"You mean about Gerald. Oh, you don't _really_ think he could ever have had the heart?" said Mrs Wentworth. "I am so sorry you are going away without any dinner or anything comfortable; and it was so good of you to come, and I feel so much better. I shall always be grateful to you, dear Frank, for showing Gerald his mistake; and tell dear aunt Dora I am so much obliged to her for thinking of the blanket for the bassinet. I am sure it will be lovely. Must you go? Good-bye. I am sure you have always been like my own brother--Frank, dear, good-bye. Come and kiss your dear uncle, children, and say good-bye."
This was how Louisa dismissed him after all his efforts on her behalf. The girls were waiting for him on the road, still full of anxiety to know why he had come so suddenly, and was going away so soon. "We have not had half a peep of you," said Letty; "and it is wicked of you not to tell us; as if anybody could sympathise like your sisters--your very own sisters, Frank," said the young lady, with a pressure on his arm. In such a mixed family the words meant something.
"We had made up our minds you had come to tell papa," said Janet, with her pretty shy look; "that was my guess--you might tell us her name, Frank."
"Whose name?" said the unfortunate Curate; and the dazzling vision of Lucy Wodehouse's face, which came upon him at the moment, was such, that the reluctant blood rose high in his cheeks--which, of course, the girls were quick enough to perceive.
"It _is_ about some girl, after all," said Letty; "oh me! I did not think you had been like all the rest. I thought you had other things to think of. Janet may say what she likes--but I do think it's contemptible always to find out, when a man, who can do lots of things, is in trouble, that it's about some girl or other like one's self! I did not expect it of you, Frank--but all the same, tell us who she is?" said the favourite sister, clasping his arm confidentially, and dropping her voice.
"There is the train. Good-bye, girls, and be sure you write to me to-morrow how my father is," said the Curate. He had taken his seat before they could ask further questions, and in a minute or two more was dashing out of the little station, catching their smiles and adieus as he went, and turning back last of all for another look at Gerald, who stood leaning on his stick, looking after the train, with the mist of preoccupation gathering again over his smiling eyes. The Curate went back to his corner after that, and lost himself in thoughts and anxieties still more painful. What had Jack to do in Carlingford? what connection had he with those initials, or how did he know their owner? All sorts of horrible fears came over the Curate of St Roque's. He had not seen his elder brother for years, and Jack's career was not one for the family to be proud of. Had he done something too terrible to be hidden--too clamorous to let his name drop out of remembrance, as was to be desired for the credit of the Wentworths? This speculation whiled the night away but drearily, as the Perpetual Curate went back to the unknown tide of cares which had surged in his absence into his momentarily abandoned place.