The Perpetual Curate

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 the great chair, and kept her handkerchief to her red eyes. She had enough troubles of her own to occupy her, poor 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 prove fatal to one 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 laburnum berries in connection with his problematical children, not without a movement of satisfaction. Opposite 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 vagabond’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 protégé 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. Notwithstanding 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 to his former protector. The letter itself was as follows:⁠—

I have consulted my friends about what you said today, 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 business 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 spark 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 the Curate. The young man was sensible 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 moment, when Lucy Wodehouse was homeless and helpless, 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 Perpetual 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 disconsolate enough over his prospects when the excitement 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 the 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 someone 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 a 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