Mr Morgan did not go home direct from the investigation of the morning;
on the contrary, he paid various visits, and got through a considerable
amount of parish business, before he turned his face towards the
Rectory. On the whole, his feelings were far from being comfortable. He
did not know, certainly, who Mr Wentworth's witness was, but he had an
unpleasant conviction that it was somebody who would clear the Curate.
"Of course I shall be very glad," the Rector said to himself; but it is
a fact, that in reality he was far from being glad, and that a secret
conviction of this sentiment, stealing into his mind, made matters still
more uncomfortable. This private sense of wishing evil to another man,
of being unwilling and vexed to think well of his neighbour, was in
itself enough to disturb the Rector's tranquillity; and when to this was
added the aggravation that his wife had always been on the other side,
and had warned him against proceeding, and might, if she pleased, say,
"I told you so," it will be apparent that Mr Morgan's uneasiness was not
without foundation. Instead of going home direct to acquaint his wife
with the circumstances, about which he knew she must be curious, it was
late in the afternoon before the Rector opened his own gate. Even then
he went through the garden with a reluctant step, feeling it still more
difficult to meet her now than it would have been at first, although his
delay had arisen from the thought that it would be easier to encounter
her keen looks after an interval. There was, however, no keen look to be
dreaded at this moment. Mrs Morgan was busy with her ferns, and she did
not look up as her husband approached. She went on with her occupation,
examining carefully what withered fronds there might be about her
favourite maidenhair, even when he stopped by her side. Though her
husband's shadow fell across the plants she was tending, Mrs Morgan, for
the first time in her married life, did not look up to welcome the
Rector. She made no demonstration, said no word of displeasure, but only
showed herself utterly absorbed in, and devoted to, her ferns. There
was, to be sure, no such lover of ferns in the neighbourhood of
Carlingford as the Rector's wife.
As for Mr Morgan, he stood by her side in a state of great discomfort
and discomfiture. The good man's perceptions were not very clear, but
he saw that she had heard from some one the issue of the morning's
inquiry, and that she was deeply offended by his delay, and that, in
short, they had arrived at a serious difference, the first quarrel
since their marriage. Feeling himself in the wrong, Mr Morgan
naturally grew angry too.
"I should like to have dinner earlier to-day," he said, with the usual
indiscretion of an aggrieved husband. "Perhaps you will tell the cook,
my dear. I think I should like to have it at five, if possible. It
can't make much difference for one day."
Mrs Morgan raised herself up from her ferns, and no doubt it was a
relief to her to find herself provided with so just a cause of
displeasure. "Much difference!" cried the Rector's wife; "it is
half-past four now. I wonder how you could think of such a thing,
William. There is some lamb, which of course is not put down to roast
yet, and the ducks. If you wish the cook to give warning immediately,
you may send such a message. It is just like a man to think it would
make no difference! But I must say, to do them justice," said the
Rector's wife, "it is not like a man of your college!" When she had
fired this double arrow, she took off her gardening gloves and lifted
her basket. "I suppose you told Mr Proctor that you wished to dine
early?" said Mrs Morgan, with severity, pausing on the threshold. "Of
course it is quite impossible to have dinner at five unless he knows."
"Indeed I--I forgot all about Proctor," said the Rector, who now saw
the inexpediency of his proposal. "On second thoughts, I see it does
not matter much. But after dinner I expect some people about Mr
Wentworth's business. It was not settled this morning, as I expected."
"So I heard," said Mrs Morgan. "I will tell Thomas to show them into
the library," and she went indoors, carrying her basket. As for the
Rector, he stood silent, looking after her, and feeling wonderfully
discomfited. Had she found fault with him for his delay--had she even
said "I told you so!" it would have been less overwhelming than this
indifference. They had never had a quarrel before, and the effect was
proportionately increased. After standing bewildered at the door for a
few minutes, he retired into his study, where the change in his wife's
demeanour haunted him, and obscured Mr Wentworth. Mrs Morgan sat at
the head of the table at dinner with an equal want of curiosity. Even
when the subject was discussed between the Rector and Mr Proctor, she
asked no questions--a course of procedure very puzzling and trying to
Mr Morgan, who could not make it out.
