“I am my own master,” he stammered, “nowadays. I aint to be dictated to—and I shan’t be, by Jove! As for Jack Wentworth, he’s well known to be neither more nor less—”
“Than what, Mr. Wodehouse?” said the serene and splendid Jack. “Don’t interest yourself on my account, Frank. This is my business at present. If you have any prayer-meetings in hand, we can spare you—and don’t forget our respectable friend in your supplications. Favour us with your definition of Jack Wentworth, Mr. Wodehouse. He is neither more nor less—?”
“By Jove! I aint going to stand it,” cried Wodehouse; “if a fellow’s to be driven mad, and insulted, and have his money won from him, and made game of—not to say tossed about as I’ve been among ’em, and made a drudge of, and set to do the dirty work,” said the unfortunate subordinate, with a touch of pathos in his hoarse voice;—“I don’t mean to say I’ve been what I ought; but, by Jove! to be put upon as I’ve been, and knocked about; and at the last they haven’t the pluck to stand by a fellow, by Jove!” muttered Mr. Wodehouse’s unlucky heir. What further exasperation his smiling superior intended to heap upon him nobody could tell; for just as Jack Wentworth was about to speak, and just as Wodehouse had again faced towards him, half-cowed, half-resisting, Gerald, who had been looking on in silence, came forward out of the shadow. He had seen all and heard all, from that moral deathbed of his, where no personal cares could again disturb him; and though he had resigned his office, he could not belie his nature. He came in by instinct to cherish the dawn of compunction which appeared, as he thought, in the sinner’s words.
“The best thing that can happen to you,” said Gerald, at the sound of whose voice everybody started, “is to find out that the wages of sin are bitter. Don’t expect any sympathy or consolation from those who have helped you to do wrong. My brother tries to induce you to do a right act from an unworthy motive. He says your former associates will not acknowledge you. My advice to you is to forsake your former associates. My brother,” said Gerald, turning aside to look at him, “would do himself honour if he forsook them also—but for you, here is your opportunity. You have no temptation of poverty now. Take the first step, and forsake them. I have no motive in advising you—except, indeed, that I am Jack Wentworth’s brother. He and you are different,” said Gerald, involuntarily glancing from one to the other. “And at present you have the means of escape. Go now and leave them,” said the man who was a priest by nature. The light returned to his eye while he spoke; he was no longer passive, contemplating his own moral death; his natural office had come back to him unawares. He stretched his arm towards the door, thinking of nothing but the escape of the sinner. “Go,” said Gerald. “Refuse their approbation; shun their society. For Christ’s sake, and not for theirs, make amends to those you have wronged. Jack, I command you to let him go.”
Jack, who had been startled at first, had recovered himself long before his brother ceased to speak. “Let him go, by all means,” he said, and stood superbly indifferent by Gerald’s side, whistling under his breath a tripping lively air. “No occasion for solemnity. The sooner he goes the better,” said Jack. “In short, I see no reason why any of us should stay, now the business is accomplished. I wonder would his reverence ever forgive me if I lighted my cigar?” He took out his case as he spoke, and began to look over its contents. There was one in the room, however, who was better acquainted with the indications of Jack Wentworth’s face than either of his brothers. This unfortunate, who was hanging in an agony of uncertainty over the chair he had placed before him, watched every movement of his leader’s face with the anxious gaze of a lover, hoping to see a little corresponding anxiety in it,
