“I daresay you have a good many nice people about here,” said Jack. “I’ve done nothing but walk about since I came—and it does a man good to see those fresh little women with their pink cheeks. There’s one, a sister of our friend’s, I believe,” he continued, with a nod towards the door to indicate Wodehouse—“an uncommonly pretty girl, I can tell you; and there’s a little rosebud of a creature at that shop, whom, they tell me, you’re interested in. Your living is not worth much, I suppose? It’s unlucky having two clergymen in a family; but, to be sure, you’re going in for Skelmersdale. By the way, that reminds me—how are the aunts? I have not heard anything of them for ages. Female relations of that description generally cling to the parsons of the race. I suppose they are all living—all three? Some people never seem to die.”
“They are here,” said the Curate, succinctly, “living in Carlingford. I wonder nobody has told you.”
A sudden bright spark lighted in the prodigal’s eyes. “Ah, they are here, are they?” he said, after a momentary pause; “so much the better for you; but in justice you ought to be content with the living. I say so as your elder brother. Gerald has the best right to what they’ve got to leave. By the by, how are Gerald and the rest? you’ve just been there. I suppose our respected parent goes on multiplying. To think of so many odious little wretches calling themselves Wentworth is enough to make one disgusted with the name.”
“My father was very ill when I left; he has had another attack,” said the Curate. “He does not seem able to bear any agitation. Your telegram upset him altogether. I don’t know what you’ve been about—he did not tell me,” continued the younger brother, with a little emotion, “but he is very uneasy about you.”
“Ah, I daresay,” said Jack; “that’s natural; but he’s wonderfully tough for such an old fellow. I should say it would take twenty attacks to finish him; and this is the second, isn’t it? I wonder how long an interval there was between the two; it would be a pretty calculation for a post-obit. Wodehouse seems to have brought his ancestor down at the first shot almost; but then there’s no entail in his case, and the old fellow may have made a will. I beg your pardon; you don’t like this sort of talk. I forgot you were a clergyman. I rather like this town of yours, do you know. Sweet situation, and good for the health, I should say. I’ll take your advice, I think, about the—how did you call it?—Black Boar. Unless, indeed, some charitable family would take me in,” said the elder brother, with a glance from under his eyelids. His real meaning did not in the least degree suggest itself to the Curate, who was thinking more of what was past than of what was to come.
“You seem to take a great interest in Wodehouse?” said Mr. Wentworth.
“Yes; and so do you,” said Jack, with a keen glance of curiosity—“I can’t tell why. My interest in him is easily explained. If the affair came to a trial, it might involve other people who are of retiring dispositions and dislike publicity. I don’t mind saying,” continued the heir of the Wentworths, laying down his knife and fork, and looking across at his brother with smiling candour, “that I might myself be brought before the world in a way which would wound my modesty; so it must not be permitted to go any further, you perceive. The partner has got a warrant out, but has not put it into execution as yet. That’s why I sent for you. You are the only man, so far as I can see, that can be of any use.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the Curate, hastily, “nor what connection you can possibly have with Wodehouse; perhaps it is better not to inquire. I mean to do my best for him, independent of you.”
“Do,” said Jack Wentworth, with a slight yawn; “it is much better not to inquire. A clergyman runs the risk of hearing things that may shock him when he enters into worldly business; but the position of mediator is thoroughly professional. Now for the Black Boar. I’ll send for my traps when I get settled,” he said, rising in his languid way. He had made a very good breakfast, and he was not at all disposed to make himself uncomfortable by quarrelling with his brother. Besides, he had a new idea in his mind. So he gave the Curate another little good-humoured nod, and disappeared into the sleeping-room, from which he emerged a few minutes after with a coat replacing the dressing-gown, ready to go out. “I daresay I shall see you again before I leave Carlingford,” he said, and left the room with the utmost suavity. As for Mr. Wentworth, it is probable that his brother’s serenity had quite the reverse of a soothing effect upon his mind and temper. He rose from the table as soon as Jack was gone, and for a long time paced about the