It was after eight o'clock before the tribunal of the morning was
reconstituted at the Rectory. Most of the gentlemen came late, and the
little assembly brought with it a flavour of port, which modified the
serious atmosphere. When the bed of justice was again formed, Mr
Wentworth entered with the bodyguard of Wentworths, which numbered
half as many as his judges. Half from curiosity, half from a reluctant
inclination to please his father, Jack had joined the others, and they
came in together, all of them noticeable men, profoundly different,
yet identified as belonging to each other by the touching bond of
family resemblance. After the four gentlemen had taken possession of
their corner, Mr Waters made a somewhat hurried entry, bringing after
him the sullen reluctant figure of Wodehouse, who made an awkward bow
to the assembled potentates, and looked ashamed and vigilant, and very
ill at ease. Mr Waters made a hasty explanation to the Rector before
he sat down by the side of his unlucky client. "I thought it possible
there might be some attempt made to shift the blame upon him,
therefore I thought it best to bring him," said the lawyer. Mr Morgan
gave him a dry little nod without answering. To tell the truth, the
Rector felt anything but comfortable; when he glanced up at the
stranger, who was looking askance at the people in the room as if they
had been so many policemen in disguise, a disagreeable sudden
conviction that this sullen rascal looked a great deal more like the
guilty man than Mr Wentworth did, came into Mr Morgan's mind, and made
him sick with annoyance and embarrassment. If it should turn out so!
if it should become apparent that he, for private prejudices of his
own, had been persecuting his brother! This thought produced an actual
physical effect for the moment upon the Rector, but its immediate
visible consequence was simply to make him look more severe, almost
spiteful, in a kind of unconscious self-vindication. Last of all,
Elsworthy, who began to be frightened too, but whose fears were
mingled with no compunction nor blame of himself, stole in and found
an uncomfortable seat on a stool near the door, where scarcely any one
saw him, by favour of Thomas, and screened by the high back of the
Rector's easy-chair. When all were assembled Mr Morgan spoke.
"We are met this evening, gentlemen, to complete, if there is sufficient
time, the investigation we began this morning," said the Rector. "I have
no doubt I express the sentiments of every one present when I say I
shall be glad--_unfeignedly_ glad," said Mr Morgan, with a defiant
emphasis, which was meant to convince himself, "to find that Mr
Wentworth's witness is of sufficient importance to justify the delay. As
we were interrupted this morning solely on his account, I presume it
will be most satisfactory that this witness should be called at once."
"I should like to say something in the first place," said the Curate.
Mr Morgan made an abrupt nod indicative of his consent, and, instead
of looking at the defendant, shaded his eyes with his hand, and made
figures with his pen upon the blotting-paper. A conviction, against
which it was impossible to strive, had taken possession of the
Rector's soul. He listened to Frank Wentworth's address with a kind of
impatient annoyance and resistance. "What is the good of saying any
more about it?" Mr Morgan was saying in his soul. "For heaven's sake
let us bury it and be done with it, and forget that we ever made such
asses of ourselves." But at the same time the Rector knew this was
quite impossible; and as he sat leaning over his blotting-book,
writing down millions after millions with his unconscious pen, he
looked a very model of an unwilling listener--a prejudiced judge--a
man whom no arguments could convince; which was the aspect under which
he appeared to the Curate of St Roque's.
"I should like to say something first," said the Perpetual Curate. "I
could not believe it possible that I, being tolerably well known in
Carlingford as I have always supposed, could be suspected by any
rational being of such an insane piece of wickedness as has been laid
to my charge; and consequently it did not occur to me to vindicate
myself, as I perhaps ought to have done, at the beginning. I have been
careless all along of vindicating myself. I had an idea," said the
young man, with involuntary disdain, "that I might trust, if not to
the regard, at least to the common-sense of my friends--"
Here John Brown, who was near his unwary client, plucked at the
Curate's coat, and brought him to a momentary half-angry pause.
