“Elsworthy, are you mad?” cried the Curate—“is he out of his senses? Has anything happened to Rosa? For heaven’s sake, Hayles, don’t stand there like a man of wood, but tell me if the man’s crazy, or what he means.”
“I’ll come in, sir, if you’ve no objection, and shut the door, not to make a talk,” said Elsworthy’s companion, Peter Hayles, the druggist. “If it can be managed without any gossip, it’ll be best for all parties,” said this worthy, shutting the door softly after him. “The thing is, where’s Rosa, Mr. Wentworth? I can’t think as you’ve got her here.”
“She’s all the same as my own child!” cried Elsworthy, who was greatly excited. “I’ve had her and loved her since she was a baby. I don’t mean to say as I’d put myself forward to hurt her prospects if she was married in a superior line o’ life; but them as harms Rosa has me to reckon with,” he said, with a kind of fury which sat strangely on the man. “Mr. Wentworth, where’s the child? God forgive you both, you’ve given me a night o’ weeping; but if you’ll do what’s right by Rosa, and send her home in the meantime—”
“Be silent, sir!” cried the Curate. “I know nothing in the world about Rosa. How dare you venture to come on such an errand to me? I don’t understand how it is,” said the young man, growing red and angry, “that you try so persistently to connect this child with me. I have never had anything to do with her, and I will not submit to any such impertinent suspicion. Leave my house, sir, immediately, and don’t insult me by making such inquiries here.”
Mr. Wentworth was very angry in the first flush of his wrath. He did not think what misery was involved in the question which had been addressed to him, nor did he see for the moment the terrible calamity to Rosa which was suggested by this search for her. He thought only of himself, as was natural, at the first shock—of the injurious and insulting suspicion with which he seemed to be pursued, and of the annoyance which she and her friends were causing him. “What do you mean by rousing a whole household at this hour in the morning?” cried Mr. Wentworth, as he saw with vexation, Sarah, very startled and sleepy, come stealing round by the kitchen door.
“You don’t look as if you had wanted any rousing,” said Elsworthy, who was too much in earnest to own the Curate’s authority. “She was seen at your door the last thing last night, and you’re in your clothes, as bright as day, and a-waiting for us afore six o’clock in the morning. Do you think as I’ve shut my eyes because it’s my clergyman?” cried the injured man, passionately. “I want my little girl—my little Rosa—as is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. If Mr. Wentworth didn’t know nothing about it, as he says,” cried Elsworthy, with sudden insight, “he has a feelin’ heart, and he’d be grieved about the child; but he aint grieved, nor concerned, nor nothing in the world but angry; and will you tell me there aint nothing to be drawn from that? But it’s far from my intention to raise a talk,” said the clerk, drawing closer and touching the arm of the Perpetual Curate; “let her come back, and if you’re a man of your word, and behave honourable by her, there shan’t be nothing said in Carlingford. I’ll stand up for you, sir, against the world.”
Mr. Wentworth shook off his assailant’s hand with a mingled sense of exasperation and sympathy. “I tell you, upon my honour, I know nothing about her,” he said. “But it is true enough I have been thinking only of myself,” he continued, addressing the other. “How about the girl? When was she lost? and can’t you think of any place she can have gone to? Elsworthy, hear reason,” cried the Curate anxiously. “I assure you, on my word, that I have never seen her since I closed this garden-gate upon her last night.”
“And I would ask you, sir, what had Rosa to do at your garden-gate?” cried the clerk of St. Roque’s. “He aint denying it, Hayles; you can see as he aint a-denying of it. What was it as she came here for but you? Mr. Wentworth, I’ve always had a great respect for you,” said Elsworthy. “I’ve respected you as my clergyman, sir, as well as for other things; but you’re a young man, and human nature is frail. I say again as you needn’t have no fear of me. I aint one as likes to make a talk, and no more is Hayles. Give up the girl, and give me your promise, and there aint a man living as will be the wiser; Mr. Wentworth—”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” cried the Curate, furious with indignation and resentment. “Leave this place instantly! If you don’t want me to pitch you into the middle of the road, hold your tongue and go away. The man is mad!” said Mr. Wentworth, turning towards the spectator, Hayles, and pausing to take breath. But it was evident that this third person was by no means on the Curate’s side.
“I don’t know, sir, I’m sure,” said Hayles, with a blank countenance. “It appears to me, sir, as it’s an awkward business for all parties. Here’s the girl gone, and no one knows where. When a girl don’t come back to her own ’ome all night, things look serious, sir; and it has been said as the last place she was seen was at your door.”
“Who says so?” cried Mr. Wentworth.
“Well—it was—a party, sir—a highly respectable party—as I have good reason to believe,” said Hayles,
