THE Rector came up next morning to see his aunt and his cousin, and hear their story. Nothing for a long time had interested him so much; and though he was very sorry for Arthur, and sorry for those who had so much to suffer on Arthur’s account, there was a latent feeling in Hubert Curtis’s mind that some advantage, more or less, though he could not exactly tell what, was likely to come to himself from Arthur’s misconduct. He did not wish to profit by his cousin’s loss, but the impression was strong on his mind that this was likely to be the case whether he wished it or not, and, naturally, it moved him to a certain excitement. Hubert Curtis was not specially adapted to be a clergyman; in fact, it might, perhaps, be said that, of all professions for which he was unadapted, the Church was the chief. It had not been thought of for him till he was eighteen, just leaving Eton, and with thoughts of a crack regiment and all the pleasure of life in his mind. By that time Arthur was fifteen, and it had become quite apparent that there was no likelihood of a second son at the Hall to hold the living of Oakley, as was the tradition in the family; and Sir John’s uncle, who was the then incumbent, was old and growing infirm. This being the case, there was a hurried consultation on the subject in the family; in consequence of which General Curtis paid a short visit to his brother at Oakley. It was because of that uncle, who was still a young man, in possession of Oakley Rectory when Anthony Curtis, Sir John’s younger brother, grew up, that he himself had been made a soldier instead of a clergyman. He was now a General in the Indian Army, with a tolerable fortune, and sons enough to reinforce all the professions. Hubert was his second boy; he was a lively fellow, full of fun, as his family said, and in those days rather apt to get into scrapes—the very boy for the Army. And when the General came home and announced the result of the family conclave, which was that Hubert, instead of putting on a red coat, was to go to the University and study for the Church, there was much tribulation in the old house at Kensington, where the General lived with all his children. The sisters wept with Bertie, who was in despair, and Mrs. Curtis went about the house with a mournful countenance, saying to everybody, “It is so much for his interest, it is a thousand a year.” After a while, it is true, this consideration healed and bound up even the broken heart of Bertie. A man does not come easily into possession of a thousand a year as a soldier, and it was not pretended that he was clever to push his way to the front of his profession; whereas here his income would be certain and immediate, and nothing would depend on his cleverness. The parish was small; there was a capital house, very good society, good shooting, fishing, everything a man could desire; and as for the duty, there was not very much of that, and by means of a curate it would always be possible to diminish what little there was.
Thus matters were smoothed down, and Bertie went to the University; and in due time, on his uncle’s death, became the Rector of Oakley, like all his grand-uncles before him. He was so far conscientious that he did not keep a curate, the parish being one which contained about two hundred of a population only—that is, he did not keep a permanent curate, though he indulged freely in occasional aid. But it may be supposed that in these circumstances Bertie Curtis was not, perhaps, so adapted for his work, or so devoted to it as most of the other clergymen of whom we are so proud in England. He liked his ease, which they are not supposed to do, and that liberty of going where he liked, and doing what he liked, which only the richer members of his profession can indulge in. He went to all the races all over the country, and betted a good deal in a quiet way; but, to be sure, the village people did not know where he was when he was absent from home, and he might just as well have been at a meeting of the Church Union as at the Doncaster meeting. And Sir John and the other magnates did not care. Some of them said Bertie Curtis was thrown away where he was, such a good fellow! He “got on” just as well as if he had been the most devoted parish priest under the sun. In externals he was good-looking enough, with the good features and high nose which belonged to the family; of good height, rather over than under middle size, but not tall; well-made, well-dressed, active, and not stupid—on the whole, an attractive, agreeable Squire-parson, quite benevolent enough, and not disposed to be uncivil or disagreeable to any man. Poachers he hated by nature, dissenters he disliked professionally, though he was too much of a gentleman even to notice them; but otherwise he was friendly enough to everybody who did not interfere with him.
This was the man who came up to the Hall, concerned and interested, to inquire about Arthur—feeling very sorry for Arthur, yet with an indistinct but not unpleasant consciousness that one way or another Arthur’s mistake and failure in life must be good for himself. There was one little weakness which Hubert had: an inclination towards his cousin Lucy, who did not at all incline towards him. Up to the present moment it cannot be said to have gone the length of love, but he felt that it would be in every respect very suitable if Lucy and he could “hit it off together.” Sir John would like to have his daughter settled so near him, and Lucy’s fortune would be a very comfortable addition to Bertie’s thousand a year; and then he liked her better than any of the girls about, better than all the young ladies whom, he modestly felt, he might have for the asking. There are indeed, it must be avowed, a great many young ladies in the world to whom a thousand a year is as attractive as it proved to Bertie Curtis, and who, being unable to get it as Bertie Curtis did, have to “go in for” the clergyman, instead of going in legitimately for the living, as it is the man’s proud privilege to do. But none of these aspirants pleased him as Lucy did, who was not an aspirant at all. In this the contradictoriness of human nature showed itself. He liked Lucy; but Lucy did not care for him. She did not go so far as to dislike her cousin, but she perceived as girls of fantastic notions have a way of doing that Bertie’s aims were not very high; and he was not old enough to be looked up to, and to have his faults condoned like the kind old uncle whose place he occupied, who was not an ideal parish priest any more than Bertie, but whom Lucy would not permit anyone to criticize.
