at
him by people to whom he had been a kind of
secondary Providence. Naturally the mere thought of
the failing allegiance of the "district" went to Mr.
Wentworth's heart. When he turned round suddenly
from listening to a long account of one poor family's
distresses, and saw Tom Burrows, the gigantic barge-
man, whose six children the Curate had baptised in a
lump, and whose baby had been held at the font by
Lucy Wodehouse herself, looking at him wistfully with
rude affection, and something that looked very much
like pity, it is impossible to describe the bitterness that
22 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
welled up in the mind of the Perpetual Curate. In-
stead of leaving Wharfside comforted as he usually
did, he came away wounded and angry, feeling to its
full extent the fickleness of popular sympathy. And
when he came into Grange Lane and saw the shutters
closed, and Mr. Wodehouse's green door shut fast, as
if never more to open, all sources of consolation seemed
to be shut against him. Even the habit he had of
going into Elsworthy's to get his newspaper, and to
hear what talk might be current in Carlingford, con-
tributed to the sense of utter discomfort and wretched-
ness which overwhelmed him. Men in other positions
have generally to consult the opinion of their equals
only, but all sorts of small people can plant thorns in
the path of a priest who has given himself with fervour
to the duties of his office. True enough, such clouds
blow by, and sometimes leave behind a sky clearer
than before; but that result is doubtful, and Mr. Went-
worth was not of the temper to comfort himself with
philosophy. He felt ingratitude keenly, as men do at
eight-and-twenty , even when they have made up their
minds that gratitude is a delusion; and still more
keenly, with deep resentment and indignation, he felt
the horrible doubt which had diffused itself around him,
and seemed to be looking at him out of everybody's
eyes. In such a state of mind one bethinks one's self
of one's relations — those friends not always congenial,
but whom one looks to instinctively, when one is young,
in the crises of life. He knocked at his aunts' door
almost without knowing it, as he went down Grange
Lane, after leaving Mrs. Morgan, with vague sentences
of his sermon floating in his mind through all the im-
broglio of other thoughts. Even aunt Dora's foolish
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 23
affection might have heen a little comfort at the mo-
ment, and he could not but be a little curious to know
whether they had heard Elsworthy's story, and what
the patronesses of Skelmersdale thought of the matter.
Somehow, just then, in the midst of his distresses, a
vision of Skelmersdale burst upon the Perpetual Curate
like a glimpse of a better world. If he could but
escape there out of all this sickening misconception
and ingratitude — if he could but take Lucy into his
protecting arms, and carry her away far from the
clouds that were gathering over her path as well as
his own. The thought found vent in an impatient long-
drawn sigh, and was then expelled contemptuously
from the young man's bosom. If a hundred Skelmers-
dales were in his power, here, where his honour had
been attacked, it was necessary to remain, in the face
of all obstacles , till it was cleared.
The Miss Wentworths had just come up to the
drawing-room after dinner when their nephew entered.
As for Miss Dora, she had seated herself by the window,
which was ojien, and, with her light little curls flut-
tering upon her cheek, was watching a tiny puff of
smoke by the side of the great laurel, which indicated
the spot occupied at this moment by Jack and his cigar.
"Dear fellow, he does enjoy the quiet," she said, with
a suppressed little sniff of emotion. "To think we
should be in such misery about j)oor dear Frank, and
have Jack, about whom we have all been so unbeliev-
ing, sent to us for a consolation. My poor brother will
be so happy," said Miss Dora, almost crying at the
thought. She was under the influence of this sentiment
when the Curate entered. It was perhaps impossible
for Mr. Wentworth to present himself before 'his three
24 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
aunts at the present crisis without a certain conscious-
ness in his looks; and it was well that it was twilight,
and he could not read distinctly all that was written in
their countenances. Miss Cecilia held out her lovely
old hand to him first of all. She said, "How do you
do, Frank?" which was not very original, but yet
counted for a good deal in the silence. When he came
up to her, she offered him her sweet old cheek with a
look of pity which touched, and yet affronted, the Per-
petual Curate. He thought it was the wisest way to
accept the challenge at once.
"It is very good of you, but you need not be sorry
for me," he said, as he sat down by her. And then
there was a little pause — an awful pause; for Miss
Wentworth had no further observations to offer, and
Miss Dora, who had risen up hastily, dropped into her
chair again in a disconsolate condition, when she saw
that her nephew did not take any notice of her. The
poor little woman sat down with miserable sensations,
and did not find the comfort she hoped for in con-
templation of the smoke of Jack's cigar. After all, it
was Frank who was the original owner of Miss Dora's
affections. When she saw him, as she thought, in a
state of guilt and trouble, received with grim silence
by the dreaded Leonora, the poor lady began to waver
greatly, divided between a longing to return to her old
allegiance, and a certain pride in the new bonds which
bound her to so great a sinner as Jack. She could not
help feeling the distinction of having such a reprobate
in her hands. But the sight of Frank brought back
old habits, and Miss Dora felt at her wits' end, and
could not tell what to do.
At length Miss Leonora's voice, which was decided
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 25
contralto, broke the silence. "I am veiy glad to see
you, Frank," said the strong-minded aunt. "From
something we heard, I supposed you had gone away
for a time, and we were rather anxious about your
movements. There are so many things going on in
the family just noAv, that one does not know what to
think. I am glad to see you are still in Carlingford."
"I never had the least intention of going away,"
said Mr. Wentworth. "I can't imagine who could tell
you so."
"Nobody told us," said Miss Leonora; "we drew
that conclusion from other things we heard. Dora, give
Frank the newspaper with that paragraph about Gerald.
I have prophesied from the first wliich way Gerald was
tending. It is very shocking of him, and I don't know
what they are to do, for Louisa is an expensive little
fool; and if he leaves the Rectory, they can't have
enough to live on. If you knew what your brother
was going to do, why didn't you advise him otherwise?
Besides, he will be wretched," said the discriminating
woman. "I never approved of his ways, but I could
not say anything against his sincerity. I believe his
heart was in his work; a man may be very zealous,
and yet very erroneous," said Miss Leonora, like an
oracle, out of the shadows.
"I don't know if he is erroneovTS or not — but I
know I should like to punch this man's head," said the
Curate, who had taken the paper to the window, where
there was just light enough to make out the paragraph.
He stood looming over Miss Dora, a great black
shadow against the fading light. "All the mischief in
the world comes of these villauous papers," said Mr.
Wentworth. "Though I did not think anybody nowa-
26 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
(lays believed in tlie 'Chronicle.' Gerald has not gone
over to Rome, and I don't think he means to go. I
daresay you have agitated yourself unnecessarily about
more than one supposed event in the family," he con-
tinued, throwing the paper on the table. "I don't
know anything very alarming, that has happened as
yet, except perhaps the prodigal's return," said the
Perpetual Curate, with a slight touch of bitternes.s. His
eye had just lighted on Jack sauntering through the
garden with his cigar; and Mr. Wentworth was human,
and could not entirely refrain from the expression of
his sentiments.
"But, oh, Frank, my dear, you are not angry about
2)oor Jack?" said Miss Dora. "He has not known
what it was to be at home for years and years. A
stepmother is so different from an own mother, and he
never has had any ojiportunities; and, oh, Frank, don't
yoix remember that there is joy in heaven?" cried the
anxious aunt — "not to say that he is the eldest son.
And it is such a thing for the family to see him
changing his ways in such a beautiful spirit!" said
Miss Dora. The room was almost dark by this time,
and she did not see that her penitent had entered
while she spoke.
"It is very consoling to gain your approval, aunt
Dora," said Jack. "My brother Frank doesn't know
me. If the Squire icill make a nursery of his house,
what can a man do? But a fellow can't be quite ruined
as long as he has " aunts, the reprobate was about
to say, with an inflection of laughter intended for
Frank's ear only in his voice; but he fortunately re-
membered in time that Miss Leonora had an acute in-
telligence, and was not to be trifled with — "As long as
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 27
lie has female relations," said Jack, in his most feeling
tone. "Men never sympathise with men." He seemed
to be apologising for Frank's indifference, as well as
for his own sins. He had just had a very good dinner
— for the Miss Wentworths' cook was the best in Car-
lingford — and Jack, whose digestion was perfect, was
disposed to please everybody, and had, in particular,
no disposition to quarrel with Frank.
"Oh, my dear, you see how humble and forgiving
he is," said Miss Dora, rising on tiptoe to whisper into
the Curate's ear; "and always takes your part when-
ever you are mentioned," said the injudicious aunt.
Meantime the other sisters were very silent, sitting
each in the midst of her own group of shadows. Then
Miss Leonora rose with a sudden rustling of all her
draperies, and with her own energetic hand rang the
bell.
"Now the lamp is coming," said Jack, in a tone of
despair, "a bright, blank, pitiless globe like the world;
and instead of this delicious darkness, where one can
see nothing distinctly, my heart will be torn asunder
for the rest of the evening by the sight of suicide.
Why do we ever have lights?" said the exquisite, lay-
ing himself down softly on a sofa. When the lamp
was brought in. Jack became visible stretched out in
an attitude of perfect repose and tranquillity, with a
quiet conscience written in every fold of his scrupulous
appareh As for Frank, on the contrary, he was still
in morning-dress, and was biting his nails, and had a
cloud upon his brow which the sudden light disclosed
like a traitor before he was prepared for it. Between
the two brothers such a contrast was visible that it was
not surprising if Miss Dora, still wavering in her alle-
28 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
glance, ^\■ent back with relief to tlie calm countenance
of lier penitent, and owned to herself with trembling
that the Curate looked preoccupied and guilty. Perhaps
Miss Leonora came to a similar conclusion. She seated
herself at her writing-table with her usual air of busi-
ness, and made a pen to a hard point by the light of
the candles, which were sacred to her particular use.
"I heard some news this morning which pleased
me very much," said Miss Leonora. "I daresay you
remember Julia Trench? You two used to be a great
deal together at one time. She is going to be married
to Mr. Shirley's excellent curate, who is a yoving man
of the highest character. He did very well at the uni-
versity, I believe," said the patroness of Skelmersdale ;
"but I confess I don't care much for academical hon-
ours. He is an excellent clergyman, which is a great
deal more to the purpose, and I thoroughly agree with
his views. So, knowing the interest we take in Julia,
you may think how pleased we were," said Miss Leo-
nora, looking full into her nephew's face. He knew
what she meant as distinctly as if she had put it in
words.
"When is old Shirley going to die?" said Jack
from the sofa. "It's rather hard upon Frank, keeping
him out of the living so long; and if I were you, I'd
be jealous of this model curate," said the fine gen-
tleman, with a slight civil yawn. "I don't approve of
model curates upon family livings. People are apt to
make comparisons," said Jack, and then he raised his
head with a little energy — "Ah, there it is," said the
Sybarite, "the first moth. Don't be precipitate, my
dear fellow. Aunt Dora, pray sit quietly where you
are, and don't disturb our operations. It is only a
THE PERPETUAL CUBATE. 29
moth, to be sure; but don't let us cut short the moments
of a creature that has no hereafter," said Jack, solemnly.
He disturbed them all by this eccentric manifestation
of benevolence, and flapped his handkerchief round
Miss Dora, upon whose white cap the unlucky moth,
frightened by its benefactor's vehemence, was fluttering
wildly. Jack even forgot himself so far as to swear
softly in French at the frightened insect as it flew
wildly off at a tangent, not to the open window, but
to Miss Leonora's candles, where it came to an imme-
diate end. Miss Leonora sat rather grimly looking on
at all this byplay. When her elegant nephew threw
himself back once more upon his sofa, she glanced
from him to his brother with a comparison which per-
haps was not so much to the disadvantage of the Per-
petual Curate. But even Miss Leonora, though so sen-
sible, had her weaknesses; and she was very evan-
gelical, and could put up with a great deal from the
sinner who had placed himself for conversion in her
hands.
"We have too great a sense of our responsibility
to treat Skelmersdale simply as a family living," she
said. "Besides, Frank of course is to have Wentworth
Rectory. Gerald's perversion is a great blow, but still,
if it is to be, Frank will be provided for at least. As
for our parish—- — ^"
"I beg your pardon," said the Curate; "I have
not the least intention of leaving Carlingford. At the
present moment neither Skelmersdale nor Wentworth
would tempt me. I am in no doubt as to where my
work lies, and there is enough of it to satisfy any
man." He could not help thinking, as he spoke, of
ungrateful Wharfside, for which he had done so much.
•
30 THE rERPETUAL CITRATE.
and the recollection brouglit a little flush of indignant
colour to his cheek.
"Oh, Frank, my dear," said Miss Dora in a whis-
per, stealing up to him, "if it is not true, you must
not mind. Oh, my dear boy, nobody will mind it if
it is not true." She put her hand timidly upon his
arm as she reached i;p to his ear, and at the same time
the poor little Avomau, who was trying all she could to
serve two masters, kept one eye upon Jack, lest her
momentary return to his brother might have a disastrous
effect upon the moral reformation which she was nurs-
ing with so much care. As for the Curate, he gave
her a hasty glance, which very nearly made an end of
Miss Dora. She retired to her seat with no more
courage to say anything, unable to make out whether
it was virtuous reproach or angry guilt which looked
at her so sternly. She felt her headache coming on as
she sank again ujjon her chair. If she could but have
stolen away to her own room, and had a good comfort-
ing cry in the dark, it might have kejit off the head-
ache; but then she had to be faithful to her post, and
to look after the reformation of Jack.
"I have no doubt that a great work might be done
in Carlingford," said Miss Leonora, "if you would take
my advice and organise matters properly, and make
due provision for the lay element. As for Sisters of
Mercy, I never had any belief in them. They only
get young clergymen into mischief," said the strong-
minded aunt. "We are going to have tea, Frank, if
you will have some. Poor Mr. Shirley has got matters
into very bad order at Skelmersdale, but things will
be different i;uder the new incumbent, I hope," said
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 31
Miss Leonora, sliooting a side-glance of keen inspection
at tlie Curate, who bore it steadily.
"I hope he will conduct himself to your satis-
faction," said Mr. Wentworth, with a bland but some-
what grim aspect, from the window; "but I can't wait
for tea. I have still got some of my work to do for
to-morrow; so good-night."
"I'll walk with you, Frank," said his elder brother.
"My dear aunts, don't look alarmed; nothing can hap-
pen to me. There are few temptations in Grange Lane;
and, besides, I shall come back directly. / cannot do
without my tea," said Jack, by way of consoling poor
]\Iiss Dora, who had started with consternation at the
proposal. And the two brothers went out into the fresh
evening air together j their aunt Dora watching them
from the window with inexpressible anxiety; for per-
haps it was not quite right for a clergyman to saunter
out of doors in the evening with such a doubtful mem-
ber of society as Jack; and perhaps Frank, having
himself fallen into evil ways, might hinder or throw
obstacles in the way of his brother's re-establishment
in the practice of all the virtues. Miss Dora, who had
to carry them both upon her shoulders, and who got
no sympathy in the present case from her hard-hearted
sisters, was fain at last to throw a shawl over her head
and steal out to that summer-house which was built
iuto the garden-wall, and commanded Grange Lane
from its little window. There she established herself
in the darkness, an afPectionate spy. There ought to
have been a moon that night, and accordingly the
lamps were not lighted at that end of Grange Lane,
for the authorities in Carlingford bore a frugal mind.
But the sky had become cloudy, and the moon shone
32 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
only by intervals, wliicli gave a certain character of
mystery and secrecy to the niglit. Througli this un-
certain light the anxious woman saw her two nephews
coming and going under the window, apparently in the
most eager conversation. Miss Dora's anxiety grew to
such a height that she opened softly a chink of the
window in hopes of being able to hear as well as to
see, but that attempt was altogether unsuccessful. Then,
when they had Avalked about for half an hour, which
looked like two hours to Miss Dora, who Avas rapidly
taking one of her bad colds at the half-open window,
they were joined by another figure which she did not
think she had ever seen before. The excitement was
growing tremendous, and the aspect of the three con-
spirators more and more alarming, when the poor lady
started with a little scream at a noise behind her, and,
turning round, saw her maid, severe as a pursuing
Fate, standing at the door. "After giving me your
word as you wouldn't come no more?" said the re-
proachful despot who swayed Miss Dora's soul. After
that she had to make the best of her way indoors,
thankful not to be carried to her room and put into
hot water, which was the original intention of Collins.
But it would be impossible to describe the emotions of
Miss Dora's mind after this glimpse into the -heart of
the volcano on which her innocent feet were standing.
Unless it were murder or high treason, what could they
have to plot about? or was the mysterious stranger a
disguised Jesuit, and the whole business some terrible
Papist conspiracy? Jack, who had been so much abroad,
and Gerald, who was going over to Rome, and Frank,
who was in trouble of every description, got entangled
together in Miss Dora's disturbed imagination. No
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 33
reality could be so fi-iglitftil as the fancies with which
she distracted herself after that peep from the summer-
house; and it would be impossible to describe the in-
dignation of Collins, who knew that her mistress would
kill herself some day, and was aware that she, in her
own person, would get little rest that night.
CHAPTER III.
"I don't know what is the exact connection be-
tween tea and reformation," said Jack Wentworth,
with a wonderful yawn. "When I consider that this
is all on account of that stupid beast Wodehouse, I
feel disposed to eat him. By the way, they have got
a capital cook; I did not think such a cuisine was the
sort of thing to be found in the bosom of one's family,
which has meant boiled mutton up to this moment, to
my uninstructed imagination. But the old ladies are
in a state of excitement which, I presume, is unusual
to them. It appears you have been getting into
scrapes like other people, though you are a parson. As
your elder brother, my dear Frank "
"Look here," said the Perpetual Curate; "you want
to ask about Wodehouse. I will answer your ques-
tions, since you seem to have some interest in him-,^
but I don't speak of my private affairs to any but my
intimate friends," said Mr. Wentworth, who was not in
a humour to be trifled with.
The elder brother shrugged his shoulders. "It is
cm-ious to remark the progress of the younger m.embers
of one's family," he said, reflectively. "When you were
The PerpeltuU Curate, II. ^
34 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
a little boy, you took your drubbings dutifully; but
never mind, we've another subject in hand. I take an
interest in Wodehouse, and so do you — I can't tell for
what reason. Perhaps he is one of the intimate friends
with whom you discuss your private affairs? but that
is a matter quite apart from the subject. The thing is
that he has to be taken care of — not for his own sake,
as I don't need to explain to you," said Jack. "I
hear the old fellow died to-day, which was the best
thing he could have done, upon the whole. Perhaps
you can tell me how much he had, and how he has
left it? We may have to take different sides, and the
fellow himself is a snob; but I should like to under-
stand exactly the state of affairs between you and me
as gentlemen," said the heir of the Wentworths. Either
a passing spasm of compunction passed over him as he
said the word, or it was the moon, which had just
flung aside the last fold of cloud and burst out upon
them as they turned back facing her. "When we know
how the affair stands, we can either negotiate or fight,"
he added, puffing a volume of smoke from his cigar.
"Eeally a very fine effect — that little church of yours
comes well against that bit of sky. It looks like a
Constable, or rather it would look like a Constable,
thrusting up that bit of a spire into the blue, if it hap-
pened to be daylight," said Jack, making a tube of
his hand, and regarding the picture with great in-
terest. Miss Dora at her window beheld the move-
ment with secret horror and ajDprehension , and took it
for some mysterious sign.
"I know nothing about Mr. Wodehouse's property,"
said the Curate: "I wish I knew enough law to under-
stand it. He has left no will, I believe;" and Mr.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 35
Weutworth watched his brother's face with no small
interest as he spoke.
"Very like a Constable," said Jack, still with his
hands to his eyes. "These clouds to the right are not
a bad imitation of some effects of his. I beg your
pardon, but Constable is my passion. And so old
Wodehouse has left no will? What 'has he left? some
daughters? Excuse my curiosity," said the elder
brother. "I am a man of the world, yovi know. If
you like this other girl well enough to compromise
yourself on her account (which, mind you, I think a
great mistake), you can't mean to go in at the same
time for that pretty sister, eh? It's a sort of sport I
don't attempt myself — though it may be the correct
thing for a clergyman, for anything I can tell to the
contrary," said the tolerant critic.
Mr. Wentworth had swallowed down the interrup-
tions that rushed to his lips, and heard his brother
out with unusual patience. After all, perhaps Jack
was the only man in the world whom he could ask to
advise him in such an emergency. "I take it for
granted that you don't mean to insult either me or my
profession," he said, gravely; "and, to tell the truth,
here is one point upon which I should be glad of your
help. I am convinced that it is Wodehouse who has
carried away this unfortunate girl. She is a little fool,
and he has imposed upon her. If you can get him to
confess this, and to restore her to her friends, you will
lay me under the deepest obligation," said the Per-
petual Curate, with unusual energy. "I don't mind
telling you that such a slander disables me, and goes
to my heart." When he had once begun to speak on
the subject, he could not help expressing himself fully;
36 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
and Jack, who had grown out of acquaintance with
the nobler sentiments, woke up with a slight start
through all his moral being to recognise the thrill of
subdued passion and scorn and grief which was in his
brother's voice. Innocent Miss Dora, who knew no
evil, had scarcely a doubt in her mind that Frank was
guilty; but Jack, who scarcely knew what goodness
was, acquitted his brother instantaneously, and required
no other proof. Perhaps if he had been capable of
any impression beyond an intellectual one, this little
incident might, in Miss Dora's own language, have
"done him good."
"So you have nothing to do with it?" he said,
with a smile. "Wodehouse! but then the fellow hasn't
a penny. I see some one skulking along under the
walls that looks like him. Hist! Smith — Tom — what
do they call you? We want you here," said Jack,
upon whom the moon was shining full. Where he
stood in his evening coat and spotless breadth of linen,
the heir of the Wentworths was ready to meet the eye
of all the world. His shabby subordinate stopped
short, with a kind of sullen admiration, to look at him.
Wodehouse knew the nature of Jack Wentworth's
pursuits a great deal better than his brother did, and
that some of them would not bear much investigation;
but when he saw him stand triumphant in gorgeous
apparel, fearing no man, the poor rascal, whom every-
body kicked at, rose superior to his own misfortunes.
He had not made much of it in his own person, but
that life was not altogether a failure which had pro-
duced Jack Wentworth. He obeyed his superior's call
with instinctive fidelity, proud, in spite of himself, to
]3e living the same life and sliaring the same perils.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 37
Wlien he emerged into the moonlight, his shaggy coun-
tenance looked excited and haggard. Notwithstanding
all his experiences, he was not of a constitution wliich
could deny nature. He had inflicted every kind of
torture upon his father while living, and had no re-
morse to speak of now that he was dead; but, notwith-
standing, the fact of the death affected him. His eyes
looked wilder than usual, and his face older and more
worn, and he looked round him with a kind of clan-
destine skulking instinct as he came out of the shadow
into the light.
This was the terrible conjunction which Miss Dora
saw from her window. The anxious woman did not
wait long enough to be aware that the Curate left the
other two to such consultations as were inevitable be-
tween them, and went away very hastily to his own
house, and to the work which still awaited him —
"Wlien the wicked man turneth away from the evil of
his ways, and doeth that which is lawful and right."
Mr. Wentworth, when he came back to it, sat for
about an hour over his text before he wrote a single
syllable. His heart had been wrung that day by the
sharpest pangs which can be inflicted upon a proud
and generous spirit. He was disposed to be bitter
against all the world — against the dull eyes that would
not see, the dull ears that could shut themselves against
all suggestions either of gratitude or justice. It ap-
peared to him, on the whole, that the wicked man was
every way the best off in this world, besides being
wooed and besought to accept the blessings of the
other. And the Curate was conscious of an irrepres-
sible inclination to exterminate the human vermin who
made the earth such an imbroglio of distress and
38 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
misery; and was sore and wounded in his lieart to feel
how his own toils and honest purposes availed him no-
thing, and how all the interest and sympathy of by-
standers went to the pretender. These sentiments
naturally complicated his thoughts, and made composi-
tion difficult; not to say that they added a thrill of
human feeling warmer than usual to the short and suc-
cinct sermon. It was not an emotional sermon, in the
ordinary sense of the word; but it was so for Mr.
Wentworth, who carried to an extreme j^oint the
Anglican dislike for pulpit exaggeration in all forms.
The Perjoetual Curate was not a natural orator. He
had very little of the eloquence which gave Mr. Vin-
cent so much success in the Dissenting connection dur-
ing his short stay in Carlingford, which was a kind of
popularity not much to the taste of the Churchman.
But Mr. Wentworth had a certain faculty of concen-
trating his thoughts into the tersest expression, and of
uttering in a very few words, as if they did not mean
anything particular, ideas which were always individual,
and often of distinct originality — a kind of iitterance
which is very dear to the English mind. As was
natural, there were but a limited amount of people
able to find him out; but those who did so Avere rather
fond of talking about the "restrained power" of the
Curate of St. Roque's.
Next morning was a glorious summer Sunday —
one of those days of peace on which this tired old
eartli takes back her look of innocence, and deludes
herself with tlioughts of Eden. To be sure, there were
tumults enough going on over her surface — vulgar
merry-makings and noises, French drums beating, all
kinds of discordant soimds going on here and there,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 39
by land and sea, under that trau(][iiil impartial sun.
But the air was very still in Carlingford, where
you could hear the bees in the lime-blossoms as you
Avent to church in the sunshine. All that world of soft
air in which the embowered houses of Grange Lane
lay beatified, was breathing sweet of the limes; but
notwithstanding the radiance of the day, j)eople were
talking of other subjects as they came down under the
shadow of the garden-walls to St. Roque's. There was
a great stream of people — greater thaxi usual; for Car-
lingford was naturally anxious to see how Mr. Went-
worth would conduct himself in such an emergency.
On one side of the way Mr. Wodehouse's hospitable
house, shut up closely, and turning all its shuttered
windows to the light, which shone serenely indifferent
upon the blank frames, stood silent, dumbly contributing
its great moral to the human holiday; and on the
other, Elsworthy's closed shop, with the blinds drawn
over the cheerful windows above, where little Rosa once
amused herself watching the passengers, interposed a
still more dreadful discordance. The Carlingford jDeople
talked of both occurrences with composure as they
went to St. Roque's. They wei-e sorry, and shocked,
and very curious; but that wonderful moral atmosphere
of human indifference and self-regard which surrounds
every individual soul, kept their feelings quite within
bounds. Most people wondered much what Mr. Went-
worth would say; whether he would really venture to
face the Carlingford world; whether he would take
refuge in a funeral sermon for Mr. Wodehouse; or how
it was possible for him to conduct himself under such
circumstances. When the greater part of the con-
gregation was seated. Miss Leonora Wentworth, all by
40 THE PEIirETUAL CURATE.
herself, in her h'on-grey silk, which rustled like a
breeze .ilong the narrow passage, although she wore
110 crinoline, went up to a seat immediately in front,
close to Mr. Wentworth's choristers, who just then
came trooping in in their white surplices, looking like
angels of unequal height and equivocal reputation.
Miss Leonora jjlaced herself in the front row of a little
group of benches arranged at the side, just where the
Curate's wife would have been placed, had he possessed
such an appendage. She looked doAvn blandly upon
the many lines of faces turned towards her, accepting
their inspection with perfect composure. Though her
principles were Evangelical, Miss Leonora was still a
Wentworth, and a woman. She had not shown any
sympathy for her nephew on the previous night; but
she had made up her mind to stand by him, without
saying anything about her determination. This in-
cident made a great impression on the mind of Carling-
ford. Most likely it interfered with the jirivate devo-
tions, from which a few heads popped up abruptly as
she passed; but she was very devout and exemplary
in her own person, and set a good example, as became
the clergyman's aunt.
Excitement rose very high in St. Roque's when
Mr. Wentworth came into the reading-desk, and Els-
Avorthy, black as a cloud, became visible underneath.
The clerk had not ventured to absent himself, nor to
send a substitute in his place. Never, in the days
when he was most devoted to Mr. Wentworth, had
Elsworthy been more determined to accompany him
through every particular of the service. They had
stood together in the little vestry, going through all
the usual preliminaries, the Curate trying hard to talk
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 41
as if nothing had happened , the clerk going- through
ail his duties in total silence. Perhaps there never
was a church service in Carlingford which was fol-
lowed with such intense interest by all the eyes and
ears of the congregation. When the sermon came, it
took Mr. Wentworth's admirers by surprise, though
they covild not at the moment make out what it was
that puzzled them. Somehow the perverse manner in
which for once the Curate treated that wicked man
who is generally made so much of in sermons, made
his hearers slightly ashamed of themselves. As for
Miss Leonora, though she could not approve of his
sentiments, the thought occurred to her that Frank
was not nearly so like his mother's family as she had
supposed him to be. When the service Avas over, she
kept her place, steadily watching all the worshippers
out, who thronged out a great deal more hastily than
usual to compare notes, and ask each other what they
thought. "I can't fancy he looks guilty," an eager
voice lieVe and there kept saying over and over. But
on the whole, after they had got over the momentary
impression made by his presence and aspect, the opinion
of Carlingford remained unchanged 5 which was — that,
notwithstanding all the evidence of his previous life, it
was quite believable that Mr. Wentworth was a seducer
and a villain , and ought to be brought to condign
punishment; but that in the mean time it was very
interesting to Avatch the progress of this startling little
drama, and that he himself, instead of merely being
the Curate of St. Roque's, had become a most captivating
enigma, and had made church-going itself half as good
as a play.
As for Miss Leonora, she waited for her nephew,
42 THE PERPETUAL CURATE,
and, wlien he was ready, took liis arm and walked
with him up Grange Lane to her own door, where they
encountered Miss Wentworth and Miss Dora returning
from church, and overwhelmed them with astonishment.
But it was not about his own affairs that they talked.
Miss Leonora did not say a word to her nephew about
himself. She was talking of Gerald most of the time,
and inqxiiriug into all the particulars of the Squire's
late "attack." And she would very fain have found
out what Jack's motive was in coming to Carlingford;
but as for Rosa Elsworthy and her concerns, the strong-
minded woman ignored them completely. Mr. Went-
worth even went with her to lunch, on her urgent in-
vitation; and it was from his aunt's house that he took
his way to Wharfside, pausing at the green door to
ask after the Miss Wodehouses, who were, John said
with solemnity, as well as could be expected. They
were alone, and they did not feel equal to seeing any-
body — even Mr. Wentworth; and the Perpetual Curate,
who would have given all he had in the world for
permission to soothe Lucy in her sorrow, went away
sadly from the hospitable door, which was now for the
first time closed to him. He could not go to Wharf-
side, to the "district" through which they had so often
gone together, about which they had talked, when all
the little details disciTSsed were sweet with the love
which they did not name, without going deeper and
deeper into that sweet shadow of Lucy which was upon
his way wherever he went. He could not help missing
her voice when the little choir, which was so feeble
without her, sang the Magnificat, which, somehow, Mr.
Wentworth always associated with her image. He
read the same sermon to the Wharfside people which
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 43
he had preached in St. Roque's, and saw, with a little
surprise, that it drew tears from tlie eyes of his more
open-hearted hearers, who did not think of the proprie-
ties. He could see their hands stealing- up to their
faces, and a great deal of persistent winking on the
part of the stronger members of the congregation. At
the close of the service Tom Burrows came up to the
Curate with a downcast countenance. "Please, sir, if
I've done ye injustice in my own mind, as went sore
against the grain, and wouldn't have happened but for
the women, I axes your pardon," said the honest barge-
man, which was balm and consolation to Mr. Weut-
worth. There was much talk in Prickett's Lane on
the subject as he went to see the sick woman in No. 10.
"There ain't no doubt as he sets our duty before us
clear," said one family mother; "he don't leave the
men no excuse for theii* goings-on. He all but named
the Bargeman's Arms out plain, as it was the place all
the mischief came from." "If he'd have married Miss
Lucy, like other folks, at Easter," said one of the
brides whom Mr. Wentworth had blessed, "such wicked
stories couldn't never have been made up." "A story
may be made up, or it mayn't be made up," said a
more experienced matron; "but it can't be put out of
the world unbeknowst no more nor a babby. I don't
believe in stories getting up that ain't true. I don't
say as he don't do his duty; but things was different
in Mr. Bury's time, as was the real Rector; and, as I
was a-saying, a tale's like a babby — it may come when
it didn't ought to come, or when it ain't wanted, but
you can't do away with it, anyhow as you like to try."
Mr. Wentworth did not hear this dreary prediction as
he went back again into the upper world. He was in
44
THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
mucli better spirits, on the whole. He had calmed his
own mind and moved the hearts of others, Avhich is to
every man a gratification, even though nothing higher
should be involved. And he had regained the moral
countenance of Tom Burrows, which most of all was a
comfort to him. More than ever he longed to go and
tell Lucy as he jjassed by the green door. Tom Bur-
rows's repentant face recalled Mr. Wentworth's mind
to the fact that a great work was doing in A^Tiarfside,
which, after all, was more worth thinking of than any
tantalising vision of an impossible benefice. But this
very thought, so consoling in itself, reminded him of
all his vexations, of the jjublic inquiry into his conduct
which was hanging over him, and of his want of power
to offer to Lucy the support and protection of which
she might so soon stand in need; and having thus
draAvn upon his head once more his whole burden of
troubles, Mr. Wentworth went in to eat his dinner with
what ajjpetite he could.
The Perpetual Curate sat up late that night, as
indeed was his custom. He sat late, hearing, as every-
body does who sits up alone in a hushed and sleeping
household, a hundred fantastic creaks and sounds which
did not mean anything, and of which he took no notice.
Once, indeed, when it Avas nearly midnight, he fancied
he heard the garden-gate close hurriedly, but explained
it to himself as people do when they prefer not to give
themselves trouble. About one o'clock in the morning,
however, Mr. Wentworth could no longer be in any
doubt that some stealthy step was passing his door and
moving about the house. He' was not alarmed, for Mrs.
Had win had occasional "attacks," like most people of
her age-, but he put down his pen and listened. No
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 45
other sound was to be heard except this stealthy step,
no opening of doors, nor whisper of voices, nor com-
motion of any kind; and after a while Mr. Wentworth's
curiosity was fully awakened. When he heard it again,
he opened his door suddenly, and threw a light upon
the staircase and little corridor into which his room
opened. The figure he saw there startled him more
than if it had been a midnight robber. It was only
Sarah, the housemaid, white and shivering with terror,
who fell down upon her knees before him. "Oh, Mr.
Wentworth, it ain't my fault!" cried Sarah. The poor
girl Avas only partially dressed, and trembled pitifully,
"They'll say it was my fault; and oh, sir, it's my char-
acter I'm a-thinking of," said Sarah, with a sob; and
the Curate saw behind her the door of Wodehouse's
room standing open, and the moonlight streaming into
the empty apartment. "I daren't go down-stairs to see
if he's took anything," cried poor Sarah, under her
breath; "there might be more of them about the place.
But oh, Mr. Wentworth, if Missis finds out as I gave
him the key, what will become of me?" Naturally, it
was her own danger which had most effect upon Sarah.
Her full, good-humoured face was ail wet and stained
Avith crying, her lips quivering, her eyes dilated. Per-
haps a thrill of private disappointment mingled with
her dread of losing her character. "He used to tell
me all as he was a-going to do," said Sarah; "but oh,
sir, he's been and gone away, and I daren't go down-
stairs to look at the plate, and I'll never more sleep in
quiet, if I was to live a century. It ain't as I care
for Am, but it's the key and my character as I'm a-
thinking of," cried the poor girl, bursting into audible
sobs that could be restrained no longer. Mr. Went-
46 THE PERPETUAL. CURATE.
worth took a candle and went into Wodehouse's empty
room, leaving her to recover her composure. Every-
thing was cleared and packed up in that apartment.
The little personal property he had, the shahby boots
and worn habiliments, had disappeared totally, even
the rubbish of wood-carving on his table was cleared
away. Not a trace that he had been there a few hours
ago remained in the place. The Curate came out of
the room with an anxious countenance, not knowing
what to make of it. And by this time Sarah's sobs
had roused Mrs. Hadwin, who stood, severe and in-
dignant, at her own door in her nightcap, to know
what was the matter. Mr. Wentworth retired into his
own apartments after a word of explanation, leaving
the mistress and maid to fight it out. He himself was
more disturbed and excited than he could have de-
scribed. He could not tell what this new stej) meant,
but felt instinctively that it denoted some new develop-
ment in the tangled web of his own fortunes. Some
hidden danger seemed to him to be gathering in the
air over the house of mourning, of which he had con-
stituted himself a kind of guardian. He could not
sleep all night, but kept starting at every sound, think-
ing now that the skulking rascal, who was Lucy's
brother, was coming back, and now that his departure
was only a dream. Mr. Wentworth's restlessness was
not soothed by hearing all the night through, in the
silence of the house, suppressed sobs and sounds of
weeping proceeding from the attic overhead, which poor
Sarah shared with her fellow-servant. Perhaps the
civilities of "the gentleman" had dazzled Sarah, and
been too much for her j)eace of mind; perhaps it was
only her character, as the poor girl said. But as often
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 47
as the Curate started from his uneasy and broken
snatches of sleep, he heard the murmur of crying and
consoling up-stairs. Outside the night was spreading
forth those sweetest unseen glories of the starlight and
the moonlight and the silence, which Nature reserves
for her own enjoyment, when the weary human creatures
are out of the way and at rest-, — and Jack Wentworth
slept the sleep of the righteous, uttering delicate little
indications of the depth of his slumber, which it would
have been profane to call by any vulgar name. He
slept sweetly while his brother watched and longed for
daylight, impatient for the morrow which must bring
forth something new. The moonlight streamed full
into the empty room, and made mysterious combina-
tions of the furniture, and chased the darkness into
corners which each held their secret. This Avas how
Mrs. Hadwin's strange lodger, whom nobody could ever
make out, disappeared as suddenly as he had come,
without any explanations; and only a very few people
could ever come to understand what he had to do with
the after-events which struck Grange Lane dvimb, and
turned into utter confusion all the ideas and conclu-
sions of society in Carlingford.
CHAPTER IV.
"I WILL do what I can for you," said Mr. Morgan;
"yours is a very hard case, as you say. Of course, it
would not do for me to give any opinion — but such a
thing shall not occur in Carlingford, while I am here,
without being looked into," said the Rector, with
dignity, "of that you may be sure."
48 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"I don't want no more nor justice," said Elsworthy
— "no more nor justice. I'm a man as lias always
been respected, and never interfered with nobody as
didn't interfere with me. The things I've stood from
my clergyman, I wouldn't have stood from no man
living. The way as he'd talk, sir, of them as was a
deal better than himself! We was a happy family
afore Mr. Wentworth came nigh of us. Most folks in
Carlingford knows me. There wasn't a more indus-
trious family in Carlingford, though I say it as shouldn't,
nor one as was more content, or took things more
agreeable, afore Mr. Wentworth come to put all wrong."
"Mr. Wentworth has been here for five years,"
said the Rector's wife, who was present at this inter-
view; "have things been going wrong for all that
time?"
"I couldn't describe to nobody what I've put up
with," said the clerk of St. Roque's, evading the ques-
tion. "He hadn't the ways of such clergymen as I've
been used to. Twice the pay wouldn't have made up
for what I've suffered in my fcelins; and I ask you,
sir, is this how it's all to end? My little girl's gone,"
cried Elsworthy, rising into hoarse earnestness — ^"my
little girl as was so sweet, and as everybody took
notice on. She's gone, and I don't know as I'll ever
see her again; and I can't get no satisfaction one way
or another; and I ask you, sir, is a villain as could do
such a thing to hold up his head in the town, and go
on the same as ever? I ain't a man as is contrairy,
or as goes again' my superiors; but it's driving me
mad, that's what it's doing," said Elsworthy, wiping
the moisture from his forehead. The man was trem-
bling and haggard, changed even in his looks — his
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 49
eyes were red with passion and watching, and looked
like the eyes of a wild beast lying in wait for its prey.
"I can't say as I've ever slept an hour since it hap-
pened," he cried; "and as for my missis, it's a-killing
of her. We ain't shut up, because we've got to live
all the same; and because, if the poor thing come back,
there's always an open door. But I'll have justice, if
I was to die for it!" cried Elsworthy. "I don't ask
no more than justice. If it ain't to be had one way,
I'll have it another. I'll set the police on him — I will.
When a man's drove wild, he ain't answerable for what
he's a-doing; and to see him a-walking about Carling-
ford, and a-holding up his head, is a thing as I won't
stand no longer, not if it was to be my ruin. I'm as
good as ruined now, and I don't care." He broke off
short with these words, and sat down abruptly on the
chair Thomas had placed for him iu front of the
Rector's table. Up to this moment he had been stand-
ing, in his vehemence and agitation, without taking
advantage of the courtesy accorded to his misfortune;
now the poor man sat down by way of emphasis, and
began to polish his hat round and round with his
trembling hands.
As for Mr. Morgan, he, on the contrary, got up and
walked instinctively to the fireplace, and stood there
with his back to the empty grate, contemplating the
world in general with a troubled countenance, as was
natural. Not to speak of his prejudice against Mr.
Wentworth, the Rector was moved by the sight of
Elsworthy's distress; but then his wife, who unluckily
had brought her needlework into the library on this
particular morning, and who was in the interest of the
Curate of St. Roque's, was seated watchful by the
The Perpetual Curate. 11. 4
50 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
windoAV, occasionally looking up, and entirely cognisant,
as Mr. Morgan was aware, of everything that happened.
The Rector was much embarrassed to feel himself thus
standing between the two parties. "Yours is a very
hard case — but it is necessary to proceed with caution,
for, after all, there is not much proof," he said, faltering
a little. "My dear, it is a pity to detain yovx from
your walk," Mr. Morgan continued, after a momentary
jjause, and looked with a flush of consciousness at his
wife, whose absence would have been such a relief to
him. Mrs. Morgan looked up with a gracious smile.
"You are not detaining me, William — I am very
much interested," said the designing woman, and im-
mediately began to arrange and put in order what the
Kector knew by ex^jerience to be a long piece of work,
likely to last her an hour at least. Mr, Morgan uttered
a long breath, which sounded like a little snort of
despair.
"It is very difficult to know what to do," said the
Eector, shifting uneasily upon the hearthrug, and plung-
ing his hands into the depths of his pockets. "If you
could name anybody you would like to refer it to — but
being a brother clergyman "
"A man as conducts himself like that, didn't ought
to be a clergyman, sir," cried Elsworthy. "I'm one
as listened to him preaching on Sunday, and could have
jumped up and dragged him out of the pulpit, to hear
him a-discoursing as if he wasn't a bigger sinner nor
any there. I ain't safe to stand it anotlier Sunday.
I'd do something as I should be sorry for after. I'm
asking justice, and no more." With these words Els-
wortliy got up again, still turning round in his hands
the unlucky hat, and turned his person, though not his
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 51
eyes, towards Mrs. Morgan. "No man could be more
partial to his clergyman nor I was," he said, hoarsely.
"There was never a time as I wasn't glad to see him.
He came in and out as if it belonged to him, and I
had no more thought as he was meaning any harm
than the babe unborn; but a man as meddles with an
innocent girl ain't nothing but a black-hearted villain!"
cried Elsworthy, with a gleam out of his red eyes;
"and I don't believe as anybody would take his part
as knew all. I put my confidence in the Rector, as is
responsible for the parish," he went on, facing round
again: "not to say but what it's natural for them as
are Mr. Wentworth's friends to take his part — but I'll
liave justice, wherever it comes from. It's hard work
to go again' any lady as I've a great respect for, and
wouldn't cross for the world; but it ain't in reason that
I should be asked to bear it and not say nothing; and
I'll have justice, if I should die for it," said Elsworthy.
He turned from one to another as he spoke, bi;t kept
his eyes upon his hat, which he smoothed and smoothed
as if his life depended on it. But for the reality of his
excitement, his red eyes, and hoai'se voice, he would
have been a ludicrous figure, standing as he did in the
middle of Mr. Morgan's library, veering round, first to
one side and then to the other, with his stooping head
and ungainly person. As for the Rector, he too kept
looking at his wife with a very troubled face.
"It is difficult for me to act against a brother
clergyman," said Mr. Morgan; "but I am very sorry
for you, Elsworthy — very sorry; if you could name,
say, half-a-dozen gentlemen "
"But don't you think," said the Rector's wife, inter-
posing, "that you should inquire first whether there is
4*
52 THE PERPETUAL CUKATE.
any evidence? It would make you all look very ri-
diculous if you got up an inquiry and found no proof
against Mr: Wentworth. Is it likely he would do such
a thing all at once without showing any signs of wicked-
ness beforehand — is it possible? To be sorry is quite
a different thing, but I don't see "
"Ladies don't understand such matters," said the
Rector, who had been kept at bay so long that he be-
gan to get desperate. "I beg your pardon, my dear,
but it is not a matter for you to discuss. We shall
take good care that there is plenty of evidence," said
the perplexed man — "I mean, before we proceed to do
anything," he added, growing very red and confused.
When Mr. Morgan caught his wife's acute eye, he got
as nearly into a passion as was possible for so good a
man. "You know what I mean," he said, in his
peremptory way, "and, my dear, you will forgive me
for saying this is not a matter to be discussed before a
lady." When he had uttered this bold speech, the
Rector took a few little walks up and down the room,
not caring, however, to look at his wife. He was
ashamed of the feeling he had that her absence would
set him much more at his ease with Elsworthy, but still
could not help being conscious that it was so. He did
not say anything more, but he walked up and down
the room with sharp short steps, and betrayed his im-
patience very manifestly. As for Mrs. Morgan, who
was a sensible woman, she saw that the time had come
for her to retire from the field.
"I think the first thing to be done is to try every
possible means of finding the girl," she said, getting
up from her seat; "but I have no doubt what you de-
cide upon will be the best. You will find me in the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 53
drawing-room when you want me, William." Perhaps
her absence for the first moment was not such a relief
to her husband as he had expected. The mildness of
her parting words made it very apj)arent that she did
not mean to take offence; and he perceived suddenly,
at a glance, that he would have to tell her all he was
going to do, and encounter her criticism single-handed,
which was rather an ajjpalling prospect to the Eector.
Mrs. Morgan, for her part, went up-stairs not without
a little vexation, certainly, but with a comforting sense
of the opportunity which awaited her. She felt that,
in his unprotected position, as soon as she left him, the
Rector would conduct himself rashly, and that her time
was still to come.
The Rector went back to the hearthrug when his
wife left the room, but in the heat of his own personal
reflections he did not say anything to Elsworthy, who
still stood smoothing his hat in his hand. On the
whole, Mr. Morgan was rather aggravated for the mo-
ment by the unlucky cause of this little encounter, and
was not half so well disposed towards Mr. Wentworth's
enemy as half an hour before, when he recognised his
wife as the champion of the Curate, and felt controlled
by her presence; for the human and even the clerical
mind has its impulses of perversity. He began to get
very impatient of Elsworthy's hat, and the persistent
way in which he worked at it with his hands.
"1 suppose yoti would not be so certain about it, if
you had not satisfactory evidence?" he said, turning
abruptly, and even a little angrily, upon the sujiplicant;
for Mr. Morgan naturally resented his own temper and
the little semi-quarrel he had got into upon the third
person who was the cause of all.
54 THE PERPETUAL CURATE,
"Sir," said Elsworthy, with eagerness, "it ain't no
wonder to me as tlie lady takes Mr. Wentworth's part.
A poor man don't stand no chance against a young
gentleman as has had every advantage. It's a thing as
I'm prepared for, and it don't have no effect upon me.
A lady as is so respected and thought a deal of both
in town and country "
"I was not speaking of my wife," said tlie Kector
hastily. "Don't you think you had better put down
your hat? I think you said it was on Friday it oc-
curred. It will be necessary to take down the facts in
a business-like way," said Mr. Morgan, drawing his
chair towards the table and taking up his pen. This
was how the Rector was occupied when Thomas an-
nounced the most unexpected of all possible visitors,
Mr. Pr^octor, who had been Mr. Morgan's predecessor
in Carlingford. Thomas announced his old master with
great solemnity as "the late Rector" — a title which
struck the present incumbent with a sense of awe not
unnatural in the circumstances. He jumped up from
his chair and let his pen fall out of his startled fingers
when his old friend came in. They had eaten many
a good dinner together in the revered hall of All-Souls,
and as the familiar countenance met his eyes, jDerhaps
a regretful thought of that Elysium stole across the
mind of the late Fellow, who had been so glad to leave
the sacred brotherhood, and marry, and become as
other men. He gave but a few hurried words of sur-
prise and welcome to his visitor, and then, with a
curious counterpoise of sentiment, sent him up-stairs to
see "my wife," feeling, even while half envious of him,
a kind of superiority and half contempt for the man
Avho Avas not a Rector and married, but had given up
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 55
both these possibilities. When he sent him up-stairs to
see "my wife," Mr. Morgan looked after the elderly
celibate with a certain pity. One always feels more
inclined to take the simple view of any matter — to
stand up for injured innocence, and to right the wronged
— when one feels one's self better off than one's neigh-
bours. A reverse position is apt to detract fi'om the
simplicity of one's conceptions, and to suggest two sides
to the picture. "When Mr. Proctor was gone, the Kector
addressed himself with great devotion to Elsworthy and
his evidence. It could not be doubted, at least, that
the man was in earnest, and believed what he said-,
and things unquestionably looked rather ugly for Mr.
Wentworth. Mr. Morgan took down all about the
Curate's untimely visit to Elsworthy on the night when
he took Rosa home; and Avhen he came to the evidence
of the Miss Hemmings, who had seen the Curate talk-
ing to the unfortunate little girl at his own door the
last time she was seen in Carlingford, the Kector shook
his head with a prolonged movement, half of satisfac-
tion, half of regret; for, to be sure, he had made up
his mind beforehand who the culprit was, and it was
to a certain extent satisfactory to have his opinion con-
firmed.
"This looks very bad, very bad, I am sorry to
say," said Mr. Morgan; "for the unhappy young man's
own sake, an investigation is absolutely necessary. As
for you, ElsAvorthy, everybody must be sorry for you.
Ilave you no idea where he could have taken the poor
girl? — that is," said the incautious Rector, "supposing
that he is guilty — of which I am afraid there does not
seem much doubt."
"There ain't no doubt," said Elsworthy; "there
56 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ain't nobody else as could have done it. Just afore
my little girl was took away, sir, Mr. Wentworth went
off of a sudden, and it was said as he was a-going
home to the Hall. I was a-thinkiug of sending a letter
anonymous, to ask if it was knoMai what he was after.
I read in the papers the other day as his brother was
a-going over to Rome. There don't seem to be none
o' them the right sort; which it's terrible for two clergy-
men. I was thinking of dropping a bit of a note
anonymous "
"No — no — no," said the Rector, "that would never
do; nothing of that sort, Elsworthy. If you thought it
likely she was there, the proper thing would be to go
and inquire; nothing anonymous — no, no; that is a
thing I could not possibly countenance," said Mr.
Morgan. He pushed away his pen and paper, and got
very red and uncomfortable. If either of the critics
up-stairs, his wife, or his predecessor in the Rectory,
could but know that he was having an anonymous letter
suggested to him — that anybody ventured to think him
capable @f^ being an accomplice in such a proceeding!
The presence of these two in the house, though they
were most probably at the moment engaged in the
calmest abstract conversation, and totally unaware of
what was going on in the library, had a great effect
upon the Rector. He felt insulted that any man could
venture to confide such an intention to him almost
within the hearing of his wife. "If I am to take np
your case, everything must be oj)en and straightfor-
ward," said Mr. Morgan; while Elsworthy, who saw
he had said something amiss, without precisely under-
standing what, took up his hat as a resource, and once
more began to polish it round and round in his hands.
THE PEEPETUAL CURATE. 57
"I didn't mean no barm, sir, I'm sure," lie said;
"I don't seem to see no other way o' finding out-, for
I ain't like a rich man as can go and come as he
pleases; but I won't say no more, since it's displeasing
to you. If you'd give me the list of names, sir, as
you have decided on to be the committee, I wouldn't
trouble you no longer, seeing as you've got visitors.
PerhajDS, if the late Rector ain't going away directly,
he would take it kind to be put on the committee; and
he's a gentleman as I've a great respect for, though he
Avasn't not to say the man for Carlingford," said Els-
worthy, with a sidelong look. He began to feel the
im2Dortance of his own position as the originator of a
committee, and at the head of the most exciting move-
ment which had been for a long time in Carlingford,
and could not help being sensible, notwithstanding his
affliction, that he had a distinction to offer which even
the late Rector might be pleased to accept.
"I don't think Mr. Proctor will stay," said Mr.
Morgan; "and if he does stay, I believe he is a friend
of Mr. Wentworth's." It was only after he. had said
this that the Rector perceived the meaning of the words
he had uttered; then, in his confusion and vexation,
he got up hastily from the table, and upset the ink-
stand in the embarrassment of the moment. "Of course,
that is all the greater reason for having his assistance,"
said Mr. Morgan in his perplexity; "we are all friends
of Mr. Wentworth. Will you have the goodness to
ring the bell? There are few things more painful
than to take steps against a brother clergyman, if one
did not hope it would be for his benefit in the end.
Oh, never mind the table. Be so good as to ring the
bell again — louder, please."
58 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"There ain't nothing equal to blotting-paper, sir,"
said Elsworthy, eagerly. "With a bit o' blotting-paper,
I'd undertake to rub ovit ink-stains out o' the finest
carpet— if you'll permit me. It ain't but a small speck,
and it'll be gone afore you could look round. It's
twenty times better nor lemon-juice, or them poisonous
salts as you're always nervous of leaving about. Look
you here, sir, if it ain't a-sopping up beautiful. There
ain't no harm done as your respected lady could be
put out about-, and I'll take the list with me, if you
please, to show to my wife, as is a-breaking her heart
at home, and can't believe as we'll ever get justice.
She says as how the quality always takes a gentle-
man's part against us poor folks, but that ain't been
my experience. Don't you touch the carpet, Thomas
— there ain't a speck to be seen when the blotting-
paper's cleared away. I'll go home, not to detain you
no more, sir, and cheer up the poor heart as is a-
breaking," said Elsworthy, getting up from his knees
where he had been operating upon the carpet. He had
got in his hand the list of names which Mr. Morgan
had put down as referees in this painful business, and
it dawned faintly upon the Rector for the moment that
he himself was taking rather an undignified position as
Elsworthy's partisan.
"I have no objection to your showing it to your
wife," said Mr. Morgan; "but I shall be much dis-
pleased if I hear any talk about it, Elsworthy, and I
hope it is not revenge you are thinking of, which is a
very unchristian sentiment," said the Rector, severely,
"and not likely to afi"ord comfort either to her or
you."
"No, sir; nothing but justice," said Elsworthy,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 59
hoarsely, as he backed out of the room. Notwithstand-
ing this statement, it was with very unsatisfactory sen-
sations that JMr. IMorgan went up-stairs. He felt some-
how as if the justice which Elsworthy demanded, and
which he himself had solemnly declared to be pursuing
the Curate of St. Roque's, was wonderfully like revenge.
"All punishment must be more or less vindictive," he
said to himself as he went up-stairs; but that fact did
not make him more comfortable as he went into his
wife's drawing-room, where he felt more like a con-
spirator and assassin than an English Rector in broad
daylight, without a mystery near him, had any right
to feel. This sensation confused Mr. Morgan much,
and made him more peremptory in his manner than
ever. As for Mr. Proctor, who was only a sjjectator,
and felt himself on a certain critical eminence, the
suggestion that occurred to his mind was, that he had
come in at the end of a quarrel, and that the conjugal
firmament was still in a state of disturbance: which
idea acted upon some private projects in the hidden
mind of the Fellow of All-Souls, and produced a state
of feeling little more satisfactory than that of the Eector
of Carlingford.
"I hope Mr. Proctor is going to stay with us for a
day or two," said Mrs. Morgan. "I was just saying it
must look like coming home to come to the house he
used to live in, and which was even furnished to his
oAvn taste," said the Rector's wife, shooting a little
arrow at the late Rector, of which that good man was
serenely unconscious. All this time, while they had
been talking, Mrs. Morgan had scarcely been able to
keep from asking who could possibly have suggested
such a carpet. Mr. Proctor's chair was placed on the
60 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
top of one of the big bouquets, which expanded its
large foliage round him with more than Eastern prodi-
gality — but was so little conscious of any culpability
of his own in the matter, that he had referred his in-
dignant hostess to one of the leaves as an illustration
of the kind of diaper introduced into the new window
which had lately been j)ut up in the chapel of All-
Souls. "A naturalistic treatment, you know," said Mr.
