“And this is how it is to be!” cried Louisa. “He knows what is coming, and he does not care—and none of you will interfere or speak to him! It is not as if he did not know what would happen. He tells you himself that he will be nothing; and even if he can put up with it after being a man of such consideration in the county, how am I to put up with it? We have always been used to the very best society,” said poor Louisa, with tears. “The Duke himself was not more thought of; and now he tells you he is to be nothing!” Mrs. Wentworth stopped to dry her eyes with tremulous haste. “He may not mind,” said Louisa, “for at least he is having his own way. It is all very well for a man, who can do as he pleases; but it is his poor wife who will have to suffer. I don’t know who will visit me after it’s all over, and people will give over asking us if we don’t ask them again; and how can we ever have anybody, with five children—or more—and only a few hundreds a-year? Oh, Frank, it kills me to think of it. Don’t you think you might speak to him again?” she whispered, stretching up to his ear, when Gerald, with a sigh, had gone back to his window. The Squire, too, cast an appealing glance at his younger son.
“It is all true enough that she says,” said Mr. Wentworth. “She mayn’t understand him, Frank, but she’s right enough in what she’s saying. If things were different between your brother and me, I’d ask his advice,” said the Squire, with a sigh. He gave a longing look at his eldest son, who stood with his usual ease before the fireplace. Matters had gone a great deal too far between the father and son to admit of the usual displeasure of an aggrieved parent—all that was over long ago; and Mr. Wentworth could not restrain a certain melting of the heart towards his firstborn. “He’s not what I could wish, but he’s a man of the world, and might give us some practical advice,” said the Squire, with his anxious looks. Of what possible advantage advice, practical or otherwise, could have been in the circumstances, it was difficult to see; but the Squire was a man of simple mind, and still believed in the suggestions of wisdom. He still sat in the easy-chair, looking wistfully at Jack, and with a certain faith that matters might even yet be mended, if the counsel of his eldest son, as a man of the world, could be had and could be trusted; when Frank, who had an afternoon service at Wharfside, had to leave the family committee. Gerald, who roused up when his younger brother mentioned the business he was going upon, looked at Frank almost as wistfully as his father looked at Jack. “It may be the last time,” he said to himself; “if you’ll let me, I’ll go with you, Frank;” and so the little conclave was broken up. The people in Prickett’s Lane were greatly impressed by the aspect of Gerald Wentworth, as he went, silent and pale, by his brother’s side, down the crowded pavement. They thought it must be a bishop at least who accompanied the Curate of St. Roque’s; and the women gathered at a little distance and made their comments, as he stood waiting for his brother after the service. “He don’t look weakly nor sickly no more nor the clergyman,” said one; “but he smiles at the little uns for all the world like my man smiled the night he was took away.” “Smilin’ or not smilin’,” said another, “I don’t see as it makes no matter; but I’d give a deal to know what Elsworthy and them as stands by Elsworthy can say after that.” “Maybe, then, he’d give the poor fatherless children a blessing afore he’d go,” suggested a poor Irish widow, who, having been much under Mr. Wentworth’s hands “in her trouble,” was not quite sure now what faith she professed, or at least which Church she belonged to. Such was the universal sentiment of Prickett’s Lane. Meanwhile Gerald stood silent, and looked with pathetic, speechless eyes at the little crowd. He was no priest now—he was shorn of the profession which had been his life. His hope of being able to resign all things for Christ’s sake had failed him. Too wary and politic to maintain in a critical age and country the old licence of the ages of Faith, even his wife’s consent, could he have obtained it, would not have opened to the convert the way into the priesthood. A greater trial had been required of him; he was nothing, a man whose career was over. He stood idly, in a kind of languor, looking on while the Curate performed the duties of his office—feeling like a man whom sickness had reduced to the last stage of life, and for whom no earthly business remained; while, at the same time, his aspect struck awe, as that of a bishop at the least, to the imagination of Prickett’s Lane.
XXXIX
Mr. Morgan did not go home direct from the investigation of the morning; on the contrary, he paid various visits, and got through a considerable amount of parish business, before he turned his face towards the Rectory. On the whole, his feelings were far from being comfortable. He did not know, certainly, who Mr. Wentworth’s witness was, but he had an unpleasant conviction that it was somebody who would clear the Curate. “Of course I shall be very glad,” the Rector said to himself; but it is a fact, that in reality he was far from being glad, and that a secret conviction of this sentiment, stealing into his mind, made matters
