The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 22 (2/2)

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, etc., 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 tonight; but tomorrow, 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 tomorrow, as you say⁠—to pack up tonight is too much for my energies. In the meantime 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 downstairs, 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 tonight,” 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 beefsteak. 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 upstairs 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 upstairs. 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.