XXXI

“I will do what I can for you,” said Mr. Morgan; “yours is a very hard case, as you say. Of course it would not do for me to give any opinion⁠—but such a thing shall not occur in Carlingford, while I am here, without being looked into,” said the Rector, with dignity; “of that you may be sure.”

“I don’t want no more nor justice,” said Elsworthy⁠—“no more nor justice. I’m a man as has always been respected, and never interfered with nobody as didn’t interfere with me. The things I’ve stood from my clergyman, I wouldn’t have stood from no man living. The way as he’d talk, sir, of them as was a deal better than himself! We was a happy family afore Mr. Wentworth came nigh of us. Most folks in Carlingford knows me. There wasn’t a more industrious family in Carlingford, though I say it as shouldn’t, nor one as was more content, or took things more agreeable, afore Mr. Wentworth come to put all wrong.”

“Mr. Wentworth has been here for five years,” said the Rector’s wife, who was present at this interview; “have things been going wrong for all that time?”

“I couldn’t describe to nobody what I’ve put up with,” said the clerk of St. Roque’s, evading the question. “He hadn’t the ways of such clergymen as I’ve been used to. Twice the pay wouldn’t have made up for what I’ve suffered in my feelings; and I ask you, sir, is this how it’s all to end? My little girl’s gone,” cried Elsworthy, rising into hoarse earnestness⁠—“my little girl as was so sweet, and as everybody took notice on. She’s gone, and I don’t know as I’ll ever see her again; and I can’t get no satisfaction one way or another; and I ask you, sir, is a villain as could do such a thing to hold up his head in the town, and go on the same as ever? I aint a man as is contrairy, or as goes agin’ my superiors; but it’s driving me mad, that’s what it’s doing,” said Elsworthy, wiping the moisture from his forehead. The man was trembling and haggard, changed even in his looks⁠—his eyes were red with passion and watching, and looked like the eyes of a wild beast lying in wait for its prey. “I can’t say as I’ve ever slept an hour since it happened,” he cried; “and as for my missis, it’s a-killing of her. We aint shut up, because we’ve got to live all the same; and because, if the poor thing come back, there’s always an open door. But I’ll have justice, if I was to die for it!” cried Elsworthy. “I don’t ask no more than justice. If it aint to be had one way, I’ll have it another. I’ll set the police on him⁠—I will. When a man’s drove wild, he aint answerable for what he’s a-doing; and to see him a-walking about Carlingford, and a-holding up his head, is a thing as I won’t stand no longer, not if it was to be my ruin. I’m as good as ruined now, and I don’t care.” He broke off short with these words, and sat down abruptly on the chair Thomas had placed for him in front of the Rector’s table. Up to this moment he had been standing, in his vehemence and agitation, without taking advantage of the courtesy accorded to his misfortune; now the poor man sat down by way of emphasis, and began to polish his hat round and round with his trembling hands.

As for Mr. Morgan, he, on the contrary, got up and walked instinctively to the fireplace, and stood there with his back to the empty grate, contemplating the world in general with a troubled countenance, as was usual. Not to speak of his prejudice against Mr. Wentworth, the Rector was moved by the sight of Elsworthy’s distress; but then his wife, who unluckily had brought her needlework into the library on this particular morning, and who was in the interest of the Curate of St. Roque’s, was seated watchful by the window, occasionally looking up, and entirely cognisant, as Mr. Morgan was aware, of everything that happened. The Rector was much embarrassed to feel himself thus standing between the two parties. “Yours is a very hard case⁠—but it is necessary to proceed with caution, for, after all, there is not much proof,” he said, faltering a little. “My dear, it is a pity to detain you from your walk,” Mr. Morgan continued, after a momentary pause, and looked with a flush of consciousness at his wife, whose absence would have been such a relief to him. Mrs. Morgan looked up with a gracious smile.

“You are not detaining me, William⁠—I am very much interested,” said the designing woman, and immediately began to arrange and put in order what the Rector knew by experience to be a long piece of work, likely to last her an hour at least. Mr. Morgan uttered a long breath, which sounded like a little snort of despair.

