Mr Wentworth's day had been closely occupied up to this point. He had
gone through a great many emotions, and transacted a good deal of
business, and he went home with the comparative ease of a man whose
anxieties are relieved, not by any real deliverance, but by the
soothing influence of fatigue and the sense of something accomplished.
He was not in reality in a better position than when he left his house
in the morning, bitterly mortified, injured, and wounded at the
tenderest point. Things were very much the same as they had been, but
a change had come over the feelings of the Perpetual Curate. He
remembered with a smile, as he went down Grange Lane, that Mr Proctor
was to dine with him, and that he had rashly undertaken to have
something better than a chop. It was a very foolish engagement under
the circumstances. Mr Wentworth was cogitating within himself whether
he could make an appeal to the sympathies of his aunt's cook for
something worthy of the sensitive palate of a Fellow of All-Souls,
when all such thoughts were suddenly driven out of his mind by the
apparition of his brother Gerald--perhaps the last man in the world
whom he could have expected to see in Carlingford. Gerald was coming
up Grange Lane in his meditative way from Mrs Hadwin's door. To look
at him was enough to reveal to any clear-sighted spectator the
presence of some perpetual argument in his mind. Though he had come
out to look for Frank, his eyes were continually forsaking his
intention, catching spots of lichen on the wall and clumps of herbage
on the roadside. The long discussion had become so familiar to him,
that even now, when his mind was made up, he could not relinquish the
habit which possessed him. When he perceived Frank, he quickened his
steps. They met with only such a modified expression of surprise on
the part of the younger brother as was natural to a meeting of English
kinsfolk. "I heard Louisa's voice in my aunt's drawing-room," said
Frank; "but, oddly enough, it never occurred to me that you might have
come with her;" and then Gerald turned with the Curate. When the
ordinary family questions were asked and answered, a silence ensued
between the two. As for Frank, in the multiplicity of his own cares,
he had all but forgotten his brother; and Gerald's mind, though full
of anxiety, had something of the calm which might be supposed to
subdue the senses of a dying man. He was on the eve of a change, which
appeared to him almost as great as death; and the knowledge of that
gave him a curious stillness of composure--almost a reluctance to
speak. Strangely enough, each brother at this critical moment felt it
necessary to occupy himself with the affairs of the other, and to
postpone the consideration of his own.
"I hope you have changed your mind a little since we last met," said
Frank; "your last letter--"
"We'll talk of that presently," said the elder brother; "in the mean
time I want to know about _you_. What is all this? My father is in a
great state of anxiety. He does not seem to have got rid of his fancy
that you were somehow involved with Jack--and Jack is here," said
Gerald, with a look which betokened some anxiety on his own part. "I
wish you would give me your confidence. Right or wrong, I have come to
stand by you, Frank," said the Rector of Wentworth, rather mournfully.
He had been waiting at Mrs Hadwin's for the last two hours. He had
seen that worthy woman's discomposed looks, and felt that she did not
shake her head for nothing. Jack had been the bugbear of the family
for a long time past. Gerald was conscious of adding heavily at the
present moment to the Squire's troubles. Charley was at Malta, in
indifferent health; all the others were boys. There was only Frank to
give the father a little consolation; and now Frank, it appeared, was
most deeply compromised of all; no wonder Gerald was sad. And then he
drew forth the anonymous letter which had startled all the Wentworths
on the previous night. "This is written by somebody who hates you,"
said the elder brother; "but I suppose there must be some meaning in
it. I wish you would be frank with me, and tell me what it is."
This appeal had brought them to Mrs Hadwin's door, which the Curate
opened with his key before he answered his brother. The old lady
herself was walking in the garden in a state of great agitation, with
a shawl thrown over the best cap, which she had put on in honour of
the stranger. Mrs Hadwin's feelings were too much for her at that
moment. Her head was nodding with the excitement of age, and injured
virtue trembled in every line of her face. "Mr Wentworth, I cannot put
up with it any longer; it is a thing I never was used to," she cried,
as soon as the Curate came within hearing. "I have shut my eyes to a
great deal, but I cannot bear it any longer. If I had been a common
lodging-house keeper, I could not have been treated with less respect;
but to be outraged--to be insulted--"
"What is the matter, Mrs Hadwin?" said Mr Wentworth, in dismay.
