“If it was a trouble, he need not have come,” said Rosa, more and more convinced that Mr. Wentworth must certainly have meant something. “I am sure I did not want him. He insisted on coming, though I begged him not. I don’t know why I should be spoke to like this,” cried the little coquette, with tears, “for I never was one as looked at a gentleman; it’s them,” with a sob, “as comes after me.”
“Rosa,” said Mr. Elsworthy, much alarmed, “your aunt is sure to be looking out for you, and I don’t want you here, not now; nor I don’t want you again for errands, and don’t you forget. If it hadn’t been that Mr. Wentworth thought you a silly little thing, and had a kind feeling for my missis and me, you don’t think he’d have took that charge of you?—and I won’t have my clergyman, as has always been good to me and mine, made a talk of. You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” he said, in an under tone, as Rosa reluctantly went away—not to her aunt, however, but again to her parcel at the other end of the shop—“she aint used to being talked to. She’s but a child, and don’t know no better: and after all,” said Rosa’s uncle, with a little pride, “she is a tenderhearted little thing—she don’t know no better, ma’am; she’s led away by a kind word—for nobody can say but she’s wonderful pretty, as is very plain to see.”
“Is she?” said Miss Dora, following the little culprit to the back-counter with disenchanted eyes. “Then you had better take all the better care of her, Mr. Elsworthy,” she said, with again a little asperity. The fact was, that Miss Dora had behaved very injudiciously, and was partly aware of it; and then this prettiness of little Rosa’s, even though it shone at the present moment before her, was not so plain to her old-maidenly eyes. She did not make out why everybody was so sure of it, nor what it mattered; and very probably, if she could have had her own way, would have liked to give the little insignificant thing a good shake, and asked her how she dared to attract the eye of the Perpetual Curate. As she could not do this, however, Miss Dora gathered up her wool, and refused to permit Mr. Elsworthy to send it home for her. “I can carry it quite well myself,” said the indignant little woman. “I am sure you must have a great deal too much for your boys to do, or you would not send your niece about with the things. But if you will take my advice, Mr. Elsworthy,” said Miss Dora, “you will take care of that poor little thing: she will be getting ridiculous notions into her head;” and aunt Dora went out of the shop with great solemnity, quite unaware that she had done more to put ridiculous notions into Rosa’s head than could have got there by means of a dozen darkling walks by the side of the majestic Curate, who never paid her any compliments. Miss Dora went away more than ever convinced in her mind that Frank had forgotten himself and his position, and everything that was fit and seemly. She jumped to a hundred horrible conclusions as she went sadly across Grange Lane with her scarlet wool in her hand. What Leonora would say to such an irremediable folly?—and how the Squire would receive his son after such a mésalliance? “He might change his views,” said poor Miss Dora to herself, “but he could not change his wife;” and it was poor comfort to call Rosa a designing little wretch, and to reflect that Frank at first could not have meant anything. The poor lady had a bad headache, and was in a terribly depressed condition all day. When she saw from the window of her summerhouse the pretty figure of Lucy Wodehouse in her grey cloak pass by, she sank into tears and melancholy reflections. But then Lucy Wodehouse’s views were highly objectionable, and she bethought herself of Julia Trench, who had long ago been selected by the sisters as the clergyman’s wife of Skelmersdale. Miss Dora shook her head over the blanket she was knitting for Louisa’s baby, thinking of clergymen’s wives in general, and the way in which marriages came about. Who had the ordering of these inexplicable accidents? It was surely not Providence, but some tricky imp or other who loved confusion; and then Miss Dora paused with compunction, and hoped she would be forgiven for entertaining, even for one passing moment, such a wicked, wicked thought.
XII
On the afternoon of the same day Mr. Morgan went home late, and frightened his wife out of her propriety by the excitement and trouble in his face. He could do nothing but groan as he sat down in the drawing-room, where she had just been gathering her work together, and putting stray matters in order, before she went upstairs to make herself tidy for dinner. The Rector paid no attention to the fact that the dinner-hour was approaching, and only shook his head and repeated his groan when she asked him anxiously what was the matter. The good man was too much flushed and heated and put out, to be able at first to answer her questions.
“Very bad, very bad,” he said, when he had recovered sufficient composure—“far worse than I feared.