“It is very difficult to know what to do,” said the Rector, shifting uneasily upon the hearthrug, and plunging his hands into the depths of his pockets. “If you could name anybody you would like to refer it to⁠—but being a brother clergyman⁠—”

“A man as conducts himself like that, didn’t ought to be a clergyman, sir,” cried Elsworthy. “I’m one as listened to him preaching on Sunday, and could have jumped up and dragged him out of the pulpit, to hear him a-discoursing as if he wasn’t a bigger sinner nor any there. I aint safe to stand it another Sunday. I’d do something as I should be sorry for after. I’m asking justice, and no more.” With these words Elsworthy got up again, still turning round in his hands the unlucky hat, and turned his person, though not his eyes, towards Mrs. Morgan. “No man could be more partial to his clergyman nor I was,” he said hoarsely. “There was never a time as I wasn’t glad to see him. He came in and out as if it belonged to him, and I had no more thought as he was meaning any harm than the babe unborn; but a man as meddles with an innocent girl aint nothing but a black-hearted villain!” cried Elsworthy, with a gleam out of his red eyes; “and I don’t believe as anybody would take his part as knew all. I put my confidence in the Rector, as is responsible for the parish,” he went on, facing round again: “not to say but what it’s natural for them as are Mr. Wentworth’s friends to take his part⁠—but I’ll have justice, wherever it comes from. It’s hard work to go again’ any lady as I’ve a great respect for, and wouldn’t cross for the world; but it aint in reason that I should be asked to bear it and not say nothing; and I’ll have justice, if I should die for it,” said Elsworthy. He turned from one to another as he spoke, but kept his eyes upon his hat, which he smoothed and smoothed as if his life depended on it. But for the reality of his excitement, his red eyes, and hoarse voice, he would have been a ludicrous figure, standing as he did in the middle of Mr. Morgan’s library, veering round, first to one side and then to the other, with his stooping head and ungainly person. As for the Rector, he too kept looking at his wife with a very troubled face.

“It is difficult for me to act against a brother clergyman,” said Mr. Morgan; “but I am very sorry for you, Elsworthy⁠—very sorry; if you could name, say, half-a-dozen gentlemen⁠—”

“But don’t you think,” said the Rector’s wife, interposing, “that you should inquire first whether there is any evidence? It would make you all look very ridiculous if you got up an inquiry and found no proof against Mr. Wentworth. Is it likely he would do such a thing all at once without showing any signs of wickedness beforehand⁠—is it possible? To be sorry is quite a different thing, but I don’t see⁠—”

“Ladies don’t understand such matters,” said the Rector, who had been kept at bay so long that he began to get desperate. “I beg your pardon, my dear, but it is not a matter for you to discuss. We shall take good care that there is plenty of evidence,” said the perplexed man⁠—“I mean, before we proceed to do anything,” he added, growing very red and confused. When Mr. Morgan caught his wife’s eye, he got as nearly into a passion as was possible for so good a man. “You know what I mean,” he said, in his peremptory way; “and, my dear, you will forgive me for saying this is not a matter to be discussed before a lady.” When he had uttered this bold speech, the Rector took a few little walks up and down the room, not caring, however, to look at his wife. He was ashamed of the feeling he had that her absence would set him much more at ease with Elsworthy, but still could not help being conscious that it was so. He did not say anything more, but he walked up and down the room with sharp short steps, and betrayed his impatience very manifestly. As for Mrs. Morgan, who was a sensible woman, she saw that the time had come for her to retire from the field.

“I think the first thing to be done is to try every possible means of finding the girl,” she said, getting up from her seat; “but I have no doubt what you decide upon will be the best. You will find me in the drawing-room when you want me, William.” Perhaps her absence for the first moment was not such a relief to her husband as he had expected. The mildness of her parting words made it very apparent that she did not mean to take offence; and he perceived suddenly, at a glance, that he would have to tell her all he was going to do, and encounter her criticism single-handed, which was rather an appalling prospect to the Rector. Mrs. Morgan, for her part, went upstairs not without a little vexation, certainly, but with a comforting sense of the opportunity which awaited her. She felt that, in his unprotected position, as soon as she left him, the Rector would conduct himself rashly, and that her time was still to come.

