“Dear William, tell me what it is,” said the Rector’s wife.
“I feared it was a bad business from the first,” said the disturbed Rector. “I confess I feared, when I saw a young man so regardless of lawful authority, that his moral principles must be defective, but I was not prepared for what I have heard today. My dear, I am sorry to grieve you with such a story; but as you are sure to hear it, perhaps it is better that you should have the facts from me.”
“It must be about Mr. Wentworth,” said Mrs. Morgan. She was sorry; for though she had given in to her husband’s vehemence, she herself in her own person had always been prepossessed in favour of the Perpetual Curate; but she was also sensible of a feeling of relief to know that the misfortune concerned Mr. Wentworth, and was not specially connected with themselves.
“Yes, it’s about Mr. Wentworth,” said the Rector. He wiped his face, which was red with haste and exhaustion, and shook his head. He was sincerely shocked and grieved, to do him justice; but underneath there was also a certain satisfaction in the thought that he had foreseen it, and that his suspicions were verified. “My dear, I am very glad he had not become intimate in our house,” said Mr. Morgan; “that would have complicated matters sadly. I rejoice that your womanly instincts prevented that inconvenience;” and as the Rector began to recover himself, he looked more severe than ever.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morgan, with hesitation; for the truth was, that her womanly instincts had pronounced rather distinctly in favour of the Curate of St. Roque’s. “I hope he has not done anything very wrong, William. I should be very sorry; for I think he has very good qualities,” said the Rector’s wife. “We must not let our personal objections prejudice us in respect to his conduct otherwise. I am sure you are the last to do that.”
“I have never known an insubordinate man who was a perfect moral character,” said the Rector. “It is very discouraging altogether; and you thought he was engaged to Wodehouse’s pretty daughter, didn’t you? I hope not—I sincerely hope not. That would make things doubly bad; but, to be sure, when a man is faithless to his most sacred engagements, there is very little dependence to be placed on him in other respects.”
“But you have not told me what it is,” said the Rector’s wife, with some anxiety; and she spoke the more hastily as she saw the shadow of a curate—Mr. Morgan’s own curate, who must inevitably be invited to stop to dinner—crossing the lawn as she spoke. She got up and went a little nearer the window to make sure. “There is Mr. Leeson,” she said, with some vexation. “I must run upstairs and get ready for dinner. Tell me what it is!”
Upon which the Rector, with some circumlocution, described the appalling occurrence of the previous night—how Mr. Wentworth had walked home with little Rosa Elsworthy from his own house to hers, as had, of course, been seen by various people. The tale had been told with variations, which did credit to the ingenuity of Carlingford; and Mr. Morgan’s version was that they had walked arm in arm, in the closest conversation, and at an hour which was quite unseemly for such a little person as Rosa to be abroad. The excellent Rector gave the story with strong expressions of disapproval; for he was aware of having raised his wife’s expectations, and had a feeling, as he related them, that the circumstances, after all, were scarcely sufficiently horrifying to justify his preamble. Mrs. Morgan listened with one ear towards the door, on the watch for Mr. Leeson’s knock.
“Was that all?” said the sensible woman. “I think it very likely it might be explained. I suppose Mr. Leeson must have stopped to look at my ferns; he is very tiresome with his botany. That was all! Dear, I think it might be explained. I can’t fancy Mr. Wentworth is a man to commit himself in that way—if that is all!” said Mrs. Morgan; “but I must run upstairs to change my dress.”
“That was not all,” said the Rector, following her to the door. “It is said that this sort of thing has been habitual, my dear. He takes the Evening Mail, you know, all to himself, instead of having the Times like other people, and she carries it down to his house, and I hear of meetings in the garden, and a great deal that is very objectionable,” said Mr. Morgan, speaking very fast in order to deliver himself before the advent of Mr. Leeson. “I’m afraid it is a very bad business. I don’t know what to do about it. I suppose I must ask Leeson to stay to dinner? It is absurd of him to come at six o’clock.”
“Meetings in the garden?” said Mrs. Morgan, aghast. “I don’t feel as if I could believe it. There is that tiresome man at last. Do as you like, dear, about asking him to stay; but I must make my escape,” and the Rector’s wife hastened upstairs, divided between vexation about Mr. Leeson and regret at the news she had just heard. She put on her dress rather hastily, and was conscious of a little ill-temper, for which she was angry with herself; and the haste of her toilette, and the excitement under which she laboured, aggravated unbecomingly that redness of which Mrs. Morgan was painfully sensible. She was not at all pleased with her own appearance as she looked in the glass. Perhaps that sense of looking not so well as usual brought back to her mind a troublesome and painful idea, which recurred to her not unfrequently when
