The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 28 (2/2)

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Morgan, twenty-four hours is a long time for a girl to disappear out of her own home,” said Miss Hemmings; “and all her friends have been sent to, and no word can be heard of her. I am afraid it will go very hard with Mr. Wentworth; and I am sure it looks like a judgment upon him for all his candlesticks and flowers and things,” she continued, out of breath with the impetuosity of her tale.

“Do you think, then, that God makes people sin in order to punish them?” said Mrs. Morgan, with some fire, which shocked Miss Hemmings, who did not quite know how to reply.

“I do so wish you would come in for a few minutes and taste our tea; my sister Sophia was just making it when I came out. We get it from our brother in Assam, and we think a great deal of it,” said Miss Hemmings; “it can’t possibly be adulterated, you know, for it comes direct from his plantation. If you can’t come in just now, I will send you some to the Rectory, and you shall tell us how you like it. We are quite proud of our tea. My brother has a large plantation, and he hopes⁠—”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Morgan, “but the Rector will be waiting for me, and I must go. It must be very nice to have your tea direct from the plantation; and I hope you will change your mind about Mr. Wentworth,” she continued, without much regard for punctuation, as she shook hands at the corner. Mrs. Morgan went down a narrow street which led to Grange Lane, after this interview, with some commotion in her mind. She took Mr. Wentworth’s part instinctively, without asking any proofs of his innocence. The sun was just setting, and St. Roque’s stood out dark and picturesque against all the glory of the western sky as the Rector’s wife went past. She could not help thinking of him, in his youth and the opening of his career, with a kind of wistful interest. If he had married Lucy Wodehouse, and confined himself to his own district (but then he had no district), Mrs. Morgan would have contemplated the two, not, indeed, without a certain half-resentful self-reference and contrast, but with natural sympathy. And now, to think of this dark and ugly blot on his fair beginning disturbed her much. When Mrs. Morgan recollected that she had left her husband and his Curate consulting over this matter, she grew very hot and angry, and felt humiliated by the thought. Was it her William, her hero, whom she had magnified for all these ten years, though not without occasional twinges of enlightenment, into something great, who was thus sitting upon his young brother with so little human feeling and so much middle-aged jealousy? It hurt her to think of it, though not for Mr. Wentworth’s sake. Poor Mrs. Morgan, though not at all a sentimental person, had hoarded up her ideal so much after the ordinary date, that it came all the harder upon her when everything thus merged into the light of common day. She walked very fast up Grange Lane, which was another habit of her maidenhood not quite in accord with the habit of sauntering acquired during the same period by the Fellow of All Souls. When Mrs. Morgan was opposite Mr. Wodehouse’s, she looked across with some interest, thinking of Lucy; and it shocked her greatly to see the closed shutters, which told of the presence of death. Then, a little farther up, she could see Elsworthy in front of his shop, which was already closed, talking vehemently to a little group round the door. The Rector’s wife crossed the street, to avoid coming into contact with this excited party; and, as she went swiftly along under the garden-walls, came direct, without perceiving it, upon Mr. Wentworth, who was going the opposite way. They were both absorbed in their own thoughts, the Perpetual Curate only perceiving Mrs. Morgan in time to take off his hat to her as he passed; and, to tell the truth, having no desire for any further intercourse. Mrs. Morgan, however, was of a different mind. She stopped instantly, as soon as she perceived him. “Mr. Wentworth, it is getting late⁠—will you walk with me as far as the Rectory?” she said, to the Curate’s great astonishment. He could not help looking at her with curiosity as he turned to accompany her. Mrs. Morgan was still wearing her wedding things, which were not now in their first freshness⁠—not to say that the redness, of which she was so painfully sensible, was rather out of accordance with the orange blossoms. Then she was rather flurried and disturbed in her mind; and, on the whole, Mr. Wentworth ungratefully concluded the Rector’s wife to be looking her plainest, as he turned with very languid interest to see her safely home.