The Rector went back to the hearthrug when his wife left the room, but in the heat of his own personal reflections he did not say anything to Elsworthy, who still stood smoothing his hat in his hand. On the whole, Mr. Morgan was rather aggravated for the moment by the unlucky cause of this little encounter, and was not half so well disposed towards Mr. Wentworth’s enemy as half an hour before, when he recognised his wife as the champion of the Curate, and felt controlled by her presence; for the human and even the clerical mind has its impulses of perversity. He began to get very impatient of Elsworthy’s hat, and the persistent way in which he worked at it with his hands.

“I suppose you would not be so certain about it if you had not satisfactory evidence?” he said, turning abruptly, and even a little angrily, upon the supplicant; for Mr. Morgan naturally resented his own temper and the little semi-quarrel he had got into upon the third person who was the cause of all.

“Sir,” said Elsworthy, with eagerness, “it aint no wonder to me as the lady takes Mr. Wentworth’s part. A poor man don’t stand no chance against a young gentleman as has had every advantage. It’s a thing as I’m prepared for, and it don’t have no effect upon me. A lady as is so respected and thought a deal of both in town and country⁠—”

“I was not speaking of my wife,” said the Rector, hastily, “don’t you think you had better put down your hat? I think you said it was on Friday it occurred. It will be necessary to take down the facts in a businesslike way,” said Mr. Morgan, drawing his chair towards the table and taking up his pen. This was how the Rector was occupied when Thomas announced the most unexpected of all possible visitors, Mr. Proctor, who had been Mr. Morgan’s predecessor in Carlingford. Thomas announced his old master with great solemnity as “the late Rector”⁠—a title which struck the present incumbent with a sense of awe not unnatural in the circumstances. He jumped up from his chair and let his pen fall out of his startled fingers when his old friend came in. They had eaten many a good dinner together in the revered hall of All Souls, and as the familiar countenance met his eyes, perhaps a regretful thought of that Elysium stole across the mind of the late Fellow, who had been so glad to leave the sacred brotherhood, and marry, and become as other men. He gave but a few hurried words of surprise and welcome to his visitor, and then, with a curious counterpoise of sentiment, sent him upstairs to see “my wife,” feeling, even while half envious of him, a kind of superiority and half contempt for the man who was not a Rector and married, but had given up both these possibilities. When he sent him upstairs to see “my wife,” Mr. Morgan looked after the elderly celibate with a certain pity. One always feels more inclined to take the simple view of any matter⁠—to stand up for injured innocence, and to right the wronged⁠—when one feels one’s self better off than one’s neighbours. A reverse position is apt to detract from the simplicity of one’s conceptions, and to suggest two sides to the picture. When Mr. Proctor was gone, the Rector addressed himself with great devotion to Elsworthy and his evidence. It could not be doubted, at least, that the man was in earnest, and believed what he said; and things unquestionably looked rather ugly for Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Morgan took down all about the Curate’s untimely visit to Elsworthy on the night when he took Rosa home; and when he came to the evidence of the Miss Hemmings, who had seen the Curate talking to the unfortunate little girl at his own door the last time she was seen in Carlingford, the Rector shook his head with a prolonged movement, half of satisfaction, half of regret; for, to be sure, he had made up his mind beforehand who the culprit was, and it was to a certain extent satisfactory to have his opinion confirmed.

“This looks very bad, very bad, I am sorry to say,” said Mr. Morgan; “for the unhappy young man’s own sake, an investigation is absolutely necessary. As for you, Elsworthy, everybody must be sorry for you. Have you no idea where he could have taken the poor girl?⁠—that is,” said the uncautious Rector, “supposing that he is guilty⁠—of which I am afraid there does not seem much doubt.”