When the Rector was seen coming up the avenue next morning, neither Lady Curtis nor Lucy was delighted by the sight. “He is coming to ask after Arthur, that pink of propriety who never did anything imprudent or compromised himself for other people,” said Lady Curtis; which perhaps was not quite just; for Hubert had “compromised himself,” if that was any credit to him, often enough when he was at the University, before it became his profession to be good. But there are many mothers and sisters who will understand Lady Curtis’s feelings. To be sympathized with when your scapegrace is out of favour by some respectable contemporary who never was in anybody’s black books in all his virtuous life, is not that more than feminine flesh and blood can bear? Does not one hate the virtuous youth who has always so wisely shunned the broad path and the green? And Bertie was especially obnoxious to this hatred. Bertie who frequented all the race-courses in a black tie, and had a book on every great “event,” and yet was always so decorous, keeping within the bounds of clergymanly correctness, though he never professed to be devoted to his profession. Had he been an open humbug and hypocrite, he would have offended these ladies less. They knew how sympathetic he would be about Arthur, how he would “understand his feelings,” and yet show in his faultless manly demeanour how weak it was of Arthur to throw himself away. Lucy’s first impulse had been to leave the room when she saw Bertie appearing, but she was convinced of the futility of this when Lady Curtis sprang to her feet impatiently. “There is Bertie,” she cried, “Lucy, you always get on with Bertie, I really cannot put up with him to-day.”
“But you would not leave me alone—not alone—to entertain Bertie to-day.”
“My dear, what does it matter, he is your cousin,” said Lady Curtis; and then she changed her mind and took her seat again. “Of course he is sure to speak to me about it some time or other—as well to-day as any day,” she said; “but oh, Lucy, to see him sitting there so correct and proper, and my Arthur—!” cried the vexed mother.
“Arthur has done nothing wicked,” said Lucy, elevating her head, with again that look of resolution in her eyes. Lady Curtis did not understand this look. She was afraid of it. She asked herself could Lucy have anything on her mind? Lucy would not and could not emulate Arthur. No chance that she would distress her parents with a lover of low degree, or any man who was not a gentleman. But then if Lucy “took anything into her head,” that would be worse than anything Arthur could do. A trembling came over Lady Curtis. It was hard enough to lose her son, but Lucy seemed now everything she had in the world. While these thoughts were passing through her mind, Bertie was shown into the room. There were some clerical tricks which he had learned, though he did not assume a clerical deportment generally. He would take the hand of a sufferer and press it with silent meaning, with eyes full of sympathy, and if anything in the world could have exasperated Lady Curtis more than the mere fact of his coming, it would have been this deeply-meaning look from Bertie’s eyes.
This however was got over, and so was the close pressure of the hand which seemed to say so much, and Bertie sat down. The ladies were in a small morning-room which they were fond of, which opened out upon the green terrace in summer; and there they lived half out of doors in a kind of stony bower formed by two of the pillars which adorned the front of the house. The windows were very long and straight, the room was furnished luxuriously, in a taste which is scarcely approved by the art-standards of the present day. But they liked it for very different reasons: Lady Curtis because she had herself furnished it, arranged every festoon of the drapery, and chosen every scrap of the Louis Quinze furniture: and Lucy because she had always known it like this and could not bear any change. Lady Curtis sat with her back to the light, that at least Bertie might not see the effect of his condolences. His face was so serious, so sympathetic, so full of feeling, that few people could have withstood it. He did not say much as he pressed their hands, and after he sat down there was a pause. Lady Curtis had grasped at her work when he appeared. It is a great safeguard to a woman to have a piece of work which she can bend her head over, and thus avoid the inspection of such serious eyes. “I heard you had got home yesterday,” he said, “I am sure my uncle will mend now that you are here.”
“Was papa ill,” said Lucy, “while we were away?”
“Ill is not the word, perhaps: but one could not help seeing that he was very unhappy. He will be better now. I came up to the Hall to see if I could be of any use in amusing him a little, but it was not me he wanted. And how is Arthur? I hope you saw him before—”
“Yes, thanks, I saw him,” said Lucy, “he is very well. There has never been anything the matter with him that I know of.”
“No, not with his health of course; and I hope, aunt, you were more satisfied about—the lady—than we hoped;—or I should say feared—”
“If you mean Mrs. Arthur,” said Lady Curtis, forcing herself to speak the words steadily, “I did not see her, Bertie. I did not wish to see her; therefore I cannot give you any opinion on the subject.”
“Nay,” he said gently, “I did not want any opinion. I only trusted that you had been—pleased, or, at least, less displeased—than we fancied. I suppose they have gone abroad?”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy rather drearily. This cross-questioning was insupportable to her also; but she was not of an impatient temper like her mother; accordingly while Lady Curtis fumed, it was Lucy who had to speak.
