While matters were thus arranging themselves in the ideas at least of
the two sisters whose prospects had been so suddenly changed,
explanations of a very varied kind were going on in the house of the
Miss Wentworths. It was a very full house by this time, having been
invaded and taken possession of by the "family" in a way which entirely
obliterated the calmer interests and occupations of the habitual
inhabitants. The three ladies had reached the stage of life which knows
no personal events except those of illness and death; and the presence
of Jack Wentworth, of Frank and Gerald, and even of Louisa, reduced them
altogether to the rank of spectators, the audience, or at the utmost the
chorus, of the drama; though this was scarcely the case with Miss Dora,
who kept her own room, where she lay on the sofa, and received visits,
and told the story of her extraordinary adventure, the only adventure of
her life. The interest of the household centred chiefly, however, in the
dining-room, which, as being the least habitable apartment in the house,
was considered to be most adapted for anything in the shape of business.
On the way from the church to Miss Wentworth's house the Curate had
given his father a brief account of all the events which had led to his
present position; but though much eased in his mind, and partly
satisfied, the Squire was not yet clear how it all came about. His
countenance was far from having regained that composure, which indeed
the recent course of events in the family had pretty nearly driven out
of his life. His fresh light-coloured morning dress, with all its little
niceties, and the fresh colour which even anxiety could not drive away
from his cheeks, were somehow contradicted in their sentiment of
cheerfulness by the puckers in his forehead and the harassed look of his
face. He sat down in the big leathern chair by the fireplace, and looked
round him with a sigh, and the air of a man who wonders what will be the
next vexation. "I'd like to hear it over again, Frank," said the Squire.
"My mind is not what it used to be; I don't say I ever was clever, like
you young fellows, but I used to understand what was said to me. Now I
seem to require to hear everything twice over; perhaps it is because I
have had myself to say the same things over again a great many times
lately," he added, with a sigh of weariness. Most likely his eye fell on
Gerald as he said so; at all events, the Rector of Wentworth moved sadly
from where he was standing and went to the window, where he was out of
his father's range of vision. Gerald's looks, his movements, every
action of his, seemed somehow to bear a symbolic meaning at this crisis
in his life. He was no longer in any doubt; he had made up his mind. He
looked like a martyr walking to his execution, as he crossed the room;
and the Squire looked after him, and once more breathed out of his
impatient breast a heavy short sigh. Louisa, who had placed herself in
the other great chair at the other side of the forlorn fireplace, from
which, this summer afternoon, there came no cheerful light, put up her
handkerchief to her eyes and began to cry with half-audible sobs--which
circumstances surrounding him were far from being encouraging to Frank
as he entered anew into his own story--a story which he told with many
interruptions. The Squire, who had once "sworn by Frank," had now a
terrible shadow of distrust in his mind. Jack was here on the spot, of
whom the unfortunate father knew more harm than he had ever told, and
the secret dread that he had somehow corrupted his younger brother came
like a cold shadow over Mr Wentworth's mind. He could not slur over any
part of the narrative, but cross-examined his son to the extent of his
ability, with an anxious inquisition into all the particulars. He was
too deeply concerned to take anything for granted. He sat up in his
chair with those puckers in his forehead, with that harassed look in his
eyes, making an anxious, vigilant, suspicious investigation, which was
pathetic to behold. If the defendant, who was thus being examined on his
honour, had been guilty, the heart of the judge would have broken; but
that was all the more reason for searching into it with jealous
particularity, and with a suspicion which kept always gleaming out of
his troubled eyes in sudden anxious glances, saying, "You are guilty?
Are you guilty?" with mingled accusations and appeals. The accused,
being innocent, felt this suspicion more hard to bear than if he had
been a hundred times guilty.
"I understand a little about this fellow Wodehouse," said the Squire;
"but what I want to know is, why you took him in? What did you take
him in for, sir, at first? Perhaps I could understand the rest if you
would satisfy me of that."