"Softly, softly," said Dr Marjoribanks; "common-sense has nothing to
do with facts; we're inquiring into facts at this moment; and,
besides, it's a very foolish and unjustifiable confidence to trust to
any man's common-sense," said the old Doctor, with a humorous glance
from under his shaggy eyebrows at his fellow-judges; upon which there
ensued a laugh, not very agreeable in its tone, which brought the
Rector to a white heat of impatience and secret rage.
"It appears to me that the witness ought to be called at once," said
Mr Morgan, "if this is not a mere expedient to gain time, and if it is
intended to make any progress to-night."
"My explanations shall be very brief," said Frank Wentworth, facing
instantly to his natural enemy. "I have suspected from the beginning
of this business who was the culprit, and have made every possible
attempt to induce him to confess, and, so far as he could, amend the
wrong that he had done. I have failed; and now the confession, the
_amende_, must be made in public. I will now call my witness," said
the Curate. But this time a commotion rose in another part of the
room. It was Wodehouse, who struggled to rise, and to get free from
the detaining grasp of his companion.
"By Jove! I aint going to sit here and listen to a parcel of lies!"
cried the vagabond. "If I am to be tried, at least I'll have the real
thing, by Jove!" He had risen up, and was endeavouring to pass Mr
Waters and get out, casting a suspicious defiant look round the room.
The noise he made turned all eyes upon him, and the scrutiny he had
brought upon himself redoubled his anxiety to get away. "I'll not
stand it, by Jove! Waters, let me go," said the craven, whose confused
imagination had mixed up all his evil doings together, and who already
felt himself being carried off to prison. It was at this moment that
Jack Wentworth rose from his place in his easy careless way, and went
forward to the table to adjust the lamp, which was flaring a little.
Wodehouse dropped back into a chair as soon as he caught the eye of
this master of his fate. His big beard moved with a subterranean gasp
like the panting of a hunted creature, and all the colour that had
remained died away out of his haggard, frightened face. As for Jack
Wentworth, he took no apparent notice of the shabby rascal whom he
held in awe. "Rather warm this room for a court of justice. I hope
Frank's witness is not fat," said Jack, putting himself up against the
wall, and lifting languidly his glass to his eye--which byplay was
somewhat startling, but totally incomprehensible, to the amateur
judges, who looked upon him with angry eyes.
"I must request that the proceedings may not be interrupted," said Mr
Morgan; and then everybody looked towards the open door: the sight they
saw there was enough to startle the calmest spectator. Elsworthy, who
was seated close by, sprang from his stool with a low resounding howl of
amazement, upsetting his lowly seat, and staggering back against the
wall, in the excess of his wonder and consternation. The judges
themselves forgot their decorum, and crowded round upon each other to
stare--old Mr Western putting his arm round the Rector's neck in his
curiosity, as if they had been two boys at a peep-show. It was Miss
Leonora Wentworth's erect iron-grey figure that appeared in the doorway,
half leading in, half pushing before her, the unfortunate cause of all
the commotion--Rosa Elsworthy herself. A change had passed upon the
little girl's rosy, dewy, April beauty. Her pretty dark eyes were
enlarged and anxious, and full of tears; her cheeks had paled out of
their sweet colour, her red lips were pressed tightly together. Passion
and shame had set their marks upon the child's forehead--lightly, it is
true, but still the traces were there; but beyond all other sentiments,
anxiety, restless, breathless, palpitating, had possession of Mr
Wentworth's all-important witness. It was very clear that, whatever
might be the opinion of her judges, Rosa's case was anything but
hopeless in her own eyes. She came in drooping, shrinking, and abashed,
as was natural; but her shame was secondary in Rosa's mind, even in the
moment of her humiliation. She came to a dead stop when she had made a
few steps into the room, and cast furtive glances at the dread
tribunal, and began to cry. She was trembling with nervous eagerness,
with petulance and impatience. Almost all her judges, except the Rector
and Mr Proctor, had been known to Rosa from her earliest years. She was
not afraid of them, nor cast down by any sense of overwhelming
transgression--on the contrary, she cast an appealing look round her,
which implied that they could still set everything right if they would
exert themselves; and then she began to cry.
