“No,” said the Rector; “I have seen women do that before. You don’t make any complaint, but you look as if you disapproved of everything. I feel it all the more just now because I want to consult you; and, after all, the occasion was no such—”
“I never said there was any occasion. I am sure I never made any complaint. You said you wanted to consult me, William?” Mrs. Morgan went on darning her stockings while she was speaking, and the Rector, like most other men, objected to be spoken to by the lips only. He would have liked to toss the stocking out of the window, though it was his own, and the task of repairing it was one of a devoted wife’s first duties, according to the code of female proprieties in which both the husband and wife had been brought up.
“Yes,” said the Rector, with a sigh. “The truth is, I have just got a letter from Harry Scarsfield, who was my pet pupil long ago. He tells me my father’s old rectory is vacant, where we were all brought up. There used to be a constant intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory when I was a lad. They are very nice people the Scarsfields—at least they used to be very nice people; and Harry has his mother living with him, and the family has never been broken up, I believe. We used to know everybody about there,” said Mr. Morgan, abandoning himself to recollections in a manner most mysterious to his wife. “There is the letter, my dear,” and he put it down upon her table, and began to play with the reels of cotton in her workbox unconsciously, as he had not done for a long time; which, unawares to herself, had a softening influence upon Mrs. Morgan’s heart.
“I do not know anything about the Scarsfields,” she said, without taking up the letter, “and I cannot see what you have to do with this. Does he wish you to recommend someone?” Mrs. Morgan added, with a momentary interest; for she had, of course, like other people, a relation in a poor living, whom it would have been satisfactory to recommend.
“He says I may have it if I have a mind,” said the Rector curtly, betraying a little aggravation in his tone.
“You, William?” said Mrs. Morgan. She was so much surprised that she laid down her stocking and looked him straight in the face, which she had not done for many days; and it was wonderful how hard she found it to keep up her reserve, after having once looked her husband in the eyes. “But it is not much more than six months since you were settled in Carlingford,” she said, still lost in amazement. “You cannot possibly mean to make a change so soon? and then the difference of the position,” said the Rector’s wife. As she looked at him, she became more and more aware of some meaning in his face which she did not understand; and more and more, as it became necessary to understand him, the reserves and self-defences of the first quarrel gave way and dispersed. “I don’t think I quite know what you mean,” she said, faltering a little. “I don’t understand why you should think of a change.”
“A good country living is a very good position,” said the Rector; “it is not nearly so troublesome as a town like Carlingford. There is no Dissent that I know of, and no—” (here Mr. Morgan paused for a moment, not knowing what word to use)—“no disturbing influences: of course I would not take such a step without your concurrence, my dear,” the Rector continued; and then there followed a bewildering pause. Mrs. Morgan’s first sensation after the astonishment with which she heard this strange proposal was mortification—the vivid shame and vexation of a woman when she is obliged to own to herself that her husband has been worsted, and is retiring from the field.
“If you think it right—if you think it best—of course I can have nothing to say,” said the Rector’s wife; and she took up her stocking with a stinging sense of discomfiture. She had meant that her husband should be the first man in Carlingford—that he should gain everybody’s respect and veneration, and become the ideal parish-priest of that favourite and fortunate place. Every kind of good work and benevolent undertaking was to be connected with his name, according to the visions which Mrs. Morgan had framed when she came first to Carlingford, not without such a participation on her own part as should entitle her to the milder glory appertaining to the good Rector’s wife. All these hopes were now to be blotted out ignominiously. Defeat and retreat and failure were to be the conclusion of their first essay at life. “You are the best judge of what you ought to do,” she said, with as much calmness as she could muster, but she could have dropped bitter tears upon the stocking she was mending if that would have done any good.
“I will do nothing without your consent,” said the Rector. “Young Wentworth is going to stay in Carlingford. You need not look up so sharply, as if you were vexed to think that had anything to do with it. If he had not behaved like a fool, I never could have been led into such a mistake,” said Mr. Morgan, with indignation, taking a little walk to the other end of the room to refresh himself. “At the same time,” said the Rector, severely, coming back after a pause, “to show any ill-feeling would be very unchristian either on your side or mine. If I were to accept Harry Scarsfield’s offer, Proctor and I would do all we could to have young Wentworth appointed to Carlingford. There is nobody just now at All Souls to take the living; and however much you may disapprove of him, my dear,” said Mr. Morgan,