“There aint no doubt,” said Elsworthy; “there aint nobody else as could have done it. Just afore my little girl was took away, sir, Mr. Wentworth went off of a sudden, and it was said as he was a-going home to the Hall. I was a-thinking of sending a letter anonymous, to ask if it was known what he was after. I read in the papers the other day as his brother was a-going over to Rome. There don’t seem to be none o’ them the right sort; which it’s terrible for two clergymen. I was thinking of dropping a bit of a note anonymous⁠—”

“No⁠—no⁠—no,” said the Rector, “that would never do; nothing of that sort, Elsworthy. If you thought it likely she was there, the proper thing would be to go and inquire; nothing anonymous⁠—no, no; that is a thing I could not possibly countenance,” said Mr. Morgan. He pushed away his pen and paper, and got very red and uncomfortable. If either of the critics upstairs, his wife, or his predecessor in the Rectory, could but know that he was having an anonymous letter suggested to him⁠—that anybody ventured to think him capable of being an accomplice in such proceedings! The presence of these two in the house, though they were most probably at the moment engaged in the calmest abstract conversation, and totally unaware of what was going on in the library, had a great effect upon the Rector. He felt insulted that any man could venture to confide such an intention to him almost within the hearing of his wife. “If I am to take up your case, everything must be open and straightforward,” said Mr. Morgan; while Elsworthy, who saw that he had said something amiss, without precisely understanding what, took up his hat as a resource, and once more began to polish it round and round in his hands.

“I didn’t mean no harm, sir, I’m sure,” he said; “I don’t seem to see no other way o’ finding out; for I aint like a rich man as can go and come as he pleases; but I won’t say no more, since it’s displeasing to you. If you’d give me the list of names, sir, as you have decided on to be the committee, I wouldn’t trouble you no longer, seeing as you’ve got visitors. Perhaps, if the late Rector aint going away directly, he would take it kind to be put on the committee; and he’s a gentleman as I’ve a great respect for, though he wasn’t not to say the man for Carlingford,” said Elsworthy, with a sidelong look. He began to feel the importance of his own position as the originator of a committee, and at the head of the most exciting movement which had been for a long time in Carlingford, and could not help being sensible, notwithstanding his affliction, that he had a distinction to offer which even the late Rector might be pleased to accept.

“I don’t think Mr. Proctor will stay,” said Mr. Morgan; “and if he does stay, I believe he is a friend of Mr. Wentworth’s.” It was only after he had said this that the Rector perceived the meaning of the words he had uttered; then, in his confusion and vexation, he got up hastily from the table, and upset the inkstand in all the embarrassment of the moment. “Of course that is all the greater reason for having his assistance,” said Mr. Morgan, in his perplexity; “we are all friends of Mr. Wentworth. Will you have the goodness to ring the bell? There are few things more painful than to take steps against a brother clergyman, if one did not hope it would be for his benefit in the end. Oh, never mind the table. Be so good as to ring the bell again⁠—louder, please.”

“There aint nothing equal to blotting-paper, sir,” said Elsworthy, eagerly. “With a bit o’ blotting-paper I’d undertake to rub out ink-stains out o’ the finest carpet⁠—if you’ll permit me. It aint but a small speck, and it’ll be gone afore you could look round. It’s twenty times better nor lemon-juice, or them poisonous salts as you’re always nervous of leaving about. Look you here, sir, if it aint a-sopping up beautiful. There aint no harm done as your respected lady could be put out about; and I’ll take the list with me, if you please, to show to my wife, as is a-breaking her heart at home, and can’t believe as we’ll ever get justice. She says as how the quality always takes a gentleman’s part against us poor folks, but that aint been my experience. Don’t you touch the carpet, Thomas⁠—there aint a speck to be seen when the blotting-paper’s cleared away. I’ll go home, not to detain you no more, sir, and cheer up the poor heart as is a-breaking,” said Elsworthy, getting up from his knees where he had been operating upon the carpet. He had got in his hand the list of names which Mr. Morgan had put down as referees in this painful business, and it dawned faintly upon the Rector for the moment that he himself was taking rather an undignified position as Elsworthy’s partisan.