"Gentlemen, before you ask any questions," said Miss Leonora
Wentworth, "I should like to explain why I am here. I came not because
I approve of _her_, but because it is right that my nephew should have
a respectable woman to take charge of the witness. She was brought to
my house last night, and has been in my charge ever since;--and I come
with her now, not because I approve of her, but because she ought to
be in charge of some woman," said Miss Leonora, sitting down abruptly
in the chair some one had placed for her. The chair was placed close
by the spot where Rosa stood crying. Poor, pretty, forsaken child!
Perhaps Miss Leonora, who sat beside her, and occupied the position of
her protector, was of all the people present the only one who had not
already forgiven Rosa, the only one who would have still been disposed
to punish her, and did not pardon the weeping creature in her heart.
"Now that you're here, Rosa," said Dr Marjoribanks, "the only sensible
thing you can do is to dry your eyes and answer the questions that
have to be put to you. Nobody will harm you if you speak the truth.
Don't be frightened, but dry your eyes, and let us hear what you have
to say."
"Poor little thing," said old Mr Western; "of course she has done very
wrong. I don't mean to defend her--but, after all, she is but a child.
Poor little thing! Her mother died, you know, when she was a baby. She
had nobody to tell her how to behave.--I don't mean to defend her, for
she has done very wrong, poor little--"
"We are falling into mere conversation," said the Rector, severely.
"Rosa Elsworthy, come to the table. The only thing you can do to make
up for all the misery you have caused to your friends, is to tell the
truth about everything. You are aged--how much? eighteen years?"
"Please, sir, only seventeen," said Rosa; "and oh, please, sir, I
didn't mean no harm. I wouldn't never have gone, no, not a step, if he
hadn't a-promised that we was to be married. Oh, please, sir--"
"Softly a little," said John Brown, interfering. "It is not you who
are on your trial, Rosa. We are not going to question you about your
foolishness; all that the Rector wants you to tell him is the name of
the man who persuaded you to go away."
At which question Rosa cried more and more. "I don't think he meant no
harm either," cried the poor little girl. "Oh, if somebody would
please speak to him! We couldn't be married then, but now if anybody
would take a little trouble! I told him Mr Wentworth would, if I was
to ask him; but then I thought perhaps as Mr Wentworth mightn't like
to be the one as married me," said Rosa, with a momentary gleam of
vanity through her tears. The little simper with which the girl spoke,
the coquettish looks askance at the Perpetual Curate, who stood grave
and unmoved at a distance, the movement of unconscious self-deception
and girlish vanity which for a moment distracted Rosa, had a great
effect upon the spectators. The judges looked at each other across the
table, and Dr Marjoribanks made a commentary of meditative nods upon
that little exhibition. "Just so," said the Doctor; "maybe Mr
Wentworth might have objected. If you tell me the man's name, _I_'ll
speak to him, Rosa," said the old Scotsman, grimly. As for the Rector,
he had put down his pen altogether, and looked very much as if he were
the culprit. Certainly his shame and confusion and self-disgust were
greater than that of any one else in the room.
"Oh, Doctor, please don't be angry. Oh, if somebody would only speak
to him!" cried poor Rosa. "Oh, please, it wasn't my fault--I haven't
got no--nobody to speak for me!" At this moment she got a glimpse of
her uncle's face, dark and angry, looming behind the Rector's chair.
Rosa shrank back with a frightened movement, and caught fast hold of
Miss Leonora's dress. "Oh, please, don't let him kill me!" cried the
terrified girl. She sank down at Miss Wentworth's feet, and held
tightly by her unwilling protectress. She was a frightened child,
afraid of being whipped and punished; she was not an outraged woman,
forsaken and miserable. Nobody knew what to do with her as she
crouched down, panting with fright and anxiety, by Miss Leonora's
side.
"We must know who this man is," said John Brown. "Look here, Rosa; if
anybody is to do you good, it is necessary to know the man. Rise up
and look round, and tell me if you can see him here."
