The Perpetual Curate

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 himself 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 expensively,” 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 Carlingford, he had often presented himself at that hospitable house. Poor Mr. Wodehouse! Mr. Proctor could not help wondering at that moment how he was getting on in a world where, according to ordinary ideas, there are no lunch nor dinner parties, no old port nor savoury side-dishes. Somehow it was impossible 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 he himself did not feel much more fitted than Mr. Wodehouse. In the garden he saw the new heir sulkily marching about among the flowerbeds smoking, and looking almost as much out of place in the sweet tranquillity of the 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 was 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 Mr. Proctor. “I am a parson, but I never made any 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 Wodehouse had not been in the habit of receiving was intended for the special advantage of the new master, whom John had no intention of recognising in that capacity. “If you should know of anyone, 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 aint a servant in the house, sir, as will stay when the ladies go, and I think as Miss Wodehouse would speak for me,” said John, with natural astuteness. This address made Mr. Proctor a little uneasy. It recalled to him the unpleasant 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.

“We’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 Wodehouse 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 affections 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