"Now, Mr Wodehouse," said Jack Wentworth, "it appears that you and I
have a word to say to each other." They had all risen when the other
gentlemen followed Mr Morgan out of the room, and those who remained
stood in a group surrounding the unhappy culprit, and renewing his
impression of personal danger. When he heard himself thus addressed,
he backed against the wall, and instinctively took one of the chairs
and placed it before him. His furtive eye sought the door and the
window, investigating the chances of escape. When he saw that there
was none, he withdrew still a step further back, and stood at bay.
"By Jove! I aint going to stand all this," said Wodehouse; "as if
every fellow had a right to bully me--it's more than flesh and blood
can put up with. I don't care for that old fogey that's gone
up-stairs; but, by Jove! I won't stand any more from men that eat my
dinners, and win my money, and--"
Jack Wentworth made half a step forward with a superb smile--"My good
fellow, you should never reproach a man with his good actions," he said;
"but at the same time, having eaten your dinners, as you describe, I
have a certain claim on your gratitude. We have had some--a--business
connection--for some years. I don't say you have reason to be actually
grateful for that; but, at least, it brought you now and then into the
society of gentlemen. A man who robs a set of women, and leaves the poor
creature he has ruined destitute, is a sort of cur we have nothing to
say to," said the heir of the Wentworths, contemptuously. "We do not
pretend to be saints, but we are not blackguards; that is to say," said
Jack, with a perfectly calm and harmonious smile, "not in theory, nor in
our own opinion. The fact accordingly is, my friend, that you must
choose between _us_ and those respectable meannesses of yours. By Jove!
the fellow ought to have been a shopkeeper, and as honest as--Diogenes,"
said Jack. He stood looking at his wretched associate with the
overwhelming impertinence of a perfectly well-bred man, no way
concealing the contemptuous inspection with which his cool eyes
travelled over the disconcerted figure from top to toe, seeing and
exaggerating all its tremors and clumsy guiltiness. The chances are, had
Jack Wentworth been in Wodehouse's place, he would have been master of
the position as much as now. He was not shocked nor indignant like his
brothers. He was simply contemptuous, disdainful, not so much of the
wickedness as of the clumsy and shabby fashion in which it had been
accomplished. As for the offender, who had been defiant in his sulky
fashion up to this moment, his courage oozed out at his finger-ends
under Jack Wentworth's eye.
"I am my own master," he stammered, "nowadays. I aint to be dictated
to--and I shan't be, by Jove! As for Jack Wentworth, he's well known
to be neither more nor less--"
"Than what, Mr Wodehouse?" said the serene and splendid Jack. "Don't
interest yourself on my account, Frank. This is my business at
present. If you have any prayer-meetings in hand, we can spare
you--and don't forget our respectable friend in your supplications.
Favour us with your definition of Jack Wentworth, Mr Wodehouse. He is
neither more nor less--?"
"By Jove! I aint going to stand it," cried Wodehouse; "if a fellow's
to be driven mad, and insulted, and have his money won from him, and
made game of--not to say tossed about as I've been among 'em, and made
a drudge of, and set to do the dirty work," said the unfortunate
subordinate, with a touch of pathos in his hoarse voice;--"I don't
mean to say I've been what I ought; but, by Jove! to be put upon as
I've been, and knocked about; and at the last they haven't the pluck
to stand by a fellow, by Jove!" muttered Mr Wodehouse's unlucky heir.
What further exasperation his smiling superior intended to heap upon
him nobody could tell; for just as Jack Wentworth was about to speak,
and just as Wodehouse had again faced towards him, half-cowed,
half-resisting, Gerald, who had been looking on in silence, came
forward out of the shadow. He had seen all and heard all, from that
moral deathbed of his, where no personal cares could again disturb
him; and though he had resigned his office, he could not belie his
nature. He came in by instinct to cherish the dawn of compunction
which appeared, as he thought, in the sinner's words.
