Miss Leonora smiled a little at her brother’s semi-feudal, semi-pagan ideas. “I have long known that we were not of the same way of thinking,” said the strong-minded aunt, who, though cleverer than her brother, was too wise in her own conceit to perceive at the first glance the noble, simple conception of his own duties and position, which was implied in the honest gentleman’s words. “Your second son might be either a fool or a knave, or even, although neither, might be quite unfit to be entrusted with the eternal interests of his fellow-creatures. In my opinion, the duty of choosing a clergyman is one not to be exercised without the gravest deliberation. A conscientious man would make his selection dependent, at least, upon the character of his second son—if he had one. We, however—”
“But then his character is so satisfactory, Leonora,” cried Miss Dora, feeling emboldened by the shadow of visitors under whose shield she could always retire. “Everybody knows what a good clergyman he is—I am sure it would be like a new world in Skelmersdale if you were there, Frank, my dear—and he preaches such beautiful sermons!” said the unlucky little woman, upon whom her sister immediately descended, swift and sudden, like a storm at sea.
“We are generally perfectly of accord in our conclusions,” said Miss Leonora; “as for Dora, she comes to the same end by a roundabout way. After what my brother has been saying—”
“Yes,” said the Squire, with uncomfortable looks, “I was saying to your aunt, Frank, what I said to you about poor Mary. Since Gerald will go, and since you don’t want to come, the best thing to do would be to have Huxtable. He’s a very good fellow on the whole, and it might cheer her up, poor soul, to be near her sisters. Life has been hard work to her, poor girl—very hard work, sir,” said the Squire, with a sigh. The idea was troublesome and uncomfortable, and always disturbed his mind when it occurred to him. It was indeed a secret humiliation to the Squire, that his eldest daughter possessed so little the characteristic health and prosperity of the Wentworths. He was very sorry for her, but yet half angry and half ashamed, as if she could have helped it; but, however, he had been obliged to admit, in his private deliberations on the subject, that, failing Frank, Mary’s husband had the next best right to Wentworth Rectory—an arrangement of which Miss Leonora did not approve.
“I was about to say that we have no second son,” she said, taking up the thread of her discourse where it had been interrupted. “Our duty is solely towards the Christian people. I do not pretend to be infallible,” said Miss Leonora, with a meek air of self-contradiction; “but I should be a very poor creature indeed, if, at my age, I did not know what I believed, and was not perfectly convinced that I am right. Consequently (though, I repeat, Mr. Shirley has chosen the most inconvenient moment possible for dying), it can’t be expected of me that I should appoint my nephew, whose opinions in most points are exactly the opposite of mine.”
“I wish, at least, you would believe what I say,” interrupted the Curate, impatiently. “There might have been some sense in all this three months ago; but if Skelmersdale were the highroad to everything desirable in the Church, you are all quite aware that I could not accept it. Stop, Gerald; I am not so disinterested as you think,” said Frank; “if I left Carlingford now, people would remember against me that my character had been called in question here. I can remain a perpetual curate,” said the young man, with a smile, “but I can’t tolerate any shadow upon my honour. I am sorry I came in at such an awkward moment. Good morning, aunt Leonora. I hope Julia Trench, when she has the Rectory, will always keep of your way of thinking. She used to incline a little to mine,” he said, mischievously, as he went away.
“Come back, Frank, presently,” said the Squire, whose attention had been distracted from his Times. Mr. Wentworth began to be tired of such a succession of exciting discussions. He thought if he had Frank quietly to himself he could settle matters much more agreeably; but the Times was certainly an accompaniment more tranquillising so far as a comfortable meal was concerned.
“He can’t come back presently,” said aunt Leonora. “You speak as if he had nothing to do; when, on the contrary, he has everything to do—that is worth doing,” said that contradictory authority. “Come back to lunch, Frank; and I wish you would eat your breakfast, Dora, and not stare at me.”
Miss Dora had come down to breakfast as an invalid, in a pretty little cap, with a shawl over her dressing-gown. She had not yet got over her adventure and the excitement of Rosa’s capture. That unusual accident, and all the applauses of her courage
