XXXVI

The first investigation into the character of the Rev. F. C. Wentworth, Curate of St. Roque’s was fixed to take place in the vestry of the parish church, at eleven o’clock on the morning of the day which followed this anxious night. Most people in Carlingford were aware that the Perpetual Curate was to be put upon his trial on that sunny July morning; and there was naturally a good deal of curiosity among the intelligent townsfolk to see how he looked, and what was the aspect of the witnesses who were to bear testimony for or against him. It is always interesting to the crowd to see how a man looks at a great crisis of his life⁠—or a woman either, for that matter; and if a human creature, at the height of joy, or in the depths of sorrow, is a spectacle to draw everybody’s eyes, there is a still greater dramatic interest in the sight when hope and fear are both in action, and the alternative hangs between life or death. It was life or death to Mr. Wentworth, though the tribunal was one which could inflict no penalties. If he should be found guilty, death would be a light doom to the downfall and moral extinction which would make an end of the unfaithful priest; and, consequently, Carlingford had reason for its curiosity. There was a crowd about the back entrance which led to the shabby little sacristy where Mr. Morgan and Mr. Leeson were accustomed to robe themselves; and scores of people strayed into the church itself, and hung about, pretending to look at the improvements which the Rector called restorations. Mrs. Morgan herself, looking very pale, was in and out half-a-dozen times in the hour, talking with terrible science and technicalism to Mr. Finial’s clerk of works, who could not make her see that she was talking Gothic⁠—a language which had nothing to do with Carlingford Church, that building being of the Revolution or churchwarden epoch. She was a great deal too much agitated at that moment to be aware of the distinction. As for Mr. Wentworth, it was universally agreed that, though he looked a little flushed and excited, there was no particular discouragement visible in his face. He went in to the vestry with some eagerness, not much like a culprit on his trial. The Rector, indeed, who was heated and embarrassed and doubtful of himself, looked more like a criminal than the real hero. There were six of the amateur judges, of whom one had felt his heart fail him at the last moment. The five who were steadfast were Mr. Morgan, Dr. Marjoribanks, old Mr. Western (who was a distant cousin of the Wodehouses, and brother-in-law, though old enough to be her grandfather, of the beautiful Lady Western, who once lived in Grange Lane), and with them Mr. Centum, the banker, and old Colonel Chiley. Mr. Proctor, who was very uneasy in his mind, and much afraid lest he should be called upon to give an account of the Curate’s behaviour on the previous night, had added himself as a kind of auxiliary to this judicial bench. Mr. Waters had volunteered his services as counsellor, perhaps with the intention of looking after the interests of a very different client; and to this imposing assembly John Brown had walked in, with his hands in his pockets, rather disturbing the composure of the company in general, who were aware what kind of criticism his was. While the bed of justice was being arranged, a very odd little group collected in the outer room, where Elsworthy, in a feverish state of excitement, was revolving about the place from the door to the window, and where the Miss Hemmings sat up against the wall, with their drapery drawn up about them, to show that they were of different clay from Mrs. Elsworthy, who, respectful but sullen, sat on the same bench. The anxious public peered in at the door whenever it had a chance, and took peeps through the window when the other privilege was impossible. Besides the Miss Hemmings and the Elsworthys there was Peter Hayles, who also had seen something, and the wife of another shopkeeper at the end of George Street; and there was the Miss Hemmings’ maid, who had escorted them on that eventful night of Rosa’s disappearance. Not one of the witnesses had the smallest doubt as to the statement he or she was about to make; they were entirely convinced of the righteousness of their own cause, and the justice of the accusation, which naturally gave a wonderful moral force to their testimony. Besides⁠—but that was quite a different matter⁠—they all had their little grudges against Mr. Wentworth, each in his secret heart.

When Elsworthy was called in to the inner room it caused a little commotion amid this company outside. The Miss Hemmings looked at each other, not with an agreeable expression of face. “They might have had the politeness to call us first,” Miss Sophia said to her sister; and Miss Hemmings shook her head and sighed, and said, “Dear Mr. Bury!” an observation which meant a great deal, though it did not seem perfectly relevant. “Laws! I’ll forget everything when I’m took in there,” said the shopkeeper’s wife to Miss Hemmings’ maid; and the ladies drew still closer up, superior to curiosity, while the others stretched their necks to get a peep into the terrible inner room.

