The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 36 (2/2)

“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 reentered. 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.