‘I hope he is. He ought to be.’
‘Now, Mr. Prendergast.’
The curate held up both his hands, deprecating her coaxing piteous look, and used his voice rather loudly to overpower hers, and say what he had prepared as a duty.
‘Yes, yes, he is your brother, and all that. You may feel for him what you like. But I must say this: it was a shameful thing, and a betrayal of confidence, such as it grieves me to think of in his father’s son. I am sorry for her, poor thing! whom I should have looked after better; and I am very sorry indeed for you, Cilla; but I must tell you that to bury the poor girl next to Mrs. Sandbrook, as your brother’s wife, would be a scandal.’
‘Don’t speak so loud; he will hear.’
His mild face was unwontedly impatient as he said, ‘I can see how you gave in to the wish; I don’t blame you, but if you consider the example to the parish.’
‘After what I told you in my letter, I don’t see the evil of the example; unless it be your esprit de corps about the registrar, and they could not well have requested you to officiate.’
‘Cilla, you were always saucy, but this is no time for nonsense. You can’t defend them.’
‘Perhaps you are of your Squire’s opinion—that the bad example was in the marrying her at all.’
Mr. Prendergast looked so much shocked that Lucilla felt a blush rising, conscious that the tone of the society she had of late lived with had rendered her tongue less guarded, her cheek less shamefaced than erst, but she galloped on to hide her confusion. ‘You were their great cause. If you had not gone and frightened her, they might have philandered on all this time, till the whole affair died of its own silliness.’