"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 that is impossible. I should like you
to come with me and see her before you leave Carlingford. She would
like it, and so should I."
"Well, well," said the Squire. Naturally, having been married so often
himself, he could not refuse a certain response to such a call upon his
sympathy. "I hope you have made a wise choice," said the experienced
father, not without a sigh; "a great deal depends upon that--not only
your own comfort, sir, but very often the character of your children and
the credit of the family. You may laugh," said Mr Wentworth, to whom it
was no laughing matter; "but long before you are as old as I am, you
will know the truth of what I say. Your mother, Frank, was a specimen of
what a woman ought to be--not to speak of her own children, there was
nobody else who ever knew how to manage Gerald and Jack. Of course I am
not speaking of Mrs Wentworth, who has her nursery to occupy her," said
the Squire, apologetically. "I hope you have made a judicious choice."
"I hope so, too," said Frank, who was somewhat amused by this view of
the question--"though I am not aware of having exercised any special
choice in the matter," he added, with a laugh. "However, I want you to
come with me and see her, and then you will be able to judge for
yourself."
The Squire shook his head, and looked as if he had travelled back into
the heavy roll of family distresses. "I don't mean to upbraid you,
Frank," he said--"I daresay you have done what you thought was your
duty--but I think you might have taken a little pains to satisfy
your aunt Leonora. You see what Gerald has made of it, with all
his decorations and nonsense. That is a dreadful drawback with you
clergymen. You fix your eyes so on one point that you get to think
things important that are not in the least important. Could you imagine
a man of the world like Jack--he is not what I could wish, but still he
is a man of the world," said the Squire, who was capable of contradicting
himself with perfect composure without knowing it. "Can you imagine
_him_ risking his prospects for a bit of external decoration? I don't
mind it myself," said Mr Wentworth, impartially--"I don't pretend to
see, for my own part, why flowers at Easter should be considered more
superstitious than holly at Christmas; but, bless my soul, sir, when
your aunt thought so, what was the good of running right in her face for
such a trifle? I never could understand you parsons," the Squire said,
with an impatient sigh--"nobody, that I know of, ever considered me
mercenary; but to ruin your own prospects, all for a trumpery bunch of
flowers, and then to come and tell me you want to marry--"
This was before luncheon, when Frank and his father were together in
the dining-room waiting for the other members of the family, who began
to arrive at this moment, and prevented any further discussion. After
all, perhaps, it was a little ungenerous of the Squire to press his
son so hard on the subject of those innocent Easter lilies, long ago
withered, which certainly, looked at from this distance, did not
appear important enough to sacrifice any prospects for. This was all
the harder upon the unfortunate Curate, as even at the time his
conviction of their necessity had not proved equal to the satisfactory
settlement of the question. Miss Wentworth's cook was an _artiste_ so
irreproachable that the luncheon provided was in itself perfect; but
notwithstanding it was an uncomfortable meal. Miss Leonora, in
consequence of the contest going on in her own mind, was in an
explosive and highly dangerous condition, not safe to be spoken to;
and as for the Squire, he could not restrain the chance utterances of
his impatience. Frank, who did his best to make himself agreeable as
magnanimity required, had the mortification of hearing himself
discussed in different tones of disapprobation while he ate his cold
beef; for Mr Wentworth's broken sentences were not long of putting the
party in possession of the new event, and the Perpetual Curate found
himself the object of many wondering and pitying glances, in none of
which could he read pure sympathy, much less congratulation. Even
Gerald looked at him with a little elevation of his eyebrows, as if
wondering how anybody could take the trouble to occupy his mind with
such trifling temporal affairs as love and marriage. It was a
wonderful relief to the unfortunate Curate when Miss Leonora had
finished her glass of madeira, and rose from the table. He had no
inclination to go up-stairs, for his own part. "When you are ready,
sir, you will find me in the garden," he said to his father, who was
to leave Carlingford next morning, and whom he had set his heart on
taking to see Lucy. But his walk in the garden was far from being
delightful to Frank. It even occurred to him, for a moment, that it
would be a very good thing if a man could cut himself adrift from his
relations at such a crisis of his life. After all, it was his own
business--the act most essentially personal of his entire existence;
and then, with a little softening, he began to think of the girls at
home--of the little sister, who had a love-story of her own; and of
Letty, who was Frank's favourite, and had often confided to him the
enthusiasm she would feel for his bride. "If she is nice," Letty was
in the habit of adding, "and of course she will be nice,"--and at that
thought the heart of the young lover escaped, and put forth its wings,
and went off into that heaven of ideal excellence and beauty, more
sweet, because more vague, than anything real, which stands instead of
the old working-day skies and clouds at such a period of life. He had
to drop down from a great height, and get rid in all haste of his
celestial pinions, when he heard his aunt Dora calling him; and his
self-command was not sufficient to conceal, as he obeyed that summons,
a certain annoyed expression in his face.
"Frank," said Miss Dora, coming softly after him with her handkerchief
held over her head as a defence from the sun--"oh, Frank, I want to
speak to you. I couldn't say anything at lunch because of everybody
being there. If you would only stop a moment till I get my breath.
