When Mr Wentworth entered Mrs Hadwin's garden in the dark, his first
glance up at the house showed him that a certain change had passed on
it also. The decorous little house had been turned inside out. The
windows of his own sitting-room were open, the blind drawn up to the
top, and in addition to his usual lamp some candles were flaring
wildly in the draught. He could see into the room as he paused at the
garden-door, and was able to distinguish that the table was still
covered as for dinner, and to catch the purple gleam of the light in
the claret-jug which occupied the place of honour; but nobody was
visible in the room. That wildly-illuminated and open apartment stood
in strange contrast with the rest of the house, where everything was
dark, save in Mrs Hadwin's own chamber. The Curate proceeded on his
way, after that moment's pause, with hasty and impatient steps. On the
way up he encountered Sarah the housemaid, who stopped in the middle
of the stairs to make a frightened little curtsy, and utter an alarmed
"La!" of recognition and surprise. But Sarah turned round as soon as
she had recovered herself, to say that her missis wanted very bad to
see Mr Wentworth as soon as he came home; but she was gone up to bed
now, and didn't he think it would be a pity to wake her up? The Curate
gave her only a little nod of general acquiescence, as he hurried on;
but felt, notwithstanding, that this prompt request, ready prepared
for his arrival, was a tacit protest against his guests, and
expression of disapproval. Mrs Hadwin was only his landlady, an old
woman, and not a particularly wise one, but her disapproval vexed the
Perpetual Curate. It was a kind of sign of the times--those times in
which it appeared that everybody was ready to turn upon him and
embarrass his path. He had forgotten all about his companion as he
hurried into the familiar room which was so little like itself, but
yet was somehow conscious with annoyance that the stranger followed
him through its half-shut door. The scene within was one which was
never effaced from Mr Wentworth's memory. There were several bottles
upon the table, which the poor Curate knew by sight, and which had
been collected in his little cellar more for the benefit of Wharfside
than of himself. Removed out of the current of air which was playing
freely through the apartment, was some one lying on a sofa, with
candles burning on a table beside him. He was in a dressing-gown, with
his shirt open at the throat, and his languid frame extended in
perfect repose to catch the refreshment of the breeze. Clouds of
languid smoke, which were too far out of the way to feel the draught
between the windows, curled over him: he had a cigar in one hand,
which he had just taken from his lips, and with which he was faintly
waving off a big night-moth which had been attracted by the lights;
and a French novel, unmistakable in its paper cover, had closed upon
the other. Altogether a more languid figure never lay at rest in
undisturbed possession of the most legitimate retirement. He had the
Wentworth hair, the golden-brown, which, like all their other family
features, even down to their illnesses, the race was proud of, and a
handsome silky beard. He had lived a hard life of pleasure and
punishment; but though he had reached middle age, there was not a hair
on the handsome reprobate's head which had changed out of its original
colour. He looked languidly up when the door opened, but did not stop
the delicate fence which he was carrying on against the moth, nor the
polyglot oaths which he was swearing at it softly half under his
breath.
"Frank, I suppose," he said, calmly, as the Curate came hastily
forward. "How d'ye do? I am very glad you've come back. The country
was very charming the first day, but that's a charm that doesn't last.
I suppose you've dined: or will you ring and order something?" he
said, turning slowly round on his sofa. "Accidente! the thing will
kill itself after all. Would you mind catching it in your handkerchief
before you sit down? But don't take away the candles. It's too late to
make any exertion," said the elegant prodigal, leaning back languidly
on his sofa; "but I assure you that light is half my life."
The Curate was tired, heated, and indignant. He lifted the candles
away from the table, and then put them back again, too much excited to
think of the moth. "Your arrival must have been very sudden," he said,
throwing himself into the nearest chair. "I was very much surprised by
your message. It looks inhospitable, but I see you make yourself quite
at home--"
"Perfectly," said the elder brother, resuming his cigar. "I always do.
