Next morning the Curate got up with anticipations which were far from
cheerful, and a weary sense of the monotony and dulness of life. He had
won his little battle, it was true; but the very victory had removed
that excitement which answered in the absence of happier stimulations to
keep up his heart and courage. After a struggle like that in which he
had been engaged, it was hard to come again into the peaceable routine
without any particular hope to enliven or happiness to cheer it, which
was all he had at present to look for in his life; and it was harder
still to feel the necessity of being silent, of standing apart from Lucy
in her need, of shutting up in his own heart the longing he had towards
her, and refraining himself from the desperate thought of uniting his
genteel beggary to hers. That was the one thing which must not be
thought of, and he subdued himself with an impatient sigh, and could not
but wonder, as he went down-stairs, whether, if Gerald had been less
smoothly guided through the perplexing paths of life, he would have
found time for all the difficulties which had driven him to take refuge
in Rome. It was with this sense of hopeless restraint and incapacity,
which is perhaps of all sensations the most humbling, that he went
down-stairs, and found lying on his breakfast table, the first thing
that met his eye, the note which Lucy Wodehouse had written to him on
the previous night. As he read it, the earth somehow turned to the sun;
the dubious light brightened in the skies. Unawares, he had been
wondering never to receive any token of sympathy, any word of
encouragement, from those for whom he had made so many exertions. When
he had read Lucy's letter, the aspect of affairs changed considerably.
To be sure, nothing that she had said or could say made any difference
in the facts of the case; but the Curate was young, and still liable to
those changes of atmosphere which do more for an imaginative mind than
real revolutions. He read the letter several times over as he lingered
through his breakfast, making on the whole an agreeable meal, and
finding himself repossessed of his ordinary healthful appetite. He even
canvassed the signature as much in reading as Lucy had done in writing
it--balancing in his mind the maidenly "truly yours" of that
subscription with as many ingenious renderings of its possible meaning
as if Lucy's letter had been articles of faith. "Truly mine," he said to
himself, with a smile; which indeed meant all a lover could require; and
then paused, as if he had been Dr Lushington or Lord Westbury, to
inquire into the real force of the phrase. For after all, it is not only
when signing the Articles that the bond and pledge of subscription means
more than is intended. When Mr Wentworth was able to tear himself from
the agreeable casuistry of this self-discussion, he got up in much
better spirits to go about his daily business. First of all, he had to
see his father, and ascertain what were the Squire's intentions, and how
long he meant to stay in Carlingford; and then--It occurred to the
Perpetual Curate that after that, politeness demanded that he should
call on the Miss Wodehouses, who had, or at least one of them, expressed
so frankly their confidence in him. He could not but call to thank her,
to inquire into their plans, perhaps to back aunt Leonora's invitation,
which he was aware had been gratefully declined. With these ideas in his
mind he went down-stairs, after brushing his hat very carefully and
casting one solicitous glance in the mirror as he passed--which
presented to him a very creditable reflection, an eidolon in perfect
clerical apparel, without any rusty suggestions of a Perpetual Curacy.
Yet a Perpetual Curacy it was which was his sole benefice or hope in his
present circumstances, for he knew very well that, were all other
objections at an end, neither Skelmersdale nor Wentworth could be kept
open for him; and that beyond these two he had not a hope of
advancement--and at the same time he was pledged to remain in
Carlingford. All this, however, though discouraging enough, did not
succeed in discouraging Mr Wentworth after he had read Lucy's letter. He
went down-stairs so lightly that Mrs Hadwin, who was waiting in the
parlour in her best cap, to ask if he would pardon her for making such a
mistake, did not hear him pass, and sat waiting for an hour, forgetting,
or rather neglecting to give any response, when the butcher came for
orders--which was an unprecedented accident. Mr Wentworth went
cheerfully up Grange Lane, meeting, by a singular chance, ever so many
people, who stopped to shake hands with him, or at least bowed their
good wishes and friendly acknowledgments. He smiled in himself at these
evidences of popular penitence, but was not the less pleased to find
himself reinstated in his place in the affections and respect of
Carlingford. "After all, it was not an unnatural mistake," he said to
himself, and smiled benignly upon the excellent people who had found out
the error of their own ways. Carlingford, indeed, seemed altogether in a
more cheerful state than usual, and Mr Wentworth could not but think
that the community in general was glad to find that it had been
deceived, and so went upon his way, pleasing himself with those maxims
about the ultimate prevalence of justice and truth, which make it
apparent that goodness is always victorious, and wickedness punished, in
the end. Somehow even a popular fallacy has an aspect of truth when it
suits one's own case. The Perpetual Curate went through his aunts'
garden with a conscious smile, feeling once more master of himself and
his concerns. There was, to tell the truth, even a slight shade of
self-content and approbation upon his handsome countenance. In the
present changed state of public opinion and private feeling, he began to
take some pleasure in his sacrifice. To be sure, a Perpetual Curate
could not marry; but perhaps Lucy--in short, there was no telling what
might happen; and it was accordingly with that delicious sense of
goodness which generally attends an act of self-sacrifice, mingled with
an equally delicious feeling that the act, when accomplished, might turn
out no such great sacrifice after all--which it is to be feared is the
most usual way in which the sacrifices of youth are made--that the
Curate walked into the hall, passing his aunt Dora's toy terrier without
that violent inclination to give it a whack with his cane in passing
which was his usual state of feeling. To tell the truth, Lucy's letter
had made him at peace with all the world.