"The best thing that can happen to you," said Gerald, at the sound of
whose voice everybody started, "is to find out that the wages of sin are
bitter. Don't expect any sympathy or consolation from those who have
helped you to do wrong. My brother tries to induce you to do a right act
from an unworthy motive. He says your former associates will not
acknowledge you. My advice to you is to forsake your former associates.
My brother," said Gerald, turning aside to look at him, "would do
himself honour if he forsook them also--but for you, here is your
opportunity. You have no temptation of poverty now. Take the first step,
and forsake them. I have no motive in advising you--except, indeed, that
I am Jack Wentworth's brother. He and you are different," said Gerald,
involuntarily glancing from one to the other. "And at present you have
the means of escape. Go now and leave them," said the man who was a
priest by nature. The light returned to his eye while he spoke; he was
no longer passive, contemplating his own moral death; his natural office
had come back to him unawares. He stretched his arm towards the door,
thinking of nothing but the escape of the sinner. "Go," said Gerald.
"Refuse their approbation; shun their society. For Christ's sake, and
not for theirs, make amends to those you have wronged. Jack, I command
you to let him go."
Jack, who had been startled at first, had recovered himself long
before his brother ceased to speak. "Let him go, by all means," he
said, and stood superbly indifferent by Gerald's side, whistling under
his breath a tripping lively air. "No occasion for solemnity. The
sooner he goes the better," said Jack. "In short, I see no reason why
any of us should stay, now the business is accomplished. I wonder
would his reverence ever forgive me if I lighted my cigar?" He took
out his case as he spoke, and began to look over its contents. There
was one in the room, however, who was better acquainted with the
indications of Jack Wentworth's face than either of his brothers. This
unfortunate, who was hanging in an agony of uncertainty over the chair
he had placed before him, watched every movement of his leader's face
with the anxious gaze of a lover, hoping to see a little corresponding
anxiety in it, but watched in vain. Wodehouse had been going through a
fever of doubt and divided impulses. The shabby fellow was open to
good impressions, though he was not much in the way of practising
them; and Gerald's address, which, in the first place, filled him with
awe, moved him afterwards with passing thrills of compunction, mingled
with a kind of delight at the idea of getting free. When his admonitor
said "Go," Wodehouse made a step towards the door, and for an instant
felt the exhilaration of enfranchisement. But the next moment his eye
sought Jack Wentworth's face, which was so superbly careless, so
indifferent to him and his intentions, and the vagabond's soul
succumbed with a canine fidelity to his master. Had Jack shown any
interest, any excitement in the matter, his sway might have been
doubtful; but in proportion to the sense of his own insignificance and
unimportance Wodehouse's allegiance confirmed itself. He looked
wistfully towards the hero of his imagination, as that skilful
personage selected his cigar. He would rather have been kicked again
than left alone, and left to himself. After all, it was very true what
Jack Wentworth said. They might be a bad lot, but they were gentlemen
(according to Wodehouse's understanding of the word) with whom he had
been associated; and beatific visions of peers and baronets and
honourables, amongst whom his own shabby person had figured, without
feeling much below the common level, crossed his mind with all the
sweetness which belongs to a past state of affairs. Yet it was still
in his power to recall these vanishing glories. Now that he was rich,
and could "cut a figure" among the objects of his admiration, was that
brilliant world to be closed upon him for ever by his own obstinacy?
As these thoughts rushed through his mind, little Rosa's beauty and
natural grace came suddenly to his recollection. Nobody need know how
he had got his pretty wife, and a pretty wife she would be--a creature
whom nobody could help admiring. Wodehouse looked wistfully at Jack
Wentworth, who took no notice of him as he chose his cigar. Jack was
not only the ideal of the clumsy rogue, but he was the doorkeeper of
that paradise of disreputable nobles and ruined gentlemen which was
Wodehouse's idea of good society; and from all this was he about to be
banished? Jack Wentworth selected his cigar with as much care as if
his happiness depended on it, and took no notice of the stealthy
glances thrown at him. "I'll get a light in the hall," said Jack;
"good evening to you," and he was actually going away.