"I took him in," said the Curate, rather slowly, "because his sister
asked me. She threw him upon my charity--she told me the danger he was
in--"
"What danger was he in?" asked the Squire.
The Curate made a pause, and as he paused Mr Wentworth leaned forward
in his chair, with another pucker in his forehead and a still sharper
gleam of suspicion in his eyes. "His father had been offended time
after time in the most serious way. This time he had threatened to
give him up to justice. I can't tell you what he had done, because it
would be breaking my trust--but he had made himself obnoxious to the
law," said Frank Wentworth. "To save him from the chance of being
arrested, his sister brought him to me."
The Squire's hand shook a good deal as he took out his handkerchief
and wiped his forehead. "Perhaps it would be the best way if one had
not too much regard for the honour of the family," he said,
tremulously, like a man under a sudden temptation; "but the sister,
sir, why did she bring him to you?" he added, immediately after, with
renewed energy. Mr Wentworth was not aware that, while he was
speaking, his eldest son had come into the room. He had his back to
the door, and he did not see Jack, who stood rather doubtfully on the
threshold, with a certain shade of embarrassment upon his ordinary
composure. "It is not everybody that a woman would confide her
brother's life to," said the Squire. "Who is the sister? Is she--is
there any--any entanglement that I don't know of? It will be better
for all of us if you tell me plainly," said the old man, with a
querulous sound in his voice. He forgot the relationship of his own
girls to Jack, and groaned within himself at what appeared almost
certain evidence that the sister of a criminal like Wodehouse had got
possession of Frank.
"Miss Wodehouse is about the same age as my aunt Dora," said the
Curate. It was an exaggeration which would have gone to the poor
lady's heart, but Frank Wentworth, in the unconscious insolence of his
youth, was quite unaware and careless of the difference. Then he
paused for a moment with an involuntary smile. "But I am a clergyman,
sir," he continued, seriously. "If a man in my position is good for
anything, it is his business to help the helpless. I could do no good
in any other way--I took him into my house."
"Frank," said the Squire, "I beg your pardon. I believe in my heart
you're true and honest. If I were not driven out of my senses by one
thing and another," said Mr Wentworth, with bitterness. "They make me
unjust to you, sir--unjust to you! But never mind; go on. Why didn't
you tell these fellows what you've told me? That would have settled
the business at once, without any more ado."
"Mr Morgan is a great deal too much prejudiced against me to believe
anything I said. I thought it better to let him prove to himself his
own injustice; and another still more powerful reason--" said the
Curate.
"Stop, sir, stop; I can't follow you to more than one thing at a time.
Why is Mr Morgan prejudiced against you?" said the Squire, once more
sitting upright and recommencing his examination.
Frank Wentworth laughed in spite of himself, though he was far from
being amused. "I know no reason, except that I have worked in his
parish without his permission," he answered, briefly enough, "for
which he threatened to have me up before somebody or other--Dr
Lushington, I suppose, who is the new Council of Trent, and settles
all our matters for us nowadays," said the Curate, not without a
little natural scorn, at which, however, his father groaned.
"There is nothing to laugh at in Dr Lushington," said the Squire. "He
gives you justice, at all events, which you parsons never give each
other, you know. You ought not to have worked in the Rector's parish,
sir, without his permission. It's like shooting in another man's
grounds. However, that's not my business;--and the other reason, sir?"
said Mr Wentworth, with his anxious look.
"My dear father," said the Curate, touched by the anxiety in the
Squire's face, and sitting down by him with a sudden impulse, "I have
done nothing which either you or I need be ashamed of. I am grieved
that you should think it necessary to examine me so closely. Wodehouse
is a rascal, but I had taken charge of him; and as long as it was
possible to shield him, I felt bound to do so. I made an appeal to his
honour, if he had any, and to his fears, which are more to be depended
on, and gave him until noon to-day to consider it. Here is his note,
which was given me in the vestry; and now you know the whole business,
and how it is that I postponed the conclusion till to-night."
