“I don’t know what kind of a creature the poor girl is,” said the Curate; “but I know that if you had taken her in, it would have saved me much pain and trouble. Tell me, at least, when she came, and who saw her—or if she left any message? Perhaps Sarah will tell me,” he said, with a sigh of despair, as he saw that handmaiden hovering behind. Sarah had been a little shy of Mr. Wentworth since the night Wodehouse disappeared. She had betrayed herself to the Curate, and did not like to remember the fact. Now she came up with a little toss of her head and a sense of equality, primed and ready with her reply.
“I hope I think more of myself than to take notice of any sich,” said Sarah; but her instincts were more vivid than those of her mistress, and she could not refrain from particulars. “Them as saw her now, wouldn’t see much in her; I never see such a changed creature,” said Sarah; “not as I ever thought anything of her looks! a bit of a shawl dragged around her, and her eyes as if they would jump out of her head. Laws! she didn’t get no satisfaction here,” said the housemaid, with a little triumph.
“Silence, Sarah!” said Mrs. Hadwin; “that is not a way to speak to your clergyman. I’ll go in, Mr. Wentworth, please—I am not equal to so much agitation. If Mr. Frank will come indoors, I should be glad to have an explanation—for this sort of thing cannot go on,” said the old lady. As for the Curate he did not pay the least attention either to the disapproval or the impertinence.
“At what time did she come?—which way did she go?—did she leave any message?” he repeated; “a moment’s common sense will be of more use than all this indignation. It is of the greatest importance to me to see Rosa Elsworthy. Here’s how it is, Gerald,” said the Curate, driven to his wit’s end; “a word from the girl is all I want to make an end of all this—this disgusting folly—and you see how I am thwarted. Perhaps they will answer you. When did she come?—did she say anything?” he cried, turning sharply upon Sarah, who, frightened by Mr. Wentworth’s look, and dismayed to see her mistress moving away, and to feel herself alone opposed to him, burst at last into an alarmed statement.
“Please, sir, it aint no fault of mine,” said Sarah; “it was Missis as saw her. She aint been gone not half an hour. It’s all happened since your brother left. She come to the side-door; Missis wouldn’t hear nothing she had got to say, nor let her speak. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, don’t you go after her!” cried the girl, following him to the side-door, to which he rushed immediately. Not half an hour gone! Mr. Wentworth burst into the lane which led up to Grove Street, and where there was not a soul to be seen. He went back to Grange Lane, and inspected every corner where she could have hid herself. Then, after a pause, he walked impetuously up the quiet road, and into Elsworthy’s shop. Mrs. Elsworthy was there alone, occupying her husband’s place, who had gone as usual to the railway for the evening papers. She jumped up from the high stool she was seated on when the Curate entered. “Good gracious, Mr. Wentworth!” cried the frightened woman, and instinctively called the errand-boy, who was the only other individual within hearing. She was unprotected, and quite unable to defend herself if he meant anything; and it was impossible to doubt that there was meaning of the most serious and energetic kind in Mr. Wentworth’s face.
“Has Rosa come back?” he asked. “Is she here? Don’t stare at me, but speak. Has she come back? I have just heard that she was at my house half an hour ago: have you got her safe?”
It was at this moment that Wodehouse came lounging in, with his cigar appearing in the midst of his beard, and a curious look of self-exhibition and demonstration in his general aspect. When the Curate, hearing the steps, turned round upon him, he fell back for a moment, not expecting such an encounter. Then the vagabond recovered himself, and came forward with the swagger which was his only alternative.
“I thought you weren’t on good terms here,” said Wodehouse; “who are you asking after? It’s a fine evening, and they don’t seem up to much in my house. I have asked Jack Wentworth to the Blue Boar at seven—will you come? I don’t want to bear any grudge. I don’t know if they can cook anything fit to be eaten in my house. It wasn’t me you were asking after?” The fellow came and stood close, shoulder to shoulder, by the Perpetual Curate. “By Jove, sir! I’ve as good a right here as you—or anywhere,” he muttered, as Mr. Wentworth withdrew from him. He had to say it aloud to convince himself of the fact; for it was hard, after being clandestine for half a lifetime, to move about freely in the daylight. As for Mr. Wentworth, he fixed his eyes full on the newcomer’s face.
“I want to know if Rosa has come home,” he repeated, in the clearest tones of his clear voice. “I am told she called at Mrs. Hadwin’s half an hour ago. Has she come back?”
He scarcely noticed Mrs. Elsworthy’s answer, for, in the meantime, the cigar dropped out of Wodehouse’s beard, out of his fingers. He made an involuntary step back out of the Curate’s way. “By Jove!” he exclaimed to himself—the news was more important to him than to either of the others.