"Look here," said Wodehouse, hastily, in his beard; "I aint a man to
forsake old friends. If Jack Wentworth does not mean anything
unreasonable, or against a fellow's honour--Hold your tongue, Waters;
by Jove! I know my friends. I know you would never have been one of
them but for Jack Wentworth. He's not the common sort, I can tell you.
He's the greatest swell going, by Jove!" cried Jack's admiring
follower, "and through thick and thin he's stood by me. I aint going
to forsake him now--that is, if he don't want anything that goes
against a fellow's honour," said the repentant prodigal, again sinking
the voice which he had raised for a moment. As he spoke he looked more
wistfully than ever towards his leader, who said "Pshaw!" with an
impatient gesture, and put back his cigar.
"This room is too hot for anything," said Jack; "but don't open the
window, I entreat of you. I hate to assist at the suicide of a set of
insane insects. For heaven's sake, Frank, mind what you're doing. As
for Mr Wodehouse's remark," said Jack, lightly, "I trust I never could
suggest anything which would wound his keen sense of honour. I advise
you to marry and settle, as I am in the habit of advising young men;
and if I were to add that it would be seemly to make some provision
for your sisters--"
"Stop there!" said the Curate, who had taken no part in the scene up
to this moment. He had stood behind rather contemptuously, determined
to have nothing to do with his ungrateful and ungenerous protege. But
now an unreasonable impulse forced him into the discussion. "The less
that is said on that part of the subject the better," he said, with
some natural heat. "I object to the mixing up of names which--which no
one here has any right to bandy about--"
"That is very true," said Mr Proctor; "but still they have their
rights," the late Rector added after a pause. "We have no right to
stand in the way of their--their interest, you know." It occurred to
Mr Proctor, indeed, that the suggestion was on the whole a sensible
one. "Even if they were to--to marry, you know, they might still be
left unprovided for," said the late Rector. "I think it is quite just
that some provision should be made for that."
And then there was a pause. Frank Wentworth was sufficiently aware after
his first start of indignation that he had no right to interfere, as Mr
Proctor said, between the Miss Wodehouses and their interest. He had no
means of providing for them, of setting them above the chances of
fortune. He reflected bitterly that it was not in his power to offer a
home to Lucy, and through her to her sister. What he had to do was to
stand by silently, to suffer other people to discuss what was to be done
for the woman whom he loved, and whose name was sacred to him. This was
a stretch of patience of which he was not capable. "I can only say
again," said the Curate, "that I think this discussion has gone far
enough. Whatever matters of business there may be that require
arrangement had better be settled between Mr Brown and Mr Waters. So far
as private feeling goes--"
"Never fear, I'll manage it," said Jack Wentworth, "as well as a dozen
lawyers. Private feeling has nothing to do with it. Have a cigar,
Wodehouse? We'll talk it over as we walk home," said the condescending
potentate. These words dispersed the assembly, which no longer had any
object. As Jack Wentworth sauntered out, his faithful follower pressed
through the others to join him. Wodehouse was himself again. He gave a
sulky nod to the Curate, and said, "Good-night, parson, I don't owe much
to you," and hastened out close upon the heels of his patron and leader.
