When Elsworthy was called in to the inner room it caused a little commotion amid this company outside. The Miss Hemmings looked at each other, not with an agreeable expression of face. “They might have had the politeness to call us first,” Miss Sophia said to her sister; and Miss Hemmings shook her head and sighed, and said, “Dear Mr. Bury!” an observation which meant a great deal, though it did not seem perfectly relevant. “Laws! I’ll forget everything when I’m took in there,” said the shopkeeper’s wife to Miss Hemmings’ maid; and the ladies drew still closer up, superior to curiosity, while the others stretched their necks to get a peep into the terrible inner room.
It was indeed a formidable tribunal. The room was small, so that the unfortunate witness was within the closest range of six pairs of judicial eyes, not to speak of the vigilant orbs of the two lawyers, and those of the accused and his supporters. Mr. Morgan, by right of his position, sat at the end of the table, and looked very severely at the first witness as he came in—which Elsworthy did, carrying his hat before him like a kind of shield, and polishing it carefully round and round. The Rector was far from having any intention of discouraging the witness, who was indeed his mainstay; but the anxiety of his peculiar position, as being at once counsel for the prosecution, and chief magistrate of the bed of justice, gave an unusual sternness to his face.
“Your name is George Elsworthy,” said the Rector, filling his pen with ink, and looking penetratingly in the witness’s face.
“George Appleby Elsworthy,” said Rosa’s uncle, a little alarmed; “not as I often signs in full; for you see, sir, it’s a long name, and life’s short, and it aint necessary in the way of business—”
“Stationer and newsmonger in Carlingford,” interrupted the Rector; “I should say in Upper Grange Lane, Carlingford; aged—?”
“But it doesn’t appear to me that newsmonger is a correct expression,” said old Mr. Western, who was very conversational; “newsmonger means a gossip, not a tradesman; not that there is any reason why a tradesman should not be a gossip, but—”
“Aged?” said Mr. Morgan, holding his pen suspended in the air. “I will say newsvendor if that will be better—one cannot be too particular—Aged—?”
“He is come to years of discretion,” said Dr. Marjoribanks, “that’s all we need; don’t keep us all day waiting, man, but tell your story about this elopement of your niece. When did it take place, and what are the facts? Never mind your hat, but say out what you have got to say.”
“You are much too summary, Doctor,” said Mr. Morgan, with a little offence; but the sense of the assembly was clearly with Dr. Marjoribanks—so that the Rector dashed in 45 as the probable age of the witness, and waited his further statement.
After this there was silence, and Elsworthy began his story. He narrated all the facts of Rosa’s disappearance, with an intention and bias which made his true tale a wonderful tacit accusation. Rage, revenge, a sense of wrong, worked what in an indifferent narrator only the highest skill could have wrought. He did not mention the Curate’s name, but arranged all his facts in lines like so many trains of artillery. How Rosa was in the habit of going to Mrs. Hadwin’s (it was contrary to Elsworthy’s instinct to bring in at this moment any reference to Mr. Wentworth) every night with the newspaper—“not as I sent her of errands for common—keeping two boys for the purpose,” said the injured man; “but, right or wrong, there’s where she’d go as certain as the night come. I’ve seen her with my own eyes go into Mrs. Hadwin’s garden-door, which she hadn’t no need to go in but for being encouraged; and it would be half an hour at the least afore she came out.”
“But, bless me! that was very imprudent of you,” cried Mr. Proctor, who up to this time had not uttered a word.
“There was nobody there but the old lady and her maids—except the clergyman,” said Elsworthy. “It wasn’t my part to think as she could get any harm from the clergyman. She wouldn’t hear no remonstrances from me; she would go as regular as the evening come.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Waters, who saw John Brown’s humorous eye gleaming round upon the little assembly; “but let us come to the immediate matter in hand. Your niece disappeared from Carlingford on the—?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Western, “we must not sink into conversation; that’s the danger of all unofficial investigations. It seems natural to let him tell his story as he likes: but here we have got somebody to keep us in order. It’s natural, but it aint law—is it, Brown?”
“I don’t see that law has anything to do with it,” said John Brown, with a smile.
“Order! order!” said the Rector, who was much goaded and aggravated by this remark. “I request that there may be no conversation. The witness will proceed with what he has to say. Your niece disappeared on the 15th. What were the circumstances of her going away?”
“She went down as usual with the newspaper,” said Elsworthy; “it had got to be a custom as regular as regular. She stopped out later nor common, and my wife and me was put out. I don’t mind saying, gentlemen,” said the witness, with candour, “as my missis and I wasn’t altogether of the same mind about Rosa. She was late, but I can’t say as I was anxious. It wasn’t above a week afore that Mr. Wentworth himself brought her home safe, and it was well known as he didn’t like her to be out at night; so I was easy in my mind, like. But when eleven o’clock came, and there