After a moment's interval Rosa obeyed. She stood up trembling, resting
her hand to support herself on Miss Leonora's chair--almost, she
trembled so, on Miss Leonora's shoulder. Up to this moment the ignorant
little creature had scarcely felt the shame of her position; she had
felt only the necessity of appealing to the kindness of people who knew
her--people who were powerful enough to do very nearly what they pleased
in Carlingford; for it was in this light that Rosa, who knew no better,
regarded the Doctor and her other judges. This time her eye passed
quickly over those protectors. The tears were still hanging on her
eyelashes; her childish bosom was still palpitating with sobs. Beyond
the little circle of light round the table, the room was comparatively
in shadow. She stood by herself, her pretty face and anxious eyes
appearing over Miss Wentworth's head, her fright and her anxiety both
forgotten for the moment in the sudden hope of seeing her betrayer.
There was not a sound in the room to disturb the impartiality of her
search. Every man kept still, as if by chance he might be the offender.
Rosa's eyes, bright with anxiety, with eagerness, with a feverish hope,
went searching into the shadow, gleaming harmless over the Wentworth
brothers, who were opposite. Then there was a start and a loud cry. She
was not ashamed to be led before the old men, who were sorry for her,
and who could protect her; but now at last the instinct of her womanhood
seized upon the unfortunate creature. She had made an involuntary rush
towards him when she saw him first. Then she stopped short, and looked
all round her with a bewildered sudden consciousness. The blood rushed
to her face, scorching and burning; she uttered a sudden cry of anguish
and shame. "Oh, don't forsake me!--don't forsake me!--listen to the
gentlemen!" cried poor Rosa, and fell down in a sudden agony of
self-comprehension at Wodehouse's feet.
For a few minutes after there was nothing but confusion in the room.
Elsworthy had been standing behind backs, with a half-fiendish look of
rage and disappointment on his commonplace features. "Let them help her
as likes; I washes my hands of her," he cried bitterly, when he saw her
fall; and then rushed into the midst of the room, thrusting the others
out of his way. The man was beside himself with mortification, with
disgust, and fury, and at the same time with a savage natural affection
for the creature who had baffled and disgraced him, yet still was his
own. "Let alone--let alone, I tell you! There's nobody as belongs to her
but me!" cried Elsworthy, pushing up against the Doctor, who had lifted
her from the ground. As for Wodehouse, he was standing scowling down
upon the pretty figure at his feet: not that the vagabond was utterly
heartless, or could look at his victim without emotion; on the contrary,
he was pale with terror, thinking he had killed her, wondering in his
miserable heart if they would secure him at once, and furtively watching
the door to see if he had a chance of escape. When Mr Waters seized his
arm, Wodehouse gave a hoarse outcry of horror. "I'll marry her--oh,
Lord, I'll marry her! I never meant anything else," the wretched man
cried, as he sank back again into his chair. He thought she was dead, as
she lay with her upturned face on the carpet, and in his terror and
remorse and cowardice his heart seemed to stop beating. If he could have
had a chance of escaping, he would not have hesitated to dash the old
Doctor out of his way, and rush over the body of the unhappy girl whom
he thought he had murdered. But Waters held him fast; and he sank back,
panting and horrified, on his seat. "I never touched her; nobody can say
I touched her," muttered the poor wretch to himself; and watched with
fascinated eyes and the distinct apprehension of terror every movement
and change of position, calculating how he might dart out when the
window was opened--having forgotten for the moment that Jack Wentworth,
as well as the companion who kept immediate watch over him, was in the
room.
