The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 16 (1/2)

XVI

The Curate of St. Roque’s found his brother in his library, looking very much as he always looked at first glance. But Gerald was not reading nor writing nor doing anything. He was seated in his usual chair, by his usual table, with all the ordinary things around. Some manuscript⁠—lying loosely about, and looking as if he had thrown down his pen in disgust, and pushed it away from him in the middle of a sentence⁠—was on the table, and an open book in his other hand; but neither the book nor the manuscript occupied him; he was sitting leaning his head in his hands, gazing blankly out through the window, as it appeared, at the cedar, which flung its serene shadow over the lawn outside. He jumped up at the sound of his brother’s voice, but seemed to recall himself with a little difficulty even for that, and did not look much surprised to see him. In short, Frank read in Gerald’s eyes that he would not at that moment have been surprised to see anyone, and that, in his own consciousness, the emergency was great enough to justify any unlooked-for appearance, though it might be from heaven or from the grave.

“I am glad you have come,” he said, after they had greeted each other, his mouth relaxing ever so slightly into the ghost of his old smile; “you and I always understood each other, and it appears I want interpretation now. And one interpretation supposes many,” he said with a gleam, half of pathos half of amusement, lighting up his face for a moment; “there is no such thing as accepting a simple version even of one man’s thoughts. You have come at a very fit time, Frank⁠—that is, for me.”

“I am glad you think so,” said the other brother; and then there was a pause, neither liking to enter upon the grand subject which stood between them.

“Have you seen Louisa?” said Gerald. He spoke like a man who was ill, in a preoccupied interrupted way. Like a sick man, he was occupied with himself, with the train of thought which was always going on in his mind whatever he might be doing, whether he was working or resting, alone or in company. For months back he had carried it with him everywhere. The cedar-tree outside, upon which his thoughtful eyes fell as he looked straight before him out of the library window, was all garlanded with the reasonings and questionings of this painful spring. To Frank’s eyes, Gerald’s attention was fixed upon the fluttering of a certain twig at the extremity of one of those broad solemn immovable branches. Gerald, however, saw not the twig, but one of his hardest difficulties which was twined and twined in the most inextricable way round that little sombre cluster of spikes; and so kept looking out, not at the cedar, but at the whole confused yet distinct array of his own troubled thoughts.

“If you have seen Louisa, she has been talking to you, no doubt,” he said, after another little pause, with again the glimmer of a smile. “We have fallen upon troubles, and we don’t understand each other, Frank. That’s all very natural; she does not see things from my point of view: I could not expect she should. If I could see from hers, it might be easier for us all; but that is still less to be expected; and it is hard upon her, Frank⁠—very hard,” said Gerald, turning round in his old ingenuous way, with that faculty for seeing other people’s difficulties which was so strong a point in his character. “She is called upon to make, after all, perhaps, the greater sacrifice of the two; and she does not see any duty in it⁠—the reverse, indeed. She thinks it a sin. It is a strange view of life, to look at it from Louisa’s point. Here will be an unwilling, unintentional martyrdom; and it is hard to think I should take all the merit, and leave my poor little wife the suffering without any compensation!” He began to walk up and down the room with uneasy steps, as if the thought was painful, and had to be got rid of by some sudden movement. “It must be that God reckons with women for what they have endured, as with men for what they have done,” said Gerald. He spoke with a kind of grieved certainty, which made his brother feel, to start with, the hopelessness of all argument.

“But must this be? Is it necessary to take such a final, such a terrible step?” said the Perpetual Curate.

“I think so.” Gerald went to the window, to resume his contemplation of the cedar, and stood there with his back turned to Frank, and his eyes going slowly over all the long processes of his self-argument, laid up as they were upon those solemn levels of shadow. “Yes⁠—you have gone so far with me; but I don’t want to take you any farther, Frank. Perhaps, when I have reached the perfect peace to which I am looking forward, I may try to induce you to share it, but at present there are so many pricks of the flesh. You did not come to argue with me, did you?” and again the half-humorous gleam of old came over Gerald’s face as he looked round. “Louisa believes in arguing,” he said, as he came back to the table and took his seat again; “not that she has ever gained much by it, so far as I am aware. Poor girl! she talks and talks, and fancies she is persuading me; and all the time my heart is bleeding for her. There it is!” he exclaimed, suddenly hiding his face in his hands. “This is what crushes one to think of. The rest is hard enough, Heaven knows⁠—separation from my friends, giving up my own people, wounding and grieving, as I know I shall, everybody who loves me. I could bear that; but Louisa and her children⁠—God help me, there’s the sting!”