Frank, my dear boy, I wish you joy. I do wish you joy with all my
heart. I should so like just to go and kiss her, and tell her I shall
love her for your sake."
"You will soon love her for her own sake," said Frank, to whom even
this simple-minded sympathy was very grateful; "she is a great deal
better than I am."
"There is just one thing," said Miss Dora. "Oh, Frank, my dear, you
know I don't pretend to be clever, like Leonora, or able to give you
advice; but there _is_ one thing. You know you have nothing to marry
upon, and all has gone wrong. You are not to have Wentworth, and you
are not to have Skelmersdale, and I think the family is going out of
its senses not to see who is the most worthy. You have got nothing to
live upon, my dear, dear boy!" said Miss Dora, withdrawing the
handkerchief from her head in the excitement of the moment to apply it
to her eyes.
"That is true enough," said the Perpetual Curate; "but then we have
not made up our minds that we must marry immediately--"
"Frank," said aunt Dora, with solemnity, breaking into his speech,
"there is just _one_ thing; and I can't hold my tongue, though it may
be very foolish, and they will all say it is my fault." It was a very
quiet summer-day, but still there was a faint rustle in the branches
which alarmed the timid woman. She put her hand upon her nephew's arm,
and hastened him on to the little summer-house in the wall, which was
her special retirement. "Nobody ever comes here," said Miss Dora;
"they will never think of looking for us here. I am sure I never
interfere with Leonora's arrangements, nor take anything upon myself;
but there is one thing, Frank--"
"Yes," said the Curate, "I understand what you mean: you are going to
warn me about love in a cottage, and how foolish it would be to marry
upon nothing; but, my dear aunt, we are not going to do anything rash;
there is no such dreadful haste; don't be agitated about it," said the
young man, with a smile. He was half amused and half irritated by the
earnestness which almost took away the poor lady's breath.
"You _don't_ know what I mean," said aunt Dora. "Frank, you know very
well I never interfere; but I can't help being agitated when I see
you on the brink of such a precipice. Oh, my dear boy, don't be
over-persuaded. There _is_ one thing, and I must say it if I should
die." She had to pause a little to recover her voice, for haste and
excitement had a tendency to make her inarticulate. "Frank," said
Miss Dora again, more solemnly than ever, "whatever you may be obliged
to do--though you were to write novels, or take pupils, or do
translations--oh, Frank, don't look at me like that, as if I was going
crazy. Whatever you may have to do, oh my dear, there is one
thing--don't go and break people's hearts, and put it off, and put it
off, till it never happens!" cried the trembling little woman, with a
sudden burst of tears. "Don't say you can wait, for you can't wait, and
you oughtn't to!" sobbed Miss Dora. She subsided altogether into her
handkerchief and her chair as she uttered this startling and wholly
unexpected piece of advice, and lay there in a little heap, all
dissolving and floating away, overcome with her great effort, while her
nephew stood looking at her from a height of astonishment almost too
extreme for wondering. If the trees could have found a voice and
counselled his immediate marriage, he could scarcely have been more
surprised.
"You think I am losing my senses too," said aunt Dora; "but that is
because you don't understand me. Oh Frank, my dear boy, there was once
a time!--perhaps everybody has forgotten it except me, but I have not
forgotten it. They treated me like a baby, and Leonora had everything
her own way. I don't mean to say it was not for the best," said the
aggrieved woman. "I know everything is for the best, if we could but
see it: and perhaps Leonora was right when she said I never could have
struggled with--with a family, nor lived on a poor man's income. My
dear, it was before your uncle Charley died; and when we became rich,
it--didn't matter," said Miss Dora; "it was all over before then. Oh
Frank! if I hadn't experience I wouldn't say a word. I don't interfere
about your opinions, like Leonora. There is just _one_ thing," cried
the poor lady through her tears. Perhaps it was the recollection of
the past which overcame Miss Dora, perhaps the force of habit which
had made it natural for her to cry when she was much moved; but the
fact is certain, that the Squire, when he came to the door of the
summer-house in search of Frank, found his sister weeping bitterly,
and his son making efforts to console her, in which some sympathy was
mingled with a certain half-amusement. Frank, like Lucy, felt tempted
to laugh at the elderly romance; and yet his heart expanded warmly to
his tender little foolish aunt, who, after all, might once have been
young and in love like himself, though it was so odd to realise it. Mr
Wentworth, for his part, saw no humour whatever in the scene. He
thought nothing less than that some fresh complication had taken
place. Jack had committed some new enormity, or there was bad news
from Charley in Malta, or unpleasant letters had come from home.
"Bless my soul, sir, something new has happened," said the Squire; and
he was scarcely reassured, when Miss Dora stumbled up from her chair in
great confusion, and wiped the tears from her eyes. He was suspicious of
this meeting in the summer-house, which seemed a quite unnecessary
proceeding to Mr Wentworth; and though he flattered himself he
understood women, he could not give any reasonable explanation to
himself of Dora's tears.