Proctor, with the utmost serenity, "and some people ob-
jected to it," added the unsuspicious man.
"I should have objected very strongly," said Mrs.
Morgan, with a little flush. "If you call that natural-
istic treatment, I consider it perfectly out of place in
decoration — of every kind " Mr. Proctor hajjpened
to be looking at her at the moment, and it suddenly
occurred to him that Miss Wodehouse never got red in
that uncomfortable way, which was the only conclusion
he drew from the circumstance, having long ago for-
gotten that any connection had ever existed between
himself and the carpet on the drawing-room in Carling-
ford Rectory. He addressed his next observation to
Mr. Morgan, who had just come in.
"I saw Mr. Wodehouse's death in the 'Times,'"
said Mr. Proctor, "and I thought the poor young ladies
might feel— at least they might think it a respect — or,
at all events, it would be a satisfaction to one's self,"
said the late Rector, who had got into a mire of
exj)lanation. "Though he was far from being a
young man, yet having a young daughter like Miss
Lucy "
"Poor Lucy!" said Mr. Morgan. "I hope that
wretched fellow, young Wentworth" — and here the
THK PERPETUAL CUKATE. 61
Rector came to a dead stop, and felt that lie had
brought the subject most to be avoided head and
shoulders into the conversation, as was natural to an
embarrassed man. The consequence was that he got
angry, as might have been expected. "My dear, you
must not look at me as you do. I have just been hear-
ing all the evidence. No unbiassed mind could pos-
sibly come to any other decision," said Mr. Morgan,
with exasperation. Now that he had committed him-
self, he thought it was much the best thing to go in
for it wholly, without half measures, which was cer-
tainly the most straightforward way.
"What has happened to Wentworth?" said Mr.
Proctor. "He is a young man for whom I have a
great regard. Though he is so much younger than I
am, he taught me some lessons while I was in Carling-
ford which I shall never forget. If he is in any trouble
that I can help him in, I shall be very glad to do it,
both for his own sake and for " Mr. Proctor
slurred over the end of his sentence a little, and the
others were occupied with their own difficulties, and
did not take very much notice — for it was difficult to
state fully the nature and extent of Mr. Wentworth's
enormities after such a declaration of friendship. "I
met him on my way here," said the Fellow of All-
Souls, "not looking quite as he used to do. I sup-
posed it might be Mr. Wodehouse's death, perhaps."
All Mr. Proctor's thoughts ran in that channel of Mr.
Wodehouse's death, which, after all, though sad enough,
was not so great an event to the community in general
as the late Rector seemed to suppose.
It was Mrs. Morgan at length who took heart to
explain to Mr. Proctor the real state of affairs. "He
62 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
lias been a very good clergyman for five years," said
Mrs. Morgan; "lie might behave foolishly, you know,
about Wharfside, but then that was not his fault so
much as the fault of the Rector's predecessors. I am
sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Proctor — I did not mean
that you were to blame," said the Rector's wife-, "but,
notwithstanding all the work he has done, and the
consistent life he has led, there is nobody in Carling-
ford who is not quite ready to believe that he has run
away with Rosa Elsworthy — a common little girl, with-
out any education, or a single idea in her head. I
suppose she is what you would call pretty," said the
indignant woman. "Everybody is just as ready to be-
lieve that he is guilty as if he Avere a stranger or a
bad character." Mrs. Morgan stopped in an abrupt
manner, because her quick eyes perceived a glance ex-
changed between the two gentlemen. Mr. Proctor had
seen a good deal of the world in his day, as he was
fond of saying now and then to his intimate friends:
and he had learned at the university and other places
that a girl who is "what you would call pretty," counts
for a great deal in the history of a young man, whether
she has any ideas in her head or not. He did not,
any more than the people of Carlingford, pronounce at
once on a priori evidence that Mr. Wentworth must be
innocent. The Curate's "consistent life" did not go
for much in the opinion of the middle-aged Fellow of
All-Souls, any more than of the less dignified populace.
He said, "Dear me, dear me!" in a most perplexed
and distressed tone, while Mrs. Morgan kept looking
at him; and looked very much as if he were tempted
to break forth into lamentations over human nature, as
Mr. Morgan himself had done.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 63
"I -wonder wliat the Miss Wodeliouses tliink of it,"
he said at Last. "One Avould do a great deal to keep
them from hearing such a thing-, but I wonder how
they are feeling about it," said Mr. Proctor — and clearly
declined to discuss the matter with Mrs. Morgan, wlio
was counsel for the defence. When the Rector's Avife
went to her own room to dress for dinner, it is very
true that she had a good cry over her cup of tea. She
was not only disajjpointed, but exasperated, in that im-
patient feminine nature of hers. Perhaps if she had
been less sensitive, she would have had less of that
redness in her face which was so great a trouble to
Mrs. Morgan. These two slow middle-aged men, with-
out any intuitions, who were coming lumbering after
her through all kind of muddles of evidence and argu-
ment, exasperated the more rapid woman. To be sure,
they understood Greek plays a great deal better than
she did; but she was penetrated with the liveliest im-
patience of their dulness all the same. Mrs. Morgan,
however, like most people who are in advance of their
age, felt her utter impotence against that blank wall of
dull resistance. She could not make them see into the
heart of things as she did. She had to wait until they
had attacked the question in the orthodox way of siege,
and made gradual entrance by dint bf hard labour.
All she could do to console herself, was to shed certain
hot tears of indignation and annoyance over her tea,
which, however, was excellent tea, and did her good.
Perhaps it was to show her sense of superiority, and
that she did not feel herself vanquished, that, after
tliat, she put on her new dress, which was very much
too nice to be wasted upon Mr. Proctor. As for Jfr.
Leeson, who came in as usual just in time for dinner,
64 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
having heard of Mr. Proctor's arrival, she treated him
with a blandness which alarmed the Curate. "I quite
expected you, for Ave have the All-Souls pudding- to-
day," said the Rector's wife, and she smiled a smile
which would have struck awe into the soul of any
curate that ever was known in Carlingford.
CHAPTER V.
It was the afternoon of the same day on which
Mr. Proctor arrived in Carlingford that Mr. Wentworth
received the little note fi'om Miss Wodehouse which
was so great a consolation to the Perpetual Curate. By
that time he had begun to experience humiliations
more hard to bear than anything he had yet known.
He had received constrained greetings from several of
his most cordial friends; his people in the district, all
but Tom Burrows, looked askance upon him; and Dr.
Marjoribanks , who had never taken kindly to the
young Anglican, had met him with satirical remarks
in his dry Scotch fashion, which were intolerable to
the Curate. In these circumstances, it was balm to his
soul to have his sym]Dathy once more appealed to, and
by those who were nearest to his heart. The next day
was that appointed for Mr. Wodehouse's funeral, to
which Mr. Wentworth had been looking forAvard with
a little excitement — wondering, Avith indignant misery,
whether the covert insults he was getting used to would
be repeated even over his old friend's grave. It was
while this was in his mind that he received Miss Wode-
house's little note. It was very hurriedly written, on
the terrible black-edged paper Avhich, to such a simple
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 65
soul as Miss Wodchousc, it was a kind of comfort to
use in the moment of calamity. "Dear Mr. Went
worth," it said, "I am in great difficulty, and don't
know what to do: come, I beg of you, and tell me
what is best. My dear Lucy insists upon going to-
morrow, and I can't cross her when her heart is break-
ing, and I don't know what to do. Please to come, if
it were only for a moment. Dear, dear papa, and all
of us, have always had such confidence in you!" Mr.
Wentworth was seated, very disconsolate, in his study
when this appeal came to him: he was rather sick of
the world and most things in it; a sense of wrong
eclipsed the sunshine for the moment, and obscured
the skies; but it was comforting to be appealed to — to
have his assistance and his protection sought once
more. He took his hat immediately and went up the
sunny road, on which there was scarcely a passenger
visible, to the closed-xip house, which stood so gloomy
and irresponsive in the sunshine. Mr. Wodehouse had
not been a man likely to attract any profound love in
his lifetime, or sense of loss when he was gone; but
yet it was possible to think, with the kindly, half-
conscious delusion of nature, that had he been living,
he would have known better; and the Curate went into
the darkened drawing room, where all the shutters
Avere closed except those of the little window in the
corner, where Lucy's work-table stood, and where a
little muffled sunshine stole in throixgh the blind.
Everything was in terribly good order in the room.
The two sisters had been living in their own apart-
ments, taking their forlorn meals in the little parlour
which communicated with their sleeping-chambers,
during this week of darkness; and nobody had come
The Peipeiwd C'urale. 11. 5
66' THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
into the drawing-room, except the stealthy housemaid,
who contemplated herself and her new mourning for
an hour at a stretch in the great mirror without any
interruption, while she made "tidy" the furniture which
nobody now disturbed. Into this sombre apartment
Miss Wodehouse came gliding, like a gentle ghost, in
her black gown. She too, like John and the house-
maid and everybody about, walked and talked under
her breath. There was now no man in the house
entitled to disturb those jjroprieties with which a female
household naturally hedges round all the great in-
cidents of life-, and the aifairs of the family were all
carried on in a whisper, in accordance with the so-
lemnity of the occasion — a circumstance which had
naturally called the ghost of a smile to the Curate's
countenance as he followed John up-stairs. Miss
Wodehouse herself, though she was pale, and spent
half her time, poor soul! in weejiing, and had, besides,
living encumbrances to trouble her helpless path, did
not look amiss in her black gown. She came in glid-
ing without any noise, but with a little expectation in
her gentle countenance. She was one of the people
whom experience never makes any Maser-, and she
could not help hoping to be delivered from her troubles
this time, as so often before, as soon as she should have
transferred them to somebody else's shoulders, and
taken "advice."
"Lucy has made u]) her mind that we are to go
to-morrow," said Miss Wodehouse, drying her tears.
"It was not the custom in my young days, Mr. Went-
worth, and I am sure I don't know what to say, but I
can't bear to cross her, now that she has nobody but
me. She was always the best child in the world,"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 67
said the poor lady — "far more comfort to poor dear
papa than I ever could be; but to hear her talk you
would think she had never done anything. And oh,
Mr. Wentworth, if that was all I should not mind; but
we have always kept things a secret from her; and
now I have had a letter, and I don't know what it is
possible to do."
"A letter from your brother?" asked Mr. Went-
worth, eagerly.
"From Tom," said the elder sister; "poor, poor
Tom! I am sure papa forgave him at the last, though
he did not say anything. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, he was
such a nice boy once; and if Lucy only knew, and I
could summon up the courage to tell her, and he would
change his ways, as he promised — don't think me fickle
or changeable, or look as if I didn't know my own
mind," cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with a fresh flow
of tears; "but oh, Mr. Wentworth, if he only would
change his ways, as he promised, think what a com-
fort it would be to us to have him at home!"
"Yes," said the Curate, with a little bitterness. Here
was another instance of the impunities of wickedness.
"I think it very likely indeed that you will have him
at home," said Mr. Wentworth — "almost certain; the
wonder is that he went away. Will you tell me
where he dates his letter from? I have a curiosity to
know."
"You are angry," said the anxious sister. "Oh,
Mr. Wentworth, I know he does not deserve anything
else, but you have always been so kind. I put his
letter in my pocket to show you — at least, I am sure
I intended to put it in my pocket. We have scarcely
been in this room since — since " and here Misg
5*
6'8 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Wodehouse broke clown, and had to take a little time
to recover. "I will go and get tlie letter," she said,
as at last she regained her voice, and hurried away
through the partial darkness with her noiseless step,
and the long black garments which swept noiselessly
over the carpet. Mr. Wentwoi'th for his j)art went to
the one window Avhich was only veiled by a blind,
and comforted himself a little in the sunshine. The
death atmosphere weighed upon the young man and
took away his courage. If he was only wanted to
pave the way for the reception of the rascally brother
for whose sins he felt convinced he was himself suffer-
ing, the consolation of being appealed to would be
sensibly lessened, and it was hard to have no other
way of clearing himself than by criminating Lucy's
brother, and bringing dishonour upon her name.
While he waited for Miss Wodehouse's return, he stood
by Lucy's table with very little of the feeling which
had once prompted him to fold his arms so caressingly
with an impulse of tenderness upon the chair which
stood beside it. He was so much absorbed in his own
thoughts that he did not hear at first the sound of a
hesitating hand upon the door, which at length, when
repeated, went to the Curate's heart. He turned round
rapidly, and saw Lucy standing on the threshold in
her profound mourning. She was very pale, and her
blue eyes looked large and full beyond their natural
appearance, dilated with tears and watching-, and when
they met those of Mr. Wentworth, they filled full like
flower-cups with dew; but besides this Lucy made no
demonstration of her grief. After that momentary hesi-
tation at the door, she came in and gave the Curate
her hand. Perhaps it was a kind of defiance, perhaps
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 69
a natural yearning, which drew her out of her cham-
ber when she heard of his presence; both sentiments
sprang out of the same feeling; and the Cui'ate, when
he looked at her, bethought himself of the only mo-
ment when he had been able to imagine that Lucy
loved him; that moment by her father's bedside, of
which the impression had been dulled since then by a
crowd of events, when she looked with such reproach
and disappointment and indignation into his face.
"I heard you were here," said Lucy, "and I thought
you mi^it think it strange not to see us both." And
then she paused, perhaps finding it less easy than she
thought to explain why she had come. "We ought to
thank you, Mr. Wentworth, for your kindness, though
I "
"You were angry with me," said the Curate. "I
know you thought me heartless; but a man must bear
to be misconceived when he has duty to do," the young
clergyman added, with a swelling heart. Lucy did
not know the fuller signification of his words; and
there was a loftiness in them which partly affronted
her, and set all her sensitive woman-pride in arms
against him.
"I beg your pardon," she said, faltering, and then
the two stood beside each other in silence, with a sense
of estrangement. As for Lucy, all the story about
Rosa Elsworthy, of which she had not yet heard the
last chapter, rushed back upon her mind. Was it to
see little Rosa's lover that she had come out of the
darkness of her room, with a natural longing for sym-
pathy Avhicli it was impossible to restrain? The tender-
ness of the instnictive feeling which had moved her,
went back upon her heart in bitterness. That he must
70 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
have divined why she had come, and scorned her for
it, was the mildest supposition in Lucy's mind. She
could almost have imagined that he had come on
purpose to elicit this vain exhibition of regard, and
triumph over it; all this, too, when she was in such
great trouble and sorrow, and wanted a little com-
passion, a little kindness, so much. This was the state
of mind to which Lucy had come, in five minutes after
she entered the room, when Miss Wodehouse came back
with the letter. The elder sister was almost as much
astonished at Lucy's presence as if she had been the
dead inhabitant who kept such state in the darkened
house. She was so startled that she went back a step
or two when she perceived her, and hastily put the
letter in her pocket, and exclaimed her sister's name
in a tone most unlike Miss Wodehouse's natural voice.
"I came down-stairs because — I mean they told me
Mr. Wentworth was here," said Lucy, who had never
felt so weak and so miserable in her life, "and I wanted
to thank him for all his kindness." It was here for the
first time that Lucy broke down. Her sorrow was so
great, her longing for a word of kindness had been so
natural, and her shame and self-condemnation at the
very thought that she was able to tliink of anything
but her father, were so bitter, that the poor girl's forces,
weakened by watching, were not able to withstand them.
She sank into the chair that stood nearest, and covered
her face with her hands, and cried as people cry only
at twenty. And as for Mr. Wentworth, he had no right
to take her in his arms and comfort her, nor to throw
himself at her feet and entreat her to take courage.
All he could do was to stand half a yard, yet a whole
world, apart looking at her, his heart beating with all
THE PRRPETUAL CURATE. 71
tlie remorseful half-augry tenderness of love. Since it
was not his to console lier, he was almost impatient of
her tears.
"Dear, I have been telling Mr. Wentworth about
to-morrow," said Miss Wodehouse, weeping too, as was
natural, "and he thinks — he thinks — oh, my darling!
and so do I — that it will be too much for you. When
I was young it never was the custom; and oh, Lucy,
remember that ladies are not to-be expected to have
such command over their feelings," said poor Miss
Wodehouse, dropping on her knees by Lucy's chair.
Mr. Wentworth stood looking on in a kind of desjiair.
He had nothing to say, and no right to say anything;
even his presence was a kind of intrusion. But to be
referred to thus as an authority against Lucy's wishes,
vexed him in the most unreasonable way.
"Mr. Wentworth does not know me," said Lucy,
under her breath, wiping away her tears with a trembling,
indignant hand. "If we had had a brother, it might
have been different; but there must be somebody there
that loves him," said the poor girl, with a sob, getting
up hastily from her chair. She could not bear to stay
any longer in the room, which she had entered with a
vague sense of possible consolation. As for the Curate,
he made haste to open the door for her, feeling the
restraint of his position almost intolerable. "/ shall be
there," he said, stopping at the door to look into the
fair, pallid face which Lucy would scarcely raise to
listen. "Could you not trust mef'' It looked like
giving him a pledge of something sacred and precious
to put her hand into his, which was held out for it so
eagerly. But Lucy could not resist the softening of
nature; and not even Miss Wodehouse, looking anxiously
72 THE PERPETUAL C UK ATE.
after tbein, heard wliat further Avorcls they were that
Mr. Wentworth said in her ear. "I am for your service,
however and wherever you want me," said the Curate,
with a young man's absolutism. Heaven knows he had
enough to do with his own troubles-, but he remembered
no obstacle which could prevent him from dedicating
all his time and life to her as he spoke. When Lucy
reached her own room, she threw herself upon the
sofa, and wept like a woman inconsolable; but it was
somehow because this consolation, subtle and secret,
had stolen into her heart that her tears flowed so freely.
And Mr. Wentworth returned to her sister relieved, he
could not have told why. At all events, come what
might, the two had drawn together again in their mutual
need.
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, how can I cross her?" said
Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands. "If we had a
brother — did you hear what she said? Here is his
letter, and I hope you will tell me candidly what you
think. If we could trust him — if we could but trust
him! I daresay you think me very changeable and
foolish; but now we are alone," said the poor lady,
"think what a comfort it would be if he only would
change his ways as he promised! Lucy is a great deal
more use than I am, and understands things; but still
we are only two women," said the elder sister. "If
you think we could put any dependence upon him,
Mr. Wentworth, I would never hesitate. He might live
with us, and have his little allowance." Miss Wodehouse
paused, and raised her anxious face to the Curate,
pondering the particulars of the liberality she intended.
"He is not a boy," she went on. "I daresay now he
must feel the want of the little comforts he once was
THE PERPETUAL CUKATE. 73
used to; and though he is not like what lie used to be,
neither in his looks nor his manners, peojDie would be
kind to him for our sakes. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, don't
you think we might trust him?" said the anxious
woman, looking in the Curate's face.
All this time Mr. Wentworth, with an impatience
of her simplicity which it ^^'as difficult to restrain, was
reading the letter, in which he perceived a very different
intention from any divined by Miss Wodehouse. The
billet was disrejiutable enough, written in pencil, and
without any date.
"Mary, — I mean to come to my fVither's funeral,"
wrote Mr. Wodehouse's disowned son. "Things are
changed now, as I said they would be. I and a friend
of mine have set everything straight with Waters, and
I mean to come in my own name, and take the place
I have a right to. How it is to be after this depends
on how you behave; but things are changed between
you and me, as I told you they would be; and I expect
you won't do anything to make 'em worse by doing or
saying what's unpleasant. I add no more, because I
hope you'll have sense to see what I mean, and to act
accordingly. — Your brother,
"Thomas Wodehouse."
"You see he thinks I will reproach him," said Miss
Wodehouse, anxiously; perhaps it had just glanced
across her own mind that something more important
still might have dictated language so decided. "He
has a great deal more feeling than you would suppose,
poor fellow! It is very touching in him to say, 'the
place he has a right to' — don't you think so, Mr.
74 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Wentwortli? Poor Tom! if we could but trust Mm,
and he would change his ways as he promised! Oh,
Mr. Wentworth, don't you think I might speak of it to
him to-morrow? If we could — bury — everything — in
dear papa's grave," cried the poor lady, once more
breaking down. Mr. Wentworth took no notice of Miss
Wodehouse's tears. They moved him with sentiments
entirely different from those with which he regarded
Lucy's. He read the note over again without any at-
tempt to console her, till she had struggled back into
composure; but even then there was nothing sympathetic
in the Curate's voice.
"And I think you told me you did not know
anything about the will?" he said, with some abrupt-
ness, making no account whatever of the suggestion
she had made.
"No," said Miss Wodehouse-, "but my dear father
was a business man, Mr. Wentworth, and I feel quite
sure — quite sure "
"Yes," said the Perj)etual Curate; "nor of the
nature of his property, perhaps?" added the worldly-
minded young man whom poor Miss Wodeliouse had
chosen for her adviser. It was more than the gentle
woman could bear.
"Oh, Mr. Wentworth, you know I am not one to
understand," cried the poor lady. "You ask me ques-
tions, but you never tell me what you think I should
do. If it were only for myself, I would not mind, but
I have to act for Lucy," said the elder sister, suddenly
sitting upright and drying her tears. "Papa, I am
sure, did what was best for us," she said, with a little
gentle dignity, which brought the Curate back to his
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 75
senses; "but oh, Mi-. Weutworth , look at tlie letter,
and tell me, for my sister's sake, what am I to do?"
The Curate went to the window, from which the
sunshine was stealing away, to consider the subject;
but he did not seem to derive much additional wisdom
from that sacred spot, where Lucy's work-table stood
idle. "We must wait and see," he said to himself.
When he came back to Miss Wodehouse, and saw the
question still in her eyes, it only brought back his im-
patience. "My dear Miss Wodehouse, instead of
speculating about what is to happen, it would be much
better to prepare your sister for the discovery she must
make to-morrow," said Mr. Wentworth; "I cannot give
any other advice, for my part. I think it is a great
pity that you have kept it concealed so long. I beg
your pardon for speaking so abruptly, but I am afraid
you don't know all the trouble that is before you. We
are all in a great deal of trouble," said the Perpetual
Curate, with a little unconscious solemnity. "I can't
say I see my way through it; but you ought to pre-
pare her — to see — her brother." He said the words
with a degree of repugnance which he could not con-
ceal, and which wounded his companion's tender heart.
"He was so different when he was young," said
Miss Wodehouse, with a suppressed sob — "he was a
favourite everywhere. You would not have looked so
if you had known him then. Oh, Mr. Wentworth,
promise me that you will not turn your back upon
him if he comes home, after all your kindness. I will
tell Lucy how much you have done for him," said Miss
Wodehouse. She was only half-conscious of her own
gentle artifice. She took the Curate's hand in both
her own before he left her, and said it was such a
76 THE PERPETUAL CUHATE.
comfort to have liis advice to rely upon; and she be-
lieved what she said, though Mr. Wentworth himself
knew better. The poor lady sat down in Lucy's chair,
and had a cry at her ease after he went away. She
was to tell Lucy — but how? and she sat pondering
this hard question till all the light had faded out of
the room, and the little window Avhich Avas not shut-
tered dispersed only a grey twilight through the empty
place. The lamp', meantime, had been lighted in the
little parlour where Lucy sat, very sad, in her black
dress, with 'In Memoriam' on the table by her, carry-
ing on a similar strain in her heart. She was think-
ing of the past, so many broken scenes of which kept
flashing up before her, all bright with indulgent love
and tenderness — and she was thinking of the next
day, Avlien she was to see all that remained of her
good father laid in his grave. He was not very wise
nor remarkable among men, but he had been the
tenderest father to the child of his old age; and in her
heart she was praying for him still, pausing now and
then to think whether it Avas right. The tears were
heavy in her young eyes, but they were natural tears,
and Lucy had no more thought that there was in the
world anything sadder than sorrow, or that any com-
plications lay in her individual lot, than the merest
child in Prickctt's Lane. She thought of going back
to tlie district, all robed and invested in the sanctity
of her grief — she thought it was to last for ever, as
one has the privilege of thinking when one is young;
and it was to this young saint, tender towards all the
world, ready to pity everybody, and to save a whole
race, if that had been possible, that Miss Wodehouse
went in, heavy and burdened, with her tale of miser-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 77
able vice, unkindness, estrangement. How was it pos-
sible to begin? Instead of beginning, poor Miss Wode-
honse, overpowered by her anxieties and responsibilities,
was taken ill and fainted, and bad to be carried to
bed. Lucy would not let her talk when she came to
herself; and so the only moment of possible prepara-
tion passed away, and the event itself, Avhicli one of
them knew nothing of, and the other did not under-
stand, came in its own person, without any avant-
couriers, to open Lucy's eyes once for all.
CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Wentworth had to go into Carlingford on
some business when he left Miss Wodehoiise; and as
he went home again, having his head full of so many
matters, he forgot for the moment what most im-
mediately concerned himself, and was close upon Els-
Avorthy's shop, looking into the window, before he
thoi;ght of it. Elsworthy himself was standing behind
the counter, with a paper in his hand, from which he
was expounding something to various people in the
shop. It was getting late, and the gas was lighted,
which threw the interior into very bright relief to Mr.
Wentworth outside. The Curate was still only a
young man, though he was a clergyman, and his move-
ments were not always guided by reason or sound
sense. He walked into the shop, almost before he was
aware what he was doing. The people were incon-
siderable people enough — cronies of Elsworthy — but
they were people who had been accustomed to look up
very reverentially to the Curate of St. Roque's, and
78 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Mr. Wentwortli was far from being superior to their
disapproval. There was a very visible stir among
them as he entered, and Elsworthy came to an abrupt
stop in his elucidations, and thrust the paper he had
been I'eading into a drawer. Dead and sudden silence
followed the entrance of the Curate. Peter Hayles,
the druggist, who was one of the auditors, stole to the
door with intentions of escape, and the women, of
whom there were two or three, looked alarmed, not
knowing what might come of it. As for Mr. Went-
worth, there was only one thing possible for him to
say. "Have you heard anything of Rosa, Elsworthy?"
he asked, with great gravity, fixing his eyes upon the
man's face. The question seemed to ring into all the
corners. Whether it was innocence or utter abandon-
ment nobody could tell, and the spectators held their
breath for the answer. Elsworthy, for his part, was
as much taken by surprise as his neighbours. He
grew very pale and livid in his sudden excitement,
and lost his voice, and stood staring at the Curate like
a man struck dumb. Perhaps Mr. Wentworth got
bolder when he saw the effect he had produced. He
repeated the question, looking towards poor Mrs. Els-,
worthy, who had jumped from her husband's side
when he came in. The whole party looked like startled
conspirators to Mr. Wentworth's eyes, though he had
not the least idea what they had been doing. "Have
you heard anything of Rosa?" he asked again; and
everybody looked at Elsworthy, as if he were the
guilty man, and had suborned the rest; which, indeed,
in one sense, was not far from being the case.
When Elsworthy came to himself, he gave Mr.
Wentworth a sidelong dangerous look. "No, sir — •
THE PERPETUAL CURATE; 79
nothing," said Kosa's uncle. "Them as has hidden
her has hidden her well. I didn't expect to hear not
yet," said Elsworthy. Though Mr. Wentworth did
not know what he meant, his little audience in the
shop did, and showed, by the slightest murmur in the
world, their conviction that the arrow had gone home,
which naturally acted like a spur upon the Curate,
who was not the wisest man in the world.
"I am very sorry to see you in so much distress,"
said the young man, looking at Mrs. Elsworthy's red
eyes, "but I trust things will turn out much better
than you imagine. If I can do anything to helj) you,
let me know," said Mr. Wentworth. Perhaps it was
foolish to say so much, knowing what he did, but un-
fortunately prudence was not the ruling principle at
that moment in the Curate's soul.
"I was a-thinking of letting you know, sir," said
the clerk of St. Roque's, with deadly meaning; "least-
ways not me, but them as has taken me by the hand.
There's every prospect as it'll all be known afore
long," said Elsworthy, pushing his wife aside and fol-
lowing Mr. Wentworth, with a ghastly caricature of
his old obsequiousness, to the door. "There's inqui-
ries a-being made as was never known to fail. For
one thing, I've written to them as knows a deal about
the movements of a party as is suspected — not to say
as I've got good friends," said Rosa's guardian, stand-
ing upon the step of his own door, and watching the
Curate out into the darkness. Mr. Wentworth could
not altogether restrain a slight thrill of unpleasant
emotion, for Elsworthy, standing at his door with the
light gleaming over him from behind, and his face in-
80 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
visible, liad an unpleasant resemblance to a wild beast
waiting for its prey.
"I am glad to think you are likely to be so suc-
cessful. Send me word as soon as you know," said
the Curate, and he pursued his way home afterwards,
Avith feelings far from pleasant. He saw something
was about to come of this more than he had thought
likely, and the crisis was approaching. As he Avalked
rapidly home, he concluded within himself to have a
conversation with the Rector next day after Mr. Wode-
house's funeral, and to ask for an investigation into
the whole matter. When he had come to this con-
clusion, he dismissed the subject from his mind as far
as that was possible, and took to thinking of the other
matters which disturbed his repose, in which, indeed,
it was very easy to get perplexed and bewildered to
his heart's content. Anyhow, one way and another,
the day of poor Mr. Wodehouse's funeral must neces-
sarily be an exciting and momentous day.
Mr. Wentworth had, however, no idea that its in-
terest was to begin so early. When he was seated at
breakfast reading his letters, a note was brought to
him, which, coming in the midst of a lively chronicle
of home news from his sister Letty, almost stopped for
the moment the beating of the Curate's heart. It took
him so utterly by surprise, that more violent senti-
ments were lost for the moment in mere wonder. He
read it over twice before he could make it out. It was
from the liector, and notwithstanding his wife's re-
monstrances, and his own qualms of doubt and uncer-
tainty, this was what Mr. Morgan said: —
"Dear Sir, — It is my painful duty to let you know
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 81
that certain rumours have reached my ears very pre-
judicial to your character as a clergyman, and which
I understand to be very generally current in Carling-
ford. Such a scandal, if not properly dealt with, is
certain to have an unfavourable effect upon the popular
mind, and injure the clergy in the general estimation
— while it is, as I need not point out to you, quite
destructive of your own usefulness. Under the circum-
stances, I have thought it my duty, as Rector of the
parish, to take steps for investigating these reports. Of
course I do not pretend to any authority over you, nor
can I enforce in any way your participation in the
inquiry or consent to it; but I beg to urge upon you
strongly, as a friend, the advantage of assenting freely,
that your innocence (if possible) may be made ap-
parent, and your character cleared. I enclose the
names of the gentlemen whoso assistance I intend to
request for this painful duty, in case you should object
to any of them; and would again urge upon you, for
your own sake, the expediency of concurrence. I regret
to say that, though 1 would not willingly prejudge
any man, much less a brother clergyman, I do not
feel that it would be seemly on my part, under the
circumstances, to avail myself of your assistance to-day
in the burial-service for the late Mr. Wodehouse. — Be-
lieve me, very sincerely yours, W. Morgan."
When Mr. Wentworth looked up from this letter,
he caught sight of his face in the mirror opposite, and
gazed into his own eyes like a man stupefied. He had
not been without vexations in eight-and-twenty years
of a not uneventful life, but he had never known any-
thing like the misery of that moment. It Avas nearly
The Peipcliuil Curate. II. o
82 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
four hours later when he walked slowly up Grange
Lane to the house, which before night might own so
different a master, but he had found as yet no time to
spare for the Wodehouses — even for Lucy — in the
thoughts which were all occupied by this unlooked-for
blow. Nobody could tell, not even himself, the mental
discipline he had gone through before he emerged,
rather stern, but perfectly calm, in the sunshine in
front of the closed-up house. If it was not his to meet
the solemn passenger at the gates with the Avords of
hope, at least he could do a man's part to the helpless
who had still to live; but the blow was cruel, and all
the force of his nature was necessary to sustain it. All
Carlingford knew, by the evidence of its senses, that
Mr. Wentworth had been a daily visitor of the dead,
and one of his most intimate friends, and nobody had
doubted for a moment that to him would be assigned
as great a portion of the service as his feelings per-
mitted him to undertake. When the by-standers saw
him join the procession, a thrill of surprise ran through
the crowd; but nobody — not even the man who walked
beside him — ventured to trifle with the Curate's face so
far as to ask why. The Grand Inquisitor himself, if
such a mythical personage exists any longer, could not
have invented a more delicate torture than that which
the respectable and kind-hearted Rector of Carlingford
inflicted calmly, without knowing it, upon the Curate
of St. Roque's. How was Mr. Morgan to know that
the sting would go to his heart? A Perpetual Curate
without a district lias nothing to do with a heart so
sensitive. The Rector put on his own robes with a
peaceful mind, feeling that he had done his duty, and,
with Mr. Leeson behind him, came to the church door
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 83
with great solemnity to meet the procession. He read
the words which are so sweet and so terrible with his
usual reading-desk voice as he read the invitations
every Sunday. He was a good man, but he was middle-
aged, and not accessible to impression from the mere
aspect of death; and he did not know Mr. Wodehouse,
nor care much for anything in the matter, except his
own virtue in excluding the Perpetual Curate from any
share in the service. Such was the Rector's feeling in
respect to this funeral, which made so much commo-
tion in Carlingford. He felt that he was vindicating
the purity of his profession as he threaded his way
through the pathetic hillocks , where the nameless people
were lying, to poor Mr. Wodehouse's grave.
This, however, was not the only thing which aroused
the wonder and interest of the townspeople when the
two shrinking, hooded female figures , all black and un-
recognisable, rose up trembling to follow their dead
from the church to the grave. Everybody saw with
wonder that their place was contested, and that some-
body else, a man whom no one knew, thrust himself
before them, and walked alone in the chief mourner's
place. As for Lucy, who, through her veil and her
tears , saw nothing distinctly, this figure, which she did
not know, struck her only with a vague astonishment.
If she thought of it at all, she thought it a mistake,
simple enough, though a little startling, and went on,
doing all she could to support her sister, saying broken
l^rayers in her heart, and far too much absorbed in the
duty she was performing to think who was looking on,
or to be conscious of any of the attending circum-
stances, except Mr. Morgan's voice, which was not the
voice she had expected to hear. Miss Wodehouse was
6*
84 THE PBUPETUAL CURATE.
a great deal more agitated than Lucy. She knew very
well who it was that jjlaced himself before her, assert-
ing his own right without oflPering any help to his
sisters; and vague apprehensions, which she herself
could not understand, came over her just at the moment
when she required her strength most. As there were
no other relations present, the place of honour next to
the two ladies had been tacitly conceded to Mr. Proctor
and Mr. Wentworth-, and it was thus that the Curate
rendered the last service to his old friend. It was a
strange procession, and concentrated in itself all that
was most exciting in Carlingford at the moment. Every-
body observed and commented upon the strange man,
who, all remarkable and unknown, with his great beard
and sullen countenance, walked by himself as chief
mourner. Who was he? and whispers arose and ran
through the outskirts of the crowd of the most incred-
ible description. Some said he was an illegitimate son
whom Mr. Wodehouse had left all liis property to, but
whom the ladies knew nothing of; some that it was a
strange cousin, whom Lucy was to be compelled to
marry or lose her share; and after a while people com-
pared notes, and went back upon their old recollections,
and began to ask each other if it was true that Tom
Wodehouse died twenty years ago in the West Indies?
Then behind the two ladies — poor ladies, whose fate
was hanging in the balance, though they did not know
it — came Mr. Wentworth in his cap and gown, pale
and stern as nobody ever had seen him before in
Carlingford, excluded from all share in the service,
which Mr. Leeson, in a flutter of surplice and solem-
nity, was giving his valuable assistance in. The church-
yard at Carlingford had not lost its semi-rural air tliough
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 85
the town had increased so much, for the district was
very healthy, as everybody knows, and people did not
die before their time, as in places less favoured. The
townspeople, who knew Mr.Wodehouse so well, lingered
all about among the graves, looking on with neigh-
bourly, calm regret, but the liveliest curiosity. Most
of the shopkeepers at that end of George Street had
closed their shops on the mournful occasion, and felt
tliemselves repaid. As for Elsworthy, he stood with a
group of supporters round him, as near as possible to
the funeral jirocession; and farther off in the distance,
under the trees, was a much more elegant spectator —
an unlikely man enough to assist at such a spectacle,
being no less a person than Jack Wentworth, in the
perfection of an English gentleman's morning ap^iarel,
perfectly at his ease and indifferent, yet listening with
close attention to all the scraps of talk that came in
his way. The centre of all this wondering, curious
crowd, Avhere so many passions and emotions and
schemes and purposes were in full tide, and life was
beating so strong and vehement, was the harmless dead,
under the heavy pall which did not veil him so en-
tirely from the living as did the hopes and fears and
curious speculations which had already sprung up over
him, filling up his place. Among the whole assembly
there was not one heart really occupied by thoughts of
him, except that of 2:)oor Lucy, who knew nothing of
all the absorbing anxieties and terrors that occupied
the others. She had still a moment's leisure for her
natural grief. It was all she could do to keep upright
and support her sister, who had burdens to bear which
Lncy knew nothing ofj but still, concealed under her
hood and veil, seeing nothing but the grave before her,
86 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
hearing nothing but the sacred words and the terrible
sound of "dust to dust," the young creature stood stead-
fast, and gave the dead man who had loved her his
due — last offering of nature and love, sweeter to antici-
pate than any honours. Nobody but his child offered
to poor Mr. Wodehouse that last right of humanity, or
made his grave sacred with natural tears.
Wlien they went back sadly out of all that blinding
sunshine into the darkened house, it was not all over,
as poor Lucy had supposed. She had begun to come
to herself and understand once more the looks of the
people about her, when the old maid, who had been
the attendant of the sisters during all Lucy's life, un-
did her wrappings, and in the agitation of the moment
kissed her white cheek, and held her in her arms. "Oh,
Miss Lucy, darling, don't take on no more than you
can help. I'm sore, sore afeared that there's a deal of
trouble afore you yet," said the weeping woman. Though
Lucy had not the smallest possible clue to her mean-
ing, and was almost too much worn out to be ciarious,
she could not help a vague thrill of alarm. "What is
it, Alland?" she said, rising up from the sofa on which
she had thrown herself. But Alland could do nothing
but cry over her nursling and console her. "Oh, my
poor dear! oh, my darling! as he never would have let
the wind of heaven to blow rough \ipon her!" cried the
old servant. And it was just then that Miss Wode-
house, who was trembling all over hysterically, came
into the room.
"We have to go down-stairs," said the elder sister.
"Oh Lucy, my darling, it was not my fault at first.
I should have told you last night to prepare you, and
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 87
I had not the heart. Mr. Wentworth has told me so
often "
"Mr. Wentworth?" said Lucy. She rose up, not
quite knowing where she was; aware of nothing, ex-
cept that some sudden calamity, under which she was
expected to faint altogether, was coming to her by
means of Mr. Wentworth. Her mind jumped at the
only dim possibility that seemed to glimmer through
the darkness. He must be married, she supposed, or
about to be married; and it was this they insulted her
by thinking that she could not bear. There was not
a particle of colour in her face before, but the blood
rushed into it with a bitterness of shame and rage
which she had never known till now. "I will go down
with you if it is necessary," said Lucy; "but surely
this is a strange time to talk of Mr. Wentworth's
affairs." There was no time to explain anything farther,
for just then old Mrs. Western, Avho was a distant
cousin, knocked at the door. "God help you, my poor
dear children," said the old lady; "they are all waiting
for you down-stairs;" and it was with this delusion in
her mind, embittering every thought, that Lucy went
into the drawing-room where they were all assembled.
The madness of the idea did not strike her somehow,
even when she saw the grave assembly, which it was
strange to think could have been brought together to
listen to any explanation from the Perpetual Curate.
He was standing there prominent enough among them,
with a certain air of suppressed passion in his face,
which Lucy divined almost without seeing it. For her
own part, she went in with perfect firmness, supporting
her sister, whose trembling was painful to see. There
was no other lady in the room except old Mrs. Western,
88 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
who would not sit down, but hovered behind the chairs
which had been placed for the sisters near the table
at which Mr. Waters was standing. By the side of
Mr. Waters was the man who had been at the funeral,
and whom nobody knew, and a few gentlemen Avho
were friends of the family were in the room — the
Rector, by virtue of his office, and Mr. Proctor and
Dr. Marjoribanks; and any one whose attention was
sufficiently disengaged to note the details of the scene
might have perceived John, who had been fifteen years
with Mr. Wodehouse, and the old cook in her black
gown, who was of older standing in the family than
Alland herself, peeping in, whenever it was opened,
through the door.
"Now that the Miss Wodehouses are here, we may
proceed to business," said Mr. Waters. "Some of the
party are already aware that I have an important com
munication to make. I am very sorry if it comes ab-
ruptly upon anybody specially interested. My late
partner, much respected though he has always been,
was a man of peculiar views in many respects. Di*.
Marjoribanks will bear me out in what I say. I had
been his partner for ten years before I found this out,
highly important as it will be seen to be; and I be-
lieve Mr. Wentworth, though an intimate friend of the
family, obtained the information by a kind of ac-
cident "
The stranger mvittered something in his beard
which nobody could hear, and the Perpetual Curate in-
terposed audibly. "Would it not be best to make the
explanations afterwards?" said Mr. Wentworth — and
he changed his own position and went over beside old
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 89
Mrs. Western, who was leaning tipon Lucy's cliair.
He put Ids OAvn hand on the back of the chair with
an involuntary impulse. As for Lucy, her first thrill
of nervous strength had failed her: she began to get
confused and bewildered; but whatever it was, no in-
sult, no wound to her pi'ide or affections, was coming
to her from that hand which she knew was on her
chair. She leaned back a little, with a long sigh. Her
imagination could not conceive anything important
enough for such a solemn intimation, and her attention
began to flag in spite of herself. No doubt it was
something about that money which people thought so
interesting. Meanwhile Mr. Waters went on steadily
with what he had to say, not sparing tliem a word of
the preamble; and it was not till ten minutes later that
Lucy started up with a sudden cry of incredulity and
wonder, and repeated his last words. "His son! —
whose son?" cried Lucy. She looked all round her,
not knowing whom to appeal to in her sudden con-
sternation. "We never had a brother," said the child
of Mr. Wodehouse's old age; "it must be some mis-
take." There was a dead pause after these words.
Wlien she looked round again, a sickening conviction
came to Lucy's heart that it was no mistake. She
rose up without knowing it, and looked round upon
all the people, who were watching her with various
looks of pity and curiosity and spectator-interest. Mr.
Waters had stopped speaking, and the terrible stranger
made a step forward with an air that identified him.
It was at him that Mr. Proctor was staring, who cleared
his voice a great many times, and came forward to
the middle of the room and looked as if he meant to
speak; and upon him every eye was fixed except Mr.
90 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Wentwortli's, who was watching Lucy, and Miss Wode-
house's, wliich were hidden in her hands. "We never
had a brother," she repeated, faltering; and then, in
the extremity of her wonder and excitement, Lucy
turned round, without knowing it, to the man whom
her heart instinctively appealed to. "Is it true?" she
said. She held out her hands to him with a kind of
entreaty not to say so. Mr. Wentworth made no reply
to her question. He said only, "Let me take you
away — it is too much for you," bending down over
her, without thinking what he did, and drawing her
hand through his arm. "She is not able for any more,"
said the Curate, hurriedly; "afterwards we can explain
to her." If he could have remembered anything about
himself at the moment, it is probable that he would
have denied himself the comfort of supporting Lucy —
he, a man under ban; but he was thinking only of
her, as he stood facing them all with her arm drawn
through his; upon which conjunction the Rector and
the late Rector looked with a grim aspect, disposed to
interfere, but not knowing how.
"All this may be very interesting to you," said the
stranger out of his beard; "if Lucy don't know her
brother, it is no fault of mine. Mr. Waters has only
said half he has got to say; and as for the rest, to
sum it up in half-a-dozen words, I'm very glad to see
you in my house, gentlemen, and I hope you will
make yourselves at home. Where nobody understands,
a man has to speak plain. I've been turned out all
my life, and, by Jove! I don't mean to stand it any
longer. The girls can have what their father's left
them," said the vagabond, in his moment of triumph.
"They ain't my business no more than I was theirs.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 91
The property is freehold, and Waters is aware that
I'm the heir."
Saying this, Wodehonse drew a chair to the table,
and sat down with emphasis. He was the only man
seated in the room, and he kept his place in his sullen
way amid the excited group which gathered round
him. As for Miss Wodehonse, some sense of what had
happened penetrated even her mind. She too rose up
and wiped her tears from her face, and looked round,
pale and sacred, to the Curate. "I was thinking — of
speaking to Lucy. I meant to ask her — to take you
hack, Tom," said the elder sister. "Oh, Mr. Went-
worth, tell me, for heaven's sake, what does it mean?"
"If I had only been permitted to explain,"- said
Mr. Waters; "my worthy partner died intestate — his
son is his natural heir. Perhaps we need not detain
the ladies longer, now that they understand it. All
the rest can be better arranged with their representa-
tive. I am very sorry to add to their sufferings to-
day," said the polite lawyer, opening the door-, "every-
thing else can be made the subject of an aiTangement."
He held the door open with a kind of civil coercion
compelling their departure. The familiar room they
were in no longer belonged to the Miss Wodehouses.
Lucy drew her arm out of Mr. Wentworth's, and took
her sister's hand.
"You will be our representative," she said to him,
out of the fulness of her heart. When the door closed,
the Perpetual Curate took up his position, facing them
all with looks more lofty than belonged even to his
Wentworth blood. They had kept him from exercis-
ing his office at his friend's grave, but nobody could
92 THE PKRPETUAL CURATE.
take from liiin the still nobler duty of defending the
oppressed.
CHAPTER VII.
When the door closed u^jon Lucy and her sister,
Mr. Wentworth stood by himself, facing the other
people assembled. The majority of them were more
surprised, more shocked, than he was; but they were
huddled together in their wonder at the opposite end
of the table, and had somehow a confused, half-conscious
air of being on the other side.
"It's a very extraordinary revelation that has just
been made to us," said Dr. Marjoribanks. "I am
throwing no doubt upon it, for my part; but my con-
viction was, that Tom Wodehouse died in the West
Indies. He was just the kind of man to die in the
West Indies. If it's you," said the Doctor, with a
growl of natural indignation, "you have the constitu-
tion of an elephant. You should have been dead ten
years ago, at the very least; and it aj^pears to me there
would be some difficulty in proving identity, if any-
body woiild take uji that view of the question." As
he spoke. Dr. Marjoribanks walked round the new-
comer, looking at him with medical criticism. The
Doctor's eyes shot out fiery hazel gleams as he con-
templated the heavy figure. "More appearance than
reality," he muttered to himself, with a kind of grim
satisfaction, poising a forefinger in air, as if to probe
the unwholesome flesh; and then he went round to the
other elbow of the unexpected heir. "The thing is
now, what you mean to do for them, to repair your
THE PERPETUAL CUPvATE, 93
father's neglect," he said, tapping peremptorily on
Wodehouse's arm.
"There is something else to be said in the mean
time," said Mr. Wentworth. "I must know precisely
how it is that a state of affairs so different from any-
thing Mr. Wodehouse could have intended has come
about. The mere absence of a will does not seem to
me to explain it. I should like to have Mr. Brown's
advice — for my own satisfaction, if nothing else."
"The parson has got nothing to do with it, that I
can see," said Wodehouse, "unless he was looking for
a legacy, or that sort of thing. As for the girls, I
don't see what right I have to be troubled; they took
deuced little trouble with me. Perha2)s they'd have
taken me in as a sort of footman without pay — you
heard what they said. Waters? By Jove! I'll serve
Miss Mary out for that," said the vagabond. Then he
paused a little, and, looking round him, moderated his
tone. "I've been badly ixsed all my life," said the
prodigal son. "They would never give me a hearing.
They say I did heaps of things I never dreamt of.
Mary ain't above thinking of her own interest "
Here Mr. Proctor came forward from the middle of
the room, where he had been standing in a perplexed
manner since the ladies went away. "Hold — hold your
tongue, sir!" said the late Rector; "haven't you done
enough injury already " When he had said so
much, he stopjied as abruptly as he had begun, and
seemed to recollect all at once that he had no title to
interfere.
"By Jove!" said Wodehouse, "you don't seem to
think I know what belongs to me, or who belongs to
me. Hold yotir tongue, Waters; I can speak for my-
94 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
self. I've been long enougli snubbed by everybody
that bad a mind. I don't mean to p\it up with this
sort of thing any longer. Any man who pleases can
consult John Brown. I recollect John Brown as well
as anybody in Carlingford. It don't matter to me
wliat he says, or what anybody says. The girls are a
parcel of girls, and I am my father's son, as it happens.
I should have thought the parson had enough on his
hands for one while," said the new heir, in the in-
solence of triumph. " He tried patronising me, but that
wouldn't answer. Why, there's his brother. Jack Went-
worth, his eldest brother, come down here purposely to
manage matters for me. He's the eldest son, by Jove,
and one of the greatest swells going. He has come
down here on j^urjiose to do the friendly thing by me.
We're great friends, by Jove! Jack Wentworth and I;
and yet here's a beggarly younger brother, that hasn't
a penny "
"Wodehouse," said Mr. Wentworth, with some con-
tempt, "sit down and be quiet. You and I have some
things to talk of which had better not be discussed in
})ublic. Leave Jack Wentworth's name alone , if you
are wise, and don't imagine that I am going to bear
your punishment. Be silent, sir!" cried the Curate,
sternly, "do you suppose I ask any explanation from
you? Mr. Waters, I want to hear how this has come
about? When I saw you in this man's interest some
time ago, you were not so friendly to him. Tell me
how it happens that he is now your client, and that
you set him forth as the heir?"
"By Jove, the parson has nothing to do with it!
Let him find it out," muttered Wodehouse in his beard;
but the words were only half audible, and the vaga-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 95
bond's shabby soul was cowed in spite of himself. He
gave the lawyer a furtive thrust in the arm as he spoke,
and looked at him a little anxiously; for the position
of a man standing lawfully on his natural rights was
new to Wodehouse; and all his certainty of the facts
did not save him from a sensation of habit which sug-
gested that close examination was alarming, and that
something might still be found out. As for Mr. Waters,
he looked with placid contempt at the man, who was
not respectable, and still had the instincts of a vaga-
bond in his heart.
"I am perfectly ready to explain," said the ir-
reproachable solicitor, who was quite secure in his
position. "The tone of the request, however, might be
modified a little; and as I don't, any more than Mr.
Wodehouse, see exactly what right Mr. Wentworth has
to demand "
"I ask an explanation, not on my own behalf, but
for the Miss Wodehouses, who have made me their
deputy," said the Curate, "for their satisfaction, and
that I may consult Mr. Brown. You seem to forget
that all he gains they lose; Avhich surely justifies their
representative in asking how did it come about?"
It was at this point that all the other gentlemen
present pressed closer, and evinced an intention to take
part. Dr. Marjoribanks was the first to speak. He
took a pinch of snuff, and while he consumed it looked
from under his grizzled sandy eyebrows Avith a per-
plexing mixture of doubt and respect at the Perpetual
Curate. He was a man of some discrimination in his
way, and the young man's lofty looks impressed him
a little in spite of himself
"Not to interrupt the explanation," said Dr. Mar-
96 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
joribanks, "which we'll all be glad to hear — but Mr.
Wentworth's a young man, not possessed, so far as I
am aware, of any particular right; — except that he has
been very generous and prompt in offering his services,"
said the Doctor, moved to the admission by a fiery
glance from the Curate's eye, which somehow did not
look like the eye of a guilty man. "I was thinking,
an old man, and an old friend, like myself, might
maybe be a better guardian for the ladies' interests- "
Mr. Proctor, who had been listening very anxiously,
was seized with a cough at this moment, which drowned
the Doctor's words. It was a preparatory cough, and
out of it the late Kector rushed into speech. "I have
come from — from (3xford to be of use," said the new
champion. "My time is entirely at my own — at Miss
Wodehouse's — at the Miss Wodehouses' disposal. I am
most desirous to be of use," said Mr. Proctor, anxiously.
And he advanced close to the table to prefer his claim.
"Such a discussion seems qiaite unnecessary," said
Mr. Wentworth, with some haughtiness. "I shall cer-
tainly do in the mean time what has been intrusted to
me. At present we are simply losing time."
"But " said the Rector The word was not of
importance, nor uttered with much resolution, but it
arrested Mr. Wentworth more surely than the shout of
a multitude. He turned sharp round upon his ad-
versary, and said "Well?" with an air of exas^Dcration;
while Wodehouse, who had been lounging about the
room in a discomfited condition, drew near to listen.
"I am comparatively a stranger to the Miss Wode-
houses," said Mr. Morgan; "still I am their clergyman;
and I think with Dr. Marjoribanks, that a young man
TFIE TERPETUAL CITRATE. 97
like Mr. Wentwortb, especially a man so seriously com-
promised— — "
"Oh, stop! I do tliink you are all a great deal too
hard upon Mr. Wentworth," said the lawyer, with a
laugh of toleration, which Wodehouse echoed behind
him with a sense of temerity that made his laughter all
the louder. He was frightened, but he was glad to
make himself offensive, according to his nature. Mr.
Wentworth stood alone, for his part, and had to ^iut up
with the laugh as he best could.
"If any one here wishes to injure me with the Miss
Wodehouses, an opportunity may easily be found," said
the Curate, with as much composure as he could muster;
"and I am ready to relinquish my charge when they
call on me to do so. In the mean time, this is not the
place to investigate my conduct. Sit down, sir, and
let us be free of your interference for this moment at
least," he said, fiercely, turning to the new heir. "I
warn you again, you have nothing but justice to ex-
pect at my hands. Mr. Waters, we wait your ex-
planations." He was the tallest man in the I'oom,
which perhaps had something to do with it-, the youngest,
best born, and best endowed. That he would have
carried the day triumphantly in the opinion of any
popular audience, there could be no kind of doubt.
Even in this middle-aged unimpressionable assembly,
his indignant self-control had a certain influence. When
he drew a chair towards the table and seated himself,
the others sat down unawares, and the lawyer began
his story without any further interruption. The ex-
planation of all was, that Mr. Wodehouse, like so many
men, had an ambition to end his days as a country
gentleman. He had set his heart for years on an estate
The Perpeliial Curate, II. *
98 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
in the neiglibourhood of Carlingford, and had just com-
pleted his h)ng-conteinphited purchase at the moment
of his last seizure. Nobody knew, except the Curate
and the lawyer, what the cause of that seizure was.
They exchanged looks without being aware of it, and
Wodehouse, still more deeply conscious, uttered, poor
wretch! a kind of gasp, wliich sounded like a laugh to
the other horrified spectators. After all, it was his
crime which had brought him his good fortune, for
there had been an early will relating to property which
existed no longer — proj)erty which liad been altogether
absorbed in the newly-acquired estate. "I have no doubt
my late excellent partner would have made a settlement
had the time been permitted him," said Mr. Waters.
"I have not the slightest doubt as to his intentions; but
the end was very unexpected at the last. I suppose
death always is unexpected when it comes," said the
lawyer, with a little solemnity, recollecting that three
of his auditors were clergymen. "The result is pain-
ful in many respects; but law is law, and such accidents
cannot be entirely avoided. "With the exception of a
few trifling personal matters, and the furniture, and a
little money at the bank, there is nothing but freehold
property, and of course the son takes that. I can have
no possible objection to your consulting Mr. Brown;
but Mr. Brown can give yon no further information."
If there had been any little hope of possible redress
lingering in the mind of the perplexed assembly, this
brought it to a conclusion. The heir, who had been
keeping behind with an impulse of natural shame, came
back to the table when his rights were so clearly
established. He did not know how to behave himself
with a good grace, but he was disposed to be con-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 99
dilatory, as far as he could, especially as it began to
be disagreeably apparent that the possession of his
father's property might not make any particular dif-
ference in the world's opinion of himself.
"It ain't my fault, gentlemen," said Wodehouse.
"Of course, I expected the governor to take care of
the, girls. I've been kept out of it for twenty years,
and that's a long time. By Jove! I've never known
what it was to be a rich man's son since I was a lad.
