“Did you not hear what they were talking about?” said Mr. Proctor. “If it was good advice—” The late Rector stopped short, and grew red, and felt that his supposition was that of a simpleton. “You heard what they were talking about? What did they say?” he concluded, peremptorily, in a tone which frightened the reluctant witness more and more.
“I did not hear a single word,” she cried—“not a word. That is all I know about it. Oh, please, let me go away. I feel very faint. I should like a little cold water, please. I did not hear a word—not a word. I have told you everything I have got to say.”
Everybody looked more serious when Miss Hemmings stumbled from her chair. She was so frightened at her own testimony, and so unwilling to give it, that its importance was doubled in the eyes of the inexperienced judges. The Squire gave a low groan under his breath, and turned his eyes, which had been fixed upon her, on the ground instead; but raised them immediately, with a gleam of anxiety as his son again rose from his side. All that the Curate meant to do was to give the trembling lady his arm, and lead her out; but the entire assembly, with the exception of John Brown, started and stared as if he had been about to take instant revenge upon the frightened woman. Miss Hemmings burst into tears when Mr. Wentworth set a chair for her by the door, and brought her a glass of water, in the outer room; and just then somebody knocked and gave him a note, with which he returned to the presence of the awful tribunal. Miss Sophia Hemmings was corroborating her sister’s statement when the Perpetual Curate re-entered. He stood behind her quite quietly, until she had finished, with a slight smile upon his lips, and the note in his hand. Dr. Marjoribanks was not partial to Miss Sophia Hemmings. She was never ill herself, and rarely permitted even her sister to enjoy the gentle satisfaction of a day’s sickness. The old Doctor looked instead at the Perpetual Curate. When Miss Hemmings withdrew, Dr. Marjoribanks interposed. “It appears to me that Mr. Wentworth has something to say,” said the Doctor. “It is quite necessary that he should have a hearing as well as the rest of us. Let Peter Hayles wait a moment, till we hear what Mr. Wentworth has to say.”
“It is not yet time for us to receive Mr. Wentworth’s statement,” said the Rector. “He shall certainly be heard in his own defence at the proper time. Mr. Waters, call Peter Hayles.”
“One moment,” said the Curate. “I have no statement to make, and I can wait till you have heard what everybody has to say, if the Rector wishes it; but it might save time and trouble to hear me. I have another witness whom, up to this moment, I have been reluctant to bring forward—a witness all-important for me, whom I cannot produce in so public a place, or at an hour when everybody is abroad. If you will do me the favour to adjourn this inquiry till the evening, and to meet then in a private house—in my own, or Miss Wentworth’s, or wherever you may appoint—I think I can undertake to make this whole business perfectly clear.”
“Bless me!” said Mr. Proctor, suddenly. This unexpected and irrelevant benediction was the first sound distinctly audible in the little stir of surprise, expectation, and excitement which followed the Curate’s speech. The Squire let his stick fall out of his hands, and groped after it to pick it up again. Hope had suddenly all at once come into possession of the old man’s breast. As for the Rector, he was too much annoyed at the moment to speak.
“You should have thought of this before,” said Dr. Marjoribanks. “It would have been just as easy to fix this meeting for the evening, and in a private house, and would have saved time. You are very welcome to my dining-room, if you please; but I don’t understand why it could not have been settled so at once, and saved our time,” said the Doctor; to which sentiment there were several murmurs of assent.
“Gentlemen,” said the Curate, whose eyes were sparkling with excitement, “you must all know in your hearts that this trial ought never to have taken place. I have lived among you for five years, and you ought to have known me by this time. I have never been asked for an explanation, neither could any explanation which it was possible for me to make have convinced a mind prejudiced against me,” he said, after a moment’s pause, with a meaning which everybody understood. “It is only now that I feel myself able to clear up the whole matter, and it is for this reason alone that I ask you to put off your inquiry till tonight.”
“I don’t feel inclined to consent to any adjournment,” said Mr. Morgan; “it looks like an attempt to defeat the ends of justice.” The Rector was very much annoyed—more than he dared confess to himself. He believed in his heart that young Wentworth was guilty, and he felt equally convinced that here was some unexpected loophole through which he would escape. But public opinion was strong in Grange Lane—stronger than a new Rector. The Banker and the Doctor and the Indian Colonel, not to speak of old Mr. Western, were disposed to grant the request of the Curate; and when even Mr. Proctor forsook his side, the Rector himself yielded. “Though it is against my judgment,” he said, “and I see no advantage to be gained by it, the meeting had better be held in the Rectory, this evening at seven o’clock.”
“Most of us dine at seven o’clock,” said Dr. Marjoribanks.
“This evening at eight o’clock,” said the Rector, severely. “I will request all the witnesses to be in attendance,
