“I thought Mr. Leeson must have something to do with it,” said the Rector’s wife. “What has Mr. Wentworth been doing? When you keep a Low-Church Curate, you never can tell what he may say. If he had known of the All Souls pudding he would have come to dinner, and we should have had it at firsthand,” said Mrs. Morgan, severely. She put away her peach in her resentment, and went to a side-table for her work, which she always kept handy for emergencies. Like her husband, Mrs. Morgan had acquired some little “ways” in the long ten years of their engagement, one of which was a confirmed habit of needlework at all kinds of unnecessary moments, which much disturbed the Rector when he had anything particular to say.
“My dear, I am very sorry to see you so much the victim of prejudice,” said Mr. Morgan. “I had hoped that all our long experiences—” and here the Rector stopped short, troubled to see the rising colour in his wife’s face. “I don’t mean to blame you, my dear,” said the perplexed man; “I know you were always very patient;” and he paused, not knowing what more to say, comforting himself with the thought that women were incomprehensible creatures, as so many men have done before.
“I am not patient,” said the Rector’s wife; “it never was my nature. I can’t help thinking sometimes that our long experiences have done us more harm than good; but I hope nothing will ever make me put up with a Curate who tells tales about other people, and flatters one’s self, and comes to dinner without being asked. Perhaps Mr. Wentworth is very sinful, but at least he is a gentleman,” said Mrs. Morgan; and she bent her head over her work, and drove her needle so fast through the muslin she was at work upon, that it glimmered and sparkled like summer lightning before the spectator’s dazzled eyes.
“I am sorry you are so prejudiced,” said the Rector. “It is a very unbecoming spirit, my dear, though I am grieved to say so much to you. Mr. Leeson is a very good young man, and he has nothing to do with this terrible story about Mr. Wentworth. I don’t wish to shock your feelings—but there are a great many things in the world that one can’t explain to ladies. He has got himself into a most distressing position, and a public inquiry will be necessary. One can’t help seeing the hand of Providence in it,” said the Rector, playing reflectively with the peach on his plate.
It was at this moment that Thomas appeared at the door to announce Mr. Leeson, who had come to talk over the topic of the day with the Rector—being comfortably obtuse in his perceptions, and quite disposed to ignore Mrs. Morgan’s general demeanour towards himself. “I am sure she has a bad temper,” he would say to his confidants in the parish; “you can see it by the redness in her face: but I never take any notice when she says rude things to me.” The redness was alarming in Mrs. Morgan’s face as the unlucky man became visible at the door. She said audibly, “I knew we should be interrupted!” and got up from her chair. “As Mr. Leeson is here, you will not want me, William,” she added, in her precisest tones. “If anything has happened since you came in, he will be able to tell you about it; and perhaps I had better send you your coffee here, for I have a great many things to do.” Mr. Morgan gave a little groan in his spirit as his wife went away. To do him justice, he had a great deal of confidence in her, and was unconsciously guided by her judgment in many matters. Talking it over with Mr. Leeson was a totally different thing; for whatever might be said in his defence, there could not be any doubt that the Curate professed Low-Church principles, and had been known to drink tea with Mr. Beecher, the new minister of Salem Chapel. “Not that I object to Mr. Beecher because he is a Dissenter,” Mr. Morgan said, “but because, my dear, you know, it is a totally different class of society.” When the Rector was left alone to discuss parish matters with this doubtful subordinate, instead of going into the subject with his wife, the good man felt a pang of disappointment; for though he professed to be reluctant to shock her, he had been longing all the time to enter into the story, which was certainly the most exciting which had occurred in Carlingford since the beginning of his incumbency. Mrs. Morgan, for her part, went upstairs to the drawing-room with so much indignation about this personal grievance that she almost forgot her curiosity. Mr. Leeson hung like a cloud over all the advantages of Carlingford; he put out that new flue in the greenhouse, upon which she was rather disposed to pique herself, and withered her ferns, which everybody allowed to be the finest collection within a ten miles’ circuit. This sense of disgust increased upon her as she went into the drawing-room, where her eye naturally caught that carpet which had been the first cross of her married life. When she had laid down her work, she began to plan how the offensive bouquets might be covered with a pinafore of linen, which looked very cool and nice in summertime. And then the Rector’s wife reflected that in winter a floor covered with white looked chilly, and that a woollen drugget of an appropriate small pattern would be better on the whole; but no such thing was to be had without going to London for it, which
