was in an
explosive and highly dangerous condition, not safe to be spoken to;
and as for the Squire, he could not restrain the chance utterances of
his impatience. Frank, who did his best to make himself agreeable as
magnanimity required, had the mortification of hearing himself
discussed in different tones of disapprobation while he ate his cold
beef; for Mr Wentworth's broken sentences were not long of putting the
party in possession of the new event, and the Perpetual Curate found
himself the object of many wondering and pitying glances, in none of
which could he read pure sympathy, much less congratulation. Even
Gerald looked at him with a little elevation of his eyebrows, as if
wondering how anybody could take the trouble to occupy his mind with
such trifling temporal affairs as love and marriage. It was a
wonderful relief to the unfortunate Curate when Miss Leonora had
finished her glass of madeira, and rose from the table. He had no
inclination to go up-stairs, for his own part. "When you are ready,
sir, you will find me in the garden," he said to his father, who was
to leave Carlingford next morning, and whom he had set his heart on
taking to see Lucy. But his walk in the garden was far from being
delightful to Frank. It even occurred to him, for a moment, that it
would be a very good thing if a man could cut himself adrift from his
relations at such a crisis of his life. After all, it was his own
business--the act most essentially personal of his entire existence;
and then, with a little softening, he began to think of the girls at
home--of the little sister, who had a love-story of her own; and of
Letty, who was Frank's favourite, and had often confided to him the
enthusiasm she would feel for his bride. "If she is nice," Letty was
in the habit of adding, "and of course she will be nice,"--and at that
thought the heart of the young lover escaped, and put forth its wings,
and went off into that heaven of ideal excellence and beauty, more
sweet, because more vague, than anything real, which stands instead of
the old working-day skies and clouds at such a period of life. He had
to drop down from a great height, and get rid in all haste of his
celestial pinions, when he heard his aunt Dora calling him; and his
self-command was not sufficient to conceal, as he obeyed that summons,
a certain annoyed expression in his face.

"Frank," said Miss Dora, coming softly after him with her handkerchief
held over her head as