The first thing Mr Wentworth did was to hasten up-stairs to
Wodehouse's room. Sarah had gone before him, and was by this time
talking to her mistress, who had left the window, and stood, still in
her nightcap, at the door of her own chamber. "It's something about
Rosa Elsworthy, ma'am," said Sarah; "she's gone off with some one,
which nothing else was to be expected; and her uncle's been a-raving
and a-raging at Mr Wentworth, which proves as a gentleman should never
take no notice of them shop-girls. I always heard as she was a bad
lot."
"Oh, Mr Wentworth--if you would excuse my nightcap," said Mrs
Hadwin--"I am so shaken and all of a tremble with that noise; I
couldn't help thinking it must be a murder at the least," said the
little old lady; "but I never could believe that there was anything
between you and--Sarah, you may go away; I should like to talk to Mr
Wentworth by himself," said Mrs Hadwin, suddenly remembering that Mr
Wentworth's character must not be discussed in the presence of even
her favourite maid.
"Presently," said the unhappy Curate, with mingled impatience and
resignation; and, after a hasty knock at the door, he went into
Wodehouse's room, which was opposite, so full of a furious anxiety to
question him that he had burst into speech before he perceived that
the room was empty. "Answer me this instant," he had cried, "where is
Rosa Elsworthy?" and then he paused, utterly taken aback. It had not
occurred to him that the culprit would be gone. He had parted with him
late on the previous night, leaving him, according to appearances, in
a state of sulky half-penitence; and now the first impulse of his
consternation was to look in all the corners for the fugitive. The
room had evidently been occupied that night; part of the Curate's own
wardrobe, which he had bestowed upon his guest, lay about on the
chairs, and on a little table were his tools and the bits of wood with
which he did his carving. The window was open, letting in the fresh
air, and altogether the apartment looked so exactly like what it might
have done had the occupant gone out for a virtuous morning walk, that
Mr Wentworth stopped short in blank amazement. It was a relief to him
to hear the curious Sarah still rustling in the passage outside. He
came out upon her so hastily that Sarah was startled. Perhaps she had
been so far excited out of her usual propriety as to think of the
keyhole as a medium of information.
"Where is Wode--Mr Smith?" cried the Curate; "he is not in his
room--he does not generally get up so early. Where is he? Did he go
out last night?"
"Not as I knows of, sir," said Sarah, who grew a little pale, and gave
a second glance at the open door. "Isn't the gentleman in his room? He
do take a walk in the morning, now and again," and Sarah cast an
alarmed look behind to see if her mistress was still within hearing;
but Mrs Hadwin, intent on questioning Mr Wentworth himself, had
fortunately retired to put on her cap, and closed her door.
"Where is he?" said the Curate, firmly.
"Oh, please sir, I don't know," said Sarah, who was very near crying.
"He's gone out for a walk, that's all. Oh, Mr Wentworth, don't look at
me so dreadfully, and I'll tell you hall," cried the frightened girl,
"_hall_--as true as if I was on my oath. He 'as a taking way with
him," said poor Sarah, to whom the sulky and shabby rascal was radiant
still with the fascinating though faded glory of "a gentleman"--"and
he aint one as has been used to regular hours; and seeing as he was a
friend of yours, I knew as hall was safe, Mr Wentworth; and oh, sir,
if you'll not tell missis, as might be angry. I didn't mean no harm;
and knowing as he was a friend of yours, I let him have the key of the
little door."
Here Sarah put her apron to her eyes; she did not cry much into it, or
wet it with her tears--but under its cover she peeped at Mr Wentworth,
and, encouraged by his looks, which did not seem to promise any
immediate catastrophe, went on with her explanation.
"He's been and took a walk often in the morning," said Sarah, with
little gasps which interrupted her voice, "and come in as steady as
steady, and nothing happened. He's gone for a walk now, poor
gentleman. Them as goes out first thing in the morning, can't mean no
harm, Mr Wentworth. If it was at night, it would be different," said
the apologetic Sarah. "He'll be in afore we've done our breakfast in
the kitchen; that's his hour, for I always brings him a cup of coffee.
