When Mr. Wentworth reached his rooms, he found that his guest had arrived before him, and consequently the threatened explanation with Mrs. Hadwin was forestalled for that night. Mr. Proctor and Gerald were sitting together, not at all knowing what to talk about; for the late Rector was aware that Frank Wentworth’s brother was on the verge of Rome, and was confused, and could not help feeling that his position between a man on the point of perversion in an ecclesiastical point of view, and another whose morals were suspected and whose character was compromised, was, to say the least, a very odd position for a clergyman of unblemished orthodoxy and respectability; besides, it was embarrassing, when he had come for a very private consultation, to find a stranger there before him. The Curate went in very full of what had just occurred. The events of the last two or three hours had worked a total change in his feelings. He was no longer the injured, insulted, silent object of a petty but virulent persecution. The contemptuous silence with which he had treated the scandal at first, and the still more obstinate sense of wrong which latterly had shut his lips and his heart, had given way today to warmer and more generous emotions. What would have seemed to him in the morning only the indignant reserve of a man unjustly suspected, appeared now a foolish and unfriendly reticence. The only thing which restrained him was a still lingering inclination to screen Wodehouse, if possible, from a public exposure, which would throw shame upon his sisters as well as himself. If any generosity, if any gentlemanly feeling, were still left in the vagabond’s soul, it was possible he might answer the Curate’s appeal; and Mr. Wentworth felt himself bound to offer no public explanation of the facts of the case until this last chance of escape had been left for the criminal. But, so far as regarded himself, his heart was opened, his wounded pride mollified, and he was ready enough to talk of what had just happened, and to explain the whole business to his anxious companions. When he joined them, indeed, he was so full of it as almost to forget that he himself was still believed the hero of the tale. “This unfortunate little girl has been here, and I have missed her,” he said, without in the least concealing his vexation, and the excitement which his rapid walk had not subdued; to the great horror of Mr. Proctor, who tried all he could, by telegraphic glances, to recall the young man to a sense of that fact that Sarah was in the room.
“I must say I think it is imprudent—highly imprudent,” said the late Rector: “they will call these women to prove that she has been here again; and what conclusion but one can possibly be drawn from such a fact? I am very sorry to see you so unguarded.” He said this, seizing the moment after Sarah had removed the salmon, which was very good, and was served with a sauce which pleased Mr. Proctor all the more that he had not expected much from an impromptu dinner furnished by a Perpetual Curate; but the fact was, that Gerald’s arrival had awakened Mrs. Hadwin to a proper regard for her own credit, which was at stake.
When Sarah withdrew finally, and they were left alone, Frank Wentworth gave the fullest explanation he was able to his surprised auditors. He told them that it was Wodehouse, and not himself, whom Rosa had met in the garden, and whom she had no doubt come to seek at this crisis of their fortunes. There was not the least doubt in his own mind that Wodehouse had carried her away, and hidden her somewhere close at hand; and when he had given them all his reasons for thinking so, his hearers were of the same opinion; but Mr. Proctor continued very doubtful and perplexed, clear though the story was. He sat silent, brooding over the new mystery, while the brothers discussed the original questions.
“I cannot think why you did not go to the Rector at once and tell him all this,” said Gerald. “It is always best to put a stop to gossip. At least you will see him tomorrow, or let me see him—”
“The Rector is deeply prejudiced against me,” said the Perpetual Curate, “for a very unworthy reason, if he has any reason at all. He has never asked me to explain. I shall not interfere with his investigation,” said the young man, haughtily; “let it go on. I have been working here for five years, and the Carlingford people ought to know better. As for the Rector, I will make no explanations to him.”
“It is not for the Rector, it is for yourself,” said Gerald; “and this fellow Wodehouse surely has no claim—”
But at the sound of this name, Mr. Proctor roused himself from his pause of bewilderment, and took the words out of Mr. Wentworth’s mouth.
“He has been here since Easter; but why?” said the late Rector. “I cannot fancy why Mr. Wodehouse’s son should come to you when his father’s house was so near. In hiding? why was he in hiding? He is evidently a scamp,” said Mr. Proctor, growing red; “but that is not so unusual. I don’t understand—I am bound to say I don’t understand
