been swayed by such merely human
emotions; but honour and pride alike demanded that he should remain in
Carlingford, and he had no shelter to offer Lucy in the time of her
need.

After this there followed a pause, which was far from being cheerful.
Frank could not but be disconsolate enough over his prospects when the
excitement died away; and there was another big, terrible event
looming darkly in the midst of the family, which they had not courage
to name to each other. The long, uneasy pause was at length broken by
Louisa, whose voice sounded in the unnatural silence like the burst of
impatient rain which precedes a thunderstorm.

"Now that you have done with Frank's affairs, if you have done with
them," said Louisa, "perhaps somebody will speak to Gerald. I don't
mean in the way of arguing. If some one would only speak _sense_ to
him. You all know as well as I do how many children we've got,
and--and--an--other coming," sobbed the poor lady, "if something
doesn't happen to me, which I am sure is more than likely, and might
be expected. I don't blame dear grandpapa, for he has said everything,
and so have I; but I do think his brothers ought to take a little more
interest. Oh, Frank, you know it doesn't matter for you. You are a
young man, you can go anywhere; but when there are five children
and--and--an--other--And how are we to live? You know what a little
bit of money I had when Gerald married me. Everybody knows Gerald
never cared for money. If I had had a good fortune it would have been
quite different," cried poor Louisa, with a little flow of tears and a
querulous sob, as though that too was Gerald's fault. "He has not sent
off his letter yet, Frank," said the injured wife; "if you would but
speak to him. He does not mind me or grandpapa, but he might mind you.
Tell him we shall have nothing to live on; tell him--"

"Hush," said Gerald. He came forward to the table, very pale and
patient, as became a man at the point of legal death. "I _have_ sent
away my letter. By this time I am no longer Rector of Wentworth. Do
not break my heart. Do you think there is any particular in the whole
matter which I have not considered--the children, yourself,
everything? Hush; there is nothing now to be said."

The Squire rose, almost as pale as his son, from his chair. "I think
I'll go out into the air a little," said Mr Wentworth. "There's always
something new happening. Here is a son of my own," said the old man,
risi