I don't say I won't do something for the girls if they
behave to me as they ought; and as for you, gen-
tlemen, who were friends of the family, I'll always be
glad to see you in my house," he said, with an attempt
at a friendly smile. But nobody took any notice of
the overtures of the new heir.
"Then they have nothing to depend upon," said
Mr. Proctor, whose agitated looks were the most in-
explicable feature of the whole — "no shelter even; no
near relations I ever heard of — and nobody to take care
of Lucy if— — " Here he stopped short and went to
the window, and stood looking out in a state of great
bewilderment. The late Rector was so buried in his
own thoughts, whatever they might be, that he did not
pay any attention to the further conversation which
went on behind him — of which, however, there was
very little — and only came to himself when he saw
Mr. Wentworth go rapidly through the garden. Mr.
Proctor rushed after the Perpetual Curate. He might
be seriously compromised, as Mr. Morgan said; but he
was more sympathetic than anybody else in Carling-
ford under present circumstances; and Mr. Proctor, in
his middle-aged uncertainty, could not help having a
loo THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
certain confidence in the young man's promptitude and
vigour. He made up to him out of breath when he
was just entering George Street. Carlingford had paid
what respect it could to Mr. Wodehouse's memory;
and now the shutters were being taken off the shop
windows, and people in general were very willing to
reward themselves for their self-denial by taking what
amusement they could out of the reports which already
began to be circulated about the way in which the
Miss Wodehouses were "left." When the late Rector
came up with the Perpetual Curate opposite Masters's
shop, there was quite a group of people there who
noted the conjunction. What could it mean? Was
there going to be a compromise? Was Carlingford to
be shamefully cheated out of the "investigation," and
all the details about Rosa Elsworthy, for which it
hungered? Mr. Proctor put his arm through that of
the Curate of St. Roque's, and permitted himself to be
swept along by the greater impetus of the young man's
rapid steps; for at this moment, being occupied with
more imjjortant matters, the late Rector had altogether
forgotten Mr. Wentworth's peculiar position, and the
cloud that hung over him.
"What a very extraordinary thing!" said Mr.
Proctor. "What could have betrayed old Wodehouse
into such a blunder! He must have known well
enough. This son — this fellow — has been living all
the time, of course. It is quite inexplicable to me,"
said the aggrieved man. "Do you know if there are
any aunts or uncles — any people whom poor little
Lucy might live with, for instance, if — — -" And here
Mr. Proctor once more came to a dead stop. Mr.
Wentworth, for his part, was so far from thinking of
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 101
her as "poor little Lucy," that he was much offended
by the unnecessary commiseration.
"The sisters will naturally remain together," he
said; "and, of course, there are many people who would
be but too glad to receive them. Miss Wodehouse is
old enough to protect her sister — though, of course,
the balance of character is on the other side," said the
inconsiderate young man; at which Mr. Proctor winced,
but made no definite reply.
"So you think there are people she could go to?"
said the late Rector, after a pause. "The thing
altogether is so unexpected, you knoAV. My idea
was "
"I beg your pardon," said the Curate; "I must see
Mr. Brown, and this is about the best time to find him
at home. Circumstances make it rather awkward for
me to call at the Rectory just now," he continued,
with a smile — "circumstances over which I have no
control, as people say; but perhaps you will stay long
enough to see me put on my trial. Good-bye now."
"Stop a moment," said Mr. Proctor; "about this
trial. Don't be affronted — I have nothing to do with
it, you know; and Morgan means very well, though
he's stupid enough. I should like to stand your friend,
Wentworth; you know I would. I wish you'd yield
to tell me all about it. If I were to call on you to-
night after dinner — for perhaps it would put Mrs.
Hadwin out to give me a chop?"
The Curate laughed in spite of himself "Fellows
of All-Souls don't dine on chops," he said, unable to
repress a gleam of amusement; "but come at six, and
you shall have something to eat, as good as I can
give you. As for telling you all about it," said Mr.
102 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Wentworth, "all tlie world is welcome to know as
much as I know."
Mr. Proctor laid his hand on the young man's arm,
by way of soothing him. "We'll talk it all over," he
said, confidentially; "both this affair, and — and the
other. We have a good deal in common, if I am not
much mistaken, and I trust we shall always be good
friends," said the inexplicable man. His complexion
heightened considerably after he had made this speech,
which conveyed nothing but amazement to the mind
of the Curate; and then shook hands hastily, and
hurried back again towards Grange Lane. If there
had been either room or leisure in Frank Wentworth's
mind for other thoughts, he might have laughed or
puzzled over the palpable mystery; but as it was, he
had dismissed the late Kector entirely from his mind
before he reached the door of Mr. Brown's room, where
the lawyer was seated alone. John Brown, who was
altogether a different type of man from Mr. Waters,
held out his hand to his visitor, and did not look at
all surprised to see him. "I half expected a call from
you," he said, "now that your old friend is gone, from
whom you would naturally have sought advice in the
circumstances. Tell me what I can do for you;" and
it became apparent to Mr. Wentworth that it was his
own affairs which were supposed to be the cause of
his application. It may be supjDosed after this that the
Curate stated his real object very curtly and clearly
without any unnecessary words, to the unbounded
amazement of the lawyer, who, being a busy man, and
not a friend of the Wodehouses, had as yet heard
nothing of the matter. Mr. Brown, however, could
only confirm what had been already said. "If it is
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 103
really freehold property, and uo settlement made, there
cannot be any question about it," he said; "but I will
see Waters to-morrow and make all sure, if you wish
it; though he dares not mislead you on such a point.
I am very sorry for the ladies, but I don't see what
can be done for them," said Mr. Brown; "and about
yourself, Mr. Wentworth?" Perhaps it was because of
a certain look of genuine confidence and solicitude in
John Brown's honest face that the Curate's heart was
moved. For the first time he condescended to discuss
the matter — to tell the lawyer, with whom indeed he
had but a very slight acquaintance (for John Brown
lived at the other end of Carlingford, and could not
be said to be in society), all he knew about Rosa Els-
worthy, and something of his suspicions. Mr. Brown,
for his part, knew little of the Perpetual Curate in his
social capacity, but he knew about Wharfside, which
was more to the purpose; and having himself been
truly in love once in his life, commonplace as he
looked, this honest man did not believe it possible that
Lucy Wodehouse's representative could be Rosa Els-
worthy's seducer — the two things looked incompatible
to the straightforward vision of John Brown.
"I'll attend at their investigation," he said, with a
smile, "which, if you were not parti ciilarly interested,
you'd find not bad fun, Mr. Wentworth. These private
attempts at law are generally very amusing. I'll
attend and look after your interests; but you had
better see that this Tom Wodehouse, — I remember the
scamp — he used to be bad enough for anything, —
don't give you the slip and get out of the way. Find
out if you can where he has been living these two
days. I'll attend to the other matter, too," the lawyer
104 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
said, cheerfully, shaking hands with his new client;
and the Curate went away with a vague feeling that
matters were about to come right somehow, at which
he smiled when he came to think of it, and saw how
little foundation he had for such a hope. But his
hands were full of business, and he had no time to
consider his own affairs at this particular moment.
It seemed to him a kind of profanity to permit Lucy
to remain under the same roof with Wodehouse, even
though he was her brother; and Mr. Proctor's inquiries
had stimulated his own feeling. There Avas a certain
pleasure, besides, in post23oning himself and his own
business, however important, to her and her concerns;
and it was with this idea that he proceeded to the
house of his aunts, and was conducted to a little
private sitting-room approjjriated to the sole use of
Miss Leonora, for whom he had asked. As he passed
the door of the drawing-room, which was ajar, he
glanced in, and saw his aunt Dora bending over some-
body who Avept, and heard a familiar voice pouring
out complaints, the general sound of which was equally
familiar, though he could not make out a word of the
special subject. Frank was startled, notwithstanding
his preoccupations, for it was the same voice which
had summoned him to Wentworth Rectory which now
poured out its lamentations in the Miss Wentworths'
drawing-room in Carlingford. Evidently some new
complication had arisen in the affairs of the family.
Miss Leonora was in her room, busy with the books
of a Ladies' Association, of which she was treasurer.
She had a letter before her from the missionary
employed by the society, which was a very interesting
letter, and likely to make a considerable sensation
THE PERPETTIAL CURATE. 105
when read before the next meeting. Miss Leonora
was taking the cream off this ])iece of correspondence,
enjoying at once itself and the impression it would
make. She was slightly annoyed when her nephew
came in to disturb her. "The others are in the
drawing-room, as usual," she said. "I can't imagine
what Louis could be thinking of, to bring you here.
Louisa's coming can make no difference to you."
"So Louisa has come? I thought I heard her
voice. What has happened to bring Louisa here?"
said the Curate, who was not sorry to begin with an
indifferent subject. Miss Leonora shook her head and
took up her letter.
"She is in the drawing-room," said the strong-
minded aunt. "If you have no particular business
with me, Frank, you had better ask herself: of course,
if you want me, 1 am at your service — but otherwise
I am busy, you see."
"And so am I," said Mr. Wentworth, "as busy as
a man can be whose character is at stake. Do you
know I am to be tried to-morrow? But that is not
what I came to ask you about."
"I wish you would tell me about it," said Miss
Leonora. She got up from her writing-table and from
the missionary's letter, and abandoned herself to the
impulses of nature. "I have heard disagreeable rumours.
I don't object to your reserve, Frank, but things seem
to be getting serious. What does it mean?"
The Curate had been much braced in his inner
man by his short interview with John Brown; that,
and the representative position he held, had made a
wonderful change in his feelings: besides, a matter
Avhicli was about to become so public could not be
106 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ignored. "It means only tliat a good many people in
Carlingford think me a villain," said Mr. Wentworth:
"it is not a flattering idea; and it seems to me, I must
say, an illogical induction from the facts of my life.
Still it is true that some people think so — and I am to
be tried to-morrow. But in the mean time, something
else has happened. I know you are a good woman,
aunt Leonora. We don't agree in many things, but
that does not matter. There are two ladies in Car-
lingford who up to this day have been rich, well off,
well cared for, and who have suddenly lost all their
means, their protector, even their home. They have
no relations that I know of. One of them is good for
any exertion that may be necessary," said the Curate,
his voice softening with a far-off masculine suggestion
as of tears; "but she is young — too young to contend
with the world — and she is now suffering her first
grief The other is old enovigh, but not good for
much "
"You mean the two Miss Wodehouses?" said Miss
Leonora. "Their father has turned out to be — bank--
rupt? — or something "
"Worse than bankrupt," said the Curate: "there is
a brother who takes everything. Will you stand by
them — ofiPer them shelter? — I mean for a time. I
don't know anybody I should care to apply to but
you."
Miss Leonora paused and looked at her nephew.
"First tell me what you have to do with them," she
asked. "If there is a brother, he is their natural pro-
tector—certainly not you — unless there is something I
don't know of Frank, you know you can't marry,"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 107
said Miss Leonora, with a little vehemence, once more
looking in her nephew's face.
"No," said Frank, with momentary bitterness ; "I
am not likely to make any mistake about that — at
present, at least. The brother is a reprobate of whom
they know nothing. I have no right to consider my-
self their protector — but I am their friend at least,"
said the Curate, breaking off with again that softening
in his voice. "They may have a great many friends
for anything I know, but I have confidence in you,
aunt Leonora: you are not perhaps particularly sym-
pathetic," he went on with a laugh; "you don't con-
dole with Louisa, for instance; but I could trust you
with "
"Lucy Wodehouse!" said Miss Leonora; "I don't
dislike her at all, if she would not wear that ridiculous
grey cloak; but young men don't take such an interest
in young women withoiit some reason for it. What are
we to do for you, Frank?" said the strong-minded
woman, looking at him with a little softness. Miss
Leonora, perhaps, was not used to be taken into any-
body's confidence. It moved her more than might
have been expected from so self-possessed a woman.
Perhaps no other act on the part of her nephew could
have had so much effect, had he been able to pursixe
his advantage, upon the still undecided fate of Skelmers-
dale.
"Nothing," said the Curate. He met her eye very
steadily, but she was too clear-sighted to believe that
he felt as calmly as he looked. "Nothing," he repeated
again — "I told you as much before. I have been slan-
dered here, and here I must remain. There are no
parsonages or paradises for me."
108 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
With which speech Mr. Wentworth shook hands
with his aunt and went away. He left Miss Leonora
as he had left her on various occasions — considerably
confused in her ideas. She could not enjoy any longer
the cream of the missionary's letter. When she tried
to resume her reading, her attention flagged over it.
After a while she put on her bonnet and went out,
after a little consultation with her maid, Avho assisted
her in the housekeeping department. The house was
tolerably full at the present moment, but it was clastic.
She was met at the green door of Mr. Wodehouse's
garden by the new proprietor, who stared excessively,
and did not know what to make of such an appari-
tion. "Jack Wentworth's aunt, by Jove!" he said to
himself, and took off his hat, meaning to shoAV her "a
little civility." Miss Leonora thought him one of the
attendants at the recent ceremonial, and passed him
without any ceremony. She was quite intent upon her
charitable mission. Mr. Wentworth's confidence was
justified.
CHAPTER VIII.
Mr. Wentworth's day had been closely occupied
up to this point. He had gone through a great many
emotions, and transacted a good deal of business, and
he went home witli the comparative ease of a man
whose anxieties are relieved, not by any real deliver-
ance, but by the sootliing influence of fatigue and the
sense of something accomplished. He was not in reality
in a better position than when he left his house in the
morning, bitterly mortified, injured, and wounded at
THE PERPETUAL CltPvATE. 109
tlie tenderest point. Things were very mucli the same
as they had been, but a change had come over the
feelings of the Perpetual Curate. He remembered with
a smile, as he went down Grange Lane, that Mr. Proc-
tor was to dine with him, and tliat he had rashly
undertaken to have something better tlian a chop. It
was a very foolish engagement under the circum-
stances. Mr. Wentworth was cogitating within him-
self whether he could make an appeal to the sym-
pathies of his aunt's cook for something worthy of the
sensitive palate of a Fellow of All-Souls, when all such
thoughts were suddenly driven out of his mind by the
apparition of his brother Gerald — ^perliaps the last man
in the world whom he could have expected to see in
Carlingford. Gerald was coming up Grange Lane in
his meditative way from Mrs. Hadwin's door. To look
at him was enough to reveal to any clear-sighted spec-
tator the presence of some perpetual argi;ment in his
mind. Though he had come out to look for Frank,
his eyes were continually forsaking his intention,
catching at spots of lichen on the wall and clumps ui'
herbage on the roadside. The long discussion had be-
come so familiar to him, that even now, when his mind
was made up, he could not relinquish the habit which
possessed him. When he perceived Frank, he quickened
liis steps. They met with only such a modiiied ex-
pression of surprise on the part of the younger brollier
as was natural to a meeting of English kinsfolk. "I
heard Louisa's voice in my aunt's drawing-room," said
Frank; "but, oddly enough, it never occurred to me
that you might have come with her;" and then Gerald
turned with the Curate. When the ordinary fiimily
questions were asked and answered, a silence ensued
110 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
between the two. As for Frank, in the multiplicity of
his own cares, he had all but forgotten his brother;
and Gerald's mind, though full of anxiety, had some-
thing of the calm which might be supposed to subdue
the senses of a dying man. He was on the eve of a
change, which appeared to him almost as great as
death; and the knowledge of that gave him a curious
stillness of composure — almost a reluctance to speak.
Strangely enough, each brother at this critical moment
felt it necessary to occupy himself with the affairs of
the other, and to postpone the consideration of his
own.
"I hope you have changed your mind a little since
we last met," said Frank; "your last letter "
"We'll talk of that presently," said the elder bro-
ther; "in the mean time I want to know about you.
What is all this? My father is in a great state of
anxiety. He does not seem to have got rid of his
fancy that you were somehow involved with Jack —
and Jack is here," said Gerald, with a look which be-
tokened some anxiety on his own part. "I wish you
would give me your confidence. Right or wrong, I
have come to stand by you, Frank," said the Rector
of Wentworth, rather mournfully. He had been wait-
ing at Mrs. Hadwin's for the last two hours. He had
seen that worthy woman's discomposed looks, and felt
that she did not shake her head for nothing. Jack had
been the bugbear of the family for a long time past.
Gerald was consciovis of adding heavily at the present
moment to the Squire's troubles. Charley was at Malta,
in indifferent health; all the others were boys. There
was only Frank to give the father a little consolation;
and now Frank, it appeared, was most deeply compro-
THE PERPEIUAL CURATE. Ill
mised of all; no wonder Gerald was sad. And then
he drew forth the anonymous letter which had startled
all the Wentworths on the previous night. "This is
written by somebody who hates you," said the elder
brother; "but I suppose there must be some meaning
in it. I wish you would be frank with me, and tell
me what it is."
This appeal had brought them to Mrs. Hadwin's
door, which the Curate opened with his key before he
answered his brother. The old lady herself was walk-
ing in the gai-den in a state of great agitation, with a
shawl thrown over the best cap, which she had put on
in honour of the stranger. Mrs. Hadwin's feelings
were too much for her at that moment. Her head was
nodding with the excitement of age, and injured virtue
trembled in every line of her face. "Mr. Wentworth,
I cannot put up with it any longer; it is a thing I
never was used to," she cried as soon as the Curate
came within hearing. "I have shut my eyes to a great
deal, but I cannot bear it any longer. If I had been
a common lodging-house keeper, I could not have been
treated with less respect; but to be oiitraged — to be
insulted "
"What is the matter, Mrs. Hadwin?" said Mr.
Wentworth, in dismay.
"Sir," said the old lady, who was trembling with
passion, "you may think it no matter to turn a house
upside down as mine has been since Easter; to bring
all sorts of disreputable people about — persons whom
a gentlewoman in my position ought never to have
heard of. I received your brother into my house,"
cried Mrs. Hadwin, turning to Gerald, "because he
was a clergyman and I knew his family, and hoped to
112 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
find him one whose principles I could approve of. I
have put up with a great deal, Mr. Wentworth, more
than I coxald tell to anybody. I took in his friend when
he asked me, and gave him the spare room, though it
was against my judgment. I suffered a man with a
beard to be seen stealing in and out of my house in
tlie evening, as if he Avere afraid to be seen. You gen-
tlemen may not think much of that, but it was a ter-
rible thing for a lady in my position, unprotected, and
not so well off as I once was. It made my house like
a lodging-house, and so my friends told me; but I was
so infatuated I put up with it all for Mr. Frank's sake.
But their is a limit," said the aggrieved woman. "I
would not have believed it — I could not have believed
it of you — not whatever people might say: to think of
that abandoned disgraceful girl coming openly to my
door "
"Good heavens!" cried the Curate: he seized Mrs.
Hadwin's hand, evidently forgetting everything else she
had said. "What girl? — whom do you mean? For
heaven's sake compose yourself and answer me. Who
was it? Rosa Elsworthy? Tliis is a matter of life and
death for me," cried the young man. "Speak quickly:
when was it? — where is she? For heaven's sake, Mrs.
Iladwin, speak "
"Let me go, sir!" cried the indignant old lady;
"let me go this instant — this is insult upon insult. I
appeal to you, Mr. Gerald — to think I should ever be
supposed capable of encouraging such a horrid shame-
less ! How dare you — how dare you name such
a creature to me?" exclaimed Mrs. Hadwin, with hyster-
ical sobs. "If it were not for your family, you should
never enter my house again. Oh, thank you, Mr.
THE PEKPfiTUAL CURATE. 113
Gerald Wentworth — indeed I am not able to walk. I
am sure I don't want to grieve you about your brother
■ — I tried not to believe it — I tried as long as I could
not to believe it — but you hear how he speaks. Do
you think, sir, I would for a moment permit such a
creature to enter my door?" she cried again, turning
to Frank Wentworth as she leaned upon his brother's
arm.
"I don't know what kind of a creature the poor
girl is," said the Curate; "but I know that if you
had taken her in, it would have saved me much
pain and trouble. Tell me, at least, when she came,
and who saw her — or if she left any message? Perhaps
Sarah will tell me," he said, with a sigh of despair, as
he saw that handmaiden hovering behind. Sarah had
been a little shy of Mr. Wentworth since the night
Wodehouse disappeared. She had betrayed herself to-
the Curate, and did not like to remember the fact.
Now she came up with a little toss of her head and a
sense of equality, ])rimed and ready with her reply.
"I hope I think more of myself than to take notice
of any sich," said Sarah; but her instincts were more
vivid than those of her mistress, and she could not re-
frain from particulars. "Them as saw her now, wouldn't
see much in her; I never see such a changed creature,"
said Sarah; "not as I ever thought anything of her
looks! a bit of a shawl dragged round hor, and her
eyes as if they would jump out of her head. Laws!
she didn't get no satisfaction here," said the house-
maid, with a little triumph.
"Silence, Sarah!" said Mrs. Hadwin; "that is not
a way to speak to your clergyman. I'll go in, Mr.
Wentworth, please — I am not equal to so much agita-
The Peipeiiial Cunde. II. o
114 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
tion. If Mr. Frank will come indoors, I slionld be
glad to have an explanation — for this sort of thing
cannot go on," said the old lady. As for the Curate,
he did not pay the least attention either to the dis-
approval or the impertinence.
"At what time did she come? — which way did she
go? — did she leave any message?" he repeated; "a
moment's common-sense will be of more use than all
this indignation. It is of the greatest importance to
me to see Rosa Elsworthy. Here's how it is, Gerald,"
said the Curate, driven to his wits' end; "a word from
the girl is all I want to make an end of all this — this
disgusting folly — and you see how I am thwarted.
Perhaps they will answer you. When did she come?
— did she say anything?" he cried, turning sharply
ujjon Sarah, who, frightened by Mr. Wentworth's look,
and dismayed to see her mistress moving away, and to
feel herself alone opposed to him, burst at last into an
alarmed statement.
"Please, sir, it ain't no fault of mine," said Sarah;
"it was Missis as saw her. She ain't been gone not half
an hour. It's all happened since your brother left.
She come to the side-door; Missis wouldn't hear no-
thing slie had got to say, nor let her speak. Oh, Mr.
Wentworth, don't you go after her!" cried the girl,
folloAving him to the side-door, to which he rushed im-
mediately. Not half an hour gone! Mr. Wentworth
burst into the lane wliich led up to Grove Street, and
where there was not a soul to be seen. He went back
to Grange Lane, and inspected every corner whei'e she
could have hid herself. Then, after a pause, he walked
impetuously up tlie quiet road, and into Elsworthy's
shop. Mrs. Elsworthy was tliere alone, occupying her
THE PEKPETITAL CURATE. llT*
liusbaud's place, wlio had gone as usual to tlie railway
for the evening papers. She jumped up from the .high
stool she was seated on when the Curate entered.
"Good gracious, Mr. Wentworth ! " cried the frightened
woman, and instinctively called the errand-boy, who
was the only other individiial within liearing. She
was unprotected, and quite unable to defend herself if
lie meant anything; and it was impossible to doubt
that there was meaning of the most serious and ener-
getic kind in Mr. Wentworth's face.
"Has Rosa come back?" he asked. "Is she here?
Don't stare at me, but speak. Has she come back? I
have just heard that she was at my house half an hour
ago: have you got her safe?"
It was at this moment that Wodehouse came loung-
ing in, with his cigar a^ipearing in the midst of his
beard, and a curious look of self-exhibition and de-
monstration in his general aspect. When the Curate,
hearing the step, turned round upon him, he fell back
for a moment, not expecting such an encounter. Then
the vagabond recovered himself, and came forward witli
the swagger which was his only alternative.
"I thought you weren't on good terms here," said
Wodehouse-, "who are y^u asking after? It's a fine
evening, and they don't seem up to much in my house.
I have asked Jack Wentworth to the Blue Boar at
seven — will you come? I don't want to bear any
grudge. I don't know if they can cook anything fit
to be eaten in my house. It wasn't me you were ask-
ing after?" The fellow came and stood close, shoulder
to shoulder, by the Perpetual Curate. "By Jove, sir!
I've as good a right here as you — or anywhere," he
muttered, as Mr. Wentworth withdrew from him. He
116 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
had to say it aloud to convince liiinself of the fact- for
it was hard, after being clandestine for half a lifetime,
to move about freely in the daylight. As for Mr.
Wentworth, he fixed his eyes full on the new-comer's
face.
"I want to know if Rosa has come home," he re-
peated, in the clearest tones of liis clear voice. "I am
told she called at Mrs. Hadwin's half an hour ago.
Has she come back?"
He scarcely noticed Mrs. Elsworthy's answer, for,
in the mean time, the cigar dropped out of Wodehouse's
beard, out of his fingers. He made an involuntary
step back out of the Curate's way. "By Jove!" he
exclaimed to himself — the news was more imjiortant to
him than to either of the others. After a minute he
turned his back upon them, and kicked the cigar which
he had drojjped out into the street with much blun-
dering and unnecessary violence — but turned round
and stopped short in this occupation as soon as he
heard Mrs. Elsworthy's voice.
"She hasn't come here," said that virtuous Avoman,
sharply. "I've give in to Elswortliy a deal, but I
■never said I'd give in to take her back. She's been
and disgraced us all; and she's not a drop's blood to
me," said Mrs. Elsworthy. "Them as has brought her
to this pass had best look after lier-, I've washed my
hands of Rosa, and all belonging to her. She knows
better tlian to come liere."
"Who's sj)eaking of Rosa?" said Elswortliy, who
just then came in with his bundle of newspapers from
the railway. "I might have know'd as it was Mr.
Wentworth. Matters is going to be cleared, sir, be-
tAveei) me and you. If you was going to make a pro-
THR PERPETUAL CURATE. 117
posal, I ain't revengeful-, and I'm open to any arrange-
ment as is liononrablc, to save things coming afore the
])ublic. I've been expecting of it. Yon may speak
free, sir. You needn't be afraid of me."
"Fool!" said the Curate, hotly, "your niece has
been seen in Carlingford; she came to my door, I am
told, about an hour ago. Give up this folly, and let
us make an effort to find her. I tell you she came to
my house "
"In course, sir," said Elsworthy, "it was the most
naturalest place for her to go. Don't you stand upon
it no longer, as if you could deceive folks. It will be
your ruin, Mr. Wentworth — you know that as well as
I do. I ain't no fool, but I'm o^jen to a honourable
proposal, I am. It'll ruin you — ay, and I'll ruin you,"
cried Kosa's uncle, hoarsely — "if you don't change
your mind afore to-morrow. It's your last chance, if
you care for your character, is to-night."
Mr. Wentworth did not condescend to make any
answer. He followed Wodehouse, who had shuffled
oiit after his cigar, and stopped him on the step. "I
wonder if it is any use appealing to your honour," he
said. "I suppose you Avere a gentleman once, and had
the feelings of "
"By Jove! I'm as good a gentleman as you are,"
cried the new heir. "I could buy you up — you and
all that belongs to you, by Jove! I'm giving Jack
Wentworth a dinner at the Blue Boar to-night. I'm
not a man to be cross-questioned. It aj^pears to me
you have got enough to do if you mind your own
business," said Wodehouse, Avith a sneer. "You're in
a nice mess, though you are the parson. I told Jack
Wentworth so last night."
118 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
The Curate stood on the step of Elsworthy's shop
with his enemy behind, and the ungrateful vagabond
whom he had rescued and guarded, standing in front
of him, with that sneer on his lips. It Avas hard to
refrain from tlie natural impulse which prompted him
to pitch the vagabond out of his way. "Look here,"
he said, sharply, "you have not much character to
lose; but a scamp is a different thing from a criminal.
I will make the principal people in Carlingford aware
what were the precise circumstances under whicli you
came here at Easter if you do not immediately restore
this unhappy girl to her friends. Do you understand
me? If it is not done at once I will make use of my
information — and you know what that means. You
can defy me if you please; but in that case you had
better make up your mind to the consequences; you
will have to take your place as a "
"Stop!" cried "Wodehouse, with a shiver. "We're
not by ourselves — we're in the public street. "What do
you mean by talking like that here? Come to my
house, Wentworth — there's a good fellow — I've ordered
a dinner "
"Be silent, sir!" said the Curate. "I give you till
noon to-morrow; after that I will spare you no longer.
You understand what I mean. I have been too merci-
ful already. To-morrow, if everything is not arranged
to my satisfaction here "
"It was my own name," said Wodehouse, sullenly;
"nobody can say it wasn't my own name. You couldn't
do me any harm — you know you wouldn't, either, for
the sake of the girls; I'll — I'll give them a thousand
pounds or so, if I find I can aflPord it. Come, you
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 119
don't mean that sort of thing, you know," said the
conscious criminal; "you wouldn't do me any harm."
"If I have to fight for my own reputation I shall
not spare you," cried the Curate. "Mind what I say!
You are safe till twelve o'clock to-morrow, but after
that I will have no mercy — not for your sisters' sake,
not for any inducement in the world. If you want to
be known as a "
"Oh Lord, don't speak so loudl^what do you
mean? Wentworth, I say, hist! Mr. Wentworth! By
Jove, he won't listen to me!" cried Wodehoiise in an
agony. When he found that the Curate was already
out of hearing, the vagabond looked round him on
every side with his natural instinct of suspicion. If
he had known that Mr, Wentworth was thinking only
of disgrace and the stern sentence of public opinion,
Wodehouse could have put up with it; but he himself,
in his guilty imagination, jumped at the bar and the
prison which had haunted him for long. Somehow it
felt natural that such a Nemesis should come to him
after the morning's triumph. He stood looking after
the Curate, guilty and horror-stricken, till it occurred
to him that he might be remarked; and then he made
a circuit past Elsworthy's shop window as far as the
end of Prickett's Lane, where he ventured to cross
over so as to get to his own house. His own house! —
the wretched thrill of terror that went through him was
a very sufficient offset against his momentary triumph;
and this was succeeded by a flush of rage as he thought
of the Curate's other information. What was to be
done? Every moment was precious; but he felt an in-
stinctive horror of venturing out again in the daylight.
When it approached the hour at which he had ordered
120 THE rEUPETUAL CURATE.
tluat dinner at the Blue Boar, the humbled hero wrapped
himself in an old over-coat which he f'oimd in the hall, and
slunk into the inn like the clandestine wretch he was.
He had no confidence in himself, but he had confidence
in Jack Wentworth. He might still be able to help
his unlucky associate out.
When Mr. Wentworth reached his rooms, he found
that his guest had arrived before him, and consequently
the threatened explanation with Mrs. Hadwin was fore-
stalled for that night. Mr. Proctor and Gerald were
sitting together, not at all knowing what to talk about;
for the late Rector was aware that Frank Wentworth's
brother was on the verge of Rome, and was confused,
and could not help feeling that his position between a
man on the point of perversion in an ecclesiastical
point of view, and another whose morals were suspected
and whose character was compromised, was, to say the
least, a very odd position for a clergyman of unblem-
ished orthodoxy and respectability; besides, it was
embarrassing, when he had come for a very private
consultation, to find a stranger there before him. The
Curate went in very full of what had just occurred.
The events of the last two or three hours had worked
a total change in his feelings. He was no longer the
injured, insulted, silent object of a petty but virulent
persecution. The contemptuous silence with which he
had treated the scandal at first, and the still more ob-
stinate sense of wrong which latterly had shut his lips
and his heart, had given way to-day to warmer and
more generous emotions. What would have seemed to
him in the morning only the indignant reserve of a
man unjustly susjiected, appeared now a foolish and
unfriendly reticence. The only thing which restrained
THE PET^rRTUAL CURATE. 121
liim v/as a still lingering inclination to screen Wode-
house, if possible, from a public exposure, wliicli woiild
tlirow shame upon Lis sisters as well as liimself. If
any generosity, if any gentlemanly feeling, were still
left in the vagabond's soul, it was possible he might
answer the Curate's appeal; and Mr. Wentworth i'elt
himself bound to offer no public explanation of the
facts of the case until this last chance of escape had
been left for the criminal. But, so far as regarded
himself, his heart was opened, his wounded pride
mollified, and he was ready enough to talk of what
had just happened, and to explain the whole business
to his anxious companions. When he joined them,
indeed, he was so full of it as almost to forget that he
himself was still believed the hero of the tale. "This
unfortunate little girl has been here, and I have missed
her," he said, without in the least concealing his vexa-
tion, and the excitement which his rapid walk had not
subdued-, to the great horror of Mr. Proctor, who tried
all he could, by telegraphic glances, to recall the
yoixng man to a sense of the fact that Sarah was in
the room.
"I must say I think it is imprudent — highly im-
prudent," said the late Rector: "they will call these
women to prove that she has been here again; and
what conclusion but one can possibly be drawn from
such a fact? I am very sorry to see you so unguarded."
He said this, seizing the moment after Sarah had re-
moved the salmon, which was very good, and was
served with a sauce which pleased Mr. Proctor all the
more that he had not expected much from an im-
promptu dinner furnished by a Perpetual Curate; but
the fact was, that Gerald's arrival had awakened Mrs.
122 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Hadwin to a proper regard for lier own credit, which
was at stake.
When Sarali witlidrew finally, and they were left
alone, Frank Wentworth gave the fullest explanation
he was able to his surprised auditors. He told them
that it was Wodehouse, and not himself, whom Rosa
had met in the garden, and whom she had no doubt
come to seek at this crisis of their fortunes. There
was not the least doubt in his own mind that Wode-
house had carried her away, and hidden her some-
where close at hand; and when he had given them all
his reasons for thinking so, his hearers were of the
same opinion; but Mr. Proctor continued very doubtful
and perplexed, clear though the story was. He sat
silent, brooding over the new mystery, while the
brothers discussed the original questions.
"I cannot think why you did not go to the Rector
at once and tell him all this," said Gerald. "It is al-
ways best to put a stop to gossip. At least you will
see him to-morrow, or let me see him- "
"The Rector is deeply prejudiced against me," said
the Perpetual Curate, "for a very unworthy reason, if
he has any reason at all. He has never asked me to
explain. I shall not interfere with his investigation,"
said the young man, haughtily; "let it go on. I have
been working here for five years, and the Carling-
ford people ought to know better. As for the Rector,
I will make no explanations to him."
"It is not for the Rector, it is for yourself," said
Gerald; "and this fellow Wodehouse surely has no
claim "
But at the sound of this name, Mr. Proctor roused
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 123
himself from his pause of bewilderment, and took the
words out of Mr. Wentworth's mouth.
"He has been here since Easter; but why?" said
the late Rector. "I cannot fancy why Mr. Wodehouse's
sou should come to you when his father's house was so
near. In hidinji,? why was he in hiding? He is evi-
dently a scamp," said Mr. Proctor, growing red; "but
that is not so unusual. I don't understand — I am bound
to say I don't understand it. He may be the culprit,
as you say; but what was he doing here?"
"I took him in at Miss Wodehouse's request. I
cannot explain why — she will tell you," said the Curate.
"As for Wodehouse, I have given him another chance
till twelve o'clock to-morrow: if he does not make his
appearance then- — — "
Mr. Proctor had listened only to the first words; he
kept moving uneasily in his seat while the Curate
spoke. Then he broke in, "It appears I cannot see
Miss Wodehouse," he said, with an injured tone; "she
does not see any one. I cannot ask for any explana-
tion; but it seems to me most extraordinary. It is
three months since Easter. If he has been living with
you all the time, there must have been some occasion
for it. I don't know what to think, for my part; and
yet I always imagined that I was considered a friend
of the family," said the late Rector, with an aggrieved
look. He took his glass of claret very slowly, looking
at it as if expecting to see in the purple reflection some
explanation of the mystery. As for Gerald Wentworth,
he relapsed into silence when he found that his argu-
ments did not alter Frank's decision; he too was dis-
appointed not to find his brother alone. He sat with
his eyes cast down, and a singular look of abstraction
124 TIIR PEUPETUAL CURATE.
on his face. Ho liad got into a new atmospliere — a
different world. When his anxieties about Frank were
satisfied, Gerald Avithdrew himself altogether from the
little party. He sat there, it is true, not unaware of
what was going on, and even from time to time joining
in the conversation; but already a subtle change had
come over Gerald. He might have been re^jeating an
"office," or carrying on a course of private devotions,
from his looks. Kome had established her dualism in
his mind. He had no longer the unity of an English-
man trained to do one thing at a time, and to do it
Avith his might. He sat in a kind of languor, carrying
on within himself a thread of thought, to which his
external occupation gave no clue; yet at the same time
suffering no indication to escape him of the real con-
dition of his mind. The three were consequently far
from being good company. Mr. Proctor, who was more
puzzled than ever as to the true state of the case, could
not unburden himself of his own intentions as he had
hoped to do; and after a while the Curate, too, was
silent, finding his statements received, as he thought,
but coldly. It was a great relief to him when he was
called out by Sarah to speak to some one, though his
absence made conversation still more difficult for the
two who were left behind. Mr. Proctor, from the other
side of the table, regarded Gerald with a mixture of
wonder and pity. He did not feel quite sure that it
was not his duty to speak to him — to expound the su-
perior catholicity of the Church of England , and call
his attention to the schismatic peculiarities of the Church
of Rome. "It might do him good to read Burgon's
book," Mr. Proctor said to himself; and by way of in-
troducing that subject, he began to talk of Italy, which
THB PEKPETUAL CUKATE. 125
was not a bad device, and did credit to his invention.
Meanwhile the Curate had gone to his study, wonder-
ing a little who could want him, and, to his utter be-
wilderment, found his aunt Dora, veiled, and wrapped
up in a great shawl.
"Oh, Frank, my dear, don't be angry. I couldn't
help coming," cried Miss Dora. "Come and sit down
by me here. I slipped out and did not even put on
my bonnet, that nobody might know. Oh, Frank, I
don't know what to say. I am so afraid you have
been wicked. I have just seen that — that girl. I saw
her out of my window. Frank! don't jump up like that.
I can't go on telling you if you don't stay quiet here."
"Aunt, let me understand you," cried the Curate.
"You saw whom? Rosa Elsworthy? Don't drive me
desperate, as all the others do with their stupidity.
You saw her? when? — where?"
"Oh, Frank, Frank! to think it should put you in
such a way — such a girl as that! Oh, my dear boy, if
I had thought you cared so much, I never would have
come to tell you. It wasn't to encourage you^ — it
wasn't. Oh, Frank, Frank! that it should come to
this!" cried Miss Dora, shrinking back from him with
fright and horror in her face.
"Come, we have no time to lose," said the Curate,
who was desperate. He picked up her shawl, Avhich
had fallen on the floor, and bundled her up in it in
the most summary way. "Come, aunt Dora," said the
impetuous young man; "you know you were always
my kindest friend. Nobody else can help me at this
moment. I feel that you are going to be my deliverer.
Come, aunt Dora — we must go and find her, you and
I. There is not a moment to lose."
126 The perpetual curate.
He bad his arm round her, holding on her shawl.
He raised her up from her chair, and supported her,
looking at her as he had not done before since he was
a boy at school. Miss Dora thought. She was too
frightened, too excited, to cry, as she would have liked
to do; but the proposal was so terrible and unprece-
dented that she leaned back trembling on her nephew's
arm, and could not move either to obey or to resist
him. "Oh, Frank, I never went after any improper
person in my life," gasped aunt Dora. "Oh, my dear,
don't make me do anything that is wrong; they will
say it is my fault!" cried the poor lady, gradually
feeling herself obliged to stand on her feet and collect
her forces. The shawl fell back from her shoulders as
the Curate withdrew his arm. "You have lost my
large pin," cried aunt Dora, in despair; "and I have
no bonnet. And oh! what will Leonora say? I never,
never would have come to tell you if I had thought of
this. I only came to warn you, Frank. I only in-
tended "
"Yes," said the Curate. The emergency was mo-
mentous, and he dared not lose patience. He found
her large pin even, while she stood trembling, and
stuck it into her shawl as if it had been a skewer.
"You never would have come if you had not been my
guardian angel," said the deceitful young man, wliose
heart was beating high with anxiety and hope. "No-
body else would do for me what you are going to do
— but I have always had confidence in my aunt Dora.
Come, come! We have not a moment to lose."
This was how lie overcame Miss Dora's scruples.
Before she knew what had hap])ened, she was being
hurried through the clear summer night past the long
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 127
garden-walls of Grange Lane. The stars Avere shining
overhead, the leaves rustling on all sides in the soft
wind — not a soul to be seen in the long line of dark-
ling road. Miss Dora had no breath to speak, however
much disposed she might have been. She could not
remonstrate, having fvill occasion for all lier forces to
keep her feet and her breath. When Mr. Wentworth
paused for an instant to ask "which way did she go?"
it was all Miss Dora could do to indicate with her
hnger the dark depths of Prickett's Lane. Thither she
was immediately carried as by a whirlwind. With a
shawl over her head, fastened together Avildly by the
big pin — with nothing but little satin slippers, quite
unfit for the exertion required of them — Avith an agonised
protest in her heart that she had never, never in her
life gone after any improper person before — and, crown-
ing misfortune of all, with a horrible consciousness
that she had left the garden-door open, hoping to re-
turn in a few minutes. Miss Dora Wentworth, single
woman as she was, and ignorant of evil, was whirled
off in pursuit of the unfortunate Rosa into the dark
abysses of Prickett's Lane.
While this terrible Hegira was taking place, Mr.
Proctor sat opposite Gerald Wentworth, sipping his
claret and talking of Italy. "Perhaps you have not
read Burgon's book," said the late Rector. "There is
a good deal of valuable information in it about the
Catacombs, and he enters at some length into the ques-
tion between the Roman Church and our own. If you
are interested in that, you should read it," said Mr.
Proctor; "it is a very important question."
"Yes," said Gerald; and then there followed a
128 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
pause. Mr. Proctor did not know what to make of the
faint passing smile, the abstracted look, which he had
vaguely observed all the evening; and he looked so
inquiringly across the table that Gerald's new-born
dualism came immediately into play, to the great amaze-
ment of his companion. Mr. Wentworth talked, and
talked well; but his eyes were still abstracted, his mind
was still otherwise occupied; and Mr. Proctor, whose
own intelligence was in a state of unusual excitement,
perceived the fact without being at all able to explain
it. An liour passed, and both the gentlemen looked at
their watches. The Curate had left them abruptly
enough, with little apology; and as neither of them
had much interest in the other, nor in the conversation,
it was natural that the host's return should be looked
for with some anxiety. When the two gentlemen had
said all they could say about Italy — ^when Mr. Proctor
had given a little sketch of his own experiences in
Rome, to which his companion did not make the usual
response of narrating his — the two came to a dead
pause. They had now been sitting for more than two
hours over that bottle of Lafitte, many thoughts having
in the mean time crossed Mr. Proctor's mind concern-
ing the coffee and the Curate. Where could he have
gone? and why was there not somebody in the house
with sense enough to clear away the remains of dessert,
and refresh the wearied interlocutors with the black
and fragrant cup which cheers all students? Both of
the gentlemen had become seriously uneasy by this
time; the late Hector got up from the table when he
could bear it no longer. "Your brother must have
been called away by something important," said Mr.
Proctor, stiffly. "Perhaps you will kindly make my
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 129
excuses. Mr. Morgan keeps very regular hours, and I
should not like to be late -"
"It is very extraordinary. I can't fancy what can
be the reason — it must be somebody sick," said Gerald,
rising too, but not looking by any means sure that
Frank's absence had such a laudable excuse.
"Very likely," said the late Rector, more stiffly
than ever. "You are living here, I suppose?"
"No; I am at Miss Wentworth's — my aunt's," said
Gerald. "I will walk with you-," and they went out
together with minds considerably excited. Both looked
up and down the road when they got outside the
garden-gate: both had a vague idea that the Curate
might be visible somewhere in conversation with some-
body disreputable; and one being his friend and the
other his brother, they were almost equally disturbed
about the unfortunate young man. Mr. Proctor's
thoughts, however, were mingled with a little offence.
He had meant to be confidential and brotherly, and
the occasion had been lost; and how was it possible to
explain the rudeness with which Mr. Wentworth had
treated him? Gerald was still more seriously troubled.
When Mr. Proctor left him, he walked up and down
Grange Lane in the quiet of the summer night, watch-
ing for his brother. Jack came home smoking his
cigar, dropping Wodehouse, whom the heir of the
Wentworths declined to call his friend, before he
reached his aunt's door, and as much surprised as it
was possible for him to be, to find Gerald lingering,
meditating, along the silent road; but still Frank did
not*come. By-and-by a hurried light gleamed in the
window of the summer-house, and sounds of commo-
tion were audible in the orderly dwelling of the Miss
The Perpetual Curate. II. i*
130 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Wentwortlisj and the next thing that happened was
the appearance of Miss Leonora, also Avith a shawl
over her head, at the garden-door. Just then, when
they were all going to bed, Collins, Miss Dora's maid,
had come to the drawing-room in search of her mis-
tress. She was not to be found anywhere, though her
bonnets and all her outdoor gear were safe in their
place. For the first time in her life the entire family
were startled into anxiety on Miss Dora's account. As
for Mrs. Gerald Wentwortli, she jumped at once to
the conclusion that the poor lady was murdered, and
that Frank must have something to do with it, and
filled the house with lamentations. Nobody went to
bed, not even aunt Cecilia, who had not been out of
her room at eleven o'clock for centuries. Collins had
gone into the summer-house and was turning over
everything there as if she expected ta find her mis-
tress's body in the cupboard or under the sofa; Lewis,
the butler, was hunting through tlie garden with a
lantern, looking under all the bushes. No incident so
utterly unaccountable had occurred before in Miss Dora
Wentworth's life.
CHAPTER IX.
The first investigation into the character of the
Rev. F. C. Wentworth, Curate of St. Eoque's, was
fixed to take place in the vestry of the parish cliurch,
at eleven o'clock on tlie morning of tlie day which fol-
lowed this anxious night. Most pcojile in Carlingford
were aware that tlie Perpetual Curate was to be put
upon his trial on that sunny July morning; and there
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 131
was naturally a good deal of curiosity among the in-
telligent townsfolk to see how he looked, and what
Avas the aspect of the witnesses who were to bear testi-
mony for or against him. It is always interesting to
the crowd to see how a man looks at a great crisis of
his life — or a woman either, for that matter; and if a
human creature, at the height of joy, or in the depths
of sorrow, is a spectacle to draw everybody's eyes,
there is a still greater dramatic interest in the sight
when hope and fear are both in action, and the alter-
native hangs between life or death. It was life or
death to Mr. Wentworth, though the tribunal was one
which could inflict no penalties. If he should be found
guilty, death would be a light doom to the downfall
and moral extinction which would make an end of the
unfaithful priest; and, consequently, Carlingford had
reason for its curiosity. There was a crowd about the
back entrance which led to the shabby little sacristy
Avhere Mr. Morgan and Mr. Leeson were accustomed
to robe themselves; and scores of people strayed into
the church itself, and hung about, pretending to look
at the improvements which the Eector called restora-
tions. Mrs. Morgan herself, looking very pale, was in
and out half-a-dozen times in the hour, talking with
terrible science and technicalism to Mr. Finial's clerk
of works, who could not make her see that she was
talking Gothic —a language which had notJiing to do
Avith Carlingford Church, that building being of the
Revolution or chux-chwarden epoch. She was a great
deal too much agitated at that moment to be aware of
the distinction. As for Mr. Wentworth, it was uni-
versally agreed that, though he looked a little flushed
and excited, there was no particular discouragement
9^
132 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
visible in his face. He went in to the vestry with
some eagerness, not much like a culprit on his trial.
The Rector, indeed, who was heated and embarrassed
and doubtful of himself, looked more like a criminal
than the real hero. There were six of the amateur
judges, of whom one had felt his heart fail him at the
last moment. The five who were steadfast were Mr.
Morgan, Dr. Marjoribanks, old Mr. Western (who was
a distant cousin of the Wodehouses, and brother-in-
law, though old enough to be her grandfather, of the
beautiful Lady Western, who once lived in Grange
Lane), and with them Mr. Centum, the banker, and
old Colonel Chiley. Mr. Proctor, who was very uneasy
in his mind, and much afraid lest he should be called
upon to give an account of the Curate's behaviour on
the previous night, had added himself as a kind of
auxiliary to this judicial beuch. Mr. Waters had
volunteered his services as counsellor, perhaps with the
intention of looking after the interests of a very dif-
ferent client; and to this imposing assembly John
Brown had walked in, with his hands in his pockets,
rather disturbing the composure of the company in
general, who were aware what kind of criticism his
was. While the bed of justice was being arranged , a
very odd little group collected in the outer room, where
Elsworthy, in a feverish state of excitement, was re-
volving about the place from the door to the window,
and where the Miss Hemmings sat up against the wall,
with their drapery drawn up about them, to show that
they were of different clay from Mrs. Elsworthy, who,
respectful but sullen, sat on the same bench. The
anxious public peered in at the door whenever it had
a chance, and took peeps through the window when
THE PERPKTUAL CUKATE. 133
the other privilege was impossible. Besides the Miss
Henimings and the Elsworthys there was Peter Hayles,
Avho also had seen something, and the wife of another
shop-keeper at the end of George Street; and there
was the Miss Hemmings' maid, who had escorted them
on that eventful night of Rosa's disappearance. Not
one of the witnesses had the smallest doubt as to the
statement he or she was about to make; they were
entirely convinced of the righteousness of their own
cause, and the justice of the accusation, which naturally
gave a wonderful moral force to their testimony. Be-
sides — but that was qiiite a different matter— they all
had their little grudges against Mr. Wentworth, each
in his secret heai't.
When Elsworthy was called in to the inner room
it caused a little commotion amid this company outside.
The Miss Hemmings looked at each other, not with an
agreeable expression of fjice. "They might have had
the politeness to call us first," Miss Sophia said to her
sister; and Miss Hemmings shook her head and sighed,
and said, "Dear Mr. Bury!" an observation which
meant a great deal, though it did not seem perfectly
relevant. "Laws! I'll forget everything when I'm took
in there," said the shopkeeper's wife to Miss Hemmings'
maid; and the ladies drew still closer up, superior to
curiosity, while the others stretched their necks to get
a peep into the terrible inner room.
It was indeed a formidable tribunal. The room
was small, so that the unfortunate witness was within
the closest range of six pairs of judicial eyes, not to
speak of the vigilant orbs of the two lawyers, and those
of the accused and his supporters. Mr. Morgan, by
right of his position, sat at the end of the table, and
134 THE PERPETUAL CITRATE.
looked very severely at the first witness as lie came in
— wliicli Elsworthy did, carrying his hat before him
like a kind of shield, and polishing it carefully round
and round. The Rector was far from having any in-
tention of discouraging the witness, who was indeed
his mainstay, but the anxiety of his peculiar position,
as being at once counsel for the prosecution, and chief
magistrate of the bed of justice, gave an unusual stern-
ness to his face.
"Your name is George Elsworthy," said the Rector,
filling his pen with ink, and looking penetratingly in
the witness's face.
"George Appleby Elsworthy," said Rosa's uncle, a
little alarmed; "not as I often signs in full; for you
see, sir, it's a long name, and life's short, and it ain't
necessary in the way of business "
"Stationer and newsmonger in Carlingford," inter-
rupted the Rector; "I should say in Up]3er Grange
Lane, Carlingford; aged ?"
"But it doesn't appear to me that newsmonger is a
correct expression," said old Mr. Western, who was
very conversational; "newsmonger means a gossip, not
a tradesman; not that there is any reason why a trades-
man should not be a gossip, but "
"Aged?" said Mr. Morgan, holding his pen sus-
pended in the air. "I will say news vendor if that will
be better — one cannot be too particular — Aged ?"
"He is come to years of discretion," said Dr. Mar-
joribauks, "that's all we need; don't keep us all day
waiting, man, but tell your story about this elopement
of your niece. When did it take place, and what are
the facts? Never mind your hat, but say out what
you have got to say."
THK PERPETUAL CITRATE. 135
"You are much too summary, Doctor," said Mr.
Morgan, with a little offence-, but the sense of the as-
sembly was clearly with Dr. Marjoribanks — so that the
Rector dashed in 45 as the probable age of the witness,
and waited his further statement.
After this there was silence, and Elsworthy began
his story. He narrated all the facts of Kosa's disap-
pearance, with an intention and bias which made his
true tale a wonderful tacit accusation. Rage, revenge,
a sense of wrong, worked what in an indifferent nar-
rator only the highest skill could have wrought. He
did not mention the Curate's name, but arranged all
his facts in lines like so many trains of artillery. How
Rosa was in the habit of going to Mrs. Hadwin's (it
Avas contrary to Elsworthy's instinct to bring in at this
moment any reference to Mr. Wentworth) every night
with the newspaper — "not as I sent her of errands for
common — keeping two boys for the purpose," said the
injured man; "but, right or wrong, there's where she'd
go as certain as the night come. I've seen her with
my own eyes go into Mrs. Hadwin's garden-door, which
she hadn't no need to go in but for being encouraged;
and it would be half an hour at the least afore she
came out."
"But, bless me! that was very imprudent of you,"
cried Mr. Proctor, who up to this time had not uttered
a word.
"There was nobody there but the old lady and her
maids — except the clergyman," said Elsworthy. "It
wasn't my part to think as she could get any harm
from the clergyman. She wouldn't hear no remon-
strances from me; she would go as regiilar as the even-
ing come."
136 THK PERPETUAL CUUATE.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Waters, wlio saw John Brown's
humorous eye gleaming round upon the little assembly,
"but let us come to the immediate matter in hand.
Your niece disappeared from Carlingford on the ?"
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Western, "we must not sink
into conversation; that's the danger of all unofficial in-
vestigations. It seems natural to let him tell his story
as he likes; but here we have got somebody to keep
us in order. It's natural, but in ain't law — is it.
Brown?"
"I don't see that law has anything to do with it,"
said John Brown, with a smile.
"Order! order!" said the Rector, who was much
goaded and aggravated by this remark. "I request
that there may be no conversation. The witness will
proceed with what he has to say. Your niece disap-
peared on the 15th. What were the circumstances of
her going away?"
"She went down as usual with the newspaper,"
said Elsworthy; "it had got to be a custom as regular
as regular. She stopped out later nor common, and
my wife and me was put out. I don't mind saying,
gentlemen," said the witness, with candour, "as my
missis and I wasn't altogether of the same mind about
Rosa. She was late, but I can't say as I was anxious.
It wasn't above a week afore that Mr. Wentworth him-
self brought her home safe, and it was well known as
he didn't like her to be out at night; so I was easy in
my mind, like. But when eleven o'clock came, and
there was no denying of its being past hours, I began
to get a little fidgety. I stepped out to the door, and
I looked up and down, and saw nobody; so I took up
my hat and took a turn down the road "
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 137
At this moment there was a little Jisturbauce out-
side. A voice at which the Curate started was audible,
asking entrance. "I must see Mr. Wentworth im-
mediately," this voice said, as the door was partially
opened; and then, while his sons both rose to their
feet, the Squire himself suddenly entered the room.
He looked round upon the assembled company Avith a
glance of shame and grief that went to the Curate's
heart. Then he bowed to the judges, who were look-
ing at him with an uncomfortable sense of his identity,
and walked across the room to the bench on which
Gerald and Frank were seated together. "I beg your
pai-don, gentlemen," said the Squire, "if I interrupt
your proceedings; but I have only this moment arrived
in Carlingford, and heard what was going on, and I
trust I may be allowed to remain, as my son's honour
is concerned." Mr. Wentworth scarcely waited for the
assent which everybody united in murmuring, but
seated himself heavily on the bench, as if glad to sit
down anywhere. He suffered Frank to grasp his hand,
but scarcely gave it; nor, indeed, did he look, except
once, with a bitter momentary glance at the brothers.
They were sons a father might well have been proud
of, so far as external appearances went; but the Squire's
soul was bitter within him. One was about to abandon
all that made life valuable in the eyes of the sober-
minded country gentleman. The other "And I
could have sworn by Frank," the mortified father was
saying in his heart. He sat down with a dull dogged
composure. He meant to hear it all, and have it proved
to him that his favourite son was a villain. No won-
der that he was disinclined to respond to any courtesies.
He set himself down almost with impatience that the
138 THE PERPETUAL CUPkATE.
sound of liis entrance should have interrupted the
narrative, and looked straight in front of him, fixing
his eyes on Elsworthy, and taking no notice of the
anxious glances of the possible culprit at his side.
"I hadn't gone above a step or two when I see Mr.
