The Curate of St Roque's went sadly along the road he knew so well
from Wentworth Rectory to the Hall. There was scarcely a tree nor the
turning of a hedgerow which had not its own individual memories to the
son of the soil. Here he had come to meet Gerald returning from
Eton--coming back from the university in later days. Here he had
rushed down to the old Rector, his childless uncle, with the copy of
the prize-list when his brother took his first-class. Gerald, and the
family pride in him, was interwoven with the very path, and now--The
young man pressed on to the Hall with a certain bitter moisture
stealing to the corner of his eye. He felt indignant and aggrieved in
his love, not at Gerald, but at the causes which were conspiring to
detach him from his natural sphere and duties. When he recollected how
he had himself dallied with the same thoughts, he grew angry with his
brother's nobleness and purity, which never could see less than its
highest ideal soul in anything, and with a certain fierce fit of
truth, glanced back at his own Easter lilies and choristers, feeling
involuntarily that he would like to tear off the flowers and surplices
and tread them under his feet. Why was it that he, an inferior man,
should be able to confine himself to the mere accessories which
pleased his fancy, and could judge and reject the dangerous principles
beneath; while Gerald, the loftier, purer intelligence, should get so
hopelessly lost in mazes of sophistry and false argument, to the peril
of his work, his life, and all that he could ever know of happiness?
Such were the thoughts that passed through the mind of the Perpetual
Curate as he went rapidly through the winding country-road going
"home." Perhaps he was wrong in thinking that Gerald was thus superior
to himself; but the error was a generous one, and the Curate held it
in simplicity and with all his heart.
Before he reached the house he saw his father walking under the
lime-trees, which formed a kind of lateral aisle to the great avenue,
which was one of the boasts of the Wentworths. The Squire was like most
squires of no particular character; a hale, ruddy, clear-complexioned,
well-preserved man, looking his full age, but retaining all the vigour
of his youth. He was not a man of any intellect to speak of, nor did he
pretend to it; but he had that glimmering of sense which keeps many a
stupid man straight, and a certain amount of natural sensibility and
consideration for other people's feelings which made persons who knew no
better give Mr Wentworth credit for tact, a quality unknown to him. He
was walking slowly in a perplexed manner under the lime-trees. They were
all in glorious blossom, filling the air with that mingling sense of
fragrance and music which is the soul of the murmurous tree: but the
short figure of the Squire, in his morning-coat, with his perplexed
looks, was not at all an accessory in keeping with the scene. He was
taking his walk in a subdued way, pondering something--and it puzzled
him sorely in his straightforward, unprofound understanding. He shook
his head sometimes as he went along, sad and perplexed and
unsatisfactory, among his limes. He had got a note from Gerald that
morning; and how his son could intend to give up living and station, and
wife and children, for anything in heaven or earth, was more than the
Squire could understand. He started very much when he heard Frank's
voice calling to him. Frank, indeed, was said to be, if any one was, the
Squire's weakness in the family; he was as clever as Gerald, and he had
the practical sense which Mr Wentworth prized as knowing himself to
possess it. If he could have wished for any one in the present
emergency, it would have been Frank--and he turned round overjoyed.
"Frank, my boy, you're heartily welcome home!" he said, holding out
his hand to him as became a British parent--"always welcome, but
particularly just now. Where did you come from? how did you come? have
you eaten anything this morning? it's close upon lunch, and we'll go
in directly; but, my dear boy, wait here a moment, if you're not
particularly hungry; I can't tell you how glad I am you're come. I'd
rather see you than a hundred pound!"
When Frank had thanked him, and returned his greetings, and answered
his questions (which the Squire had forgotten), and made his own
inquiries, to which Mr Wentworth replied only by a hasty nod, and an
"Oh yes, thank you, all well--all well," the two came to a momentary
pause: they had nothing particular to add about their happiness in
seeing each other; and as Frank wrote to his sisters pretty regularly,
there was nothing to tell. They were quite free to plunge at once, as
is to British relatives under the trying circumstances of a meeting a
blessed possibility, into the first great subject which happened to be
at hand.