"Sir," said the old lady, who was trembling with passion, "you may
think it no matter to turn a house upside down as mine has been since
Easter; to bring all sorts of disreputable people about--persons whom
a gentlewoman in my position ought never to have heard of. I received
your brother into my house," cried Mrs Hadwin, turning to Gerald,
"because he was a clergyman and I knew his family, and hoped to find
him one whose principles I could approve of. I have put up with a
great deal, Mr Wentworth, more than I could tell to anybody. I took
in his friend when he asked me, and gave him the spare room, though it
was against my judgment. I suffered a man with a beard to be seen
stealing in and out of my house in the evening, as if he was afraid to
be seen. You gentlemen may not think much of that, but it was a
terrible thing for a lady in my position, unprotected, and not so well
off as I once was. It made my house like a lodging-house, and so my
friends told me; but I was so infatuated I put up with it all for Mr
Frank's sake. But there _is_ a limit," said the aggrieved woman. "I
would not have believed it--I _could_ not have believed it of you--not
whatever people might say: to think of that abandoned disgraceful girl
coming openly to my door--"
"Good heavens!" cried the Curate: he seized Mrs Hadwin's hand,
evidently forgetting everything else she had said. "What girl?--whom
do you mean? For heaven's sake compose yourself and answer me. Who was
it? Rosa Elsworthy? This is a matter of life and death for me," cried
the young man. "Speak quickly: when was it?--where is she? For
heaven's sake, Mrs Hadwin, speak--"
"Let me go, sir!" cried the indignant old lady; "let me go this
instant--this is insult upon insult. I appeal to you, Mr Gerald--to
think I should ever be supposed capable of encouraging such a horrid
shameless--! How dare you--how dare you name such a creature to me?"
exclaimed Mrs Hadwin, with hysterical sobs. "If it were not for your
family, you should never enter my house again. Oh, thank you, Mr
Gerald Wentworth--indeed I am not able to walk. I am sure I don't want
to grieve you about your brother--I tried not to believe it--I tried
as long as I could not to believe it--but you hear how he speaks. Do
you think, sir, I would for a moment permit such a creature to enter
my door?" she cried again, turning to Frank Wentworth as she leaned
upon his brother's arm.
"I don't know what kind of a creature the poor girl is," said the
Curate; "but I know that if you had taken her in, it would have saved
me much pain and trouble. Tell me, at least, when she came, and who
saw her--or if she left any message? Perhaps Sarah will tell me," he
said, with a sigh of despair, as he saw that handmaiden hovering
behind. Sarah had been a little shy of Mr Wentworth since the night
Wodehouse disappeared. She had betrayed herself to the Curate, and did
not like to remember the fact. Now she came up with a little toss of
her head and a sense of equality, primed and ready with her reply.
"I hope I think more of myself than to take notice of any sich," said
Sarah; but her instincts were more vivid than those of her mistress,
and she could not refrain from particulars. "Them as saw her now,
wouldn't see much in her; I never see such a changed creature," said
Sarah; "not as I ever thought anything of her looks! a bit of a shawl
dragged around her, and her eyes as if they would jump out of her
head. Laws! she didn't get no satisfaction here," said the housemaid,
with a little triumph.
"Silence, Sarah!" said Mrs Hadwin; "that is not a way to speak to your
clergyman. I'll go in, Mr Wentworth, please--I am not equal to so much
agitation. If Mr Frank will come indoors, I should be glad to have an
explanation--for this sort of thing cannot go on," said the old lady.
As for the Curate he did not pay the least attention either to the
disapproval or the impertinence.