Hayles at his door. I said to him, 'It's a fine even-
ing,' — as so it was, and the stars shining. 'My Rosa
ain't been about your place, has she?' I says; and he
says, 'No.' But, gentlemen, I see by the look of his
eye as he had more to say. 'Ain't she come home
yet?' says Mr. Hayles "
"Stop a moment," said John Brown. "Peter
Hayles is outside, I think. If the Eector wishes to
preserve any sort of legal form in this inquiry, may I
suggest that a conversation repeated is not evidence?
Let Elsworthy tell what he knows, and the other can
speak for himself."
"It is essential we should hear the conversation,"
said the Rector, "since I believe it was of importance.
I believe it is an important link in the evidence — I
believe "
"Mr. Morgan apparently has heard the evidence
before," said the inexorable John Brown.
Here a little commotion arose in the bed of justice.
"Hush, hush," said Dr. Marjoribanks; "the question is,
What has the witness got to say of his own knowledge?
Go on, Elsworthy, we can't possibly spend the whole
day here. Never mind what Hayles said, unless he
commimicated something about the girl."
"He told me as the Miss Hemmings had seen Rosa,"
said Elsworthy, slowly, "had seen her at nine, or half
after nine — I won't be sure which — at Mrs. Had win's
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 139
"The Miss Hemmings are outside. Let tlie Miss
Hemming's be called," said Mr. Proctor, who had a
great respect for Mr. Brown's opinion.
But here Mr. Waters interposed. "The Miss Hem-
mings will be called presently," he said; "in the mean
time let this witness be heard out; afterwards his
evidence will be corroborated. Go on, Elsworthy."
"The Miss Hemmings had seen my Rosa at Mrs.
Hadwin's gate," repeated Elsworthy, "a-standing out-
side, and Mr. Wentworth a-standing inside; there ain't
more respectable parties in all Carlingford. It was
them as saw it, not me. Gentlemen, I went back
home. I went out again. I went over all the town
a-looking for her. Six o'clock in the morning come,
and I had never closed an eye, nor took off my clothes,
nor even sat down upon a chair. When it was an
hour as I could go to a gentleman's house and no
oflFence, I went to the place as she was last seen. Me
and Mr. Hayles, we went together. The shutters was
all shut but on one Avindow, which was Mr. Wentworth's
study. We knocked at the garden-door, and I ain't
pretending that we didn't make a noise; and, gentle-
men, it wasn't none of the servants — it was Mr. Went-
worth hisself as opened the door."
There was here a visible sensation among the judges.
It was a point that told. As for the Squire, he set his
stick tirmly before him, and leaned his clasped hands
upon it to steady himself. His healthful, ruddy coun-
tenance was paling gradually. If it had been an
apostle who spoke, he could not have taken in more
entirely the bitter tale.
"It was Mr. Wentworth hisself, gentlemen," said
the triumphant witness; "not like a man roused out of
140 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
his sleep, but dressed and shaved, and his hair brushed,
as if it had been ten instead o' six. It's well known
in Carlingford as he ain't an early man; and/ gentlemen
here knows it as well as me. I don't pretend as I
could keep my temper. I give him my mind, gentle-
men, being an injured man; but I said as — if he do
his duty by her "
"Softly a moment," said Mr. Brown. "What had
Mr. Wentworth's aspect at six o'clock in the morning
to do with liosa Elsworthy's disappearance at nine on
the previous night?"
"I don't see that the question is called for at the
present moment," said Mr. Waters. "Let us hear
what reasons you have for attributing to Mr. Went-
worth an unusual degree of interest in your niece."
"Sir," said Elsworthy, "he come into my shop as
regular as the day; he never come but he asked after
Rosa, or spoke to her if she was there. One night he
walked all the way up Grange Lane and knocked at
my door and brought her in all of a glow, and said I
wasn't to send her out late no more. My missis, being
a woman as is very particular, was struck, and thought
as harm might come of it; and, not to be talked of,
we sent Rosa away. And what does Mr. Wentwortli
do, but the moment he hears ^f it comes right off to
my shop! He had been at his own home, sir, a- visit-
ing his respected family," said Elsworthy, turning
slightly towards the side of the room where the father
and sons sat together. "He came to my shop with his
carpet-bag as he come off the railway, and he gave me
my orders as I was to bring Rosa back. What he
said was, 'Directly,' that very day. I never had no
thought but what his meaning was honourable — being
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 141
a clergyman," said the witness, with a heavy sigh; and
then there ensued a little pause.
"The Miss Hemmings had better be called now,"
said Mr. Waters. "Elsworthy, you can retire; but we
may require you again, so you had better not go
away. Request Miss Hemmings to do us the favour
of coming here."
The Squire lifted his heavy eyes when the next
witness entei-ed. She made a very solemn curtsy to
the gentlemen, and sat down on the chair which some-
body placed for her. Being unsupported, a lady — not
to say an unmarried lady profoundly conscious of the
fact — among a number of men, Miss Henmiings was
naturally much agitated. She was the eldest and the
softest-hearted; and it occurx-ed to her for the first time,
as she gave a frightened look towards the Curate, that
he was like her favourite younger brother, who had
died ever so many ages ago — a thought which, for the
first time, made her doubtful of her testimony, and
disposed to break down in her evidence.
"You were in Grange Lane on the evening of the
15th ultimo," said Mr. Morgan, after he had carefully
written down her name, "about nine o'clock?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Morgan," said the poor lady; "we
were at St. Roque's Cottage drinking tea with Mrs.
Bland, who was lodging with Mrs. Smith in the same
rooms Mrs. Rider used to have. I put the note of in-
vitation in my pocket in case there should be any
doubt; but, indeed, poor Mrs. Bland was taken very
ill on the 16th, and Dr. Marjoribanks was called, and
he knows it could not be any other evening — and
besides "
142 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"About nine o'clock," said Mr. Waters; "did I
understand you, it was about nine o'clock?"
"She was sucli an invalid, poor dear," said Miss
Hemmings, apologetically, "and it is such a privilege
to have real Christian conversation. We dined early
on purpose, and we were asked for half-past six. I
think it must have been a little after nine-, but Mary
is here, and she knows what hour she came for us.
Shall I call Mary, please?"
"Presently," said the counsel for the prosecution.
"Don't be agitated; one or two questions will do. You
passed Mrs. Hadwin's door coming up. Will you
kindly tell the gentlemen what you saw there?"
"Oh!" cried Miss Hemmings. She looked round
at the Curate again, and he was more than ever like
Willie who died. "I — I don't take much notice of what
I see in the streets," she said, faltering; "and there are
always so many poor people going to see Mr. Went-
worth." Here the poor lady stopped short. She had
never considered before what harm her evidence might
do. Now her heart smote her for the young man who
was like Willie. "He is so very kind to all the poor
people," continued the unwilling witness, looking
doubtfully round into all the faces near her; "and he's
such a young man," slie added, in her tremulous way.
It was Miss Sophia who was strong-minded; all the
poor women in Back Grove Street Avere perfectly aware
that their cliances were doubled when tliey found Miss
Jane.
"But you must tell us what yoxi saw all the same,"
said Dr. Marjoribanks. "I daresay Mr. AYentAvortli
wishes it as much as we do."
The Cui'ate got up and came forward with one of
THE rERPETUAL CURATE. 143
his impulses. "I wish it a gi-eat deal more," he said.
"My dear Miss Hemmings, thank you for your reluc-
tance to say anything to harm me; but the truth can't
possibly harm me: tell them exactly what you saw."
Miss Hemmings looked from one to another, and
trembled more and more. "I am sure I never meant
to injure Mr. Wentworth," she said; "I only said I
thought it was impri;dent of him — that was all I meant.
Oh, I am sure, if I had thought of this, I would rather
have done anything than say it. And whatever Sophia
might have imagined, I assure you, gentlemen, /never,
never for a moment thought Mr. Wentworth meant any
harm."
"Never mind Mr. Wentworth," said Mr. BroAvn,
who now took the matter in hand. "When you were
passing Mrs. Hadwin's house about nine o'clock on the
evening of the 15th, you saw some one standing at the
door. Mr. Wentworth particularly wishes you to say
who it was."
"Oh, Mr. Brown — oh, Mr. Morgan," cried the poor
lady; "it was little Rosa Elsworthy. She was a de-
signing little artful thing. When she was in my Sun-
day class, she was always thinking of her vanities.
Mr. Wentworth was talking to her at the garden-door.
I daresay he was giving her good advice; and oh,
gentlemen, if you were to question me for ever and
ever, that is all I have got to say."
"Did yoii not hear what they were talking about?"
said Mr. Proctor. "If it was good advice " The
late Rector stopped short, and grew red, and felt that
his supposition was that of a simpleton. "You heard
what they were talking about? What did they say?"
144 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
he concluded, peremptorily, in a tone wliicli frightened
the reluctant witness more and more.
"I did not hear a single word," she cried^ — "not a
word. That is all I know about it. Oh, please, let
me go away. I feel very faint. I should like a little
cold water, please. I did not hear a word — not a
word. I have told you everything I have got to say."
Everybody looked more serious when Miss Hem-
mings stumbled from her chair. She was so frightened
at her own testimony, and so unwilling to give it, that
its importance was doubled in the eyes of the in-
experienced judges. The Squire gave a low groan
under his breath, and turned his eyes, which had been
fixed upon her, on the ground instead; but raised them
immediately, with a gleam of anxiety as his sou again
rose from his side. All that the Curate meant to do
was to give the trembling lady his arm, and lead her
out; but the entire assembly, with the exception of
John Brown, started and stared as if he had been
about to take instant revenge upon the frightened wo-
man. Miss Hemmings burst into tears when Mr. Went-
worth set a chair for her by the door, and brought her
a glass of water, in the outer room; and just then
somebody knocked and gave him a note, with which
he returned to the presence of the awful tribunal. Miss
Sophia Hemmings was corroborating her sister's state-
ment when the Perpetual Curate re-entered. He stood
behind her quite quietly, until she had finished, with
a slight smile upon his lip, and the note in his hand.
Dr. Marjoribanks was not partial to Miss Sophia Hem-
mings. She was never ill herself, and rarely permitted
even her sister to enjoy the gentle satisfaction of a day's
sickness. The old Doctor looked instead at the Per-
THE PJ3RPKTUAL CURATE. 145
petual Curate. When Miss Hemmings withdrew, Dr.
Marjoribanks iuterposed. "It appears to me that Mr,
Wentworth has something to say," said the Doctor,
"It is quite necessary that he should have a hearing
as well as the rest of ixs. Let Peter Hayles wait a
moment, till we hear what Mr. Wentworth has to say."
"It is not yet time for ns to receive Mr. Went-
worth's statement," said the Eector. "He shall cer-
tainly be heard in his own defence at the proper time.
Mr. Waters, call Peter Hayles."
"One moment," said the Curate. "I have no state-
ment to make, and I can wait till you have heard
what everybody has to say, if the Rector wishes it;
but it might save time and trouble to hear me. I have
another witness whom, up to this moment, I have been
reluctant io bring forward — a witness all-important for
me, whom I cannot produce in so public a place, or at
an hour when everybody is abroad. If you will do
me the favour to adjourn this inquiry till the even-
ing, and to meet then in a private house — in my own,
or Miss Wentworth's, or wherever you may appoint —
I think I can undertake to make this whole business
perfectly clear."
"Bless me!" said Mr. Pi-octor, suddenly. This
unexpected and irrelevant benediction was the first
sound distinctly audible in the little stir of surprise,
expectation, and excitement which followed the Curate's
speech. The Squire let his stick fall out of his hands,
and groped after it to pick it up again. Hope had
suddenly all at once come into possession of the old
man's breast. As for the Rector, he was too much
annoyed at the moment to speak.
"You should have thought of this before," said Dr.
The Perpdual Cnivte. II. 10
140 THE PERrETUAL CITRATE.
Marjoribaiiks. "It would have been just as easy to
lix this meeting for the evening, and in a private house,
and would have saved time. You are very welcome
to my dining-room, if you please; but I don't under-
stand why it could not have been settled so at once,
and saved our time," said the Doctor; to which senti-
ment there were several murmurs of assent.
"Gentlemen," said the Curate, whose eyes were
sparkling with excitement, "you must all know in your
hearts that this trial ought never to have taken j)lace.
I have lived among you for five years, and you ought
to have known me by this time. I have never been
asked for an explanation, neither could any explana-
tion which it was possible for me to make have con-
vinced a mind prejudiced against me," he said, after a
moment's pause, with a meaning which everybody under-
stood. "It is only noAv that I feel myself able to clear
up the whole matter; and it is for this reason alone
that I ask you to put off your inquiry till to-night."
"I don't feel inclined to consent to any adjourn-
ment," said Mr. Morgan; "it looks like an attempt to
defeat the ends of justice." The Kector was very much
annoyed — more than he dared confess to himself. He
believed in his heart that young Wentworth was guilty,
and he felt equally convinced that here was some un-
expected loophole through which he would escape.
But public opinion was strong in Clrange Lane —
stronger than a new Rector. The Banker and the
Doctor and the Indian Colonel, not to speak of old
Mr. Western, were disposed to grant the request of the
Curate; and when even Mr. Proctor forsook his side,
the liector himself yielded. "Though it is against my
judgment," he said, "and I see no advantage to be
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 147
gained by it, the meeting had better be held in the
Rectory, this evening at seven o'clock."
"Most of us dine at seven o'clock," said Dr. Mar-
joribanks.
"This evening at eight o'clock," said the Rector,
severely. "I will request all the witnesses to be in
attendance, and we must hope to find Mr. Wentworth's
witness of sufficient imj)ortance to justify the change.
At eight o'clock this evening, in my house, gentlemen,"
said the Rector. He collected his notes and went out-
side, and began talking to his witnesses, while the
others collected together round the table to consult over
this new phase of the affair. The three Mr. Went-
worths went out together, the father between his tAvo
tall sons. The Squire's strength was much shaken,
both in mind and body. When they were out of
the shadow of the church, he looked up in Frank's
face.
"I hope you consider me entitled to an immediate
explanation," said Mr. Wentworth. "When I read
that anonymous letter, it went a long way towards
breaking my heart, sir; I can tell you it did. Jack
here too, and your brother making up his mind as he
has done, Frank. I am not a man to complain. If
it were all over with me to-morrow, I shouldn't be
sorry, so far as I am concerned, if it weren't for the
girls and the little children. But I always thought I
could have sworn by Frank," said the old man, mourn-
fully. He was ever so much older since he had said
these words before in the long lime avenue at Went-
worth Hall.
10*
148 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
CHAPTER X.
The little assembly wbicli met in the vestry of
Carlingford Churcli to inquire into the conduct of the
Perpetual Curate, had so many different interests in
hands when it dispersed, and so much to do, that it is
difficult for the narrator of this history to decide which
thread should be taken up first. Of all the interlocu-
tors, however, perhaps Mr. Proctor was the one who
had least succeeded in his efforts to explain himself,
and accordingly demands in the first place the atten-
tion of an imj)artial historian. The excellent man was
still labouring under much perplexity when the bed of
justice was broken up. He began to recollect that Mr.
Wentworth's explanation on the previous night had
convinced him of his innocence, and to see that it was
indeed altogether inconceivable that the Curate should
be gviilty; but then, other matters still more disagree-
able to contemplate than Mr. Wentworth's guilt came
in to darken the picture. This vagabond Wodehouse,
"whom the Curate had taken in at his sister's request —
what was the meaning of that mystery? Mr. Proctor
had never been anyhow connected Avith mysteries; he
was himself an only son, and had lived a straightfor-
ward peaceable life. Neither he nor his estimable
parents, so far as the late Rector was aware, had ever
done anything to be ashamed of; and he winced a
little at the thought of connecting himself with con-
cealment and secrecy. And then the Curate's sudden
disappearance on the previous evening perplexed and
troubled him. He imagined all kinds of reasons for it
as he walked down Grange Lane. Perhaps Miss Wode-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 149
house, who wovikl not receive himself, had sent for Mr.
Wentwortb; perhaps the vagabond brother was in some
other scrape, out of which he had to be extricated by
the Curate's assistance. Mr. Proctor was perfectly-
honest, and indeed determined, in his "intentions;"
but everybody will allow that for a middle-aged lover
of fifty or thereabouts, contemjilating a sensible match
with a lady of suitable years and means, to find sud-
denly that the object of his affections was not only a
penniless woman, but the natural guardian of an
equally penniless sister, was startling, to say the least
of it. He was a true man, and it did not occur to
him to decline the responsibility altogether; on the
contrary, he was perhaps more eager than he would
have been otherwise, seeing that his elderly love had
far more need of his devotion than he had ever ex-
pected her to have; but, notwithstanding, he was
disturbed by such an unlooked-for change of circum-
stances, as was natural, and did not quite know what
Avas to be done with Lucy. He was full of thoughts
on this subject as he proceeded towards tlie house, to
the interview which, to use sentimental language, was
to decide his fate. But, to tell the truth, Mr. Proctor
was not in a state of very deep anxiety about his fate.
The idea of being refused was too unreasonable an
idea to gain much ground in his mind. He was going
to offer his personal support, affection", and sympathy
to Miss Wodehouse at the least fortunate moment of
her life; and if there was anything consolatory in mar-
riage at all, the late Rector sensibly concluded that it
must be doubly comforting under such circumstances,
and that the offer of an honest man's hand and house
and income was not a likely thing to be rejected by a
150 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
woman of Miss Wodehouse's experience and good sense
— not to speak of his heart, whicli was very honest
and true and affectionate, though it liad outlived the
fervours of youth. Sucli was Mr. Proctor's view of the
matter; and the chances were strong that Miss Wode-
liouse entirely agreed with him — so, but for a certain
shyness which made him rather nervous, it would not
be correct to say that the late Rector was in a state of
special anxiety about the answer he was likely to re-
ceive. He was, however, anxious about Lucy. His
bachelor mind was familiar with all the ordinary tradi-
tions about the inexpediency of being surrounded by
a wife's family, and he had a little of the primitive
male sentiment, shared one way or other by most hus-
bands, that the old system of buying a woman right
out, and carrying her off for his own sole and private
satisfaction, was, after all, the correct way of managing
such matters. To be sure, a pretty, young, unmarried
sister, was perhaps the least objectionable encumbrance
a woman could have; but, notwithstanding, Mr. Proctor
would have been glad could he have seen any feasible
way of disposing of Lucy. It was utterly out of the
question to think of her going out as a governess; and
it was quite evident that Mr. Wentworth, even were
he perfectly cleared of every imputation, having him-
self nothing to live upon, could scarcely offer to share
his poverty with poor Mr. Wodehouse's cherished pet
and darling. "I daresay she has been used to live ex-
pensively," Mr. Proctor said to himself, wincing a little
in his own mind at the thought. It was about one
o'clock when he reached the green door — an hour at
which, during the few months of his incumbency at
Ccxrlingford, he had often presented himself at that
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 151
hospitable house. Poor Mr. Wodehouse! Mr. Proctor
could not help wonderiug at that moment hoAv he was
getting on iu a world where, according to ordinary-
ideas, there are no lunch nor dinner parties, no old
port nor savoury side-dishes. Somehow it was impos-
sible to realise Mr. Wodehouse with other surroundings
than those of good-living and creature-comfort. Mr.
Proctor sighed, half for the departed, half at thought
of the strangeness of that unknown life for which ho
himself did not feel much more fitted than Mr. Wode-
house. In the garden he saw the new heii* sulkily
marching about among the flower-beds smoking, and
looking almost as much out of place in the sweet tran-
quillity of tlie English garden, as a churchwarden of
Carlingford or a Fellow of All-Souls could look, to
carry out Mr. Proctor's previous imagination, in the
vague beatitude of a disembodied heaven. Wodehouse
Avas so sick of his own company that he came hastily
forward at the sight of a visitor, but shrank a little
when he saw who it was.
"I suppose you have brought some news," he said,
in his sullen way. "I suppose he has been making
his statements, has he? Much I care! He may tell
what lies he pleases; he can't do me any harm. I
never did anything but sign my own name, by Jove!
Jack Wentworth himself says so. I don't care that
for the parson and his threats," said Wodehouse,
snapping his fingers in Mr. Proctor's face. The late
Rector drew back a little, with a shudder of disgust
and resentment. He could not help thinking that this
fellow would most likely be his brother-in-law presently,
and the horror he felt made itself visible in his face.
"I am quite unaware what you can mean," said
152 THE PEHPETUAL CURATE.
Mr. Proctor. "I am a parson, but I never made anj
threats that I know of. I wish to see Miss Wodehouse.
I — I think she expects me at this hour," he said, with
a little embarrassment, turning to John, who, for his
part, had been standing by in a way which became his
position as a respectable and faithful servant, waiting
any opportunity that might come handy to show his
disgust for the new regime.
"Yes, sir," said John, promptly, and with emphasis.
"My mistress expects you, sir. She's come down to
the drawing-room for the first time. Miss Lucy keeps
her room, sir, still; she's dreadfully cut up, poor dear
young lady. My mistress will be glad to see you, sir,"
said John. This repetition of a title which Miss Wode-
house had not been in the habit of receiving was in-
tended for the sjiecial advantage of the new master,
whom John had no intention of recognising in that
capacity. "If you should know of any one, sir, as is
in want of a steady servant," the man continued, as he
led the way into the house, with a shrewd glance at
Mr. Proctor, whose "intentions" were legible enough
to John's experienced eyes — "not* as I'm afeared of
getting suited, being well known in Carlingford-, but it
would come natural to be with a friend of the family.
There ain't a servant in the house, sir, as will stay
when the ladies go, and I think as Miss Wodehouse
Avould speak for me," said John, with natural astute-
ness. This address made Mr. Proctor a little uneasy.
It recalled to him the unjjleasant side of the important
transaction in which he was about to engage. He was
not rich, and did not see his way now to any near
prospect of requiring the services of "a steady servant,"
and the thought made him sigh.
THE PERPETUAL COIATE. 153
"Yv^e'll see," he said, with a troubled look. To
persevere honourably in his "intentions" was one thing,
but to be insensible to the loss of much he had looked
forward to was quite another. It was accordingly with a
grave and somewhat disturbed expression that he went to
the interview which was "to decide his fate." Miss Wode-
house was seated in the drawing-room, looking slightly
flushed and excited. Though she knew it was very
wrong to be thus roused into a new interest the day
after her father's funeral, the events altogether had
been of so startling a description that the usual decorum
of an afflicted household had already been ruthlessly
broken. And, on the whole, notwithstanding her
watching and grief, Mr. Proctor thought he had never
seen the object of his aff"ections looking so well as she
did now in the long black dress, which suited her
better than the faint dove colours in which she arrayed
herself by preference.^ She was not, it is true, quite
sure what Mr. Proctor wanted in this interview he had
solicited, but a certain feminine instinct instructed her
in its probable eventualities. So she sat in a subdued
flutter, with a little colour fluctuating on her cheek, a
tear in her eyes, and some wonder and expectation in
her heart. Perhaps in her youth Miss Wodehouse might
have come to such a feminine crisis before; but if so,
it was long ago, and the gentle woman had never been
given to matrimonial speculations, and was as fresh and
inexperienced as any girl. The black frame in which
she was set made her soft colour look fresher and less
faded. Her plaintive voice, the general softness of her
demeanour, looked harmonious and suitable to her cir-
cumstances. Mr. Proctor, who had by no means fallen
in love with her on account of any remnants of beauty
154 TUE PERPETUAL CURATE.
she might possess, had never admired her so much as
he did noAv; he felt confused, good man, as he stood
before her, and, seeing her so much younger and fairer
than his former idea, began to grow ahlrmed, and
wonder at his serenity. What if she tliought him an
okl fogey? what if she refused him? This supposition
brought a crimson colour to Mi". Proctor's middle-aged
countenance, and was far from restoring his courage.
It Avas a wonderful relief to him when she, with the
instinct of a timid woman, rushed into hasty talk.
"It was very kind of you to come yesterday," she
said; "Lucy and I were very grateful. We have not
many relatives, and my dear father ^"
"Yes," said the late Rector, again embarrassed by
the tears which choked her voice, "he was very much
respected: that must be a consolation to you. And he
had a long life — and — and I suppose, on the whole, a
happy one," said Mr. Proctor, "with you and your
sister "
"Oh, Mr. Proctor, he had a great deal to put up
with," said Miss W^odehouse, through her tears. She
had, like most simple people, an instinctive disinclina-
tion to admit that anybody was or had been happy.
It looked like an admission of inferiority. "Mamma's
death, and poor Tom," said the elder sister. As she
wiped her eyes, she almost forgot her own little
feminine flutter of expectancy in respect to Mr. Proctor
himself Perhaps it was not going to happen this time,
and as she was pretty well assured that it would happen
one day or another, she was not anxious about it. "If
I only knew what to do about Tom," she continued,
with a vague appeal in her voice.
Mr. Proctor got up from his chair and walked to
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 155
the window. When he had looked out he came back,
rather surprising Miss Wodehouse by his unlooked-for
movements. "I wanted very much to have a little
conversation with you," he said, growing again very
red. "I daresay you will be surprised — but I have
accepted another living, Miss Wodehouse;" and here
the good man stopped short in a terrible state of em-
barrassment, not knowing What next to say.
"Yes?" said Miss Wodehouse, interrogatively. Her
heart began to beat quicker, biit perhaps he was only
going to tell her about the new work he had under-
taken; and then she was a woman, and had some
knowledge, which came by nature, how to conduct
herself on an occasion such as this.
"I don't know whether you recollect," said Mr.
Proctor — "I shall never forget it — one time when Ave
all met in a house where a woman was dying, — I mean
your sister and young Wentworth, and yovi and I; —
and neither you nor I knew anything about it," said
the late Rector, in a strange voice. It was not a com-
plimentary way of opening his subject, and the occur-
rence had not made so strong an impression upon Miss
Wodehouse as upon her companion. She looked a little
puzzled, and, as he made a pause, gave only a inixrmur
of something like assent, and waited to hear what more
he might have to say.
"We neither of us knew anytliing about it," said
Mr. Proctor — "neither you how to manage her, nor I
what to say to her, though the young people did. I
have always thoiight of you from that time. I have
thought I should like to try whether I was good for
anything now^ — if you would help me," said the middle-
aged lover. When he had said this he walked to the
156 THE PERPRTUAL CURATE.
window, and once more looked out, and came back
redder than ever. "You see we are neither of us
young," said Mr. Proctor; and he stood by the table
turning over the books nervously, without looking at
her, which was certainly an odd commencement for a
wooing.
"That is quite true," said Miss Wodehouse, rather
primly. She had never disputed the fact by word or
deed, but still it was not pleasant to have the state-
ment thus thrust upon her without any apparent provo-
cation. It was not the sort of thing which a woman
expects to have said to her under such circumstances.
"I am sure I hope you will do better— I mean be more
comfortable — this time," she continued, after a pause,
sitting very erect on her seat.
"If you will help me," said Mr. Proctor, taking
up one of the books and reading the name on it, which
was lucky for him, for it was Miss Wodehouse's name,
which he either had forgotten or never had known.
And here they came to a dead stop. What was
she to say? She was a little affronted, to tell the truth,
that he should remember more distinctly than anything
else her age, and her unlucky fjxilure on that one occa-
sion. "You have just said that I coiild not manage,"
said the mild woman, not without a little vigour of her
own; "and how then could I help you, Mr. Proctor?
Lucy knows a great deal more about parish work than
I do," she went on in a lower tone; and for one half
of a second there arose in the mind of the elder sister
a kind of wistful' half envy of Lucy, who was young,
and knew how to manage— a feeling which died in
unspeakable remorse and compunction as soon as it
had birth.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 157
"But Lucy would not have me," said the late
Rector; "and indeed I should not know what to do
with her if she would have me; — but you It is a
small parish, but it's not a bad living. I should do all
I could to make you comfortable. At least we might
try," said Mr. Proctor, in his most insinuating tone.
"Don't you think we might try? at least it would
do " He was going to say "no harm," but on
second thoughts rejected that expression. "At least I
should be very glad if you would," said the excellent
man, with renewed confusion. "It's a nice little rectory,
with a pretty garden, and all that sort of thing; and —
and perhaps — it might help you to settle about going
away— and — and I daresay there would be room for
Lucy. Don't you think you would try ? " ' cried Mr.
Proctor, volunteering, in spite of himself, 'the very
hospitality which he had thought it hard might be
required of him; but somehow his suit seemed to want
backing at the actual moment when it was being
made.
As for Miss Wodehouse, she sat and listened to
him till he began to falter, and then her composure
gave way all at once. "But as for trying," she gasped,
in broken mouthfuls of speech, "that would never —
never do, Mr. Proctor. It has to be done — done for
good and all — if — if it is done at all," sobbed the poor
lady, whose voice came somewhat muffled through her
handkerchief and her tears.
"Then it shall be for good and all!" cried Mr.
Proctor, with a sudden impulse of energy. This was
how it came about that Miss Wodehouse and the late
Rector were engaged. He had an idea that he might
be expected to kiss her, and certainly ought to call her
158 THE PEUPETUAL CURATE.
Mary after tin's; and hovered for another minute near
her seat, not at all disinclined for the former operation.
But his courage failed him, and he only drew a chair
a little closer and sat down, hoping that she would
soon stop crying. And indeed, by the time that he
produced out of his pocket-book the little photograph
of the new rectory, which he had had made for her by
a rural artist, Miss Wodehouse had emerged out of her
handkerchief, and Avas perhaps in her heart as happy
in a quiet way as she had ever been in her lifey' She
who had never been good for much, was now, in the
time of their need, endowed with a home which she
could offer Lucy. It was she, the helpless one of the
family, who was to be her yoi;ng sister s deliverer.
Let it be forgiven to her if, in the tumult of the mo-
ment, this was the thought that came first.
When Miss Wodehouse went up-stairs after this
agitating but satisfactory interview, she found Lucy
engaged in putting together some books and personal
trifles of her own which were scattered about the little
sitting-room. She had been reading 'In Memoriam'
until it vexed her to feel how inevitably good sense
came in and interfered with the enthusiasm of her
grief, making her sensible that to apjjly to her fond
old father all the lofty lauds which were appropriate
to the poet's hero would be folly indeed. He had been
a good tender father to her, but he was not "the
sweetest soul that ever looked with human eyes;" and
Lucy could not but stop in her reading with a kind
of pang and self-reproach as this consciousness came
upon her. Miss Wodehouse looked rather aghast when
she found her sister thus occupied. "Did you think of
accepting Miss Wentworth's invitation, after all?" said
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 159
Miss Wodelioiise-, "but, clear, I am afraid it would be
awkward; and oh, Lucy, my darling, I have so many
things to tell you," said the anxious sister, who was
sliy of communicating her own particular news. Before
many minutes had passed, Lucy had thrown aside all
the books, and was sitting by her sister's side in half-
pleased , disconcerted amazement to hear her stoiy.
Only half pleased — for Lucy, like most other girls of
her age, thought love and marriage were things which
belonged only to her own level of existence, and was
a little vexed and disappointed to find tliat her elder
sister could condescend to such youthful matters. On
the whole, she rather blushed for Mary, and felt sadly
as if she had come down from an imaginary pedestal.
And then Mr. Proctor, so old and so ordinary, Avhom
it was impossible to think of as a bridegroom, and still
less as a brother. "I shall get used to it presently,"
said Lucy, with a burning flush on her cheek , and a
half feeling that she had reason to be ashamed; "but
it is so strange to think of you in that way, Mary. I
always thought you were too — too sensible for that
sort of thing," which was a reproach that went to Miss
Wodehouse's heart.
"Oh, Lucy dear," said that mild woman, who in
this view of the matter became as mtich ashamed of
herself as Lucy could desire, "what could I do'? I
knoAv what you mean, at my time of life; but I could
not let you be dependent on Tom, my darling," said
Miss Wodehouse, with a deprecating appealing look.
"No indeed," said Lucy; "that would be impossible
under any circumstances: nor on you either, Mary dear.
I can do something to make a living, and I should
like it. I have always been fond of work. I will not
160 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
permit you to sacrifice yourself for me," said the
younger sister, with some dignity. "I see how it has
heen. I felt sure it was not of your own accord."
Miss Wodehouse wrung her hands with dismay and
perplexity. What was she to do if Lucy stood out and
r.efused her consent? She could not humble herself so
far as to confess that she rather liked Mr. Proctor, and
was, on the whole, not displeased to be married; for
the feeling that Lucy expected her to be too sensible
for that sort of thing overawed the poor lady. "But,
Lucy, I have given him my promise," said poor Miss
Wodehouse. "It — it would make him very unhappy.
I can't use him badly, Lucy dear."
"I will speak to him, and explain if it is neces-
sary. Whatever happens, I can't let you sacrifice
yourself for me," said Lucy. All the answer Miss
Wodehouse could make was expressed in the tears of
vexation and mortification which rushed to her eyes.
She repelled her young sister's ministrations for the
first time in her life with hasty impatience. Her
troubles had not been few for the last twenty-four
hours. She had been questioned about Tom till she
had altogether lost her head, and scarcely knew what
she was saying; and Lucy had not applauded that
notable expedient of throwing the shame of the family
upon Mr. Wentworth, to be concealed and taken care
of, which had brought so many vexations to the Per-
petual Curate. Miss Wodehouse at last was driven to
bay. She had done all for the best, but nobody gave
her any credit for it; and now this last step, by which
she had meant to provide a home for Lucy, was about
to be contradicted and put a stop to altogether. She
put away Lucy's arm, and rejected her consolations.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 161
"What is the use of pretending to be fond of me if I
am always to be wrong, and never to have my — my
own way in anything?" cried the poor lady, who, be-
ginning with steadiness, broke down before she reached
the end of her little speech. The words made Lucy
open her blue eyes with wonder; and after that there
followed a fuller explanation, which greatly changed
the ideas of the younger sister. After her "consent"
had been at last extracted from her, and when Miss
Wodehouse regained her composure, she reported to
Lucy the greater part of the conversation which had
taken place in the drawing-room, of which Mr. Proctor's
proposal constituted only a part, and which touched
upon matters still more interesting to her hearer. The
two sisters, preoccupied by their father's illness and
death, had up to this time but a vague knowledge of
the difficulties which surrounded the Perpetual Curate.
His trial, which Mr. Proctor had reported to his newly-
betrothed, had been unsuspected by either of- them;
and they were not even aware of the event which had
given rise to it — the disapj^earance of Kosa Elsworthy.
Miss Wodehouse told the story with faltering lips, not
being able to divest herself of the idea that, having
been publicly accused, Mr. Wentworth must be more
or less guilty; while, at the same time, a sense that
her brother must have had something to do with it, and
a great reluctance to name his name, complicated the
narrative. She had already got into trouble with Lucy
about this unlucky brother, and unconsciously, in her
story, she took an air of defence. "I should have
thought better of Mr. Wentworth if he had not tried to
throw the guilt on another," said the perplexed woman.
The Perpetual Curate. 11. 11
162 THB PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Oh, Lucy dear, between two people it is so hard to
know what to do."
"I know what I shall do," said Lucy, promptly,
but she would not further explain herself. She was,
however, quite roused up out of 'In Memoriam.' She
went to her desk and drew out some of the paper
deeply edged with black, which announced before words
its tale of grief to all her correspondents. It was with
some alarm that Miss Wodehouse awaited this letter,
which was placed before her as soon as finished. This
was what, as soon as she knew the story, Lucy's prompt
and generous spirit said —
"Dear Mr. Wentworth, — We have just heard of
the vexations you have been suffering, to our great in-
dignation and distress. Some people may think it is
a matter with which I have no business to interfere;
but I cannot have you think for a moment that we, to
whom you have been so kind, could put the slightest
faith in any such accusations against you. We are not
of much consequence, but we are two women, to whom
any such evil would be a horror. If it is any one
connected with us who has brought you into this pain-
ful position, it gives us the more reason to be indig-
nant and angry. I know now what you meant about
the will. If it was to do over again, I should do just
the same-, but for all that, I understand now what you
meant. I understand, also, how miich we owe to you,
of which, up to yesterday, I was totally unaware. You
ought never to have been asked to take our burden
upon your shoulders. I suppose you ought not to have
done it; but all the same, thank you with all my heart.
I don't suppose we ever can do anything for you to
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 163
show our gratitude; and indeed I do not believe in
paying back. But in the mean time, thank you — and
don't, from any consideration for us, suffer a stain
which belongs to another to rest upon yourself. You
are a clergyman, and your reputation must be clear.
Pardon me for saying so, as if I were qualified to ad-
vise you-, but it would be terrible to think that you
were suffering such an injury out of consideration for
us. — Gratefully and truly yours,
Lucy Wodehouse."
The conclusion of this letter gave Lucy a good
deal of trouble. Her honest heart was so moved with
gratitude and admiration that she had nearly called
herself "affectionately" Mr. Wentworth's. Why should
not she? "He has acted like a brother to us," Lucy
said to herself; and then she paused to inquire whether
his conduct had indeed arisen from brotherly motives
solely. Then, when she had begun to write "faith-
fully" instead, a further difficulty occurred to her. Not
thus lightly and unsolicited could she call herself "faith-
ful," for did not the word mean everything that words
could convey in any human relationship? "When she
had concluded it at last, and satisfied her scruples by
the formula above, she laid the letter before her sister.
This event terminated the active operations of the day
in the dwelling of the Wodehouses. Their brother had
not asked to see them, had not interrupted them as yet
in their retreat up-stairs, where they were sedulously
waited upon by the entire household. When Miss Wode-
house's agitation was over, she too began to collect to-
gether her books and personalities, and they ended by
a long consultation where they were to go and what
164 THE PERPETUAL CURATfi.
they were to do, during tlie course of which the elder
sister exhibited with a certain shy pride that little
photograph of the new rectory, in which there was one
window embowered in foliage, which the bride had
already concluded was to be Lucy's room. Lucy yielded
during this sisterly conference to sympathetic thoughts
even of Mr. Proctor. The two women were alone in
the world. They were still so near the grave and the
deathbed that chance words spoken without thought
from time to time awakened in both the ready tears.
Now and then they each paused to consider with a sob
what he would have liked best. They knew very little
of what was going on outside at the moment when they
were occupied with those simple calculations. What
was to become of them, as people say — what money
they were to have, or means of living — neither was
much occupied in thinking of. They had each other-,
they had, besides, one a novel and timid middle-aged
confidence, the other an illimitable youthful faith in
one man in the world. Even Lucy, whose mind and
thoughts were more individual than her sister's, wanted
little else at that moment to make her happy with a
tender tremulous consolation in the midst of her grief.
CHAPTER XI.
While matters were thus arranging themselves in
the ideas at least of the two sisters whose prospects
had been so suddenly changed, exjjlanations of a very
varied kind were going on in the house of the Miss
Wentworths. It was a very full house by tliis time,
having been invaded and taken possession of by the
"family" in a way wliich entirely obliterated the
THK PKRPKTUAL CUKATE. 165
calmer interests and occupations of the habitual in-
habitants. The three ladies had reached that stage of
life which knows no personal events except those of ill-
ness and death; and the presence of Jack Wentworth,
of Frank and Gerald, and even of Louisa, reduced
them altogether to the rank of spectators, the audience,
or at the utmost the chorus, of the drama; though this
was scarcely the case with Miss Dora, who kept her
own room, where she lay on the sofa, and received
visits, and told the story of her extraordinary adven-
ture, the only adventure of her life. The interest of
the household centred chiefly, however, in the dining-
room, which, as being the least habitable apartment in
the house, was considered to be most adapted for any-
thing in the shape of business. On the way from the
church to Miss Wentworth's house the Curate had
given his father a brief account of all the events which
had led to his present position; but though much eased
in his mind, and partly satisfied, the Squire was not
yet clear how it all came about. His countenance was
far from having regained that composure, which indeed
the recent course of events in the family had pretty
nearly driven out of his life. His fresh light-coloured
morning dress, with all its little niceties, and the fresh
colour which even anxiety could not drive away from
his cheeks, were somehow contradicted in their senti-
ment of cheerfulness by the puckers in his forehead
and the harassed look of his face. He sat doAvn in
the big leathern chair by the fireplace, and looked
round him with a sigh, and the air of a man who
wonders Avhat will be the next vexation. "I'd like to
hear it over again, Frank," said the Squire. "My
mind is not what it used to be: I don't say I ever was
166 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
clever, like you young fellows, but I used to under-
stand what was said to me. Now I seem to require to
hear everything twice over-, perhaps it is because I
have had myself to say the same things over again a
great many times lately," he added, with a sigh of
weariness. Most likely his eye fell on Gerald as he
said so; at all events, the Rector of Wentworth moved
sadly from where he was standing and went to the
window, where he was out of his father's range of
vision. Gerald's looks, his movements, every action of
his, seemed somehow to bear a symbolic meaning at
this crisis in his life. He was no longer in any doubt-,
he had made up his mind. He looked like a martyr
walking to his execution, as he crossed the room; and
the Squire looked after him, and once more breathed
out of his impatient breast a heavy short sigh. Louisa,
who had placed herself in the other great chair at the
other side of the forlorn fireplace, from which, this
summer afternoon, there came no cheerful light, put
up her handkerchief to her eyes and began to cry
with half-audible sobs — which circumstances surround-
ing him were far from being encouraging to Frank as
he entered anew into his own story — a story which he
told witli many interruptions. The Squire, who had
once "sworn by Frank," had now a terrible shadow of
distrust in his mind. Jack was here on the spot, of
whom the unfortunate father knew more harm than he
had ever told, and the secret dread that he had some-
how corrupted his younger brother came like a cold
shadow over Mr. Wentworth's mind. He could not
slur over any part of the narrative, but cross-examined
his son to the extent of his ability, with an anxious
iuqnisition into all the particulars. He was too deeply
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 167
concerned, to take anything for granted. He sat np
in his chair witli those puckers in his forehead, with
that harassed look in his eyes, making an anxious,
vigihant, suspicious investigation, which was pathetic to
behold. If the defendant, who was thus being examined,
on his honour, had been guilty, the heart of the judge
would have broken; but that was all the more reason
for searching into it with jealous particularity, and
with a suspicion which kept always gleaming out of
his troubled eyes in sudden anxious glances, saying,
"You are guilty? Are you guilty?" with mingled ac-
cusations and appeals. The accused, being innocent,
felt this suspicion more hard to bear than if he had
been a hundred times guilty.
"I understand a little about this fellow Wode-
house," said the Squire; "but what I want to know is,
why you took him in? What did you take him in
for, sir, at first? Perhaps I could understand the rest
if you would satisfy me of that."
"I took him in," said the Curate, rather slowly,
"because his sister asked me. She threw him upon
my charity — she told me the danger he was in "
"What danger was he in?" asked the Squire.
The Curate made a pause, and as he paused Mr.
Wentworth leaned forward in his chair, with another
pucker in his forehead and a still sharper gleam of
suspicion in his eyes. "His father had been offended
time after time in the most serious way. This time he
had threatened to give him up to justice. I can't tell
you what he had done, because it would be breaking
my trust — but he had made himself obnoxious to the
law," said .Rrank Wentworth. "To save him from the
chance of being arrested, his sister brought him to me."
168 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
The Squire's hand shook a good deal as he took
out his handkerchief and Aviped his forehead. "Per-
haps it would be the best way if one had not too much
regard for the honour of the family," he said, tremul-
ously, like a man under a sudden temptation; "but
the sister, sir, why did she bring him to you?" he
added, immediately after, with renewed energy. Mr.
Wentworth was not aware that, while he was speak-
ing, his eldest son had come into the room. He had
his back to the door, and he did not see Jack, who
stood rather doubtfully on the threshold, with a certain
shade of embarrassment upon his ordinary composure.
"It is not everybody that a woman v.ould confide her
brother's life to," said the Squire. ""V^'^lo is the sister?
Is she — is there any — any entanglement that I don't
know of? It will be better for all of us if you tell
me plainly," said the old man, with a querulous sound
in his voice. He forgot the relationship of his own
girls to Jack, and groaned within himself at what ap-
peared almost certain evidence that the sister of a
criminal like Wodehouse had got possession of Frank.
"Miss Wodehouse is about the same age as my
aunt Dora," said the Curate. It was an exaggeration
which would have gone to the poor lady's heart, but
Frank Wentworth, in the unconscious insolence of his
youth, was quite unaware and careless of the difference.
Then he paused for a moment with an involuntary
smile. "But I am a clergyman, sir," he continued,
seriously. "If a man in my position is good for any-
thing, it is his business to help the helpless. I could do
no good in any other way — I took him into my house."
"Frank," said the Squire, "I beg your pardon. I
believe in my heart you're true and honest. If I were
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 169
not driven ox;t of my senses by one thing and an-
other," said Mr. Wentworth, with bitterness. "They
make me unjust to you, sir — unjust to you! But
never mind; go on. Why didn't you tell these fellows
what you've told me? That would have settled the
business at once, without any more ado."
"Mr. Morgan is a great deal too much prejudiced
against me to believe anything I said. I thought it
better to let him prove to himself his own injustice; and
another still more powerful reason '' said the Curate.
"Stop, sir, stop; I can't follow you to more than
one thing at a time. Why is Mr. Morgan prejudiced
against you?" said the Squire, once more sitting up-
right and recommencing his examination.
Frank Wentworth laughed in spite of himself,
though he was far from being amused. "I know no
reason, except that I have worked in his parish with-
out his permission," he answered, briefly enough, "for
which he threatened to have me up before somebody
or other — Dr. Liishington, I suppose, who is the new
Council of Trent, and settles all our matters for us
nowadays," said the Curate, not without a little natural
scorn, at which, however, his father groaned.
"There is nothing to laugh at in Dr. Lushington,"
said the Squire. "He gives you justice, at all events,
which you parsons never give each other, you know.
You ought not to have worked in the Eector's parish,
sir, without his permission. It's like shooting in an-
other man's grounds. However, that's not my busi-
ness; — and the other reason, sir?" said Mr. Wentworth,
with his anxious look.
"My dear father," said the Curate, touched by the
anxiety in the Squire's face, and sitting down by him
170 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
with a sudden imiDulse, "I have done nothing wliicli
either you or I need be ashamed of. I am grieved
that you should think it necessary to examine me so
closely. Wodeliouse is a rascal, but I had taken
charge of him; and as long as it was possible to shield
him, I felt bound to do so. I made an appeal to his
honour, if he had any, and to his fears, which are
more to be depended on, and gave him until noon to-day
to consider it. Here is his note, which was given me
in the vestry; and now you know the whole business, and
how it is that I postponed the conclusion till to-night."
The Squire put on his spectacles with a tremulous
hand to read the note which his son gave him. The
room was very still while he read it, no sound inter-
rupting him except an occasional sniff from Louisa,
who was in a permanent state of whimpering, and,
besides, had ceased to be interested in Frank's affairs.
Jack Wentworth, standing in the background behind
the Squire's chair, had the whole party before him,
and studied them keenly with thoughts which nobody
guessed at. Gerald was still standing by the window,
leaning on it with his face only half turned to the
others. Was he thinking of the others? was he still
one of them? or was he saying his office from some
invisible breviary abstracted into another life? That
supposition looked the most like truth. Near him was
his wife, who had thrown herself, a heap of bright
fluttering muslin, into tlie great chair, and kej)t her
handkerchief to her red eyes. She had enough troubles
of her own to occupy her, j^oor soul! Just at that
moment it occurred to her to think of the laburnum
berries in the shrubbery at the Rectory, which, it was
suddenly borne in upon her, would j)rove fatal to one
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 171
or other of the children in her absence; — the dear
Rectory which she had to leave so soon! "And Frank
will have it, of course," Louisa said to herself, "and
marry somebody;" and then she thought of the
laburaum berries in connection with his problematical
children, not without a movement of satisfaction. Op-
posite to her was the Squire, holding Wodehouse's
epistle in a hand which shook a little, and reading
aloud slowly as he could make it out. The note was
short and insolent enough. While it was being read.
Jack Wentworth, who was not easily discomposed, grew
red and restless. He had not dictated it certainly, nor
even suggested the wording of the epistle; but it was
he who, half in scorn and half in pity of the vaga-
bond's terrors, had reassured Wodehouse, and convinced
him that it was only the punishments of public opinion
which the Curate could bring upon him. Hardened as
Jack was, he could not but be conscious that thus to
stand in his brother's way was a shabby business
enough, and to feel that he himself and his protege cut
a very poor figure in presence of the manful old Squire
with all his burdens, and of Frank, who had, after all,
nothing to explain which was not to his honour. Not-
withstanding that he was at the present moment his
brother's adversary, actually working 'against him and
prolonging his difficulties, an odd kind of contempt
and indignation against the fools who could doubt
Frank's honour possessed the prodigal at the moment.
"A parcel of asses," he said to himself; and so stood
and listened to Wodehouse's little note of defiance,
which, but for his prompting, the sullen vagabond would
never have dared to send his former protector. The
letter itself was as follows: —
172 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"I have consulted my friends about what you said
to-day, and they tell me it is d — d nonsense. You can't
do me any harm; and I don't mean to get myself into
any scrape for you. You can do what you like — I
shan't take any notice. Your love affairs are no busi-
ness of mine. — Yours truly,
"T. WODEHOUSE."
Mr. Wentworth threw the miserable scrawl on the
table. "The fellow is a scoundrel," said the Squire;
"he does not seem to have a sj^ark of gratitude.
You've done a deal too much for him already; and if
the sister is as old as Dora " he continued, after a
long pause, with a half-humorous relaxation of his
features. He was too much worn out to smile.
"Yes," said tlie Curate. The young man was sen-
sible of a sudden flush and heat, but did not feel any
inclination to smile. Matters were very serious just
then with Frank Wentworth. He was about to shake
himself free of one vexation, no doubt; but at this mo-
ment, when Lucy Wodehouse was homeless and help-
less, he had nothing to offer her, nor any prospects
even which he dared ask her to share with him. This
was no time to speak of the other sister, who was not
as old as Miss Dora. He was more than ever the Per-
j)etual Curate now. Perhaps, being a clergyman, he
ought not to have been swayed by such merely human
emotions; but honour and pride alike demanded that
he should remain in Carlingford, and he had no shelter
to offer Lucy in the time of her need.
After this there followed a pause, which was far
from being cheerful. Frank could not but be discon-
solate enough over his prospects when the excitement
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 173
died away, and there was another big", terrible event
looming darkly in the midst of the family, which they
had not courage to name to each other. The long,
uneasy pause was at length broken by Louisa, whose
voice sounded in tlie unnatural silence like the burst
of impatient rain which precedes a thunderstorm.
"Now that you have done with Frank's affairs, if
you have done with them," said Louisa, "perhaps
somebody will speak to Gerald. I don't mean in the
way of arguing. If some one would only speak sense
to him. You all know as well as I do how many
children we've got, and — and — an — other coming,"
sobbed the poor lady, "if something doesn't happen to
me, which I am sure is more than likely, and might
be expected. I don't blame dear grandpapa, for he
has said everything, and so have I; but I do think
his brothers ought to take a little more interest. Oh,
Frank, you know it doesn't matter for you. You are
a young man, you can go anywhere; but when there
are five children and — and — an — other . And how
are we to live? You know what a little bit of money
I had when Gerald married me. Everybody knows
Gerald never cared for money. If I had had a good
fortune it would have been quite different," cried poor
Louisa, with a little flow of tears and querulous sob,
as though that too was Gerald's fault. "He has not
sent off his letter yet, Frank," said the injured wife;
"if you would but speak to him. He does not mind,
me or grandpapa, but he might mind you. Tell him
we shall have nothing to live on; tell him "
"Hush," said Gerald. He came forward to the
table, very pale and patient, as became a man at the
point of legal death. "I have sent away my letter.
174 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
By this time I am no longer Rector of Wentworth.
Do not break my heart. Do you think there is any
particular in the whole matter which I have not con-
sidered — the children, yourself, everything? Hush-,
there is nothing now to be said."
The Squire rose, almost as pale as his son, from
his chair. "I think I'll go out into the air a little,"
said Mr. Wentworth. "There's always something new
happening. Here is a son of my own," said the old
man, rising into a flush of energy, "who has not only
deserted his post, but deserted it secretly, Frank. God
bless my soiil! don't speak to me, sir; I tell you he's
gone over to the enemy as much as Charley would
have done if he had deserted at the Alma — and done
it when nobody knew or was thinking. I used to be
thought a man of honour in my day," said Mr. Went-
worth, bitterly, "and it's a mean thing to say it came
by their mother's side. There's Jack "
The eldest son roused himself up at the mention of
his own name. Notwithstanding all his faults, he was
not a man to stand behind backs and listen to what
was said of him. He came forward with his usual
ease, though a close observer might have detected a
flush on his face. "I am here, sir," said the heir. "I
cannot flatter myself you will have much pleasure in
seeing me; but I suppose I have still a right to be
considered one of the family." The Squire, who had
risen to his feet, and was standing leaning against the
table when Jack advanced, returned to his chair and
sat down as his eldest son confronted him. They had
not met for years, and the shock was great. Mr. Went-
worth put his hand to his cravat and pulled at it with
an instinctive movement. The old man was still
THiJ PERPETUAL CURATE. 175
feeble from his late illness, and apprehensive of a re-
turn of the disease of the Wentworths. He restrained
himself, however, with force so passionate that Jack
did not guess at the meaning of the gasp which, be-
fore the Squire was able to speak to him, convulsed
his throat, and made Frank start forward to offer as-
sistance which his father impatiently rejected. The
Squire made, indeed, a great effort to speak with
dignity. He looked from one to auotlier of his tall
sons as he propped himself up by the arms of his
chair.
"You are the most important member of the fa-
mily," said Mr. Wentworth ; "it is long since you have
been among us, but that is not our fault. If things
had been different, I should have been glad of your
advice as a man of the world. Anyhow, I can't wish
you to be estranged from your brothers," said the
Squire. It was all any one could say. The heir of
Wentworth was not to be denounced or insulted among
his kindred, but he could not be taken to their bosom.
Perhaps the reception thus given him Avas more galling
than any other could have been to Jack AVentworth's
pride. He stood at the table by himself before his
father, feeling that there existed no living relations
between himself and any one present. He had keen
intellectual perceptions, and could recognise the beauty
of honour and worth as well as mo.st people; and the
contrast between himself and the others who surrounded
him presented itself in a very forcible light to Jack.
Instead of Gerald and Frank, Wodehouse was his al-
lotted companion. For that once he was bitter, not-
withstanding his habitual good-humour.
"Yes," he said; "it would be a pity to estrange me
176 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
from my brotliers. We are, on the whole, a lucky-
trio. I, whom my relations are civil to; and Frank,
who is not acquitted yet, though he seems so confident;
and Gerald, who has made the greatest mistake of
all "
"Jack," said the Curate, "nobody wants to quarrel
with you. You've dealt shabbily by me, but I do not
mind. Only talk of things you understand — don't talk
of Gerald."
For a moment Jack Wentworth was roused almost
to passion. "What is Gerald that I should not under-
stand him?" said Jack; "he and I are the original
brood. You are all a set of interlopers, the rest of
you. What is Gerald, that I should not talk of him ?
In the world, my dear Frank," continued the heir,
superciliously, "as the Squire himself will testify, a
man is not generally exempted from criticism because
he is a parson. Gerald is "
"I am a simple Catholic layman, nothing more,"
said Gerald; "not worth criticism, having done no-
thing. I am aware I am as good as dead. There is
no reason why Jack should not talk if it pleases him.
It will make no difference to me."
"And yet,'' said Frank, "it is only the other day
that you told us you were nothing if not a priest."
Gerald turned upon him with a look of melancholy
reproach that went to the Curate's heart. "It is true
I said so," he replied, and then he made a pause, and
the light died out of his pale face. "Don't bring up
the ghosts of my dead battles, Frank. I said so only
the other day. But it is the glory of the true Church,"
said the convert, with a sudden glow which restored
colour for a moment to his face, "to restrain and sub-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 177
due the last enemy, the will of man. I am content to
be nothing, as the saints were. The fight has been
hard enough, but I am not ashamed of the victory.
When the law of the Church and the obedience of the
saints ordain me to be nothing, I consent to it. There
is nothing more to say."
"And this is how it is to be!" cried Louisa. "He
knows what is coming, and he does not care — and
none of you will interfere or speak to him! It is not
as if he did not know what would happen. He tells
you himself that he will be nothing; and even if he
can put up with it after being a man of such con-
sideration in the county, how am / to put up with it?