When, however, he entered the dining-room, where the family were still
at breakfast, Frank's serenity was unexpectedly disturbed. The first
thing that met his eyes was his aunt Leonora, towering over her
tea-urn at the upper end of the table, holding in her hand a letter
which she had just opened. The envelope had fallen in the midst of the
immaculate breakfast "things," and indeed lay, with its broad black
edge on the top of the snow-white lumps, in Miss Leonora's own
sugar-basin; and the news had been sufficiently interesting to suspend
the operations of tea-making, and to bring the strong-minded woman to
her feet. The first words which were audible to Frank revealed to him
the nature of the intelligence which had produced such startling
effects.
"He was always a contradictory man," said Miss Leonora; "since the
first hour he was in Skelmersdale, he has made a practice of doing
things at the wrong time. I don't mean to reproach the poor man now
he's gone; but when he has been so long of going, what good could it
do him to choose this particular moment, for no other reason that I
can see, except that it was specially uncomfortable to us? What my
brother has just been saying makes it all the worse," said Miss
Leonora, with a look of annoyance. She had turned her head away from
the door, which was at the side of the room, and had not perceived the
entrance of the Curate. "As long as we could imagine that Frank was to
succeed to the Rectory, the thing looked comparatively easy. I beg
your pardon, Gerald. Of course, you know how grieved I am--in short,
that we all feel the deepest distress and vexation; but, to be sure,
since you have given it up, somebody must succeed you--there can be no
doubt of that."
"Not the least, my dear aunt," said Gerald.
"I am glad you grant so much. It is well to be sure of something," said
the incisive and peremptory speaker. "It would have been a painful thing
for us at any time to place another person in Skelmersdale while Frank
was unprovided for; but, of course," said Miss Leonora, sitting down
suddenly, "nobody who knows me could suppose for a minute that I would
let my feelings stand in the way of my public duty. Still it is very
awkward just at this moment when Frank, on the whole, has been behaving
very properly, and one can't help so far approving of him--"
"I am much obliged to you, aunt Leonora," said the Curate.
"Oh, you are there, Frank," said his sensible aunt; and strong-minded
though she was, a slight shade of additional colour appeared for a
moment on Miss Leonora's face. She paused a little, evidently diverted
from the line of discourse which she had contemplated, and wavered like
a vessel disturbed in its course. "The fact is, I have just had a letter
announcing Mr Shirley's death," she continued, facing round towards her
nephew, and setting off abruptly, in face of all consequences, on the
new tack.
"I am very sorry," said Frank Wentworth; "though I have an old grudge
at him on account of his long sermons; but as you have expected it for
a year or two, I can't imagine your grief to be overwhelming," said
the Curate, with a touch of natural impertinence to be expected under
the circumstances. Skelmersdale had been so long thought interesting
to him, that now, when it was not in the least interesting, he got
impatient of the name.
"I quite agree with you, Frank," said Miss Wentworth. Aunt Cecilia had
not been able for a long time to agree with anybody. She had been, on
the contrary, shaking her head and shedding a few gentle tears over
Gerald's silent submission and Louisa's noisy lamentations. Everything
was somehow going wrong; and she who had no power to mend, at least
could not assent, and broke through her old use and wont to shake her
head, which was a thing very alarming to the family. The entire party
was moved by a sensation of pleasure to hear Miss Cecilia say, "I
quite agree with you, Frank."
