The Curate got up very early next morning. He had his sermon to write
and it was Saturday, and all the events of the week had naturally
enough unsettled his mind, and indisposed him for sermon-writing. When
the events of life come fast upon a man, it is seldom that he finds
much pleasure in abstract literary composition, and the style of the
Curate of St Roque's was not of that hortatory and impassioned
character which sometimes gives as much relief to the speaker as
excitement to the audience. So he got up in the early sweetness of the
summer morning, when nobody but himself was astir in the house, with
the sense of entering upon a task, and taking up work which was far
from agreeable to him. When he came into the little room which he used
as a study, and threw the window open, and breathed the delicious air
of the morning, which was all thrilling and trembling with the songs
of birds, Mr Wentworth's thoughts were far from being concentrated
upon any one subject. He sat down at his writing-table and arranged
his pens and paper, and wrote down the text he had selected; and when
he had done so much, and could feel that he had made a beginning, he
leaned back in his chair, and poised the idle pen on his finger, and
abandoned himself to his thoughts. He had so much to think about.
There was Wodehouse under the same roof, with whom he had felt himself
constrained to remonstrate very sharply on the previous night. There
was Jack, so near, and certainly come to Carlingford on no good
errand. There was Gerald, in his great perplexity and distress, and
the household at home in their anxiety; and last, but worst of all,
his fancy would go fluttering about the doors of the sick chamber in
Grange Lane, longing and wondering. He asked himself what it could be
which had raised that impalpable wall between Lucy and himself--that
barrier too strong to be overthrown, too ethereal to be complained of;
and wondered over and over again what her thoughts were towards
him--whether she thought of him at all, whether she was offended, or
simply indifferent?--a question which any one else who had observed
Lucy as closely could have solved without any difficulty, but which,
to the modest and true love of the Perpetual Curate, was at present
the grand doubt of all the doubts in the universe. With this matter to
settle, and with the consciousness that it was still only five
o'clock, and that he was at least one hour beforehand with the world,
it is easy to understand why Mr Wentworth mused and loitered over his
work, and how, when it was nearly six o'clock, and Sarah and the cook
were beginning to stir from their sleep, there still remained only the
text written upon the sermon-paper, which was so nicely arranged
before him on the table. "When the wicked man turneth away from the
evil of his ways, and doeth that which is lawful and right."--This was
the text; but sitting at the open window, looking out into the garden,
where the birds, exempt, as they seemed to think, for once from the
vulgar scrutiny of man, were singing at the pitch of all their voices
as they prepared for breakfast; and where the sweet air of the morning
breathed into his mind a freshness and hopefulness which youth can
never resist, and seduced his thoughts away from all the harder
problems of his life to dwell upon the sweeter trouble of that doubt
about Lucy,--was not the best means of getting on with his work. He
sat thus leaning back--sometimes dipping his pen in the ink, and
hovering over the paper for two or three seconds at a time, sometimes
reading over the words, and making a faint effort to recall his own
attention to them; for, on the whole, perhaps, it is not of much use
getting up very early in the morning when the chief consequence of it
is, that a man feels he has an hour to spare, and a little time to
play before he begins.
Mr Wentworth was still lingering in this peaceful pause, when he
heard, in the stillness, hasty steps coming down Grange Lane. No doubt
it was some workmen going to their work, and he felt it must be nearly
six o'clock, and dipped his pen once more in the ink; but, the next
moment, paused again to listen, feeling in his heart a strange
conviction that the steps would stop at his door, and that something
was going to happen. He was sure of it, and yet somehow the sound
tingled upon his heart when he heard the bell ring, waking up echoes
in the silent house. Cook and Sarah had not yet given any signs of
coming down-stairs, and nobody stirred even at the sound of the bell.
