The Perpetual Curate

as if they had been so many policemen in disguise, a disagreeable sudden conviction that this sullen rascal looked a great deal more like the guilty man than Mr. Wentworth did, came into Mr. Morgan’s mind, and made him sick with annoyance and embarrassment. If it should turn out so! if it should become apparent that he, for private prejudices of his own, had been persecuting his brother! This thought produced an actual physical effect for the moment upon the Rector, but its immediate visible consequence was simply to make him look more severe, almost spiteful, in a kind of unconscious self-vindication. Last of all, Elsworthy, who began to be frightened too, but whose fears were mingled with no compunction nor blame of himself, stole in and found an uncomfortable seat on a stool near the door, where scarcely anyone saw him, by favour of Thomas, and screened by the high back of the Rector’s easy-chair. When all were assembled Mr. Morgan spoke.

“We are met this evening, gentlemen, to complete, if there is sufficient time, the investigation we began this morning,” said the Rector. “I have no doubt I express the sentiments of everyone present when I say I shall be glad⁠—unfeignedly glad,” said Mr. Morgan, with a defiant emphasis, which was meant to convince himself, “to find that Mr. Wentworth’s witness is of sufficient importance to justify the delay. As we were interrupted this morning solely on his account, I presume it will be most satisfactory that this witness should be called at once.”

“I should like to say something in the first place,” said the Curate. Mr. Morgan made an abrupt nod indicative of his consent, and, instead of looking at the defendant, shaded his eyes with his hand, and made figures with his pen upon the blotting-paper. A conviction, against which it was impossible to strive, had taken possession of the Rector’s soul. He listened to Frank Wentworth’s address with a kind of impatient annoyance and resistance. “What is the good of saying any more about it?” Mr. Morgan was saying in his soul. “For heaven’s sake let us bury it and be done with it, and forget that we ever made such asses of ourselves.” But at the same time the Rector knew this was quite impossible; and as he sat leaning over his blotting-book, writing down millions after millions with his unconscious pen, he looked a very model of an unwilling listener⁠—a prejudiced judge⁠—a man whom no arguments could convince; which was the aspect under which he appeared to the Curate of St. Roque’s.

“I should like to say something first,” said the Perpetual Curate. “I could not believe it possible that I, being tolerably well known in Carlingford as I have always supposed, could be suspected by any rational being of such an insane piece of wickedness as has been laid to my charge; and consequently it did not occur to me to vindicate myself, as I perhaps ought to have done, at the beginning. I have been careless all along of vindicating myself. I had an idea,” said the young man, with involuntary disdain, “that I might trust, if not to the regard, at least to the common sense of my friends⁠—”

Here John Brown, who was near his unwary client, plucked at the Curate’s coat, and brought him to a momentary half-angry pause. “Softly, softly,” said Dr. Marjoribanks; “common sense has nothing to do with facts; we’re inquiring into facts at this moment; and, besides, it’s a very foolish and unjustifiable confidence to trust to any man’s common sense,” said the old Doctor, with a humorous glance from under his shaggy eyebrows at his fellow-judges; upon which there ensued a laugh, not very agreeable in its tone, which brought the Rector to a white heat of impatience and secret rage.

“It appears to me that the witness ought to be called at once,” said Mr. Morgan, “if this is not a mere expedient to gain time, and if it is intended to make any progress tonight.”

“My explanations shall be very brief,” said Frank Wentworth, facing instantly to his natural enemy. “I have suspected from the beginning of this business who was the culprit, and have made every possible attempt to induce him to confess, and, so far as he could, amend the wrong that he had done. I have failed; and now the confession, the amende, must be made in public. I will now call my witness,” said the Curate. But this time a commotion rose in another part of the room. It was Wodehouse, who struggled to rise, and to get free from the detaining grasp of his companion.

“By Jove! I aint going to sit here and listen to a parcel of lies!” cried the vagabond. “If I am to be tried, at least I’ll have the real thing, by Jove!” He had risen up, and was endeavouring to pass Mr. Waters and get out, casting a suspicious defiant look round the room. The noise he made turned all eyes upon him, and the scrutiny he had brought upon himself redoubled his anxiety to get away. “I’ll not stand it, by Jove! Waters, let me go,” said the craven, whose confused imagination had mixed up all his evil doings together, and who already felt himself being carried off to prison. It was at this moment that Jack Wentworth rose from his place in his easy careless way, and went forward to the table to adjust the lamp, which was flaring a little. Wodehouse dropped back into a chair as soon as he caught the eye of this master of his fate. His big beard moved with a subterranean gasp like the panting of a hunted creature, and all the colour that had remained died away out of his haggard, frightened face. As for Jack Wentworth, he took no apparent notice of the shabby rascal whom he held in awe. “Rather warm this room for a court of justice. I hope Frank’s witness is not