ure. 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 you get free and are cleared from this, will you go
away and break off your connection with--yes, you are quite right--I
mean with my brother, whatever the connection may be? I will only
exert myself for you on condition that you promise. You will go away
somehow, and break off your old habits, and try if it is possible to
begin anew?"

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