“But oh, Frank, my dear, you are not angry about poor 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 opportunities; and oh, Frank, don’t you 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 will 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 remembered in time that Miss Leonora had an acute intelligence, and was not to be trifled with—“As long as he 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 Carlingford—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 whenever 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, laying 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 apparel. 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 allegiance, went back with relief to the calm countenance of her 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 business, 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 young man of the highest character. He did very well at the university, I believe,” said the patroness of Skelmersdale; “but I confess I don’t care much for academical honours. 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 Leonora, 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 gentleman, 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 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
