The Perpetual Curate

still more uncomfortable. This private sense of wishing evil to another man, of being unwilling and vexed to think well of his neighbour, was in itself enough to disturb the Rector’s tranquillity; and when to this was added the aggravation that his wife had always been on the other side, and had warned him against proceeding, and might, if she pleased, say, “I told you so,” it will be apparent that Mr. Morgan’s uneasiness was not without foundation. Instead of going home direct to acquaint his wife with the circumstances, about which he knew she must be curious, it was late in the afternoon before the Rector opened his own gate. Even then he went through the garden with a reluctant step, feeling it still more difficult to meet her now than it would have been at first, although his delay had arisen from the thought that it would be easier to encounter her keen looks after an interval. There was, however, no keen look to be dreaded at this moment. Mrs. Morgan was busy with her ferns, and she did not look up as her husband approached. She went on with her occupation, examining carefully what withered fronds there might be about her favourite maidenhair, even when he stopped by her side. Though her husband’s shadow fell across the plants she was tending, Mrs. Morgan, for the first time in her married life, did not look up to welcome the Rector. She made no demonstration, said no word of displeasure, but only showed herself utterly absorbed in, and devoted to, her ferns. There was, to be sure, no such lover of ferns in the neighbourhood of Carlingford as the Rector’s wife.

As for Mr. Morgan, he stood by her side in a state of great discomfort and discomfiture. The good man’s perceptions were not very clear, but he saw that she had heard from someone the issue of the morning’s inquiry, and that she was deeply offended by his delay, and that, in short, they had arrived at a serious difference, the first quarrel since their marriage. Feeling himself in the wrong, Mr. Morgan naturally grew angry too.

“I should like to have dinner earlier today,” he said, with the usual indiscretion of an aggrieved husband. “Perhaps you will tell the cook, my dear. I think I should like to have it at five, if possible. It can’t make much difference for one day.”

Mrs. Morgan raised herself up from her ferns, and no doubt it was a relief to her to find herself provided with so just a cause of displeasure. “Much difference!” cried the Rector’s wife; “it is half-past four now. I wonder how you could think of such a thing, William. There is some lamb, which of course is not put down to roast yet, and the ducks. If you wish the cook to give warning immediately, you may send such a message. It is just like a man to think it would make no difference! But I must say, to do them justice,” said the Rector’s wife, “it is not like a man of your college!” When she had fired this double arrow, she took off her gardening gloves and lifted her basket. “I suppose you told Mr. Proctor that you wished to dine early?” said Mrs. Morgan, with severity, pausing on the threshold. “Of course it is quite impossible to have dinner at five unless he knows.”

“Indeed I⁠—I forgot all about Proctor,” said the Rector, who now saw the inexpediency of his proposal. “On second thoughts, I see it does not matter much. But after dinner I expect some people about Mr. Wentworth’s business. It was not settled this morning, as I expected.”

“So I heard,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I will tell Thomas to show them into the library,” and she went indoors, carrying her basket. As for the Rector, he stood silent, looking after her, and feeling wonderfully discomfited. Had she found fault with him for his delay⁠—had she even said “I told you so!” it would have been less overwhelming than this indifference. They had never had a quarrel before, and the effect was proportionately increased. After standing bewildered at the door for a few minutes, he retired into his study, where the change in his wife’s demeanour haunted him, and obscured Mr. Wentworth. Mrs. Morgan sat at the head of the table at dinner with an equal want of curiosity. Even when the subject was discussed between the Rector and Mr. Proctor, she asked no questions⁠—a course of procedure very puzzling and trying to Mr. Morgan, who could not make it out.

It was after eight o’clock before the tribunal of the morning was reconstituted at the Rectory. Most of the gentlemen came late, and the little assembly brought with it a flavour of port, which modified the serious atmosphere. When the bed of justice was again formed, Mr. Wentworth entered with the bodyguard of Wentworths, which numbered half as many as his judges. Half from curiosity, half from a reluctant inclination to please his father, Jack had joined the others, and they came in together, all of them noticeable men, profoundly different, yet identified as belonging to each other by the touching bond of family resemblance. After the four gentlemen had taken possession of their corner, Mr. Waters made a somewhat hurried entry, bringing after him the sullen reluctant figure of Wodehouse, who made an awkward bow to the assembled potentates, and looked ashamed and vigilant, and very ill at ease. Mr. Waters made a hasty explanation to the Rector before he sat down by the side of his unlucky client. “I thought it possible there might be some attempt made to shift the blame upon him, therefore I thought it best to bring him,” said the lawyer. Mr. Morgan gave him a dry little nod without answering. To tell the truth, the Rector felt anything but comfortable; when he glanced up at the stranger, who was looking askance at the people in the room