"You are looking better this morning, my dear aunt," said Gerald. They
had a great respect for each other these two; but when Miss Cecilia
turned to hear what her elder nephew was saying, her face lost the
momentary look of approval it had worn, and she again, though very
softly, almost imperceptibly, began to shake her head.
"We were not asking for your sympathy," said Miss Leonora, sharply.
"Don't talk like a saucy boy. We were talking of our own
embarrassment. There is a very excellent young man, the curate of the
parish, whom Julia Trench is to be married to. By the way, of course,
this must put it off; but I was about to say, when you interrupted me,
that to give it away from you at this moment, just as you had been
doing well--doing--your duty," said Miss Leonora, with unusual
hesitation, "was certainly very uncomfortable, to say the least, to
us."
"Don't let that have the slightest influence on you, I beg," cried the
Perpetual Curate, with all the pride of his years. "I hope I have been
doing my duty all along," the young man added, more softly, a moment
after; upon which the Squire gave a little nod, partly of satisfaction
and encouragement to his son--partly of remonstrance and protest to
his sister.
"Yes, I suppose so--with the flowers at Easter, for example," said
Miss Leonora, with a slight sneer. "I consider that I have stood by
you through all this business, Frank--but, of course, in so important
a matter as a cure of souls, neither relationship, nor, to a certain
extent, approval," said Miss Leonora, with again some hesitation, "can
be allowed to stand against public duty. We have the responsibility of
providing a good gospel minister--"
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Leonora," said the Squire,
"but I can't help thinking that you make a mistake. I think it's a
man's bounden duty, when there is a living in the family, to educate
one of his sons for it. In my opinion, it's one of the duties of
property. You have no right to live off your estate, and spend your
money elsewhere; and no more have you any right to give less
than--than your own flesh and blood to the people you have the charge
of. You've got the charge of them to--to a certain extent--soul and
body, sir," said the Squire, growing warm, as he put down his 'Times,'
and forgetting that he addressed a lady. "I'd never have any peace of
mind if I filled up a family living with a stranger--unless, of
course," Mr Wentworth added in a parenthesis--an unlikely sort of
contingency which had not occurred to him at first--"you should happen
to have no second son.--The eldest the squire, the second the rector.
That's my idea, Leonora, of Church and State."
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 intrusted
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 high-road 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 which had been addressed to her
since, had roused the timid woman. She did not withdraw her eyes from
her sister, though commanded to do so; on the contrary, her look grew
more and more emphatic. She meant to have made a solemn address,
throwing off Leonora's yoke, and declaring her intention, in this grave
crisis of her nephew's fortunes, of acting for herself; but her feelings
were too much for Miss Dora. The tears came creeping to the corners of
her eyes, and she could not keep them back; and her attempt at dignity
broke down. "I am never consulted," she said, with a gasp. "I don't mean
to pretend to know better than Leonora; but--but I think it is very
hard that Frank should be disappointed about Skelmersdale. You may call
me as foolish as you please," said Miss Dora, with rising tears, "I know
everybody will say it is my fault; but I must say I think it is very
hard that Frank should be disappointed. He was always brought up for it,
as everybody knows; and to disappoint him, who is so good and so nice,
for a fat young man, buttered all over like--like--a pudding-basin,"
cried poor Miss Dora, severely adhering to the unity of her desperate
metaphor. "I don't know what Julia Trench can be thinking of; I--I don't
know what Leonora means."
"I am of the same way of thinking," said aunt Cecilia, setting down,
with a little gentle emphasis, her cup of tea.
Here was rebellion, open and uncompromised. Miss Leonora was so much
taken by surprise, that she lifted the tea-urn out of the way, and
stared at her interlocutors with genuine amazement. But she proved
herself, as usual, equal to the occasion.
"It's unfortunate that we never see eye to eye just at once," she
said, with a look which expressed more distinctly than words could
have done the preliminary flourish of his whip by means of which a
skilful charioteer gets his team under hand without touching them;
"but it is very lucky that we always come to agree in the end," she
added, more significantly still. It was well to crush insubordination
in the bud. Not that she did not share the sentiment of her sisters;
but then they were guided like ordinary women by their feelings;
whereas Miss Leonora had the rights of property before her, and the
approval of Exeter Hall.