Mr Wentworth put down his pen altogether, and listened with an anxiety
which he could scarcely account for--knowing, as he said to himself,
that it must be the milk, or the baker, or somebody. But neither the
milk nor the baker would have dared to knock, and shake, and kick the
door as the new arrivals were doing. Mr Wentworth sat still as long as
he could, then he added to the din they were making outside by an
indignant ring of his own bell; and finally getting anxious, as was
natural, and bethinking himself of his father's attack and Mr
Wodehouse's illness, the Curate took the matter into his own hands,
and hastened down-stairs to open the door. Mrs Hadwin called to him as
he passed her room, thinking it was Sarah, and begging for goodness
gracious sake to know directly what was the matter; and he felt
himself growing agitated as he drew back the complicated bolts, and
turned the key in the door, which was elaborately defenced, as was
natural. When he hurried out into the garden, the songs of the birds
and the morning air seemed to have changed their character. He
thought he was about to be summoned to the deathbed of one or other of
the old men upon whom their sons had brought such misery. He was but
little acquainted with the fastenings of the garden-door, and fumbled
a little over them in his anxiety. "Wait a moment and you shall be
admitted," he called out to those outside, who still continued to
knock; and he fancied, even in the haste and confusion of the moment,
that his voice caused some little commotion among them. Mr Wentworth
opened the door, looking anxiously out for some boy with a telegram,
or other such mournful messenger; but to his utter amazement was
nearly knocked down by the sudden plunge of Elsworthy, who entered
with a spring like that of a wild animal, and whose face looked white
and haggard as he rushed in. He came against the Curate so roughly as
to drive him a step or two farther into the garden, and naturally
aroused somewhat sharply the temper of the young man, who had already
begun to regard him with disagreeable sensations as a kind of spy
against himself.
"What in the world do you want at such an early hour in the morning?"
cried Mr Wentworth--"and what do you mean by making such a noise? Is
Mr Wodehouse worse? or what has happened?" for, to tell the truth, he
was a little relieved to find that the two people outside both
belonged to Carlingford, and that nowhere was there any visible
apparition of a telegraph boy.
"Don't trifle with me, Mr Wentworth," said Elsworthy. "I'm a poor man;
but a worm as is trodden on turns. I want my child, sir!--give me my
child. I'll find her out if it was at the end of the world. I've only
brought down my neighbour with me as I can trust," he continued,
hoarsely--"to save both your characters. I don't want to make no talk;
if you do what is right by Rosa, neither me or him will ever say a
word. I want Rosa, Mr Wentworth. Where's Rosa? If I had known as it
was for this you wanted her home! But I'll take my oath not to make no
talk," cried the clerk, with passion and earnestness, which confounded
Mr Wentworth--"if you'll promise to do what's right by her, and let
me take her home."
"Elsworthy, are you mad?" cried the Curate--"is he out of his senses?
Has anything happened to Rosa? For heaven's sake, Hayles, don't stand
there like a man of wood, but tell me if the man's crazy, or what he
means."
"I'll come in, sir, if you've no objection, and shut the door, not to
make a talk," said Elsworthy's companion, Peter Hayles, the druggist.
"If it can be managed without any gossip, it'll be best for all
parties," said this worthy, shutting the door softly after him. "The
thing is, where's Rosa, Mr Wentworth? I can't think as you've got her
here."
"She's all the same as my own child!" cried Elsworthy, who was greatly
excited. "I've had her and loved her since she was a baby. I don't
mean to say as I'd put myself forward to hurt her prospects if she was
married in a superior line o' life; but them as harms Rosa has me to
reckon with," he said, with a kind of fury which sat strangely on the
man. "Mr Wentworth, where's the child? God forgive you both, you've
given me a night o' weeping; but if you'll do what's right by Rosa,
and send her home in the mean time--"
"Be silent, sir!" cried the Curate. "I know nothing in the world about
Rosa. How dare you venture to come on such an errand to me? I don't
understand how it is," said the young man, growing red and angry,
"that you try so persistently to connect this child with me. I have
never had anything to do with her, and I will not submit to any such
impertinent suspicion. Leave my house, sir, immediately, and don't
insult me by making such inquiries here."
Mr Wentworth was very angry in the first flush of his wrath. He did
not think what misery was involved in the question which had been
addressed to him, nor did he see for the moment the terrible calamity
to Rosa which was suggested by this search for her. He thought only of
himself, as was natural, at the first shock--of the injurious and
insulting suspicion with which he seemed to be pursued, and of the
annoyance which she and her friends were causing him. "What do you
mean by rousing a whole household at this hour in the morning?" cried
Mr Wentworth, as he saw with vexation, Sarah, very startled and
sleepy, come stealing round by the kitchen door.
"You don't look as if you had wanted any rousing," said Elsworthy, who
was too much in earnest to own the Curate's authority. "She was seen
at your door the last thing last night, and you're in your clothes, as
bright as day, and a-waiting for us afore six o'clock in the morning.
Do you think as I've shut my eyes because it's my clergyman?" cried
the injured man, passionately. "I want my little girl--my little
Rosa--as is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. If Mr Wentworth
didn't know nothing about it, as he says," cried Elsworthy, with
sudden insight, "he has a feelin' heart, and he'd be grieved about the
child; but he aint grieved, nor concerned, nor nothing in the world
but angry; and will you tell me there aint nothing to be drawn from
that? But it's far from my intention to raise a talk," said the clerk,
drawing closer and touching the arm of the Perpetual Curate; "let her
come back, and if you're a man of your word, and behave honourable by
her, there shan't be nothing said in Carlingford. I'll stand up for
you, sir, against the world."