They were both men, and strong men, not likely to fall into any sentimental weakness; but something between a groan and a sob, wrung out of the heart of the elder brother at the thought of the terrible sacrifice before him, echoed with a hard sound of anguish into the quiet. It was very different from his wife’s trembling, weeping, hoping agony; but it reduced the Curate more than ever to that position of spectator which he felt was so very far from the active part which his poor sister expected of him.

“I don’t know by what steps you have reached this conclusion,” said Frank Wentworth; “but even if you feel it your duty to give up the Anglican Church (in which, of course, I think you totally wrong,” added the High Churchman in a parenthesis), “I cannot see why you are bound to abandon all duties whatever. I have not come to argue with you; I daresay poor Louisa may expect it of me, but I can’t, and you know very well I can’t. I should like to know how it has come about all the same; but one thing only, Gerald⁠—a man may be a Christian without being a priest. Louisa⁠—”

“Hush, I am a priest, or nothing. I can’t relinquish my life!” cried the elder brother, lifting his hands suddenly, as if to thrust away something which threatened him. Then he rose up again and went towards the window and his cedar, which stood dark in the sunshine, slightly fluttered at its extremities by the light summer-wind, but throwing glorious level lines of shadow, which the wind could not disturb, upon the grass. The limes near, and that one delicate feathery birch which was Mrs. Wentworth’s pride, had all some interest of their own on hand, and went on waving, rustling, coquetting with the breezes and the sunshine in a way which precluded any arbitrary line of shade. But the cedar stood immovable, like a verdant monument, sweeping its long level branches over the lawn, passive under the light, and indifferent, except at its very tops and edges, to the breeze. If there had been any human sentiment in that spectator of the ways of man, how it must have groaned and trembled under the pitiless weight of thoughts, the sad lines of discussion and argument and doubt, which were entangled in its branches! Gerald Wentworth went to his window to refer to it, as if it were a book in which all his contests had been recorded. The thrill of the air in it tingled through him as he stood looking out; and there, without looking at Frank, except now and then for a moment when he got excited with his subject, he went into the history of his struggle⁠—a history not unprecedented or unparalleled, such as has been told to the world before now by men who have gone through it, in various shapes, with various amounts of sophistry and simplicity. But it is a different thing reading of such a conflict in a book, and hearing it from lips pallid with the meaning of the words they uttered, and a heart which was about to prove its sincerity by voluntary pangs more hard than death. Frank Wentworth listened to his brother with a great deal of agreement in what he said, and again with an acute perception of mistakes on Gerald’s part, and vehement impulses of contradiction, to which, at the same time, it was impossible to give utterance; for there was something very solemn in the account he was giving of himself, as he stood with his face half turned to the anxious listener, leaning on the window, looking into the cedar. Gerald did not leave any room for argument or remonstrance; he told his brother how he had been led from one step to another, without any lingering touch of possibility in the narrative that he might be induced to retrace again that painful way. It was a path, once trod, never to be returned upon; and already he stood steadfast at the end, looking back mournfully, yet with a strange composure. It would be impossible to describe the mixture of love, admiration, impatience⁠—even intolerance⁠—which swelled through the mind of the spectator as he looked on at this wonderful sight, nor how hard he found it to restrain the interruptions which rushed to his lips, the eager arguments which came upon him in a flood, all his own favourite fences against the overflow of the tide which ran in lawful bounds in his own mind, but which had inundated his brother’s. But though it was next to impossible to keep silence, it was altogether impossible to break in upon Gerald’s history of this great battle through which he had just come. He had come through it, it was plain; the warfare was accomplished, the weapons hung up, the conflict over; and nothing could be more apparent than that he had no intention of entering the battlefield again. When he had ended, there was another pause.