"It is nothing--nothing at all," said Miss Dora: "it was not Frank's
doing in the least; he is always so considerate, and such a dear
fellow. Thank you, my dear boy; my head is a little better; I think I
will go in and lie down," said the unlucky aunt. "You are not to mind
me now, for I have quite got over my little attack; I always was so
nervous," said Miss Dora; "and I sometimes wonder whether it isn't the
Wentworth complaint coming on," she added, with a natural female
artifice which was not without its effect.
"I wish you would not talk nonsense," said the Squire. "The Wentworth
complaint is nothing to laugh at, but you are perfectly aware that it
never attacks women." Mr Wentworth spoke with a little natural
irritation, displeased to have his prerogative interfered with. When a
man has all the suffering attendant upon a special complaint, it is
hard not to have all the dignity. He felt so much and so justly
annoyed by Miss Dora's vain pretensions, that he forgot his anxiety
about the secret conference in the summer-house. "Women take such
fantastic ideas into their heads," he said to his son as they went
away together. "Your aunt Dora is the kindest soul in the world; but
now and then, sir, she is very absurd," said the Squire. He could not
get this presumptuous notion out of his head, but returned to it again
and again, even after they had got into Grange Lane. "It has been in
our family for two hundred years," said Mr Wentworth; "and I don't
think there is a single instance of its attacking a woman--not even
slightly, sir," the Squire added, with irritation, as if Frank had
taken the part of the female members of the family, which indeed the
Curate had no thought of doing.
Miss Dora, for her part, having made this very successful diversion,
escaped to the house, and to her own room, where she indulged in a
headache all the afternoon, and certain tender recollections which
were a wonderful resource at all times to the soft-hearted woman. "Oh,
my dear boy, don't be over-persuaded," she had whispered into Frank's
ear as she left him; and her remonstrance, simple as it was, had no
doubt produced a considerable effect upon the mind of the Perpetual
Curate. He could not help thinking, as they emerged into the road,
that it was chiefly the impatient and undutiful who secured their
happiness. Those who were constant and patient, and able to deny
themselves, instead of being rewarded for their higher qualities,
were, on the contrary, put to the full test of the strength that was
in them; while those who would not wait attained what they wanted, and
on the whole, as to other matters, got on just as well as their
stronger-minded neighbours. This germ of thought, it may be supposed,
was stimulated into very warm life by the reflection that Lucy would
have to leave Carlingford with her sister, without any definite
prospect of returning again; and a certain flush of impatience came
over the young man, not unnatural in the circumstances. It seemed to
him that everybody else took their own way without waiting; and why
should it be so certain that he alone, whose "way" implied harm to no
one, should be the only man condemned to wait? Thus it will be seen
that the "just one thing" insisted on by Miss Dora was far from being
without effect on the mind of her nephew; upon whom, indeed, the
events of the morning had wrought various changes of sentiment. When
he walked up Grange Lane for the first time, it had been without any
acknowledged intention of opening his mind to Lucy, and yet he had
returned along the same prosaic and unsympathetic line of road her
accepted lover; her accepted lover, triumphant in that fact, but
without the least opening of any hope before him as to the conclusion
of the engagement, which prudence had no hand in making. Now the
footsteps of the Perpetual Curate fell firmly, not to say a little
impatiently, upon the road over which he had carried so many varying
thoughts. He was as penniless as ever, and as prospectless; but in the
tossings of his natural impatience the young man had felt the reins
hang loosely about his head, and knew that he was no more restrained
than other men, but might, if he chose it, have his way like the rest
of the world. It was true enough that he might have to pay for it
after, as other people had done; but in the mean time the sense that
he was his own master was sweet, and to have his will for once seemed
no more than his right in the world. While these rebellious thoughts
were going on in the Curate's mind, his father, who suspected nothing,
went steadily by his side, not without a little reluctance at the
thought of the errand on which he was bound. "But they can't marry for
years, and nobody can tell what may happen in that time," Mr Wentworth
said to himself, with the callousness of mature age, not suspecting
the different ideas that were afloat in the mind of his son. Perhaps,
on the whole, he was not sorry that Skelmersdale was destined
otherwise, and that Huxtable had been spoken to about Wentworth
Rectory; for, of course, Frank would have plunged into marriage at
once if he had been possessed of anything to marry on; and it looked
providential under the circumstances, as the Squire argued with
himself privately, that at such a crisis the Perpetual Curate should
have fallen between two stools of possible preferment, and should
still be obliged to content himself with St Roque's. It was hard for
Mr Wentworth to reconcile himself to the idea that the wife of his
favourite son should be the sister of--; for the Squire forgot that
his own girls were Jack Wentworth's sisters, and as such might be
objected to in their turn by some other father. So the two gentlemen
went to see Lucy, who was then in a very humble frame of mind, just
recovered from her passion--one of them rather congratulating himself
on the obstacles which lay before the young couple, the other tossing
his youthful head a little in the first impulses of self-will, feeling
the reins lie loose upon him, and making up his mind to have his own
way.