The Perpetual Curate

displaying that power of saying a great deal more than at the first moment he appeared to say, in which Mr. Wentworth’s admirers specially prided themselves. Perhaps a momentary human gratification in the consciousness of having utterly baffled curiosity, passed through the Curate’s mind as he took off his robes when the service was over; but he was by no means prepared for the ordeal which awaited him when he stepped forth from the pretty porch of St. Roque’s. There his three aunts were awaiting him, eager to hear all about it, Miss Dora, for the first time in her life, holding the principal place. “We are going away tomorrow, Frank, and of course you are coming to lunch with us,” said aunt Dora, clinging to his arm. “Oh, my dear boy, I am so happy, and so ashamed, to hear of it. To think you should be provided for, and nobody belonging to you have anything to do with it! I don’t know what to say,” said Miss Dora, who was half crying as usual; “and as for Leonora, one is frightened to speak to her. Oh, I wish you would say something to your aunt Leonora, Frank. I don’t know whether she is angry with us or with you or with herself, or what it is; or if it is an attack on the nerves⁠—though I never imagined she had any nerves; but, indeed, whatever my brother may say, it looks very like⁠—dreadfully like⁠—the coming-on of the Wentworth complaint. Poor papa was just like that when he used to have it coming on; and Leonora is not just⁠—altogether⁠—what you would call a female, Frank. Oh, my dear boy, if you would only speak to her!” cried Miss Dora, who was a great deal too much in earnest to perceive anything comical in what she had said.

“I should think it must be an attack on the temper,” said the Curate, who, now that it was all over, felt that it was but just his aunt Leonora should suffer a little for her treatment of him. “Perhaps some of her favourite colporteurs have fallen back into evil ways. There was one who had been a terrible blackguard, I remember. It is something that has happened among her mission people, you may be sure, and nothing about me.”

“You don’t know Leonora, Frank. She is very fond of you, though she does not show it,” said Miss Dora, as she led her victim in triumphantly through the garden-door, from which the reluctant young man could see Lucy and her sister in their black dresses just arriving at the other green door from the parish church, where they had occupied their usual places, according to the ideas of propriety which were common to both the Miss Wodehouses. Mr. Wentworth had to content himself with taking off his hat to them, and followed his aunts to the table, where Miss Leonora took her seat much with the air of a judge about to deliver a sentence. She did not restrain herself even in the consideration of the presence of Lewis the butler, who, to be sure, had been long enough in the Wentworth family to know as much about its concerns as the members of the house themselves, or perhaps a little more. Miss Leonora sat down grim and formidable in her bonnet, which was in the style of a remote period, and did not soften the severity of her personal appearance. She pointed her nephew to a seat beside her, but she did not relax her features, nor condescend to any ordinary preliminaries of conversation. For that day even she took Lewis’s business out of his astonished hands, and herself divided the chicken with a swift and steady knife and anatomical precision; and it was while occupied in this congenial business that she broke forth upon Frank in a manner so unexpected as almost to take away his breath.

“I suppose this is what fools call poetic justice,” said Miss Leonora, “which is just of a piece with everything else that is poetical⁠—weak folly and nonsense that no sensible man would have anything to say to. How a young man like you, who know how to conduct yourself in some things, and have, I don’t deny, many good qualities, can give in to come to an ending like a trashy novel, is more than I can understand. You are fit to be put in a book of the Good-child series, Frank, as an illustration of the reward of virtue,” said the strong-minded woman, with a little snort of scorn; “and, of course, you are going to marry, and live happy ever after, like a fairy tale.”

“It is possible I may be guilty of that additional enormity,” said the Curate, “which, at all events, will not be your doing, my dear aunt, if I might suggest a consolation. You cannot help such things happening, but, at least, it should be a comfort to feel you have done nothing to bring them about.”

To which Miss Leonora answered by another hard breath of mingled disdain and resentment. “Whatever I have brought about, I have tried to do what I thought my duty,” she said. “It has always seemed to me a very poor sort of virtue that expects a reward for doing what it ought to do. I don’t say you haven’t behaved very well in this business, but you’ve done nothing extraordinary; and why I should have rushed out of my way to reward you for it⁠—Oh, yes, I know you did not expect anything,” said Miss Leonora; “you have told me as much on various occasions, Frank. You have, of course, always been perfectly independent, and scorned to flatter your old aunts by any deference to their convictions; and, to be sure, it is nothing to you any little pang they may feel at having to dispose otherwise of a living that has always been in the family. You are of the latest fashion of Anglicanism,