"At what time did she come?--which way did she go?--did she leave any
message?" he repeated; "a moment's common-sense will be of more use
than all this indignation. It is of the greatest importance to me to
see Rosa Elsworthy. Here's how it is, Gerald," said the Curate, driven
to his wit's end; "a word from the girl is all I want to make an end
of all this--this disgusting folly--and you see how I am thwarted.
Perhaps they will answer _you_. When did she come?--did she say
anything?" he cried, turning sharply upon Sarah, who, frightened by Mr
Wentworth's look, and dismayed to see her mistress moving away, and to
feel herself alone opposed to him, burst at last into an alarmed
statement.
"Please, sir, it aint no fault of mine," said Sarah; "it was Missis as
saw her. She aint been gone not half an hour. It's all happened since
your brother left. She come to the side-door; Missis wouldn't hear
nothing she had got to say, nor let her speak. Oh, Mr Wentworth, don't
you go after her!" cried the girl, following him to the side-door, to
which he rushed immediately. Not half an hour gone! Mr Wentworth burst
into the lane which led up to Grove Street, and where there was not a
soul to be seen. He went back to Grange Lane, and inspected every
corner where she could have hid herself. Then, after a pause, he
walked impetuously up the quiet road, and into Elsworthy's shop. Mrs
Elsworthy was there alone, occupying her husband's place, who had gone
as usual to the railway for the evening papers. She jumped up from the
high stool she was seated on when the Curate entered. "Good gracious,
Mr Wentworth!" cried the frightened woman, and instinctively called
the errand-boy, who was the only other individual within hearing. She
was unprotected, and quite unable to defend herself if he meant
anything; and it was impossible to doubt that there was meaning of the
most serious and energetic kind in Mr Wentworth's face.
"Has Rosa come back?" he asked. "Is she here? Don't stare at me, but
speak. Has she come back? I have just heard that she was at my house
half an hour ago: have you got her safe?"
It was at this moment that Wodehouse came lounging in, with his cigar
appearing in the midst of his beard, and a curious look of
self-exhibition and demonstration in his general aspect. When the
Curate, hearing the steps, turned round upon him, he fell back for a
moment, not expecting such an encounter. Then the vagabond recovered
himself, and came forward with the swagger which was his only
alternative.
"I thought you weren't on good terms here," said Wodehouse; "who are you
asking after? It's a fine evening, and they don't seem up to much in my
house. I have asked Jack Wentworth to the Blue Boar at seven--will you
come? I don't want to bear any grudge. I don't know if they can cook
anything fit to be eaten in my house. It wasn't me you were asking
after?" The fellow came and stood close, shoulder to shoulder, by the
Perpetual Curate. "By Jove, sir! I've as good a right here as you--or
anywhere," he muttered, as Mr Wentworth withdrew from him. He had to say
it aloud to convince himself of the fact; for it was hard, after being
clandestine for half a lifetime, to move about freely in the daylight.
As for Mr Wentworth, he fixed his eyes full on the new-comer's face.
"I want to know if Rosa has come home," he repeated, in the clearest
tones of his clear voice. "I am told she called at Mrs Hadwin's half
an hour ago. Has she come back?"
He scarcely noticed Mrs Elsworthy's answer, for, in the mean time, the
cigar dropped out of Wodehouse's beard, out of his fingers. He made an
involuntary step back out of the Curate's way. "By Jove!" he exclaimed
to himself--the news was more important to him than to either of the
others. After a minute he turned his back upon them, and kicked the
cigar which he had dropped out into the street with much blundering
and unnecessary violence--but turned round and stopped short in this
occupation as soon as he heard Mrs Elsworthy's voice.
"She hasn't come here," said that virtuous woman, sharply. "I've give
in to Elsworthy a deal, but I never said I'd give in to take her back.
She's been and disgraced us all; and she's not a drop's blood to me,"
said Mrs Elsworthy. "Them as has brought her to this pass had best
look after her; I've washed my hands of Rosa, and all belonging to
her. She knows better than to come here."
