“You can betray him if you like,” he said, sulkily. “I have no—particular interest in the matter; but in that case he had better make the best of his time and get away. You hear?” said the master-spirit, making a sign to Wodehouse. He had roused himself up, and looked now like a feline creature preparing for a spring—his eyes were cast down, but under the eyelids he followed his brother’s movements with vigilant observation. “If you like, you can betray him,” he repeated, slowly, understanding, as bad men so often do, the generosities of the nature to which his own was so much opposed.
And perhaps there was an undue degree of exasperation in the indignant feelings which moved Mr. Wentworth. He kicked off his dusty boots with an indecorum quite unusual to him, and hunted up his slippers out of the adjoining room with perhaps an unnecessary amount of noise and haste. Then he went and looked out of the window into the serene summer darkness and the dewy garden, getting a little fresh air upon his heated face. Last of all he came back, peremptory and decided. “I shall not betray him,” said the Perpetual Curate; “but I will have no further schemes concocted nor villany carried on in my house. If I consent to shield him, and, if possible, save him from the law, it is neither for his sake—nor yours,” said the indignant young man. “I suppose it is no use saying anything about your life; but both of you have fathers very like to die of this—”
“My dear fellow,” said Jack Wentworth, “we have gone through that phase ages ago. Don’t be so much after date. I have brought down my father’s grey hairs, etc., a hundred times; and, I daresay, so has he. Don’t treat us as if we were in the nursery—a parson of advanced views like you should have something a little more novel to say.”
“And so I have,” said Mr. Wentworth, with a heightened colour. “There are capital rooms at the Blue Boar, which you will find very comfortable, I am sure. I don’t remember that we have ever been more than acquaintances; and to take possession of a man’s house in his absence argues a high degree of friendship, as you are aware. It will be with difficulty that I shall find room for myself tonight; but tomorrow, I trust, if business requires you to remain in Carlingford, you will be able to find accommodation at the Blue Boar.”
The elder brother grew very red all over his face. “I will go at once,” he said, with a little start; and then he took a second thought. “It is a poor sort of way of winning a victory,” he said, in contemptuous tones, after he had overcome his first impulse; “but if you choose that, it is no matter to me. I’ll go tomorrow, as you say—to pack up tonight is too much for my energies. In the meantime it won’t disturb you, I hope, if I go on with my novel. I don’t suppose any further civilities are necessary between you and me,” said Jack, once more putting up his feet on the sofa. He arranged himself with an indifference which was too genuine for bravado, opening his book, and puffing his cigar with great coolness. He did all but turn his back upon the others, and drew the little table nearer to him, in utter disregard of the fact that the Curate was leaning his arm on it. In short, he retired from the contest with a kind of grandeur, with his cigar and his novel, and the candles which lighted him up placidly, and made him look like the master of the house and the situation. There was a pause for some minutes, during which the others looked on—Mr. Wentworth with a perfectly unreasonable sense of defeat, and poor Wodehouse with that strange kind of admiration which an unsuccessful good-for-nothing naturally feels for a triumphant rascal. They were in the shade looking on, and he in the light enjoying himself calmly in his way. The sight put an end to various twinges of repentance in the bosom of the inferior sinner. Jack Wentworth, lying on the sofa in superb indifference, victorious over all sense of right, did more to confirm his humble admirer in the life which he had almost made up his mind to abandon, than even his own inclination towards forbidden pleasure. He was dazzled by the success of his principal; and in comparison with that instructive sight, his father’s probable deathbed, his sisters’ tears, and even his own present discomfort, faded into insignificance. What Jack Wentworth was, Tom Wodehouse could never be; but at least he could follow his great model humbly and afar off. These sentiments made him receive but sulkily the admonitions of the Curate, when he led the way out of the preoccupied sitting-room; for Mr. Wentworth was certainly not the victor in this passage of arms.
“I will do what I can to help you out of this,” said the Curate, pausing within the door of Wodehouse’s room, “for the sake of your—friends. But look here, Wodehouse; I have not preached to you hitherto, and I don’t mean to do so now. When a man has done a crime, he is generally past preaching. The law will punish you for forging your father’s name—”
“It’s my name as well as his, by Jove!” interrupted the culprit, sullenly; “I’ve a right to sign it wherever I please.”
“But the law,” said Mr. Wentworth, with emphasis, “has nothing to do with the breaking of your father’s heart. If he dies, think whether the recollection will be a comfortable one. I will save you, if I can, and there is time, though I am compromised already, and it may do me serious injury. If
