“Sir!” said the Rector, in a tone which, severe as his voice was by nature, nobody had ever heard from his lips before, “you have put us all in a most ridiculous and painful position tonight. I don’t know whether you are capable of feeling the vileness of your own misconduct as regards the unhappy girl who has just been carried out of the room, but you certainly shall not leave the house without hearing—”
Wodehouse gave such a start at these words that Mr. Morgan paused a moment. The Rector was quite unaware of the relief, the sense of safety, which he had inadvertently conveyed to the mind of the shabby rascal whom he was addressing. He was then to be allowed to leave the house? “I’ll leave the d⸺d place tonight, by Jove!” he muttered in his beard, and immediately sat up upon his chair, and turned round with a kind of sullen vivacity to listen to the remainder of Mr. Morgan’s speech.
“You shall not leave this house,” said the Rector, more peremptorily still, “without hearing what must be the opinion of every gentleman, of every honest man. You have been the occasion of bringing an utterly unfounded accusation against a—a young clergyman,” said Mr. Morgan, with a succession of gasps, “of—of the very highest character. You have, as I understand, sir, abused his hospitality, and—and done your utmost to injure him when you owed him gratitude. Not content with that, sir,” continued the Rector, “you have kept your—your very existence concealed, until the moment when you could injure your sisters. You may perhaps be able to make a miserable amends for the wrong you have done to the unfortunate girl upstairs, but you can never make amends to me, sir, for betraying me into a ridiculous position, and leading me to do—an—an absurd and—and incredible injustice—to a—to my—to Mr. Frank Wentworth. Sir, you are a scoundrel!” cried Mr. Morgan, breaking down abruptly in an access of sudden fury. When the Rector had recovered himself, he turned with great severity to the rest of the company: “Gentlemen, my wife will be glad to see you upstairs,” said Mr. Morgan. The sound of this hospitable invitation was as if he had ordered the entire assembly to the door; but nevertheless most of the company followed him as he rose, and, without condescending to look round again, marched out of the library. The Squire rose with the rest, and took the hand of his son Frank and grasped it closely. Somehow, though he believed Frank before, Mr. Wentworth was easier in his mind after the Rector’s speech.
“I think I will go upstairs and shake hands with him,” said the Squire, “and you had better come too, Frank. No doubt he will expect it. He spoke up very well at the last, and I entirely agree with the Rector,” he said, looking sternly, but with a little curiosity, at the vagabond, who stood recovering himself, and ready to resume his hopeless swagger. It was well for Mr. Wentworth that he left the room at once, and went cheerfully upstairs to pay his respects to Mrs. Morgan. The Squire said, “Thank God!” quietly to himself when he got out of the library. “Things are mending, surely—even Jack—even Jack,” Mr. Wentworth said, under his breath; and the simple gentleman said over a part of the general thanksgiving, as he went slowly, with an unusual gladness, up the stair. He might not have entered Mrs. Morgan’s drawing-room with such a relieved and brightened countenance had he stayed ten minutes longer in the library, and listened to the further conversation there.
XL
“Now, Mr. Wodehouse,” said Jack Wentworth, “it appears that you and I have a word to say to each other.” They had all risen when the other gentlemen followed Mr. Morgan out of the room, and those who remained stood in a group surrounding the unhappy culprit, and renewing his impression of personal danger. When he heard himself thus addressed, he backed against the wall, and instinctively took one of the chairs and placed it before him. His furtive eye sought the door and the window, investigating the chances of escape. When he saw that there was none, he withdrew still a step further back, and stood at bay.
“By Jove! I aint going to stand all this,” said Wodehouse; “as if every fellow had a right to bully me—it’s more than flesh and blood can put up with. I don’t care for that old fogey that’s gone upstairs; but, by Jove! I won’t stand any more from men that eat my dinners, and win my money, and—”
Jack Wentworth made half
