The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 14 (1/2)

XIV

The next afternoon there were signs of a considerable commotion in Mr. Elsworthy’s shop. Rosa had disappeared altogether, and Mrs. Elsworthy, with an ominous redness on her cheeks, had taken the place generally held by that more agreeable little figure. All the symptoms of having been engaged in an affray from which she had retired not altogether victorious were in Mrs. Elsworthy’s face, and the errand-boys vanished from her neighbourhood with inconceivable rapidity, and found out little parcels to deliver which would have eluded their most anxious search in other circumstances. Mr. Elsworthy himself occupied his usual place in the foreground, without the usual marks of universal content and satisfaction with all his surroundings which generally distinguished him. An indescribable appearance of having been recently snubbed hung about the excellent man, and his glances towards the back-shop, and the glances directed from the back-shop to him, told with sufficient significance the quarter from which his humiliation had proceeded. It had done him good, as such painful discipline generally does; for he was clearing out some drawers in which sundry quires of paper had broken loose and run into confusion, with the air of a man who ought to have done it weeks ago. As for the partner of his bosom, she was standing in the obscure distance behind the counter knitting a blue stocking, which was evidently intended for no foot but his. There was a chair close by, but Mrs. Elsworthy disdained to sit down. She stood with her knitting in conscious power, now and then suffering a confession of her faith to escape her. “There’s nothing as don’t go contrary in this world,” said the discontented wife, “when a man’s a fool.” It was hard upon Mr. Elsworthy that his ears were sharp, and that he knew exactly what this agreeable murmur was. But he was wise in his generation, and made no reply.

Things were in this condition when, of all persons in Carlingford, it occurred to Miss Leonora Wentworth to enter Mr. Elsworthy’s shop. Not that she was alone, or bent upon any errand of inquiry; for Miss Leonora seldom moved about unattended by her sisters, whom she felt it her duty to take out for exercise; and wonderfully enough, she had not found out yet what was the source of Miss Dora’s mysteries and depression, having been still occupied meantime by her own “great work” in her London district, and the affair of the gin-palace, which was still undecided. She had been talking a great deal about this gin-palace for the last twenty-four hours; and to hear Miss Leonora, you might have supposed that all the powers of heaven must fail and be discomfited before this potent instrument of evil, and that, after all, Bibles and missionaries were much less effective than the stoppage of the licence, upon which all her agents were bent. At all events, such an object of interest had swept out from her thoughts the vague figure of her nephew Frank, and aunt Dora’s mysterious anxieties on his account. When the three ladies approached Elsworthy’s, the first thing that attracted their attention was Rosa, the little Rosa who had been banished from the shop, and whom Mrs. Elsworthy believed to be expiating her sins in a back room, in tears and darkness; instead of which the little girl was looking out of her favourite window, and amusing herself much with all that was going on in Grange Lane. Though she was fluttered by the scolding she had received, Rosa only looked prettier than usual with her flushed cheeks; and so many things had been put into her nonsensical little head during the last two days, especially by her aunt’s denunciations, that her sense of self-importance was very much heightened in consequence. She looked at the Miss Wentworths with a throb of mingled pride and alarm, wondering whether perhaps she might know more of them some day, if Mr. Wentworth was really fond of her, as people said⁠—which thought gave Rosa a wonderful sensation of awe and delighted vanity. Meanwhile the three Miss Wentworths looked at her with very diverse feelings. “I must speak to these people about that little girl, if nobody else has sense enough to do it,” said Miss Leonora; “she is evidently going wrong as fast as she can, the little fool;” and the iron-grey sister went into Mr. Elsworthy’s in this perfectly composed and ordinary frame of mind, with her head full of the application which was to be made to the licensing magistrates today, in the parish of St. Michael, and totally unaware that anybody belonging to herself could ever be connected with the incautious little coquette at the window. Miss Dora’s feelings were very different. It was much against her will that she was going at all into this obnoxious shop, and the eyes which she hastily uplifted to the window and withdrew again with lively disgust and dislike, were both angry and tearful; “Little forward shameless thing,” Miss Dora said to herself, with a little toss of her head. As for Miss Wentworth, it was not her custom to say anything⁠—but she, too, looked up, and saw the pretty face at the window, and secretly concluded that it might all be quite true, and that she had known a young man make a fool of himself before now for such another. So they all went in, unwitting that they came at the end of a domestic hurricane, and that the waters were still in a state of disturbance. Miss Wentworth took the only chair, as was natural, and sat down sweetly to wait for Leonora, and Miss Dora lingered behind while her sister made her purchases. Miss Leonora wanted some books⁠—

