The Perpetual Curate

that’s put this fancy into your head, eh? You don’t say you had it from Gerald himself? You don’t mean to tell me that? By Jove, sir!⁠—by heaven, sir!” cried the excited Squire, blazing up suddenly in a burst of passion, “he can’t be any son of mine⁠—For any damnable Papistical madness to give up his wife! Why, God bless us, he was a man, wasn’t he, before he became a priest? A priest! He’s not a priest⁠—he’s a clergyman, and the Rector of Wentworth. I can’t believe it⁠—I won’t believe it!” said the head of the house, with vehemence. “Tell me one of my sons is a sneak and a traitor!⁠—and if you weren’t another of my sons, sir, I’d knock you down for your pains.” In the excitement of the moment Mr. Wentworth came full force against a projecting branch which he did not see, as he spoke these words; but though the sudden blow half stunned him, he did not stop in his vehement contradiction. “It can’t be. I tell you it can’t⁠—it shan’t be, Frank!” cried the Squire. He would not pay any attention to the Curate’s anxieties, or accept the arm Frank offered, though he could not deny feeling faint and giddy after the blow. It took away all the colour from his ruddy face, and left him pale, with a red welt across his forehead, and wonderfully unlike himself. “Confound it! I told Miles to look after that tree weeks ago. If he thinks I’ll stand his carelessness, he’s mistaken,” said Mr. Wentworth, by way of relieving himself. He was a man who always eased his mind by being angry with somebody when anything happened to put him out.

“My dear father,” said the Curate as soon as it was practicable, “I want you to listen to me and help me; there’s only one thing to be done that I can see. Gerald is in a state of high excitement, fit for any martyrdom. We can’t keep him back from one sacrifice, but by all the force we can gather we must detain him from the other. He must be shown that he can’t abandon his natural duties. He was a man before he was a priest, as you say; he can no more give up his duty to Louisa than he can give up his own life. It is going on a false idea altogether; but falsehood in anything except in argument could never be named or dreamed of in connection with Gerald,” said his brother, with some emotion; “we all know that.”

There was another pause of a few minutes, during which they walked on side by side without even the heart to look at each other. “If it had been Huxtable or Plumstead, or any other fool,” burst forth the Squire, after that interval, “but Gerald!” Huxtable was the husband of the eldest Miss Wentworth, and Plumstead was the Squire’s sister’s son, so the comparison was all in the family. “I suppose your aunt Leonora would say such a thing was sent to bring down my pride and keep me low,” said Mr. Wentworth, bitterly. “Jack being what he is, was it anything but natural that I should be proud of Gerald? There never was any evil in him, that I could see, from a child; but crotchety, always crotchety, Frank. I can see it now. It must have been their mother,” said the Squire, meditatively; “she died very young, poor girl! her character was not formed. As for your dear mother, my boy, she was always equal to an emergency; she would have given us the best of advice, had she been spared to us this day. Mrs. Wentworth is absorbed in her nursery, as is natural, and I should not care to consult her much on such a subject. But, Frank, whatever you can do or say, trust to me to back you out,” said the anxious father of three families. “Your mother was the most sensible woman I ever knew,” he continued, with a patriarchal composure. “Nobody could ever manage Jack and Gerald as she did. She’d have seen at a glance what to do now. As for Jack, he is not assistance to anybody; but I consider you very like your mother, Frank. If anybody can help Gerald, it will be you. He has got into some ridiculous complications, you know⁠—that must be the explanation of it. You have only to talk to him, and clear up the whole affair,” said the Squire, recovering himself a little. He believed in “talking to,” like Louisa, and like most people who are utterly incapable of talking to any purpose. He took some courage from the thought, and recovered his colour a little. “There is the bell for luncheon, and I am very glad of it,” he said; “a glass of sherry will set me all right. Don’t say anything to alarm Mrs. Wentworth. When Gerald comes we’ll retire to the library, and go into the matter calmly, and between us we will surely be able to convince him. I’ll humour him, for my part, as far as my conscience will allow me. We must not give in to him, Frank. He will give it up if we show a very firm front and yield nothing,” said the Squire, looking with an unusually anxious eye in his son’s face.

“For my part, I will not enter into the controversy between the Churches,” said the Curate; “it is mere waste of time. I must confine myself to the one point. If he must forsake us, he must, and I can’t stop him: but he must not forsake his wife.”

“Tut⁠—it’s impossible!” said the Squire; “it’s not to be thought of for a moment. You must have given undue importance to something that was said. Things will turn out better than you think.” They were very nearly at the great entrance when these words were said, and Mr. Wentworth took out his handkerchief and held it