"Who's speaking of Rosa?" said Elsworthy, who just then came in with
his bundle of newspapers from the railway. "I might have know'd as it
was Mr Wentworth. Matters is going to be cleared, sir, between me and
you. If you was going to make a proposal, I aint revengeful; and I'm
open to any arrangement as is honourable, to save things coming afore
the public. I've been expecting of it. You may speak free, sir. You
needn't be afraid of me."
"Fool!" said the Curate, hotly, "your niece has been seen in
Carlingford; she came to my door, I am told, about an hour ago. Give
up this folly, and let us make an effort to find her. I tell you she
came to my house--"
"In course, sir," said Elsworthy; "it was the most naturalest place
for her to go. Don't you stand upon it no longer, as if you could
deceive folks. It will be your ruin, Mr Wentworth--you know that as
well as I do. I aint no fool but I'm open to a honourable proposal, I
am. It'll ruin you--ay, and I'll ruin you," cried Rosa's uncle,
hoarsely--"if you don't change your mind afore to-morrow. It's your
last chance, if you care for your character, is to-night."
Mr Wentworth did not condescend to make any answer. He followed
Wodehouse, who had shuffled out after his cigar, and stopped him on
the step. "I wonder if it is any use appealing to your honour," he
said. "I suppose you were a gentleman once, and had the feelings of--"
"By Jove! I'm as good a gentleman as you are," cried the new heir. "I
could buy you up--you and all that belongs to you, by Jove! I'm giving
Jack Wentworth a dinner at the Blue Boar to-night. I'm not a man to be
cross-questioned. It appears to me you have got enough to do if you
mind your own business," said Wodehouse, with a sneer. "You're in a
nice mess, though you are the parson. I told Jack Wentworth so last
night."
The Curate stood on the step of Elsworthy's shop with his enemy
behind, and the ungrateful vagabond whom he had rescued and guarded,
standing in front of him, with that sneer on his lips. It was hard to
refrain from the natural impulse which prompted him to pitch the
vagabond out of his way. "Look here," he said, sharply, "you have not
much character to lose; but a scamp is a different thing from a
criminal. I will make the principal people in Carlingford aware what
were the precise circumstances under which you came here at Easter if
you do not immediately restore this unhappy girl to her friends. Do
you understand me? If it is not done at once I will make use of my
information--and you know what that means. You can defy me if you
please; but in that case you had better make up your mind to the
consequences; you will have to take your place as a--"
"Stop!" cried Wodehouse, with a shiver. "We're not by ourselves--we're
in the public street. What do you mean by talking like that here? Come
to my house, Wentworth--there's a good fellow--I've ordered a
dinner--"
"Be silent, sir!" said the Curate. "I give you till noon to-morrow;
after that I will spare you no longer. You understand what I mean. I
have been too merciful already. To-morrow, if everything is not
arranged to my satisfaction here--"
"It was my own name," said Wodehouse, sullenly; "nobody can say it
wasn't my own name. You couldn't do me any harm--you know you
wouldn't, either, for the sake of the girls; I'll--I'll give them a
thousand pounds or so, if I find I can afford it. Come, you don't mean
that sort of thing, you know," said the conscious criminal; "you
wouldn't do me any harm."