“I have no objection to your showing it to your wife,” said Mr. Morgan; “but I shall be much displeased if I hear any talk about it, Elsworthy; and I hope it is not revenge you are thinking of, which is a very unchristian sentiment,” said the Rector, severely, “and not likely to afford comfort either to her or to you.”

“No, sir, nothing but justice,” said Elsworthy, hoarsely, as he backed out of the room. Notwithstanding this statement, it was with very unsatisfactory sensations that Mr. Morgan went upstairs. He felt somehow as if the justice which Elsworthy demanded, and which he himself had solemnly declared to be pursuing the Curate of St. Roque’s, was wonderfully like revenge. “All punishment must be more or less vindictive,” he said to himself as he went upstairs; but that fact did not make him more comfortable as he went into his wife’s drawing-room, where he felt more like a conspirator and assassin than an English Rector in broad daylight, without a mystery near him, had any right to feel. This sensation confused Mr. Morgan much, and made him more peremptory in his manner than ever. As for Mr. Proctor, who was only a spectator, and felt himself on a certain critical eminence, the suggestion that occurred to his mind was, that he had come in at the end of a quarrel, and that the conjugal firmament was still in a state of disturbance: which idea acted upon some private projects in the hidden mind of the Fellow of All Souls, and produced a state of feeling little more satisfactory than that of the Rector of Carlingford.

“I hope Mr. Proctor is going to stay with us for a day or two,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I was just saying it must look like coming home to come to the house he used to live in, and which was even furnished to his own taste,” said the Rector’s wife, shooting a little arrow at the late Rector, of which that good man was serenely unconscious. All this time, while they had been talking, Mrs. Morgan had scarcely been able to keep from asking who could possibly have suggested such a carpet. Mr. Proctor’s chair was placed on the top of one of the big bouquets, which expanded its large foliage round him with more than Eastern prodigality⁠—but he was so little conscious of any culpability of his own in the matter, that he had referred his indignant hostess to one of the leaves as an illustration of the kind of diaper introduced into the new window which had lately been put up in the chapel of All Souls. “A naturalistic treatment, you know,” said Mr. Proctor, with the utmost serenity; “and some people objected to it,” added the unsuspicious man.

“I should have objected very strongly,” said Mrs. Morgan, with a little flush. “If you call that naturalistic treatment, I consider it perfectly out of place in decoration⁠—of every kind⁠—” Mr. Proctor happened to be looking at her at the moment, and it suddenly occurred to him that Miss Wodehouse never got red in that uncomfortable way, which was the only conclusion he drew from the circumstance, having long ago forgotten that any connection had ever existed between himself and the carpet on the drawing-room in Carlingford Rectory. He addressed his next observation to Mr. Morgan, who had just come in.

“I saw Mr. Wodehouse’s death in the Times,” said Mr. Proctor, “and I thought the poor young ladies might feel⁠—at least they might think it a respect⁠—or, at all events, it would be a satisfaction to one’s self,” said the late Rector, who had got into a mire of explanation. “Though he was far from being a young man, yet having a young daughter like Miss Lucy⁠—”

“Poor Lucy!” said Mr. Morgan. “I hope that wretched fellow, young Wentworth”⁠—and here the Rector came to a dead stop, and felt that he had brought the subject most to be avoided head and shoulders into the conversation, as was natural to an embarrassed man. The consequence was that he got angry, as might have been expected. “My dear, you must not look at me as you do. I have just been hearing all the evidence. No unbiased mind could possibly come to any other decision,” said Mr. Morgan, with exasperation. Now that he had committed himself, he thought it was much the best thing to go in for it wholly, without half measures, which was certainly the most straightforward way.

