The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 22 (1/2)

XXII

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 someone 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 meantime 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 tonight, 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 tonight.

“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 meantime 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 meantime; 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.