The Squire put on his spectacles with a tremulous hand to read the note
which his son gave him. The room was very still while he read it, no
sound interrupting him except an occasional sniff from Louisa, who was
in a permanent state of whimpering, and, besides, had ceased to be
interested in Frank's affairs. Jack Wentworth, standing in the
background behind the Squire's chair, had the whole party before him,
and studied them keenly with thoughts which nobody guessed at. Gerald
was still standing by the window, leaning on it with his face only half
turned to the others. Was he thinking of the others? was he still one of
them? or was he saying his office from some invisible breviary
abstracted into another life? That supposition looked the most like
truth. Near him was his wife, who had thrown herself, a heap of bright
fluttering muslin, into the great chair, and kept her handkerchief to
her red eyes. She had enough troubles of her own to occupy her, poor
soul! Just at that moment it occurred to her to think of the laburnum
berries in the shrubbery at the Rectory, which, it was suddenly borne in
upon her, would prove fatal to one or other of the children in her
absence;--the dear Rectory which she had to leave so soon! "And Frank
will have it, of course," Louisa said to herself, "and marry somebody;"
and then she thought of the laburnum berries in connection with his
problematical children, not without a movement of satisfaction. Opposite
to her was the Squire, holding Wodehouse's epistle in a hand which shook
a little, and reading aloud slowly as he could make it out. The note was
short and insolent enough. While it was being read, Jack Wentworth, who
was not easily discomposed, grew red and restless. He had not dictated
it certainly, nor even suggested the wording of the epistle; but it was
he who, half in scorn and half in pity of the vagabond's terrors, had
reassured Wodehouse, and convinced him that it was only the punishments
of public opinion which the Curate could bring upon him. Hardened as
Jack was, he could not but be conscious that thus to stand in his
brother's way was a shabby business enough, and to feel that he himself
and his protege cut a very poor figure in presence of the manful old
Squire with all his burdens, and of Frank, who had, after all, nothing
to explain which was not to his honour. Notwithstanding that he was at
the present moment his brother's adversary, actually working against him
and prolonging his difficulties, an odd kind of contempt and indignation
against the fools who could doubt Frank's honour possessed the prodigal
at the moment. "A parcel of asses," he said to himself; and so stood and
listened to Wodehouse's little note of defiance, which, but for his
prompting, the sullen vagabond would never have dared to send to his
former protector. The letter itself was as follows:--
"I have consulted my friends about what you said to-day, and they tell
me it is d----d nonsense. You can't do me any harm; and I don't mean
to get myself into any scrape for you. You can do what you like--I
shan't take any notice. Your love affairs are no business of
mine.--Yours truly,
"T. WODEHOUSE"
Mr Wentworth threw the miserable scrawl on the table. "The fellow is a
scoundrel," said the Squire; "he does not seem to have a spark of
gratitude. You've done a deal too much for him already; and if the
sister is as old as Dora--" he continued, after a long pause, with a
half-humorous relaxation of his features. He was too much worn out to
smile.
"Yes," said the Curate. The young man was sensible of a sudden flush
and heat, but did not feel any inclination to smile. Matters were very
serious just then with Frank Wentworth. He was about to shake himself
free of one vexation, no doubt; but at this moment, when Lucy
Wodehouse was homeless and helpless, he had nothing to offer her, nor
any prospects even which he dared ask her to share with him. This was
no time to speak of the other sister, who was not as old as Miss Dora.
He was more than ever the Perpetual Curate now. Perhaps, being a
clergyman, he ought not to have 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,
rising into a flush of energy, "who has not only deserted his post,
but deserted it secretly, Frank. God bless my soul! don't speak to me,
sir; I tell you he's gone over to the enemy as much as Charley would
have done if he had deserted at the Alma--and done it when nobody knew
or was thinking. I used to be thought a man of honour in my day," said
Mr Wentworth, bitterly; "and it's a mean thing to say it came by their
mother's side. There's Jack--"
The eldest son roused himself up at the mention of his own name.