Mr Wentworth shook off his assailant's hand with a mingled sense of
exasperation and sympathy. "I tell you, upon my honour, I know nothing
about her," he said. "But it is true enough I have been thinking only
of myself," he continued, addressing the other. "How about the girl?
When was she lost? and can't you think of any place she can have gone
to? Elsworthy, hear reason," cried the Curate anxiously. "I assure
you, on my word, that I have never seen her since I closed this
garden-gate upon her last night."
"And I would ask you, sir, what had Rosa to do at your garden-gate?"
cried the clerk of St Roque's. "He aint denying it, Hayles; you can
see as he aint a-denying of it. What was it as she came here for but
you? Mr Wentworth, I've always had a great respect for you," said
Elsworthy. "I've respected you as my clergyman, sir, as well as for
other things; but you're a young man, and human nature is frail. I say
again as you needn't have no fear of me. I aint one as likes to make a
talk, and no more is Hayles. Give up the girl, and give me your
promise, and there aint a man living as will be the wiser; Mr
Wentworth--"
"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate, furious with indignation
and resentment. "Leave this place instantly! If you don't want me to
pitch you into the middle of the road, hold your tongue and go away.
The man is mad!" said Mr Wentworth, turning towards the spectator,
Hayles, and pausing to take breath. But it was evident that this third
person was by no means on the Curate's side.
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure," said Hayles, with a blank countenance.
"It appears to me, sir, as it's an awkward business for all parties.
Here's the girl gone, and no one knows where. When a girl don't come
back to her own 'ome all night, things look serious, sir; and it has
been said as the last place she was seen was at your door."
"Who says so?" cried Mr Wentworth.
"Well--it was--a party, sir--a highly respectable party--as I have
good reason to believe," said Hayles, "being a constant customer--one
as there's every confidence to be put in. It's better not to name no
names, being at this period of the affair."
And at that moment, unluckily for Mr Wentworth, there suddenly floated
across his mind the clearest recollection of the Miss Hemmings, and
the look they gave him in passing. He felt a hot flush rush over his
face as he recalled it. They, then, were his accusers in the first
place; and for the first time he began to realise how the tide of
accusation would surge through Carlingford, and how circumstances
would be patched together, and very plausible evidence concocted out
of the few facts which were capable of an inference totally opposed to
the truth. The blood rushed to his face in an overpowering glow, and
then he felt the warm tide going back upon his heart, and realised the
position in which he stood for the first time in its true light.
"And if you'll let me say it, sir," said the judicious Hayles, "though
a man may be in a bit of a passion, and speak more strong that is
called for, it aint unnatural in the circumstances; things may be
better than they appear," said the druggist, mildly; "I don't say
nothing against that; it may be as you've took her away, sir (if so be
as you have took her away), for to give her a bit of education, or
suchlike, before making her your wife; but folks in general aint
expected to know that; and when a young girl is kep' out of her 'ome
for a whole night, it aint wonderful if her friends take fright. It's
a sad thing for Rosa whoever's taken her away, and wherever she is."
Now, Mr Wentworth, notwithstanding the indignant state of mind which
he was in, was emphatically of the tolerant temper which is so
curiously characteristic of his generation. He could not be
unreasonable even in his own cause; he was not partisan enough, even
in his own behalf, to forget that there was another side to the
question, nor to see how hard and how sad was that other side. He was
moved in spite of himself to grieve over Rosa Elsworthy's great
misfortune.
"Poor little deluded child," he said, sadly; "I acknowledge it is very
dreadful for her and for her friends. I can excuse a man who is mad
with grief and wretchedness and anxiety, and doesn't know what he is
saying. As for any man in his senses imagining," said the Curate
again, with a flush of sudden colour, "that I could possibly be
concerned in anything so base, that is simply absurd. When Elsworthy
returns to reason, and acknowledges the folly of what he has said, I
will do anything in the world to help him. It is unnecessary for you
to wait," said Mr Wentworth, turning to Sarah, who had stolen up
behind, and caught some of the conversation, and who was staring with
round eyes of wonder, partly guessing, partly inquiring, what had
happened--"these people want me; go indoors and never mind."
"La, sir! Missis is a-ringing all the bells down to know what 'as
'appened," said Sarah, holding her ground.
