The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 44 (1/2)

XLIV

“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 upstairs, 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 summerhouse 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 summerhouse 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 summerhouse, 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 summerhouse. “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.