"Have you heard anything about Gerald?" said Mr Wentworth, abruptly;
"perhaps you called there on your way from the station? Gerald has got
into a nice mess. He wrote to tell me about it, and I can't make head
nor tail of it. Do you think he's a little touched here?" and the
Squire tapped his own round forehead, with a troubled look: "there's
no other explanation possible that I can see: a good living, a nice
house, a wife that just suits him (and it's not everybody that would
suit Gerald), and a lot of fine children--and he talks to me of giving
up everything; as if a man could give up everything! It's all very
well talking of self-renunciation, and so forth; and if it meant
simply considering other people, and doing anything disagreeable for
anybody's sake, I don't know a man more likely than my son Gerald.
Your brother's a fine fellow, Frank--a noble sort of fellow, though
he has his crotchets," said the father, with a touch of involuntary
pathos; "but you don't mean to tell me that my son, a man like Gerald
Wentworth, has a mind to throw away his position, and give up all the
duties of his life? He can't do it, sir! I tell you it's impossible,
and I won't believe it." Mr Wentworth drew up his shirt-collar, and
kicked away a fallen branch with his foot, and looked insulted and
angry. It was a dereliction of which he would not suppose the
possibility of a Wentworth being guilty. It did not strike him as a
conflict between belief and non-belief; but on the question of a man
abandoning his post, whatever it might be, the head of the house held
strong views.
"I agree it's impossible; but it looks as if it were true," said the
Curate. "I don't understand it any more than you do; but I am afraid
we shall have to address ourselves to the reality all the same. Gerald
has made up his mind that the Church of Rome is the only true Church,
and therefore he is in a false position in the Church of England: he
can't remain a priest of the Anglican communion with such views, any
more than a man could fight against his country, or in a wrong
quarrel--"
"But, good heavens, sir!" said the Squire, interrupting him, "is it a
time to inquire into the quarrel when you're on the ground? Will you
tell me, sir, that my son Charley should have gone into the question
between Russia and England when he was before Sebastopol--and
deserted," said Mr Wentworth, with a snort of infinite scorn, "if he
found the Czar had right on his side? God bless my soul! that's
striking at the root of everything. As for the Church of Rome, it's
Antichrist--why, every child in the village school could tell you
that; and if Gerald entertains any such absurd ideas, the thing for
him to do is to read up all that's been written on the subject, and
get rid of his doubts as soon as possible. The short and the long of
it is," said the troubled Squire, who found it much the easiest way to
be angry, "that you ask me to believe that your brother Gerald is a
fool and a coward; and I won't believe it, Frank, if you should preach
to me for a year."
"And for my part, I would stake my life on his wisdom and his
courage," said the Curate, with a little heat; "but that is not the
question--he believes that truth and honour require him to leave his
post. There is something more involved which we might yet prevent. I
have been trying, but Louisa interrupted me--I don't know if you
realise fully what he intends. Gerald cannot cease to be a priest--he
will become a Catholic priest when he ceases to be Rector of
Wentworth--and that implies--"
"God bless my soul!" cried the bewildered Squire--he was silent for a
long time after he had uttered that benediction. He took out Gerald's
letter and read it over while the two walked on in silence under the
lime-trees, and the paper shook in his hands, notwithstanding all his
steadiness. When he spoke again, it was only after two or three
efforts to clear his voice. "I can't make out that he says _that_,
Frank--I don't see that _that's_ what he means," said Mr Wentworth, in
a fainter tone than usual; and then he continued, with more agitation,
"Louisa is a dear good soul, you know; but she's a bit of a fool, like
most women. She always takes the worst view--if she can get a good cry
out of anything, she will. It's she that's put this fancy into your
head, eh? You don't say you had it from Gerald himself? You don't mean
to tell me that? By Jove, sir!--by heaven, sir!" cried the excited
Squire, blazing up suddenly in a burst of passion, "he can't be any
son of mine--For any damnable Papistical madness to give up his wife!