It was indeed a formidable tribunal. The room was small, so that the unfortunate witness was within the closest range of six pairs of judicial eyes, not to speak of the vigilant orbs of the two lawyers, and those of the accused and his supporters. Mr. Morgan, by right of his position, sat at the end of the table, and looked very severely at the first witness as he came in⁠—which Elsworthy did, carrying his hat before him like a kind of shield, and polishing it carefully round and round. The Rector was far from having any intention of discouraging the witness, who was indeed his mainstay; but the anxiety of his peculiar position, as being at once counsel for the prosecution, and chief magistrate of the bed of justice, gave an unusual sternness to his face.

“Your name is George Elsworthy,” said the Rector, filling his pen with ink, and looking penetratingly in the witness’s face.

“George Appleby Elsworthy,” said Rosa’s uncle, a little alarmed; “not as I often signs in full; for you see, sir, it’s a long name, and life’s short, and it aint necessary in the way of business⁠—”

“Stationer and newsmonger in Carlingford,” interrupted the Rector; “I should say in Upper Grange Lane, Carlingford; aged⁠—?”

“But it doesn’t appear to me that newsmonger is a correct expression,” said old Mr. Western, who was very conversational; “newsmonger means a gossip, not a tradesman; not that there is any reason why a tradesman should not be a gossip, but⁠—”

“Aged?” said Mr. Morgan, holding his pen suspended in the air. “I will say newsvendor if that will be better⁠—one cannot be too particular⁠—Aged⁠—?”

“He is come to years of discretion,” said Dr. Marjoribanks, “that’s all we need; don’t keep us all day waiting, man, but tell your story about this elopement of your niece. When did it take place, and what are the facts? Never mind your hat, but say out what you have got to say.”

“You are much too summary, Doctor,” said Mr. Morgan, with a little offence; but the sense of the assembly was clearly with Dr. Marjoribanks⁠—so that the Rector dashed in 45 as the probable age of the witness, and waited his further statement.

After this there was silence, and Elsworthy began his story. He narrated all the facts of Rosa’s disappearance, with an intention and bias which made his true tale a wonderful tacit accusation. Rage, revenge, a sense of wrong, worked what in an indifferent narrator only the highest skill could have wrought. He did not mention the Curate’s name, but arranged all his facts in lines like so many trains of artillery. How Rosa was in the habit of going to Mrs. Hadwin’s (it was contrary to Elsworthy’s instinct to bring in at this moment any reference to Mr. Wentworth) every night with the newspaper⁠—“not as I sent her of errands for common⁠—keeping two boys for the purpose,” said the injured man; “but, right or wrong, there’s where she’d go as certain as the night come. I’ve seen her with my own eyes go into Mrs. Hadwin’s garden-door, which she hadn’t no need to go in but for being encouraged; and it would be half an hour at the least afore she came out.”

“But, bless me! that was very imprudent of you,” cried Mr. Proctor, who up to this time had not uttered a word.

“There was nobody there but the old lady and her maids⁠—except the clergyman,” said Elsworthy. “It wasn’t my part to think as she could get any harm from the clergyman. She wouldn’t hear no remonstrances from me; she would go as regular as the evening come.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Waters, who saw John Brown’s humorous eye gleaming round upon the little assembly; “but let us come to the immediate matter in hand. Your niece disappeared from Carlingford on the⁠—?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Western, “we must not sink into conversation; that’s the danger of all unofficial investigations. It seems natural to let him tell his story as he likes: but here we have got somebody to keep us in order. It’s natural, but it aint law⁠—is it, Brown?”

“I don’t see that law has anything to do with it,” said John Brown, with a smile.

“Order! order!” said the Rector, who was much goaded and aggravated by this remark. “I request that there may be no conversation. The witness will proceed with what he has to say. Your niece disappeared on the 15th. What were the circumstances of her going away?”

