The Perpetual Curate

had been like other people,” she said, drying her tears, and with a tone of remonstrance. “Of course it is a family living, and it is not likely his own father would have made any disturbance; and there is no other family in the parish but the Skipwiths, and they are great friends, and never would have said a word. He might have preached in six surplices if he had liked,” cried poor Louisa⁠—“who would have minded? And as for confession, and all that, I don’t believe there is anybody in the world who had done any wrong that could have helped confessing to Gerald; he is so good⁠—oh, Frank, you know he is so good!” said the exasperated little wife, overcome with fondness and admiration and impatience, “and there is nobody in the parish that I ever heard of that does not worship him; but when I tell him so, he never pays the least attention. And then Edward Plumstead and he go on talking about subscription, and signing articles, and nonsense, till they make my head swim. Nobody, I am sure, wants Gerald to subscribe or sign articles. I am sure I would subscribe any amount,” cried the poor little woman, once more falling into tears⁠—“a thousand pounds if I had it, Frank⁠—only to make him hear reason; for why should he leave Wentworth, where he can do what he likes, and nobody will interfere with him? The Bishop is an old friend of my father’s, and I am sure he never would say anything; and as for candles and crosses and⁠—anything he pleases, Frank⁠—”

Here poor Louisa paused, and put her hand on his arm, and looked up wistfully into his face. She wanted to convince herself that she was right, and that the faltering dread she had behind all this, of something more mysterious than candles or crosses⁠—something which she did not attempt to understand⁠—was no real spectre after all. “Oh, Frank, I am sure I never would oppose him, nor your father, nor anybody; and why should he go and take some dreadful step, and upset everything?” said Mrs. Wentworth. “Oh, Frank! we will not even have enough to live upon; and as for me, if Gerald leaves me, how shall I ever hold up my head again, or how will anybody know how to behave to me? I can’t call myself Miss Leighton again, after being married so long; and if I am not his wife, what shall I be?” Her crying became hysterical as she came back to this point; and Mr. Wentworth sat by her trying to soothe her, as wretched as herself.

“But I must see Gerald, Louisa,” said the Curate; “he has never written to me about this. Perhaps things have not gone so far as you think; but as for the crosses and the candles, you know, and not being interfered with⁠—”

“I would promise to do anything he likes,” cried the weeping woman. “I never would worry him any more about anything. After aunt Leonora was here, perhaps I said things I should not have said; but, oh Frank, whatever he likes to do I am sure I will give in to it. I don’t really mind seeing him preach in his surplice, only you know poor papa was so very Low-Church; and as for the candles, what are they to pleasing one’s husband? Oh, Frank, if you would only tell him⁠—I can’t argue about things like a man⁠—tell him nobody will ever interfere, and he shall do whatever he pleases. I trust to you to say everything,” said the poor wife. “You can reason with him and explain things. Nobody understands Gerald like you. You will not forsake me in my trouble, Frank? I thought immediately of you. I knew you could help us, if anybody could. You will tell him all I have said,” she continued, rising as Mr. Wentworth rose, and going after him to the door, to impress once more upon him the necessities of the case. “Oh, Frank, remember how much depends upon it!⁠—everything in the world for me, and all the children’s prospects in life; and he would be miserable himself if he were to leave us. You know he would?” said Louisa, looking anxiously into his face, and putting her hand on his arm. “Oh, Frank, you don’t think Gerald could be happy without the children⁠—and me?”

The terrible thought silenced her. She stopped crying, and a kind of tearless horror and dread came over her face. She was not very wise, but her heart was tender and full of love in its way. What if perhaps this life, which had gone so smoothly over her unthinking head without any complications, should turn out to be a lie, and her happiness a mere delusion? She could not have put her thoughts into words, but the doubt suddenly came over her, putting a stop to all her lamentations. If perhaps Gerald could be happy without the children and herself, what dreadful fiction had all her joy been built upon! Such an inarticulate terror seemed to stop the very beating of her heart. It was not a great calamity only but an overthrowal of all confidence in life; and she shivered before it like a dumb creature piteously beholding an approaching agony which it could not comprehend. The utterance of her distress was arrested upon her lips⁠—she looked up to her brother with an entreating look, so suddenly intensified and grown desperate that he was startled by it. It alarmed him so much that he turned again to lead her back to her sofa, wondering what momentary passion it could be which had woke such a sudden world of confused meaning in Louisa’s eyes.

“You may be sure he could not,” said the Curate, warmly. “Not happy, certainly; but to men like Gerald there are things in the world dearer than happiness,” he said, after a little pause, with a sigh, wondering to himself whether, if Lucy Wodehouse