“Hush, hush!” cried Lady Curtis, roused. “Oh, John, you forget yourself. Lucy, Lucy, your papa does not mean it. We don’t distrust you. Fancy distrusting Lucy, our Lucy, John! Oh, we are not come to that!” and she went to her daughter, and kissed her, and held her close in her arms.
Lucy had not said a word, but she had raised her head as her father vituperated, and fixed her eyes upon him steadily. She was not a girl to be frightened; but her mother grew frightened looking at her, and seeing the pale indignation and firmness in her face.
“Of course, I never meant that,” said Sir John, fretfully, sitting down in his chair with an angry thud which seemed but an echo of his sigh. “Why do you put your fantastic meanings into a man’s plain words? Hadn’t you better go and get your things off, and make yourselves comfortable? And you can send me a cup of tea. It is all this wretched, depressing day.”
CHAPTER XIV.
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.