“No, sir. It is an English community that wants a parson.”
“I see; and you think this would suit you?”
“There are some great attractions about it; the country, the climate, and the sort of life, all have a certain fascination for me, and Julia is most eager about it.”
“The young lady has ambition,” muttered Bramleigh to himself. “But what can I do, L'Estrange? I don't own a rood of land at Albano. I have n't a villa,—not even a fig-tree there. I could subscribe to the church fund, if there be such a thing; I could qualify for the franchise, and give you a vote, if that would be of service.”
“You could do better, sir. You could give me a letter to Lady Augusta, whose influence, I believe, is all powerful.”
For a moment Bramleigh stared at him fixedly, and then sinking slowly into a chair, he leaned his head on his hand, and seemed lost in thought. The name of Lady Augusta had brought up before him a long train of events and possible consequences, which soon led him far away from the parson and all his cares. From her debts, her extravagances, her change of religion, and her suggestion of separation, he went back to his marriage with her, and even to his first meeting. Strange chain of disasters from beginning to end. A bad investment in every way. It paid nothing. It led to nothing.
“I hope, sir,” said L'Estrange, as he gazed at the strange expression of preoccupation in the other's face,—“I hope, sir, I have not been indiscreet in my request?”
“What was your request?” asked Colonel Bramleigh, bluntly, and with a look of almost sternness.
“I had asked you, sir, for a letter to Lady Augusta,” said the curate, half offended at the manner of the last question.
“A letter to Lady Augusta?” repeated Bramleigh, dwelling on each word, as though by the effort he could recall to his mind something that had escaped him.