Why, God bless us, he was a man, wasn't he, before he became a priest?
A priest! He's not a priest--he's a clergyman, and the Rector of
Wentworth. I can't believe it--I won't believe it!" said the head of
the house, with vehemence. "Tell me one of my sons is a sneak and a
traitor!--and if you weren't another of my sons, sir, I'd knock you
down for your pains." In the excitement of the moment Mr Wentworth
came full force against a projecting branch which he did not see, as
he spoke these words; but though the sudden blow half stunned him, he
did not stop in his vehement contradiction. "It can't be. I tell you
it can't--it shan't be, Frank!" cried the Squire. He would not pay any
attention to the Curate's anxieties, or accept the arm Frank offered,
though he could not deny feeling faint and giddy after the blow. It
took away all the colour from his ruddy face, and left him pale, with
a red welt across his forehead, and wonderfully unlike himself.
"Confound it! I told Miles to look after that tree weeks ago. If he
thinks I'll stand his carelessness, he's mistaken," said Mr Wentworth,
by way of relieving himself. He was a man who always eased his mind by
being angry with somebody when anything happened to put him out.
"My dear father," said the Curate as soon as it was practicable, "I
want you to listen to me and help me; there's only one thing to be
done that I can see. Gerald is in a state of high excitement, fit for
any martyrdom. We can't keep him back from one sacrifice, but by all
the force we can gather we must detain him from the other. He must be
shown that he can't abandon his natural duties. He was a man before he
was a priest, as you say; he can no more give up his duty to Louisa
than he can give up his own life. It is going on a false idea
altogether; but falsehood in anything except in argument could never
be named or dreamed of in connection with Gerald," said his brother,
with some emotion; "we all know that."
There was another pause of a few minutes, during which they walked on
side by side without even the heart to look at each other. "If it had
been Huxtable or Plumstead, or any other fool," burst forth the
Squire, after that interval, "but Gerald!" Huxtable was the husband of
the eldest Miss Wentworth, and Plumstead was the Squire's sister's
son, so the comparison was all in the family. "I suppose your aunt
Leonora would say such a thing was sent to bring down my pride and
keep me low," said Mr Wentworth, bitterly. "Jack being what he is,
was it anything but natural that I should be proud of Gerald? There
never was any evil in him, that I could see, from a child; but
crotchety, always crotchety, Frank. I can see it now. It must have
been their mother," said the Squire, meditatively; "she died very
young, poor girl! her character was not formed. As for _your_ dear
mother, my boy, she was always equal to an emergency; she would have
given us the best of advice, had she been spared to us this day. Mrs
Wentworth is absorbed in her nursery, as is natural, and I should not
care to consult her much on such a subject. But, Frank, whatever you
can do or say, trust to me to back you out," said the anxious father
of three families. "Your mother was the most sensible woman I ever
knew," he continued, with a patriarchal composure. "Nobody could ever
manage Jack and Gerald as she did. She'd have seen at a glance what to
do now. As for Jack, he is not assistance to anybody; but I consider
you very like your mother, Frank. If anybody can help Gerald, it will
be you. He has got into some ridiculous complications, you know--that
must be the explanation of it. You have only to talk to him, and clear
up the whole affair," said the Squire, recovering himself a little. He
believed in "talking to," like Louisa, and like most people who are
utterly incapable of talking to any purpose. He took some courage from
the thought, and recovered his colour a little. "There is the bell for
luncheon, and I am very glad of it," he said; "a glass of sherry will
set me all right. Don't say anything to alarm Mrs Wentworth. When
Gerald comes we'll retire to the library, and go into the matter
calmly, and between us we will surely be able to convince him. I'll
humour him, for my part, as far as my conscience will allow me. We
must not give in to him, Frank. He will give it up if we show a very
firm front and yield nothing," said the Squire, looking with an
unusually anxious eye in his son's face.
