The Perpetual Curate

three who were left downstairs were in their different ways impressed by Lucy’s passion. Jack Wentworth, being a man of humour and cultivation, was amused, but respectful, as having still a certain faculty of appreciating absolute purity when he saw it. As for Wodehouse, he gave another rude laugh, but was cowed, in spite of himself, and felt involuntarily what a shabby wretch he was, recognising that fact more impressively from the contempt of Lucy’s pale face than he could have done through hours of argument. Miss Wodehouse, for her part, though very anxious and nervous, was not without an interest in the question under discussion. She was not specially horrified by her brother, or anything he could say or do. He was Tom to her⁠—a boy with whom she had once played, and whom she had shielded with all her sisterly might in his first transgressions. She had suffered a great deal more by his means than Lucy could ever suffer, and consequently was more tolerant of him. She kept her seat with the St. Agnes in the chair behind, and watched the course of events with anxious steadiness. She did not care for money any more than Lucy did; but she could not help thinking it would be very pleasant if she could produce one good action on “poor Tom’s” part to plead for him against any possible criticisms of the future. Miss Wodehouse was old enough to know that her Rector was not an ideal hero, but an ordinary man, and it was quite possible that he might point a future moral now and then with “that brother of yours, my dear.” The elder sister waited accordingly, with her heart beating quick, to know the decision, very anxious that she might have at least one generous deed to record to the advantage of poor Tom.

“I think we are quite decided on the point,” said Jack Wentworth. “Knowing your sentiments, Wodehouse, I left directions with Waters about the papers. I think you will find him to be trusted, Miss Wodehouse, if you wish to consult him about letting or selling⁠—”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Wodehouse, under his breath.

“Which, I suppose,” continued the superb Jack, “you will wish to do under the pleasant circumstances, upon which I beg to offer you my congratulations. Now, Tom, my good fellow, I am at your service. I think we have done our business here.”

Wodehouse got up in his sulky reluctant way like a lazy dog. “I suppose you won’t try to move the furniture now?” he said. These were the only adieux he intended to make, and perhaps they might have been expressed with still less civility, had not Jack Wentworth been standing waiting for him at the door.

“Oh, Tom! I am so thankful you have done it!” cried Miss Wodehouse. “It is not that I care for the money; but oh, Tom, I am so glad to think nobody can say anything now.” She followed them wistfully to the door, not giving up hopes of a kinder parting. “I think it is very kind and nice of you, and what dear papa would have wished,” said the elder sister, forgetting how all her father’s plans had been brought to nothing; “and of course you will live here all the same?” she said, with a little eagerness, “that is, till⁠—till⁠—as long as we are here⁠—”

“Goodbye, Miss Wodehouse,” said Jack Wentworth. “I don’t think either your brother or I will stay much longer in Carlingford. You must accept my best wishes for your happiness all the same.”

“You are very kind, I am sure,” said the embarrassed bride; “and oh, Tom, you will surely say goodbye? Say goodbye once as if you meant it; don’t go away as if you did not care. Tom, I always was very fond of you; and don’t you feel a little different to us, now you’ve done us a kindness?” cried Miss Wodehouse, going out after him to the landing-place. But Wodehouse was in no humour to be gracious. Instead of paying any attention to her, he looked regretfully at the property he had lost.

“Goodbye,” he said, vaguely. “By Jove! I know better than Jack Wentworth does the value of property. We might have had a jolly month at Homburg out of that old place,” said the prodigal, with regret, as he went down the old-fashioned oak stair. That was his farewell to the house which he had entered so disastrously on the day of his father’s funeral. He followed his leader with a sulky aspect through the garden, not venturing to disobey, but yet feeling the weight of his chains. And this was how Wodehouse accomplished his personal share in the gift to his sisters, of which Miss Wodehouse told everybody that it was “so good of Tom!”

XLIV

“Going to be married!” said the Squire; “and to a sister of⁠—I thought you told me she was as old as Dora, Frank? I did not expect to meet with any further complications,” the old man said, plaintively: “of course you know very well I don’t object to your marrying; but why on earth did you let me speak of Wentworth Rectory to Huxtable?” cried Mr. Wentworth. He was almost more impatient about this new variety in the family circumstances than he had been of more serious family distresses. “God bless me, sir,” said the Squire, “what do you mean by it? You take means to affront your aunts and lose Skelmersdale; and then you put it into my head to have Mary at Wentworth; and then you quarrel with the Rector, and get into hot water in Carlingford; and, to make an end of all, you coolly propose to an innocent young woman, and tell me you are going to marry⁠—what on earth do you mean?”

“I am going to marry some time, sir, I hope,” said the Perpetual Curate, with more cheerfulness than he felt; “but not at the present moment. Of course we both know