Mr. Wentworth, white with excitement, and terribly calm and self-possessed, turned to the amazed and trembling druggist, who still stood inside. “Look here, Hayles,” said the Curate; “I have never seen Rosa Elsworthy since I closed this door upon her last night. What had brought her here I don’t know—at least she came with no intention of seeing me—and I reproved her sharply for being out so late. This is all I know about the affair, and all I intend to say to anyone. If that idiot outside intends to make a disturbance, he must do it; I shall take no further trouble to clear myself of such an insane accusation. I think it right to say as much to you, because you seem to have your senses about you,” said the Curate, pausing, out of breath. He was perfectly calm, but it was impossible to ignore the effect of such a scene upon ordinary flesh and blood. His heart was beating loudly, and his breath came short and quick. He turned away and walked up to the house-door, and then came back again. “You understand me, I suppose?” he said; “and if Elsworthy is not mad, you had better suggest to him not to lose his only chance of recovering Rosa by vain bluster with me, who know nothing about her. I shan’t be idle in the meantime,” said Mr. Wentworth. All this time Elsworthy was beating against the door, and shouting his threats into the quiet of the morning; and Mrs. Hadwin had thrown up her window, and stood there visibly in her nightcap, trying to find out what the noise was about, and trembling for the respectability of her house—all which the Curate apprehended with that extraordinary swiftness and breadth of perception which comes to men at the eventful moments of life.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Hayles, who felt that his honour was appealed to; “but it’s an awkward business for all parties, that’s what it is;” and the druggist backed out in a state of great bewilderment, having a little struggle at the door with Elsworthy to prevent his re-entrance. “There aint nothing to be got out of him,” said Mr. Hayles, as he succeeded at last in leading his friend away. Such was the conclusion of Mr. Wentworth’s morning studies, and the sermon which was to have been half written before breakfast upon that eventful Saturday. He went back to the house, as was natural, with very different thoughts in his mind.
XXVI
The first thing Mr. Wentworth did was to hasten upstairs to Wodehouse’s room. Sarah had gone before him, and was by this time talking to her mistress, who had left the window, and stood, still in her nightcap, at the door of her own chamber. “It’s something about Rosa Elsworthy, ma’am,” said Sarah; “she’s gone off with someone, which nothing else was to be expected; and her uncle’s been a-raving and a-raging at Mr. Wentworth, which proves as a gentleman should never take no notice of them shop-girls. I always heard as she was a bad lot.”
“Oh, Mr. Wentworth—if you would excuse my nightcap,” said Mrs. Hadwin—“I am so shaken and all of a tremble with that noise; I couldn’t help thinking it must be a murder at the least,” said the little old lady; “but I never could believe that there was anything between you and—Sarah, you may go away; I should like to talk to Mr. Wentworth by himself,” said Mrs. Hadwin, suddenly remembering that Mr. Wentworth’s character must not be discussed in the presence of even her favourite maid.
“Presently,” said the unhappy Curate, with mingled impatience and resignation; and, after a hasty knock at the door, he went into Wodehouse’s room, which was opposite, so full of a furious anxiety to question him that he had burst into speech before he perceived that the room was empty. “Answer me this instant,” he had cried, “where is Rosa Elsworthy?” and then he paused, utterly taken aback. It had not occurred to him that the culprit would be gone. He had parted with him late on the previous night, leaving him, according to appearances, in a state of sulky half-penitence; and now the first impulse of his consternation was to look in all the corners for the fugitive. The room had evidently been occupied that night; part of the Curate’s own wardrobe, which he had bestowed upon his guest, lay about on the chairs, and on a little table were his tools and the bits of wood with which he did his carving. The window was open, letting in the fresh air, and altogether the apartment looked so exactly like what it might have done had the occupant gone out for a virtuous morning walk, that Mr. Wentworth stopped short in blank amazement. It was a relief to him to hear the curious Sarah still rustling in the passage outside. He came out upon her so hastily that Sarah was startled. Perhaps she had been so far excited out of her usual propriety as to think of the keyhole as a medium of information.
“Where is Wode—Mr. Smith?” cried the Curate; “he is not in his room—he does not generally get up so early. Where is he? Did he go out last night?”
“Not as I knows of, sir,” said Sarah, who grew a little pale, and gave a second glance at the open door. “Isn’t the gentleman in his room? He do take a walk in the morning, now and again,” and Sarah cast an alarmed look behind to see if her mistress was still within hearing; but Mrs. Hadwin, intent on questioning Mr. Wentworth himself, had fortunately retired to