"If I have to fight for my own reputation I shall not spare you,"
cried the Curate. "Mind what I say! You are safe till twelve o'clock
to-morrow; but after that I will have no mercy--not for your sisters'
sake, not for any inducement in the world. If you want to be known as
a--"
"Oh Lord, don't speak so loud!--what do you mean? Wentworth, I say,
hist! Mr Wentworth! By Jove, he won't listen to me!" cried Wodehouse,
in an agony. When he found that the Curate was already out of hearing,
the vagabond looked round him on every side with his natural instinct
of suspicion. If he had known that Mr Wentworth was thinking only of
disgrace and the stern sentence of public opinion, Wodehouse could
have put up with it; but he himself, in his guilty imagination, jumped
at the bar and the prison which had haunted him for long. Somehow it
felt natural that such a Nemesis should come to him after the
morning's triumph. He stood looking after the Curate, guilty and
horror-stricken, till it occurred to him that he might be remarked;
and then he made a circuit past Elsworthy's shop-window as far as the
end of Prickett's Lane, where he ventured to cross over so as to get
to his own house. His own house!--the wretched thrill of terror that
went through him was a very sufficient offset against his momentary
triumph; and this was succeeded by a flush of rage as he thought of
the Curate's other information. What was to be done? Every moment was
precious; but he felt an instinctive horror of venturing out again in
the daylight. When it approached the hour at which he had ordered that
dinner at the Blue Boar, the humbled hero wrapped himself in an old
overcoat which he found in the hall, and slunk into the inn like the
clandestine wretch he was. He had no confidence in himself, but he had
confidence in Jack Wentworth. He might still be able to help his
unlucky associate out.
When Mr Wentworth reached his rooms, he found that his guest had
arrived before him, and consequently the threatened explanation with
Mrs Hadwin was forestalled for that night. Mr Proctor and Gerald were
sitting together, not at all knowing what to talk about; for the late
Rector was aware that Frank Wentworth's brother was on the verge of
Rome, and was confused, and could not help feeling that his position
between a man on the point of perversion in an ecclesiastical point of
view, and another whose morals were suspected and whose character was
compromised, was, to say the least, a very odd position for a
clergyman of unblemished orthodoxy and respectability; besides, it was
embarrassing, when he had come for a very private consultation, to
find a stranger there before him. The Curate went in very full of what
had just occurred. The events of the last two or three hours had
worked a total change in his feelings. He was no longer the injured,
insulted, silent object of a petty but virulent persecution. The
contemptuous silence with which he had treated the scandal at first,
and the still more obstinate sense of wrong which latterly had shut
his lips and his heart, had given way to-day to warmer and more
generous emotions. What would have seemed to him in the morning only
the indignant reserve of a man unjustly suspected, appeared now a
foolish and unfriendly reticence. The only thing which restrained him
was a still lingering inclination to screen Wodehouse, if possible,
from a public exposure, which would throw shame upon his sisters as
well as himself. If any generosity, if any gentlemanly feeling, were
still left in the vagabond's soul, it was possible he might answer the
Curate's appeal; and Mr Wentworth felt himself bound to offer no
public explanation of the facts of the case until this last chance of
escape had been left for the criminal. But, so far as regarded
himself, his heart was opened, his wounded pride mollified, and he was
ready enough to talk of what had just happened, and to explain the
whole business to his anxious companions. When he joined them, indeed,
he was so full of it as almost to forget that he himself was still
believed the hero of the tale. "This unfortunate little girl has been
here, and I have missed her," he said, without in the least concealing
his vexation, and the excitement which his rapid walk had not subdued;
to the great horror of Mr Proctor, who tried all he could, by
telegraphic glances, to recall the young man to a sense of that fact
that Sarah was in the room.
"I must say I think it is imprudent--highly imprudent," said the late
Rector: "they will call these women to prove that she has been here
again; and what conclusion but one can possibly be drawn from such a
fact? I am very sorry to see you so unguarded." He said this, seizing
the moment after Sarah had removed the salmon, which was very good,
and was served with a sauce which pleased Mr Proctor all the more that
he had not expected much from an impromptu dinner furnished by a
Perpetual Curate; but the fact was, that Gerald's arrival had
awakened Mrs Hadwin to a proper regard for her own credit, which was
at stake.
When Sarah withdrew finally, and they were left alone, Frank Wentworth
gave the fullest explanation he was able to his surprised auditors. He
told them that it was Wodehouse, and not himself, whom Rosa had met in
the garden, and whom she had no doubt come to seek at this crisis of
their fortunes. There was not the least doubt in his own mind that
Wodehouse had carried her away, and hidden her somewhere close at
hand; and when he had given them all his reasons for thinking so, his
hearers were of the same opinion; but Mr Proctor continued very
doubtful and perplexed, clear though the story was. He sat silent,
brooding over the new mystery, while the brothers discussed the
original questions.