It is much more agreeable for all parties. But I don't know how it is
that a man's younger brothers are always so rapid and unreasonable in
their movements. Instead of saving that unhappy insect, you have
precipitated its fate. Poor thing--and it had no soul," said the
intruder, with a tone of pathos. The scene altogether was a curious
one. Snugly sheltered from the draught, but enjoying the coolness of
the atmosphere which it produced, lay the figure on the sofa at
perfect ease and leisure, with the light shed brightly upon him, on
his shining beard, the white cool expanse of linen at his breast, and
the bright hues of his dressing-gown. Near him, fatigued, dusty,
indignant, and perplexed, sat the Curate, with the night air playing
upon him, and moving his disordered hair on his forehead; while at the
other end of the room hovered the stranger who had followed Mr
Wentworth--a broad, shabby, indistinct figure, who stood with his back
to the others, looking vaguely out of the window into the darkness.
Over these two the night air blew with no small force between the
open windows, making the candles on the centre table flare wildly, and
flapping the white tablecloth. An occasional puff from the cigar
floated now and then across the room. It was a pause before the storm.
"I was about to say," said the Perpetual Curate, "that though it might
seem inhospitable, the first thing I had to ask was, What brought you
here--and why did you send for me?"
"Don't be abrupt, pray," said Jack, taking his cigar from his mouth,
and slightly waving the hand that held it. "Don't let us plunge into
business all at once. You bring a sense of fatigue into the room with
you, and the atmosphere was delightful a little while ago. I flatter
myself I know how to enjoy the cool of the evening. Suppose you were
to--ah--refresh yourself a little," he said, with a disapproving
glance at his brother's dusty boots, "before we begin to talk of our
affairs."
The Curate of St Roque's got up from his chair, feeling that he had an
unchristian inclination to kick the heir of the Wentworths. As he
could not do that, he shut the window behind him emphatically, and
extinguished the flaring candles on the centre table. "I detest a
draught," said the Perpetual Curate, which, unfortunately, was not a
statement entirely founded on fact, though so far true in the present
instance that he hated anything originated by the intruder. "I have
hurried home in reply to your message, and I should be glad to know
what it means, now that I am here--what you are in trouble about--and
why you come to me--and what you have to do with him?"
"But you need not have deranged the temperature," said Jack.
"Impetuosity always distresses me. All these are questions which it
will take some time to answer. Let me persuade you, in the first
place, to make yourself comfortable. Don't mind me; I am at the crisis
of my novel, which is very interesting. I have just been thinking how
it might be adapted for the stage--there's a character that Fechter
could make anything of. Now, my dear fellow, don't stand on ceremony.
Take a bath and change your dress, and in the mean time there will be
time to cook something--the cookery here is not bad for the country.
After that we'll discuss all our news. I daresay our friend there is
in no hurry," said the elder brother, opening his book and puffing
slowly towards the Curate the languid smoke of his cigar.
"But, by Jove, I _am_ in a hurry, though," said that nameless
individual, coming forward. "It's all very well for you: you put a man
up to everything that's dangerous, and then you leave him in the
lurch, and say it don't matter. I daresay it don't matter to you. All
that you've done has been to share the profit--you've nothing to do
with the danger; but I'm savage to-night, and I don't mean to stand it
any more," said the stranger, his great chest expanding with a panting
breath. He, too, looked as if he would have liked to seize the languid
spectator in his teeth and shake some human feeling into him. Jack
Wentworth raised his eyebrows and looked at him, as he might have
looked at a wild beast in a rage.
"Sit down, savage, and be quiet," he said. "Why should I trouble
myself about you?--any fool could get into your scrape. I am not in
the habit of interfering in a case of common crime. What I do, I do
out of pity," he continued, with an air of superiority, quite
different from his tone to his brother. But this look, which had
answered before, was not successful to-night.
"By Jove, I _am_ savage!" said the other, setting his teeth, "and I
know enough of your ways to teach you different behaviour. The parson
has treated me like a gentleman--like what I used to be, though he
don't like me; but you!--By Jove! It was only my own name I signed,
after all," he continued, after a pause, lowering his voice; "but you,
you blackleg--"
"Stop a little," said the Curate, rising up. "Though you seem both to
have forgotten it, this is my room. I don't mean to have any
altercations here. I have taken you in for the sake of your--family,"
said Mr Wentworth, with a momentary gasp, "and you have come because
you are my brother. I don't deny any natural claims upon me; but I am
master of my own house and my own leisure. Get up, Jack, and tell me
what you want. When I understand what it is, you can lounge at your
will; but in the mean time get up and explain: and as for you,
Wodehouse--"
Jack Wentworth faced round on his sofa, and then, with a kind of
involuntary motion, slid his feet to the ground. He looked at his
brother with extreme amazement as he closed his novel and tossed away
the end of his cigar. "It's much better not to mention names," he
said, in a half-apologetic way. "Our friend here is under a temporary
cloud. His name, in fact, is--Smith, I think." But as he spoke he sat
upright, a little startled to find that Frank, whom he remembered only
as a lad, was no longer to be coerced and concussed. As for the other,
he came forward with the alacrity of a man who began to see some hope.