AYe have always been used to the very best society,"
said poor Louisa, with tears. "The Duke himself was
not more thought of; and now he tells you he is to be
nothing!" Mrs. Wentworth stopped to dry her eyes
with tremulous haste. "TZd? may not mind," said
Louisa, "for at least he is having his own way. It is
all very well for a man, who can do as he pleases;
but it is his poor wife who will have to suffer. I don't
know who will visit me after it's all over, and 2:)eople
will give over asking us if we don't ask them again;
and how can we ever have anybody, with five children
—or more — and only a few hundreds a-year? Oh,
Frank, it kills me to think of it. Don't you think you
might speak to him again?" she whispered, stretching
up to his ear, when Gerald, with a sigh, had gone
back to his window. The Squire, too, cast an appeal-
ing glance at his younger son.
"It is all true enough that she says," said Mr.
Wentworth. "She mayn't understand him^ Frank, but
she's right enough in what she's saying. If things
The Per^elual Curate. II, 1^
178 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
were different between your brother and me, I'd ask
bis advice," said the Squire, with a sigh. He gave a
longing look at his eldest son, who stood with his
usual ease before the fireplace. Matters had gone a
great deal too far between the father and son to admit
of the usual displeasure of an aggrieved parent — all
that was over long ago; and Mr. Wentworth could not
restrain a certain melting of the heart towards his first-
born. "He's not what I could wish, but he's a man
of the world, and might give us some practical advice,"
said the Squire, with his anxious looks. Of what pos-
sible advantage advice, practical or otherwise, could
have been in the circumstances, it was difficult to see;
but the Squire was a man of simple mind, and still
believed in the suggestions of wisdom. He still sat in
the easy-chair, looking wistfully at Jack, and with a
certain faitli that matters might even yet be mended,
if the counsel of his eldest son, as a man of the world,
C(mld be had and could be trusted; "when Frank, who
had an afternoon service at WLarfside, had to leave
the family committee. Gerald, who roused up when
his younger brother mentioned the business he was
going upon, looked at Frank almost as AvistfuUy as his
father looked at Jack. "It may be the last time," he
said to himself: "if you'll let me, I'll go with you,
Frank;" and so the little conclave was broken up.
The people in Prickett's Lane were greatly impressed
by the aspect of Gerald Wentworth, as he went, silent
and pale, by his brother's side, down the crowded
pavement. They thought it must be a bishop at least
who accompanied the Curate of St. Roque's; and the
women gathered at a little distance and made their
comments, as he stood waiting for his brother after the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 179
service. "He dou't look weakly nor sickly no more
nor the clergyman," said one; "but be smiles at the
little uns for all tbe world like my man smiled the
nigbt he was took away." "Smilin' or not smilin',"
said anotlier, "I don't see as it makes no matter; but
I'd give a deal to know what Elsworthy and them as
stands by Elsworthy can say after that." "Maybe,
then, he'd give the poor fatherless children a blessing
afore he'd go," suggested a poor Irish widow, who,
having been much under Mr. Wentworth's hands "in
her trouble," was not quite sure now what faith she
professed, or at least which Church she belonged to.
Such was the universal sentiment of Prickett's Lane.
Meanwhile Gerald stood silent, and looked with pathe-
tic, speechless eyes at the little crowd. He was no
priest now — he was shorn of the profession which had
been his life. His hope of being able to resign all
tilings for Christ's sake had failed him. Too wary
and politic to maintain in a critical age and country
the old licence of the ages of Faith, even his wife's
consent, could he have obtained it, woiild not have
opened to the convert the way into the priesthood. A
greater trial had been required of him; he was nothing,
a man whose career was over. He stood idly, in a
kind of languor, looking on while the Curate performed
the duties of his office — feeling like a man whom sick-
ness had reduced to the last stage of life, and for
whom no earthly business remained; while, at the
same time, his aspect struck awe, as that of a bishop
at the least, to the imagination of Prickett's Lane.
12*
180 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Morgan did not go home direct from tlie in-
vestigation of the morning; on the contrary, he paid
various visits, and got through a considerable amount
of parish business, before he turned his face towards
the Rectory. On the whole, his feelings were far from
being comfortable. He did not know, certainly, who
Mr. Wentworth's Avitness was, but he had an iin-
pleasant conviction that it was somebody who would
clear the Curate. "Of course I shall be very glad,"
the Rector said to himself; but it is a fact, that in
reality he was far from being glad, and that a secret
conviction of this sentiment, stealing into his mind,
made matters still more uncomfortable. This private
sense of wishing evil to another man, of being un-
willing and vexed to think well of his neighbour, was
in itself enough to disturb the Rector's tranquillity;
and when to this was added the aggravation that his
wife had always been on the other side, and had
warned him against proceeding, and might, if she
pleased, say, "I told you so," it will be apparent that
Mr. Morgan's uneasiness was not without foundation.
Instead of going home direct to acquaint his wife with
the circumstances, about which he knew she must be
curious, it was late in the afternoon before the Rector
opened his own gate. Even then he went through the
garden with a reluctant step, feeling it still more diffi-
cult to meet her now than it would have been at first,
although his delay had arisen from the thought that it
would be easier to encounter her keen looks after an
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. ISl
interval. There was, however, uo keen look to be
dreaded at this moment. Mrs. Morgan was busy with
her ferns, and she did not look up as ber husband
approached. She went on with her occupation, examin-
ing carefully what withered fronds there might be
about her favourite maidenhair, even when he stopped
by her side. Though her husband's shadow fell across
the plants she was tending, Mrs. Morgan, for the first
time in her married life, did not look up to welcome
the Rector. She made no demonstration, said no word
of displeasure, but only showed herself xitterly absorbed
in, and devoted to, her ferns. There was, to be sure,
no such lover of ferns in the neighbourhood of Carling-
ford as the Rector's wife.
As for Mr. Morgan, he stood by her side in a state
of great discomfort and discomfiture. The good man's
perceptions were not very clear, but he saw that she
had heard from some one the issue of the morning's
inquiry, and that she was deejDly offended by his
delay, and that, in short, they had arrived at a serious
difference, the first quarrel since their marriage. Feel-
ing himself in the wrong, Mr. Morgan naturally grew
angry too.
"I should like to have dinner earlier to-day," he
said, with the usual indiscretion of an aggrieved hus-
band. "Perhaps you will tell the cook, my dear. I
think I should like to have it at five, if possible. It
can't make much difference for one day."
Mrs. Morgan raised herself up from her ferns, and
no doubt it was a relief to her to find herself provided
with so just a cause of disj)leasure. "Much difference!"
cried the Rector's wife; "it is half-past four now. I
wonder how you could think of such a thing, William.
182 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
There is some lamb, which of course is not put down
to roast yet, and the ducks. It' you wish the cook to
give warniiTg immediately, you may send such a mes-
sage. It is just like a man to think it would make
no diflPerence! But I must say, to do them justice,"
said the Hector's wife, "it is not like a man of your
college!" When she had fired this double arrow, she
took off her gardening gloves and lifted her basket.
"I suppose you told Mr. Proctor that you wished to
dine early?" said Mrs. Morgan, with severity, pausing
on the threshold. "Of course it is quite impossible to
have dinner at five unless he knows."
"Indeed I — I forgot all about Proctor," said the
Kector, who now saw the inexpediency of his proposal.
"On second thoughts, I see it does not matter much.
But after dinner I expect some people about Mr. Went-
worth's business. It was not settled this morning, as
I expected."
"So I heard," said Mrs. Morgan. "I will tell
Thomas to show them into the library," and she went
indoors, carrying her basket. As for the Rector, he
stood silent, looking after her, and feeling wonder-
fully discomfited. Had she found fault with him for
his delay — had she even said "I told you so!" it
Avould have been less overwhelming than this in-
difference. They had never had a quarrel before, and
the effect was proportionately increased. After stand-
ing bewildered at the door for a few minutes, he
retired into his study, where the change in his wife's
demeanour haunted him, and obscured Mr. Wentworth.
Mrs. Morgan sat at the head of the table at dinner
with an equal want of curiosity. Even when the sub-
ject was discussed between the Rector and Mr. Proctoi',
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 183
she asked no questions — a course of procedure very
puzzling and trying to Mr. Morgan, who could not
make it out.
It was after eight o'clock before the tribunal of the
morning was reconstituted at the Rectory. Most of
the gentlemen came late, and the little assembly brought
with it a flavour of j)ort, which modified the serious
atmosphere. When the bed of justice was again formed,
Mr. Wentworth entered Avith the body-guard of Went-
worths, which numbered half as many as his judges.
Half from curiosity, half from a reluctant inclination
to please his father, Jack had joined the others, and
they came in together, all of them noticeable men, pro-
foundly different, yet identified as belonging to each
other by the touching bond of family resemblance.
After the four gentlemen had taken possession of their
corner, Mr. Waters made a somewhat hurried entry,
bringing after him the sullen reluctant figure of Wode-
house, who made an awkward bow to the assembled
potentates, and looked ashamed and vigilant, and very
ill at ease. Mr. Waters made a hasty explanation to
the Rector before he sat down by the side of his un-
lucky client. "I thought it possible there might be
some attempt made to shift the blame upon hirp, there-
fore I thought it best to bring him," said the lawyer.
Mr. Morgan gave him a dry little nod without answer-
ing. To tell the truth, the Rector felt anything but
comfortable; when he glanced up at the stranger, who
was looking askance at the people in the room as if
they had been so many policemen in disguise, a dis-
agreeable sudden conviction that this sullen rascal
looked a great deal more like the guilty man than Mr.
Wentworth did, came into Mr. Morgan's mind, and
184 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
made liim sick witli annoyance and embarrassment. If
it should turn out so! if it should become apparent
that he, for private prejudices of his own, had been
l^ersecuting his brother! This thought produced an
actual physical effect for the moment upon the liector,
but its immediate visible consequence was simply to
make him look more severe, almost spiteful, in a kind
of unconscious self-vindication. Last of all, Elsworthy,
who began to be frightened too, but whose fears were
mingled with no compunction nor blame of himself,
stole in and found an uncomfortable seat on a stool
near the door, where scarcely any one saw him, by
favour of Thomas, and screened by the high back of
the Rector's easy-chair. When all were assembled Mr.
Morgan sj)oke.
"We are met this evening, gentlemen, to complete,
if there is sufficient time, the investigation we began
this morning," said the Rector. "I have no doubt I
express the sentiments of every one present when I
say I shall be glad — unfeignedly glad," said Mr. Morgan,
with a defiant emphasis, which was meant to convince
himself, "to find that Mr. Wentworth's witness is of
sufficient importance to justify the delay. As we were
interrupted this morning solely on his account, 1
presume it will be most satisfactory that this witness
should be called at once."
"I should like to say something in the first place,"
said the Curate. Mr. Morgan made an abrupt nod in-
dicative of his consent, and, instead of looking at the
defendant, shaded his eyes with his hand, and made
figures with his pen upon the blotting-paper. A con-
viction, against which it was impossible to strive, had
taken possession of the Rector s soul. He listened to
THE PEnrT:TUAL CURATE. 185
Frank "Wentwortli's address with a kind of impatient
annoyance and resistance. "What is the good of say-
ing any more about it?" Mr. Morgan was saying in
his soul. "For lieaven's sake let us bury it and be
done with it, and forget that we ever made such asses
of ourselves." But at the same time the Rector knew
this was quite impossible-, and as he sat leaning over
his blotting-book, writing down millions after millions
with his unconscious pen, he looked a very model of
an unwilling listener — a prejudiced judge — a man
whom no arguments could convince; which was the
aspect under which he apjieared to the Curate of St.
Roque's.
"I should like to say something first," said the
Perpetual Curate. "I could not believe it possible
that I, being tolerably well known in Carlingford as I
have always supposed, could be suspected by any ra-
tional being of such an insane piece of wickedness as
has been laid to my charge; and consequently it did
not occur to me to vindicate myself, as I perhaps
ought to have done, at the beginning. I have been
careless all along of vindicating myself. I had an
idea," said the young man, with involuntary disdain,
"that I might ti'ust, if not to the regard, at least to
the common sense of my friends— — "
Here John Brown, who was near his unwary client,
plucked at the Curate's coat, and brought him to a
momentary half-angry pause. "Softly, softly," said
Dr. Marjoribanks; "common sense has nothing to do
with facts; we're inquiring into facts at this moment;
and, besides, it's a very foolish and unjustifiable con-
fidence to trust to any man's common sense," said the
old Doctor, with a humorous glance from under his
186 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
shaggy eyebrows at his fellow-judges ; upon which there
ensued a laugh, not very agreeable in its tone, which
brought the Rector to a white heat of impatience and
secret rage.
"It appears to me that the witness ought to be
called at once," said Mr. Morgan, "if this is not a
mere expedient to gain time, and if it is intended to
make any progress to-night."
"My exj)lanations shall be very brief," said Frank
Wentworth, facing instantly to his natural enemy. "I
have susjjected from the beginning of this business
who was the culprit, and have made every possible at-
tempt to induce him to confess, and, so far as he
could, amend the wrong that he had done. I have
failed; and now the confession, the amende^ must be
made in public. I will now call my witness," said the
Curate. But this time a commotion rose in another
part of the room. It was Wodehouse, who struggled
to rise, and to get free from the detaining grasp of his
companion.
"By Jove! I ain't going to sit here and listen to
a parcel of lies!" cried the vagabond, "If I am to
be tried, at least I'll have the real thing, by Jove!"
He had risen up, and was endeavouring to pass Mr.
Waters and get out, casting a suspicious defiant look
round the room. The noise he made turned all eyes
upon him, and the scrutiny he had brought upon him-
self redoubled his anxiety to get away. "I'll not stand
it, by Jove! Waters, let me go," said the craven,
whose confused imagination had mixed up all his evil
doings together, and who already felt himself being
carried off to prison. It was at this moment that Jack
Wentworth rose from his place in liis easy careless
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 187
way, and went forward to the table to adjust the lamp,
which was flaring a little. AVodehouse dropped back
into a chair as soon as he caiiglit the eye of this
master of his fate. His big beard moved with a sub-
terranean gasp like the panting of a hunted creature,
and all the colour that had remained died away out of
his haggard, frightened face. As for Jack Wentworth,
he took no apparent notice of the shabby rascal whom
he held in awe. "Rather warm this room for a court
of justice. I hope Frank's witness is not fat," said
Jack, putting himself up against the wall, and lifting
languidly his glass to his eye — which byplay was
somewhat startling, but totally incomprehensible, to
the amateur judges, who looked uj)on him with angry
eyes.
"I must request that the proceedings may not be
interrupted," said Mr. Morgan-, and then everybody
looked towards the open door: the sight they saw tliere
was enough to startle the calmest spectator. Elsworthy,
who was seated close by, sprang from his stool with a
low resounding howl of amazement, upsetting his lowly
seat, and staggering back against the wall, in the ex-
cess of his wonder and consternation. The judges
themselves forgot their decorum, and crowded round
upon each other to stare — old Mr. Western putting his
arm round the Rector's neck in his curiosity, as if
they had been two boys at a peep-show. It was Miss
Leonora Wentworth's erect iron-grey figure that ap-
peared in the doorway, half leading in, half pushing
before her, the unfortunate cause of all the commotion
— Rosa Elsworthy herself. A change had passed upon
the little girl's rosy, dewy, April beauty. Her pretty
dark eyes were enlarged and anxious, and full of
188 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
tears; her cheeks had paled out of their sweet colour,
her red lips were pressed tightly together. Passion
and shame had set their marks upon the child's fore-
head — lightly, it is true, but still the traces were there;
but beyond all other sentiments, anxiety, restless,
breathless, palpitating, had possession of Mr. Went-
worth's all-important witness. It was very clear that,
Avhatever might be the opinion of her judges, Rosa's
case was anything but hojjeless in her own eyes. She
came in drooping, shrinking, and abashed, as was na-
tural; but her shame was secondary in Rosa's mind,
even in the moment of her humiliation. She came to
a dead stop when she had made a few steps into the
room, and cast furtive glances at tlie dread tribunal,
and began to cry. She was trembling with, nervous
eagerness, with petulance and impatience. Almost all
her judges, except the Rector and Mr. Proctor, had
been known to Rosa from her earliest years. She was
not afraid of them, nor cast down by any sense of
overwhelming transgression — on the contrary, she cast
an appealing look round her, which implied that they
could still set everything right if they would exert
themselves; and then she began to cry.
"Gentlemen, before you ask any questions," said
Miss Leonora Wentworth, "I should like to explain
why I am here. I came not because I approve of her.,
but because it is right that my nephew should have a
respectable woman to take charge of the witness. She
was brought to my house last night, and has been in
my charge ever since; — and 1 come with her now, not
because I approve of her, but because she ought to be
in charge of some woman," said Miss Leonora, sitting
down abruptly in the chair some one had placed for
THE TEKPETUAL GUKATE. 189
her. The chair was placed close by the spot where
Kosa stood crying. Poor, jJretty, forsaken child! Per-
haps Miss Leonora, who sat beside her, and occupied
the position of her protector, was of all the people pre-
sent the only one who had not already forgiven Rosa,
the only one who would have still been disposed to
punish her, and did not pardon the weeping creature
in her heart.
"Now that you're here, Rosa," said Dr. Marjori-
banks, "the only sensible thing you can do is to dry
your eyes and answer the questions that have to be
put to you. Nobody will harm you if you speak the
truth. Don't be frightened, but dry your eyes, and
let us hear what you have to say."
"Poor little thing," said old Mr. Western-, "of course
she lias done very wrong. I don't mean to defend her
— but, after all, she is but a child. Poor little thing!
Her mother died, you know, when she was a baby.
She had nobody to tell her how to behave. — I don't
mean to defend her, for she has done very wrong,
poor little "
"We are falling into mere conversation," said the
Rector, severely. "Rosa Elsworthy, come to the table.
The only thing you can do to make up for all the
misery you have caused to your friends, is to tell the
truth about everything. You are aged — how much?
eighteen years?"
"Please, sir, only seventeen," said Rosa-, "and oh,
please, sir, I didn't mean no harm. I wouldn't never
have gone, no, not a step, if he hadn't a-promised that
we was to be married. Oh, please, sir "
"Softly a little," said John BroAvn, interfcrhig.
190 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"It is not you who are on your trial, Kosa. We are
not going to question you about your foolishness; all
that the Rector wants you to tell him is the name of
the man who persuaded you to go away."
At which question Rosa cried more and more. "I
don't think he meant no harm eitlier," cried the poor
little girl. "Oh, if somebody would please speak to
him! We couldn't be married then, but now if any-
body would take a little trouble ! I told him Mr. Went-
worth would , if I was to ask him •, but then I thought
perhaps as Mr. Wentworth mightn't like to be the one
as married me," said Rosa, with a momentary gleam
of vanity through her tears. The little simper with
which the girl spoke, the coquettish looks askance at
the Perpetual Curate, who stood grave and unmoved
at a distance, the movement of unconscious self-decep-
tion and girlish vanity which for a moment distracted
Rosa, had a great effect upon the sjDectators. The
judges looked at each other across the table, and Dr.
Marjoribanks made a commentary of meditative nods
upon that little exhibition. "Just so," said the Doctor;
"maybe Mr. Wentwoi-th might have objected. If you
tell me the man's name, /'ll speak to him, Rosa," said
the old Scotchman, grimly. As for the Rector, he had
put down his pen altogether, and looked very much as
if he were the culprit. Certainly his shame and con-
fusion and self-disgust were greater than that of any
one else in the room.
"Oh, Doctor, please don't be angiy. Oh, if some-
body would only speak to him!" cried poor Rosa. "Oh,
please, it wasn't my fault — I haven't got no — nobody
to speak for me!" At this moment she got a glimpse
of her uncle's face, dark and angry, looming behind
THE PERP.ETUAL CURATE. 191
the Rector's chair. Rosa shrank back with a frightened
movement,, and caught fast hold of Miss Leonora's
dress. "Oh, j^lease, don't let him kill me!" cried the
terrified girl. She sank down at Miss Wentworth's
feet, and held tightly by her unwilling protectress.
She was a frightened child, afraid of being whipped
and punished; she was not an outraged woman, for-
saken and miserable. Nobody knew what to do with
her as she crouched down, panting with fright and
anxiety, by Miss Leonora's side.
"We must know who this man is," said John
Brown. "Look here, Rosa; if anybody is to do you
good, it is necessary to know the man. Rise up and
look round, and tell me if you can see him here."
After a moment's interval Rosa obeyed. She stood
up trembling, resting her hand to support hei'self on
Miss Leonora's chair — almost, she trembled so, on Miss
Leonora's shoulder. Up to this moment the ignorant
little ci'eatiTre had scarcely felt the shame of her posi-
tion; she had felt only the necessity of appealing to
the kindness of people who knew her — people who
were powerful enough to do very nearly what they
pleased in Carlingford; for it was in this light that
Rosa, who knew no better, regarded the Doctor and
her other judges. This time her eye passed quickly
over those protectors. The tears were still hanging on
her eyelashes; her childish bosom was still palpitating
with sobs. Beyond the little circle of light round the
table, the room was comparatively in shadow. She
stood by herself, her pretty face and anxious eyes ap-
pearing over Miss Wentworth's head, her fright and
her anxiety both forgotten for the moment in the
sudden hope of seeing her betrayer. There was not a
192 TllfcJ PERPETUAL CURATE.
sound in the room to disturb tlie impartiality of her
search. Every man kept still, as if by chance he might
be the offender. Rosa's eyes, bright with anxiety, with
eagerness, with a feverish hope, went searching into
the shadow, gleaming harmless over the Wentworth
brothers, who were opposite. Then there was a start
and a loud cry. She was not ashamed to be led be-
fore the old men, who were sorry for her, and who
could protect her-, but now at last the instinct of her
womanhood seized upon the unfortunate creature. She
had made an involuntary rush towards him when she
saw him first. Then she stopped short, and looked all
round her with a bewildered sudden consciousness.
The blood rushed to her face, scorching and burning;
she uttered a sudden cry of anguish and shame. "Oh,
don't forsake me! — don't forsake me! — listen to the
gentlemen!" cried poor Eosa, and fell down in a
sudden agony of self-comprehension at Wodehouse's
feet.
For a few minutes after there was nothing but con-
fusion in the room. Elsworthy had been standing be-
hind backs, with a half-fiendish look of rage and dis-
appointment on his commonplace features. "Let them
help her as likes; I washes my hands of her," he cried
bitterly, when he saw her fall; and then rushed into
the midst of the room, thrusting the others out of his
way. The man was beside himself with mortification,
with disgvist, and fury, and at the same time with a
savage natural affection for the creature who had baffled
and disgraced him, yet still was his own. "Let alone
— ^let alone, I tell you! There's nobody as belongs to
her but me!" cried Elsworthy, pushing uj) against the
Pock)i:, who had lifted her from the ground. As for
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 193
Wodehouse, lie was standing scowling down npon the
pretty figure at liis feet: not that the vagabond was
utterly heartless, or could look at his victim without
emotion; on the contrary, he was pale with terror,
thinking he had killed her, wondering in his miserable
heart if they would secure him at once, and furtively
watching the door to see if he had a chance of escape.
When Mr. Waters seized his arm, Wodehouse gave a
hoarse outcry of horror. "I'll marry her — oh. Lord,
I'll marry her! I never meant anything else," the
wretched man cried, as he sank back again into his
chair. /He thought she was dead, as she lay with her
upturned face on the carpet, and in his terror and re-
morse and cowardice his heart seemed to stop beating.
If he could have had a chance of escaping, he would
not have hesitated to dash the old Doctor out of his
way, and rush over the body of the unhappy girl whom
he thought he had murdered. But Waters held him
fast-, and he sank back, panting and horriiied, on his
seat. "I never touched her; nobody can say I touched
her," muttered the poor wretch to himself; and watched
with fjiscinated eyes and the distinct apprehension of
terror every movement and change of position, calculat-
ing how he might dart out when the window was
opened — having forgotten for the moment that Jack
Wentworth, as well as the companion who kept im-
mediate watch over him, was in the room.
"She'll come to herself presently," said Dr. Marjori-
banks. "We'll carry her up-stairs. Yes, I know you
don't approve of her. Miss Wentworth; nobody said
you were to approve of her. Not that I think she's, a
responsible moral agent myself," said the Doctor, lift-
ing her up in his vigorous arms; "but in the mean
The Perpehud Curate. 11. 1^
194 THE PERPKTUAL CUB ATE.
time she has to be brought to life. Keep out of my
way, Elsworthy; you should have looked better after
the little fool. If she's not accountable for her actions,
you are," he went on with a growl, thrusting away with
his vigorous shoulder the badly-hung frame of Rosa's
uncle, who was no match for the Doctor. Thus the
poor little girl was carried away in a kind of proces-
sion, Miss Leonora going first. "Not that I think her
worth all this fuss, the vain little fool," said Miss
Leonora; "she'll come to herself, no fear of her-," but,
notwithstanding her protest, the strong-minded woman
led the way. When the room was cleared, the gentlemen
who remained took their seats mechanically, and stared at
'each other. In the shame and confusion of the moment no-
body could find anything to say, and the Curate was mag-
nanimous, and did not take advantage of his triumph.
The silence was broken by the Rector, who rose up so-
lemnly from his chair to speak. Probably no one in the
room had sufi'ered so acutely as Mr. Morgan; his face was
crimson, his eyes suffused and angry. Frank Wentworth
rose involuntarily at the same moment, expecting, he
could not tell Avhy, to be addressed, but sat down again
in a little confusion when he found that the Rector had
turned his eyes in a totally different direction. Mr.
Morgan put the lamp out of the way, that he might be
able to transfix with the full glow of his angry eyes
the real offender, who sat only half conscious, absorbed
with his own terror, by the lawyer's side.
"Sir!" said the Rector, in a tone which, severe as
his voice was by nature, nobody had ever heard from
his lips before, "you have put us all in a most ridi-
culous and painful position to-night. I don't know
whether you are capable of feeling the vileness of your
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 195
own misconduct as regards the unhappy girl Avho has
just been carried out of the room, but you certainly
shall not leave the house without hearing "
Wodehouse gave such a start at these words that
Mr. Morgan paused a moment. The Rector was quite
unaware of the relief, the sense of safety, which he
had inadvertently conveyed to the mind of the shabby
rascal whom he was addressing. He was then to be
allowed to leave the house? "I'll leave the d d
place to-night, by Jove!" he muttered in his beard,
and immediately sat up upon his chair, and turned
roimd with a kind of sullen vivacity to listen to the
remainder of Mr. Morgan's speech.
"You shall not leave this house," said the Eector,
more peremptorily still, " without hearing what must be
the opinion of every gentleman, of every honest man.
You have been the occasion of bringing an utterly un-
founded accusation against a — a young clergyman,"
said Mr. Morgan, with a succession of gasps, "of — of
the very highest character. You have, as I understand,
sir, abused his hospitality, and— and done your xitmost
to injure him when you owed him gratitude. Not con-
tent with that, sir," continued the Eector, "you have
kept your — your very existence concealed, until the
moment when you could injure your sisters. You may
perhaps be able to make a miserable amends for the
wrong you have done to the unfortunate girl up-stairs,
but you can never make amends to me, sir, for betray-
ing me into a ridiculous position, and leading me to
do — an — an absurd and — and incredible injustice — to
a — to my — to Mr. Frank "Wentworth. Sir, you are a
scoundrel!" cried Mr. Morgan, breaking down abruptly
in an access of sudden fury. When the Rector had
13*
196 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
recovered himself, lie turned with great seventy to the
rest of the compauy: "Gentlemen, my wife will be glad
to see you up-stairs," said Mr. Morgan. The sound of
this hospitable invitation was as if lie had ordered the
entire assembly to the door; but nevertheless most of
the company followed him as he rose, and, without con-
descending to look round again, marched out of the
library. The Squire rose with the rest, and took the
hand of his son Frank and grasped it closely. Some-
how, though he believed Frank before, Mr. Wentworth
was easier in his mind after the Rector's speech.
"I think I will go up-stairs and shake hands with
him," said the Squire, "and you had better come too,
Frank. No doubt he will expect it. He spoke up
very well at the last, and I entirely agree with the
Rector," he said, looking sternly, but with a little
curiosity, at the vagabond, who stood recovering him-
self, and ready to resume his hopeless swagger. It was
well for Mr. Wentworth that he left the room at once,
and went cheerfully ujD-stairs to pay his respects to
Mrs. Morgan. The Squire said, "Thank God!" quietly
to himself when he got out of the library. "Things
are mending, surely — even Jack — even Jack," Mr.
Wentworth said, under his breath; and the simple gen-
tleman said over a part of the general thanksgiving,
as he went slowly, with an unusual gladness, up the
stair. He might not have entered Mrs. Morgan's draw-
ing-room with such a relieved and brightened coun-
tenance had he stayed ten minutes longer in the library,
and listened to the further conversation there.
THE PERPETUAL CUKATE. 197
CHAPTER XIII.
"Now, Mr. Wodelioiise," said Jack Wentwortb, "it
appears tliat you and I have a word to say to each
other." They had all risen when the other gentlemen
followed Mr. Morgan out of the room , and those who
remained stood in a group surrounding the unhappy
culprit, and renewing his impression of personal danger.
When he heard himself thus addressed, he backed
against the wall,* and instinctively took one of the
chairs and placed it before him. His furtive eye sought
the door and the window, investigating the chances of
escape. When he saw that there was none, he with-
drew still a step farther back, and stood at bay.
"By Jove! I ain't going to stand all this," said
Wodehouse; "as if every fellow had a right to bully
me — it's more than flesh and blood can put up with.
I don't care for that old fogie that's gone up-stairs;
but, by Jove! I won't stand any more from men that
eat my dinners, and win my money, and "
Jack Wentworth made half a step forward with a
superb smile — "My good fellow, you should never re-
])roach a man with his good actions," he said; "but at
the same time, having eaten your dinner^, as you
describe, I have a certain claim on your gratitude. We
have had some — a — business connection — for some
years. I don't say you have reason to be actually
grateful for that; but, at least, it brought you now and
then into the society of gentlemen. A man who robs
a set of women, and leaves the poor creature he has
ruined destitute, is a sort of cur we have nothing to
198 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
say to," said tlie heir of the Wentworths, contemp-
tuously. "We do not pretend to be saints, but we are
not blackguards-, that is to say," said Jack, with a per-
fectly calm and harmonious smile, "not in theory, nor
in our own opinion. The fact accordingly is, my
friend, that you must choose between us and those re-
spectable meannesses of yours. By Jove! the fellow
ought to have been a shop-keeper, and as honest as —
Diogenes," said Jack. He stood looking at his wretched
associate with the overwhelming impertinence of a per-
fectly well-bred man, no way concealing the contemp-
tuous inspection with which his cool eyes travelled over
the disconcerted figure from top to toe, seeing and
exaggerating all its tremors and clumsy guiltiness. The
chances are, had Jack Wentworth been in Wodehouse's
place, he would have been master of the position as
much as now. He was not shocked nor indignant like
his brothers. He was simply contemptuous, disdainful,
not so much of the wickedness as of the clumsy and
shabby fashion in which it had been accom^ilished. As
for the offender, who had been defiant in his sulky
fashion uji to this moment, his courage oozed out at
his finger-ends under Jack Wentworth's eye.
"I am my own master," he stammered, "nowadays.
I ain't to be dictated to — and I shan't be , by Jove !
As for Jack Wentworth, he's well known to be neither
more nor less "
"Than what, Mr. Wodehouse?" said the serene and
splendid Jack. "Don't interest yourself on my ac-
count, Frank. This is my business at present. If you
have any prayer-meetings in hand, we can spare you
— and don't forget our respectable friend in your sup-
plications. Favour us with your definition of Jack
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 199
Wentworth, Mr. Wodeliouse. He is neitlier more nor
less ?"
"By Jove! I ain't goiug to stand it," cried Wode-
liouse-, "if a fellow's to be driven mad, and insulted,
and have his money won from him, and made game of
— not to say tossed about as I've been among 'em, and
made a drudge of, and set to do the dirty work," said
tlie unfortunate subordinate, with a touch of pathos in
his hoarse voice; — "I don't mean to say I've been
what I ought; but, by Jove! to be put upon as I've
been, and knocked about; and at the last they haven't
the pluck to stand by a fellow, by Jove!" muttered
Mr. Wodehouse's unlucky heir. What further ex-
asperation his smiling superior intended to heap upon
him, nobody could tell; for just as Jack Wentworth
was about to speak, and just as Wodehouse had again
faced towards him, half-cowed, half-resisting, Gerald,
who had been looking on in silence, came forward out
of the shadow. He had seen all and heard all, from
that moral deathbed of his, where no personal cares
could again disturb him; and though he had resigned
his office, he could not belie his nature. He came in
by instinct to cherish the dawn of compunction which
appeared, as he thought, in the sinner's words.
"The best thing that can happen to you," said
Gerald, at the sound of whose voice everybody started,
"is to find out that the wages of sin are bitter. Don't
expect any sympathy or consolation from those who
have helped you to do wrong. My brother tries to in-
duce you to do a right act from an unworthy motive.
He says your former associates will not acknowledge
you. My advice to you is to forsake your former
200 THE PERPETUAL CUKATE.
associates. My brother," said Gerald, turniiif^ aside to
look at him, "would do himself honour if he forsook
them also — but for you, here is your opportunity. You
have no temptation of poverty now. Take the first
step, and forsake them. I liave no motive in advising
you — except, indeed, that I am Jack Wcntworth's
brother. He and you are different," said Gerald, in-
voluntarily glancing from one to the other. "And at
present you have the means of escape. Go now and
leave them," said the man who was a priest by nature.
The light returned to his eye while he spoke; he was
no longer passive, contemplating his own moral death •,
his natural office had come back to him unawares. He
stretched his arm towards the door, thinking of nothing
but the escape of the sinner. "Go," said Gerald. "Ee-
fuse their approbation; shun their society. For Christ's
sake, and not for theirs, make amends to those you
have wronged. Jack, I command you to let him go."
Jack, who had been startled at fir.st, had recovered
himself long before his brother ceased to speak. "Let
him go, by all means," he said, and stood superbly in-
different by Gerald's side, whistling under his breath
a tripping lively air. "No occasion for solemnity.
The sooner he goes the better," said Jack. "In short,
I see no reason M^hy any of us should stay, now the
business is accomplished. I wonder would his rever-
ence ever forgive me if I lighted my cigar?" He took
out his case as he spoke, and began to look over its
contents. There was one in the room, however, who
was better acquainted Avitli the indications of Jack
Wentworth's face than either of his brothers. This
unfortunate, who was hanging in an agony of un-
certainty over the chair he had placed before him,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 201
watched every movement of his leader's face with the
anxious gaze of a lover, hoping to see a little cor-
responding anxiety in it, but watched in vain. Wode-
house had been going through a fever of doubt and
divided impulses. The shabby fellow was open to good
impressions, though he was not much in the way of
practising them; and Gerald's address, which, in the
iirst place, filled him Avith awe, moved him afterwards
with passing thrills of compunction, mingled with a
kind of delight at the idea of getting free. When his
admonitor said "Go," Wodehouse made a step towards
the door, and for an instant felt the exhilaration of
enfranchisement. But the next moment his eye sought
Jack Wentworth's face, which was so superbly careless,
so indifferent to him and his intentions, and the vaga-
bond's soul succumbed with a canine fidelity to his
master. Had Jack shown any interest, any excitement
in the matter, his sway might have been doubtful; but
in proportion to the sense of his own insignificance and
unimportance Wodehouse's allegiance confirmed itself.
He looked wistfully towards the hero of his imagination,
as that skilful personage selected his cigar. He would
rather have been kicked again than left alone, and left
to himself. After all, it Avas very true what Jack
Wentworth said. They might be a bad lot, but they
were gentlemen (according to Wodehouse's understand-
ing of the word) with whom he had been associated;
and beatific visions of peers and baronets and honour-
ables, amongst whom his own shabby person had figured,
without feeling much below the common level, crossed
his mind with all the sweetness which belongs to a past
state of aff"airs. Yet it was still in his power to recall
these vanishing crlories. Now that he was rich, and
202 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
could "cut a figure" among the objects of his admira-
tion, was that brilliant world to be closed upon him
for ever by his own obstinacy? As these thoughts
rushed through his mind, little Rosa's beauty and
natural grace came suddenly to his recollection. No-
body need know how he had got his pretty wife, and
a pretty wife she would be — a creature whom nobody
could help admiring. Wodehouse looked wistfully at
Jack Wentworth, who took no notice of him as he
chose his cigar. Jack was not only the ideal of the
clumsier rogue, but he was the doorkeeper of that
paradise of disreputable nobles and ruined gentlemen
which was Wodehouse's idea of good society; and from
all this was he about to be banished? Jack Wentworth
selected his cigar with as much care as if his happiness
depended on it, and took no notice of the stealthy
glances thrown at him. "I'll get a light in the hall,"
said Jack; "good evening to you," and he was actually
going away.
"Look here," said Wodehouse, hastily, in his beard;
"I ain't a man to forsake old friends. If Jack Went-
worth does mean anything unreasonable, or against a
fellow's honour . Hold your tougue, AVaters; by
Jove! I know my friends. I know you would never
have been one of them but for Jack Wentworth. He's
not the common sort, I can tell you. He's the greatest
swell going, by Jove!" cried Jack's admiring follower,
"and through thick and thin he's stood by me. I ain't
going to forsake him now — that is, if he don't want
anything that goes against a fellow's honour," said the
repentant prodigal, again sinking the voice which he
had raised for a moment. As he spoke he looked more
wistfully than ever towards his leader, who said
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 203
"Psliaw!" with an impatient gesture, and put back his
cigar.
"This room is too hot for anything," said Jack;
"but don't open the windoM^, I entreat of you. I hate
to assist at the suicide of a set of insane insects. For
heaven's sake, Frank, mind what you're doing. As
for Mr. Wodehouse's remark," said Jack, lightly,
"I trust I never could suggest anything which would
wound his keen sense of honour. I advise you to
marry and settle, as I am in the habit of advising
young men; and if I were to add that it would be
seemly to make some provision for your sisters "
"Stop there!" said the Curate, who had taken no
part in the scene up to this moment. He had stood
behind rather contemptuously, determined to have no-
thing to do with his ungrateful and ungenerous pro-
t(5ge. But now an unreasonable impulse forced him
into the discussion. "The less that is said on that
part of the subject the better," he said, with some
natural heat. "I object to the mixing up of names
which — which no one here has any right to bandy
about "
"That is very true," said Mr. Proctor; "but still
they have their rights," the late Rector added after a
pause. "We have no right to stand in the way of
their — their interest, you know." It occurred to Mr.
Proctor, indeed, that the suggestion was on the whole
a sensible one. "Even if they were to — to marry,
you know, they might still be left unprovided for,"
said the late Rector. "I think it is quite just that
some provision should be made for that."
And then there was a pause. Frank Wentworth
was sufficiently aware after his first start of indigna-
204 TUB PERPETUAL CURATE.
tion tliat lie liad no right to interfere, as Mr, Proctor
said, between the Miss Wodehouses and their interest.
He had no means of providing for them, of setting
them above the chances of fortune. He reflected bit-
terly that it was not in his power to offer a home to
Lucy, and through her to her sister. What he had to
do was to stand by silently, to suffer other people to
discuss what was to be done for the woman whom he
loved, and whose name was sacred to him. This was
a stretch of patience of which he was not capable. "I
can only say again," said the Curate, "that I think
this discussion has gone far enough. Whatever matters
of business there may be that require arrangement had
better be settled between Mr. Brown and Mr. Waters.
So far as private feeling goes "
"Never fear, I'll manage it," said Jack Wentworth,
"as well as a dozen lawyers. Private feeling has no-
thing to do with it. Have a cigar, Wodehouse? We'll
talk it over as we walk home," said the condescending
potentate. These words dispersed the assembly, which
no longer had any object. As Jack Wentworth saun-
tered out, his faithful follower pressed through the
others to join him. Wodehouse was himself again. He
gave a sulky nod to the Curate, and said, "Grood-night,
parson; I don't owe much to you," and hastened out
close upon the heels of his patron and leader. All the
authorities of Carlingford, the virtuous people who con-
ferred station and respectability by a look, sank into
utter insignificance in presence of Jack. His admiring
follower went after him with a swell of pride. He
was a poor enough rogue himself, hustled and abused
by everybody, an unsuccessful and shabby vagabond,
notwithstanding his new fortune; but Jack was the
THE PBUPETOAL CURATE. 205
glorified impersonation of cleverness and wickedness
and triumph to Wodeliouse. He grew insolent when he
was permitted to pnt his arm through that of his hero,
and went off with him trying to copy, in swagger and
insolence, his careless step and well-bred ease. Per-
haps Jack Wentworth felt a little ashamed of himself
as he emerged from the gate of the Rectory with his
shabby and disreputable companion. He shrugged his
shoulders slightly as he looked back and saw Gerald
and Frank coming slowly out together. "Coraggio!"
said Jack to himself, "it is I who am the true philan-
thropist. Let us do evil that good may come." Not-
withstanding, he was very thankful not to be seen by
his father, who had wished to consult him as a man of
the world, and had shown certain yearnings towards
him, which, to Jack's infinite siirprise, awakened re-
sponsive feelings in his own unaccustomed bosom. He
was half ashamed of this secret movement of natural ^
affection, which, certainly, nobody else suspected; but
it was with a sensation of relief that he closed the
Rectory gate beliind him, without having encountered
the keen inquiring suspicious glances of the Squire.
Tlie others dispersed according to their pleasure — Mr,
Waters joining the party up-stairs, while Mr. Proctor
followed Jack Wentworth and Wodehouse to the door
witli naive natural curiosity. When the excellent man
recollected that he was listening to private conversa-
tion, and met Wodehouse's look of sulky insolence, he
turned back again, much fluttered and disturbed. He
had an interest in the matter, though the two in whose
hands it now lay were the last Avhom he would have
chosen as confidants; and to do him justice, he was
thinking of Lucy only in his desire to hear what they
206 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
decided upon. "Something might happen to me," he
said to himself", "and, even if all was well, she would be
happier not to be wholly dependent upon her sister;"
with which self-exculpatory reflection, Mr. Proctor
slowly followed the others into the drawing-room.
Gerald and Frank, who were neither of them disposed
for society, went away together. They had enough to
think of, without much need of conversation, and they
had walked half-way down Grange Lane before either
spoke. Then it was Frank who broke the silence ab-
ruptly with a question which had nothing to do with
the business in which they had been engaged.
"And what do you mean to do?" said Frank, sud-
denly. It was just as they came in sight of the grace-
ful spire of St. Koque's-, and perhaps it was the sight
of his own church which roused the Perpetual Curate
to think of the henceforth aimless life of his brother.
"I don't understand how you are to give up your work.
To-night even "
"I did not forget myself," said Gerald; "every
man who can distinguish good from evil has a right to
advise his fellow-creature. I have not given up that
common privilege — don't hope it, Frank," said the
martyr, with a momentary smile.
"If I could but understand why it is that you
make this terrible sacrifice!" said the Curate — "No, I
don't want to argue — of course, you are convinced. I
can understand the wish that ovir unfortunate division
had never taken place; but I can't understand the
sacrifice of a man's life and work. Nothing is perfect
in this world; but at least to do something in it — to be
good for something — and with your faculties, Gerald!"
cried the admiring and regretful brother. "Can ab-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 207
stract right in an institution, if that is what you aim
at, be worth the sacrifice of your existence — your
power of influencing your fellow-creatures?" This Mr.
Wentworth said, being specially moved by the circum-
stances in which he found himself — for, under any
other conditions, such sentiments would have produced
the warmest opposition in his Anglican bosom. But
he was so far sympathetic that he could be tolerant to
his brother who had gone to Rome.
"I know what you mean," said. Gerald; "it is the
prevailing theory in England that all human institu-
tions are imperfect. My dear Frank, I want a Church
which is not a human institution. In England it seems
to be the rule of faith that every man may believe as
he pleases. There is no authority either to decide or
to punish. If you can foresee what that may lead us
to, I cannot. I take refuge in the true Church, where
alone there is certainty — where," said the convert, with
a heightened colour and a long-drawn breath, "there
is authority clear and decisive. In England you be-
lieve what you will, and the result will be one that I
at least fear to contemplate; in Rome we believe what
— we must," said Gerald. He said the words slowly,
bowing his head more than once with determined sub-
mission, as if bending under the yoke. "Frank, it is
salvation!" said the new Catholic, with the emphasis
of a despairing hope. And for the first time Frank
Wentworth perceived what it was which had driven
his brother to Rome.
"I understand you now," said the Perpetual Curate;
"it is because there is no room for our conflicting doc-
trines and latitude of belief Instead of a Church hap-
208 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
pily SO far imperfect, tliat a man can put his life to the
best acco^^nt in it, witliout absohxtely delivering up his
intellect to a set of doctrines, you seek a perfect Church,
in which, for a symmetrical system of doctrine, you
lose the use of your existence!" Mr. Wentworth uttered
this opinion with all the more vehemence, that it was
in direct opposition to his own habitual ideas; but even
his veneration for his "Mother" yielded for the moment
to his strong sense of his brother's mistake.
"It is a hard thing to say," said Gerald, "but it is
true. If you but knew the consolation, after years of
struggling among the problems of faith, to find one's
self at last upon a rock of authority, of certainty — one
holds in one's hand at last the interpretation of the
enigma," said Gerald. He looked up to tlie sky as he
spoke, and breathed into the serene air a wistful ling-
ering sigh. If it was certainty that echoed in that
breath of unsatisfied nature, the sound was sadly out
of concord with the sentiment. His soul, notwithstand-
ing that expression of serenity, was still as wistful as
the night.
"Have you the interpretation?" said his brother;
and Frank, too, looked up into the pure sky above,
with its stars which stretched over them serene and
silent, arching over the town that lay behind, and of
which nobody k)iew better than he the human myste-
ries and wonderful unansAverable questions. The heart
of the Curate ached to tliiuk liow many problems lay
in the darkness, over wliich tliat sky stretched silent,
making no sign. Tliero were the sorrowful of the
eartli, enduring their afllictions, lifting up pitiful liands,
demanding of God in their bereavements and in their
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 209
miseries the reason why. There were all the inequal-
ities of life, side by side, evermore echoing dumbly the
same awful question-, and over all shone the calm sky
which gave no answer. "Have you the interpretation?"
he said. "Perhaps you can reconcile freewill and pre-
destination — the need of a universal atonement and
the existence of individual virtue? But these are not
to me the most difficult questions. Can your Church
explain why one man is happy and another miserable?
— why one has everything and abounds, and the other
loses all that is most precious in life? My sister Mary,
for example," said the Curate, "she seems to bear the
cross for our family. Her children die and yours live.
Can you explain to her why? I have heard her cry
out to God to know the reason, and He made no an-
swer. Tell me, have you the interpretation?" cried
the young man, on whom the hardness of his own po-
sition was pressing at the moment. They went on to-
gether in silence for a few minutes, without any attempt
on Gerald's part to answer. "You accept the explana-
tion of the Church in respect to doctrines," said the
Curate, after that pause, "and consent that her author-
ity is sufficient, and that your perplexity is over — that
is well enough, so far as it goes: but outside lies a
world in which every event is an enigma, where no-
thing that comes offers any explanation of itself; where
God does not show Himself always kind, but by times
awful, terrible — a God who smites and does not spare.
It is easy to make a harmonious balance of doctrine;
but where is the interpretation of life?" The young
priest looked back on his memory, and recalled, as if
they had been in a book, the daily problems with which
The Perpetual Curate. II. 14
210 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
he was so well acquainted. As for Gerald, he bowed
his head a little, with a kind of reverence, as if he had
been bowing before the shrine of a saint.
"I have had a happy life," said the elder brother.
"I have not been driven to ask such questions for my-
self. To these the Church has but one advice to offer:
Trust God."
"We say so in England," said Frank Wentworth;
"it is the grand scope of our teaching. Trust God.
He will not explain Himself, nor can we attempt it.
When it is certain that I must be content with this
answer for all the sorrows of life, I am content to take
my doctrines on the same terms," said the Perpetual
Curate; and by this time they had come toMissWent-
worth's door. After all, perhaps it was not Gerald,
except so far as he was carried by a wonderful force
of human sympathy and purity of soul, who was the
predestined priest of the family. As he went up to his
own room, a momentary spasm of doubt came upon the
new convert — whether, perhaps, he was making a sacri-
fice of his life for a mistake. He hushed the thought
forcibly as it rose; such impulses were no longer to be
listened to. The same authority which made faith cer-
tain, decided every doubt to be sin.
The perpetual curate. 211
CHAPTEK XIV.
Next morning the Curate got up with anticipations
which were far from cheerful, and a weary sense of the
monotony and dulness of life. He had won his little
battle, it was true; but the very victory had removed
that excitement which answered in the absence of hap-
pier stimulants to keep up his heart and courage. After
a struggle like that in which he had been engaged, it
was hard to come again into the peaceable routine
without any particular hope to enliven or happiness to
cheer it, which was all he had at present to look for
in his life; and it was harder still to feel the necessity
of being silent, of standing apart from Lucy in her
need, of shutting up in his own heart the longing he
had towards her, and refraining himself from the des-
perate thought of uniting his genteel beggary to hers.
That was the one thing which must not be thought of,
and he subdued himself with an impatient sigh, and
could not but wonder, as he went down-stairs, whether,
if Gerald had been less smoothly guided through the
perplexing paths of life, he would have found time for
all the difficulties which had driven him to take refuge
in Rome. It was with this sense of hopeless restraint
and incapacity, which is perhaps of all sensations the
most humbling, that he went down-stairs, and found
lying on his breakfast table, the first thing that met
his eye, the note which Lucy Wodehouse had written
to him on the previous night. As he read it, the earth
somehow turned to the sun; the dubious light bright-
ened in the skies. Unawares, he had been wondering
14*
212 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
never to receive any token of sympathy, any word of
encouragement, from those for whom he had made so
many exertions. When he had read Lucy's letter, the
aspect of affairs changed considerably. To be sure,
nothing that she had said or could say made any dif-
ference in the facts of the case 5 but the Curate was
young, and still liable to those changes of atmosphere
which do more for an imaginative mind than real re-
volutions. He read the letter several times over as he
lingered through his breakfast, making on the whole
an agreeable meal, and finding himself repossessed of
his ordinary healthful appetite. He even canvassed the
signature as much in reading as Lucy had done in
writing it — balancing in his mind the maidenly "truly
yours" of that subscription with as m.any ingenious
renderings of its possible meaning, as if Lucy's letter
had been articles of faith. "Truly mine," he said to
himself, with a smile; which indeed meant all a lover
could require-, and then paused, as if he had been Dr.
Lushington or Lord Westbury, to inquire into the real
force of the phrase. For after all, it is not only when
signing the Articles that the bond and pledge of sub-
scription means more than is intended. When Mr.
Wentworth was able to tear himself from the agreeable
casuistry of this self-discussion, he got up in much bet-
ter spirits to go about his daily business. First of all,
he had to see his father, and ascertain what were the
Squire's intentions, and how long he meant to stay in
Carlingford; and then It occurred to the Perpe-
tual Curate that after that, politeness demanded that he
should call on the Miss Wodehouses, who had, or at
least one of them, expressed so frankly their confidence
in him. He could not but call to thank her, to inquire
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 213
into their plans, perhaps to back aunt Leonora's invita-
tion, which he was aware had been gratefully declined.
With these ideas in his mind he went down-stairs, after
brushing his hat very carefully and casting one so-
licitous glance in the mirror as he passed — which pre-
sented to him a very creditable reflection, an eidolon
in perfect clerical apparel, without any rusty suggestions
of a Perpetual Curacy. Yet a Perpetual Curacy it was
which was his sole benefice or hope in his present cir-
cumstances, for he knew very well that, were all other
objections at an end, neither Skelmersdale nor "VYent-
worth could be kept open for him-, and that beyond
these two he had not a hope of advancement — and at
the same time he was pledged to remain in Carling-
ford. All this, however, though discouraging enough,
did not succeed in discouraging Mr. Wentworth after
he had read Lucy's letter. He went down-stairs so
lightly that Mrs. Hadwin, who was waiting in the par-
lour in her best cap, to ask if he would pardon her for
making such a mistake, did not hear him pass, and sat
waiting for an hour, forgetting, or rather neglecting to
give any response, when the butcher came for orders —
which was an unprecedented accident. Mr. Wentworth
went cheerfully up Grange Lane, meeting, by a singular
chance, ever so many people, who stopped to shake
hands with him, or at least bowed their good wishes
and friendly acknowledgments. He smiled in himself
at these evidences of popular penitence, but was not
the less pleased to find himself reinstated in his place
in the affections and respect of Carlingford. "After
all, it was not an unnatural mistake," he said to him-
self, and smiled benignly upon the excellent people
who had found out the error of their own ways. Car-
214 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
lingford, indeed, seemed altogether in a more cheerful
state than usual, and Mr. Wcntworth could not but
think that the community in general was glad to find
that it had been deceived, and so went upon his way,
pleasing himself with those maxims about the ultimate
prevalence of justice and truth, which make it apparent
that goodness is always victorious, and wickedness pun-
ished, in the end. Somehow even a popular fallacy
has an aspect of truth when it suits one's own case.
The perpetual Curate went through his aunt's garden
with a conscious smile, feeling once more master of
himself and his concerns. There was, to tell the truth,
even a slight shade of self-content and approbation
upon his handsome countenance. In the present changed
state of public opinion and private feeling, he began to
take some pleasure in his sacrifice. To be sure, a Per-
petual Curate could not marry, but perhaps Lucy — in
short, there was no telling what might happen; and it
was accordingly with that delicious sense of goodness
which generally attends an act of self-sacrifice, mingled
with an equally delicious feeling that the act, when
accomplished, might turn out no such great sacrifice
after all — which it is to be feared is the most usual
way in which the sacrifices of youth are made — that
the Curate walked into the hall, passing his aunt
Dora's toy terrier without that violent inclination to
give it a whack with his cane in passing, Avhich was
his usual state of feeling. To tell the truth, Lucy's
letter had made him at peace with all the world.
When, however, he entered the dining-room, where
the family were still at breakfast, Frank's serenity was
unexpectedly disturbed. The first thing that met his eye
was his aunt Leonora, towering over her tea-urn at the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 215
upper end of the table, holding in her hand a letter
which she had just opened. The envelope had fallen
in the midst of the immaculate breakfast "things," and
indeed lay, with its broad black edge on the top of the
snow-white lumps, in Miss Leonora's own sugar-basin;
and the news had been sufficiently interesting to sus-
pend the operations of tea-making, and to bring the
strong-minded woman to her feet. The first words
which were audible to Frank revealed to him the
nature of the intelligence which had produced such
startling effects.
"He was always a contradictory man," said Miss
Leonora; "since the first hour he was in Skelmersdale,
he has made a practice of doing things at the wrong
time. I don't mean to reproach the poor man now he's
gone; but when he has been so long of going, what
good could it do him to choose this particular moment,
for no other reason that I can see, except that it was
specially uncomfortable to us? What my brotlier has
just been saying makes it all the worse," said Miss
Leonora, with a look of annoyance. She had turned
her head away from the door, which was at the side of
the room, and had not perceived the entrance of the
Curate. "As long as we could imagine that Frank was
to succeed to the Rectory, the thing looked compara-
tively easy. I beg your pardon, Gerald. Of course,
you know how grieved I am — in short, that we all feel
the deepest distress and vexation; but, to be sure, since
you have given it up, somebody must succeed you —
there can be no doubt of that."
"Not the least, my dear aunt," said Gerald.
"I am glad you grant so much. It is well to be
sure of something," said the incisive and peremptory
216 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
speaker. "It would Lave been a painful thing for us
at any time to place another person in Skelmersdale
while Frank was unprovided for; but, of course," said
Miss Leonora, sitting down suddenly, "nobody who
knows me could suppose for a minute that T would let
my feelings stand in the way of my public duty. Still
it is very awkward just at this moment when Frank,
on the whole, has been behaving very properly, and
one can't help so far approving of him "
"I am much obliged to you, aunt Leonora," said
the Curate.
"Oh, you are there, Frank," said his sensible aunt;
and strong-minded though she Vi^as, a slight shade of
additional colour appeared for a moment on Miss Leo-
nora's face. She paused a little, evidently diverted
from the line of discourse which she had contemplated,
and wavered like a vessel disturbed in its course. "The
fact is, I have just had a letter announcing Mr. Shir-
ley's death," she continued, facing round towards her
nephew, and setting off abruptly, in face of all con-
sequences, on the new tack.
