“I don’t see that the question is called for at the present moment,” said Mr. Waters. “Let us hear what reasons you have for attributing to Mr. Wentworth an unusual degree of interest in your niece.”
“Sir,” said Elsworthy, “he come into my shop as regular as the day; he never come but he asked after Rosa, or spoke to her if she was there. One night he walked all the way up Grange Lane and knocked at my door and brought her in all of a glow, and said I wasn’t to send her out late no more. My missis, being a woman as is very particular, was struck, and thought as harm might come of it; and, not to be talked of, we sent Rosa away. And what does Mr. Wentworth do, but the moment he hears of it comes right off to my shop! He had been at his own home, sir, a-visiting his respected family,” said Elsworthy, turning slightly towards the side of the room where the father and sons sat together. “He came to my shop with his carpetbag as he come off the railway, and he gave me my orders as I was to bring Rosa back. What he said was, ‘Directly,’ that very day. I never had no thought but what his meaning was honourable—being a clergyman,” said the witness, with a heavy sigh; and then there ensued a little pause.
“The Miss Hemmings had better be called now,” said Mr. Waters. “Elsworthy, you can retire; but we may require you again, so you had better not go away. Request Miss Hemmings to do us the favour of coming here.”
The Squire lifted his heavy eyes when the next witness entered. She made a very solemn curtsy to the gentlemen, and sat down on the chair which somebody placed for her. Being unsupported, a lady—not to say an unmarried lady profoundly conscious of the fact—among a number of men, Miss Hemmings was naturally much agitated. She was the eldest and the softest-hearted; and it occurred to her for the first time, as she gave a frightened look towards the Curate, that he was like her favourite younger brother, who had died ever so many years ago—a thought which, for the first time, made her doubtful of her testimony, and disposed to break down in her evidence.
“You were in Grange Lane on the evening of the 15th ultimo,” said Mr. Morgan, after he had carefully written down her name, “about nine o’clock?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Morgan,” said the poor lady; “we were at St. Roque’s Cottage drinking tea with Mrs. Bland, who was lodging with Mrs. Smith in the same rooms Mrs. Rider used to have. I put the note of invitation in my pocket in case there should be any doubt; but, indeed, poor Mrs. Bland was taken very ill on the 16th, and Dr. Marjoribanks was called, and he knows it could not be any other evening—and besides—”
“About nine o’clock,” said Mr. Waters; “did I understand you, it was about nine o’clock?”
“She was such an invalid, poor dear,” said Miss Hemmings, apologetically; “and it is such a privilege to have real Christian conversation. We dined early on purpose, and we were asked for half-past six. I think it must have been a little after nine; but Mary is here, and she knows what hour she came for us. Shall I call Mary, please?”
“Presently,” said the counsel for the prosecution. “Don’t be agitated; one or two questions will do. You passed Mrs. Hadwin’s door coming up. Will you kindly tell the gentlemen what you saw there?”
“Oh!” cried Miss Hemmings. She looked round at the Curate again, and he was more than ever like Willie who died. “I—I don’t take much notice of what I see in the streets,” she said, faltering; “and there are always so many poor people going to see Mr. Wentworth.” Here the poor lady stopped short. She had never considered before what harm her evidence might do. Now her heart smote her for the young man who was like Willie. “He is so very kind to all the poor people,” continued the unwilling witness, looking doubtfully round into all the faces near her; “and he’s such a young man,” she added, in her tremulous way. It was Miss Sophia who was strong-minded; all the poor women in Back Grove Street were perfectly aware that their chances were doubled when they found Miss Jane.
“But you must tell us what you saw all the same,” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “I daresay Mr. Wentworth wishes it as much as we do.”
The Curate got up and came forward with one of his impulses. “I wish it a great deal more,” he said. “My dear Miss Hemmings, thank you for your reluctance to say anything to harm me; but the truth can’t possibly harm me: tell them exactly what you saw.”
Miss Hemmings looked from one to another, and trembled more and more. “I am sure I never meant to injure Mr. Wentworth,” she said; “I only said I thought it was imprudent of him—that was all I meant. Oh, I am sure, if I had thought of this, I would rather have done anything than say it. And whatever Sophia might have imagined, I assure you, gentlemen, I never, never for a moment thought Mr. Wentworth meant any harm.”
“Never mind Mr. Wentworth,” said Mr. Brown, who now took the matter in hand. “When you were passing Mrs. Hadwin’s house about nine o’clock on the evening of the 15th, you saw someone standing at the door. Mr. Wentworth particularly wishes you to say who it was.”
“Oh, Mr. Brown—oh, Mr. Morgan,” cried the poor lady; “it was little Rosa Elsworthy. She was a designing little artful thing. When she was in my Sunday class, she was always thinking of her vanities. Mr. Wentworth was talking to her at the garden-door. I daresay he was giving her good advice; and oh, gentlemen, if you were to question me forever and ever,
