It was just at this moment that Mr. Wentworth saw Wodehouse’s shabby figure entering at the garden-gate; he turned round suddenly without hearing Mrs. Hadwin’s knock, and all but ran over the old lady in his haste and eagerness—“Pardon me; I am in a great hurry,” said the Curate, darting past her. Just at the moment when she expected her curiosity to be satisfied, it was rather hard upon Mrs. Hadwin to be dismissed so summarily. She went downstairs in a state of great dignity, with her lace mittens on, and her hands crossed before her. She felt she had more and more reason for doubting human nature in general, and for believing that the Curate of St. Roque’s in particular could not bear any close examination into his conduct. Mrs. Hadwin sat down to her breakfast accordingly with a sense of pitying virtue which was sweet to her spirit, notwithstanding that she was, as she would have frankly acknowledged, very fond of Mr. Wentworth; she said, “Poor young man,” to herself, and shook her head over him as she poured out her solitary cup of tea. She had never been a beauty herself, nor had she exercised any overwhelming influence that she could remember over anyone in the days of her distant youth: but being a true woman, Mrs. Hadwin believed in Rosa Elsworthy, and pitied, not without a certain half-conscious female disdain, the weakness of the inevitable victim. He did not dare to stop to explain to her what it meant. He rushed out of her way as soon as he saw she meant to question him. That designing girl had got him entirely under her sway, the poor young man!
Meanwhile the Curate, without a single thought for his landlady, made a rush to Wodehouse’s room. He did not wait for any answer to his knock, but went in, not as a matter of policy, but because his eagerness carried him on in spite of himself. To Mr. Wentworth’s great amazement Wodehouse was undressing, intending, apparently, to return to bed. The shabby fugitive, looking broad and brawny in his shirtsleeves, turned round when he heard the voice with an angry exclamation. His face grew black as he saw the Curate at the door. “What the deuce have you to do in my room at this hour?” he growled into his beard. “Is a man never to have a little peace?” and with that threw down his coat, which he still had in his hand, and faced round towards the intruder with sullen looks. It was his nature to stand always on the defensive, and he had got so much accustomed to being regarded as a culprit, that he naturally took up the part, whether there might be just occasion or not.
“Where have you been?” exclaimed the Curate; “answer me truly—I can’t submit to any evasion. I know it all, Wodehouse. Where is she? where have you hid her? If you do not give her up, I must give you up to justice. Do you hear me? where is Rosa Elsworthy? This is a matter that touches my honour, and I must know the truth.”
Mr. Wentworth was so full of the subject that it did not occur to him how much time he was giving his antagonist to prepare his answer. Though Wodehouse was not clever, he had the instinct of a baited animal driven to bay; and resistance and denial came natural to a man who had been accused and condemned all his life.
“Rosa Elsworthy?” said the vagabond, “what have I to do with Rosa Elsworthy? A pretty man I should be to run away with a girl; all that I have in the world is a shilling or two, and, by Jove, it’s an expensive business, that is. You should ask your brother,” he continued, giving a furtive glance at the Curate—“it’s more in his way, by Jove, than mine.”
Mr. Wentworth was recalled to himself by this reply. “Where is she?” he said, sternly—“no trifling. I did not ask if you had taken her away. I ask, where is she?” He had shut the door behind him, and stood in the middle of the room facing Wodehouse, and overawing him by his superior stature, force, and virtue. Before the Curate’s look the eyes of the other fell; but he had fallen by chance on a reasonable defence enough, and so long as he held by that felt himself tolerably safe.
“I don’t know anything about her,” he repeated; “how should I know anything about her? I aint a fool, by Jove, whatever I may be: a man may talk to a pretty girl without any harm. I mayn’t be as good as a parson, but, by Jove, I aint a fool,” he muttered through his beard. He had begun to speak with a kind of sulky self-confidence; but his voice sunk lower as he