“And I came here,” she said, with engaging candour, “because I see no other shop in this part of the town except Masters’s, which, of course, I would not enter. It is easy enough to do without books, but I can’t afford to compromise my principles, Mr. Elsworthy;” to which Mr. Elsworthy had replied, “No, ma’am, of course not⁠—such a thing aint to be expected;” with one eye upon his customer, and one upon his belligerent wife.

“And, by the by, if you will permit me to speak about what does not concern me,” said Miss Leonora cheerfully, “I think you should look after that little girl of yours more carefully;⁠—recollect I don’t mean any offence; but she’s very pretty, you know, and very young, and vain, as a matter of course. I saw her the other evening going down Grange Lane, a great deal too late for such a creature to be out; and though I don’t doubt, you are very particular where she goes⁠—”

It was at this conjuncture that Mrs. Elsworthy, who could not keep silence any longer, broke in ardently, with all her knitting-needles in front of her, disposed like a kind of porcupine mail⁠—

“I’m well known in Carlingford⁠—better known than most,” said Mrs. Elsworthy, with a sob; “such a thing as not being particular was never named to me. I strive and I toil from morning to night, as all things should be respectable and kep’ in good order; but what’s the good? Here’s my heart broken, that’s all; and Elsworthy standing gaping like a gaby as he is. There aint nothing as don’t go contrairy, when folks is tied to a set of fools!” cried the indignant matron. “As for pretty, I don’t know nothing about it; I’ve got too much to do minding my own business. Them as has nothing to think of but stand in the shop and twiddle their thumbs, ought to look to that; but, ma’am, if you’ll believe me, it aint no fault of mine. It aint my will to throw her in any young gentleman’s way; not to say a clergyman as we’re bound to respect. Whatever you does, ladies⁠—and I shouldn’t wonder at your taking away your custom, nor nothing else as was a punishment⁠—don’t blame me!”

“But you forget, Mrs. Elsworthy, that we have nothing to do with it⁠—nothing at all; my nephew knows very well what he is about,” said Miss Dora, in injudicious haste. “Mr. Wentworth is not at all likely to forget himself,” continued that poor lady, getting confused as her sister turned round and stared at her. “Of course it was all out of kindness;⁠—I⁠—I know Frank did not mean anything,” cried the unfortunate aunt. Leonora’s look, as she turned round and fixed her eyes upon her, took away what little breath Miss Dora had.

“Mr. Wentworth?” asked Miss Leonora; “I should be glad to know, if anybody would inform me, what Mr. Wentworth can possibly have to do with it? I daresay you misunderstood me; I said you were to look after that little girl⁠—your niece, or whatever she is; I did not say anything about Mr. Wentworth,” said the strong-minded sister, looking round upon them all. For the moment she forgot all about the licence, and turned upon Mr. Elsworthy with an emphasis which almost drive that troubled citizen to his knees.

“That was how I understood it,” said the clerk of St. Roque’s, humbly; “there wasn’t nothing said about Mr. Wentworth⁠—nor there couldn’t be as I know of, but what was in his favour, for there aint many young men like our clergyman left in the Church. It aint because I’m speaking to respected ladies as is his relations; folks may talk,” said Mr. Elsworthy, with a slight faltering, “but I never see his equal; and as for an act of kindness to an orphan child⁠—”

“The orphan child is neither here nor there,” said his angry wife, who had taken up her post by his side; “a dozen fathers and mothers couldn’t have done better by her than we’ve done; and to go and lay out her snares for them as is so far above her, if you’ll believe me, ma’am, it’s nigh broken my heart. She’s neither flesh nor blood o’ mine,” cried the aggrieved woman; “there would have been a different tale to tell if she had belonged to me. I’d have⁠—murdered her, ma’am, though it aint proper to say so, afore we’d have gone and raised a talk like this; it aint my blame, if it was my dying word,” cried Mrs. Elsworthy, relapsing into angry tears: “I’m one as has always shown her a good example, and never gone flirting about, nor cast my eyes to one side or another for the best man as ever walked; and to think as a respectable family should be brought to shame through her doings, and a gentleman as is a clergyman got himself talked about⁠—it’s gone nigh to kill me, that’s what it’s done,” sobbed the virtuous matron; “and I don’t see as nobody cares.”

