“Never fear, I’ll manage it,” said Jack Wentworth, “as well as a dozen lawyers. Private feeling has nothing to do with it. Have a cigar, Wodehouse? We’ll talk it over as we walk home,” said the condescending potentate. These words dispersed the assembly, which no longer had any object. As Jack Wentworth sauntered out, his faithful follower pressed through the others to join him. Wodehouse was himself again. He gave a sulky nod to the Curate, and said, “Good night, parson, I don’t owe much to you,” and hastened out close upon the heels of his patron and leader. All the authorities of Carlingford, the virtuous people who conferred station and respectability by a look, sank into utter insignificance in presence of Jack. His admiring follower went after him with a swell of pride. He was a poor enough rogue himself, hustled and abused by everybody, an unsuccessful and shabby vagabond, notwithstanding his new fortune; but Jack was the glorified impersonation of cleverness and wickedness and triumph to Wodehouse. He grew insolent when he was permitted to put his arm through that of his hero, and went off with him trying to copy, in swagger and insolence, his careless step and well-bred ease. Perhaps Jack Wentworth felt a little ashamed of himself as he emerged from the gate of the Rectory with his shabby and disreputable companion. He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he looked back and saw Gerald and Frank coming slowly out together. “Coraggio!” said Jack to himself, “it is I who am the true philanthropist. Let us do evil that good may come.” Notwithstanding, he was very thankful not to be seen by his father, who had wished to consult him as a man of the world, and had shown certain yearnings towards him, which, to Jack’s infinite surprise, awakened responsive feelings in his own unaccustomed bosom. He was half ashamed of this secret movement of natural affection, which, certainly, nobody else suspected; but it was with a sensation of relief that he closed the Rectory gate behind him, without having encountered the keen inquiring suspicious glances of the Squire. The others dispersed according to their pleasure—Mr. Waters joining the party upstairs, while Mr. Proctor followed Jack Wentworth and Wodehouse to the door with naive natural curiosity. When the excellent man recollected that he was listening to private conversation, and met Wodehouse’s look of sulky insolence, he turned back again, much fluttered and disturbed. He had an interest in the matter, though the two in whose hands it now lay were the last whom he would have chosen as confidants; and to do him justice, he was thinking of Lucy only in his desire to hear what they decided upon. “Something might happen to me,” he said to himself; “and, even if all was well, she would be happier not to be wholly dependent upon her sister;” with which self-exculpatory reflection, Mr. Proctor slowly followed the others into the drawing-room. Gerald and Frank, who were neither of them disposed for society, went away together. They had enough to think of, without much need of conversation, and they had walked halfway down Grange Lane before either spoke. Then it was Frank who broke the silence abruptly with a question which had nothing to do with the business in which they had been engaged.
“And what do you mean to do?” said Frank, suddenly. It was just as they came in sight of the graceful spire of St. Roque’s; and perhaps it was the sight of his own church which roused the Perpetual Curate to think of the henceforth aimless life of his brother. “I don’t understand how you are to give up your work. Tonight even—”
“I did not forget myself,” said Gerald; “every man who can distinguish good from evil has a right to advise his fellow-creature. I have not given up that common privilege—don’t hope it, Frank,” said the martyr, with a momentary smile.
“If I could but understand why it is that you make this terrible sacrifice!” said the Curate—“No, I don’t want to argue—of course, you are convinced. I can understand the wish that our unfortunate division had never taken place; but I can’t understand the sacrifice of a man’s life and work. Nothing is perfect in this world; but at least to do something in it—to be good for something—and with your faculties, Gerald!” cried the admiring and regretful brother. “Can abstract right in an institution, if that is what you aim at, be worth the sacrifice of your existence—your power of influencing your fellow-creatures?” This Mr. Wentworth said, being specially moved by the circumstances in which he found himself—for, under any other conditions, such sentiments would have produced the warmest opposition in his Anglican bosom. But he was so far sympathetic that he could be tolerant to his brother who had gone to Rome.
“I know what you mean,” said Gerald; “it is the prevailing theory in England that all human institutions are imperfect. My dear Frank, I want a Church which is not a human institution. In England it seems to be the rule of faith that every man may believe as he pleases. There is no authority either to decide or to punish. If you can foresee what that may lead us to, I cannot. I take refuge in the true Church, where alone there is certainty—where,” said the convert, with a heightened colour and a long-drawn breath, “there is authority clear and decisive. In England you believe what you will, and the result will be one that I at least fear to contemplate; in Rome we believe what—we must,” said Gerald. He said the words slowly, bowing his head more than once with determined submission, as if bending under the yoke. “Frank, it is salvation!” said the new Catholic, with the emphasis of a despairing hope. And for the first time Frank Wentworth perceived what it was which had driven his brother to Rome.
“I understand you now,” said the Perpetual Curate; “it