This was how it was to be--the name of the Curate of St Roque's was to
be linked to that of Rosa Elsworthy, let the truth be what it might,
in the mouths of every maid and every mistress in Carlingford. He was
seized with a sudden apprehension of this aspect of the matter, and it
was not wonderful if Mr Wentworth drew his breath hard and set his
teeth, as he ordered the woman away, in a tone which could not be
disobeyed.
"I don't want to make no talk," said Elsworthy, who during this time
had made many efforts to speak; "I've sait it before, and I say it
again--it's Mr Wentworth's fault if there's any talk. She was seen
here last night," he went on rapidly, "and afore six o'clock this
blessed morning, you, as are never known to be stirring early, meets
us at the door, all shaved and dressed; and it aint very difficult to
see, to them as watches the clergyman's countenance," said Elsworthy,
turning from one to another, "as everything isn't as straight as it
ought to be; but I aint going to make no talk, Mr Wentworth," he went
on, drawing closer, and speaking with conciliatory softness; "me and
her aunt, sir, loves her dearly, but we're not the folks to stand in
her way, if a gentleman was to take a fancy to Rosa. If you'll give me
your word to make her your wife honourable, and tell me where she is,
tortures wouldn't draw no complaints from me. One moment, sir; it aint
only that she's pretty, but she's good as well--she won't do you no
discredit, Mr Wentworth. Put her to school, or what you please, sir,"
said Rosa's uncle; "me and my wife will never interfere, so be as you
make her your wife honourable; but I aint a worm to be trampled on,"
cried Elsworthy, as the Curate, finding him approach very closely,
thrust him away with vehement indignation; "I aint a slave to be
pushed about. Them as brings Rosa to shame shall come to shame by me;
I'll ruin the man as ruins that child. You may turn me out," he cried,
as the Curate laid his powerful hand upon his shoulder and forced him
towards the door, "but I'll come back, and I'll bring all Carlingford.
There shan't be a soul in the town as doesn't know. Oh, you young
viper, as I thought was a pious clergyman! you aint got rid of me. My
child--where's my child?" cried the infuriated clerk, as he found
himself ejected into the road outside, and the door suddenly closed
upon him. He turned round to beat upon it in blind fury, and kept
calling upon Rosa, and wasting his threats and arguments upon the calm
air outside. Some of the maid-servants in the other houses came out,
broom in hand, to the green doors, to see what was the matter, but
they were not near enough to hear distinctly, and no early wayfarers
had as yet invaded the morning quiet of Grange Lane.
Mr Wentworth, white with excitement, and terribly calm and self-possessed,
turned to the amazed and trembling druggist, who still stood inside.
"Look here, Hayles," said the Curate; "I have never seen Rosa Elsworthy
since I closed this door upon her last night. What had brought her here
I don't know--at least she came with no intention of seeing me--and I
reproved her sharply for being out so late. This is all I know about the
affair, and all I intend to say to any one. If that idiot outside
intends to make a disturbance, he must do it; I shall take no further
trouble to clear myself of such an insane accusation. I think it right
to say as much to you, because you seem to have your senses about you,"
said the Curate, pausing, out of breath. He was perfectly calm, but it
was impossible to ignore the effect of such a scene upon ordinary flesh
and blood. His heart was beating loudly, and his breath came short and
quick. He turned away and walked up to the house-door, and then came
back again. "You understand me, I suppose?" he said; "and if Elsworthy
is not mad, you had better suggest to him not to lose his only chance
of recovering Rosa by vain bluster with me, who know nothing about her.
I shan't be idle in the mean time," said Mr Wentworth. All this time
Elsworthy was beating against the door, and shouting his threats into
the quiet of the morning; and Mrs Hadwin had thrown up her window, and
stood there visibly in her nightcap, trying to find out what the noise
was about, and trembling for the respectability of her house--all which
the Curate apprehended with that extraordinary swiftness and breadth of
perception which comes to men at the eventful moments of life.
"I'll do my best, sir," said Hayles, who felt that his honour was
appealed to; "but it's an awkward business for all parties, that's
what it is;" and the druggist backed out in a state of great
bewilderment, having a little struggle at the door with Elsworthy to
prevent his re-entrance. "There aint nothing to be got out of _him_,"
said Mr Hayles, as he succeeded at last in leading his friend away.
Such was the conclusion of Mr Wentworth's morning studies, and the
sermon which was to have been half written before breakfast upon that
eventful Saturday. He went back to the house, as was natural, with
very different thoughts in his mind.