“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 tomorrow: 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 anyone. I cannot ask for any explanation; but it seems to me most extraordinary. It is three months since Easter. If he had 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 arguments did not alter Frank’s decision; he too was disappointed not to find his brother alone. He sat with his eyes cast down, and a singular look of abstraction on his face. He had got into a new atmosphere—a different world. When his anxieties about Frank were satisfied, Gerald withdrew 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 repeating an “office,” or carrying on a course of private devotions, from his looks. Rome had established her dualism in his mind. He had no longer the unity of an Englishman trained to do one thing at a time, and to do it with 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 condition 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 someone, 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 superior 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 introducing that subject, he began to talk of Italy, which was not a bad device, and did credit to his invention. Meanwhile the Curate had gone to his study, wondering a little who could want him, and, to his utter bewilderment, 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, which 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.”
He had 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 unprecedented 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
