sleep in quiet, if I was to live a century. It aint as I care for
him, but it’s the key and my character as I’m a-thinking of,” cried the poor girl, bursting into audible sobs that could be restrained no longer.
Mr. Wentworth took a candle and went into Wodehouse’s empty room, leaving her to recover her composure. Everything was cleared and packed up in that apartment. The little personal property he had, the shabby boots and worn habiliments, had disappeared totally; even the rubbish of woodcarving on his table was cleared away. Not a trace that he had been there a few hours ago remained in the place. The Curate came out of the room with an anxious countenance, not knowing what to make of it. And by this time Sarah’s sobs had roused
Mrs. Hadwin, who stood, severe and indignant, at her own door in her nightcap, to know what was the matter.
Mr. Wentworth retired into his own apartments after a word of explanation, leaving the mistress and maid to fight it out. He himself was more disturbed and excited than he could have described. He could not tell what this new step meant, but felt instinctively that it denoted some new development in the tangled web of his own fortunes. Some hidden danger seemed to him to be gathering in the air over the house of mourning, of which he had constituted himself a kind of guardian. He could not sleep all night, but kept starting at every sound, thinking now that the skulking rascal, who was Lucy’s brother, was coming back, and now that his departure was only a dream.
Mr. Wentworth’s restlessness was not soothed by hearing all the night through, in the silence of the house, suppressed sobs and sounds of weeping proceeding from the attic overhead, which poor Sarah shared with her fellow-servant. Perhaps the civilities of “the gentleman” had dazzled Sarah, and been too much for her peace of mind; perhaps it was only her character, as the poor girl said. But as often as the Curate started from his uneasy and broken snatches of sleep, he heard the murmur of crying and consoling upstairs. Outside the night was spreading forth those sweetest unseen glories of the starlight and the moonlight and the silence, which Nature reserves for her own enjoyment, when the weary human creatures are out of the way and at rest;—and Jack Wentworth slept the sleep of the righteous, uttering delicate little indications of the depth of his slumber, which it would have been profane to call by any vulgar name.
He slept sweetly while his brother watched and longed for daylight, impatient for the morrow which must bring forth something new. The moonlight streamed full into the empty room, and made mysterious combinations of the furniture, and chased the darkness into corners which each held their secret. This was how
Mrs. Hadwin’s strange lodger, whom nobody could ever make out, disappeared as suddenly as he had come, without any explanations; and only a very few people could ever come to understand what he had to do with the after-events which struck Grange Lane dumb, and turned into utter confusion all the ideas and conclusions of society in Carlingford.
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