All the authorities of Carlingford, the virtuous people who conferred
station and respectability by a look, sank into utter insignificance in
presence of Jack. His admiring follower went after him with a swell of
pride. He was a poor enough rogue himself, hustled and abused by
everybody, an unsuccessful and shabby vagabond, notwithstanding his new
fortune; but Jack was the glorified impersonation of cleverness and
wickedness and triumph to Wodehouse. He grew insolent when he was
permitted to put his arm through that of his hero, and went off with him
trying to copy, in swagger and insolence, his careless step and
well-bred ease. Perhaps Jack Wentworth felt a little ashamed of himself
as he emerged from the gate of the Rectory with his shabby and
disreputable companion. He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he looked
back and saw Gerald and Frank coming slowly out together. "_Coraggio!_"
said Jack to himself, "it is I who am the true philanthropist. Let us do
evil that good may come." Notwithstanding, he was very thankful not to
be seen by his father, who had wished to consult him as a man of the
world, and had shown certain yearnings towards him, which, to Jack's
infinite surprise, awakened responsive feelings in his own unaccustomed
bosom. He was half ashamed of this secret movement of natural affection,
which, certainly, nobody else suspected; but it was with a sensation of
relief that he closed the Rectory gate behind him, without having
encountered the keen inquiring suspicious glances of the Squire. The
others dispersed according to their pleasure--Mr Waters joining the
party up-stairs, while Mr Proctor followed Jack Wentworth and Wodehouse
to the door with naive natural curiosity. When the excellent man
recollected that he was listening to private conversation, and met
Wodehouse's look of sulky insolence, he turned back again, much
fluttered and disturbed. He had an interest in the matter, though the
two in whose hands it now lay were the last whom he would have chosen as
confidants; and to do him justice, he was thinking of Lucy only in his
desire to hear what they decided upon. "Something might happen to me,"
he said to himself; "and, even if all was well, she would be happier not
to be wholly dependent upon her sister;" with which self-exculpatory
reflection, Mr Proctor slowly followed the others into the drawing-room.
Gerald and Frank, who were neither of them disposed for society, went
away together. They had enough to think of, without much need of
conversation, and they had walked half-way down Grange Lane before
either spoke. Then it was Frank who broke the silence abruptly with a
question which had nothing to do with the business in which they had
been engaged.
"And what do you mean to do?" said Frank, suddenly. It was just as
they came in sight of the graceful spire of St Roque's; and perhaps it
was the sight of his own church which roused the Perpetual Curate to
think of the henceforth aimless life of his brother. "I don't
understand how you are to give up your work. To-night even--"
"I did not forget myself," said Gerald; "every man who can distinguish
good from evil has a right to advise his fellow-creature. I have not
given up that common privilege--don't hope it, Frank," said the
martyr, with a momentary smile.
"If I could but understand why it is that you make this terrible
sacrifice!" said the Curate--"No, I don't want to argue--of course,
you are convinced. I can understand the wish that our unfortunate
division had never taken place; but I can't understand the sacrifice
of a man's life and work. Nothing is perfect in this world; but at
least to do something in it--to be good for something--and with your
faculties, Gerald!" cried the admiring and regretful brother. "Can
abstract right in an institution, if that is what you aim at, be worth
the sacrifice of your existence--your power of influencing your
fellow-creatures?" This Mr Wentworth said, being specially moved by
the circumstances in which he found himself--for, under any other
conditions, such sentiments would have produced the warmest opposition
in his Anglican bosom. But he was so far sympathetic that he could be
tolerant to his brother who had gone to Rome.
"I know what you mean," said Gerald; "it is the prevailing theory in
England that all human institutions are imperfect. My dear Frank, I
want a Church which is not a human institution. In England it seems to
be the rule of faith that every man may believe as he pleases. There
is no authority either to decide or to punish. If you can foresee what
that may lead us to, I cannot. I take refuge in the true Church, where
alone there is certainty--where," said the convert, with a heightened
colour and a long-drawn breath, "there is authority clear and
decisive. In England you believe what you will, and the result will
be one that I at least fear to contemplate; in Rome we believe
what--we must," said Gerald. He said the words slowly, bowing his head
more than once with determined submission, as if bending under the
yoke. "Frank, it is salvation!" said the new Catholic, with the
emphasis of a despairing hope. And for the first time Frank Wentworth
perceived what it was which had driven his brother to Rome.