“She went down as usual with the newspaper,” said Elsworthy; “it had got to be a custom as regular as regular. She stopped out later nor common, and my wife and me was put out. I don’t mind saying, gentlemen,” said the witness, with candour, “as my missis and I wasn’t altogether of the same mind about Rosa. She was late, but I can’t say as I was anxious. It wasn’t above a week afore that Mr. Wentworth himself brought her home safe, and it was well known as he didn’t like her to be out at night; so I was easy in my mind, like. But when eleven o’clock came, and there was no denying of its being past hours, I began to get a little fidgety. I stepped out to the door, and I looked up and down, and saw nobody; so I took up my hat and took a turn down the road⁠—”

At this moment there was a little disturbance outside. A voice at which the Curate started was audible, asking entrance. “I must see Mr. Wentworth immediately,” this voice said, as the door was partially opened; and then, while his sons both rose to their feet, the Squire himself suddenly entered the room. He looked round upon the assembled company with a glance of shame and grief that went to the Curate’s heart. Then he bowed to the judges, who were looking at him with an uncomfortable sense of his identity, and walked across the room to the bench on which Gerald and Frank were seated together. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the Squire, “if I interrupt your proceedings; but I have only this moment arrived in Carlingford, and heard what was going on, and I trust I may be allowed to remain, as my son’s honour is concerned.” Mr. Wentworth scarcely waited for the assent which everybody united in murmuring, but seated himself heavily on the bench, as if glad to sit down anywhere. He suffered Frank to grasp his hand, but scarcely gave it; nor, indeed, did he look, except once, with a bitter momentary glance at the brothers. They were sons a father might well have been proud of, so far as external appearances went; but the Squire’s soul was bitter within him. One was about to abandon all that made life valuable in the eyes of the sober-minded country gentleman. The other⁠—“And I could have sworn by Frank,” the mortified father was saying in his heart. He sat down with a dull dogged composure. He meant to hear it all, and have it proved to him that his favourite son was a villain. No wonder that he was disinclined to respond to any courtesies. He set himself down almost with impatience that the sound of his entrance should have interrupted the narrative, and looked straight in front of him, fixing his eyes on Elsworthy, and taking no notice of the anxious glances of the possible culprit at his side.

“I hadn’t gone above a step or two when I see Mr. Hayles at his door. I said to him, ‘It’s a fine evening,’⁠—as so it was, and the stars shining. ‘My Rosa aint been about your place, has she?’ I says; and he says, ‘No.’ But, gentlemen, I see by the look of his eye as he had more to say. ‘Aint she come home yet?’ says Mr. Hayles⁠—”

“Stop a moment,” said John Brown. “Peter Hayles is outside, I think. If the Rector wishes to preserve any sort of legal form in this inquiry, may I suggest that a conversation repeated is not evidence? Let Elsworthy tell what he knows, and the other can speak for himself.”

“It is essential we should hear the conversation,” said the Rector, “since I believe it was of importance. I believe it is an important link in the evidence⁠—I believe⁠—”

“Mr. Morgan apparently has heard the evidence before,” said the inexorable John Brown.

Here a little commotion arose in the bed of justice. “Hush, hush,” said Dr. Marjoribanks; “the question is, What has the witness got to say of his own knowledge? Go on, Elsworthy; we can’t possibly spend the whole day here. Never mind what Hayles said, unless he communicated something about the girl.”

“He told me as the Miss Hemmings had seen Rosa,” said Elsworthy, slowly; “had seen her at nine, or half after nine⁠—I won’t be sure which⁠—at Mrs. Hadwin’s gate.”

“The Miss Hemmings are outside. Let the Miss Hemmings be called,” said Mr. Proctor, who had a great respect for Mr. Brown’s opinion.

But here Mr. Waters interposed. “The Miss Hemmings will be called presently,” he said; “in the meantime let this witness be heard out; afterwards his evidence will be corroborated. Go on, Elsworthy.”

