Wodehouse paused before he answered. The vision of Jack in the Curate’s sitting-room still dazzled him. “You daren’t say as much to your brother as you say to me,” he replied, after a while, in his sulky way; “but I’m a gentleman, by Jove, as well as he is.” And he threw himself down in a chair, and bit his nails, and grumbled into his beard. “It’s hard to ask a fellow to give up his liberty,” he said, without lifting his eyes. Mr. Wentworth, perhaps, was a little contemptuous of the sullen wretch who already had involved him in so much annoyance and trouble.
“You can take your choice,” he said; “the law will respect your liberty less than I shall;” and all the Curate’s self-control could not conceal a certain amount of disdain.
“By Jove!” said Wodehouse, lifting up his eyes, “if the old man should die, you’d change your tone;” and then he stopped short and looked suspiciously at the Curate. “There’s no will, and I’m the heir,” he said, with sullen braggadocio. Mr. Wentworth was still young, and this look made him sick with disgust and indignation.
“Then you can take your chance,” he said, impatiently, making a hasty step to the door. He would not return, though his ungrateful guest called him back, but went away, much excited and disgusted, to see if the fresh air outside would restore his composure. On his way downstairs, he again met Sarah, who was hovering about in a restless state of curiosity. “I’ve made a bed for you, please, sir, in the little dressing-room,” said Sarah; “and, please, Cook wants to know, wouldn’t you have anything to eat?” The question reminded Mr. Wentworth that he had eaten nothing since luncheon, which he took in his father’s house. Human nature, which can bear great blows with elasticity so wonderful, is apt to be put out, as everybody knows, by their most trifling accessories, and a man naturally feels miserable when he had had no dinner, and has not a place to shelter him while he snatches a necessary mouthful. “Never mind; all the rooms are occupied tonight,” said the Perpetual Curate, feeling thoroughly wretched. But Cook and Sarah had arranged all that, being naturally indignant that their favourite clergyman should be put “upon” by his disorderly and unexpected guests.
“I have set your tray, sir, in missis’s parlour,” said Sarah, opening the door to that sanctuary; and it is impossible to describe the sense of relief with which the Perpetual Curate flung himself down on Mrs. Hadwin’s sofa, deranging a quantity of cushions and elaborate crochet-work draperies without knowing it. Here at least he was safe from intrusion. But his reflections were far from being agreeable as he ate his beefsteak. Here he was, without any fault of his own, plunged into the midst of a complication of disgrace and vice. Perhaps already the name of Lucy Wodehouse was branded with her brother’s shame; perhaps still more overwhelming infamy might overtake, through that means, the heir and the name of the Wentworths. And for himself, what he had to do was to attempt with all his powers to defeat justice, and save from punishment a criminal for whom it was impossible to feel either sympathy or hope. When he thought of Jack upstairs on the sofa over his French novel, the heart of the Curate burned within him with indignation and resentment; and his disgust at his other guest was, if less intense, an equally painful sensation. It was hard to waste his strength, and perhaps compromise his character, for such men as these; but on the other hand he saw his father, with that malady of the Wentworths hanging over his head, doing his best to live and last, like a courageous English gentleman as he was, for the sake of “the girls” and the little children, who had so little to expect from Jack; and poor stupid Mr. Wodehouse dying of the crime which assailed his own credit as well as his son’s safety. The Curate of St. Roque’s drew a long breath, and raised himself up unconsciously to his full height as he rose to go upstairs. It was he against the world at the moment, as it appeared. He set himself to his uncongenial work with a heart that revolted against the evil cause of which he was about to constitute himself the champion. But for the Squire, who had misjudged him—for Lucy who had received him with such icy smiles, and closed up her heart against his entrance;—sometimes there is a kind of bitter sweetness in the thought of spending love and life in one lavish and prodigal outburst upon those to whom our hearts are bound, but whose affections make us no return.
XXIII
The Curate went to breakfast next morning with a little curiosity and a great deal of painful feeling. He had been inhospitable to his brother, and a revulsion had happened such as happens invariably when a generous man is forced by external circumstances to show himself churlish. Though his good sense and his pride alike prevented him from changing his resolution of the previous night, still his heart had relented toward Jack, and he felt sorry and half ashamed to meet the brother to whom he had shown so much temper and so little kindness. It was much later than usual when he came downstairs, and Jack was just coming out of the comfortable chamber which belonged of right to his brother, when the Curate entered the sitting-room. Jack was in his dressing-gown, as on the previous night,