Notwithstanding all his faults, he was not a man to stand behind backs
and listen to what was said of him. He came forward with his usual
ease, though a close observer might have detected a flush on his face.
"I am here, sir," said the heir. "I cannot flatter myself you will
have much pleasure in seeing me; but I suppose I have still a right to
be considered one of the family." The Squire, who had risen to his
feet, and was standing leaning against the table when Jack advanced,
returned to his chair and sat down as his eldest son confronted him.
They had not met for years, and the shock was great. Mr Wentworth put
his hand to his cravat and pulled at it with an instinctive movement.
The old man was still feeble from his late illness, and apprehensive
of a return of the disease of the Wentworths. He restrained himself,
however, with force so passionate that Jack did not guess at the
meaning of the gasp which, before the Squire was able to speak to him,
convulsed his throat, and made Frank start forward to offer assistance
which his father impatiently rejected. The Squire made, indeed, a
great effort to speak with dignity. He looked from one to another of
his tall sons as he propped himself up by the arms of his chair.
"You are the most important member of the family," said Mr Wentworth;
"it is long since you have been among us, but that is not our fault.
If things had been different, I should have been glad of your advice
as a man of the world. Anyhow, I can't wish you to be estranged from
your brothers," said the Squire. It was all any one could say. The
heir of Wentworth was not to be denounced or insulted among his
kindred, but he could not be taken to their bosom. Perhaps the
reception thus given him was more galling than any other could have
been to Jack Wentworth's pride. He stood at the table by himself
before his father, feeling that there existed no living relations
between himself and any one present. He had keen intellectual
perceptions, and could recognise the beauty of honour and worth as
well as most people; and the contrast between himself and the others
who surrounded him presented itself in a very forcible light to Jack.
Instead of Gerald and Frank, Wodehouse was _his_ allotted companion.
For that once he was bitter, notwithstanding his habitual good-humour.
"Yes," he said; "it would be a pity to estrange me from my brothers.
We are, on the whole, a lucky trio. I, whom my relations are civil to;
and Frank, who is not acquitted yet, though he seems so confident; and
Gerald, who has made the greatest mistake of all--"
"Jack," said the Curate, "nobody wants to quarrel with you. You've
dealt shabbily by me, but I do not mind. Only talk of things you
understand--don't talk of Gerald."
For a moment Jack Wentworth was roused almost to passion. "What is
Gerald that I should not understand him?" said Jack; "he and I are the
original brood. You are all a set of interlopers, the rest of you.
What is Gerald that I should not talk of him? In the world, my dear
Frank," continued the heir, superciliously, "as the Squire himself
will testify, a man is not generally exempted from criticism because
he is a parson. Gerald is--"
"I am a simple Catholic layman, nothing more," said Gerald; "not worth
criticism, having done nothing. I am aware I am as good as dead. There
is no reason why Jack should not talk if it pleases him. It will make
no difference to me."
"And yet," said Frank, "it is only the other day that you told us you
were nothing if not a priest."
Gerald turned upon him with a look of melancholy reproach that went to
the Curate's heart. "It is true I said so," he replied, and then he
made a pause, and the light died out of his pale face. "Don't bring up
the ghosts of my dead battles, Frank. I said so only the other day.
But it is the glory of the true Church," said the convert, with a
sudden glow which restored colour for a moment to his face, "to
restrain and subdue the last enemy, the will of man. I am content to
be nothing, as the saints were. The fight has been hard enough, but I
am not ashamed of the victory. When the law of the Church and the
obedience of the saints ordain me to be nothing, I consent to it.
There is nothing more to say."
"And this is how it is to be!" cried Louisa. "He knows what is coming,
and he does not care--and none of you will interfere or speak to him!