“The Miss Hemmings had seen my Rosa at Mrs. Hadwin’s gate,” repeated Elsworthy, “a-standing outside, and Mr. Wentworth a-standing inside; there aint more respectable parties in all Carlingford. It was them as saw it, not me. Gentlemen, I went back home. I went out again. I went over all the town a-looking for her. Six o’clock in the morning come, and I had never closed an eye, nor took off my clothes, nor even sat down upon a chair. When it was an hour as I could go to a gentleman’s house and no offence, I went to the place as she was last seen. Me and Mr. Hayles, we went together. The shutters was all shut but on one window, which was Mr. Wentworth’s study. We knocked at the garden-door, and I aint pretending that we didn’t make a noise; and, gentlemen, it wasn’t none of the servants⁠—it was Mr. Wentworth hisself as opened the door.”

There was here a visible sensation among the judges. It was a point that told. As for the Squire, he set his stick firmly before him, and leaned his clasped hands upon it to steady himself. His healthful, ruddy countenance was paling gradually. If it had been an apostle who spoke, he could not have taken in more entirely the bitter tale.

“It was Mr. Wentworth hisself, gentlemen,” said the triumphant witness; “not like a man roused out of his sleep, but dressed and shaved, and his hair brushed, as if it had been ten instead o’ six. It’s well known in Carlingford as he aint an early man; and gentlemen here knows it as well as me. I don’t pretend as I could keep my temper. I give him my mind, gentlemen, being an injured man; but I said as⁠—if he do his duty by her⁠—”

“Softly a moment,” said Mr. Brown. “What had Mr. Wentworth’s aspect at six o’clock in the morning to do with Rosa Elsworthy’s disappearance at nine on the previous night?”

“I don’t see that the question is called for at the present moment,” said Mr. Waters. “Let us hear what reasons you have for attributing to Mr. Wentworth an unusual degree of interest in your niece.”

“Sir,” said Elsworthy, “he come into my shop as regular as the day; he never come but he asked after Rosa, or spoke to her if she was there. One night he walked all the way up Grange Lane and knocked at my door and brought her in all of a glow, and said I wasn’t to send her out late no more. My missis, being a woman as is very particular, was struck, and thought as harm might come of it; and, not to be talked of, we sent Rosa away. And what does Mr. Wentworth do, but the moment he hears of it comes right off to my shop! He had been at his own home, sir, a-visiting his respected family,” said Elsworthy, turning slightly towards the side of the room where the father and sons sat together. “He came to my shop with his carpetbag as he come off the railway, and he gave me my orders as I was to bring Rosa back. What he said was, ‘Directly,’ that very day. I never had no thought but what his meaning was honourable⁠—being a clergyman,” said the witness, with a heavy sigh; and then there ensued a little pause.

“The Miss Hemmings had better be called now,” said Mr. Waters. “Elsworthy, you can retire; but we may require you again, so you had better not go away. Request Miss Hemmings to do us the favour of coming here.”

The Squire lifted his heavy eyes when the next witness entered. She made a very solemn curtsy to the gentlemen, and sat down on the chair which somebody placed for her. Being unsupported, a lady⁠—not to say an unmarried lady profoundly conscious of the fact⁠—among a number of men, Miss Hemmings was naturally much agitated. She was the eldest and the softest-hearted; and it occurred to her for the first time, as she gave a frightened look towards the Curate, that he was like her favourite younger brother, who had died ever so many years ago⁠—a thought which, for the first time, made her doubtful of her testimony, and disposed to break down in her evidence.

“You were in Grange Lane on the evening of the 15th ultimo,” said Mr. Morgan, after he had carefully written down her name, “about nine o’clock?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Morgan,” said the poor lady; “we were at St. Roque’s Cottage drinking tea with Mrs. Bland, who was lodging with Mrs. Smith in the same rooms Mrs. Rider used to have. I put the note of invitation in my pocket in case there should be any doubt; but, indeed, poor Mrs. Bland was taken very ill on the 16th, and Dr. Marjoribanks was called, and he knows it could not be any other evening⁠—and besides⁠—”

“About nine o’clock,” said Mr. Waters; “did I understand you, it was about nine o’clock?”