"I understand you now," said the Perpetual Curate; "it is because
there is no room for our conflicting doctrines and latitude of belief.
Instead of a Church happily so far imperfect, that a man can put his
life to the best account in it, without absolutely delivering up his
intellect to a set of doctrines, you seek a perfect Church, in which,
for a symmetrical system of doctrine, you lose the use of your
existence!" Mr Wentworth uttered this opinion with all the more
vehemence, that it was in direct opposition to his own habitual ideas;
but even his veneration for his "Mother" yielded for the moment to his
strong sense of his brother's mistake.
"It is a hard thing to say," said Gerald, "but it is true. If you but
knew the consolation, after years of struggling among the problems of
faith, to find one's self at last upon a rock of authority, of
certainty--one holds in one's hand at last the interpretation of the
enigma," said Gerald. He looked up to the sky as he spoke, and
breathed into the serene air a wistful lingering sigh. If it was
certainty that echoed in that breath of unsatisfied nature, the sound
was sadly out of concord with the sentiment. His soul, notwithstanding
that expression of serenity, was still as wistful as the night.
"Have you the interpretation?" said his brother; and Frank, too,
looked up into the pure sky above, with its stars which stretched over
them serene and silent, arching over the town that lay behind, and of
which nobody knew better than he the human mysteries and wonderful
unanswerable questions. The heart of the Curate ached to think how
many problems lay in the darkness, over which that sky stretched
silent, making no sign. There were the sorrowful of the earth,
enduring their afflictions, lifting up pitiful hands, demanding of God
in their bereavements and in their miseries the reason why. There were
all the inequalities of life, side by side, evermore echoing dumbly
the same awful question; and over all shone the calm sky which gave no
answer. "Have you the interpretation?" he said. "Perhaps you can
reconcile freewill and predestination--the need of a universal
atonement and the existence of individual virtue? But these are not to
me the most difficult questions. Can your Church explain why one man
is happy and another miserable?--why one has everything and abounds,
and the other loses all that is most precious in life? My sister Mary,
for example," said the Curate, "she seems to bear the cross for our
family. Her children die and yours live. Can you explain to her why? I
have heard her cry out to God to know the reason, and He made no
answer. Tell me, have you the interpretation?" cried the young man, on
whom the hardness of his own position was pressing at the moment. They
went on together in silence for a few minutes, without any attempt on
Gerald's part to answer. "You accept the explanation of the Church in
respect to doctrines," said the Curate, after that pause, "and consent
that her authority is sufficient, and that your perplexity is
over--that is well enough, so far as it goes: but outside lies a world
in which every event is an enigma, where nothing that comes offers any
explanation of itself; where God does not show Himself always kind,
but by times awful, terrible--a God who smites and does not spare. It
is easy to make a harmonious balance of doctrine; but where is the
interpretation of life?" The young priest looked back on his memory,
and recalled, as if they had been in a book, the daily problems with
which he was so well acquainted. As for Gerald, he bowed his head a
little, with a kind of reverence, as if he had been bowing before the
shrine of a saint.
"I have had a happy life," said the elder brother. "I have not been
driven to ask such questions for myself. To these the Church has but
one advice to offer: Trust God."
"We say so in England," said Frank Wentworth; "it is the grand scope
of our teaching. Trust God. He will not explain Himself, nor can we
attempt it. When it is certain that I must be content with this answer
for all the sorrows of life, I am content to take my doctrines on the
same terms," said the Perpetual Curate; and by this time they had come
to Miss Wentworth's door. After all, perhaps it was not Gerald, except
so far as he was carried by a wonderful force of human sympathy and
purity of soul, who was the predestined priest of the family. As he
went up to his own room, a momentary spasm of doubt came upon the new
convert--whether, perhaps, he was making a sacrifice of his life for a
mistake. He hushed the thought forcibly as it rose; such impulses were
no longer to be listened to. The same authority which made faith
certain, decided every doubt to be sin.