“That will be a good thing,” said the Reverend Bertie, “so much can be done abroad. It is really the place to go to when a little polish is wanted. The very fact of living among foreigners is good for one in the way of culture, and Arthur himself has such good manners. I hope you will not think it an impertinent question—but I hope, my dear aunt, there is no open breach?”
“What do you mean by an open breach?” she said indignantly. “You talk as if Arthur had murdered some one. If you will tell me plainly what you want to know, I will endeavour to give all the necessary information.”
“My dear aunt! is it not natural I should like to know? Arthur and I have always been good friends. In happier circumstances, I should have married him, or helped to have married him—surely you don’t think it is mere vulgar curiosity. I don’t conceal that I should like to know.”
Lady Curtis threw her work aside. She could not keep up the appearance of calm. “I am sure you mean very well, Bertie,” she said, (though, indeed, she was by no means so very sure). “And, perhaps, I am not so patient as I ought to be. I can’t talk my boy over as if he were a stranger. Arthur has been very foolish—”
“You think I don’t understand,” said the Rector, “do you think I am so unfeeling? I know how hard it must be, and Sir John is very severe. But after all, what is done cannot be undone. Things of this kind so often turn out better than anyone expected. This is why I wanted to know if you had seen the lady. If she has sense, it may all come right, indeed it may—women are so quick, they pick up things so fast. I wish you would let me persuade you to take a little comfort. Things may not be nearly so bad as they seem.”
All this was so well said that even the suspicious mother could not make any objections. After all, the chief thing against him was that he was not under a cloud, that he had not made an imprudent marriage; and it was hard to refuse his kindness, and treat him as an enemy on that account. Lady Curtis, who was changeable by right of her quick temper and feelings, melted all at once, and opened her mind to him—her mind at least, if not her heart.
“If she had been a girl with any feeling how could she have married so?” she cried. “Not one friend with him—his father and mother holding aloof. No, Bertie, it is very good of you to say so, but I have not any hope. Our boy is lost to us. Of course, when we are out of the way, he will come and take his place here, and she will take my place, which is no pleasant thing to think of; but in the meantime we have lost our boy.”
“Indeed, you must not think so,” said the Rector, “when the first infatuation is over, Arthur will come back. He will not be happy in so different a sphere. He will miss you—he will miss Lucy—and all his old ways. In—how long shall I say? in a month, six weeks—he will come back and beg your pardon.”
“I hope he will not have so little perception,” said Lady Curtis, the colour rising in her face. “You speak as if it were a case in which such a conclusion was possible; and no doubt there are such cases; but this girl—this girl is—Don’t ask me—how can I tell you all the impossibilities of it? I see them, and I know that Arthur is lost to us. As his poor father says, ‘he might as well be dead!’”
Lucy had not said anything, but Lady Curtis saw without looking that her daughter was not on her side. Lucy’s head was very erect—her mouth was closed firmly, as if she was holding herself in; there was a certain resistance in the poise of that head, and displeasure in the mouth. Lady Curtis stopped short after she had answered her nephew, and turning suddenly round to her daughter burst forth: “Say what you mean, Lucy—say what you mean! I would rather have anything said to me than see you keep it in and despise what your mother says.”
“How could I despise what you say, mamma,” said Lucy, “or what you think either? But I should like Bertie to know that I cannot blame Arthur as other people do. He is dreadfully wrong in some things; but we can’t tell he is wrong at all in the great thing. Mamma, I cannot help it—I don’t want to vex you. For anything we know, she may be the one wife in the world for Arthur; and when he was promised to her, pledged to her, and had got her love, and given her his—I should have hated my brother if he had forsaken her. Yes, I know you will be angry—but I can’t help it. I might have been glad in a way—it might have been better for the family; but I should have hated and despised him. He could never have been Arthur to me any more—that, indeed, would have been as bad as dying,” said Lucy emphatically with fire in her eyes.
Lady Curtis was so moved with displeasure that she could scarcely find words to reply. “You, Lucy, you! to go and put yourself on the side of such a creature.”
“I don’t put myself on her side, but Arthur has done nothing irremediable—I cannot, I cannot allow it to be said! Oh, foolish, foolish! unwise, unkind, ill-judged, whatever you please,” she said, “but he has done nothing against his honour, or against nature. He may repent it bitterly; but what he has done is not irremediable, I cannot have it said.”
“All for love,” said the Rector musing, with a half smile, “and the world well lost!”
“I do not mean anything nonsensical,” said Lucy, blushing hotly with the shame of youth for being supposed capable of high-flown sentiment. “I am speaking of mere truth and honour. What is a man who is false to his word? who can be shaken off by other people’s interference from the most solemn engagements a man can make? I had not thought of it when we left home. It seemed just like going to get Arthur out of any foolish scrape—as you did when he was saucy at Eton—and when he got into trouble about his work. But this is different—a man must keep his word.”
“When he has made mad promises that will ruin him—when he is cheated into vows he does not mean—when he makes engagements that will be the torment and destruction of his life?”
“I—I—suppose so—when he has given his word,” said Lucy, overwhelmed by her mother’s vehemence, and by the sudden sense that even to this subject, which seemed so distinct, there was a second side.