"I cannot think why you did not go to the Rector at once and tell him
all this," said Gerald. "It is always best to put a stop to gossip. At
least you will see him to-morrow, or let me see him--"
"The Rector is deeply prejudiced against me," said the Perpetual Curate,
"for a very unworthy reason, if he has any reason at all. He has never
asked me to explain. I shall not interfere with his investigation," said
the young man, haughtily; "let it go on. I have been working here for
five years, and the Carlingford people ought to know better. As for the
Rector, I will make no explanations to him."
"It is not for the Rector, it is for yourself," said Gerald; "and this
fellow Wodehouse surely has no claim--"
But at the sound of this name, Mr Proctor roused himself from his
pause of bewilderment, and took the words out of Mr Wentworth's mouth.
"He has been here since Easter; but why?" said the late Rector. "I
cannot fancy why Mr Wodehouse's son should come to you when his
father's house was so near. In hiding? why was he in hiding? He is
evidently a scamp," said Mr Proctor, growing red; "but that is not so
unusual. I don't understand--I am bound to say I don't understand it.
He may be the culprit, as you say; but what was he doing here?"
"I took him in at Miss Wodehouse's request. I cannot explain
why--_she_ will tell you," said the Curate. "As for Wodehouse, I have
given him another chance till twelve o'clock to-morrow: if he does not
make his appearance then--"
Mr Proctor had listened only to the first words; he kept moving
uneasily in his seat while the Curate spoke. Then he broke in, "It
appears I cannot see Miss Wodehouse," he said, with an injured tone;
"she does not see any one. I cannot ask for any explanation; but it
seems to me most extraordinary. It is three months since Easter. If he
had been living with you all the time, there must have been some
occasion for it. I don't know what to think, for my part; and yet I
always imagined that I was considered a friend of the family," said
the late Rector, with an aggrieved look. He took his glass of claret
very slowly, looking at it as if expecting to see in the purple
reflection some explanation of the mystery. As for Gerald Wentworth,
he relapsed into silence when he found that his arguments did not
alter Frank's decision; he too was disappointed not to find his
brother alone. He sat with his eyes cast down, and a singular look of
abstraction on his face. He had got into a new atmosphere--a different
world. When his anxieties about Frank were satisfied, Gerald withdrew
himself altogether from the little party. He sat there, it is true,
not unaware of what was going on, and even from time to time joining
in the conversation; but already a subtle change had come over Gerald.
He might have been repeating an "office," or carrying on a course of
private devotions, from his looks. Rome had established her dualism in
his mind. He had no longer the unity of an Englishman trained to do
one thing at a time, and to do it with his might. He sat in a kind of
languor, carrying on within himself a thread of thought, to which his
external occupation gave no clue; yet at the same time suffering no
indication to escape him of the real condition of his mind. The three
were consequently far from being good company. Mr Proctor, who was
more puzzled than ever as to the true state of the case, could not
unburden himself of his own intentions as he had hoped to do; and
after a while the Curate, too, was silent, finding his statements
received, as he thought, but coldly. It was a great relief to him when
he was called out by Sarah to speak to some one, though his absence
made conversation still more difficult for the two who were left
behind. Mr Proctor, from the other side of the table, regarded Gerald
with a mixture of wonder and pity. He did not feel quite sure that it
was not his duty to speak to him--to expound the superior catholicity
of the Church of England, and call his attention to the schismatic
peculiarities of the Church of Rome. "It might do him good to read
Burgon's book," Mr Proctor said to himself; and by way of introducing
that subject, he began to talk of Italy, which was not a bad device,
and did credit to his invention. Meanwhile the Curate had gone to his
study, wondering a little who could want him, and, to his utter
bewilderment, found his aunt Dora, veiled, and wrapped up in a great
shawl.