"I am very sorry," said Frank Wentworth ; "though
I have an old grudge at him on account of his long-
sermons ; but as you have expected it for a year or
two, I can't imagine your grief to be overwhelming,"
said the Curate, with a touch of natural impertinence
to be expected under the circumstances. Skelmersdale
had been so long thought interesting to him, that now,
when it was not in the least interesting, he got im-
patient of the name.
"I quite agree with you, Frank," said Miss Went-
worth. Aunt Cecilia had not been able for a long time
THE PEKPETUAL CURATE. 217
to agree with anybody. She had been, on the contrary,
shaking her head and shedding a few gentle tears over
C4erald's silent submission and Louisa's noisy lamenta-
tions. Everything was somehow going wrong; and she
who had no power to mend, at least could not assent,
and broke through her old use and wont to shake her
head, which was a thing very alarming to the family.
The entire party was moved by a sensation of pleasure
to hear Miss Cecilia say, "I quite agree with you,
Frank."
"You are looking better this morning, my dear
aunt," said Gerald. They had a great respect for each
other these two; but when Miss Cecilia turned to hear
what her elder nephew was saying, her face lost the
momentary look of approval it had worn, and she again,
though very softly, almost imperceptibly, began to
shake her head.
"We were not asking for your sympathy," said
Miss Leonora, sharply. "Don't talk like a saucy boy.
We were talking of our own embarrassment. Tliere is
a very excellent young man, the curate of the parish,
whom Julia Trench is to be married to. By the way,
of course, this must put it off; but I was about to say,
when you interrupted me, that to give it away from
you at this moment, just as you had been doing well
— doing — your duty," said Miss Leonora, with unusual
hesitation, "was certainly very uncomfortable, to say
the least, to us."
"Don't let that have the slightest influence on you,
I beg," cried the Perpetual Curate, with all the pride
of his years. "I hope I have been doing my duty all
along," the young man added, more softly, a moment
after; upon which the Scjuire gave a little nod, partly
218 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
of satisfaction and encouragement to his son — partly
of remonstrance and protest to his sister.
"Yes, I suppose so — with the flowers at Easter, for
example," said Miss Leonora, with a slight sneer. "I
consider that I have stood hy you through all this
business, Frank — but, of course, in so important a
matter as a cure of souls, neither relationship nor, to a
certain extent, approval," said Miss Leonora, with again
some hesitation, "can be allowed to stand against
public duty. We have the responsibility of providing
a good gospel minister "
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Leonora,"
said the Squire, "but I can't help thinking that you
make a mistake. I think it's a man's bounden duty,
when there is a li\'ing in the family, to educate one of
his sons for it. In my opinion, it's one of the duties
of property. You have no right to live off your estate,
and spend your money elsewhere; and no more have
you any right to give less than — than your own flesh
and blood to the people you have the charge of. You've
got the charge of them to — to a certain extent — soul
and body, sir," said the Squire, growing warm, as he
put down his 'Times,' and forgetting that he addressed
a lady. "I'd never have any peace of mind if I filled
up a family living with a stranger — unless, of course,"
Mr. Wentworth added in a parenthesis — an unlikely
sort of contingency which had not occurred to him at
first — "y*^^ should happen to have no second son. —
The eldest the squu-e, the second the rector. That's
my idea, Leonora, of Church and State."
Miss Leonora smiled a little at her brother's semi-
feudal, semi-pagan ideas. "I have long known that
we were not of the same way of thinking," said the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 219
strong-minded annt, who, though cleverer than her
brother, was too wise in her own conceit to perceive
at the first glance the noble, simple conception of his
own duties and position, which was implied in the
honest gentleman's Avords. "Your second son might be
either a fool or a knave, or even, althoiigh neither,
might be quite unfit to be intrusted with the eternal
interests of his fellow-creatures. In my opinion, the
duty of choosing a clergyman is one not to be exer-
cised witliout the gravest deliberation. A conscientious
man would make his selection dependent, at least, upon
the character of his second son — if he had one. We,
however "
"But then his character is so satisfactory, Leonora,"
cried Miss Dora, feeling emboldened by the shadow of
visitors under whose shield she could always retire.
"Everybody knows what a good clergyman he is^ — I
am sure it would be like a new world in Skelmersdale
if you were there, Frank, my dear — and preaches such
beautiful sermons!" said the unlucky little woman,
upon whom her sister immediately descended, swift and
sudden, like a storm at sea.
"We are generally perfectly of accord in our con-
clusions," said Miss Leonora; "as for Dora, she comes
to the same end by a roundabout way. After what
my brother has been saying "
"Yes," said the Squire, with uncomfortable looks,
"I was saying to your aunt, Frank, what I said to you
about poor Mary. Since Gerald will go, and since you
don't want to come, the best thing to do would be to
have Huxtable. He's a very good fellow on the whole,
and it might cheer her up, poor sovxl, to be near her
220 THK PERPETUAL CURATE.
sisters. Life has been hard work to her, poor girl —
very hard work, sir," said the Squire, with a sigh.
The idea was troublesome and uncomfortable, and
always disturbed his mind when it occurred to him.
It was indeed a secret humiliation to the Squire, that
his eldest daughter possessed so little the characteristic
health and prosperity of the Wentworths. He was very
sorry for her, but yet half angry and half ashamed, as
if she could have helped it; but, however, he had been
obliged to admit, in his private deliberations on the
subject, that, failing Frank, Mary's husband had the
next best right to Wentworth Rectory — an arrange-
ment of which Miss Leonora did not approve.
"I was about to say that we have no second son,"
she said, taking up the thread of her discourse where
it had been interrupted. "Our duty is solely towards
the Christian people. I do not pretend to be infallible,"
and Miss Leonora, with a meek air of self-contradic-
tion; "but I should be a very poor creature indeed, if,
at my age, I did not know what I believed, and was
not perfectly convinced that I am right. Consequently
(though, I repeat, Mr. Shirley has chosen the most in-
convenient moment possible for dying), it can't be
expected of me that I should appoint my nephew,
whose opinions in most points are exactly the opposite
of mine."
"I wish, at least, you would believe what I say,"
interrupted the Curate, impatiently. "There might
have been some sense in all this three months ago; but
if Skelmersdale were the high-road to everything de-
sirable in the Church, you are all quite aware that I
could not accept it. Stop, Gerald; I am not so dis-
interested as you think," said Frank; "if I left Car-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 221
lingford now, people would remember against me that
my character had been called in question here. I can
remain a Perpetual Curate," said the young man, with
a smile, "but I can't tolerate any shadow upon my
honour. I am sorry I came in at such an awkward
moment. Good morning, aunt Leonora. I hope Julia
Trench, when she has the Rectory, will always keep of
your way of thinking. She used to incline a little to
mine," he said, mischievously, as he went away.
"Come back, Frank, presently," said the Squire,
whose attention had been distracted from his 'Times.'
Mr. Wentworth began to be tired of such a succession
of exciting discussions. He thought if he had Frank
quietly to himself he could settle matters much more
agreeably, but the 'Times' was certainly an accom-
paniment more tranquillising so far as a comfortable
meal was concerned.
"He can't come back presently," said aunt Leonora.
"You speak as if he had nothing to do; when, on the
contrary, he has everything to do — that is worth
doing," said that contradictory authority. "Come back
to lunch, Frank; and I wish you would eat your break-
fast, Dora, and not stare at me."
Miss Dora had come down to breakfast as an in-
valid, in a pretty little cap, with a shawl over her
dressing-gown. She had not yet got over her adven-
ture and the excitement of Rosa's capture. That
unusual accident, and all the applauses of her courage
which had been addressed to her since, had roused the
timid woman. She did not withdraw her eyes from
her sister, though commanded to do so; on the contrary,
her look grew more and more emphatic. She meant
to have made a solemn address, throwing oif Leonora's
222 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
yoke, and declaring lier intention, in this grave crisis
of her nephew's fortunes, of acting for herself; but her
feelings were -too much for Miss Dora. The tears
came creeping to the corners of her eyes, and she
could not keep them back; and her attempt at dignity
broke down. "I am never consulted," she said, with
a gasp. "I don't mean to pretend to know better than
Leonora; but — but I think it is very hard that Frank
should be disappointed about Skelmersdale. You may
call me as foolish as you please," said Miss Dora, with
rising tears, "I know everybody will say it is my
fault; but I must say I think it is very hard that
Frank should be disappointed. He was always brought
tip for it, as everybody knows; and to disappoint him,
who is so good and so nice, for a fat young man,
buttered all over like — like — a pudding-basin," cried
poor Miss Dora, severely adhering to the unity of her
desperate metaphor. "I don't know what Julia Trench
can be thinking of; I — I don't know what Leonora
means."
"I am of the same way of thinking," said aunt
Cecilia, setting down, with a little gentle emphasis, her
cup of tea.
Here was rebellion, open and uncompromised. Miss
Leonora was so much taken by surprise, that she lifted
the tea-urn out of the way, and stared at her inter-
locutors with genuine amazement. But she proved her-
self, as usual, equal to the occasion.
"It's unfortunate that we never see eye to eye just
at once," she said, with a look which expressed more
distinctly than words could have done the preliminary
flourish of his whip, by means of which a skilful chariot-
eer gets his team under hand without touching them;
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 223
"but it is very lucky that we always come to agree in
the end," she added, more significantly still. It was
well to crush insubordination in the bud. Not that she
did not share the sentiment of her sisters; but then
they were guided like ordinary women by their feel-
ings, whei'eas Miss Leonora had the rights of property
before her, and the approval of Exeter Hall.
"And he wants to marry, poor dear boy," said
Miss Dora, pale with fright, yet persevering; "and she
is a dear good girl — the very person for a clergyman's
wife; and what is he to do if he is always to be
Curate of St. Roque's? You may say it is my fault,
but I cannot help it. He always used to come to me
in all his little troubles; and when he wants anything
very particiilar, he knows there is nothing I would not
do for him," sobbed the provid aunt, who could not
help recollecting how much use she had been to Frank.
She wiped her eyes at the thought, and held up her
head with a thrill of pride and satisfaction. Nobody
could blame her in that particular at least. "He knew
he had only to tell me what he wanted," said Miss
Dora, swelling out her innocent plumes. Jack, Avho
was sitting opposite, and who bad been listening with
admiration, thought it time to come in on his own
part.
"I hope you don't mean to forsake me^ aunt Dora,"
he said. "If a poor fellow cannot have faith in his
aunt, whom can he have faith in? I thought it was
too good to last," said the neglected prodigal. "You
have left the poor sheep in the wilderness and gone
back to the ninety-and-ninc righteovis men who need
no repentance." He put up his handkerchief to his
eyes as he spoke, and so far forgot himself as to look
224 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
with laughter in his face at his brother Gerald. As
for the Squire, he was startled to hear his eldest son
quoting Scripture, and laid aside his paper once more
to know what it meant.
"I am sure I beg your pardon, Jack," said aunt
Dora, suddenly stoj)ping short, and feeling guilty. "I
never meant to neglect you. Poor dear boy, he never
was properly tried with female society and the com-
forts of home; but then you were dining out that night,"
said the simple woman, eagerly. "I should have
stayed with you. Jack, of course, had you been at
home."
From this little scene Miss Leonora turned away
hastily, with an exclamation of impatience. She made
an abrupt end of her tea-making, and went off to her
little business-room with a grim smile upon her iron-
grey countenance. She too had been taken in a little
by Jack's pleasant farce of the Sinner Repentant; and
it occurred to her to feel a little ashamed of herself as
she went up-stairs. After all, the ninety-and-nine just
men of Jack's irreverent quotation were worth con-
sidering now and then; and Miss Leonora could not but
think with a little humiliation of the contrast between
her nephew Frank and the comfortable young Curate
who was going to marry Julia Trench. He teas fat, it
could not be denied; and she remembered his chubby
looks, and his sermons about self-denial and mortifica-
tion of the flesh, much as a pious Catholic might think
of the Lenten oratory of a fat friar. But then he
was perfectly sound in his doctrines, and it was un-
deniable that the people liked him, and that the ap-
pointment was one which even a Scotch ecclesiastical
commixnity full of popular rights could scarcely have
THE rERPETUAL CURATE. 225
objected to. According to lier own principles, tiie
strong-minded woman could not do otherwise. Slie
threw herself into her arm-chair with unnecessary force,
and read over the letter which Miss Trench herself
had written. "It is difficult to think of any consola-
tion in such a bereavement," wrote Mr. Shirley's niece;
"but still it is a little comfort to feel that I can tlii-ow
myself on your sympathy, my dear and kind friend."
"Little calculating thing!" Miss Leonora said to her-
self as she threw doAvn the mournful epistle; and then
she could not help thinking again of Frank. To be
sure, he was not of her way of thinking; but when she
remembered the "investigation" and its result, and the
secret romance involved in it, her Wentworth blood
sent a thrill of pride and pleasure through her veins.
Miss Leonora, though she was strong-minded, was still
woman enough to perceive her nephew's motives in his
benevolence to Wodehouse; but these motives, which
were strong enough to make him endure so much an-
noyance, were not strong enoxigh to tempt him from
(Jarlingford and his Perpetual Curacy, where his hon-
our and reputation, in the face of love and ambition,
demanded that he should remain. "It would be a pity
to balk him in his self-sacrilice," she said to herself,
with again a somewhat grim smile, and a comparison
not much to the advantage of Julia Trench and her
curate. She shut herself up among her papers till
luncheon, and only emerged with a stormy front when
that meal was on the table; during the progress of
which she snubbed everybody who ventured to speak
to her, and spoke to her nephew Frank as if he might
have been suspected of designs uj)on the plate-chest.
Such were the unpleasant consequences of the struggle
The Perpehial f'ui-dJe. II. l-J
226 THE TKRPETUAL CUKATK.
between duty and inclinatiou in the bosom of Miss
Leonora; and, save for other unforeseen events which
decided tlie matter for her, it is not by any means so
certain as, judging from her character, it ought to
have been, that duty wouki have won the day.
CHAPTER XV.
Frank Wentworth once more went up Grange
Lane, a thoughtful and a sober man. Exhilaration
comes but by moments in the happiest of lives — and
already he began to remember how very little he had
to be elated about, and how entirely things remained
as before. Even Lucy, her letter very prol>ably might
be only an effusion of friendship; and at all events,
what could he say to her — what did he dare in honour
say? And then his mind went off to think of the two
rectories, between which he had fallen as between two
stools: though he had made up his mind to accept
neither, he did not the less feel a certain mortiiication in
seeing that his relations on both sides were so willing
to bestow their gifts elsewhere. He could not tolerate
the idea of succeeding Gerald in his own person, but
still he found it very disagreeable to consent to the
thought that Huxtable should replace him — Huxtable,
who was a good felloA\r enoixgh, but of whom Frank
Wentworth thought, as men generally think of their
brothers-in-law, Avith a half-imj^atient, half-contemptuous
wonder what Mary could ever have seen in so common-
place a man. To think of him as rector of Wentworth
inwardly chafed the spirit of the Perpetual Curate. As
he Avas going along, absorbed in his own thoughts, he
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 227
did not perceive how his approach was watched for
from the other side of the way by Elsworthy, who stood
with his bundle of newspapers under his arm and his
hat in his hand, watching for "his clergyman" with
submission and apology on the surface, and hidden
rancoiir underneath. Elsworthy was not penitent; he
was furious and disappointed. His mistake and its
consequences were wholly humiliating, and had not in
them a single saving feature to atone for the wounds
of his self-esteem. The Curate had not only baffled
and beaten him, but humbled him in his own eyes,
which is perhaps, of all others, the injury least easy to
forgive. It was, however, with an appearance of the
profoundest submission that he stood awaiting the ap-
proach of the man he had tried so much to injure.
"Mr. Wentworth, sir," said Elsworthy, "if I was
worth your while, I might think as you were offended
with me; but seeing I'm one as is so far beneath you"
— he went on with a kind of grin, intended to re-
present a deprecatory smile, but which would have
been a snarl had he dared — "I can't think as you'll
bear no malice. May I ask, sir, if there's a-going to
be any difference made?"
"In what respect, Elsworthy?" said the Curate,
shortly.
"Well, sir, I can't tell," said the Clerk of St.
Roque's. "If a clergyman was to bear malice, it's in
his power to make things very unpleasant. I don't
speak of the place at church, which ain't neither here
nor there — it's respectable, but it ain't lucrative; but if
you was to stretch a point, Mr. Wentworth, by con-
tinuing the papers and suchlike — it ain't that I value
15*
228 THE PEUPETUAL CURATfi.
the money," said ElswortLy, ''but I've been a faithful
servant; and I might say, if you was to take it in a
right spirit, an 'uuible friend, Mr. Wentworth," he con-
tinued, after a little pause, growing bolder. "And now,
as I've that xinfortunate creature to provide for, and no
one knowing what's to become of her "
"I wonder that you venture to speak of her to me,"
said the Curate, with a little indignation, "after all the
warnings I gave you. But you ought to consider that
you are to blame a great deal more than she is. She
is only a child; if you had taken better care of her —
but you would not pay any attention to my warning;
— you must bear the consequences as you best can."
"Well, sir," said Elsworthy, "if you're a-going to
bear malice, I haven't got nothing to say. But there
ain't ten men in Carlingford as wouldn't agree with
me that when a young gentleman, even if he is a clergy-
man, takes particklar notice of a pretty young girl, it
ain't just for nothing as he does it — not to say watch-
ing over her paternal to see as she wasn't out late at
night, and suchlike. iBut bygones is bygones, sir,"
said Elsworthy, "and is never more to be mentioned
by me. I don't ask no more, if you'll but do the
same "
"You Avon't ask no more?" said the Curate, angrily;
"do you think I am afraid of you? I have nothing
more to say, Elsworthy. Go and look after your busi-
ness — ^I will attend to mine; and when we are not
forced to meet, let us keep clear of each other. It will
be better both for you and me."
The Curate passed on with an impatient nod;
but his assailant did not intend that he should escape
TUB PKltPETUAL CUKATK. 229
SO easily. "I shouldn't have thought, sir, as you'd
liave borne malice," said Elsworthy, hastening on after
him, yet keeping half a step behind. "I'm a humbled
man different from what I ever thonglit to be. I
could always keep up my head afore the world till
now; and if it ain't your fault, sir — as I humbly beg
your pardon for ever being so far led away as to be-
lieve it Avas — all the same it's along of you."
"What do you mean?" said the Curate, who, half
amused and half indignant at the change of tone, had
slackened his pace to listen to this new accusation.
"What I mean, sir, is, that if you hadn't been so
good and so kind-hearted as to take into your house
the — the villain as has done it all, him and Kosa could
Devcr have known each other. I allow as it was no-
tliing but your own goodness as did it; but it was a
])lack day for me and mine," said the dramatist, with
a pathetic turn of voice. "Not as I'm casting no blame
on you, as is well known to be -"
"Never mind what I'm well known to be," said the
Curate; "the other day you thought I was the villain.
If you can tell me anything you want me to do, I will
understand that — but I am not desirous to know your
opinion of me," said the careless young man. As he
stood listening impatiently, pausing a second time. Dr.
Marjoribanks came out to his door and stepped into
his brougham to go off to his morning round of visits.
The Doctor took off his hat when he saw the Curate,
and waved it to him cheerfully with a gesture of con-
gratulation. Dr. Marjoribanks was qiiite stanch and
honest, and would have manfully stood by his intimates
in dangerous circumstances; but somehow he ])referred
230 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
success. It was pleasauter to be able to congratulate
jjeople than to condole with them. He preferred it,
and nobody could object to so orthodox a sentiment.
Most probably, if Mr. Wentworth had still been in
partial disgrace, the Doctor would not have seen him
in his easy glance down the road; but though Mr.
Wentworth was aware of that, the miite congratulation
had yet its effect upon him. He was moved by that
delicate symptom of how the wind was blowing in
Carlingford, and forgot all about Els worthy, though the
man was standing by his side.
"As you're so good as to take it kind, sir," said
the Clerk of St. Roque's — "and, as I was a-saying, it's
well known as you're always ready to hear a poor
man's tale— perhaps you'd let bygones be bygones, and
not make no difference? That wasn't all, Mr. Went-
worth," he continued eagerly, as the Curate gave an
impatient nod, and turned to go on. "I've heard as
this villain is rich, sir, by means of robbing of his own
flesh and blood; — but it ain't for me to trust to what
folks says, after the experience I've had, and never
can forgive myself for being led away," said Elsworthy;
"it's well known in Carlingford "
"For heaven's sake come to the point and be done
with it," said the Curate. "W^liat is it you want me
to do?"
"Sir," said Elsworthy, solemnly, "you're a real
gentleman, and you don't bear no malice for what was
a mistake — and you ain't one to turn your back on an
unfortunate family — and Mr. Wentworth, sir, you ain't
a-going to stand by and see me and mine wronged, as
have always wished you well. If we can't get justice
of him, we can get damages," cried Elsworthy. "He
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 231
ain't to be let off as if lie'd done no Larm — and seeing
as it was along of you "
"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate. "I
have nothing to do with it. Keep out of my way, or
at least learn to restrain your tongue. No more — not
a word more," said the young man, indignantly. He
went off with such a sweep and wind of anger and an-
noyance, that the slower and older complainant had
no chance to follow him. Elsworthy accordingly went
off to the shop, where his errand-boys were waiting for
the newspapers, and where Rosa lay iip-stairs, weeping,
in a dark room, where her enraged aunt had shut her
up. Mrs. Elsworthy had shut up the poor little pretty
wretch, who might have been penitent under better
guidance, but who by this time had lost what sense of
shame and wrong her childish conscience was capable
of in the stronger present sense of injury and resent-
ment and longing to escape; but the angry aunt, though
she could turn the key on poor Kosa's unfortunate little
person, could not shut in the piteous sobs which now
and then sounded through and throiigh the house, and
which converted all the errand-boys Avithout exception
into indignant partisans of Rosa, and even moved the
heart of Peter Hayles, who could hear them at the
back window where he was making up Dr. Marjori-
banks's prescriptions. As the sense of injury waxed
stronger and stronger in Rosa's bosom, she availed her-
self, like any other irrational, irresponsible creature, of
such means of revenging herself and annoying her
keepers as occurred to her. "Nobody ever took no
care of me," sobbed Rosa. "I never had no father or
mother. Oh, I wish I was dead ! I wish I was dead ! —
and nobody wouldn't care!" These utterances, it may
232 THE PERPETUAL CUHATE.
be imagined, went to the very heart of the errand-boys,
who were collected in a circle, plotting liow to release
Rosa, when Elsworthy, mortified and furious, came
back from his unsuccessful assault on the Curate. They
scattered like a covey of little birds before the angry
man, who tossed their papers at them, and then strode
up the echoing stairs. "If you don't hold your d — d.
tongue," said Elsworthy, knocking furiously at liosa's
door, "I'll turn you to the door this instant, I will,
by ." Nobody in Carlingford had ever before
heard an oath issue from the respectable lips of the
Clerk of St. Roque's. When he went down into the
shop again, the outcries sank into frightened moans.
Not much wonder that the entire neighbourhood be-
came as indignant with Elsworthy as it ever had been
with the Perpetual Curate. The husband and wife
took up their positions in the shop after this, as far
apart as was possible from each other, both resenting
in silent fury the wrong which the world in general
had done them. If Mrs. Elsworthy had dared, she
would have exhausted her passion in abuse of every-
body — of the Curate for not being guilty, of her hus-
band for supposing him to be so, and, to be sure, of
Rosa herself, who was the cause of all. But Elsworthy
was dangerous, not to be approached or spoken to. He
went out about noon to see John Brown, and discuss
with him the question of damages; but the occurrences
which took place in his absence are not to be mixed
up with the present narrative, Avhich concerns Mr. Frank
AVentworth's visit to Lucy Wodehouse, and has nothing
to do with ignoble hates or loves.
The Curate went rapidly on to the green door,
which once more looked like a gate of paradise. He
TUB PEPvPETUAL CURATE. 233
did not know in tlie least what lie was going to do or
say — he was only conscioiis of a state of exaltation, a
condition of mind which miglit precede great happiness
or great misery, but had nothing in it of the common
state of affairs in which people ask each other "How
do you do?" Notwithstanding, the fact is, that when
Lucy entered that dear familiar drawing-room, where
every feature and individual expression of every piece
of furniture was as well known to him as if they had
been so many human faces, it was only "How do you
do?" that the Curate found himself able to say. The
two shook hands as demurely as if Lucy had indeed
been, according to the deceptive representation of yester-
day, as old as aunt Dora; and then she seated herself
in her favourite chair, and tried to begin a little con-
versation about things in general. Even in these three
days, nature and youth had done something for Liicy.
She had slept and rested, and the unforeseen misfor-
tune which had come in to distract her grief, had
roused all the natural sti-ength that was in her. As
she was a little nervous about this interview, not knoAv-
ing what it might end in, Lucy thought it her duty to
be as composed and self-commanding as possible, and,
in order to avoid all dangerous and exciting subjects,
began to talk of Wharfside.
"I have not heard anything for three or four days
about the poor woman at No. 10," she said-, "I meant
to have gone to see her to-day, but somehow one gets
so selfish when — when one's mind is full of affairs of
one's own."
"Yes," said the Curate; "and speaking of that, I
wanted to tell you how much comfort your letter had
been to me. My head, too, has been very full of affairs
234 ' THR PKRPETUAL CURATE.
of my own. I tliought at one time tliat my friends
were forsaking me. It was very good of you to write
as you did."
Upon wliicli there foll(»wed another little pause.
" Indeed the goodness was all on your side," said Lucy,
faltering. "If I had ever dreamt how much you were
doing for us! but it all came upon me so suddenly.
It is impossible ever to express in words one-half of
the gratitude we owe you," she said, with restrained
enthusiasm. She looked up at him as she spoke with
a little glow of natural fervour, which brought the
colour to her cheek and the moisture to her eyes. She
was not of the disposition to give either thanks or con-
fidence by halves; and even the slight not unpleasant
sense of danger which gave piquancy to this interview,
made her resolute to express herself fully. She would
not suffer herself to stint her gratitude because of the
sweet suspicion which would not be quite silenced, that
possibly Mr. AVentworth looked for something better
than gratitude. Not for any consequences, however
much they might be to be avoided, could she be shabby
eiiough to refrain from due acknowledgment of devo-
tion so great. Therefore, while the Perpetual Curate
was doing all he could to remind himself of his condi-
tion, and to persuade himself that it woitld be utterly
wrong and mean of him to speak, Lucy looked up at
him, looked him in the face, with her blue eyes shining
dcAvy and sweet through tears of gratitude and a kind
of generous admiration; for,, like every other woman,
she felt herself exalted and filled with a delicious pride
in seeing that the man of her unconscious choice had
proved himself the best.
The Curate walked to the window, very much as
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 235
Mr. Proctor had done, iu the tumult and confusion of
his heart, and came back again with what he had to
say written clear on his face, without any possibility
of mistake. "I must speak," said the young- man; "I
have no right to speak, I know, if I had attained the
height of self-sacritice and self-denial, I might, I woidd
be silent — but it is impossible now." He came to a
l)reak just then, looking at her to see what encourage-
ment he had to go on-, but as Lucy did nothing but
listen and grow jjale, he had to take his own way.
"What I have to say is not anything new," said the
(Jurate, labouring a little in his voice, as was inevitable
when affairs had come to such a crisis, "if I were not
in the crudest position possible to a man. I have only
an empty love to lay at your feet-, I tell it to you only
because 1 am obliged — because, after all, love is worth
telling, even if it comes to nothing. I am not going
to appeal to your generosity," continued the young
man, kneeling down at the table, not by way of kneel-
ing to Lucy, but by way of bringing himself on a level
with her, where she sat with her head bent down on
her low chair, "or to ask you to bind yourself to a
man who has nothing in the world but love to offer
you-, but after what has been for years, after all the
hours I have spent here, I cannot — part — I cannot let
you go — without a word "
And here he stopped short. He had not asked
any tiling, so that Lucy, even had she been able, had
nothing to answer; and as for the young lover himself,
he seemed to have come to the limit of his eloquence.
He kept waiting for a moment, gazing at her in breath-
less expectation of a response for which his own words
liad left no room. Then he rose in an indescribable
2.'j6 the I'EnrinuAL curate.
tumult of flisaj)])ointment and mortification— unable to
couclude that all was over, unable to keep silence, yet
not knowing wliat to say.
"I have been oblifjed to close all the doors of ad-
vancement upon myself," said the Curate, witli a little
bitterness-, "I don't know if you understand me. At
this moment I have to deny myself the dearest privilege
of existence. Don't mistake me, Lucy," he said, after
another j)ause, coming back to her M'ith Immility, "I
don't venture to say that you would have accepted
anything I had to offer; but this I mean, that to have
a home for you now — to have a life for you ready to
be laid at your feet, whether you would have had it
or not-, — what right have I to speak of such delights V"
cried the young man. "It does not matter to you;
and as for me, I have patience — patience to console
myself with "
Poor Lucy, though she was on the verge of tears,
which nothing but the most passionate self-restraint
could have kept in, could not help a passing sensation
of amusement at these words. "Not too much of that
either," she said, softly, with a tremulous smile. "But
Patience cames the lilies of the saints," said Lucy,
with a touch of the sweet asceticism which had once
been so charming to the young Anglican. It brought
him back like a spell to the common ground on which
they used to meet; it brought him back also to his
former position on his knee, which was embarrassing
to Lucy, though she had not the heart to draw back,
nor even to withdraw her hand, which somehow hap-
pened to be in Mr. Wentworth's way.
"I am but a man," said the young lover. "I would
rather have the roses of life — but, Lucy, I am only a
THE PKRPETUAL C URATE. 287
Perpetual Curate," he continued, with her hands in his.
Her answer was made in the most heartless and in-
different words. She let two big drops — which fell
like Jiail, though they were warmer than any summer
rain — drop out of her eyes, and she said, witli lips that
had some difficulty in enunciating that heartless senti-
ment, "I don't see that it matters to me "
Which was true enough, though it did not sound
encouraging; and it is dreadful to confess that, for a
little Avhile after, neither Skelmersdale, nor Wentworth,
nor Mr. Proctor's new rectory, nor the no-income of
the Perpetual Curacy of St. lioque's, had the smallest
jdace in the thoughts of either of these perfectly in-
considerate young people. For half an hour they were
an Emperor and Empress seated upon two thrones, to
which all the world was subject; and when at the end
of that time they began to remember the world, it was
but to laugh at it in their infinite youthful superiority.
Then it became apparent that to remain in Carlingford,
io work at "the district," to carry out all the ancient
intentions of well-doing which had been the first bond
between them, was, after all, the life of lives;— which
was the state of mind they had both arrived at when
Miss Wodehouse, who thought they had been too long
together under the circumstances, and could not help
wondering what Mr. Wentworth could be saying, came
into the room, rather flurried in her own person. She
thought Lucy must have been telling the Curate about
Mr. Proctor and his hopes, and was, to tell the truth,
a little curious how Mr. Wentworth would take it, and
a little — the very least — asliamed of encountering his
critical looks. The condition of mind into which Miss
Wodehouse was thrown when she perceived the real
238 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
state of affairs would he difficult to describe. She was
very glad and very sorry, and utterly puzzled bow
they were to live-, and underneath all these varying
emotions was a sudden, half-ludicrous, half-humiliating
sense of being cast into the shade, which made Mr.
Vrootor^s fiancee laugh and made her cry, and brought
her down altogether off the temporary pedestal upon
which she had stepped, not without a little feminine
satisfaction. When a woman is going to be married,
especially if that marriage falls later than usual, it is
natural that she should expect, for that time at least,
to be the first and most prominent figure in her little
circle. But, alas! what chance could there be for a
mild, dove-coloured bride of forty beside a creature of
half her age, endued with all the natural bloom and
natural interest of youth?
Miss Wodehouse could not quite make out her own
feelings on the subject. "Don't you think if you had
waited a little it would have been wiser?" she said, in
her timid way; and then kissed her young sister, an<i
said, "I am so glad, my darling — I am sure dear papa
would have been pleased," with a sob which brought
back to Lucy the grief from which she had for the
moment escaped. Under all the circumstances, however,
it may well be supposed that it was rather hard upon
Mr. Wentworth to recollect that he had engaged to
return to luncheon with the Squire, and to prepare
himself, after this momentous morning's work, to face
all the complications of the family, where still Skelmers-
dale and Wentworth were hanging in the balance, and
where the minds of his kith and kin were already too
full of excitement to leave much room for another
event. He went away reluctantly enough out of the
THE PKUPKiUAL CUllATK. 239
momentary paradise where his Perpetual Curacy Avas a
matter of utter indifference, if not a tender pleasantry,
which rather increased than diminished the happiness
of the moment — into the ordinary daylight world, where
it was a very serious matter, and where what the young
couple would have to live upon became the real question
to be considered. Mr. Wentworth met Wodehouse as he
went out, which did not mend matters. The vagabond
was loitering about in the garden, attended by one of
Elsworthy's errand-boys, Avith whom he was in earnest
conversation, and stopped in his talk to give a sulky
nod and "Good morning," to which the Curate had no
desire to respond more warmly than was necessary.
Lucy was thinking of nothing but himself, and perhaps
a little of the "great work" at Wharfside, which her
father's illness and death had interrupted ; but Mr.
Wentworth, who was only a man, remembered that
Tom Wodehouse would be his brother-in-law with a
distinct sensation of disgust, even in the moment of
his triumph — which is one instance of the perennial
inequality between the two halves of mankind. He had
to brace himself up to the encounter of all his peojile,
while she had to meet nothing less delightful than her
own dreams. This was how matters came 4o an issue
in respect of Frank Wentworth's personal happiness.
His worldly affairs were all astray as yet, and he had
not the most distant indication of any gleam of light
dawning upon the horizon which could reconcile his
duty and honour with good fortune and the delights
of life. Meanwhile other discussions were going on in
Carlingford, of vital importance to the two young
people Avho had made up their minds to cast them-
selves upon Providence. And among the various con-
240 Till-: rKUPKiiAL cirati:.
vei'sations wliicli were Ijeing carried on about the same
moment in respect to Mr. Weutworth —whose affairs,
as was natural, were extensively canvassed in Grange
I jane, .as well as in other less exclusive quarters — it
would be wrojig to (unit a remarkable consultaticm
which took place in the Rectory, wliere Mrs. Morgan
Silt in the midst of the great boutjuets of the drawing-
room carpet, making up her first matrimonial difticulty.
it would be difficult to explain what influence the
drawing-room carpet in the Kectory had on the fortunes
of the Perpetual ('urate; but when Mr. Weutworth's
friends come to hear the entire outs and ins of the
l)usiness, it will be seen that it was not for nothing
that Mr. Proctor covered the floor of that pretty a])art-
ment with roses and lilies half a yard long.
CHAPTEK XVI.
These Avere eventful days in Grange Lane, when
gossip was not nearly rapid enough to follow the march
of events. When Mr. Wentwortli went to lunch with
liis family, the two sisters kept together in the drawing-
room, which seemed again re-consecrated to the purposes
of life. Lucy had not much inclination just at that
moment to move out of her chair-, she was not sociable,
to tell the truth, nor disposed to talk even about the
new prospects which were brightening over both. She
even took out her needlework, to the disgust of her
sister. "AMien there are so many things to talk about,
aud so much to be considered," Miss Wodehouse said,
Avith a little indignation; and wondered within herself
whether Lucy Avas really insensible to "what liad hap-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 241
pened," or whether the sense of duty was strong upon
lier little sister even in the height of her happiness. A
woman of greater experience or discrimination might
have perceived that Lucy had retired into that sacred
silence, sweetest of all youthful privileges, in which
she could dream over to herself the wonderful hour
which had just come to an end, and the fair future of
which it was the gateway. As for Miss Wodehouse
herself, she was in a flutter, and could not get over
the sense of haste and confusion which this last new
incident had brought upon her. Things were going
too fast aroxxnd her, and the timid woman Avas out of
breath. Lucy's composure at such a moment, and,
above all, the production • of her needlework, was
beyond the comprehension of the elder sister.
"My dear," said Miss Wodehouse, with an effort,
"I don't doubt that these poor people are badly off,
and I am sure it is very good of you to work for
them; but if you will only think how many things
there are to do! My darling, I am afraid you will
have to — to make your own dresses in future, which
is what I never thought to see," she said, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes; "and we have not had any
talk about anything, Lucy, and there are so many
things to think of!" Miss "Wodehouse, who was moving
about the room as she spoke, began to lift her own books
and special property off the centre table. The books
were principally ancient Annuals in pretty bindings,
which no representation on Lucy's part could induce
her to think out of date; and among her other posses-
sions was a little desk in Indian mosaic, of ivory, which
had been an institution in the house from Lucy's earliest
recollection. "And these are yours, Lucy dear," said
The Perpelml Curulc. 11. 16
242 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Miss Woclelioiise, standing up on a chair to take down
from the wall two little pictures which huug side by
side. They were copies both, and neither of great
value; one representing the !San Sisto Madonna, and
the otlier a sweet St. Agnes, whom Lucy had in her
earlier days taken to her heart. Lucy's slumbering
attention was roused by this sacrilegious act. She
gave a little scream, and dropped her work out of her
hands.
"What do I mean?" said Miss Wodehouse; "indeed,
Lucy dear, we must look it in the face. It is not our
drawing-room any longer, you know." Here she made
a pause, and sighed-, but somehow a vision of the other
drawing-room which was awaiting her in the new rectory,
made the prospect less doleful than it might have been.
She cleared up in a surprising way as she turned to
look at her own property on the table. "My cousin
Jack gave me this," said the gentle woman, brushing
a little dust off her pretty desk. "When it came first,
there was nothing like it in Carlingford, for that was
before Colonel Chiley and those other Indian people
had settled here. Jack was rather fond of me in those
days, you know, though I never cared for him," the
elder sister continued, with a smile. "Poor fellow!
they said he was not very happy when he married."
Though this was rather a sad fact. Miss Wodehouse
announced it not without a certain gentle satisfaction.
"And, Lucy dear, it is our duty to put aside our own
things; they were all presents, you know," she said,
standing up on the chair again to reach down the St.
Agnes, which, ever since Lucy had been confirmed,
had huug opposite to her on the wall.
"Oh, don't, don't!" cried Lucy. In that little bit of
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 243
time, not more than five minutes as it appeared, the
familiar room, whicli had just heard the romance of
her youth, had come to have a dismantled and desolated
look. The agent of this destruction, who saw in her
mind's eye a new scene, altogether surpassing the old,
looked complacently upon her work, and piled the ab-
stracted articles on the top of each other, with a pleasant
sense of property.
"And your little chair and work-table are yours,"
said Miss Wodehouse; "they were always considered
yours. You worked the chair yourself, though perhaps
Miss Gibbons helped you a little-, and the table, you
know, was sent home the day you were eighteen. It
was — a present, you remember. Don't cry, my darling,
don't cry; oh, I am sure I did not mean anything!"
cried Miss Wodehouse, putting down the St. Agnes
and flying to her sister, about whom she threw her
arms. "My hands are all dusty, dear," said the re-
l)entant woman; "but you know, Lucy, we must look
it in the face, for it is not our drawing-room now.
Tom may come in any day and say — oh, dear, dear,
here is some one coming up-stairs!"
Lucy extricated herself from her sister's arms when
she heard footsteps outside. "If it is anybody who
has a right to come, I suppose we are able to receive
them," she said, and sat erect over her needlework,
with a changed countenance, not condescending so
much as to look towards the door.
"But what if it should be Tom? Oh, Lucy dear,
don't be uncivil to him," said the elder sister. Miss
AVodehouse even made a furtive attempt to re2)lace the
things, in which she was indignantly stopped by Lucy.
"But, my dear, perhaps it is Tom," said the alarmed
16*
244 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
woman, and sank trembling into a chair against the
St. Agnes, which had just been deposited there.
"It does not matter who it is," said Lucy, with
dignity. For her own part, she felt too much aggrieved
to mention his name — aggrieved by her own ignorance,
by the deception that had been practised upon her, by
the character of the man whom she was obliged to call
her brother, and chiefly by his existence, which was
the principal grievance of all. Lucy's brief life had
been embellished, almost ever since she had been
capable of independent action, by deeds and thoughts
of mercy. With her whole heart she was a disciple
of Him who came to seek the lost; notwithstanding, a
natural human sentiment in her heart protested against
the existence of this man, who had brought shame and
distress into the family without any act of theirs, and
who injured everybody he came in contact with. When
the thought of Rosa Elsworthy occurred to her, a bura-
ing blush came upon Lucy's cheek — why were such
men permitted in God's world? To be sure, when she
came to be aware of what she was thinking, Lucy felt
guilty, and called herself a Pharisee, and said a prayer
in her heart for the man who had upset all her
cherished ideas of her family and home; but, after all,
that was an after-thought, and did not alter her in-
stinctive sense of repulsion and indignation. All this
swept rapidly through her mind while she sat awaiting
the entrance of the person or persons who were ap-
proaching the door. "If it is the — the owner of the
house, it will be best to tell him what things you mean
to remove," said Lucy; and before Miss Wodehouse
could answer, the door was opened. They started,
hoiifever, to perceive not Wodehouse, but a personage
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 245
of very diflferent a2)pearance , who came in with an
easy air of polite apology, and looked at them with
eyes which recalled to Lucy the eyes which had been
gazing into her own scarcely an hour ago. "Pardon
me," said this unlooked-for visitor; "your brother. Miss
Wodehouse, finds some difficulty in explaining himself
to relations from whom he has been separated so long.
Not to interfere with family privacy, will you let me
assist at the conference?" said Jack Wentworth. "My
brother, I understand, is a friend of yours, and your
brother — is a — hem — a friend of mine," the diplomatist
added, scarcely able to avoid making a wry face over
the statement. Wodehouse came in behind, looking
an inch or two taller for that acknowledgment, and
sat down, confronting his sisters, who were standing
on the defensive. The heir, too, had a strong sense of
property, as was natural, and the disarrangement of
the room struck him in that point of view, especially
as Miss Wodehouse continued to prop herself up against
the St. Agnes in the back of her chair. Wodehouse
looked from the wall to the table, and saw what ap-
peared to him a clear case of intended spoliation. "By
Jove! they didn't mean to go empty-handed," said the
vagabond, who naturally judged according to his own
standard, and knew no better. Upon which Lucy,
rising with youthful state and dignity, took the ex-
planation ujjon herself.
"I do not see why we should have the mortifica-
tion of a spectator," said Lucy, who already, having
been engaged three-quarters of an hour, felt deeply
disinclined to reveal the weak points of her own family
to the inspection of the Wentworths. "All that there
is to explain can be done very simply. Thank you,
246 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
I will not sit down. Up to this time we may be
allowed to imagine ourselves in our own — in our
father's house. What we have to say is simple
enough."
"But pardon me, my dear Miss Wodehouse "
said Jack Wentworth.
"My sister is Miss "Wodehouse," said Lucy. "What
there is to settle had better be arranged with our — our
brother. If he will tell us precisely when he wishes
us to go away, we shall be ready. Mary is going to
be married," she went on, turning round so as to face
Wodehouse, and addressing him pointedly, though she
did not look at him — to the exclusion of Jack, who,
experienced man as he was, felt disconcerted, and
addressed himself with more precaution to a task which
was less easy than he supposed.
"Oh, Lucy!" cried Miss Wodehouse, with a blush
worthy of eighteen. It was perhaps the first time that
the fact had been so broadly stated, and the sudden
announcement made before two men overwhelmed the
timid woman. Then she was older than Lucy, and
had picked up in the course of her career one or two
inevitable scraps of experience, and she could not but
wonder with a momentary qualm what Mr. Proctor
might think of his brother-in-law. Lucy, who thought
Mr. Proctor only too well off, went on without regard-
ing her sister's exclamation.
"I do not know when the marriage is to be — I
don't suppose they have fixed it yet," said Lucy, "but
it appears to me that it would save us all some trouble
if we were allowed to remain until that time. I do
not mean to ask any favour," she said', with a little
THE PERPEXaAL CURATE. 247
more sharpness and less dignity. "We could pay rent
for that matter, if — if it were desired. She is your
sister," said Lucy, suddenly looking Wodehouse in the
face, "as well as mine. I daresay she has done as
much for you as she has for me. I don't ask any
favour for her — but I would cut off ray little finger if
that would please her," cried the excited young wo-
man, with a wildness of illustration so totally out of
keeping with the matter referred to, that Miss Wode-
house, in the midst of her emotion, could scarcely re-
strain a scream of terror 5 "and you too might be will-
ing to do something-, you cannot have any kind of
feeling for me," Lucy continued, recovering herself-,
"but you might perhaps have some feeling for Mary.
If we can be permitted to remain until her marriage
takes place, it may perhaps bring about — a feeling —
more like — relations; and I shall be able to "
"Forgive you," Lucy was about to say, but for-
tunately stopped herself in time; for it was the fact of
liis existence that she had to forgive, and naturally
such an amount of toleration was difficult to explain.
As for Wodehouse himself, he listened to this appeal
with very mingled feelings. Some natural admiration
and liking woke in his dull mind as Lucy spoke. He
was not destitute of good impulses, nor of the ordinary
human affections. His little sister was pretty, and a
lady, and clever enough to put Jack Wentworth much
more in the background than usual. He said "By
Jove" to himself three or four times over in his beard,
and showed a little emotion when she said he could
have no feeling for her. At that point of Lucy's ad-
dress he moved about uneasily in his chair, and plucked
at his beard, and felt himself anything but comfortable.
248 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"By Jove! I never had a cliance," the prodigal said,
in his undertone. "I might have cared a deal for her
if I had had a chance. She might have done a fellow
good, by Jove!" mutterings of which Lucy took no
manner of notice, but proceeded with her speech. When
she had ended, and it became apparent that an answer
was expected of him, Wodehouse flushed all over with
the embarrassment of the position. He cleared his
throat, he shifted his eyes, which were embarrassed
by Lucy's gaze, he pushed his chair from the table,
and made various attempts to collect himself, but at
last ended by a pitiful appeal to Jack Wentworth, who
had been looking seriously on. "You might come to
a fellow's assistance!" cried Wodehouse. "By Jove!
it was for that you came here."
"The Miss Wodehouses evidently prefer to com-
municate with their brother direct," said Jack Went-
worth, "which is a very natural sentiment. If I inter-
fere, it is simply becavise I have had the advantage of
talking the matter over, and understanding a little
what you mean. Miss Wodehouse, your brother is not
disposed to act the part of a domestic tyrant. He has
come here to offer you the house, which must have so
many tender associations for you, not for a short period,
as you wish, but for ^"
"I didn't know she was going to be married!" ex-
claimed Wodehouse — "that makes all the difference,
by Jove! Lucy will marry fast enough; but as for
Mary, I never thought slie would hook any one at her
time of life," said the vagabond, with a rude laugh.
He turned to Lucy, not knowing any better, and with
some intention of pleasing her; but being met by a
look of indignation under which he faltered, he went
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 249
back to Ms natural role of sulky insolence. "By Jove!
when I gave in to make such an offer, I never thought
she had a chance of getting married," said the heir.
"I ain't going to give what belongs to me to another
man "
"Your brother wishes," said Jack Wentworth,
calmly, "to make over the house and furniture as it
stands to you and your sister, Miss Wodehouse. Of
course it is not to be expected that he should be sorry
to get his father's property, but he is sorry that there
should be no — no provision for you. He means that
you should have the house "
"But I never thought she was going to be married,
by Jove!" protested the rightful owner. "Look here,
Molly, you shall have the furniture. The house
would sell for a good bit of money. I tell you, Went-
worth— — "
Jack Wentworth did not move from the mantel-
piece where he was standing, but he cast a glance
upon his unlucky follower which froze the words on
his lips. "My good fellow, you are quite at liberty to
decline my mediation in your affairs. Probably you
can manage them better your own way," said Wode-
house's hero. "I can only beg the Miss Wodehouses
to pardon my intrusion." Jack Wentworth's first step
towards the door let loose a flood of nameless terrors
upon the soul of his victim. If he were abandoned by
his powerful protector, what would become of him?
His very desire of money, and the avarice which prompted
him to grudge making any provision for his sisters,
was, after all, not real avarice, but the spendthrift's
longing for more to spend. The house which lie was
sentenced to give up represented not so much gold and
250 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
silver, but so many pleasures, fine dinners, and bad
company. He could order the dinners by himself, it
is true, and get men like himself to eat them-, but the
fine people — the men who had once been fine, and who
still retained a certain tarnished glory — were, so far as
Wodehouse was concerned, entirely in Jack Wentworth's
keeping. He made a piteous appeal to his patron as
the great man turned to go away.
"I don't see what good it can do you to rob a poor
fellow!" cried Wodehouse. "But look here, I ain't
going to turn against your advice. Til give it them,
by Jove! for life — that is, for Mary's life," said the
munificent brother. "She's twenty years older than
Lucy "
"How do you dare to subject us to such insults?"
cried the indignant Lucy, whose little hand clenched
involuntarily in her passion. She had a great deal of
self-control, but she was not quite equal to such an
emergency; and it was all she could do to keep from
stamping her foot, which was the only utterance of
rage possible to a gentlewoman in her position. "I
would rather see my father's house desecrated by you
living in it," she cried, passionately, "than accept it as
a gift from your hands. Mary, we are not obliged to
submit to this. Let us rather go away at once. I will
not remain in the same room with this man!" cried
Lucy. She was so overwhelmed with her unwonted
passion that she lost all command of the position, and
even of herself, and was false for the moment to all
her sweet codes of womanly behaviour. "How dare
you, sir!" she cried in the sudden storm, for which
nobody was prepared. "We will remove the things
belonging to us, with which nobody has any right to
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 251
interfere, and we will leave immediately. Mary, come
with me!" When she. had said this, Lucy swept out
of the room, pale as a little fury, and feeling in her
heart a savage female inclination to strike Jack Went-
worth, who opened the door for her, with her little
white clenched hand. Too much excited to remark
whether her sister had followed her, Lucy ran up-stairs
to her room, and there gave way to the inevitable
tears. Coming to herself after that was a terribly
humbling process to the little Anglican. She had
never fallen into a "passion" before that she knew of,
certainly never since nursery times; and often enough
her severe serene girlhood had looked reproving and
surprised xipon the tumults of Prickett's Lane, awing
the belligerents into at least temporary silence. Now
poor Lucy sat and cried over her downfall; she had
forgotten herself; she had been conscious of an incli-
nation to stamp, to scold, even to strike, in the ve-
liemence of her indignation; and she was utterly over-
])owered by the thought of her guiltiness. "The very
first temptation!" she said to herself; and made ter-
rible reflections upon her own want of strength and
endurance. To-day, too, of all days, when God had
been so good to her! "If I yield to the first tempta-
tion like this, how shall I ever endure to the end?"
cried Lucy, and in her heart thought, with a certain
longing, of the sacrament of penance, and tried to
think what she could do that would be most disagree-
able, to the mortifying of the flesh. Perhaps if she
had possessed a more lively sense of humour, another
view of the subject might have struck Lucy; but hum-
our, fortunately for the unity of human sentiment, is
generally developed at a later period of life, and Lucy's
252 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
fit of passion only made her think with greater tender-
ness and toleration of her termagants in Prickett's
Lane.
The three who were left down-stairs were in their
different ways impressed hy Lucy's passion. Jack
Wentworth, being a man of humour and cultivation,
was amused, but respectful, as having still a certain
faculty of appreciating absolute purity when he saw it.
As for Wodehouse, he gave another rude laugh, but
was cowed, in spite of himself, and felt involuntarily
what a shabby wretch he was, recognising that fact
more impressively from the contempt of Lucy's pale
face than he could have done through hours of argu-
ment. Miss Wodehouse, for her part, though very anxious
and nervous, was not without an interest in the question
under discussion. She was not specially horrified by
her brother, or anything he could say or do. He was Tom
to her — a boy with whom she had once played, and
whom she had shielded -wdth all her sisterly might in
his first transgressions. She had suffered a great deal
more by his means than Lucy could ever suffer, and
consequently was more tolerant of him. She kept her
seat with the St. Agnes in the chair behind, and
watched the course of events with anxious steadiness.
She did not care for money any more than Lucy did;
but she could not help thinking it would be very
pleasant if she could produce one good action on "poor
Tom's" part to plead for him against any possible
criticisms of the future. Miss Wodehouse was old
enough to know that her Rector was not an ideal hero,
but an ordinary man, and it was quite possible that he
might point a future moral now and then with "that
brother of yours, my dear." The elder sister waited
THE TERPETUAL CURATE. 253
accordingly, with her heart beating quick, to know the
decision, very anxious that she might have at least
one generous deed to record to the advantage of poor
Tom.
"I think we are quite decided on the point," said
Jack Wentworth. "Knowing your sentiments, Wode-
house, I left directions with Waters about the papers.
I think you will find him quite to be trusted. Miss
Wodehouse, if you Avish to consult him about letting
or selling "
"By Jove!" exclaimed Wodehouse, under his breath.
"Which, I suppose," continued the superb Jack,
"you will wish to do under the pleasant circumstances,
upon which I beg to offer you my congratulations.
Now, Tom, my good fellow, I am at your service. I
think we have done our business here."
Wodehouse got up in his sulky reluctant way like
a lazy dog. "I suj^pose you won't try to move the
furniture now?" he said. These were the only adieux
he intended to make, and perhaps they might have
been expressed -with still less civility, had not Jack
Wentworth been standing waiting for him at the door.
"Oh, Tom! I am so thankful you have done it!"
cried Miss Wodehouse. "It is not that I care for the
money; but oh, Tom, I am so glad to think nobody
can say anything now." She followed them wistfully
to the door, not giving up hopes of a kinder parting.
"I think it is very kind and nice of you, and what
dear papa would have wished," said the elder sister,
forgetting how all her father's plans had been brought
to nothing; "and of course you will live here all the
same?" she said, with a little eagerness, "that is, till —
till — as long as we are here "
264 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Good-bye, Miss Wodehouse," said Jack Wentworth.
"I don't think either your brother or I will stay much
longer in Carlingford. You must accept my best
wishes for your happiness all the same."
"You are very kind, I am sure," said the embar-
rassed bride; "and oh, Tom, you will surely say good-
bye? Say good-bye once as if you meant it-, don't go
away as if you did not care. Tom, I always was very
fond of you; and don't you feel a little different to us,
now you've done us a kindness?" cried Miss Wode-
house, going out after him to the landing-place. But
Wodehouse was in no humour to be gracious. Instead
of paying any attention to her, he looked regretfully
at the property he had lost.
"Good-bye," he said, vaguely. "By Jove! I know
better than Jack Wentworth does the value of property.
We might have had a jolly month at Homburg out of
that old place," said the prodigal, with regret, as he
went down the old-fashioned oak stair. That was his
farewell to the house which he had entered so dis-
astrously on the day of his father's funeral. He fol-
lowed his leader with a sulky aspect through the
garden, not venturing to disobey, but yet feeling the
weight of his chains. And this was how Wodehouse
accomplished his personal share in the gift to his sisters,
of which Miss Wodehouse told everybody that it was
"so good of Tom!"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 255
CHAPTEE XVII.
"Going to be married!" said tlie Squire-, "and to
a sister of I thought you told me she was as old
as Dora, Frank? I did not expect to meet with any-
further complications," the old man said, plaintively:
"of course you know very well I don't object to your
marrying; but why on earth did you let me speak of
Wentworth Rectory to Huxtable?" cried Mr. Went-
worth. He was almost more impatient about this new
variety in the family circumstances than he had been
of more serious distresses. "God bless me, sir," said
the Squire, "what do you mean by it? You take
means to affront your aunts and lose Skelmersdale;
and then you put it into my head to have Mary at
Wentworth; and then you quarrel with the Rector, and
get into hot water in Carlingford; and, to make an
end of all, you coolly propose to an innocent young
woman, and tell me you are going to marry — what on
earth do you mean?"
"I am going to marry some time, sir, I hope," said
the Perpetual Curate, with more cheerfulness than he
felt; "but not at the present moment. Of course we
both know that is impossible. I should like you to
come with me and see her before you leave Carling-
ford. She would like it, and so should I."
"Well, well," said the Squire. Naturally, having
been married so often himself, he could not refuse a
certain response to such a call upon his sympathy.