"And he wants to marry, poor dear boy," said Miss Dora, pale with
fright, yet persevering; "and she is a dear good girl--the very person
for a clergyman's wife; and what is he to do if he is always to be
Curate of St Roque's? You may say it is my fault, but I cannot help it.
He always used to come to me in all his little troubles; and when he
wants anything very particular, he knows there is nothing I would not do
for him," sobbed the proud aunt, who could not help recollecting how
much use she had been to Frank. She wiped her eyes at the thought, and
held up her head with a thrill of pride and satisfaction. Nobody could
blame her in that particular at least. "He knew he had only to tell me
what he wanted," said Miss Dora, swelling out her innocent plumes. Jack,
who was sitting opposite, and who had been listening with admiration,
thought it time to come in on his own part.
"I hope you don't mean to forsake _me_, aunt Dora," he said. "If a
poor fellow cannot have faith in his aunt, whom can he have faith in?
I thought it was too good to last," said the neglected prodigal. "You
have left the poor sheep in the wilderness and gone back to the
ninety-and-nine righteous men who need no repentance." He put up his
handkerchief to his eyes as he spoke, and so far forgot himself as to
look with laughter in his face at his brother Gerald. As for the
Squire, he was startled to hear his eldest son quoting Scripture, and
laid aside his paper once more to know what it meant.
"I am sure I beg your pardon, Jack," said aunt Dora, suddenly stopping
short, and feeling guilty. "I never meant to neglect you. Poor dear
boy, he never was properly tried with female society and the comforts
of home; but then you were dining out that night," said the simple
woman, eagerly. "I should have stayed with you, Jack, _of course_, had
you been at home."
From this little scene Miss Leonora turned away hastily, with an
exclamation of impatience. She made an abrupt end of her tea-making,
and went off to her little business-room with a grim smile upon her
iron-grey countenance. She too had been taken in a little by Jack's
pleasant farce of the Sinner Repentant; and it occurred to her to feel a
little ashamed of herself as she went up-stairs. After all, the
ninety-and-nine just men of Jack's irreverent quotation were worth
considering now and then; and Miss Leonora could not but think with a
little humiliation of the contrast between her nephew Frank and the
comfortable young Curate who was going to marry Julia Trench. He _was_
fat, it could not be denied; and she remembered his chubby looks, and
his sermons about self-denial and mortification of the flesh, much as a
pious Catholic might think of the Lenten oratory of a fat friar. But
then he was perfectly sound in his doctrines, and it was undeniable that
the people liked him, and that the appointment was one which even a
Scotch ecclesiastical community full of popular rights could scarcely
have objected to. According to her own principles, the strong-minded
woman could not do otherwise. She threw herself into her arm-chair with
unnecessary force, and read over the letter which Miss Trench herself
had written. "It is difficult to think of any consolation in such a
bereavement," wrote Mr Shirley's niece; "but still it is a little
comfort to feel that I can throw myself on your sympathy, my dear and
kind friend." "Little calculating thing!" Miss Leonora said to herself
as she threw down the mournful epistle; and then she could not help
thinking again of Frank. To be sure, he was not of her way of thinking;
but when she remembered the "investigation" and its result, and the
secret romance involved in it, her Wentworth blood sent a thrill of
pride and pleasure through her veins. Miss Leonora, though she was
strong-minded, was still woman enough to perceive her nephew's motives
in his benevolence to Wodehouse; but these motives, which were strong
enough to make him endure so much annoyance, were not strong enough to
tempt him from Carlingford and his Perpetual Curacy, where his honour
and reputation, in the face of love and ambition, demanded that he
should remain. "It would be a pity to balk him in his self-sacrifice,"
she said to herself, with again a somewhat grim smile, and a comparison
not much to the advantage of Julia Trench and _her_ curate. She shut
herself up among her papers till luncheon, and only emerged with a
stormy front when that meal was on the table; during the progress of
which she snubbed everybody who ventured to speak to her, and spoke to
her nephew Frank as if he might have been suspected of designs upon the
plate-chest. Such were the unpleasant consequences of the struggle
between duty and inclination in the bosom of Miss Leonora; and, save for
other unforeseen events which decided the matter for her, it is not by
any means so certain as, judging from her character, it ought to have
been, that duty would have won the day.