"By Jove, my name _is_ Wodehouse, though," he said, in the argumentative
tone which seemed habitual to him; his voice came low and grumbling
through his beard. He was not of the class of triumphant sinners,
whatever wickedness he might be capable of. To tell the truth, he had
long, long ago fallen out of the butterfly stage of dissipation, and had
now to be the doer of dirty work, despised and hustled about by such men
as Jack Wentworth. The wages of sin had long been bitter enough, though
he had neither any hope of freeing himself, nor any wish to do so; but
he took up a grumbling tone of self-assertion as soon as he had an
opening. "The parson treats me like a gentleman--like what I used to
be," he repeated, coming into the light, and drawing a chair towards the
table. "My name is Wodehouse--it's my own name that I have signed after
all, by Jove!" said the unlucky prodigal. It seemed to give him a little
comfort to say that over again, as if to convince himself.
"As for Wodehouse, I partly understand what he has done," said the
Curate. "It appears likely that he has killed his father, by the way;
but I suppose you don't count that. It is forgery in the mean time; I
understand as much."
"It's my name as well as his, by Jove!" interrupted, hastily, the
stranger, under his breath.
"Such strong terms are unnecessary," said Jack; "everybody knows that
bills are drawn to be renewed, and nursed, and taken care of. We've
had a great failure in luck as it happens, and these ones have come
down to this deuced place; and the old fellow, instead of paying them
like a gentleman, has made a row, and dropped down dead, or something.
I suppose you don't know any more than the women have told you. The
old man made a row in the office, and went off in fire and flame, and
gave up our friend here to his partner's tender mercies. I sent for
you, as you've taken charge of him. I suppose you have your reasons.
This is an unlikely corner to find him in, and I suppose he couldn't
be safer anywhere. That's about the state of the case. I came down to
look after him, out of kind feeling," said the heir of the Wentworths.
"If you don't mean to eat any dinner, have a cigar."
"And what have you to do with each other? what is the connection
between you?" said the Curate of St Roque's. "I have my reasons, as
you say, for taking an interest in him--but you--"
"I am only your elder brother," said Jack, shrugging his shoulders and
resuming his place on the sofa. "We understand that difference.
Business connection--that's all," he said, leisurely selecting another
cigar from his case. When he had lighted it, he turned round and fixed
his eyes upon the stranger. "We don't want any harm to happen to him,"
he said, with a little emphasis. "I have come here to protect him. If
he keeps quiet and doesn't show, it will blow over. The keenest spy in
the place could scarcely suspect him to be here. I have come entirely
on his account--much to my own disgust--and yours," said the
exquisite, with another shrug. He laid back his head and looked up at
the ceiling, contemplating the fragrant wreaths of smoke with the air
of a man perfectly at his ease. "We don't mean him to come to any
harm," said Jack Wentworth, and stretched out his elegant limbs on the
sofa, like a potentate satisfied that his protection was enough to
make any man secure.
"I'm too much in their secrets, by Jove!" said poor Wodehouse, in his
beard. "I _do_ know their secrets, though they talk so big. It's not
any consideration for me. It's to save themselves, by Jove, that's
what it is!" cried the indignant drudge, of whom his superior deigned
to take no notice. As for Mr Wentworth, he rose from his seat in a
state of suppressed indignation, which could not express itself merely
in words.
"May I ask what share I am expected to play in the drama?" he asked,
pushing his chair aside in his excitement. The elder brother turned
instinctively, and once more slid his feet to the ground. They looked
at each other for a moment; the Curate, pale with a passion which he
could not conceal, had something in his eyes which brought shame even
to Jack Wentworth's face.
