“She hasn’t come here,” said that virtuous woman, sharply. “I’ve give in to Elsworthy a deal, but I never said I’d give in to take her back. She’s been and disgraced us all; and she’s not a drop’s blood to me,” said Mrs. Elsworthy. “Them as has brought her to this pass had best look after her; I’ve washed my hands of Rosa, and all belonging to her. She knows better than to come here.”
“Who’s speaking of Rosa?” said Elsworthy, who just then came in with his bundle of newspapers from the railway. “I might have know’d as it was Mr. Wentworth. Matters is going to be cleared, sir, between me and you. If you was going to make a proposal, I aint revengeful; and I’m open to any arrangement as is honourable, to save things coming afore the public. I’ve been expecting of it. You may speak free, sir. You needn’t be afraid of me.”
“Fool!” said the Curate, hotly, “your niece has been seen in Carlingford; she came to my door, I am told, about an hour ago. Give up this folly, and let us make an effort to find her. I tell you she came to my house—”
“In course, sir,” said Elsworthy; “it was the most naturalest place for her to go. Don’t you stand upon it no longer, as if you could deceive folks. It will be your ruin, Mr. Wentworth—you know that as well as I do. I aint no fool but I’m open to a honourable proposal, I am. It’ll ruin you—ay, and I’ll ruin you,” cried Rosa’s uncle, hoarsely—“if you don’t change your mind afore tomorrow. It’s your last chance, if you care for your character, is tonight.”
Mr. Wentworth did not condescend to make any answer. He followed Wodehouse, who had shuffled out after his cigar, and stopped him on the step. “I wonder if it is any use appealing to your honour,” he said. “I suppose you were a gentleman once, and had the feelings of—”
“By Jove! I’m as good a gentleman as you are,” cried the new heir. “I could buy you up—you and all that belongs to you, by Jove! I’m giving Jack Wentworth a dinner at the Blue Boar tonight. I’m not a man to be cross-questioned. It appears to me you have got enough to do if you mind your own business,” said Wodehouse, with a sneer. “You’re in a nice mess, though you are the parson. I told Jack Wentworth so last night.”
The Curate stood on the step of Elsworthy’s shop with his enemy behind, and the ungrateful vagabond whom he had rescued and guarded, standing in front of him, with that sneer on his lips. It was hard to refrain from the natural impulse which prompted him to pitch the vagabond out of his way. “Look here,” he said, sharply, “you have not much character to lose; but a scamp is a different thing from a criminal. I will make the principal people in Carlingford aware what were the precise circumstances under which you came here at Easter if you do not immediately restore this unhappy girl to her friends. Do you understand me? If it is not done at once I will make use of my information—and you know what that means. You can defy me if you please; but in that case you had better make up your mind to the consequences; you will have to take your place as a—”
“Stop!” cried Wodehouse, with a shiver. “We’re not by ourselves—we’re in the public street. What do you mean by talking like that here? Come to my house, Wentworth—there’s a good fellow—I’ve ordered a dinner—”
“Be silent, sir!” said the Curate. “I give you till noon tomorrow; after that I will spare you no longer. You understand what I mean. I have been too merciful already. Tomorrow, if everything is not arranged to my satisfaction here—”
“It was my own name,” said Wodehouse, sullenly; “nobody can say it wasn’t my own name. You couldn’t do me any harm—you know you wouldn’t, either, for the sake of the girls; I’ll—I’ll give them a thousand pounds or so, if I find I can afford it. Come, you don’t mean that sort of thing, you know,” said the conscious criminal; “you wouldn’t do me any harm.”
“If I have to fight for my own reputation I shall not spare you,” cried the Curate. “Mind what I say! You are safe till twelve o’clock tomorrow; but after that I will have no mercy—not for your sisters’ sake, not for any inducement in the world. If you want to be known as a—”
“Oh Lord, don’t speak so loud!—what do you mean? Wentworth, I say, hist! Mr. Wentworth! By Jove, he won’t listen to me!” cried Wodehouse, in an agony. When he found that the Curate was already out of hearing, the vagabond looked round him on every side with his natural instinct of suspicion. If he had known that Mr. Wentworth was thinking only of disgrace and the stern sentence of public opinion, Wodehouse could have put up with it; but he himself, in his guilty imagination, jumped at the bar and the prison which had haunted him for long. Somehow it felt natural that such a Nemesis should come to him after the morning’s triumph. He stood looking after the Curate, guilty and horror-stricken, till it occurred to him that he might be remarked; and then he made a circuit past Elsworthy’s shopwindow as far as the end of Prickett’s Lane, where he ventured to cross over so as to get to his own house. His own house!—the wretched thrill of terror that went through him was a very sufficient offset against his momentary triumph; and this was succeeded by a