"For my part, I will not enter into the controversy between the
Churches," said the Curate; "it is mere waste of time. I must confine
myself to the one point. If he must forsake us, he must, and I can't
stop him: but he must not forsake his wife."
"Tut--it's impossible!" said the Squire; "it's not to be thought of
for a moment. You must have given undue importance to something that
was said. Things will turn out better than you think." They were very
nearly at the great entrance when these words were said, and Mr
Wentworth took out his handkerchief and held it to his forehead to
veil the mark, until he could explain it, from the anxious eye of his
wife. "If the worst should come to the worst, as you seem to think,"
he said, with a kind of sigh, "I should at least be able to provide
for you, Frank. Of course, the Rectory would go to you; and you don't
seem to have much chance of Skelmersdale, so far as I can learn.
Leonora's a very difficult person to deal with. God bless my soul!"
exclaimed the Squire--"depend upon it, she has had something to do
with this business of Gerald's. She's goaded him into it, with her
Low-Church ways. She's put poor Louisa up to worrying him; there's
where it is. I did not see how your brother could possibly have fallen
into such a blunder of his own accord. But come to luncheon; you must
be hungry. You will think the boys grown, Frank; and I must ask you
what you think, when you have a little leisure, of Cuthbert and Guy."
So saying, the Squire led the way into the house; he had been much
appalled by the first hint of this threatened calamity, and was
seriously distressed and anxious still; but he was the father of many
sons, and the misfortunes or blunders of one could not occupy all his
heart. And even the Curate, as he followed his father into the house,
felt that Louisa's words, so calmly repeated, "Of course, the Rectory
will go to you," went tingling to his heart like an arrow, painfully
recalling him, in the midst of his anxiety, to a sense of his own
interests and cares. Gerald was coming up the avenue at the moment
slowly, with all the feelings of a man going to the stake. He was
looking at everything round as a dying man might, not knowing what
terrible revolution of life might have happened before he saw them
again--
"He looked on hill, and sea, and shore,
As he might never see them more."
Life was darkened over to his preoccupied eyes, and the composure of
nature jarred upon him, as though it were carelessness and indifference
to the fate which he felt to be coming in the air. He thought nothing
less than that his father and brother were discussing him with hearts as
heavy and clouded as his own; for even he, in all his tolerance and
impartiality, did not make due account of the fact, that every man has
his own concerns next to him, close enough to ameliorate and lighten the
weight of his anxieties for others. The prospect was all gloom to
Gerald, who was the sufferer; but the others found gleams of comfort in
their own horizon, which threw reflected lights upon his; for perfect
sympathy is not, except in dreams. There was quite a joyful little
commotion at the luncheon table when Frank's arrival was discovered; and
his sisters were kissing him, and his young brothers shaking his hand
off, while Gerald came slowly up, with preoccupied, lingering steps,
underneath the murmurous limes. All kinds of strange miseries were
appearing to him as he pursued his way. Glimpses of scenes to come--a
dark phantasmagoria of anticipated pain. He saw his wife and his
children going away out of their happy house; he saw himself severed
from all human ties, among alien faces and customs, working out a hard
novitiate. What could he do? His heart, so long on the rack, was aching
with dull throbs of anguish, but he did not see any way of escape. He
was a priest by all the training, all the habits of his life; how could
he give up that service to which he was called before everything, the
most momentous work on earth? For ease, for happiness, for even sacred
love, could he defraud God of the service he had vowed, and go back to
secular work just at the moment when the true meaning of ecclesiastical
work seemed dawning upon him? He had decided that question before, but
it came back and back. His eyes were heavy with thought and conflict as
he went up to his father's house. All this was wearing out his strength,
and sapping his very life. The sooner it was over the better would it be
for all.