“It is very easy talking,” said the vexed Rector. “Society and everybody would turn upon me if I interfered with Wentworth—there’s the vexation. The fellow goes about it as if he had a right. Why, there’s a Provident Society and all sorts of things going on, exactly as if it were his own parish. What led me to the place was seeing some ladies in grey cloaks—exactly such frights as you used to make yourself, my dear—flickering about. He has got up a sisterhood, I have no doubt; and to find all this in full operation in one’s own parish, without so much as being informed of it! and you know I don’t approve of sisterhoods—never did; they are founded on a mistake.”
“Yes, dear. I know I gave up as soon as I knew your views on that subject,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I daresay so will the ladies here. Who were they? Did you speak to them? or perhaps they belonged to St. Roque’s.”
“Nobody belongs to St. Roque’s,” said the Rector, contemptuously—“it has not even a district. They were the two Miss Wodehouses.”
Mrs. Morgan was moved to utter a little cry. “And their father is churchwarden!” said the indignant woman. “Really, William, this is too much—without even consulting you! But it is easy to see how that comes about. Lucy Wodehouse and young Wentworth are—; well, I don’t know if they are engaged—but they are always together, walking and talking, and consulting with each other, and so forth—a great deal more than I could approve of; but that poor elder sister, you know, has no authority—nor indeed any experience, poor thing,” said the Rector’s wife; “that’s how it is, no doubt.”
“Engaged!” said the Rector. He gave a kindly glance at his wife, and melted a little. “Engaged, are they? Poor little thing! I hope she’ll be as good as you have been, my dear; but a young man may be in love without interfering with another man’s parish. I can’t forgive that,” said Mr. Morgan, recovering himself; “he must be taught to know better; and it is very hard upon a clergyman,” continued the spiritual ruler of Carlingford, “that he cannot move in a matter like this without incurring a storm of godless criticism. If I were sending Wentworth out of my parish, I shouldn’t wonder if the Times had an article upon it, denouncing me as an indolent priest and bigot, that would neither work myself nor let my betters work; that’s how these fellows talk.”
“But nobody could say such things of you,” said Mrs. Morgan, firing up.
“Of me! they’d say them of St. Paul, if he had ever been in the circumstances,” said the Rector; “and I should just like to know what he would have done in a parish like this, with the Dissenters on one side, and a Perpetual Curate without a district meddling on the other. Ah, my dear,” continued Mr. Morgan, “I daresay they had their troubles in those days; but facing a governor or so now and then, or even passing a night in the stocks, is a very different thing from a showing-up in the Times, not to speak of the complications of duty. Let us go out and call at Folgate’s, and see whether he thinks anything can be done to the church.”
“Dear, you wouldn’t mind the Times if it were your duty?” said the Rector’s wife, getting up promptly to prepare for the walk.
“No, I suppose not,” said Mr. Morgan, not without a thrill of importance; “nor the stake,” he added, with a little laugh, for he was not without a sense of humour; and the two went out to the architect’s to ascertain the result of his cogitations over the church. They passed that sacred edifice in their way, and went in to gaze at it with a disgust which only an unhappy priest of high culture and aesthetic tastes, doomed to officiate in a building of the eighteenth century, of the churchwarden period of architecture, could fully enter into. “Eugh!” said Mr. Morgan, looking round upon the high pews and stifling galleries with an expressive contraction of his features—his wife looked on sympathetic; and it was at this unlucky moment that the subject of their late conference made his appearance cheerfully from behind the ugly pulpit, in close conference with Mr. Folgate. The pulpit was a three-storeyed mass, with the reading-desk and the clerk’s desk beneath—a terrible eyesore to the Rector and his wife.
“I can fancy the expediency of keeping the place in repair,” said the Curate of St. Roque’s, happy in the consciousness of possessing a church which, though not old, had been built by Gilbert Scott, and cheerfully unconscious of the presence of his listeners; “but to beautify a wretched old barn like this is beyond the imagination of man. Money can’t do everything,” said the heedless young man as he came lounging down the middle aisle, tapping contemptuously with his cane upon the high pew-doors. “I wonder where the people expected to go to who built Carlingford Church? Curious,” continued the young Anglican, stopping in mid career, “to think of bestowing consecration