“What has happened to Wentworth?” said Mr. Proctor. “He is a young man for whom I have a great regard. Though he is so much younger than I am, he taught me some lessons while I was in Carlingford which I shall never forget. If he is in any trouble that I can help him in, I shall be very glad to do it, both for his sake and for⁠—” Mr. Proctor slurred over the end of his sentence a little, and the others were occupied with their own difficulties, and did not take very much notice⁠—for it was difficult to state fully the nature and extent of Mr. Wentworth’s enormities after such a declaration of friendship. “I met him on my way here,” said the Fellow of All Souls, “not looking quite as he used to do. I supposed it might be Mr. Wodehouse’s death, perhaps.” All Mr. Proctor’s thoughts ran in that channel of Mr. Wodehouse’s death, which, after all, though sad enough, was not so great an event to the community in general as the late Rector seemed to suppose.

It was Mrs. Morgan at length who took heart to explain to Mr. Proctor the real state of affairs. “He has been a very good clergyman for five years,” said Mrs. Morgan; “he might behave foolishly, you know, about Wharfside, but then that was not his fault so much as the fault of the Rector’s predecessors. I am sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Proctor⁠—I did not mean that you were to blame,” said the Rector’s wife; “but, notwithstanding all the work he has done, and the consistent life he has led, there is nobody in Carlingford who is not quite ready to believe that he has run away with Rosa Elsworthy⁠—a common little girl without any education, or a single idea in her head. I suppose she is what you would call pretty,” said the indignant woman. “Everybody is just as ready to believe that he is guilty as if he were a stranger or a bad character.” Mrs. Morgan stopped in an abrupt manner, because her quick eyes perceived a glance exchanged between the two gentlemen. Mr. Proctor had seen a good deal of the world in his day, as he was fond of saying now and then to his intimate friends: and he had learned at the university and other places that a girl who is “what you would call pretty,” counts for a great deal in the history of a young man, whether she has any ideas in her head or not. He did not, any more than the people of Carlingford, pronounce at once on a priori evidence that Mr. Wentworth must be innocent. The Curate’s “consistent life” did not go for much in the opinion of the middle-aged Fellow of All Souls, any more than of the less dignified populace. He said, “Dear me, dear me!” in a most perplexed and distressed tone, while Mrs. Morgan kept looking at him; and looked very much as if he were tempted to break forth into lamentations over human nature, as Mr. Morgan himself had done.

“I wonder what the Miss Wodehouses think of it,” he said at last. “One would do a great deal to keep them from hearing such a thing; but I wonder how they are feeling about it,” said Mr. Proctor⁠—and clearly declined to discuss the matter with Mrs. Morgan, who was counsel for the defence. When the Rector’s wife went to her own room to dress for dinner, it is very true that she had a good cry over her cup of tea. She was not only disappointed, but exasperated, in that impatient feminine nature of hers. Perhaps if she had been less sensitive, she would have had less of that redness in her face which was so great a trouble to Mrs. Morgan. These two slow middle-aged men, without any intuitions, who were coming lumbering after her through all kind of muddles of evidence and argument, exasperated the more rapid woman. To be sure, they understood Greek plays a great deal better than she did; but she was penetrated with the liveliest impatience of their dullness all the same. Mrs. Morgan, however, like most people who are in advance of their age, felt her utter impotence against that blank wall of dull resistance. She could not make them see into the heart of things as she did. She had to wait until they had attacked the question in the orthodox way of siege, and made gradual entrance by dint of hard labour. All she could do to console herself was, to shed certain hot tears of indignation and annoyance over her tea, which, however, was excellent tea, and did her good. Perhaps it was to show her sense of superiority, and that she did not feel herself vanquished, that, after that, she put on her new dress, which was very much too nice to be wasted upon Mr. Proctor. As for Mr. Leeson, who came in as usual just in time for dinner, having heard of Mr. Proctor’s arrival, she treated him with a blandness which alarmed the Curate. “I quite expected you, for we have the All Souls pudding today,” said the Rector’s wife, and she smiled a smile which would have struck awe into the soul of any curate that ever was known in Carlingford.