The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 38 (1/2)

XXXVIII

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 today 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 tonight.”

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 protégé 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 today, 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,

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 someone 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.”