“Poor thing!” said the gentler Mrs. Tozer, “it’s hard lines on a minister’s wife to please the congregation. Mr. Vincent here, he’ll have to take a lesson. That Mrs. Bailey was pretty-looking, I must allow—”
“Sweetly pretty!” whispered Phoebe, clasping her plump pink hands.
“Pretty-looking! I don’t say anything against it,” continued her mother; “but it’s hard upon a minister when his wife won’t take no pains to please his flock. To have people turn up their noses at you ain’t pleasant—”
“And them getting their livin’ off you all the time,” cried Mrs. Pigeon, clinching the milder speech.
“But it seems to me,” said poor Vincent, “that a minister can no more be said to get his living off you than any other man. He works hard enough generally for what little he has. And really, Mrs. Tozer, I’d rather not hear all these unfortunate particulars about one of my brethren—”
“He ain’t one of the brethren now,” broke in the poulterer’s wife. “He’s been gone out o’ Parson’s Green this twelvemonths. Them stuck-up ways may do with the Church folks as can’t help themselves, but they’ll never do with us Dissenters. Not that we ain’t as glad as can be to see you, Mr. Vincent, and I hope you’ll favour my poor house another night like you’re favouring Mrs. Tozer’s. Mr. Tufton always said that was the beauty of Carlingford in our connection. Cheerful folks and no display. No display, you know—nothing but a hearty meetin’, sorry to part, and happy to meet again. Them’s our ways. And the better you know us, the better you’ll like us, I’ll be bound to say. We don’t put it all on the surface, Mr. Vincent,” continued Mrs. Pigeon, shaking out her skirts and expanding herself on her chair, “but it’s all real and solid; what we say we mean—and we don’t say no more than we mean—and them’s the kind of folks to trust to wherever you go.”
Poor Vincent made answer by an inarticulate murmur, whether of assent or dissent it was impossible to say; and, inwardly appalled, turned his eyes towards his deacons, who, more fortunate than himself, were standing all in a group together discussing chapel matters, and wisely leaving general conversation to the fairer portion of the company. The unlucky minister’s secret looks of distress awoke the interest and sympathy of Phoebe, who sat in an interesting manner on a stool at her mother’s side. “Oh, mamma,” said that young lady, too bashful to address himself directly, “I wonder if Mr. Vincent plays or sings? There are some such nice singers here. Perhaps we might have some music, if Mr. Vincent—”
“I don’t perform at all,” said that victim—“not in any way; but I am an exemplary listener. Let me take you to the piano.”
The plump Phoebe rose after many hesitations, and, with a simper and a blush and pretty air of fright, took the minister’s arm. After all, even when the whole company is beneath a man’s level, it is easier to play the victim under the supplice inflicted by a pretty girl than by two mature matrons. Phoebe understood pretty well about her h’s, and did not use the double negative; and when she rose up rustling from her low seat, the round, pink creature, with dimples all about her, was not an unpleasant object of contemplation. Mr. Vincent listened to her song with decorous interest. Perhaps it was just as well sung as Lucy Wodehouse, in Grange Lane, would have sung it. When Phoebe had concluded, the minister was called to the side of Mrs. Brown of the Devonshire Dairy, who had been fidgeting to secure him from the moment he approached the piano. She was fat and roundabout, good woman, and had the aspect of sitting upon the very edge of her chair. She held out to the distressed pastor a hand covered with a rumpled white glove, which did not fit, and had never been intended to fit, and beckoned to him anxiously. With the calmness of despair Mr. Vincent obeyed the call.
“I have been looking so anxious to catch your eye, Mr. Vincent,” said Mrs. Brown; “do sit you down, now there’s a chance, and let me talk to you a minnit. Bless the girl! there’s Miss Polly Pigeon going to play, and everybody can use their freedom in talking. For my part,” said Mrs. Brown, securing the vacant chair of the performer for her captive, “that’s why I like instrumental music best. When a girl sings, why, to be sure, it’s only civil to listen—ain’t it now, Mr. Vincent? but nobody expects it of you, don’t you see, when she only plays. Now do you sit down. What I wanted to speak to you was about that poor creetur in Back Grove Street—that’s the lane right behind the chapel. She do maunder on so to see the minister. Mr. Tozer he’s been to see her, and I sent Brown, but it wasn’t a bit of use. It’s you, Mr. Vincent, she’s awanting of. If you’ll call in tomorrow, I’ll show you the place myself, as you’re a stranger; for if you’ll excuse me saying it, I am as curious as can be to hear what she’s got to say.”
“If she has got anything to say, she might prefer that it was not heard,” said Vincent, with an attempt at a smile. “Is she ill—and who is she? I have never heard of her before.”
“Well, you see, sir, she doesn’t belong rightly to Salem. She’s a stranger here, and not a joined member; and she ain’t ill either, as I can see—only something on her mind. You ministers,” said Mrs. Brown, with a look of awe, “must have a deal of secrets confided to you. Folks may stand out against