"I hope you have made a wise choice," said the ex-
perienced father, not without a sigh; "a great deal
256 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
depends upon that — not only your own comfort, sir,
but very often the character of your children and the
credit of the family. Yoii may laugh," said Mr. Went-
worth, to whom it was no laughing matter; "but long
before you are as old as I am, you will know the truth
of what I say. Your mother, Frank, was a specimen
of what a woman ought to be — not to speak of her
own children, there was nobody else who ever knew
how to manage Gerald and Jack. Of course I am
not speaking of Mrs. Wentworth, who has her nursery
to occupy her," said the Squire, apologetically. "I
hope you have made a judicious choice."
"I hope so, too," said Frank, who was somewhat
amused by this view of the question — "though I am
not aware of having exercised any special choice in
the matter," he added, with a laugh. "However, I
want you to come with me and see her, and then you
will be able to judge for yourself."
The Squire shook his head, and looked as if he
had travelled back into the heavy" roll of family dis-
tresses. "I don't mean to upbraid you, Frank," he
said — "I daresay you have done what you thought was
your duty — but I think you might have taken a little
pains to satisfy your aunt Leonora. You see what
Gerald has made of it, with all his decorations and
nonsense. That is a dreadful drawback Avith you
clergymen. You fix your eyes so on one point that
you get to think things important that are not in the
least important. Could you imagine a man of the
world like Jack — he is not what I could wish, but still
he is a man of the world," said the Squire, who was
capable of contradicting himself with perfect composure
without knowing it. "Can you imagine him risking
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 257
his prospects for a bit of external decoration? I don't
mind it myself," said Mr. Wentworth, impartially — "I
don't pretend to see, for my own part, why flowers at
Easter should be considered more superstitious than
holly at Christmas-, but, bless my soul, sir, when your
aunt thought so, what was the good of running right
in her face for such a trifle? I never could under-
stand you parsons," the Squire said, with an impatient
sigh — "nobody, that I know of, ever considered me
mercenary, but to ruin your own prospects, all for a
trumpery bunch of flowers, and then to come and tell
me you want to marry "
This was before luncheon, when Frank and his
father were together in the dining-room waiting for
the other members of the family, who began to arrive
at this moment, and prevented any further discussion.
After all, perhaps, it was a little ungenerous of the
Squire to press his son so hard on the subject of those
innocent Easter lilies, long ago withered, which cer-
tainly, . looked at from this distance, did not appear
important enough to sacrifice any prospects for. This
was all the harder upon tlie unfortunate Cui-ate, as
even at the time his conviction of their necessity had
not proved equal to the satisfactory settlement of the
question. Miss Wentworth's cook was an artiste so
irreproachable that the luncheon provided was in itself
perfect; but notwithstanding it was an uncomfortable
meal. Miss Leonora, in consequence of the contest
going on in her own mind, was in an explosive and
highly dangerous condition, not safe to be spoken to;
and as for the Squire, he could not restrain the chance
utterances of his impatience. Frank, who did his best
to make himself agreeable as magnanimity required,
The Perpetual Curate. II. 1 <
258 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
had the mortification of hearing himself discussed in
different tones of disapprobation while he ate his cold
beefj for Mr. Wentworth's broken sentences were not
long of putting the party in possession of the new
event, and the Perpetual Curate found himself the ob-
ject of many wondering and pitying glances, in none
of which could he read pure sympathy, much less con-
gratulation. Even Gerald looked at him with a little
elevation of his eyebrows, as if wondering how any-
body could take the trouble to occupy his mind with
such trifling temporal affairs as love and marriage. It
was a wonderful relief to the unfortunate Curate when
Miss Leonora had finished her glass of madeira, and
rose from the table. He had no inclination to go up-
stairs, for his own part. "When you are ready, sir,
you will find me in the garden," he said to his father,
who was to leave Carlingford next morning, and whom
he had set his heart on taking to see Lucy. But his
walk in the garden was far from being delightful to
Frank. It even occurred to him, for a moment, that
it would be a very good thing if a man could cut him-
self adrift from his relations at such a crisis of his life.
After all, it was his own business — the act most
essentially personal of his entire existence; and then,
with a little softening, he began to think of the girls
at home — of the little sister, who had a love-story of
her own; and of Letty, who was Frank's favourite,
and had often confided to him the enthusiasm she
would feel for his bride. "If she is nice," Letty was
in the habit of adding, "and of course she will be
nice," — and at that thought the heart of the young
lover escaped, and put forth its wings, and went off
into that heaven of ideal excellence and beauty, more
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 259
sweet, because more vague, than anything real, which
stands instead of the old working-day skies and clouds
at such a period of life. He had to diop down from
a great height, and get rid in all haste of his celestial
pinions, when he heard his aunt Dora calling him; and
his self-command was not sufficient to conceal, as he
obeyed that summons, a certain annoyed expression in
his face.
"Frank," said Miss Dora, coming softly after him
with her handkerchief held over her head as a defence
from the sun — "oh, Frank, I want to speak to you. I
couldn't say anything at lunch because of everybody
being there. If you would only stop a moment till I
get my breath. Frank, my dear boy, I wish you joy.
I do wish you joy with all my heart. I should so like
just to go and kiss her, and tell her I shall love her
for your sake."
"You will soon love her for her own sake," said
Frank, to whom even this simple-minded sympathy
was very gratefuV; "she is a great deal better than I
am."
"There is just one thing," said Miss Dora. "Oh,
Frank, my dear, you know I don't pretend to be clever,
like Leonora, or able to give you advice; but there ts
one thing. You know you have nothing to marry
upon, and all has gone wrong. You are not to have
Wentworth, and you are not to have Skelmersdale,
and I think the family is going out of its senses not
to see who is the most worthy. You have got nothing
to live upon, my dear, dear boy!" said Miss Dora,
withdrawing the handkerchief from her head in the
excitement of the moment to apply it to her eyes.
"That is true enough," said the Perpetual Curate 5
17-^
260 T&E PERPETUAL CURATB.
"but then we have not made up our minds tliat we
must marry immediately "
"Frank," said aunt Dora, with solemnity, breaking
into his speech, "there is just one thing; and I can't
hold my tongue, though it may be very foolish, and
they will all say it is my fault." It was a very quiet
summer-day, but still there was a faint rustle in the
branches which alarmed the timid woman. She put
her hand upon her nephew's arm, and hastened him
on to the little summer-house in the wall, which was
her special retirement. "Nobody ever comes here,"
said Miss Dora; "they will never think of looking for
us here. I am sure I never interfere with Leonora's
arrangements, nor take anything upon myself; but there
is one thing, Frank — "
"Yes," said the Curate, "I understand what you
mean: you are going to warn me about love in a cot-
tage, and how foolish it would be to marry iipon no-
thing; but, my dear aunt, we are not going to do any-
thing rash; there is no such dreadful haste; don't be
agitated about it," said the young man, with a smile.
He was half amused and half irritated by the earnest-
ness which almost took away the poor lady's breath.
"You do7it know what I mean," said aunt Dora.
"Frank, you know very well I never interfere; but I
can't help being agitated when I see you on the brink
of such a precipice. Oh, my dear boy, don't be over-
persuaded. There is one thing, and I must say it if I
should die." She had to pause a little to recover her
voice, for haste and excitement had a tendency to
make her inarticulate. "Frank," said Miss Dora again,
more solemnly than ever, "Avhatever you may be
obliged to do— though you were to write novels, or
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 261
take pupils, or do translations — oh, Frank, don't look
at me like that, as if I was going crazy. Whatever
you may have to do, oh my dear, there is one thing —
don't go and break people's hearts, and put it off, and
put it off, till it never happens!" cried the trembling-
little woman, with a sudden burst of tears. "Don't
say you can wait, for you can't wait, and you oughtn't
to!" sobbed Miss Dora. She subsided altogether into
her handkerchief and her chair as she uttered this
startling and wholly unexpected piece of advice, and
lay there in a little heap, all dissolving and floating
away, overcome with her great effort, while her nephew
stood looking at her from a height of astonishment al-
most too extreme for wondering. If the trees could
have found a voice and counselled his immediate mar-
riage, he could scarcely have been more surprised.
"You think I am losing my senses too," said aunt
Dora; "but that is because you don't understand me.
Oh Frank, my dear boy, there was once a time! — per-
haps everybody has forgotten it except me, but I have
not forgotten it. They treated me like a baby, and
Leonora had everything her own way. I don't mean
to say it was not for the best," said the aggrieved
woman. "I know everything is for the best, if we
could but see it: and perhaps Leonora was right when
she said I never could have struggled with — with a
family, nor lived on a poor man's income. My dear,
it was before your uncle Charley died; and when we
became rich, it — didn't matter," said Miss Dora; "it
was all over before then. Oh, Frank! if I hadn't ex-
perience I wouldn't say a word. I don't interfere
about your opinions, like Leonora. There is just one
thing," cried the poor lady through her tears. Per-
262 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
haps it was the recollection of the past which over-
came Miss Dora, perhaps the force of habit which had
made it natural for her to cry when she was much
moved; but the fact is certain, that the Squire, when
he came to the door of the summer-house in search of
Frank, found his sister weeping bitterly, and his son
making efforts to console her, in which some sympathy
was mingled with a certain half-amusement. Frank,
like Lucy, felt tempted to laugh at the elderly romance;
and yet his heart expanded warmly to his tender little
foolish aunt, who, after all, might once have been
young and in love like himself, though it was so odd
to realise it. Mr. Wentworth, for his part, saw no
humour whatever in the scene. He thought nothing
less than that some fresh complication had taken place.
Jack had committed some new enormity, or there was
bad news from Charley in Malta, or unpleasant letters
had come from home. "Bless my soul, sir, something
new has happened," said the Squire; and he was
scarcely reassured, when Miss Dora stumbled up from
her chair in great confusion, and wiped the tears from
her eyes. He was suspicious of this meeting in the
summer-house, which seemed a quite unnecessary pro-
ceeding to Mr. Wentworth; and though he flattered
himself he understood women, he could not give any
reasonable explanation to himself of Dora's tears.
"It is nothing — nothing at all," said Miss Dora:
"it was not Frank's doing in the least; he is always
so considerate, and such a dear fellow. Thank you,
my dear boy; my head is a little better; I think I will
go in and lie down," said the unlucky aunt. "You
are not to mind me now, for I have quite got over
my little attack; I always was so nervous," said Miss
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 263
Dora; "and I sometimes wonder wlietlier it isn't the
Wentworth complaint coming on," slie added, with a
natural female artifice which was not without its
effect.
"I wish you would not talk nonsense," said the
Squire. "The Wentworth complaint is nothing to
laugh at, but you are perfectly aware that it never
attacks women." Mr. Wentworth spoke Avith a little
natural irritation, displeased to have his prerogative
interfered with. When a man has all the suffering
attendant upon a special complaint, it is hard not to
have all the dignity. He felt so much and so justly
annoyed by Miss Dora's vain pretensions, that he for-
got his anxiety about the secret conference in the
summer-house. "Women take such fantastic ideas into
their heads," he said to his son as they went away
together. "Your aunt Dora is the kindest soul in the
world; but now and then, sir, she is very absurd," said
the Squire. He could not get this presumptuous
notion out of his head, but returned to it again and
again, even after they had got into Grange Lane. "It
has been in our family for two hundred years," said
Mr. Wentworth; "and I don't think there is a single
instance of its attacking a woman — not even slightly,
sir," the Squire added, with irritation, as if Frank had
taken the part of the female members of the family,
which indeed the Curate had no thought of doing.
Miss Dora, for her part, having made this very
successful diversion, escaped to the house, and to her
own room, where she indulged in a headache all the
afternoon, and certain tender recollections which were
a wonderful resource at all times to the soft-hearted
woman. "Oh, my dear boy, don't be over-persuaded,"
264 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
she had whispered into Frank's ear as she left him;
and her remonstrance, simple as it was, had no doubt
produced a considerable effect upon the mind of the
Perpetual Curate. He could not helji thinking, as they
emerged into the road, that it was chiefly the impatient
and undutiful who secured their own happiness, or
what they imagined to be their happiness. Those who
were constant and patient, and able to deny themselves,
instead of being rewarded for their higher qualities,
were, on the contrary, put to the full test of the
strength that was in them; while those who would not
wait attained what they wanted, and on the whole, as
to other matters, got on just as well as their stronger-
minded neighbours. This germ of thought, it may be
supposed, was stimulated into very warm life by the
reflection that Lucy would have to leave Carlingford
with her sister, withoiit any definite prospect of re-
turning again; and a certain flush of impatience came
over the young man, not unnatural in the circum-
stances. It seemed to him that everybody else took
their own way without waiting; and why should it be
80 certain that he alone, whose "way" implied harm
to no one, should be the only man condemned to wait?
Thus it will be seen that the "just one thing" insisted
on by Miss Dora was far from being without effect on
the mind of her nephew; upon whom, indeed, the
events of the morning had wrought various changes of
sentiment. When he walked up Grange Lane for the
first time, it had been without any acknowledged in-
tention of opening his mind to Lucy, and yet he had
returned along the same prosaic and unsympathetic
line of road her accepted lover; her accepted lover,
triumphant in that fact, but without the least opening
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 265
of any hope before him as to the conclusion of the
engagement, which prudence had no hand in making.
Now the footsteps of the Perpetual Curate fell firmly,
not to say a little impatiently, upon the road over
which he had carried so many varying thoughts. He
Avas as penniless as ever, and as prospectless-, but in
the tossings of his natural impatience the young man
had felt the reins hang loosely about his head, and
knew that he was no more restrained than other men,
but might, if he chose it, have his way like the rest
of the world. It was true enough that he might have
to pay for it after, as other people had done; but in
the mean time the sense that he was his own master
was sweet, and to have his will for once seemed no
more than his right in the world. While these re-
bellious thoughts were going on in the Curate's mind,
his father, who suspected nothing, went steadily by his
side, not without a little reluctance at thought of the
errand on which he was bound. "But they can't
marry for years, and nobody can tell what may happen
in that time," Mr. Wentworth said to himself, with the
callousness of mature age, not suspecting the different
ideas that were afloat in the mind of his son. Per-
haps, on the whole, he was not sorry that Skelmersdale
was destined otherwise, and that Huxtable had been
spoken to about Wentworth Rectory; for, of course,
Frank would have plunged into marriage at once if he
had been possessed of anything to marry on; and it
looked providential under the circumstances, as the
Squire argued with himself privately, that at such a
crisis the Perpetual Curate should have fallen between
the two stools of possible preferment, and should be
still obliged to content himself with St, Koque's. It
266 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
was hard for Mr. "Wentworth to reconcile himself to
the idea that the wife of his favourite son should be
the sister of j for the Squire forgot that his own
girls were Jack Wentworth's sisters, and as such might
be objected to in their turn by some other father. So
the two gentlemen went to see Lucy, who was then in
a very humble frame of mind, just recovered from her
passion — one of them rather congratulating himself on
the obstacles which lay before the young couple, the
other tossing his youthful head a little in the first im-
pulses of self-will, feeling the reins lie loose upon him,
and making up his mind to have his own way.
CHAPTER XVIII.
While Mr. Frank Wentworth's affairs were thus
gathering to a crisis, other events likely to influence
his fate were also taking place in Carlingford. Break-
fast had been served a full half-hour later than usual
in the Rectory, which had not improved the temper of
the household. Everything was going on with the
most wonderful quietness in that well-arranged house;
but it was a quietness which would have made a sen-
sitive visitor uncomfortable, and which woke horrible
private qualms in the mind of the Rector. As for Mrs.
Morgan, she fulfilled all her duties with a precision
which was terrible to behold: instead of taking part in
the conversation as usual, and having her own opinion,
she had suddenly become possessed of such a spirit of
meekness and acquiescence as filled her husband with
dismay. The Rector was fond of his wife, and proud
THE PERPETUAL CITRATE. 267
of her good sense, and her judgment, and powers of
conversation. If she had been angry and found fault
with him, he might have understood that mode of
procedure; but as she was not angry, but only silent,
the excellent man was terribly disconcerted, and could
not tell what to do. He had done all he could to be
conciliatory, and had already entered upon a great
many explanations which had come to nothing for
want of any response; and now she sat at the head of
the table making tea with an imperturbable countenance,
sometimes making little observations about the news,
perfectly calm and dignified, but taking no part in
anything more interesting, and turning off any refer-
ence that was made to her in the most skilful manner.
"Mr. Morgan knows I never take any part in the
gossip of Carlingford," she said to Mr. Proctor, with-
out any intention of wounding that good man; and he
who had been in the midst of something about Mr.
Wentworth came to an abrupt stop with the sense of
having shown himself a gossip, which was very in-
jurious to his dignity. The late Rector, indeed, oc-
cupied a very uncomfortable position between the
married people thiis engaged in the absorbing excite-
ment of their first quarrel. The quiet little arrows,
which Mrs. Morgan intended only for her husband,
grazed and stung him as they passed, without missing
at the same time their intended aim; and he was the
auditor, besides, of a great deal of information intended
by the Rector for his wife's benefit, to which Mrs.
Morgan paid no manner of attention. Mr. Proctor was
not a man of very lively observation, but he could not
quite shut his eyes to the position of affairs; and the
natural effect upon his mind, in the circumstances,
268 THE PERPETUAL CUKATE.
was to turn his thoughts towards his mild Mary, whom
he did not quite recognise as yet under her Christian
name. He called her Miss Wodehouse in his heart
even while in the act of making comparisons very
unfavourable to the Rector's wife, and then he intro-
duced benevolently the subject of his new Rectory,
which surely must be safe ground.
"It is a pretty little place," Mr. Proctor said, with
satisfaction: "of course it is but a small living com-
pared to Carlingford. I hope you will come and see
me, after — it is furnished," said the bashful bride-
groom: "it is a nuisance to have all that to look after
for one's self "
"I hope you will have somebody to help you," said
Mrs. Morgan, with a little earnestness; "gentlemen
don't understand about such things. When you have
one piece of furniture in bad taste, it spoils a whole
room — carpets, for instance " said the Rector's
wife. She looked at Mr. Proctor so severely that the
good man faltered, though he was not aware of the
full extent of his guiltiness.
"I am sure I don't know," he said: "I told the
man here to provide everything as it ought to be; and
I think we were very successful," continued Mr. Proc-
tor, with a little complacency: to be sure, they were in
the dining-room at the moment, being still at the
breakfast-table. "Buller knows a great deal about
that sort of thing, but then he is too ecclesiological for
my taste. I like things to look cheerful," said the
unsuspicious man. "Buller is the only man that could
be reckoned on if any living were to fall vacant. It
is very odd nowadays how indifferent men are about
TtlE PERPETUAL ClJRATfi- 269
tLe Cliurcli. I don't say that it is not very pleasant
at All-Souls; but a house of one's own, you know "
said Mr. Proctor, looking with a little awkward en-
thusiasm at his recently married brother; "of course I
mean a sphere — a career "
"Oh, ah, yes," said Mr. Morgan, with momentary
gruffness; "but everything has its drawbacks. I don't
think Buller would take a living. He knows too well
what's comfortable," said the suffering man. "The
next living that falls will have to go to some one out
of the College," said Mr. Morgan. He spoke with a
tone of importance and significance which moved Mr.
Proctor, though he was not very rapid in his percep-
tions, to look across at him for further information.
"Most people have some crotchet or other," said
the Rector. "When a man's views are clear about
subscription, and that sort of thing, he generally goes
as far wrong the other way. Buller might go out to
Central Africa, perhaps, if there was a bishopric of
Wahuma — or what is the name, my dear, in that Nile
book?"
"I have not read it," said Mrs. Morgan, and she
made no further remark.
Thus discouraged in his little attempt at amity, the
Rector resumed after a moment, "Wentworth's brother
has sent in his resignation to his bishop. There is no
doubt about it any longer. I thought that delusion
had been over, at all events; and I suppose now Went-
worth will be provided for," said Mr. Morgan, not
without a little anxiety.
"No; they are all equally crotchety, I think," said
Mr. Proctor. "I know about them, through my — my
270 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
connection witli the Wodehouses, you know. I should
not wonder, for my own part, if he went after his
brother, who is a A'ery intelligent man, though mis-
taken," the late Rector added, with respect. "As for
Frank Wentworth, he is a little hot-headed. I had a
long conversation the other night with the elder bro-
ther. I tried to draw him out about Burgon's book,
but he declined to enter into the question. Frank has
made up his mind to stay in Carlingford. I under-
stand he thinks it right on account of his character
being called in question here; though, of course, no
one in his senses could have had any doubt how that
would turn out," said Mr. Proctor, forgetting that he
himself had been very doubtful about the Curate.
"From what I hear, they are all very crotchety," he
continued, and finished his breakfast calmly, as if that
settled the question. As for Mrs. Morgan, even this
interesting statement had no effect upon her. She
looked vip suddenly at one moment as if intending to
dart a reproachful glance at her husband, but bethought
herself in time, and remained passive as before; not
the less, however, was she moved by what she had
just heard. It was not Mr. Wentworth she was think-
ing of, except in a very secondary degree. TNTiat oc-
cupied her, and made her reflections bitter, was the
thought that her husband — the man to whom she had
been faithful for ten weary years — had taken himself
down off the pedestal on which she had placed him.
"To make idols, and to find them clay," she said
plaintively in her own mind. Women were all fools
to spend their time and strength in constructing such
pedestals, Mrs. Morgan thought to herself with bitter-
ness; and as to the men who were so perpetually de-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 271
throning themselves, how were they to be designated?
To think of her William, of whom she had once made
a hero, ruining thus, for a little petty malice and
rivalry, the prospects of another man! While these
painful reflections were going through her mind, she
was putting away her tea-caddy, and preparing to
leave the gentlemen to their own aflfairs. "We shall
see you at dinner at six," she said, with a constrained
little smile, to Mr. Proctor, and went up-stairs with her
key-basket in her hand without taking any special
notice of the Rector. Mr. Leeson was to come to din-
ner that day legitimately by invitation, and Mrs.
Morgan, who felt it would be a little consolation to
disappoint the hungry Curate for once, was making up
her mind, as she went up-stairs, not to have the All-
Souls pudding, of which he showed so high an appre-
ciation. It almost seemed to her as if this spark of
ill-nature was receiving a summary chastisement, when
she heard steps ascending behind her. Mrs. Morgan
objected to have men lounging about her drawing-
room in the morning. She thought Mr. Proctor was
coming to bestow a little more of his confidence upon
her, and perhaps to consult her about his furnishing;
and being occupied by her own troubles, she had no
patience for a tiresome, middle-aged lover, who no
doubt was going to disappoint and disenchant another
woman. She sat down, accordingly, with a sigh of
impatience at her work-table, turning her back to the
door. Perhaps, when he saw her inhospitable attitude,
he might go away and not bother her. And Mrs.
Morgan took out some stockings to darn, as being a
discontented occupation, and was considering within
herself what simple preparation she could have instead
272 THE PERPETUAL CITRATE.
of the All-Souls pudding, when, looking up suddenly,
she saw, not Mr. Proctor, but the Rector, standing
looking down upon her within a few steps of her chair.
When she perceived him, it was not in nature to re-
frain from certain symptoms of agitation. The thoughts
she had been indulging in brouglit suddenly a rush of
guilty colour to her face; but she commanded herself
as well as she could, and went on darning her
stockings, with her heart beating very loud in her
breast.
"My dear," said the Eector, taking a seat near her,
"I don't know what it is that has risen up between
us. We look as if we had quarrelled ; and I thought
we had made up our minds never to quarrel." The
words were rather soft in their signification, but Mr.
Morgan could not help speaking severely, as was na-
tural to his voice; which was perhaps, in the present
case, all the better for his wife.
"I don't knoAv what you may consider quarrelling,
William," said Mrs. Morgan, "but I am sure I have
never made any complaint."
"No," said the Rector; "I have seen women do
that before. You don't make any complaint, but you
look as if you disapproved of everything. I feel it all
the more just now because I want to consult you; and,
after all, the occasion was no such "
"I never said there was any occasion. I am sure
I never made any complaint. You said you wanted
to consult me, William?" Mrs. ^Morgan went on darn-
ing her stockings while she was speaking, and the
Rector, like most other men, objected to be spoken to
by the lips only. He would have liked to toss the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 273
stocking out of the window, though it was his own,
and the task of repairing it was one of a devoted
wife's first duties, according to the code of female pro-
prieties in which both the husband and wife had been
brought up.
"Yes," said the Rector, with a sigh. "The truth
is, I have just got a letter from Harry Scarsfield, who
was my pet pupil long ago. He tells me my father's
old rectory is vacant, where we were all brought up.
There used to be constant intercourse between the Hall
and the Rectory when I was a lad. They are very
nice people the Scarsfields — at least they used to be
very nice people; and Harry has his mother living
with hira, and the family has never been broken up,
I believe. We used to know everybody about there,"
said Mr. Morgan, abandoning himself to recollections
in a manner most mysterious to his wife. "There is
the letter, my dear," and he put it down upon her
table, and began to play with the reels of cotton in
her workbox unconsciously, as he had not done for a
long time; which, unawares to herself, had a softening
influence upon Mrs. Morgan's heart.
"I do not know anything about the Scarsfields,"
she said, without taking up the letter, "and I cannot
see what you have to do with this. Does he wish you
to recommend some one?" Mrs. Morgan added, with
a momentary interest; for she had, of course, like other
people, a relation in a poor living, whom it would
have been satisfactory to recommend.
"He says I may have it if I have a mind," said
the Rector, curtly, betraying a little aggravation in his
tone.
The Perpetual, Curate. U. 18
274 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"You, William?" said Mrs. Morgan. She was so
much surprised that she hiid down her stocking and
looked him straight in the face, which she had not
done for many days; and it was wonderful how hard
she found it to keep up her reserve, after having once
looked her husband in the eyes. "But it is not much
more than six months since you were settled in Carling-
ford," she said, still lost in amazement. "You cannot
possibly mean to make a change so soon? and then
the difference of the position," said the Rector's wife.
As she looked at him, she became more and more
aAvare of some meaning in his face which she did not
understand; and more and more, as it became neces-
sary to understand him, the reserves and self-defences
of the first quarrel gave way and dispersed. "I don't
think I quite know what you mean," she said, falter-
ing a little. "I don't understand why you should
think of a change."
"A good country living is a very good position,"
said the Rector; "it is not nearly so troublesome as a
town like Caidingford. There is no Dissent that I
know of, and no " here Mr. Morgan paused for a
moment, not knowing what word to use) — "no dis-
turbing influences: of course I would not take such a
step without your concurrence, my dear," the Rector
continued; and then there followed a bewildering pause.
Mrs. Morgan's first sensation after the astonishment
with which she heard this strange proposal was morti-
fication — the vivid shame and vexation of a woman
Avlien she is obliged to own to herself that her husband
has been worsted, and is retiiung from the field.
"If you think it right — if you think it best — of
course I can have nothing to say," said the Rector's
TITE PPRPETUAL CURATE. 275
wife; and she took up her stocking with a stinging
sense of discomfiture. She had meant that her hus-
band should be the first man in Carlingford — that he
should gain everybody's respect and veneration, and
become the ideal parish-pi'iest of that favourite and
fortunate place. Every kind of good work and bene-
volent undertaking was to be connected with his name,
according to the visions which Mrs. Morgan had framed
when she came first to Carlingford, not without such a
participation on her own part as should entitle her to
the milder glory appertaining to the good Rector's
wife. All the hopes were now to be blotted out igno-
miniously. Defeat and retreat and failure were to be
the conclusion of their first essay at life. "You are the
best judge of what you ought to do," she said, with as
much calmness as she could muster, but she could have
dropped bitter tears upon the stocking she was mend-
ing if that would have done any good.
"I will do nothing without your consent," said the
Rector. "Young Wentworth is going to stay in Car-
lingford. You need not look up so sharply, as if you
were vexed to think that had anything to do with it.
If he had not behaved like a fool, I never could have
been led into such a mistake," said Mr. Morgan, with
indignation, taking a little walk to the other end of
the room to refresh himself. "At the same time," said
tlie Rector, severely, coming back after a pause, "to
sliow any ill-feeling would be very unchristian either
on your side or mine. If I were to accept Harry
Scarsfield's offer. Proctor and I would do all we could
to have young Wentworth appointed to Carlingford.
There is nobody just now at All-Souls to take the
living; and however much you may disapprove of him,
18*
276 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
my dear," said Mr. Morgan, witli increasing severity,
"there is nothing that I know of to be said against
him as a clergyman. If you can make up your mind
to consent to it, and can see affairs in the same light
as they appear to me, that is what I intend to do "
Mrs. Morgan's stocking had dropped on her knees
as she listened; then it dropped on the floor, and she
took no notice of it. When the Rector had finally
delivered himself of his sentiments, which he did in the
voice of a judge who was condemning some unfor-
tunate to the utmost penalties of the law, his wife
marked the conclusion of the sentence by a sob of
strange excitement. She kept gazing at him for a few
moments without feeling able to speak, and then she
put down her face into her hands. Words were too
feeble to give utterance to her feelings at such a
supreme moment. "Oh, William, I wonder if you
ever can forgive me," sobbed the Rector s wife, with a
depth of compunction which he, good man, was totally
unprepared to meet, and knew no occasion for. He
was even at the moment a little puzzled to have such
a despairing petition addressed to him. "I hope so,
my dear," he said, very sedately, as he came and sat
down beside her, and could not refrain from uttering a
little lecture upon temper, which fortunately Mrs.
Morgan was too much excited to pay any attention to.
"It would be a great deal better if you did not give
way to your feelings," said the Rector; "but in the
mean time, my dear, it is your advice I want, for we
must not take such a step unadvisedly," and he lifted
up the stocking that had fallen, and contemplated, not
without surprise, the emotion of his wife. The excel-
lent man was as entirely unconscious that he was
THE PERPRTUAL CURATE. 277
being put up again at that moment witli acclamations
upon his pedestal, as that he had at a former time
been violently displaced from it, and thrown into the
category of broken idols. All this would have been
as Sanscrit to the Hector of Carlingford; and the only
resource he had was to make in his own mind certain
half-pitying, half- affectionate remarks upon the inex-
plicable weakness of women, and to pick up the stock-
ing which his wife was darning, and finally to stroke
her hair, which was still as pretty and soft and brown
as it had been ten years ago. Under such circum-
stances a man does not object to feel himself on a plat-
form of moral superiority. He even began to pet her
a little, with a pleasant sense of forgiveness and for-
bearance. "Yoit were perhaps a little cross, my love,
but you don't think I am the man to be hard upon
you," said the Rector. "Now you must dry your eyes
and give me your advice — you know how much con-
fidence I have always had in your advice "
"Forgive me, William. I don't think there is any
one so good as you are; and as long as we are to-
gether it does not matter to me where we are," said
the repentant woman. But as she lifted up her head,
her eye fell on the carpet, and a gleam of sudden de-
light passed through Mrs. Morgan's mind. To be de-
livered from all her suspicions and injurious thoughts
about her husband would have been a deliverance great
enough for one day, but at the same happy moment
to see a means of deliverance from the smaller as well
as the greater cross of her existence seemed almost too
good to be credible. She brightened up immediately
when that thought occurred to her. "I think it is the
very best thing you could do," she said. "We are
1^78 THE PERrETUAL CURATE.
both SO fond of the country, and it is so much nicer to
manage a country ])arish than a town one. We nii^ht
have lived all our lives in Carlingford without know-
ing above half of the poor people," said Mrs. Morgan,
grooving in warmth as she went on; "it is so different
in a country parish. I never liked to say anything,"
she continued, with subtle feminine policy, "but I
never — much — cared for Carlingford." She gave a
sigh as she spoke, for she thought of the Virginian
creeper and the five feet of new wall at that side of
(he garden, which had just been completed, to shut out
the view of the train. Life does not contain any per-
fect pleasure. But when Mrs. Morgan stooped to lift
up some stray reels of cotton which the Rector's
clumsy male fingers had dropped out of her workbox,
her eye was again attracted by the gigantic roses and
tulips on the carpet, and content and satisfaction filled
her heart.
"I have felt the same thing, my dear," said Mr.
Morgan. "I don't say anything against Mr. Finial as
an architect, but Scott himself could make nothing of
such a hideous church. I don't suppose Wentworth
will mind," said the Rector, with a curious sense of
superiority. He felt his own magnanimous conduct at
the moment almost as much as his wife had done, and
could not help regarding Carlingford Church as the
gift-horse which was not to be examined too closely in
the mouth.
"No," said Mrs. Morgan, not without a passing
sensation of doubt on this 2>oint; "if he had only been
frank and explained everj-thing, there never could have
been any mistake; but I am glad it has all happened,"
said the Rector's wife, with a little enthusiasm. "Oh,
THE rEKPETUAL CURATE. 270
William, I have been such a wretch — I have been
thinking — but now you are heaping coals of fire on
liis head," she cried, with a hysterical sound in her
throat. It was no matter to her that she herself scarcely
knew what she meant, and that the good Kector had
not the faintest understanding of it. She was so glad,
that it was almost necessary to be guilty of some ex-
travagance by way of relieving her mind. "After all
Mr. Proctor's care in fitting the furniture, you would
not, of course, think of removing it," said Mrs. Morgan-,
"Mr. Wentworth will take it as we did; and as for
Mrs. Scarsfield, if you like her, William, you may be
sure I shall," the j)enitent wife said softly, in the flutter
and tremor of her agitation. As he saw himself re-
flected in her eyes, the Rector could not but feel him-
self a superior person, elevated over other men's shoul-
ders. Such a sense of goodness promotes the amiability
from which it springs. The Rector kissed his wife as
he got up from his seat beside her, and once more
smoothed down, with a touch which made her feel like
a girl again, her pretty brown hair.
"That is all settled satisfactorily," said Mr. Morgan,
"and now I must go to my work again. I thought,
if you approved of it, I would write at once to Scars-
field, and also to Buller of All-Souls."
"Do," said the Rector's wife — and she too bestowed,
in her middle-aged way, a little caress, which was far
from being unpleasant to the sober-minded man. He
went down-stairs in a more agreeable frame of mind
than he had known for a long time back. Not that
he understood why she had cried about it when he laid
his intentions before her. Had Mr. Morgan been a
280 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
Frenchmau, be probably would bave imagined his
wife's beart to be toucbed by tbe graces of the Per-
petual Curate-, but, being an Englishman, and rather
more certain, on tbe whole, of her than of himself, it
did not occur to him to speculate on tbe subject. He
was quite able to content himself with the thought
that women were incomprehensible, as he went back
to his study. To be sure, it was best to understand
them, if you could; but if not, it did not so very much
matter, Mr. Morgan thought-, and in this pleasant con-
dition of mind be went down-stairs and wrote a little
sermon, which ever after was a great favourite,
preached upon all special occasions, and always lis-
tened to with satisfaction, especially by tbe Kector's
wife.
When Mrs. Morgan was left alone she sat doing
nothing for an entire half-hour; thinking of the strange
and unhoped-for change that in a moment had occurred
to her. Though she was not young, she had that sense
of the grievousness, tbe unbearableness of trouble,
which belongs to youth; for, after all, whatever female
moralists may say on tbe subject, tbe patience of an
unmarried woman wearing out her youth in the harass-
ments of a long engagement, is something very dif-
ferent from tbe hard and many-sided experience of
actual life. She had been accustomed for years to
think that her troubles would be over Avhen the long-
expected event arrived; and when new and more vexa-
tious troubles still sprang up after that event, the
woman of one idea was not much better fitted to meet
them than if she had been a girl. Now that tbe mo-
mentary cloud had been driven off, Mrs. Morgan's
heart rose more warmly than ever. She changed her
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 281
mind in a moment about the All-Souls pudding, and
even added, in her imagination, another dish to the
dinner, without pausing to think that that also was
much approved by Mr. Leeson; and then her thoughts
took another turn, and such a vision of a perfect carpet
for a drawing-room — something softer and more ex-
quisite than ever came out of mortal loom; full of re-
pose and tranquillity, yet not without seducing beauties
of design; a carjjet which would never obtrude itself,
but yet would catch the eye by dreamy moments in
the summer twilight or over the winter fire — flashed
upon the imagination of the Rector's wife. It would
be sweet to have a house of one's own arranging,
where everything would be in harmony; and though
this sweetness was very secondary to the other satisfac-
tion of having a husband who was not a clay idol, but
really deserved his pedestal, it yet supplemented the
larger delight, and rounded off all the corners of Mrs.
Morgan's present desires. She wished everybody as hapjijy
as herself, in the effusion of the moment, and thought of
Lucy Wodehouse, with a little glow of friendliness in
which there was still a tincture of admiring envy. All
this that happy girl would have without the necessity
of waiting for it; but then was it not the Rector, the
rehabilitated husband, who would be the means of pro-
ducing so much happiness? Mrs. Morgan rose up as
lightly as a girl when she had reached this stage, and
opened her writing-desk, which was one of her wed-
ding-presents, and too fine to be used on common oc-
casions. She took out her prettiest paper, with her
monogram in violet, which was her favourite colour.
One of those kind impulses which are born of happi-
ness moved her relieved spirit. To give to another
282 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
the consolation of a brij^hter liope, .seemed at the mo-
ment tlie most natural way of expressing her own
thankful feelings. Instead of going down -stairs im-
mediately to order dinner, she sat down instead at the
table, and wrote the following note: —
"My dear Mr. Wentworth, — I don't know whether
you will think me a fair-weather friend seeking you
only when everybody else is seeking you, and when
you are no longer in want of support and sympathy.
Perhaps you will exculpate me when you remember the
last conversation we had; but what I write for at
present is to ask if you would waive ceremony and
come to dinner with us to-night. I am aware that
your family are still in Carlingford, and of course I
don't know what engagements you may have*, but if
you are at liberty, pray come. If Mr. Morgan and
you had but known each other a little better, things
could never have happened Avhich have been a great
grief and vexation to me; and I know the Rector
wisJies very much to have a little conversation with you,
and has something to speak of in which you would be
interested. Perhaps my husband might feel a little
strange in asking you to oversteji the barrier which
somehow has been raised between you two; but I am
sure if you knew each other better you would under-
stand each other, and this is one of the things we wo-
men ought to be good for. I will take it as a proof
that you consider me a friend if you accept my invita-
tion. Our hour is half-past six. — Believe me, very
sincerely, yours,
M, Morgan."
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 283
When slie had written this note Mrs. Morgan went
Jown-stairs, stopping at the library door in passing.
"I thought I miglit as well ask Mr. Wentworth to come
to Its to-night, as we are to have some people to dinner,"
she said, looking in at the door. "I thought you
might like to talk to him, William; and if his people
are going away to-day, I daresay he will feel rather
lonely to-night." Such was the Jesiiitical aspect in
which she represented the flag of truce she was send-
ing. Mr. Morgan was a little startled by action so
prompt.
"I should like to hear from Buller first," said tlie
Rector; "he might like to come to Carlingford himself,
for anything I can tell; but, to be sure, it can do no
harm to have Wentwortli to dinner," said Mr. Morgan,
doiibtfully; "only Buller, you know, might Avish — and
in that case it might not be worth our trouble to make
any change."
In spite of herself, Mrs. Morgan's countenance fell;
lier pretty scheme of poetic justice, her vision of taste-
ful and appropriate furniture, became obscured by a
momentary mist. "At least it is only right to ask him
to dinner," she said, in .subdued tones, and went to
speak to the cook in a frame of mind more like the
common level of human satisfaction than that exultant
and exalted strain to which she had risen at the first
moment. Then she put on a black dress, and went to
call on the Miss Wodehouses, who naturally came into
her mind when she thought of the Perpetual Curate.
As she went along Grange Lane she could not but ob-
serve a hackney cab, one of those which belonged to
the railway station, lounging — if a cab could ever be
said to lounge — in the direction of Wharfside. Its ap-
i284: THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
pearance specially attracted Mrs. Morgan's attention in
consequence of the apparition of Elsworthy's favourite
errand-boy, who now and then poked his head furtively
through the window, and seemed to be sitting in state
inside. When she had gone a little farther she en-
countered Wodehouse and Jack Wentworth, who had
just come from paying their visit to the sisters. The
sight of these two revived her symjiathies for the lonely
women who had fallen so unexpectedly out of wealth
into poverty, but yet she felt a little difficulty in fram-
ing her countenance to be partly sorrowful and partly
congratulatory, as was necessary under these circum-
stances; for though she knew nothing of the accident
which had happened that morning, when Lucy and the
Perpetual Curate saw each other alone, she was aware
of Miss Wodehouse's special position, and was sym-
pathetic as became a woman who had "gone through"
similar experiences. When she had got through her
visit and was going home, it struck her with consider-
able surprise to see the cab still lingering about the
corner of Prickctt's Lane. Was Elsworthy's pet boy
delivering his newspapers from that dignified elevation?
or were they seizing the opportunity of conveying
away the unfortunate little girl who had caused so
much annoyance to everybody? When she went closer,
with a little natural curiosity to see what else might
be inside besides the furtive errand-boy, the cab made
a little rush away from her, and the blinds were drawn
down. Mrs. Morgan smiled a little to herself with
dignified calm. "As if it was anything to me!" she
said to herself; and so went home to put out the dessert
with her own hands. She even cut a few fronds of
her favourite maiden-hair to decorate the peaches, of
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 285
which she could not help being a little proud. "I
must speak to Mr. Wentworth, if he comes, to keep
on Thompson," she said to herself, and then gave a
momentary sigh at thought of the new flue, which was
as good as her own invention, and which it had cost
her both time and money to arrange to her satisfaction.
The peaches were lovely, but who could tell what they
might be next year if a new Rector came who took no
interest in the garden? — for Thompson, though he was
a very good servant, required to be looked after, as
indeed most good servants do. Mrs. Morgan sighed a
little when she thought of all her past exertions and
the pains, of which she was scarcely yet beginning to
reap the fruit. One man labours, and another enters
into his labours. One thing, however, was a little con-
solatory, that she could take her ferns with her. But
on the whole, after the first outburst of feeling, the
idea of change, notwithstanding all its advantages, was
in itself, like most human things, a doubtful pleasure.
To be sure, it was only through its products that her
feelings were interested about the new flue, whereas
the drawing-room carpet was a standing grievance.
When it was time to dress for dinner, the Rector's wife
was not nearly so sure as before that she had never
liked Carlingford. She began to forget the thoughts
she had entertained about broken idols, and to re-
member a number of inconveniences attending a re-
moval. Who would guarantee the safe transit of the
china, not to speak of the old china, which Avas one of
the most valuable decorations of the Rectory? This
kind of breakage, if not more real, was at least likely
to force itself more upon the senses than the other kind
of fracture which this morning's explanation had hap-
286 TIIR PERPETUAL CURATE.
pily averted-, and altogether it was with mingled feel-
ing that Mrs. Morgan entered the drawing-room, and
foiand it occuj)ied by Mr. Leeson, who always came
too early, and who, on the present occasion, had some
sufficiently strange news to tell.
CHAPTER XIX.
Mr. Wentworth did not accept Mrs. Morgan's
sudden invitation, partly because his "people" did not
leave Carlingford that evening, and partly because,
though quite amiably disposed towards the Rector,
whom he had worsted in fair light, he was not suffi-
ciently interested in anything he was likely to hear or
see in Mr. Morgan's house to move him to spend his
evening there. He returned a very civil answer to the
invitation of the Kector's wife, thanking her warmly
for her friendliness, and explaining that he could not
leave his father on tlie last night of his stay in Carling-
ford; after which he went to dinner at his aunts', where
tlie household was still much agitated. Not to speak
of all the events which had happened and were hap-
jjcning. Jack, who had begun to tire of his new char-
acter of the rcj)entant prodigal, had shown himself in
a new light that evening, and was preparing to leave,
to the relief (jf all parties. The prodigal, who no
longer pretended to be penitent, had taken the con-
versation into his own hjinds at dinner. "I have had
things my own way since I came liere," said Jack;
"somehow it appears I have a great luck for having
things my own way. It is you scrupulous jieople who
think of others and of such antiquated stuff as duty,
THE PERPETUAL CUPATE. 287
and so forth, tliat get yoiirselvcs into difficulties. My
dear auut, I am going- away, if I were to remain an
inmate of this house — I mean to say, could I look for-
ward to the privilege of continuing a member of this
Christian family — another day, I should know better
how to conduct myself; but I am going back to
my bad courses, aunt Dora-, I am returning to the
world "
"Oh! Jack, my dear, I hope not," said aunt Dora,
who was much bewildered, and did not know what
to say.
"Too true," said the relapsed sinner, "and con-
sidering all the lessons you have taught me, don't you
think it is the best thing I could do? There is my
brother Frank, who has been carrying other people
about on his shoulders, and doing liis diity; but I don't
see that you good people are at all moved in his be-
half You leave him to fight his way by himself, and
confer your benefits elsewhere, which is an odd sort of
lesson for a worldling like me. As for Gerald, you
know he's a virtuous fool, as I have heard you all
declare. There is nothing in the world that I can see
to prevent him keeping his living and doing as he
pleases, as most parsons do. However, that's his own
business. It is Frank's case which is the edifying case
to me. If my convictions of sin had gone just a step
farther," said the pitiless critic, "if I had devoted my-
self to bringing others to repentance, as is the first
duty of a reformed sinner, my aunt Leonora would not
have hesitated to give Skelmersdale to me "
"Jack, hold your tongue," said Miss Leonora; but
though her cheeks bui-ned, her voice was not so firm
288 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
as usual, and she actually failed in putting down tlie
man who had determined to have his say.
"Fact, my dear aunt," said Jack: "if I had been
a greater rascal than I am, and gone a little farther,
you and your people would have thought me quite fit
for a cure of souls. I'd have come in for your good
things that way as well as other ways-, but here is
Frank, who even I can see is a right sort of parson.
I don't pretend to fixed theological opinions," said this
unlooked-for oracle, with a comic glance aside at
Gerald, the most unlikely person present to make any
response; "but, so far as I can see, he's a kind of
fellow most men would be glad to make a friend of
when they were under a cloud — not that he was ever
very civil to me. I tell you, so far from rewarding
him for being of the true sort, you do nothing but snub
him, that I can see. He looks to me as good for work
as any man I know, but you'll give your livings to
any kind of wretched make-believe before you'll give
them to Frank. I am aware," said the heir of the
Wentworths, with a momentary flush, "that I have
never been considered much of a credit to the family;
but if I were to announce my intention of marrying
and settling, there is not one of the name that would
not lend a hand to smooth matters. That is the reward
of wickedness," said Jack, with a laugh; "as for Frank,
he's a perpetual curate, and may marry perhaps fifty
years hence; that's the way you good people treat a
man who never did anything to be ashamed of in his
life; and you expect me to give up my evil courses
after such a lesson? I trust I am not such a fool," said
the relapsed prodigal. He sat looking at them all in
his easy way, enjoying the confusion, the indignation,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 289
and wrath with which his address was received. "The
man who gets his own way is the man who takes it,"
he concluded, with his usual composure, pouring out
Miss Leonora's glass of claret as he spoke.
Nobody had ever before seen the strong-minded
woman in so much agitation. "Frank knows what my
feelings are," she said, abruptly. "I have a great re-
spect for himself, but I have no confidence in his
principles. I — I have explained my ideas about Church
patronage "
But here the Squire broke in. "I always said,
sir," said the old man, with an unsteady voice, "that
if I ever lived to see a thing or two amended that was
undoubtedly objectionable, your brother Jack's advice
would be invaluable to the family as a — as a man of
the world. I have nothing to say against clergymen,
sir," continued the Squire, without it being apparent
whom he was addressing, "but I have always expressed
my conviction of — of the value of your brother Jack's
advice as — as a man of the world."
This speech had a wonderful effect upon the as-
sembled family, but most of 'all upon the son thus
commended, who lost all his ease and composure as his
father spoke, and turned his head stiffly to one side,
as if afraid to meet the Squire's eyes, which indeed
were not seeking his, but were fixed upon the table,
as was natural, considering the state of emotion in
which Mr. Wentworth was. As for Jack, when he had
steadied himself a little, he got up from his seat and
tried to laugh, though the effort was far from being a
successful one.
"Even my father applauds me, you see, because I
am a scamp and don't deserve it," he said, with a
The Peipetiial Citinfe. II. Jl9
290 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
voice which was partially choked. "Good-bye, sir; I
am going away."
The Squire rose too, with the hazy bewildered look
of which his other children were afraid.
"Good-bye, sir," said the old man, and then made
a pause before he held out his hand. " You'll not forget
what I've said. Jack," he added, with a little haste.
"It's true enough, though I haven't that confidence in
you that — that I might have had. I am getting old,
and I have had two attacks, sir," said Mr. Wentworth,
with dignity, "and anyhow, I can't live for ever.
Your brothers can make their own way in the world,
but I haven't saved all that I could have wished.
When I am gone. Jack, be just to the girls and the
little children," said the Squire; and with that took his
son's hand and grasped it hard, and looked his heir
full in the face.
Jack Wentworth was not prepared for any such
appeal; he was still less prepared to discover the un-
expected and inevitable sequence with which one good
sentiment leads to another. He quite faltered and
broke down in this unlooked-for emergency. "Father,"
he said unawares, for the first time for ten years, "if
you wish it, I will join you in breaking the entail."
"No such thing, sir," said the Squire, who, so far
from being pleased, was irritated and disturbed by the
proposal. "I ask you to do your duty, sir, and not to
shirk it," the head of the house said, with natural
vehemence, as he stood with that circle of Wentworths
round him, giving forth his code of honour to his un-
worthy heir.
While his father was speaking. Jack recovered a
little from his momentary attendrissement. "Good-bye,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 591
sir; I hope you'll live a hundred years," he said,
wringing his father's hand, "if you don't last out half-
a-dozen of me, as you ought to do. But I'd rather not
anticipate such a change. In that case," the prodigal
went on with a certain huskiness in his voice, "I dare-
say I should not turn out so great a rascal as — as
I ought to do. To-day and yesterday it has even
occurred to me by moments that I was your son, sir,"
said Jack Wentworth-, and then he made an abrupt
stop and dropped the Squire's hand, and came to him-
self in a surprising way. When he turned towards the
rest of the family, he was in perfect possession of his
usual courtesy and good spii'its. He nodded to them
all round — with superb good-humour. "Good-bye, all
of you; I wish you better luck, Frank, and not so
much virtue. Perhaps you will have a better chance
now the lost sheep has gone back to the wilderness.
Good-bye to you all. I don't think I've any other last
words to say." He lighted his cigar with his ordinary
composure in the hall, and whistled one of his favoixrite
airs as he went through the garden. "Oddly enough,
however, our friend Wodehouse can beat me in that,"
he said, with a smile, to Frank, who had followed him
out, "perhaps in other things too, who knows? Good-
bye, and good-luck, old fellow." And thus the heir of
the Wentworths disappeared into the darkness, which
swallowed him up, and was seen no more.
But naturally there was a good deal of commotion
in the house. Miss Leonora, who never had known
what it was to have nerves in the entire course of her
existence, retired to her own room with a headache, to
the entire consternation of the family. She had been
a strong-minded woman all her life, and managed
292 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
everybody's affairs witliout being distracted and ham-
pered in her career by those doubts of her own wisdom,
and questions as to her own motives, which will now
and then afflict the minds of weaker people when they
have to decide for others. But this time an utterly
novel and unexpected accident had befallen Miss
Leonora-, a man of no principles at all had delivered
his opinion upon her conduct — and so far from finding
his criticism contemptible, or discovering in it the
ordinary outcry of the wicked against the righteous,
she had found it true, and by means of it had for
perhaps the first time in her life seen herself as
others saw her. Neither was the position in which
she found herself one from which she could get ex-
tricated even by any daring arbitrary exertion of
will, such as a woman in difficulties is sometimes
capable of. To be sure, she might still have cut the
knot in a summary feminine way; might have said
"No" abruptly to Julia Trench and her curate, and,
after all, have bestowed Skelmersdale, like any other
prize or reward of virtue, upon her nephew Frank — a
step which Miss Dora Wentworth would have con-
cluded upon at once without any hesitation. The
elder sister, however, was gifted with a truer percep-
tion of affairs. Miss Leonora knew that there were
some things which could be done, and yet could not
be done— a piece of knowledge difficult to a woman.
She recognised the fact that she had committed herself,
and got into a corner from which there was but one
possible egress; and as she acknowledged this to her-
self, she saw at the same time that Julia Trench (for
whom she had been used to entertain a good;humoured
contempt as a clever sort of girl enough) had managed
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 293
matters very cleverly, and that, instead of dispensing
her piece of patronage like an optimist to the best, she
had, in fact, given it np to the most skilful and per-
severing angler, as any other woman might have done.
The blow was bitter, and Miss Leonora did not seek
to hide it from herself, not to say that the unpleasant
discovery was aggravated by having been thus pointed
out by Jack, who in his own person had taken her in,
and cheated his sensible aunt. She felt humbled, and
wounded in the tenderest point, to think that her re-
probate nephew had seen through her, but that she
had not been able to see through him, and had been
deceived by his professions of penitence. The more
she turned it over in her mind, the more Miss Leo-
nora's head ached; for was it not growing apparent
that she, who prided herself so much on her impartial
judgment, had been moved, not by heroic and stoical
justice and the love of souls, but a good deal by pre-
judice and a good deal by skilful artifice, and very
little indeed by that highest motive which she called
the glory of God? And it was Jack who had set all
this before her clear as daylight. No wonder the ex-
cellent woman was disconcerted. She went to bed
gloomily with her headache, and would tolerate no
ministrations, neither of sal-volatile nor|eau-de-Cologne,
nor even of green tea. "It always does Miss Dora a
power of good," said the faithful domestic who made
this last suggestion; but Miss Leonora answered only
by turning the unlucky speaker out of the room, and
locking the door against any fresh intrusion. Miss
Dora's innocent headaches were articles of a very dif-
ferent kind from tliis, which proceeded neither from
the heart nor the digestion, but from the conscience,
294 THE PERPETUAL CURATE-
as Miss Leonora thought — with, possibly, a little aid
from the temper, though she was less conscious of that.
It was indeed a long series of doubts and qualms, and
much internal conflict, which resulted through the
rapidly-maturing influences of mortification and hum-
bled self-regard, in this ominous and awe-inspiring
Headache which startled the entire assembled family,
and added fresh importance to the general crisis of
Wentworth affairs.
"I should not wonder if it was the Wentworth
complaint," said Miss Dora, with a sob of fright, to
the renewed and increased indignation of the Squire.
"I have already told you that the Wentworth com-
plaint never attacks females," Mr. Wentworth said em-
phatically, glad to employ what sounded like a con-
temptuous title for the inferior sex.
"Yes, oh yes; but then Leonora is not exactly
what you would call — a female," said poor Miss Dora,
from whom an emergency so unexpected had taken all
her little wits.
While the house was in such an agitated condition,
it is not to be supposed that it could be very com-
fortable for the gentlemen when they came up-stairs to
the drawing-room, and found domestic sovereignty over-
thrown by a headache which nobody could comprehend,
and chaos reigning in Miss Leonora's place. Naturally
there was, for one of the jjarty at least, a refuge sweet
and close at hand, to which his thoughts had escaped
already. Frank Wentworth did not hesitate to follow
his thoughts. Against the long years when family
bonds make up all that is happiest in life, there must
always be reckoned those moments of agitation and
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 295
revolution, during wliicli tlie bosom of a family is the
most unrestful and disturbing place in existence, from
which it is well to have a personal refuge and means
of escape. The Perpetual Curate gave himself a little
shake, and drew a long breath, as he emerged from
one green door in Grange Lane and betook himself to
another. He shook himself clear of all the Wentworth
perplexities, all the family difficulties and doubts, and
betook himself into the paradise which was altogether
his own, and where there were no conflicting interests
or differences of opinion. He was in such a hurry to
get there that he did not pay any attention to the
general aspect of Grange Lane, or to the gossips who
were gathered round Elsworthy's door: all that belonged
to a previous stage of existence. At present he was full
of the grand discovery, boldly stated by his brother
Jack — "The man who gets his own way is the man
who takes it." It .was not an elevated doctrine, or one
that had hitherto commended itself specially to the mind
of the Perpetual Curate; but he could not help thinking
of his father's pathetic reliance upon Jack's advice as
a man of the world, as he laid up in his mind the
prodigal's maxim, and felt, with a little thrill of excite-
ment, that he was about to act on it; from which manner
of stating the case Mr. Wentworth's friends will perceive
that self-will had seized upon him in the worst form;
for he was not going boldly up to the new resolution
with his eyes open, but had resigned himself to the
tide, which was gradually rising in one united flux of
love, pride, impatience, sophistry, and inclination; which
he watched with a certain passive content, knowing that
the stormy current would carry him away.
