The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 25 (2/2)

“La, sir! Missis is a-ringing all the bells down to know what ’as ’appened,” said Sarah, holding her ground.

This was how it was to be⁠—the name of the Curate of St. Roque’s was to be linked to that of Rosa Elsworthy, let the truth be what it might, in the mouths of every maid and every mistress in Carlingford. He was seized with a sudden apprehension of this aspect of the matter, and it was not wonderful if Mr. Wentworth drew his breath hard and set his teeth, as he ordered the woman away, in a tone which could not be disobeyed.

“I don’t want to make no talk,” said Elsworthy, who during this time had made many efforts to speak; “I’ve sait it before, and I say it again⁠—it’s Mr. Wentworth’s fault if there’s any talk. She was seen here last night,” he went on rapidly, “and afore six o’clock this blessed morning, you, as are never known to be stirring early, meets us at the door, all shaved and dressed; and it aint very difficult to see, to them as watches the clergyman’s countenance,” said Elsworthy, turning from one to another, “as everything isn’t as straight as it ought to be; but I aint going to make no talk, Mr. Wentworth,” he went on, drawing closer, and speaking with conciliatory softness; “me and her aunt, sir, loves her dearly, but we’re not the folks to stand in her way, if a gentleman was to take a fancy to Rosa. If you’ll give me your word to make her your wife honourable, and tell me where she is, tortures wouldn’t draw no complaints from me. One moment, sir; it aint only that she’s pretty, but she’s good as well⁠—she won’t do you no discredit, Mr. Wentworth. Put her to school, or what you please, sir,” said Rosa’s uncle; “me and my wife will never interfere, so be as you make her your wife honourable; but I aint a worm to be trampled on,” cried Elsworthy, as the Curate, finding him approach very closely, thrust him away with vehement indignation; “I aint a slave to be pushed about. Them as brings Rosa to shame shall come to shame by me; I’ll ruin the man as ruins that child. You may turn me out,” he cried, as the Curate laid his powerful hand upon his shoulder and forced him towards the door, “but I’ll come back, and I’ll bring all Carlingford. There shan’t be a soul in the town as doesn’t know. Oh, you young viper, as I thought was a pious clergyman! you aint got rid of me. My child⁠—where’s my child?” cried the infuriated clerk, as he found himself ejected into the road outside, and the door suddenly closed upon him. He turned round to beat upon it in blind fury, and kept calling upon Rosa, and wasting his threats and arguments upon the calm air outside. Some of the maidservants in the other houses came out, broom in hand, to the green doors, to see what was the matter, but they were not near enough to hear distinctly, and no early wayfarers had as yet invaded the morning quiet of Grange Lane.

Mr. Wentworth, white with excitement, and terribly calm and self-possessed, turned to the amazed and trembling druggist, who still stood inside. “Look here, Hayles,” said the Curate; “I have never seen Rosa Elsworthy since I closed this door upon her last night. What had brought her here I don’t know⁠—at least she came with no intention of seeing me⁠—and I reproved her sharply for being out so late. This is all I know about the affair, and all I intend to say to anyone. If that idiot outside intends to make a disturbance, he must do it; I shall take no further trouble to clear myself of such an insane accusation. I think it right to say as much to you, because you seem to have your senses about you,” said the Curate, pausing, out of breath. He was perfectly calm, but it was impossible to ignore the effect of such a scene upon ordinary flesh and blood. His heart was beating loudly, and his breath came short and quick. He turned away and walked up to the house-door, and then came back again. “You understand me, I suppose?” he said; “and if Elsworthy is not mad, you had better suggest to him not to lose his only chance of recovering Rosa by vain bluster with me, who know nothing about her. I shan’t be idle in the meantime,” said Mr. Wentworth. All this time Elsworthy was beating against the door, and shouting his threats into the quiet of the morning; and Mrs. Hadwin had thrown up her window, and stood there visibly in her nightcap, trying to find out what the noise was about, and trembling for the respectability of her house⁠—all which the Curate apprehended with that extraordinary swiftness and breadth of perception which comes to men at the eventful moments of life.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Hayles, who felt that his honour was appealed to; “but it’s an awkward business for all parties, that’s what it is;” and the druggist backed out in a state of great bewilderment, having a little struggle at the door with Elsworthy to prevent his re-entrance. “There aint nothing to be got out of him,” said Mr. Hayles, as he succeeded at last in leading his friend away. Such was the conclusion of Mr. Wentworth’s morning studies, and the sermon which was to have been half written before breakfast upon that eventful Saturday. He went back to the house, as was natural, with very different thoughts in his mind.