"Oh, Frank, my dear, don't be angry! I couldn't help coming," cried
Miss Dora. "Come and sit down by me here. I slipped out and did not
even put on my bonnet, that nobody might know. Oh, Frank, I don't know
what to say. I am so afraid you have been wicked. I have just seen
that--that girl. I saw her out of my window. Frank! don't jump up like
that. I can't go on telling you if you don't stay quiet here."
"Aunt, let me understand you," cried the Curate. "You saw whom? Rosa
Elsworthy? Don't drive me desperate, as all the others do with their
stupidity. You saw her? when?--where?"
"Oh Frank, Frank! to think it should put you in such a way--such a
girl as that! Oh, my dear boy, if I had thought you cared so much, I
never would have come to tell you. It wasn't to encourage you--it
wasn't. Oh, Frank, Frank! that it should come to this!" cried Miss
Dora, shrinking back from him with fright and horror in her face.
"Come, we have no time to lose," said the Curate, who was desperate.
He picked up her shawl, which had fallen on the floor, and bundled her
up in it in the most summary way. "Come, aunt Dora," said the
impetuous young man; "you know you were always my kindest friend.
Nobody else can help me at this moment. I feel that you are going to
be my deliverer. Come, aunt Dora--we must go and find her, you and I.
There is not a moment to lose."
He had his arm round her, holding on her shawl. He raised her up from
her chair, and supported her, looking at her as he had not done before
since he was a boy at school, Miss Dora thought. She was too
frightened, too excited, to cry, as she would have liked to do; but
the proposal was so terrible and unprecedented that she leaned back
trembling on her nephew's arm, and could not move either to obey or to
resist him. "Oh, Frank, I never went after any improper person in my
life," gasped aunt Dora. "Oh, my dear, don't make me do anything that
is wrong; they will say it is my fault!" cried the poor lady,
gradually feeling herself obliged to stand on her feet and collect her
forces. The shawl fell back from her shoulders as the Curate withdrew
his arm. "You have lost my large pin," cried aunt Dora, in despair;
"and I have no bonnet. And oh! what will Leonora say? I never, never
would have come to tell you if I had thought of this. I only came to
warn you, Frank. I only intended--"
"Yes," said the Curate. The emergency was momentous, and he dared not
lose patience. He found her large pin even, while she stood trembling,
and stuck it into her shawl as if it had been a skewer. "You never
would have come if you had not been my guardian angel," said the
deceitful young man, whose heart was beating high with anxiety and
hope. "Nobody else would do for me what you are going to do--but I
have always had confidence in my aunt Dora. Come, come! We have not a
moment to lose."
This was how he overcame Miss Dora's scruples. Before she knew what
had happened she was being hurried through the clear summer night past
the long garden-walls of Grange Lane. The stars were shining overhead,
the leaves rustling on all sides in the soft wind--not a soul to be
seen in the long line of darkling road. Miss Dora had no breath to
speak, however much disposed she might have been. She could not
remonstrate, having full occasion for all her forces to keep her feet
and her breath. When Mr Wentworth paused for an instant to ask "which
way did she go?" it was all Miss Dora could do to indicate with her
finger the dark depths of Prickett's Lane. Thither she was immediately
carried as by a whirlwind. With a shawl over her head, fastened
together wildly by the big pin--with nothing but little satin
slippers, quite unfit for the exertion required of them--with an
agonised protest in her heart that she had never, never in her life
gone after any improper person before--and, crowning misfortune of
all, with a horrible consciousness that she had left the garden-door
open, hoping to return in a few minutes, Miss Dora Wentworth, single
woman as she was, and ignorant of evil, was whirled off in pursuit of
the unfortunate Rosa into the dark abysses of Prickett's Lane.
While this terrible Hegira was taking place, Mr Proctor sat opposite
Gerald Wentworth, sipping his claret and talking of Italy. "Perhaps
you have not read Burgon's book," said the late Rector. "There is a
good deal of valuable information in it about the Catacombs, and he
enters at some length into the question between the Roman Church and
our own. If you are interested in that, you should read it," said Mr
Proctor; "it is a very important question."