“She was such an invalid, poor dear,” said Miss Hemmings, apologetically; “and it is such a privilege to have real Christian conversation. We dined early on purpose, and we were asked for half-past six. I think it must have been a little after nine; but Mary is here, and she knows what hour she came for us. Shall I call Mary, please?”

“Presently,” said the counsel for the prosecution. “Don’t be agitated; one or two questions will do. You passed Mrs. Hadwin’s door coming up. Will you kindly tell the gentlemen what you saw there?”

“Oh!” cried Miss Hemmings. She looked round at the Curate again, and he was more than ever like Willie who died. “I⁠—I don’t take much notice of what I see in the streets,” she said, faltering; “and there are always so many poor people going to see Mr. Wentworth.” Here the poor lady stopped short. She had never considered before what harm her evidence might do. Now her heart smote her for the young man who was like Willie. “He is so very kind to all the poor people,” continued the unwilling witness, looking doubtfully round into all the faces near her; “and he’s such a young man,” she added, in her tremulous way. It was Miss Sophia who was strong-minded; all the poor women in Back Grove Street were perfectly aware that their chances were doubled when they found Miss Jane.

“But you must tell us what you saw all the same,” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “I daresay Mr. Wentworth wishes it as much as we do.”

The Curate got up and came forward with one of his impulses. “I wish it a great deal more,” he said. “My dear Miss Hemmings, thank you for your reluctance to say anything to harm me; but the truth can’t possibly harm me: tell them exactly what you saw.”

Miss Hemmings looked from one to another, and trembled more and more. “I am sure I never meant to injure Mr. Wentworth,” she said; “I only said I thought it was imprudent of him⁠—that was all I meant. Oh, I am sure, if I had thought of this, I would rather have done anything than say it. And whatever Sophia might have imagined, I assure you, gentlemen, I never, never for a moment thought Mr. Wentworth meant any harm.”

“Never mind Mr. Wentworth,” said Mr. Brown, who now took the matter in hand. “When you were passing Mrs. Hadwin’s house about nine o’clock on the evening of the 15th, you saw someone standing at the door. Mr. Wentworth particularly wishes you to say who it was.”

“Oh, Mr. Brown⁠—oh, Mr. Morgan,” cried the poor lady; “it was little Rosa Elsworthy. She was a designing little artful thing. When she was in my Sunday class, she was always thinking of her vanities. Mr. Wentworth was talking to her at the garden-door. I daresay he was giving her good advice; and oh, gentlemen, if you were to question me forever and ever, that is all I have got to say.”

“Did you not hear what they were talking about?” said Mr. Proctor. “If it was good advice⁠—” The late Rector stopped short, and grew red, and felt that his supposition was that of a simpleton. “You heard what they were talking about? What did they say?” he concluded, peremptorily, in a tone which frightened the reluctant witness more and more.

“I did not hear a single word,” she cried⁠—“not a word. That is all I know about it. Oh, please, let me go away. I feel very faint. I should like a little cold water, please. I did not hear a word⁠—not a word. I have told you everything I have got to say.”

Everybody looked more serious when Miss Hemmings stumbled from her chair. She was so frightened at her own testimony, and so unwilling to give it, that its importance was doubled in the eyes of the inexperienced judges. The Squire gave a low groan under his breath, and turned his eyes, which had been fixed upon her, on the ground instead; but raised them immediately, with a gleam of anxiety as his son again rose from his side. All that the Curate meant to do was to give the trembling lady his arm, and lead her out; but the entire assembly, with the exception of John Brown, started and stared as if he had been about to take instant revenge upon the frightened woman. Miss Hemmings burst into tears when Mr. Wentworth set a chair for her by the door, and brought her a glass of water, in the outer room; and just then somebody knocked and gave him a note, with which he returned to the presence of the awful tribunal. Miss Sophia Hemmings was corroborating her sister’s statement when the Perpetual Curate re-entered. He stood behind her quite quietly, until she had finished, with a slight smile upon his lips, and the note in his hand. Dr. Marjoribanks was not partial to Miss Sophia Hemmings. She was never ill herself, and rarely permitted even her sister to enjoy the gentle satisfaction of a day’s sickness. The old Doctor looked instead at the Perpetual Curate. When Miss Hemmings withdrew, Dr. Marjoribanks interposed. “It appears to me that Mr. Wentworth has something to say,” said the Doctor. “It is quite necessary that he should have a hearing as well as the rest of us. Let Peter Hayles wait a moment, till we hear what Mr. Wentworth has to say.”