"You can betray him if you like," he said, sulkily. "I have
no--particular interest in the matter; but in that case he had
better make the best of his time and get away. You hear?" said the
master-spirit, making a sign to Wodehouse. He had roused himself up, and
looked now like a feline creature preparing for a spring--his eyes were
cast down, but under the eyelids he followed his brother's movements
with vigilant observation. "If you like, you can betray him," he
repeated, slowly, understanding, as bad men so often do, the
generosities of the nature to which his own was so much opposed.
And perhaps there was an undue degree of exasperation in the indignant
feelings which moved Mr Wentworth. He kicked off his dusty boots with
an indecorum quite unusual to him, and hunted up his slippers out of
the adjoining room with perhaps an unnecessary amount of noise and
haste. Then he went and looked out of the window into the serene
summer darkness and the dewy garden, getting a little fresh air upon
his heated face. Last of all he came back, peremptory and decided. "I
shall not betray him," said the Perpetual Curate; "but I will have no
further schemes concocted nor villany carried on in my house. If I
consent to shield him, and, if possible, save him from the law, it is
neither for his sake--nor yours," said the indignant young man. "I
suppose it is no use saying anything about your life; but both of you
have fathers very like to die of this--"
"My dear fellow," said Jack Wentworth, "we have gone through that
phase ages ago. Don't be so much after date. I have brought down my
father's grey hairs, &c., a hundred times; and, I daresay, so has he.
Don't treat us as if we were in the nursery--a parson of advanced
views like you should have something a little more novel to say."
"And so I have," said Mr Wentworth, with a heightened colour. "There
are capital rooms at the Blue Boar, which you will find very
comfortable, I am sure. I don't remember that we have ever been more
than acquaintances; and to take possession of a man's house in his
absence argues a high degree of friendship, as you are aware. It will
be with difficulty that I shall find room for myself to-night; but
to-morrow, I trust, if business requires you to remain in Carlingford,
you will be able to find accommodation at the Blue Boar."
The elder brother grew very red all over his face. "I will go at
once," he said, with a little start; and then he took a second
thought. "It is a poor sort of way of winning a victory," he said, in
contemptuous tones, after he had overcome his first impulse; "but if
you choose that, it is no matter to me. I'll go to-morrow, as you
say--to pack up to-night is too much for my energies. In the mean time
it won't disturb you, I hope, if I go on with my novel. I don't
suppose any further civilities are necessary between you and me," said
Jack, once more putting up his feet on the sofa. He arranged himself
with an indifference which was too genuine for bravado, opening his
book, and puffing his cigar with great coolness. He did all but turn
his back upon the others, and drew the little table nearer to him, in
utter disregard of the fact that the Curate was leaning his arm on it.
In short, he retired from the contest with a kind of grandeur, with
his cigar and his novel, and the candles which lighted him up
placidly, and made him look like the master of the house and the
situation. There was a pause for some minutes, during which the others
looked on--Mr Wentworth with a perfectly unreasonable sense of defeat,
and poor Wodehouse with that strange kind of admiration which an
unsuccessful good-for-nothing naturally feels for a triumphant rascal.
They were in the shade looking on, and he in the light enjoying
himself calmly in his way. The sight put an end to various twinges of
repentance in the bosom of the inferior sinner. Jack Wentworth, lying
on the sofa in superb indifference, victorious over all sense of
right, did more to confirm his humble admirer in the life which he had
almost made up his mind to abandon, than even his own inclination
towards forbidden pleasure. He was dazzled by the success of his
principal; and in comparison with that instructive sight, his father's
probable deathbed, his sisters' tears, and even his own present
discomfort, faded into insignificance. What Jack Wentworth was, Tom
Wodehouse could never be; but at least he could follow his great model
humbly and afar off. These sentiments made him receive but sulkily the
admonitions of the Curate, when he led the way out of the preoccupied
sitting-room; for Mr Wentworth was certainly not the victor in this
passage of arms.
"I will do what I can to help you out of this," said the Curate,
pausing within the door of Wodehouse's room, "for the sake of
your--friends. But look here, Wodehouse; I have not preached to you
hitherto, and I don't mean to do so now. When a man has done a crime,
he is generally past preaching. The law will punish you for forging
your father's name--"
"It's _my_ name as well as his, by Jove!" interrupted the culprit,
sullenly; "I've a right to sign it wherever I please."