"Yes," said Gerald; and then there followed a pause. Mr Proctor did
not know what to make of the faint passing smile, the abstracted look,
which he had vaguely observed all the evening; and he looked so
inquiringly across the table that Gerald's new-born dualism came
immediately into play, to the great amazement of his companion. Mr
Wentworth talked, and talked well; but his eyes were still abstracted,
his mind was still otherwise occupied; and Mr Proctor, whose own
intelligence was in a state of unusual excitement, perceived the fact
without being at all able to explain it. An hour passed, and both the
gentlemen looked at their watches. The Curate had left them abruptly
enough, with little apology; and as neither of them had much interest
in the other, nor in the conversation, it was natural that the host's
return should be looked for with some anxiety. When the two gentlemen
had said all they could say about Italy--when Mr Proctor had given a
little sketch of his own experiences in Rome, to which his companion
did not make the usual response of narrating his--the two came to a
dead pause. They had now been sitting for more than two hours over
that bottle of Lafitte, many thoughts having in the mean time crossed
Mr Proctor's mind concerning the coffee and the Curate. Where could he
have gone? and why was there not somebody in the house with sense
enough to clear away the remains of dessert, and refresh the wearied
interlocutors with the black and fragrant cup which cheers all
students? Both of the gentlemen had become seriously uneasy by this
time; the late Rector got up from the table when he could bear it no
longer. "Your brother must have been called away by something
important," said Mr Proctor, stiffly. "Perhaps you will kindly make my
excuses. Mr Morgan keeps very regular hours, and I should not like to
be late--"
"It is very extraordinary. I can't fancy what can be the reason--it
must be somebody sick," said Gerald, rising too, but not looking by
any means sure that Frank's absence had such a laudable excuse.
"Very likely," said the late Rector, more stiffly than ever. "You are
living here, I suppose?"
"No; I am at Miss Wentworth's--my aunt's," said Gerald. "I will walk
with you;" and they went out together with minds considerably excited.
Both looked up and down the road when they got outside the garden-gate:
both had a vague idea that the Curate might be visible somewhere in
conversation with somebody disreputable; and one being his friend and
the other his brother, they were almost equally disturbed about the
unfortunate young man. Mr Proctor's thoughts, however, were mingled with
a little offence. He had meant to be confidential and brotherly, and the
occasion had been lost; and how was it possible to explain the rudeness
with which Mr Wentworth had treated him? Gerald was still more seriously
troubled. When Mr Proctor left him, he walked up and down Grange Lane in
the quiet of the summer night, watching for his brother. Jack came home
smoking his cigar, dropping Wodehouse, whom the heir of the Wentworths
declined to call his friend, before he reached his aunts' door, and as
much surprised as it was possible for him to be, to find Gerald
lingering, meditating, along the silent road; but still Frank did
not come. By-and-by a hurried light gleamed in the window of the
summer-house, and sounds of commotion were audible in the orderly
dwelling of the Miss Wentworths; and the next thing that happened was
the appearance of Miss Leonora, also with a shawl over her head, at the
garden-door. Just then, when they were all going to bed, Collins, Miss
Dora's maid, had come to the drawing-room in search of her mistress. She
was not to be found anywhere, though her bonnets and all her outdoor
gear were safe in their place. For the first time in her life the entire
family were startled into anxiety on Miss Dora's account. As for Mrs
Gerald Wentworth, she jumped at once to the conclusion that the poor
lady was murdered, and that Frank must have something to do with it, and
filled the house with lamentations. Nobody went to bed, not even aunt
Cecilia, who had not been out of her room at eleven o'clock for
centuries. Collins had gone into the summer-house and was turning over
everything there as if she expected to find her mistress's body in the
cupboard or under the sofa; Lewis, the butler, was hunting through the
garden with a lantern, looking under all the bushes. No incident so
utterly unaccountable had occurred before in Miss Dora Wentworth's life.