"She'll come to herself presently," said Dr Marjoribanks. "We'll carry
her up-stairs. Yes, I know you don't approve of her, Miss Wentworth;
nobody said you were to approve of her. Not that I think she's a
responsible moral agent myself," said the Doctor, lifting her up in
his vigorous arms; "but in the mean time she has to be brought to
life. Keep out of my way, Elsworthy; you should have looked better
after the little fool. If she's not accountable for her actions, _you_
are," he went on with a growl, thrusting away with his vigorous
shoulder the badly-hung frame of Rosa's uncle, who was no match for
the Doctor. Thus the poor little girl was carried away in a kind of
procession, Miss Leonora going first. "Not that I think her worth all
this fuss, the vain little fool," said Miss Leonora; "she'll come to
herself, no fear of her;" but, notwithstanding her protest, the
strong-minded woman led the way. When the room was cleared, the
gentlemen who remained took their seats mechanically, and stared at
each other. In the shame and confusion of the moment nobody could find
anything to say, and the Curate was magnanimous, and did not take
advantage of his triumph. The silence was broken by the Rector, who
rose up solemnly from his chair to speak. Probably no one in the room
had suffered so acutely as Mr Morgan; his face was crimson, his eyes
suffused and angry. Frank Wentworth rose involuntarily at the same
moment, expecting, he could not tell why, to be addressed, but sat
down again in a little confusion when he found that the Rector had
turned his eyes in a totally different direction. Mr Morgan put the
lamp out of the way, that he might be able to transfix with the full
glow of his angry eyes the real offender, who sat only half conscious,
absorbed with his own terror, by the lawyer's side.
"Sir!" said the Rector, in a tone which, severe as his voice was by
nature, nobody had ever heard from his lips before, "you have put us
all in a most ridiculous and painful position to-night. I don't know
whether you are capable of feeling the vileness of your own misconduct
as regards the unhappy girl who has just been carried out of the room,
but you certainly shall not leave the house without hearing--"
Wodehouse gave such a start at these words that Mr Morgan paused a
moment. The Rector was quite unaware of the relief, the sense of
safety, which he had inadvertently conveyed to the mind of the shabby
rascal whom he was addressing. He was then to be allowed to leave the
house? "I'll leave the d----d place to-night, by Jove!" he muttered in
his beard, and immediately sat up upon his chair, and turned round
with a kind of sullen vivacity to listen to the remainder of Mr
Morgan's speech.
"You shall not leave this house," said the Rector, more peremptorily
still, "without hearing what must be the opinion of every gentleman,
of every honest man. You have been the occasion of bringing an utterly
unfounded accusation against a--a young clergyman," said Mr Morgan,
with a succession of gasps, "of--of the very highest character. You
have, as I understand, sir, abused his hospitality, and--and done your
utmost to injure him when you owed him gratitude. Not content with
that, sir," continued the Rector, "you have kept your--your very
existence concealed, until the moment when you could injure your
sisters. You may perhaps be able to make a miserable amends for the
wrong you have done to the unfortunate girl up-stairs, but you can
never make amends to me, sir, for betraying me into a ridiculous
position, and leading me to do--an--an absurd and--and incredible
injustice--to a--to my--to Mr Frank Wentworth. Sir, you are a
scoundrel!" cried Mr Morgan, breaking down abruptly in an access of
sudden fury. When the Rector had recovered himself, he turned with
great severity to the rest of the company: "Gentlemen, my wife will be
glad to see you up-stairs," said Mr Morgan. The sound of this
hospitable invitation was as if he had ordered the entire assembly to
the door; but nevertheless most of the company followed him as he
rose, and, without condescending to look round again, marched out of
the library. The Squire rose with the rest, and took the hand of his
son Frank and grasped it closely. Somehow, though he believed Frank
before, Mr Wentworth was easier in his mind after the Rector's speech.
"I think I will go up-stairs and shake hands with him," said the
Squire, "and you had better come too, Frank. No doubt he will expect
it. He spoke up very well at the last, and I entirely agree with the
Rector," he said, looking sternly, but with a little curiosity, at the
vagabond, who stood recovering himself, and ready to resume his
hopeless swagger. It was well for Mr Wentworth that he left the room
at once, and went cheerfully up-stairs to pay his respects to Mrs
Morgan. The Squire said, "Thank God!" quietly to himself when he got
out of the library. "Things are mending, surely--even Jack--even
Jack," Mr Wentworth said, under his breath; and the simple gentleman
said over a part of the general thanksgiving, as he went slowly, with
an unusual gladness, up the stair. He might not have entered Mrs
Morgan's drawing-room with such a relieved and brightened countenance
had he stayed ten minutes longer in the library, and listened to the
further conversation there.