If you hadn't been up not till _your_ hour, sir, you'd never have
known nothing about it;" and here even Mrs Hadwin's housemaid looked
sharply in the Curate's face. "I never knew you so early, sir, not
since I've been here," said Sarah; and though she was a partisan of Mr
Wentworth, it occurred even to Sarah that perhaps, after all,
Elsworthy might be right.
"If he comes in let me know immediately," said the Curate; and he went
to his study and shut himself in, to think it all over with a sense of
being baited and baffled on every side. As for Sarah, she went off in
great excitement to discuss the whole business with the cook, tossing
her head as she went. "Rosa Elsworthy, indeed!" said Sarah to herself,
thinking her own claims to admiration quite as well worth
considering--and Mr Wentworth had already lost one humble follower in
Grange Lane.
The Curate sat down at his table as before, and gazed with a kind of
exasperation at the paper and the text out of which his sermon was to
have come. "When the wicked man turneth away from the evil of his
ways"--he began to wonder bitterly whether that ever happened, or if it
was any good trying to bring it about. If it were really the case that
Wodehouse, whom he had been labouring to save from the consequences of
one crime, had, at the very crisis of his fate, perpetrated another of
the basest kind, what was the good of wasting strength in behalf of a
wretch so abandoned? Why should such a man be permitted to live to bring
shame and misery on everybody connected with him? and why, when noxious
vermin of every other description were hunted down and exterminated,
should the vile human creature be spared to suck the blood of his
friends? Mr Wentworth grew sanguinary in his thoughts as he leaned back
in his chair, and tried to return to the train of reflection which
Elsworthy's arrival had banished. That was totally impossible, but
another train of ideas came fast enough to fill up the vacant space. The
Curate saw himself hemmed in on every side without any way of escape. If
he could not extract any information from Wodehouse, or if Wodehouse
denied any knowledge of Rosa, what could he do to clear himself from an
imputation so terrible? and if, on the other hand, Wodehouse did not
come back, and so pleaded guilty, how could he pursue and put the law
upon the track of the man whom he had just been labouring to save from
justice, and over whose head a criminal prosecution was impending? Mr
Wentworth saw nothing but misery, let him turn where he would--nothing
but disgrace, misapprehension, unjust blame. He divined with the
instinct of a man in deadly peril, that Elsworthy, who was a mean enough
man in common circumstances, had been inspired by the supposed injury he
had sustained into a relentless demon; and he saw distinctly how strong
the chain of evidence was against him, and how little he could do to
clear himself. As his miseries grew upon him, he got up, as was natural,
and began to walk about the room to walk down his impatience, if he
could, and acquire sufficient composure to enable him to wait for the
time when Wodehouse might be expected to arrive. Mr Wentworth had
forgotten at the moment that Mrs Hadwin's room was next to his study,
and that, as she stood putting on her cap, his footsteps vibrated along
the flooring, which thrilled under her feet almost as much as under his
own. Mrs Hadwin, as she stood before her glass smoothing her thin little
braids of white hair, and putting on her cap, could not but wonder to
herself what could make Mr Wentworth walk about the room in such an
agitated way. It was not by any means the custom of the Perpetual
Curate, who, up to the time of his aunts' arrival in Carlingford, had
known no special disturbances in his individual career. And then the old
lady thought of that report about little Rosa Elsworthy, which she had
never believed, and grew troubled, as old ladies are not unapt to do
under such circumstances, with all that lively faith in the seductions
of "an artful girl," and all that contemptuous pity for a "poor young
man," which seems to come natural to a woman. All the old ladies in
Carlingford, male and female, were but too likely to entertain the same
sentiments, which at least, if they did nothing else, showed a wonderful
faith in the power of love and folly common to human nature. It did not
occur to Mrs Hadwin any more than it did to Miss Dora, that Mr
Wentworth's good sense and pride, and superior cultivation, were
sufficient defences against little Rosa's dimpled cheeks and bright
eyes; and with some few exceptions, such was likely to be the opinion of
the little world of Carlingford. Mrs Hadwin grew more and more anxious
about the business as she felt the boards thrill under her feet, and
heard the impatient movements in the next room; and as soon as she had
settled her cap to her satisfaction, she left her own chamber and went
to knock, as was to be expected, at Mr Wentworth's door.
