The Perpetual Curate

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 crisis 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 imbroglio of other thoughts. Even aunt Dora’s foolish affection might have been a little comfort at the moment, 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 Skelmersdales 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 open, and, with her light little curls fluttering 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 a misery about poor dear Frank, and have Jack, about whom we have all been so unbelieving, 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 aunts at the present crisis without a certain consciousness 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 Perpetual 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 contemplation 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 contralto, broke the silence. “I am very 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 now, 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 very first which 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 erroneous or not⁠—but I know I should like to punch this man’s head,” said the Curate, who had