“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