It is not as if he did not know what would happen. He tells you
himself that he will be nothing; and even if _he_ can put up with it
after being a man of such consideration in the county, how am _I_ to
put up with it? We have always been used to the very best society,"
said poor Louisa, with tears. "The Duke himself was not more thought
of; and now he tells you he is to be nothing!" Mrs Wentworth stopped
to dry her eyes with tremulous haste. "_He_ may not mind," said
Louisa, "for at least he is having his own way. It is all very well
for a man, who can do as he pleases; but it is his poor wife who will
have to suffer. I don't know who will visit me after it's all over,
and people will give over asking us if we don't ask them again; and
how can we ever have anybody, with five children--or more--and only a
few hundreds a-year? Oh, Frank, it kills me to think of it. Don't you
think you might speak to him again?" she whispered, stretching up to
his ear, when Gerald, with a sigh, had gone back to his window. The
Squire, too, cast an appealing glance at his younger son.
"It is all true enough that she says," said Mr Wentworth. "She mayn't
understand _him_, Frank, but she's right enough in what she's saying.
If things were different between your brother and me, I'd ask his
advice," said the Squire, with a sigh. He gave a longing look at his
eldest son, who stood with his usual ease before the fireplace.
Matters had gone a great deal too far between the father and son to
admit of the usual displeasure of an aggrieved parent--all that was
over long ago; and Mr Wentworth could not restrain a certain melting
of the heart towards his first-born. "He's not what I could wish, but
he's a man of the world, and might give us some practical advice,"
said the Squire, with his anxious looks. Of what possible advantage
advice, practical or otherwise, could have been in the circumstances,
it was difficult to see; but the Squire was a man of simple mind, and
still believed in the suggestions of wisdom. He still sat in the
easy-chair, looking wistfully at Jack, and with a certain faith that
matters might even yet be mended, if the counsel of his eldest son, as
a man of the world, could be had and could be trusted; when Frank, who
had an afternoon service at Wharfside, had to leave the family
committee. Gerald, who roused up when his younger brother mentioned
the business he was going upon, looked at Frank almost as wistfully as
his father looked at Jack. "It may be the last time," he said to
himself; "if you'll let me, I'll go with you, Frank;" and so the
little conclave was broken up. The people in Prickett's Lane were
greatly impressed by the aspect of Gerald Wentworth, as he went,
silent and pale, by his brother's side, down the crowded pavement.
They thought it must be a bishop at least who accompanied the Curate
of St Roque's; and the women gathered at a little distance and made
their comments, as he stood waiting for his brother after the service.
"He don't look weakly nor sickly no more nor the clergyman," said one;
"but he smiles at the little uns for all the world like my man smiled
the night he was took away." "Smilin' or not smilin'," said another,
"I don't see as it makes no matter; but I'd give a deal to know what
Elsworthy and them as stands by Elsworthy can say after that." "Maybe,
then, he'd give the poor fatherless children a blessing afore he'd
go," suggested a poor Irish widow, who, having been much under Mr
Wentworth's hands "in her trouble," was not quite sure now what faith
she professed, or at least which Church she belonged to. Such was the
universal sentiment of Prickett's Lane. Meanwhile Gerald stood silent,
and looked with pathetic, speechless eyes at the little crowd. He was
no priest now--he was shorn of the profession which had been his life.
His hope of being able to resign all things for Christ's sake had
failed him. Too wary and politic to maintain in a critical age and
country the old licence of the ages of Faith, even his wife's consent,
could he have obtained it, would not have opened to the convert the
way into the priesthood. A greater trial had been required of him; he
was nothing, a man whose career was over. He stood idly, in a kind of
languor, looking on while the Curate performed the duties of his
office--feeling like a man whom sickness had reduced to the last stage
of life, and for whom no earthly business remained; while, at the same
time, his aspect struck awe, as that of a bishop at the least, to the
imagination of Prickett's Lane.