“I am not going to argue with you,” said Frank Wentworth; “I don’t even need to tell you that I am grieved to the heart. It isn’t so very many years ago,” said the younger brother, almost too much touched by the recollection to preserve his composure, “since I took all my opinions from you; and since the time came for independent action, I too have gone over all this ground. My conclusions have been very different from yours, Gerald. I see you are convinced, and I can say nothing; but they do not convince me⁠—you do not convince me, nor the sight of your faith, though that is the most touching of all arguments. Will you go back and go over it again?” said the Curate, spurred, by a thought of poor Louisa, to contradict himself, while the words were still on his lips.

“No,” said Gerald; “it would be of no use, Frank. We should only grieve each other more.”

“Then I give up that subject,” said the younger brother: “but there is one matter which I must go back to. You may go to Rome, and cease to be a priest of the Anglican Church, but you cannot cease to be a man, to bear the weight of your natural duties. Don’t turn away, but hear me. Gerald, Louisa⁠—”

“Don’t say any more. Do you imagine I have not thought of that?” said Gerald, once more, with a gesture of pain, and something like terror; “I have put my hand to the plough and I cannot go back. If I am not a priest, I am nothing.” But when he came to that point, his cedar-tree no longer gave him any assistance; he came back to his chair, and covered his face with his hands.

“Louisa is your wife; you are not like a man free from the bonds of nature,” said the Curate of St. Roque’s. “It is not for me to speak of the love between you; but I hold it, as the Scripture says, for a holy mystery, like the love of Christ for his Church⁠—the most sacred of all bonds,” said the young man, with a certain touch of awe and emotion, as became a young man and a true lover. He made a little pause to regain command of himself before he continued, “And she is dependent on you⁠—outwardly, for all the comfort of her life⁠—and in her heart, for everything, Gerald. I do not comprehend what that duty is which could make you leave her, all helpless and tender, as you know her to be, upon the mercies of the world. She herself says”⁠—and poor Louisa’s complaint grew into pathos under the subliming force of her advocate’s sympathy⁠—“that she would be like a widow, and worse than a widow. I am not the man to bid you suppress your convictions because they will be your ruin, in the common sense of the word; but, Gerald⁠—your wife⁠—”

Gerald had bent his head down upon his clasped hands; sometimes a great heave of his frame showed the last struggle that was going on within him⁠—a struggle more painful, more profound, than anything that had gone before. And the voice of the Curate, who, like his brother, was nothing if not a priest, was choked, and painful with the force of his emotion. He drew his breath hard between his words: it was not an argument, but an admonition; an appeal, not from a brother only, but from one who spoke with authority, as feeling himself accredited from God. He drew closer towards the voluntary martyr beside him, the humbleness of his reverential love for his elder brother mingling in that voice of the priest, which was natural to him, and which he did not scruple to adopt. “Gerald⁠—your wife,” he said, in softened but firm tones, laying his hand on his brother’s arm. And it was at this moment, when in his heart he felt that his influence might be of some avail, and when all the powers of his mind were gathering to bear upon this last experiment, that the door opened suddenly, and poor Louisa, all flushed and tearful, in womanish hot impatience and misery that knew no prudence, burst, without any warning, into the room.

“I can’t bear it any longer,” cried the poor wife. “I knew you were talking it all over, and deciding what it was to be; and when one’s life is hanging on a chance, how can one keep quiet and not interfere? Oh, Gerald, Gerald! I have been a true wife to you. I know I am not clever; but I would have died to do you any good. You are not going to forsake me!” cried poor Louisa, going up to him and putting her arms round him. “I said Frank was to tell you everything, but a man can never tell what is in a woman’s heart. Oh, Gerald, why should you go and kill me! I will never oppose you any more; whatever you want, I will give in to it as freely as if it were my own way. I will make that my own way, Gerald, if you will only listen to me. Whatever changes you please, oh Gerald, I will never say a word, nor your father, nor anyone! If the Bishop should interfere, we would all stand up for you. There is not a soul in Wentworth to oppose⁠—you know there is not. Put anything you please in the church⁠—preach how you please⁠—light the candles or anything. Gerald, you know it is true I am saying⁠—I am not trying to deceive you!” cried the poor soul, bewildered in her folly and her grief.