“Oh, ah, yes,” said Mr. Morgan, with momentary gruffness; “but everything has its drawbacks. I don’t think Buller would take a living. He knows too well what’s comfortable,” said the suffering man. “The next living that falls will have to go to someone out of the college,” said Mr. Morgan. He spoke with a tone of importance and significance which moved Mr. Proctor, though he was not rapid in his perceptions, to look across at him for further information.
“Most people have some crotchet or other,” said the Rector. “When a man’s views are clear about subscription, and that sort of thing, he generally goes as far wrong the other way. Buller might go out to Central Africa, perhaps, if there was a bishopric of Wahuma—or what is the name, my dear, in that Nile book?”
“I have not read it,” said Mrs. Morgan, and she made no further remark.
Thus discouraged in his little attempt at amity, the Rector resumed after a moment, “Wentworth’s brother has sent in his resignation to his bishop. There is no doubt about it any longer. I thought that delusion had been over, at all events; and I suppose now Wentworth will be provided for,” said Mr. Morgan, not without a little anxiety.
“No; they are all equally crotchety, I think,” said Mr. Proctor. “I know about them, through my—my connection with the Wodehouses, you know. I should not wonder, for my own part, if he went after his brother, who is a very intelligent man, though mistaken,” the late Rector added, with respect. “As for Frank Wentworth, he is a little hotheaded. I had a long conversation the other night with the elder brother. I tried to draw him out about Burgon’s book, but he declined to enter into the question. Frank has made up his mind to stay in Carlingford. I understand he thinks it right on account of his character being called in question here; though, of course, no one in his senses could have had any doubt how that would turn out,” said Mr. Proctor, forgetting that he himself had been very doubtful about the Curate. “From what I hear, they are all very crotchety,” he continued, and finished his breakfast calmly, as if that settled the question. As for Mrs. Morgan, even this interesting statement had no effect upon her. She looked up suddenly at one moment as if intending to dart a reproachful glance at her husband, but bethought herself in time, and remained passive as before; not the less, however, was she moved by what she had just heard. It was not Mr. Wentworth she was thinking of, except in a very secondary degree. What occupied her, and made her reflections bitter, was the thought that her husband—the man to whom she had been faithful for ten weary years—had taken himself down off the pedestal on which she had placed him. “To make idols, and to find them clay,” she said plaintively in her own mind. Women were all fools to spend their time and strength in constructing such pedestals, Mrs. Morgan thought to herself with bitterness; and as to the men who were so perpetually dethroning themselves, how were they to be designated? To think of her William, of whom she had once made a hero, ruining thus, for a little petty malice and rivalry, the prospects of another man! While these painful reflections were going through her mind, she was putting away her tea-caddy, and preparing to leave the gentlemen to their own affairs. “We shall see you at dinner at six,” she said, with a constrained little smile, to Mr. Proctor, and went upstairs with her key-basket in her hand without taking any special notice of the Rector. Mr. Leeson was to come to dinner that day legitimately by invitation, and Mrs. Morgan, who felt it would be a little consolation to disappoint the hungry Curate for once, was making up her mind, as she went upstairs, not to have the All Souls pudding, of which he showed so high an appreciation. It almost seemed to her as if this spark of ill-nature was receiving a summary chastisement, when she heard steps ascending behind her. Mrs. Morgan objected to have men lounging about her drawing-room in the morning. She thought Mr. Proctor was coming to bestow a little more of his confidence upon her, and perhaps to consult her about his furnishing; and being occupied by her own troubles, she had no patience for a tiresome, middle-aged lover, who no doubt was going to disappoint and disenchant another woman. She sat down, accordingly, with a sigh of impatience at her worktable, turning her back to the door. Perhaps, when he saw her inhospitable attitude, he might go away and not bother her. And Mrs. Morgan took out some stockings to darn, as being a discontented occupation, and was considering within herself what simple preparation she could have instead of the All Souls pudding, when, looking up suddenly, she saw, not Mr. Proctor, but the Rector, standing looking down upon her within a few steps of her chair. When she perceived him, it was not in nature to refrain from certain symptoms of agitation. The thoughts she had been indulging in brought suddenly a rush of guilty colour to her face; but she commanded herself as well as she could, and went on darning her stockings, with her heart beating very loud in her breast.
“My dear,” said the Rector, taking a seat near her, “I don’t know what it is that has risen between us. We look as if we had quarrelled; and I thought we had made up our minds never to quarrel.” The words were rather soft in their signification, but Mr. Morgan could not help speaking severely, as was natural to his voice; which was perhaps, in the present case, all the better for his wife.
“I don’t know what you may consider quarrelling, William,” said Mrs. Morgan, “but I am sure I have never