“It is not yet time for us to receive Mr. Wentworth’s statement,” said the Rector. “He shall certainly be heard in his own defence at the proper time. Mr. Waters, call Peter Hayles.”

“One moment,” said the Curate. “I have no statement to make, and I can wait till you have heard what everybody has to say, if the Rector wishes it; but it might save time and trouble to hear me. I have another witness whom, up to this moment, I have been reluctant to bring forward⁠—a witness all-important for me, whom I cannot produce in so public a place, or at an hour when everybody is abroad. If you will do me the favour to adjourn this inquiry till the evening, and to meet then in a private house⁠—in my own, or Miss Wentworth’s, or wherever you may appoint⁠—I think I can undertake to make this whole business perfectly clear.”

“Bless me!” said Mr. Proctor, suddenly. This unexpected and irrelevant benediction was the first sound distinctly audible in the little stir of surprise, expectation, and excitement which followed the Curate’s speech. The Squire let his stick fall out of his hands, and groped after it to pick it up again. Hope had suddenly all at once come into possession of the old man’s breast. As for the Rector, he was too much annoyed at the moment to speak.

“You should have thought of this before,” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “It would have been just as easy to fix this meeting for the evening, and in a private house, and would have saved time. You are very welcome to my dining-room, if you please; but I don’t understand why it could not have been settled so at once, and saved our time,” said the Doctor; to which sentiment there were several murmurs of assent.

“Gentlemen,” said the Curate, whose eyes were sparkling with excitement, “you must all know in your hearts that this trial ought never to have taken place. I have lived among you for five years, and you ought to have known me by this time. I have never been asked for an explanation, neither could any explanation which it was possible for me to make have convinced a mind prejudiced against me,” he said, after a moment’s pause, with a meaning which everybody understood. “It is only now that I feel myself able to clear up the whole matter, and it is for this reason alone that I ask you to put off your inquiry till tonight.”

“I don’t feel inclined to consent to any adjournment,” said Mr. Morgan; “it looks like an attempt to defeat the ends of justice.” The Rector was very much annoyed⁠—more than he dared confess to himself. He believed in his heart that young Wentworth was guilty, and he felt equally convinced that here was some unexpected loophole through which he would escape. But public opinion was strong in Grange Lane⁠—stronger than a new Rector. The Banker and the Doctor and the Indian Colonel, not to speak of old Mr. Western, were disposed to grant the request of the Curate; and when even Mr. Proctor forsook his side, the Rector himself yielded. “Though it is against my judgment,” he said, “and I see no advantage to be gained by it, the meeting had better be held in the Rectory, this evening at seven o’clock.”

“Most of us dine at seven o’clock,” said Dr. Marjoribanks.

“This evening at eight o’clock,” said the Rector, severely. “I will request all the witnesses to be in attendance, and we must hope to find Mr. Wentworth’s witness of sufficient importance to justify the change. At eight o’clock this evening, in my house, gentlemen,” said the Rector. He collected his notes and went outside, and began talking to his witnesses, while the others collected together round the table to consult over this new phase of the affair. The three Mr. Wentworths went out together, the father between his two tall sons. The Squire’s strength was much shaken, both in mind and body. When they were out of the shadow of the church, he looked up in Frank’s face.

“I hope you consider me entitled to an immediate explanation,” said Mr. Wentworth. “When I read that anonymous letter, it went a long way towards breaking my heart, sir; I can tell you it did. Jack here too, and your brother making up his mind as he has done, Frank. I am not a man to complain. If it were all over with me tomorrow, I shouldn’t be sorry, so far as I am concerned, if it weren’t for the girls and the little children. But I always thought I could have sworn by Frank,” said the old man, mournfully. He was ever so much older since he had said these words before in the long lime avenue at Wentworth Hall.