XXXIX

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 someone 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 today,” 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 anyone 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 everyone 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 tonight.”

“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 peepshow. 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 someone 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 anyone 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 upstairs. 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 meantime 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 tonight. 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 tonight, 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 upstairs, 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 upstairs,” 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 upstairs 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 upstairs 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.