Mr. Wentworth, however, reckoned without his host,
296 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
as is now and then the case with most men, Perpetual
Curates included. He walked into the other drawing-
room, which was occupied only by two ladies, where
the lamp was burning softly on the little table in the
corner, and the windows, half open, admitted the fra-
grant air, the perfumed breath, and stillness and faint
inarticulate noises of the night. Since the visit of
Wodehouse in the morning, which had driven Lucy
into her first fit of j)assion, an indescribable change
had come over the house, which had now returned to
the possession of its former owners, and looked again
like home. It was very quiet in the familiar room
which Mr. Wentworth knew so well, for it was only
when excited by events "beyond their control," as Miss
Wodehouse said, that the sisters could forget what had
happened so lately — the loss which had made a revo-
lution in their world. Miss Wodehouse, who for the
first time in her life was busy, and had in hand a
quantity of mysterious calculations and lists to make
out, sat at the table in the centre of the room, with
her desk open, and covered with long slips of paper.
Perhaps it was to save her Rector trouble that the
gentle woman gave herself so much labour; perhaps
she liked putting down on pajier all the things that
were indispensable for the new establishment. At all
events, she looked up only to give Mr. Wentworth a
smile and sisterly nod of welcome as he came in and
made his way to the corner where Lucy sat, not un-
expectant. Out of the disturbed atmosphere he had just
left, the Perpetual Curate came softly to that familiar
corner, feeling that he had suddenly reached his haven,
and that Eden itself could not have possessed a sweeter
peace. Lucy in her black dress, with traces of the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 2D 7
exhaustion of nature in her face, which was the loveliest
face in the world to Mr. Wentworth, looked up and
welcomed him with that look of satisfaction and content
which is the highest compliment one human creature
can pay to another. His presence rounded off all the
corners of existence to Lucy for that moment at least,
and made the world complete and full. He sat down
beside her at her work-table with no further interruption
to the tete-a-tete than the presence of the kind elder
sister at the table, who was absorbed in her lists, and
who, even had that jjleasant business been wanting,
was dear and familiar enough to both to make her
spectatorship just the sweet restraint which endears
such intercourse all the more. Thus the Perpetual
Curate seated himself, feeling in some degree master
of the position; and surely here, if nowhere else in the
world, the young man was justified in expecting to
have his own way.
"They have settled about their marriage," said
Lucy, whose voice was sufficiently audible to be heard
at the table, where Miss Wodehouse seized her pen
hastily and plunged it into the ink, doing her best to
appear unconscious, but failing sadly in the attempt.
"Mr. Proctor is going away directly to make every-
thing ready, and the marriage is to be on the 15tli of
next month."
"And ours?" said Mr. Wentworth, who had not as
yet approached that subject. Lucy knew that this event
must be far off, and was not agitated about it as yet;
on the contrary, she met his look symj^athetically and
with deprecation after the first natural blush, and soothed
him in her feminine way, patting softly with her pretty
hand the sleeve of his coat.
298 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Nobody knows," said Lucy. "We must wait, and
have patience. We have more time to spare than they
have," she added, with a little laugh. "We must
wait,"
"I don't see the must^'' said the Perpetual Curate.
"I have been thinking it all over since the morning.
I see no reason why I should always have to give in,
and wait; self-sacrifice is well enough when it can't be
helped, but I don't see any reason for postponing my
happiness indefinitely. Look here, Lucy. It appears
to me at present that there are only two classes of
people in the world — those who will wait, and those
who won't. I don't mean to enrol myself among the
martyrs. The man who gets his own way is the man
who takes it. I don't see any reason in the world for
concluding that I must wait." •
Lucy Wodehouse was a very good young woman,
a devoted Anglican, and loyal to all her duties; but
she had always been known to possess a spark of
spirit, and this rebellious quality came to a sudden
blaze at so unlooked-for a speech. "Mr. Wentworth,"
said Lucy, looking the Curate in the face with a look
which was equivalent to making him a low curtsy, "I
understood there were two people to be consulted as to
the must or must not;" and having entered this protest,
she withdrew her chair a little farther off, and bestowed
her attention absolutely upon the piece of needlework
in her hand.
If the ground had suddenly been cut away under-
neath Frank Wentworth's feet, he could not have been
more surprised; for, to tell the truth, it had not occurred
to him to doubt that he himself was the final authority
THE PERPETUAL tiURATE. 299
on this point, though, to be sure, it was part of the
conventional etiquette that the lady should "fix the
day." He sat gazing at her with so much surprise
that for a minute or tv/o he could say nothing. "Li;cy,
I am not going to have you put yourself on the other
side," he said at last, "there is not to be any opposi-
tion between you and me."
"That is as it may be," said Lucy, who was not
mollified. "You seem to have changed your sentiments
altogether since the morning, and there is no change
in the circumstances, at least that I can see."
"Yes, there is a great change," said the young
man. "If I could have sacrificed myself in earnest
and said nothing "
"Which you were quite free to do," interrupted
Lucy, who, having given way to temper once to-day,
found in herself an alarming proclivity towards a repe-
tition of the offence.
"Which I was quite free to do," said the Perpetual
Curate, with a smile, "but could not, and did not, all
the same. Things are altogether changed. Now, be as
cross as you please, you belong to me, Lucia mia. To
be sure, I have no money — — "
"I was not thinking of that," said the young lady,
under her breath.
"Of course one has to think about it," said Mr.
Wentworth; "but the question is, whether we shall be
happier and better going on separate in our visual way,
or making up our minds to give up something for the
comfort of being together. Perhaps you will forgive
me for taking that view of the question," said the
Curate, with a little enthvisiasm. "I have got tired of
300 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ascetic principles. I don't see wliy it must be best to
deny myself and postpone myself to otlier things and
other people. I begin to be of my brother Jack's
opinion. The children of this world are wiser in their
generation than the children of light. A man who will
wait has to wait. Providence does not invariably reward
him after he has been tried, as we used to suppose.
I am willing to be a poor man because I can't help it;
but I am not willing to wait and trust my happiness
to the future when it is in my reach now," said the
unreasonable young man, to whom it was of course as
easy as it was to Lucy to change the position of his
chair, and prevent the distance between them being
increased. Perhaps he might have carried his point
even at that moment, had not Miss Wodehouse, who
had heard enough to alarm her, come forward hastily
in a fright on the prudential side.
"I could not help hearing what you were saying,"
said the elder sister. "Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I hope you
don't mean to say that you can't trust Providence?
I'm sure that is not Lucy's way of thinking. I would
not mind, and I am sure she would not mind, beginning
very quietly; but then you have nothing, next to nothing,
neither of you. It might not matter, just at the first,"
said Miss Wodehouse, with serious looks; "but then —
afterwards, you know," and a vision of a nursery flashed
upon her mind as she spoke. "Clergymen always have
such large families," she said half out before she was
aware, and stopped, covered Avith confusion, not daring
to look at Lucy to see what effect such a suggestion
might have had upon her. "I mean," cried MissAVode-
house, hurrying on to cover over her inadvertence if
possible, "1 have seen such cases; and a poor clergy-
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 301
man who has to thiuk of the grocer's bill and the
baker's bill instead of his parish and his duty — there
are some things you young people know a great deal
better than I do, but you don't know how dreadful it
is to see that."
Here Lucy, on her part, was touched on a tender
point, and interposed. "For a man to be teased about
bills," said the young housekeeper, with flushed cheeks
and an averted countenance, "it must be not his poverty,
but his — his wife's fault."
"Oh, Lucy, don't say so," cried Miss Wodehouse;
"what is a poor woman to do, especially wheii she has
no money of her own, as you wouldn't have? and then
the struggling, and getting old before your time, and
all the burdens "
"Please don't say any more," said Lucy; "there
was no intention on — on any side to drive things to a
decision. As for me, I have not a high opinion of
myself. I would not be the means of diminishing any
one's comforts," said the spiteful young woman. "How
can I be sure that I might not turn out a very poor
compensation? We settled this morning how all that
was to be, and I for one have not changed my mind
— as yet," said Lucy. That was all the encourage-
ment Mr. Wentworth got when he propounded his new
views. Things looked easy enough when he was alone,
and suffered himself to drift on pleasantly on the
changed and heightened current of personal desires
and wishes; but it became apparent to him, after that
evening's discussion, that even in Eden itself, though
the dew had not yet dried on the leaves, it woiild be
highly incautious for any man to conclude that he was
302 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
sure of having his own way. The Perpetual Curate
returned a sadder and a more doubtful man to Mrs.
Hadwin's, to his own apartments; possibly, as the
two states of mind so often go together, a wiser in-
dividual too.
CHAPTER XX.
The dinner-party at the Rectory, to which Mr.
Wentworth did not go, was much less interesting and
agreeable than it might have been had he been present.
As for the Rector and his wife, they could not but feel
themselves in a somewhat strange position, having be-
tween them a secret unsuspected by the company. It
v,ras difficult to refrain fi'om showing a certain flagging
of interest in the question of the church restoration,
about which, to be sure, Mr. Finial was just as much
concerned as he had been yesterday; though Mr. Mor-
gan, and even Mrs. Morgan, had suffered a great and
unexplainable diminution of enthusiasm. And then
Mr. Leeson, who was quite unaware of the turn that
affairs had taken, and who was much too obtuse to
understand how the Rector could be anything but
exasperated against the Perpetual Curate by the failure
of the investigation, did all that he could to make him-
self disagreeable, which was saying a good deal. When
Mrs. Morgan came into the drawing-room, and found
this obnoxious individual occupying the most comfort-
able easy-chair, and turning over at his ease the great
book of ferns, nature-printed, which was the pet de-
coration of the table, her feelings may be conceived by
any lady who has gone through a similar trial; for
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 303
Mr. Leeson's hands were not of the irreproachable
purity which becomes the fingers of a gentleman when
he goes out to dinner. "I know some people who
always wear gloves when they turn over a portfolio of
prints," Mrs. Morgan said, coming to the Curate's side
to protect her book if possible, "and these require
quite as much care;" and she had to endure a discus-
sion upon the subject, which was still more trying to
her feelings, for Mr. Leeson pretended to know about
ferns on the score of having a Wardian case in his
lodgings (which belonged to his landlady), though in
reality he could scarcely tell the commonest sjjleenwort
from a lycopodium. While Mrs. Morgan went through
this trial, it is not to be wondered at if she hugged to
her heart the new idea of leaving Carlingford, and
thought to herself that whatever might be the character
of the curate (if there was one) at Scarsfield, any
change from Mr. Leeson must be for the better. And
then the unfortunate man, as if he was not disagree-
able enough already, began to entertain his unwilling
hostess with the latest news.
"There is quite a commotion in Grange Lane,"
said Mr. Leeson. "Such constant disturbances must
deteriorate the proj)erty, you know. Of course, what-
ever one's opinion may be, one must keep it to one's
self, after the result of the investigation; though I can't
say I have unbounded confidence in trial by jury,"
said the disagreeable yoiing man.
"I am afraid I am very slow of comprehension,"
said the Rector's wife. "I don't know in the least
what you mean abovit trial by jury. Perhaps it would
be best to put the book back on the table; it is too
heavy for you to hold,"
304 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Oil, it doesn't matter," said Mr. Leeson — "I mean
about Wentworth, of course. When a man is popular
in society, people prefer to shut their eyes. I suppose
the matter is settled for the present, but you and I
know better than to believe "
"I beg you will speak for yourself, Mr. Leeson,"
said Mrs. Morgan, with dignity. "I have always had
the highest respect for Mr. Wentworth."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said the disagreeable
Curate. "I forgot; almost all the ladies are on Mr.
Wentworth's side. It appears that little girl of Els-
worthy's has disappeared again; that was all I was
going to say."
And, fortunately for the Curate, Colonel Chiley,
who entered the room at the moment, diverted from
him the attention of the lady of the house; and after
that there was no opportunity of broaching the subject
again until dinner was almost over. Then it was pci'-
haps the All-Souls pudding that warmed Mr. Leeson's
soul; perhaps he had taken a little more wine than
usual. He took sudden advantage of that curious little
pause which occurs at a well-conducted dinner-table,
when the meal is concluded, and the fruit (considered
apparently, in orthodox circles, a paradisaical kind of
food which needs no blessing) alone remains to be
discussed. As soon as the murmur of thanks from the
foot of the table was over, the Curate incautiously
rushed in before anybody else could break silence,
and delivered his latest information at a high pitch of
voice.
"Has any one heard about the Elswortliys?" said
Mr. Leeson; "something fresh has happened there. I
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 305
hope your verdict yesterday will not be called in ques-
tion. The fact is, I believe that the girl has been
taken away again. They say she has gone and left a
letter saying that she is to be made a lady of. I
don't know what we are to understand by that. There
was some private service or other going on at St.
Roque's very early in the morning. Marriage is a
sacrament, you know. Perhaps Mr. Wentworth or his
brother "
"They are a queer family, the Wentworths," said
old Mr. Western, "and such lots of them, sir — such
lots of them. The old ladies seem to have settled down
here. I am not of their way of thinking, you know,
but they're very good to the poor."
"Mr. Frank Wentworth is going to succeed his
brother, I suppose," said Mr. Leeson; "it is very lucky
for a man who gets himself talked of to have a family
living to fall back upon "
"No such thing — no such thing," said Mr. Proctor,
hastily. "Mr. Frank Wentworth means to stay here."
"Dear me!" said the disagreeable Curate, with an
elaborate pause of astonishment. "Things must be
bad indeed," added that interesting youth, with so-
lemnity, shaking the devoted head, upon which he did
not know that Mrs. Morgan had fixed her eyes, "if
his own family give him up, and leave him to starve
here. They never would give him up if they had not
very good cause. Oh, come; I shouldn't like to be-
lieve that! / know how much a curate has to live
on," said Mr. Leeson, with a smile of engaging
candour. "Before they give him up like that, Avith
two livings in the family, they must have very good
cause."
The Pei-pebuil Curate. II, 20
30G THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"Very good cause indeed," said Mrs. Morgan, from
the head of the table. The company in general had,
to tell the truth, been a little taken aback by the
Curate's observations; and there was almost the entire
length of the table between the unhappy man and the
Avenger. "So good a reason, that it is strange how it
should not have occurred to a brother clergyman.
That is the evil of a large parish," said the Rector's
wife, with beautiful simplicity, "however hard one
works, one never can know above half of the poor
jieople-, and I suppose you have been occupied in the
other districts, and have not heard what a great work
Mr. Weutworth is doing. I have reason to know,"
said Mrs. Morgan, with considerable state, "that he
will remain in Carlingford, in a very different position
from that which he has filled hitherto. Mr. Leeson
knows how much a curate has to live upon, but I am
afraid that is all he does know of such a life as Mr.
Wentworth's." Mrs. Morgan paused for a moment to
get breath, for her excitement was considerable, and
she had many wrongs to avenge. "There is a great
deal of difference in curates as well as in other things,"
said the indignant woman. "I have reason to know
that Mr. Wentworth will remain in Carlingford in
quite a different position. Now and then, even in this
world, things come right like a fairy tale — that is,
Avhen the authority is in the right hands;" the Rector's
wife went on, with a smile at her husband, which dis-
armed that astonished man. "Perhaps if Mr. Leeson
had the same inducement as Mr. Wentworth, he too
would make up his mind to remain in Carlingford."
Mrs. Morgan got up, as she made this speech, with
a rustle and sweep of drapery which seemed all ad-
THE PRRPRTUAL CURATE. 307
dressed to tlie unhappy Curate, wlio stumbled upon Lis
feet like the other gentlemen, but dared not for his
life have approached her to open the door. Mr. Leeson
felt that he had received his conge\ as he sank back
into his chair. He was too much stunned to speculate
on the subject, or ask himself what was going to haj)-
pen. Whatever was going to hajjpen, there was an
end of him. He had eaten the last All-Souls pudding
that he ever would have presented to him under that
roof. He sank .back in the depths of despair upon his
seat, and suffered the claret to pass him in the agony
of his feelings. Mr. Wentworth and. Mrs. Morgan were
avenged.
This was how it came to be noised abroad in
Carlingford that some great change of a highly favour-
able character was about to occur in the circumstances
and position of the Curate of St. Roque's. It was dis-
cussed next day throiighout the town, as soon as people
had taken breath after telling each other aboiit Rosa
Elsworthy, who had indisputably been carried off from
her uncle's house on the previous night. When the
Wentworth family were at dinner, and just as the
board was being spread in the Rectory, where Mrs.
Morgan was half an hour later than usual, having com-
pany, it had. been discovered in Elsworthy's that the
prison was vacant, and the poor little bird had flown.
Mr. Wentworth was aware of a tumult about the shop
when he Avent to the Miss Wodehouses, but was pre-
occupied, and paid no attention; but Mr. Leeson, who
was not preoccupied, had already heard all about it
when he entered the Rectory. That day it was all
over the town, as may be supposed. The poor, little,
wicked, unfortunate creature bad disappeared, no one
20*
308 THK TERPETUAL CURATE.
knew how, at the moment, apparently, when Elsworthy
went to the railway for the evening papers, a time
when the errand-boys were generally rampant in the
well-conducted shop. Mrs. Elsworthy, for her part, had
seized that moment to relieve her soul by confiding to
Mrs. Hayles next door how she was worrited to death
with one thing and another, and did not expect to be
alive to tell the tale if things went on like this for
another month, but that Elsworthy was infatuated like,
and wouldn't send the hussy away, his wife complained
to her sympathetic neighbour. When Elsworthy came
back, however, he Avas struck by the silence in the
house, and sent the reluctant woman up-stairs — "To
see if she's been and made away with herself, I sujd-
pose," the indignant wife said, as she obeyed, leaving
Mrs. Hayles full of curiosity on the steps of the door.
Mrs. Elsworthy, however, uttered a great shriek a
moment after, and came down, with a frightened face,
carrying a large pin-cushion, upon which, skewered
through and through with the biggest pin she could
find, Eosa had deposited her letter of leave-taking.
This important document was read over in the shop
by an ever-increasing group, as the news got abroad —
for Elsworthy, like his wife, lost his head, and rushed
about hither and thither, asking wild questions as to
who had seen her last. Perhaps, at the bottom, he
was not so desperate as he looked, but was rather
grateful than angry Avith Rosa for solving the difficulty.
This is what the poor little runaway said —
"Dear Uncle and Aunt, — I write a line to let
you know that them as can do better for me than any
belonging to me has took me away for good. Don't
THE PEKPETUAL CURATE. 309
make no reflections, please, nor blame nobody; for I
never could have done no good nor had any 'appiness
at Cai'lingford after all as has happened. I don't bear
no grudge, though aifnt has been so unkind; but I for-
give her, and uncle also. My love to all friends; and
you may tell Bob Hayles as I won't forget him, but
will order all my physic regular at his father's shop.
— Your affectionate niece, "Rosa.
"P.*S. — Uncle has no occasion to mind, for them as
lias took charge of me has promised to make a lady of
me, as he always said I was worthy of; and I leave
all my things for aunt's relations, as I can't wear such
poor clothes in my new station of life."
Such was the girl's letter, with its natural imper-
tinences and natural touch of kindness; and it made a
great commotion in the neighbourhood, where a few
spasmodic search-parties Avere made up with no real
intentions, and came to nothing, as was to be expected.
It was a dreadful thing, to be siire, to happen to a re-
spectable family; but when things had gone so far, the
neighbours, on the whole, were inclined to believe it
was the best thing Rosa could have done; and the Els-
worthys, husband and wife, were concluded to be of
the same opinion. When Carlingford had exhausted
this subject, and had duly discussed the probabilities
as to where she had gone, and whether Rosa could be
the lady in a veil who had been handed into the ex-
press night-train by two gentlemen, of whom a railway-
porter bore cautious testimony, the other mysterious
rumour about Mr. Wentworth had its share of j^opular
attention. It was discussed in Masters's witli a solemn-
310 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
ity becoming the occasion, everybody being convinced
of the fact, and nobody knowing how it was to be.
One prevailing idea was, that Mr. Wentworth's biother,
Avho had succeeded to his mother's fortune (which was
partly true, like most po^^ular versions of family history,
his mother's fortune being now Gerald's sole depend-
ence), intended to establish a great brotherhood, upon
the Claydon model, in Carlingford, of which the Per-
petual Curate was to be the head. This idea pleased
the imagination of the town, which already saw itself
talked of in all the papers, and anticipated Avith excite-
ment the sight of English brothers of St. Benedict walk-
ing about in the streets, and people from the 'Illustrated
News' making drawings of Grange Lane. To be sure,
Gerald Wentworth had gone over to the Church of
Rome, which was a step too far to be compatible with
the English brotherhood; but jDopular imagination, when
puzzled and in a hurry, does not take time to master
all details. Then, again, opinion wavered, and it was
supposed to be the Miss Wentworths who :\vere the
agents of the coming prosperity. They had made up
their mind to endow St. Eoque's, and apply to the
Ecclesiastical Commissioners to have it erected into a
parochial district, rumour reported; and the senior as-
sistant in Masters's, who was suspected of Low-Church
tendencies, was known to be a supporter of this theory.
Other ideas of a vaguer character floated through the
town, of which no one could give any explanation; but
Carlingford was unanimous in the conviction that good
fortune was coming somehow to the popular favourite,
who a week ago had occupied temporarily the position
of the popular hete noire and impersonation of evil.
"But the real sort always triumphs at the last," was
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 311
the verdict of Wharfside, which, like every primitive
community, believed in poetic justice-, and among the
bargemen and their wives much greater elevation than
that of a district church or the headship of a brother-
hood was expected "for the clergyman." If the Queen
had sent for him immediately, and conferred upon him
a bishopric, or at least appointed him her private
chaplain, such a favour would have excited no surprise
in Wharfside, where indeed the public mind was in-
clined to the opinion that the real use of queens and
other such dignitaries was to find out and reward
merit. Mr. Wentworth himself laughed Avhen the gossip
reached his ears. "My ^^eople have given away all
they had to give," he said to somebody who asked the
question-, "and I know no prospect I have of being
anything but a Perpetual Curate, unless the Queen
sends for me and apjjoints me to a bishopric, as I un-
derstand is expected in Prickett's Lane. If I come to
any advancement," said the Curate of St. Roque's, "it
must be in social estimation, and not in worldly wealth,
which is out of my way-," and he went down to Wharf-
side rather cheerfully than otherwise, having begun to
experience that pertinacity carries the day, and that it
might be possible to goad Lucy into the experiment of
how much her housekeeping talents were good for, and
whether, with a good wife, even a Perpetual Curate
might be able to live without any particular bother in
respect to tlie grocer's bill. Mr. Wentworth being at
present warmly engaged in this business of persuasion,
and as intent as ever on having his own way, was not
much affected by the Carlingford gossip. He went his
way to Wharfside all the same, where the service was
conducted as of old, and where all the humble uncertain
312 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
voices were buoyed up and carried on by the steady
pure volume of liquid sound whicb issued from Lucy
Wodehouse's li^DS into the utterance of such a Magnificat
as filled Mr. Wentwortli's mind with exultation. It
was the woman's part in the worship- — independent,
yet in a sweet subordination-, and the two had come
back — though with the difference that their love was
now avowed and certain, and they were known to be-
long to each other^ — to much the same state of feeling
in which they were before the Miss Wentworths came
to Carlingford, or anything uncomfortable had hap-
pened. They had learned various little lessons, to be
sure, in the interim, but experience had not done much
more for them than it does for ordinary human crea-
tures, and the chances are that Mr. Wentworth would
have conducted himself exactly in the same manner
another time had he been placed in similar circum-
stances; for the lessons of experience, however valuable,
are sometimes very slow of impressing themselves upon
a generous and hasty temperament, which has high
ideas of honour and consistency, and rather piques it-
self on a contempt for self-interest and external ad-
vantages — which was the weakness of the Curate of
St. Roque's. He returned to the "great work" in
Wharfside with undiminished belief in it, and a sense
of being able to serve his God and his fellow-creatures,
which, thoiigh it may seem strange to some people,
was a wonderful compensation to him for the loss of
Skelmersdale. "After all, I doubt very much whether,
under any circumstances, we could have left such a
work as is going on here," he said to Lucy as they
came up Prickett's Lane together, where tlie poor wo-
man had just died peaceably in No. 10, and got done
THE PEKPETUAL CURATE. 313
with it, poor soul; and the Sister of Mercy, in lier grey
cloak, lifted towards him tlie blue eyes which were full
of tears, and answered with natural emphasis, "Im-
possible! it would have been deserting our post," and
drew a stejj closer to him in the twilight with a sense
of the sweetness of that plural pronoun which mingled
so with the higher sense that it was impossible to dis-
join them. And the two went on under the influence
of these combined sentiments, taking comfort out of the
very hardness of the world around them, in which their
ministrations were so much needed, and feeling an
exaltation in the "duty," which was not for one, but
for both, and a belief in the possibility of mending
matters, in which their love for each other bore a large
sliare; for it was not in human nature thus to begin
the ideal existence, -without believing in its universal
extension, and in the amelioration of life and the
world.
"That is all they think of," said poor Miss Wode-
house, who, between her wondering inspection of the
two "young people" and her own moderate and sen-
sible love-affiiirs , and the directions which it was ne-
cessary to give to her Rector about the furnishing of
the new house, was more constantly occupied than she
had ever been in her life; "but then, if they marry,
what are they to live upon? and if they don't
marry "
"Perhaps something will turn up, my dear," said
old Mrs. Western, who had an idea that Providence was
bound to provide for two good young people who
wanted to marry; and thus the two ladies were forced
to leave the matter, where, indeed, the historian of
events in Carlingford would willingly leave it also, not
314 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
having much faith in the rewards of virtue which come
convenient in such an emergency. But it is only pure
liction which can keep true to nature, and weave its
narrative in analogy with the ordinary course of life —
whereas history demands exactness in matters of fact^
Avhich are seldom true to nature, or amenable to any
general rule of existence.
Before proceeding, however, to the narrative of the
xinexpected advancement and promotion whicli awaited
the Perpetual Curate, it may be as well to notice that
the Miss AVentworths, who during the summer had
kindly given their house at Skelmersdale to some
friends who had returned in the spring from India,
found themselves now in a position to return to their
own proper dwelling-place, and made preparations ac-
cordingly for leaving Carlingford, in which, indeed,
they had no further occupation; for, to be sure, ex-
cept to the extent of that respect which a man owes
to his aunts, they had no special claim upon Frank
Wentworth, or right to supervise his actions, save ou
account of Skelmersdale, M'hich was now finally dis-
posed of and given away. It cannot be said that Miss
Leonora had ever fully recovered the remarkable in-
disposition which her nephew Jack's final address had
broiight upon her. The very next morning she ful-
filled her pledges as a woman of honour, and bestowed
Skelmersdale positively and finally upon Julia Trench's
curate, who indeed made a creditable enough rector in
his Avay; but after she had accomplished this act, Miss
Leonora relapsed into one unceasing watch upon her
nephew Frank, which was far from dispelling the
tendency to headache which she showed at this period
for the first and onlv time in her life. She watched
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 315
him witli a certain feeling- of expiation, as she might
have resorted to self-flagelhition had she lived a few
hundred years before, and perhaps suffered more acute
pangs in that act of discipline than could be inflicted
by any physical scourge. The longer she studied the
matter the more thoroughly Avas Miss Leonora con-
vinced not only that the Perpetual Curate was bent
on doing his duty, but that he did it with all the force
of high fticulties, and a mind much more thoroughly
ti'ained, and of finer material than was possessed by
the man whom she had made rector of Skelmersdale.
The strong-minded woman bore quietly, with a kind of
defiance, the sharp wounds with which her self-esteem
was pierced by this sight. She followed up her dis-
covery, and made herself more and more certain of the
mistake she had made, not sparing herself any part of
her punishment. As she pursued her investigations,
too. Miss Leonora became increasingly sensible that it
was not his mother's family whom he resembled, as
she had once thought, but that he Avas out and out a
Wentworth, possessed of all the family features; and
this was the man whom by her own act she had dis-
inherited of his natural share in the patronage of the
ftxmily, substituting for her own flesh and blood an in-
dividual for whom, to tell the truth, she had little re-
s])ect! Perhaps if she had been able to sustain herself
with the thought that it was entirely a question of
"princijde," the retrospect might not have been so
liard upon Miss Leonora-, but being a woman of very
distinct and ixncompromising vision, she could not con-
ceal from herself either Julia Trench's clevei-ness or
her own mixed and doubtful motives. Having this
sense of wrong and injustice, and general failure of
31 G TIIR PERPETUAL CURATE.
tlie duly of kindred towards Frank, it might have
been supjxtsed a little comfort to Miss Leonora to per-
ceive that he had entirely recovered from his disaji-
pointment, and was no longer in her power, if indeed
he had ever been so. But the fact was, that if any-
thing could have aggravated her personal smart, it
would have been the fact of Frank's indifference and
cheerfulness, and evident capability of contenting him-
self with his duty and his favoiirite district, and his
Lucy — whom, to be sure, he could not marry, being
only a Perpetual Curate. The spectacle came to have
a certain fascination for Miss Wentworth. She kept
watching him with a grim satisfaction, punishing her-
self, and at the same time comforting herself with the
idea that, light as he made of it, he must be suffering
too. She could not bear to think that he had escaped
clean out of her hands, and that the decision she had
come to, which produced so much pain to herself, was
innoxious to Frank; and at the same time, though she
could not tolerate his composure, and would have pre-
ferred to see him angry and revengeful, his evident
recovery of spirits and general exhilaration increased
Miss Leonora's respect for the man she had wronged.
In this condition of mind the strong-minded aunt
lingered over her preparations for removal, scorning
much the rumour in Carliugford about her nephew's
advancement, and feeling that she could never forgive
him if by any chance promotion should come to him
after all. "He will stay where he is. He will be a
perpetiial curate," Miss Leonora said, uttering what
was in reality a hope under the shape of a taunt; and
things were still in this position when Grange Lane in
general and Miss Dora in particular (from the window
THK PERPETUAL CURATE. 317
of the summer-house) were startled mucli by the sight
of the Rector, in terribly correct clerical costume, as if
he were going to dine with the bishop, who walked
slowly down the road like a man charged with a mis-
sion, and, knocking at ]\[rs. Iladwin's door, was ad-
mitted immediately to a private conference with the
Curate of St. Koque's.
CHAPTER XXI.
It was the same afternoon that Mr. Wentworth
failed to attend, as he had never been known to fail
Itefore, at the afternoon's school which he had set up
in Prickett's Lane for the young bargemen, who be-
tween the intervals of their voyages had a little leisure
at that hour of the day. It is true there was a master
provided, and the presence of the Perpetual Curate
was not indispensable; but the lads, among whom, in-
deed, there were some men, were so much used to his
presence as to get i-estless at their work on this un-
precedented emergency. The master knew no other
resource than to send for Miss Lucy Wodehouse, who
was known to lie on the other side of Prickett's Lane
at the moment, superintending a similar educational
undertaking for the benefit of the girls. It was, as
may be supposed, embarrassing to Lucy to be called
upon to render an account of Mr. Wentworth's ab-
sence, and invited to take his place in this public and
open manner-, but then the conventional reticences
were unknown in Wharfside, and nobody thought it
necessary to conceal his certainty that the Curate's
318 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
movements were better known to Lucy than to any-
body else. She had to make answer with as much
composure as possible in the full gaze of so many pair
of curious eyes, that she did not know why Mr. Went-
worth was absent — "Somebody is sick, perhaps," said
Lucy, repeating an excuse wbich had been made be-
fore for the Perpetual Curate-, "but I hope it does not
make any difference," she went on, turning round upon
all the upturned heads which were neglecting their
work to stare at her. "Mr. Wentworth would be
grieved to think that his absence did his scholars any
injury." Lucy looked one of the ring-leaders in the
eyes as she spoke, and brought him to his senses — all
the more effectually, to be sure, because she knew all
about him, and was a familiar figure to the boy, sug-
gesting various little comforts, for which, in Prickett's
Lane, people were not ungrateful. But when she went
back again to her girls, the young lady found herself
in a state of excitement which was half annoyance and
half a kind of shy pleasure. To be sure, it was quite
true that they did belong to eacli other-, but at the
same time, so long as she was Lucy Wodehouse, she
had no right to be called upon to represent "the
clergyman," even in "the district" which was so im-
portant to both. And then it occurred to her to re-
member that if she remained Lucy Wodehouse that
was not the Curate's fault — from which thought she
went on to reflect that going away with Mr. and Mrs.
Proctor when they were married was not a charming
prospect, not to say that it involved a renunciation of
the district for the present at least, and possibly for
ever; for if Mr. Wentworth could not marry as long
as he was a Perpetual Curate, it followed of necessity
THE PERPETITAL CURATE. 319
that lie could not marry until lie had left Caillngford
— ail idea which Lucy turned over in her mind very
seriously as she walked home, for this once unat-
tended. A new light seemed to be thrown upon the
whole matter by tliis thought. To consent to be mar-
ried simply for her own happiness, to the disadvantage
in any respect of her husband, was an idea odious to
this young woman, who, like most young women, pre-
ferred to represent even to herself that it was for his
happiness tliat she permitted herself to be persuaded
to marry, but if duty were involved, that was quite
another affair. It was quite evident to Lucy, as she
walked towards Grange Lane, that the Curate would
not be able to find any one to take her place in the
district-, perhaps also — for she was honest even in her
self-delusions — Lucy was aware that she might herself
have objections to the finding of a substitute; and
what then? Was the great work to be interrupted be-
cause she could not bear the idea of possibly diminish-
ing some of his external comforts by allowing him to
have his way, and to be what he considered happy?
Such was the wonderful lengtli to which her thouglits
had come when she reached the garden door, from
which Mr. Wentworth himself, flushed and eager, came
hastily out as she approached. So far from exjilain-
ing his unaccountable absence, or even greeting her
witli ordinary politeness, the young man seized her by
the arm and brought her into the garden with a
rajjidity Avhich made her giddy. "What is it — what
(h) you mean?" Lucy cried with amazement as she
found herself whirled through the sunshine and half
carried up the stairs. Mr. Wentworth made no answer
until lie had deposited her breathless in her own chair,
320 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
in her own corner, and then got down on his knee
beside her, as men in his crazy circumstances are not
unapt to do.
"Lucy, look here. I was a Perpetual Curate the
other day when you said you would have me," said
the energetic lover, who was certainly out of his wits,
and did not know Avhat he was saying — "and you said
you did not mind?"
"I said it did not matter," said Lucy, who was
slightly piqued that he did not recollect exactly the
form of so important a decision. "I knew well enough
you were a Perpetual Curate. Has anything happened,
or are you going out of your mind?"
"I think it must be that," said Mr. Wentworth.
"Something so extraordinary has happened that I can-
not believe it. Was I in Prickett's Lane this afternoon
as usual, or was I at home in my own room talking to
the Rector — or have I fallen asleep somewhere, and is
the whole thing a dream?"
"You certainly were not in Prickett's Lane," said
Lucy. "I see what it is. Miss Leonora Wentworth
has changed her mind, and you are going to have
Skelmersdale after all. I did not think you could have
made up your mind to leave the district. It is not
news that gives me any pleasure," said the Sister of
Mercy, as she loosed slowly off from her shoulders the
grey cloak which was the uniform of the district. Her
own thoughts had been so different that she felt in-
tensely mortified to think of the unnecessary decision
she had been so near making, and disappointed that
the offer of a living could have moved her lover to
such a pitch of pleasure. "All men are alike, it seems,"
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 321
slie said to herself, with a little quiver in her lip — a
mode of forestalling his communications which filled
the Perpetual Curate with amazement and dismay.
"What are you thinking of?" he said. "Miss
Leonora Wentworth has not changed her mind. That
would have been a natural accident enough, but this is
incredible. If you like, Lucy," he added, with an un-
steady laugh, "and will consent to my original propo-
sition, you may marry on the 15th, not the Perpetual
Curate of St. Koque's, but the Rector of Carlingford.
Don't look at me with such an unbelieving counte-
nance. It is quite true."
"I wonder how you can talk so," cried Lucy, in-
dignantly; "it is all a made-up story, you know it is.
I don't like practical jokes," she went on, trembling a
little, and taking another furtive look at him — for
somehow it was too wonderful not to be true.
"If I had been making up a story, I should have
kept to what Avas likely," said Mr. Wentworth. "The
Rector has been with me all the afternoon — he says he
has been offered his father's rectory, where he was
brought up, and that he has made up his mind to ac-
cept it, as he always was fond of the country; — and
that he has recommended me to his College for the
living of Carlingford."
"Yes, yes," said Lucy, impatiently, "that is very
good of Mr. Morgan; but you know you are not a
member of the College, and why should you have the
living? I knew it could not be true."
"They are all a set of old Dons," said the
Perpetual Curate; "that is, they are the most accom-
The Perpetual Citrate. II. -^1
322 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
plished set of fellows in existence, Lucy — or at least
they ought to be — but they are too superior to take an
ordinary living, and condescend to ordinary existence.
Here has Carlingford been twice vacant within a year
— which is an unprecedented event — and Buller, the
only man who would think of it, is hanging on for a
colonial bishopric, where he can publish his book at
his leisure. Buller is a great friend of Gerald's. It is
incredible, Lucia mia, but it is true."
"Is it true? are you sure it is true?" cried Lucy,
and in spite of herself slie broke down and gave way,
and let her head rest on the first convenient support it
found, which turned out, naturally enough, to be Mr.
Wentworth's shoulder, and cried as if her heart was
breaking. It is so seldom in this world that things
come just when they are wanted; and this was not only
an acceptable benefice, but implied the entire possession
of the "district" and the most conclusive vindication
of the Curate's honour. Lucy cried out of pride and
happiness and glory in him. She said to herself, as
Mrs. Morgan had done at the beginning of her incum-
bency, "He will be such a Rector as Carlingford has
never seen." Yet at the same time, apart from her
glorying and her pride, a certain sense of pain, ex-
quisite though shortlived, found expression in Lucy's
tears. She had just been making up her mind to ac-
cept a share of his lowliness, and to show the world
that even a Perpetual Curate, when his wife was equal
to her position, might be poor without feeling any of
the degradations of poverty; and now she Avas fore-
stalled, and had nothing to do but accept his com-'
petence, which it would be no credit to manage well!
Such were the thoughts to which she was reduced,
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 323
though she had come home from Prickett's Lane per-
suading herself that it was duty only, and the wants
of the district, which moved her. Lucy cried, although
not much given to crying, chiefly because it was the
only method she could find of giving expression to the
feelings which were too varied and too complicated for
words.
All Carlingford knew the truth about Mr. Went-
worth's advancement that evening, and on the next
day, which was Sunday, the Church of St. Roque's
was as full as if the plague had broken out in Carling-
ford, and the population had rushed out, as they might
have done in medieval times, to implore the succour of
the physician-saint. The first indication of the unusual
throng was conveyed to Mr. Wentworth in his little
vestry after the choristers had filed into the church in
their white surplices, about which, to tell the truth, the
Perpetual Curate was less interested than he had once
been. Elsworthy, who had been humbly assisting the
young priest to robe himself, ventured to break the
silence when they were alone.
"The church is very full, sir," said Elsworthy;
"there's a deal of people come, sir, after hearing the
news. I don't say as IVe always been as good a servant
as I ought to have been; but it was all through being
led away, and not knowing no better, and putting my
trust where I shouldn't have put it. I've had a hard
lesson, sir, and I've learnt better," he continued, with
a sidelong glance at the Curate's face; "it was all a
mistake."
"I was not finding fault with you, that I am aware
pf," said Mr. Wentworth, with a little surprise.
21*
324 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
"No, sir," said Elswortliy, "I'm aware as you
wasn't finding no fault; but there's looks as speaks as
strong as words, and I can feel as you haven't the
confidence in me as you once had. I ain't ashamed
to say it, sir," continued the clerk of St. Roque's. "I'm
one as trusted in that girl's innocent looks, and didn't
believe as she could do no harm. She's led me into
ill-feeling with my clergyman, sir, and done me a deal
o' damage in my trade, and now she's gone off without
as much as saying 'Thank you for your kindness.' It's
a hard blow upon a man as was fond of her, and I
didn't make no difi'erence, no more than if she had
been my own child."
"Well, well," said the Curate, "I daresay it was a
trial to you; but you can't expect me to take much in-
terest in it after all that has passed. Let bygones be
bygones," said Mr. Wentworth, with a smile, "as in-
deed you once proposed."
"Ah! sir, that was my mistake," sighed the penitent.
"I would have 'umbled myself more becoming, if I had
known all as I know noAv. You're a-going ofi" to leave
St. Roque's, where Ave've all been so happy," said Mr.
Elsworthy, in pathetic tones. "I don't know as I ever
was as 'appy, sir, as here, a-listening to them beauti-
ful sermons, and a-giving my best attention to see as
the responses was well spoke out, and things done
proper. Afore our troubles began, sir, I don't know as
I had a wish in the world, unless it was to see an 'and-
some painted window in the chancel, which is all as is
wanted to make the church perfect; and now you're
a-going to leave, and nobody knows what kind of a
gentleman may be sent. If you wouldn't think I was
making too bold," said Elsworthy, "it ain't my opinion
THE PERPRTUAL CUUATB. 325
as you'll ever put up with poor old Norris as is in the
church. Men like Mr. Morgan and Mr. Proctor as had
no cultivation doesn't mind; hut for a gentleman as
goes through the service as you does it, Mr. Went-
worth "
Mr. Wentworth laughed, though he was fully robed
and ready for the reading-desk, and kneAv that his con-
gregation was waiting. He held his watch in his hand,
tliough it already marked the half minute after eleven.
"So you would like to be clerk in the parish church?"
he said, with what seemed a quite unnecessary amount
of amusement to the anxious functionary by his side.
"I think as you could never put up with old Norris,
sir," said Elsworthy; "as for leading of the responses,
there ain't such a thing done in Carlingford Church.
I don't speak for myself," said the public-spirited clerk,
"but it ain't a right thing for the rising generation;
and it ain't everybody as would get into your way in
a minute — for you have a way of your own, sir, in
most things, and if you'll excuse me for saying of it,
you're very j^articular. It ain't every man, sir, as could
carry on clear through the service along of you, Mr.
Wentworth; and you wouldn't put up with old NoiTis,
not for a day."
Such was the conversation which opened this
memorable Sunday to Mr. Wentworth. Opposite to him,
again occupying the seat where his wife should have
been, had he possessed one, were the three Miss Went-
worths, his respected aunts, to whose opinion, however,
the Curate did not feel himself bound to defer very
greatly in present circumstances; and a large and
curious congregation ranged behind them, almost as
much concerned to sec how Mr. Wentworth would con-
326 THE PERPETITAL CCRATE.
duct himself in this moment of triumph, as they had
been in the moment of his humiliation. It is, however,
needless to inform the friends of the Perpetual Curate
that the anxious community gained very little by their
curiosity. It was not the custom of the young Anglican
to carry his personal feelings, either of one kind or
another, into the pulpit with him, much less into the
reading-desk, where he was the interpreter not of his
own sentiments or emotions, but of common prayer and
universal worship. Mr. Wentworth did not even throw
a little additional warmth into his utterance of the
general thanksgiving, as he might have done had he
been a more effusive man; but, on the contrary, read
it with a more than ordinary calmness, and preached
to the excited people one of those terse little unimpas-
sioned sermons of his, from which it was utterly im-
possible to divine whether he was in the depths of
despair or at the summit and crown of happiness. People
who had been used to discover a great many of old
Mr. Bury's personal peculiarities in his sermons, and
who, of recent days, had found many allusions which
it was easy to interpret in the discourses of Mr. Morgan,
retired altogether baffled from the clear and succinct
brevity of the Curate of St. Koque's. He was that day
in particular so terse as to be almost epigrammatic, not
using a word more than was necessary, and displaying
that power of saying a great deal more than at the
first moment he appeared to say, in which Mr. Went-
worth's admii-ers specially prided themselves. Perhaps
a momentary human gratification in the consciousness
of having utterly baffled curiosity, passed through the
Curate's mind as he took off his robes when the service
was over; but he was by no means prepared for the
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 327
ordeal which awaited him when he stepped forth from
the pretty porch of St. Roque's. There his three aunts
were awaiting him, eager to hear all about it, Miss
Dora, for the first time in her life, holding the prin-
cipal place. "We are going away to-morrow, Frank,
and of course you are coming to lunch with us," said
aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. "Oh, my dear boy, I
am so happy, and so ashamed, to hear of it. To think
you should be provided for, and nobody belonging to
you have anything to do Avith it! I don't know what
to say," said Miss Dora, who was half crying as usual;
"and as for Leonora, one is frightened to speak to her.
Oh, I wish you would say something to your aunt
Leonora, Frank. I don't know whether she is angry
with us or with you or with herself, or what it is; or
if it is an attack on the nerves — though 1 never imagined
she had any nerves; but, indeed, whatever my brother
may say, it looks very like — dreadfully like — the com-
ing-on of the Wentworth complaint. Poor papa was
just like that when he used to have it coming on; and
Leonora is not just — altogether — what you would call
a female, Frank. Oh, my dear boy, if you would only
speak to her!" cried Miss Dora, who was a great deal
too much in earnest to perceive anything comical in
what she had said.
"I should think it must be an attack on the temper,"
said the Curate, who, now that it was all over, felt that
it was but just his aunt Leonora should suffer a little
for her treatment of him. "Perhaps some of her favourite
colporteurs have fallen back into evil ways. There was
one who had been a terrible blackguard, I remember.
It is something that has happened among her mission
people, you may be sure, and nothing about me."
328 THE PEKI'ETIIAL CURATE.
"You don't know Leonora, Frank. She is very
fond of you, though slie does not show it," said Miss
Dora, as she led her victim in triumphantly through
the garden door, from which the reluctant young man
could see Lucy and her sister in their hlack dresses
just arriving at the otlicr green door from the parish
church, where they had occupied their usual places, ac-
cording to the ideas of propriety which were common
to both the Miss Wodehouses. Mr. Wentworth had to
content himself with taking off his hat to them, and
followed his aunts to the table, where Miss Leonora
took her seat much with the air of a judge about to
deliver a sentence. She did not restrain herself even
in consideration of the presence of Lewis the butler,
who, to be sure, had been long enough in the Went-
worth family to know as much about its concerns as
the members of the house themselves, or perhaps a little
more. Miss Leonora sat down grim and formidable in
her bonnet, which was in the style of a remote period,
and did not soften the severity of her personal appear-
ance. She pointed her nephew to a seat beside her,
but she did not relax her features, nor condescend to
any ordinary preliminaries of conversation. For that
day even she took Lewis's business out of his astonished
hands, and herself divided the chicken with a swift
and steady knife and anatomical jirecision; and it was
■while occupied in this congenial business that she broke
forth upon Frank in a manner so unexpected as almost
to take away his breath.
"I suppose this is what fools call poetical justice,''
said Miss Leonora, " which is just of a piece with every-
thing else that is poetical — weak folly and nonsense
that no sensible man would have anything to say to.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 329
How a young man like you, who know how to con-
duct yourself in some thinj?s, and have, I don't deny,
many good qualities, can give in to come to an ending
like a trashy novel, is more than I can understand.
You are fit to be put in a book of the Good-child series,
Frank, as an illustration of the reward of virtue," said
the strong-minded woman, with a little snort of scorn;
"and, of course, you are going to marry, and live
happy ever after, like a fairy tale."
"It is possible I may be guilty of that additional
enormity," said the Curate, "which, at all events, will
not be your doing, my dear aunt, if I might suggest a
consolation. You cannot help such things happening,
but, at least, it should be a comfort to feel you have
done notning to bring them about."
To which Miss Leonora answered by another hard
breath of mingled disdain and resentment. "Whatever
I have brought about, I have tried to do what I
thought my duty," she said. "It has ahvays seemed
to me a very poor sort of virtue that expects a reward
for doing what it ought to do. I don't say you haven't
behaved very well in this business, but you've done
nothing extraordinary; and why I should have rushed
out of my way to reward you for it — Oh, yes, I know
you did not expect anything," said Miss Leonora;
"you have told me as much on various occasions,
Frank. You have, of course, always been perfectly
independent, and scorned to flatter your old aunts by
any deference to their convictions; and, to be sure, it
is nothing to you any little pang they may feel at
having to dispose otherwise of a living that has always
been in the family. You are of the latest fashion of
Anglicanism, and wc are only a parcel of old Avomcn.
330 THE PERPETUAL CURATE.
It was not to be expected that our antiquated ideas
could be worth as much to you as a parcel of flowers
and trumpery "
These were actually tears whicli glittered in Miss
Leonora's eyes of fiery hazel grey — tears of very
diminutive size, totally unlike the big dewdrops which
rained from Miss Dora's placid orbs and made them
red, but did her no harm — but still a real moisture,
forced out of a fountain which lay very deep down
and inaccessible to ordinary efforts. They made her
eyes look rather fiercer than otherwise for the moment;
but they all but impeded Miss Leonora's speech, and
struck with the wildest consternation the entire party
at the table, including even Lewis, who stood trans-
fixed in the act of drawing a bottle of soda-water, and,
letting the cork escape him in his amazement, brought
affairs to an unlooked-for climax by hitting Miss Went-
worth, who had been looking on with interest without
taking any part in the proceedings. "When the fright
caused by this unintentional shot had subsided, Miss
Leonora was found to have entirely recovered herself;
but not so the Perpetual Curate, who had changed
colour wonderfully, and no longer met his accuser
with reciprocal disdain.
"My dear aunt," said Frank "Went worth, "I wish
you would not go back to that, I suppose we parsons,
are apt sometimes to exaggerate trifles into importance
as my father says. But, however, as things have
turned out, I could not have left Carlingford." the
Curate added, in a tone of conciliation; "and now,
when good fortune has come to me unsought "
Miss Leonora finished her portion of chicken in
TIIR PERPETUAL CURATE. 331
one energetic gulp, and got up from the table. "Poetic
justice!" she said, with a furious sneer. "I don't
believe in that kind of rubbisli. As long as you Avere
getting on quietly with your work I felt disposed to
be rather proud of you, Frank. But I don't approve
of a man ending off neatly like a novel in this sort of
ridiculous way. When you succeed to the Rectory I
suppose you will begin fighting, like the other man,
with the new curate, for working in your parish r*"
"When I succeed to the Rectory," said Mr. Went-
worth, getting up in his turn from the table, "I give
you my word, aunt Leonora, no man shall work in my
parish unless I set him to do it. Now I must be off
to my work. I don't suppose Carlingford Rectory will
be the end of me," the Perpetual Curate added, as he
went away, with a smile which his aunts could not
interpret. As for Miss Leonora, she tied her bonnet-
strings very tight, and went off to the afternoon service
at Salem Chapel by way of expressing her sentiments
more forcibly. "I daresay he's bold enough to take
a bishopric," she said to herself; "but fortunately we've
got that in our own hands as long as Lord Shaftes-
bury lives;" and Miss Leonora smiled grimly over the
prerogatives of her party. But though she went to
Salem Chapel that afternoon, and consoled herself that
she could secure the bench of bishops from any
audacious invasion of Frank Wentworth's hopes, it is
true, notwithstanding, that Miss Leonora sent her maid
next morning to London with certain obsolete orna-
ments, of which, though the fasliion was hideous, the
jewels were precious; and Lucy Wodehouse had never
seen anything so brilliant as tlie appearance they
presented when they returned shortly after reposing
332 TMK rElM'KTLAL CURATK.
Upon beds of white satin in cases of velvet — "Ridi-
culous tliinp:s," as Miss Loonorn iufornipd her, "for a
parson's wife."
It was some time after tiiis — for, not U) speak of
ecclesiastical matters, a removal, even when the furni-
ture is left behind and there are only books, and rare
ferns, and old china, to convey from one house to
auotiier, is a matter which involves delays — when Mr.
Wentworth went to the railway station with Mrs.
Morj^an to see her off, finally, her husband havinp: ^one
to London with the intention of joining her in the new
house. Naturally, it was not without serious thoughts
that the Rector's wife left the place in which she had
made her tirst beginning of active life, not so success-
fully as she had hoped. She could not help recalling,
as she went along the familiar road, the hopes so vivid
as to be almost certainties w*ith which she had come
into Carlingford. The long waiting was then over,
and the much-expected era had ai-rived, and existence
had seemed to be opening in all its fulness and
strength before the two who had looked forward to it
so long. It was not much more than six mouths ago;
but Mrs. Morgan had made a great many discoveries
in the mean time. She had found out the wonderful
difference between anticipation and reality; and that
life, even to a happy woman married after long
patience to the man of her choice, was not the smooth
road it looked, but a rough path enough cut into
dangerous ruts, through which generations of men and
women followed each other without ever being able to
mend the w-ay. She was not so sure as she used to
be of a great many important matters which it is a
wonderful consolation to be certain of— but. uotwith-
THK PERPETUAL CURATE. 333
standing, had to g'o on as if she had no doubts, though
the clouds of a defeat, in which, certainly, no honour,
though a good deal of the prestige of inexperience had
been lost, were still looming behind. She gave a little
sigh as she shook ^Ir. "Wentworth's hand at parting.
"A great many tilings have liappened in six months,"
she said — "i)ne never could have anticij)ated so many
changes in what looks so short a period of one's life"
— and as the train which she had watched so often
rushed past that bit of new wall on which the Vir-
ginian creeper was beginning to grow luxuriantly,
which screened the railway from the Rectory windows,
there were tears in Mrs. Morgan's eyes. Only six
months, and so much had happened! — what might
not happen in all those months, in all those years of
life which scarcely looked so hopeful as of old? She
jirefcrred turning her back upon Carliugford, though
it was the least comfortaljle side of tlie carriage, and
put down her veil to shield her eyes from the dust, or
perhaps from the inspection of her fellow-travellers:
and once more the familiar thought returned to her of
what a different woman she would have been had she
come to her first experiences of life with the courage
and confidence of twenty or even of five-and-twenty,
which was the age Mrs. Morgan dwelt upon most
kindly. And then she thought with a thrill of vivid
kindness and a touch of tender envy of Lucy Wode-
house, who would now have no possible occasion to
wait those ten years.
As for Mr. Wentworth, he who was a priest, and
knew more about (Jarlingford than any other man in
the place, could not help thinking, as he turned back,
334 THE PERl'ETl'AL CURATE.
of peoj>le there, to whom these six months had pro-
duced alterations far more terrible than any that had
liefallen the Kectur's wife: — ])Cople from whom the
li^lit of life had died out, and to whom all the world
Avas chanojed. He knew of men who had been cheer-
ful enough wlien Mr. ^Morgan came to Carlingford,
who now did not care what became of them; and of
women who would be glad to lay down their heads
and hide them from the mockinfr light of day. He
knew it, and it touched his heart with tlie tenderest
pity of life, the compassion of happiness; and he knew
too that the path upon which he was about to set out
led through the same glooms, and was no ideal career.
But perhaps because Mi'. "Wentworth was young — per-
haps because he was possessed by that delicate sprite
more dainty than any Ariel who puts rosy girdles
round the world while his time of triumph lasts — it is
certain that the new Rector of Carlingford turned back
into Grange Lane without the least shadow upon his
mind or timidity in his thoughts. He was now in his
own domains, an independent monarch, as little in-
clined to di\-ide his power as any autocrat; and Mr.
Wentworth came into his kingdom without any doubts
of his success in it , or of his capability for its govern-
ment. He had first a little journey to make to bring
back Lucy from that temporacy and reluctant separa-
tion from the district which propriety had made need-
ful; but, in the mean time, Mr. Wentworth trode with
firm foot the streets of his parish, secure that no parson
nor priest should tithe or toll in his dominions, and a
great deal more sure than even Mr. Morgan had been,
that henceforth uo unauthorised evangelisation should
THE rKKlMMLAL CURATE. 3Jj
take place in any portion of his territory. This senti-
ment, perhaps, was the principal difterence perceptible
by the community in general between the new Rector
of Carlingford and the late Perpetual Curate of St.
Roque's.
THE END.
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