It was just at this moment that Mr Wentworth saw Wodehouse's shabby
figure entering at the garden-gate; he turned round suddenly without
hearing Mrs Hadwin's knock, and all but ran over the old lady in his
haste and eagerness--"Pardon me; I am in a great hurry," said the
Curate, darting past her. Just at the moment when she expected her
curiosity to be satisfied, it was rather hard upon Mrs Hadwin to be
dismissed so summarily. She went down-stairs in a state of great
dignity, with her lace mittens on, and her hands crossed before her.
She felt she had more and more reason for doubting human nature in
general, and for believing that the Curate of St Roque's in particular
could not bear any close examination into his conduct. Mrs Hadwin sat
down to her breakfast accordingly with a sense of pitying virtue which
was sweet to her spirit, notwithstanding that she was, as she would
have frankly acknowledged, very fond of Mr Wentworth; she said, "Poor
young man," to herself, and shook her head over him as she poured out
her solitary cup of tea. She had never been a beauty herself, nor had
she exercised any overwhelming influence that she could remember over
any one in the days of her distant youth: but being a true woman, Mrs
Hadwin believed in Rosa Elsworthy, and pitied, not without a certain
half-conscious female disdain, the weakness of the inevitable victim.
He did not dare to stop to explain to _her_ what it meant. He rushed
out of her way as soon as he saw she meant to question him. That
designing girl had got him entirely under her sway, the poor young
man!
Meanwhile the Curate, without a single thought for his landlady, made
a rush to Wodehouse's room. He did not wait for any answer to his
knock, but went in, not as a matter of policy, but because his
eagerness carried him on in spite of himself. To Mr Wentworth's great
amazement Wodehouse was undressing, intending, apparently, to return
to bed. The shabby fugitive, looking broad and brawny in his
shirt-sleeves, turned round when he heard the voice with an angry
exclamation. His face grew black as he saw the Curate at the door.
"What the deuce have you to do in my room at this hour?" he growled
into his beard. "Is a man never to have a little peace?" and with that
threw down his coat, which he still had in his hand, and faced round
towards the intruder with sullen looks. It was his nature to stand
always on the defensive, and he had got so much accustomed to being
regarded as a culprit, that he naturally took up the part, whether
there might be just occasion or not.
"Where have you been?" exclaimed the Curate; "answer me truly--I can't
submit to any evasion. I know it all, Wodehouse. Where is she? where
have you hid her? If you do not give her up, I must give you up to
justice. Do you hear me? where is Rosa Elsworthy? This is a matter
that touches my honour, and I must know the truth."
Mr Wentworth was so full of the subject that it did not occur to him
how much time he was giving his antagonist to prepare his answer.
Though Wodehouse was not clever, he had the instinct of a baited
animal driven to bay; and resistance and denial came natural to a man
who had been accused and condemned all his life.
"Rosa Elsworthy?" said the vagabond, "what have I to do with Rosa
Elsworthy? A pretty man I should be to run away with a girl; all that
I have in the world is a shilling or two, and, by Jove, it's an
expensive business, that is. You should ask your brother," he
continued, giving a furtive glance at the Curate--"it's more in his
way, by Jove, than mine."
Mr Wentworth was recalled to himself by this reply. "Where is she?" he
said, sternly,--"no trifling. I did not ask if you had taken her away.
I ask, where is she?" He had shut the door behind him, and stood in
the middle of the room facing Wodehouse, and overawing him by his
superior stature, force, and virtue. Before the Curate's look the eyes
of the other fell; but he had fallen by chance on a reasonable defence
enough, and so long as he held by that felt himself tolerably safe.
"I don't know anything about her," he repeated; "how should I know
anything about her? I aint a fool, by Jove, whatever I may be: a man
may talk to a pretty girl without any harm. I mayn't be as good as a
parson, but, by Jove, I aint a fool," he muttered through his beard.
He had begun to speak with a kind of sulky self-confidence; but his
voice sunk lower as he proceeded. Jack Wentworth's elegant levity was
a terrible failure in the hands of the coarser rascal. He fell back by
degrees upon the only natural quality which enabled him to offer any
resistance. "By Jove, I aint an idiot," he repeated with dull
obstinacy, and upon that statement made a stand in his dogged,
argumentative way.