"But the law," said Mr Wentworth, with emphasis, "has nothing to do
with the breaking of your father's heart. If he dies, think whether
the recollection will be a comfortable one. I will save you, if I can,
and there is time, though I am compromised already, and it may do me
serious injury. If you get free and are cleared from this, will you go
away and break off your connection with--yes, you are quite right--I
mean with my brother, whatever the connection may be? I will only
exert myself for you on condition that you promise. You will go away
somehow, and break off your old habits, and try if it is possible to
begin anew?"
Wodehouse paused before he answered. The vision of Jack in the
Curate's sitting-room still dazzled him. "You daren't say as much to
your brother as you say to me," he replied, after a while, in his
sulky way; "but I'm a gentleman, by Jove, as well as he is." And he
threw himself down in a chair, and bit his nails, and grumbled into
his beard. "It's hard to ask a fellow to give up his liberty," he
said, without lifting his eyes. Mr Wentworth, perhaps, was a little
contemptuous of the sullen wretch who already had involved him in so
much annoyance and trouble.
"You can take your choice," he said; "the law will respect your
liberty less than I shall;" and all the Curate's self-control could
not conceal a certain amount of disdain.
"By Jove!" said Wodehouse, lifting up his eyes, "if the old man should
die, you'd change your tone;" and then he stopped short and looked
suspiciously at the Curate. "There's no will, and I'm the heir," he
said, with sullen braggadocio. Mr Wentworth was still young, and this
look made him sick with disgust and indignation.
"Then you can take your chance," he said, impatiently, making a hasty
step to the door. He would not return, though his ungrateful guest
called him back, but went away, much excited and disgusted, to see if
the fresh air outside would restore his composure. On his way
down-stairs, he again met Sarah, who was hovering about in a restless
state of curiosity. "I've made a bed for you, please, sir, in the little
dressing-room," said Sarah; "and, please, Cook wants to know, wouldn't
you have anything to eat?" The question reminded Mr Wentworth that he
had eaten nothing since luncheon, which he took in his father's house.
Human nature, which can bear great blows with elasticity so wonderful,
is apt to be put out, as everybody knows, by their most trifling
accessories, and a man naturally feels miserable when he had had no
dinner, and has not a place to shelter him while he snatches a necessary
mouthful. "Never mind; all the rooms are occupied to-night," said the
Perpetual Curate, feeling thoroughly wretched. But Cook and Sarah had
arranged all that, being naturally indignant that their favourite
clergyman should be put "upon" by his disorderly and unexpected guests.
"I have set your tray, sir, in missis's parlour," said Sarah, opening
the door to that sanctuary; and it is impossible to describe the sense
of relief with which the Perpetual Curate flung himself down on Mrs
Hadwin's sofa, deranging a quantity of cushions and elaborate
crochet-work draperies without knowing it. Here at least he was safe
from intrusion. But his reflections were far from being agreeable as
he ate his beef-steak. Here he was, without any fault of his own,
plunged into the midst of a complication of disgrace and vice. Perhaps
already the name of Lucy Wodehouse was branded with her brother's
shame; perhaps still more overwhelming infamy might overtake, through
that means, the heir and the name of the Wentworths. And for himself,
what he had to do was to attempt with all his powers to defeat
justice, and save from punishment a criminal for whom it was
impossible to feel either sympathy or hope. When he thought of Jack
up-stairs on the sofa over his French novel, the heart of the Curate
burned within him with indignation and resentment; and his disgust at
his other guest was, if less intense, an equally painful sensation. It
was hard to waste his strength, and perhaps compromise his character,
for such men as these; but on the other hand he saw his father, with
that malady of the Wentworths hanging over his head, doing his best to
live and last, like a courageous English gentleman as he was, for the
sake of "the girls" and the little children, who had so little to
expect from Jack; and poor stupid Mr Wodehouse dying of the crime
which assailed his own credit as well as his son's safety. The Curate
of St Roque's drew a long breath, and raised himself up unconsciously
to his full height as he rose to go up-stairs. It was he against the
world at the moment, as it appeared. He set himself to his uncongenial
work with a heart that revolted against the evil cause of which he was
about to constitute himself the champion. But for the Squire, who had
misjudged him--for Lucy who had received him with such icy smiles, and
closed up her heart against his entrance;--sometimes there is a kind
of bitter sweetness in the thought of spending love and life in one
lavish and prodigal outburst upon those to whom our hearts are bound,
but whose affections make us no return.