Miss Leonora had been woke up suddenly out of her abstract occupations; she penetrated to the heart of the matter while all this talk was going on. She transfixed her sister Dora, who seemed much inclined to cry like Mrs. Elsworthy, with a look which overwhelmed that trembling woman; then she addressed herself with great suavity to the matter in hand.

“I suppose it is this poor little foolish child who has been getting herself talked about?” said Miss Leonora. “It’s a pity, to be sure, but I daresay it’s not so bad as you think. As for her laying snares for people above her, I wouldn’t be afraid of that. Poor little thing! It’s not so easy as you think laying snares. Perhaps it’s the new minister at Salem Chapel who has been paying attention to her? I would not take any notice of it if I were you. Don’t let her loll about at the window as she’s doing, and don’t let her go out so late, and give her plenty of work to do. My maid wants someone to help in her needlework. Perhaps this child would do, Cecilia?” said Miss Leonora. “As for her snares, poor thing, I don’t feel much afraid of them. I daresay if Mr. Wentworth had Sunday classes for the young people as I wished him to have, and took pains to give them proper instruction, such things would not happen. If you send her to my maid, I flatter myself she will soon come to her senses. Good morning; and you will please to send me the books⁠—there are some others I want you to get for me next week,” said Mr. Elsworthy’s patroness. “I will follow you, Dora, please,” and Miss Leonora swept her sisters out before her, and went upon her way with indescribable grandeur. Even little Rosa felt the change, where she sat at the window looking out. The little vain creature no longer felt it possible to believe, as she looked after them, that she ever could be anything to the Miss Wentworths except a little girl in a shop. It shook her confidence in what people said; and it was as well for her that she withdrew from the window at that conjuncture, and so had an opportunity of hearing her aunt come upstairs, and of darting back again to the penitential darkness of her own chamber at the back of the house⁠—which saved Rosa some angry words at least.

As for Miss Leonora Wentworth, she said nothing to her sisters on this new subject. She saw them safely home to their own apartments, and went out again without explaining her movements. When she was gone, Miss Wentworth listened to Miss Dora’s doubts and tears with her usual patience, but did not go into the matter much. “It doesn’t matter whether it is your fault or not,” said aunt Cecilia, with a larger amount of words than usual, and a sharpness very uncommon with her; “but I daresay Leonora will set it all right.” After all, the confidence which the elder sister had in Leonora was justified. She did not entirely agree with her about the “great work,” nor was disposed to connect the non-licensing of the gin-palace in any way with the faithfulness of God: but she comprehended in her gentle heart that there were other matters of which Leonora was capable. As for Miss Dora, she went to the summerhouse at last, and, seating herself at the window, cried under her breath till she had a very bad headache, and was of no use for any purpose under heaven. She thought nothing less than that Leonora had gone abroad to denounce poor Frank, and tell everybody how wicked he was; and she was so sure her poor dear boy did not mean anything! She sat with her head growing heavier and heavier, watching for her sister’s return, and calculating within herself how many places Leonora must have called at, and how utterly gone by this time must be the character of the Perpetual Curate. At last, in utter despair, with her thin curls all limp about her poor cheeks, Miss Dora had to go to bed and have the room darkened, and swallow cups of green tea and other nauseous compounds, at the will and pleasure of her maid, who was learned in headache. The poor lady sobbed herself to sleep after a time, and saw, in a hideous dream, her sister Leonora marching from house to house of poor Frank’s friends, and closing door after door with all sorts of clang and dash upon the returning prodigal. “But oh, it was not my fault⁠—oh, my dear, she found it out herself. You do not think I was to blame?” sobbed poor aunt Dora in her troubled slumber; and her headache did not get any better notwithstanding the green tea.