"Would you like it better if I said you were a villain?" asked the
exasperated Curate. "I don't want to discuss your character with you.
Where is Rosa Elsworthy? She is scarcely more than a child," said Mr
Wentworth, "and a fool, if you like. But where is she? I warn you
that unless you tell me you shall have no more assistance from me."
"And I tell you that I don't know," said Wodehouse; and the two men
stood facing each other, one glowing with youthful indignation, the
other enveloped in a cloud of sullen resistance. Just then there came
a soft knock at the door, and Sarah peeped in with a coquettish air,
which at no other time in her existence had been visible in the sedate
demeanour of Mrs Hadwin's favourite handmaid. The stranger lodger was
"a gentleman," notwithstanding his shabbiness, and he was a very
civil-spoken gentleman, without a bit of pride; and Sarah was still a
woman, though she was plain and a housemaid. "Please, sir, I've
brought you your coffee," said Sarah, and she carried in her tray,
which contained all the materials for a plentiful breakfast. When she
saw Mr Wentworth standing in the room, and Wodehouse in his
shirt-sleeves, Sarah said, "La!" and set down her tray hastily and
vanished; but the episode, short as it was, had not been without its
use to the culprit who was standing on his defence.
"I'm not staying here on my own account," said Wodehouse,--"it's no
pleasure to me to be here. I'm staying for your brother's sake
and--other people's; it's no pleasure to me, by Jove! I'd go to-morrow
if I had my way--but I aint a fool," continued the sulky defendant:
"it's of no use asking me such questions. By Jove, I've other things to
think of than girls; and you know pretty well how much money I've got,"
he continued, taking out an old purse and emptying out the few shillings
it contained into his hand. When he had thrown them about, out and in,
for nearly a minute, he turned once more upon the Curate. "I'd like to
have a little more pocket-money before I ran away with any one," said
Wodehouse, and tossed the shillings back contemptuously. As for Mr
Wentworth, his reasonableness once more came greatly in his way. He
began to ask himself whether this penniless vagabond, who seemed to have
no dash or daring in his character, could have been the man to carry
little Rosa away; and, perplexed by this idea, Mr Wentworth put himself
unawares into the position of his opponent, and in that character made
an appeal to his imaginary generosity and truth.
"Wodehouse," he said, seriously, "look here. I am likely to be much
annoyed about this, and perhaps injured. I entreat you to tell me, if
you know, where the girl is. I've been at some little trouble for you;
be frank with me for once," said the Curate of St Roque's. Nothing in
existence could have prevented himself from responding to such an
appeal, and he made it with a kind of absurd confidence that there
must be some kindred depths even in the meaner nature with which he
had to deal, which would have been to Jack Wentworth, had he seen it,
a source of inextinguishable laughter. Even Wodehouse was taken by
surprise. He did not understand Mr Wentworth, but a certain vague idea
that the Curate was addressing him as if he still were "a gentleman as
he used to be"--though it did not alter his resolution in any
way--brought a vague flush of shame to his unaccustomed cheek.
"I aint a fool," he repeated rather hastily, and turned away not to meet
the Curate's eyes. "I've got no money--how should _I_ know anything
about her? If I had, do you think I should have been here?" he
continued, with a sidelong look of inquiry: then he paused and put on
his coat, and in that garb felt himself more of a match for his
opponent. "I'll tell you one thing you'll thank me for," he said,--"the
old man is dying, they think. They'll be sending for you presently.
That's more important than a talk about a girl. I've been talked to till
I'm sick," said Wodehouse, with a little burst of irrepressible nature,
"but things may change before you all know where you are." When he had
said so much, the fear in his heart awoke again, and he cast another
look of inquiry and anxiety at the Curate's face. But Mr Wentworth was
disgusted, and had no more to say.
"Everything changes--except the heart of the churl, which can never be
made bountiful," said the indignant young priest. It was not a fit
sentiment, perhaps, for a preacher who had just written that text
about the wicked man turning from the evil of his ways. Mr Wentworth
went away in a glow of indignation and excitement, and left his guest
to Sarah's bountiful provision of hot coffee and new-laid eggs, to
which Wodehouse addressed himself with a perfectly good appetite,
notwithstanding all the events of the morning, and all the mystery of
the night.