y other acquaintance to monopolise her society. This last
discovery was bitter to the young man--it was this that made him set his
face to the rain, and his teeth, as if that could do any good. He had
been happy in her mere society to-day, without entering into any of the
terrible preliminaries of a closer connection. But now that was over.
She did not belong to him, and he could not bear the thought. And how
was she ever to belong to him? Not, certainly, if he was to be a Perpetual
Curate of St Roque's, or anywhere else. He felt, in the misery of the
moment, as if he could never go to that green door again, or walk by her
sweet side to that service in which they had joined so lately. He
wondered whether she cared, with a despairing pang of anxiety, through
which for an instant a celestial gleam of consciousness leaped, making
the darkness all the greater afterwards. And to think that three old
ladies, of whom it was not in the nature of things that the young man
could be profoundly reverent, should hold in their hands the absolute
power of his life, and could determine whether it was to be sweet with
hope and love, or stern, constrained, and impoverished, without Lucy or
any other immediate light! What a strange anomaly this was which met him
full in the face as he pursued his thoughts! If it had been his bishop,
or his college, or any fitting tribunal--but his aunts! Mr Wentworth's
ring at his own door was so much more hasty than usual that Mrs Hadwin
paused in the hall, when she had lighted her candle, to see if anything
was the matter. The little neat old lady held up her candle to look at
him as he came in, glistening all over with rain-drops.

"I hope you are not wet, Mr Wentworth," she said. "It is only an April
shower, and we want it so much in the gardens. And I hope you have had
a nice party and a pleasant evening."

"Thank you--pretty well," said the Perpetual Curate, with less suavity
than usual, and a sigh that nearly blew Mrs Hadwin's candle out. She
saw he was discomposed, and therefore, with a feminine instinct, found
more to say than usual before she made her peaceful way to bed. She
waited while Mr Wentworth lighted his candle too. "Mr Wodehouse's
parties are always pleasant," she said. "I never go out, you know; but
I like to hear of people enjoying themselves. I insist upon you going
up-stairs before me, Mr Wentworth. I have so little breath to spare,
and I take such a long time going up, that you wo