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.