“A great many things seem to be happening just now,” said Mrs. Morgan, with a good deal of embarrassment; “I suppose the people in Carlingford are grateful to anybody who gives them something to talk about.”

“I don’t know about the gratitude,” said the Perpetual Curate; “it is a sentiment I don’t believe in.”

“You ought to believe in everything as long as you are young,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I want very much to speak to you, Mr. Wentworth; but then I don’t know how you will receive what I am going to say.”

“I can’t tell until I know what it is,” said the Curate, shutting himself up. He had an expressive face generally, and Mrs. Morgan saw the shutters put up, and the jealous blinds drawn over the young man’s countenance as clearly as if they had been tangible articles. He did not look at her, but kept swinging his cane in his hand, and regarding the pavement with downcast eyes; and if the Rector’s wife had formed any expectations of finding in the Perpetual Curate an ingenuous young heart, open to sympathy and criticism, she now discovered her mistake.

“If I run the risk, perhaps you will forgive me,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I have just been hearing a dreadful story about you; and I don’t believe it in the least, Mr. Wentworth,” she continued, with a little effusion; for though she was very sensible, she was only a woman, and did not realise the possibility of having her sympathy rejected, and her favourable judgment received with indifference.

“I am much flattered by your good opinion. What was the dreadful story?” asked Mr. Wentworth, looking at her with careless eyes. They were just opposite Elsworthy’s shop, and could almost hear what he was saying, as he stood in the midst of his little group of listeners, talking loud and vehemently. The Perpetual Curate looked calmly at him across the road, and turned again to Mrs. Morgan, repeating his question, “What was the dreadful story?⁠—one gets used to romances,” he said, with a composure too elaborate to be real; but Mrs. Morgan did not think of that.

“If you don’t care about it, I need not say anything,” said the Rector’s wife, who could not help feeling affronted. “But I am so sorry that Mr. Morgan and you don’t get on,” she continued, after a little pause. “I have no right to speak; but I take an interest in everything that belongs to the parish. If you would put a little confidence in my husband, things might go on better; but, in the meantime, I thought I might say to you, on my own account, that I had heard this scandal, and that I don’t believe in it. If you do not understand my motive I can’t help it,” said the Rector’s wife, who was now equally ready for friendship or for battle.

“Thanks; I understand what you mean,” said Mr. Wentworth, who had come to himself. “But will you tell me what it is you don’t believe in?” he asked, with a smile which Mrs. Morgan did not quite comprehend.

“I will tell you,” she said, with a little quiet exasperation. “I don’t think you would risk your prospects, and get yourself into trouble, and damage your entire life, for the sake of any girl, however pretty she might be. Men don’t do such things for women nowadays, even when it is a worthy object,” said the disappointed optimist. “And I believe you are a great deal more sensible, Mr. Wentworth.” There was just that tone of mingled approval and contempt in this speech which a woman knows how to deliver herself of without any appearance of feeling; and which no young man, however blasé, can hear with composure.

“Perhaps not,” he said, with a little heat and a rising colour. “I am glad you think me so sensible.” And then there ensued a pause, upon the issue of which depended the question of peace or war between these two. Mr. Wentworth’s good angel, perhaps, dropped softly through the dusky air at that moment, and jogged his perverse charge with the tip of a celestial wing. “And yet there might be women in the world for whom⁠—” said the Curate; and stopped again. “I daresay you are not anxious to know my sentiments on the subject,” he continued, with a little laugh. “I am sorry you think so badly⁠—I mean so well of me.”

“I don’t think badly of you,” said Mrs. Morgan, hastily. “Thank you for walking with me; and whatever happens, remember that I for one don’t believe a word of it,” she said, holding out her hand. After this little declaration of friendship, the Rector’s wife returned to the Rectory, where her husband was waiting for her, more than ever prepared to stand up for Mr. Wentworth. She went back to the drawing-room, forgetting all about the carpet, and poured out the tea with satisfaction, and made herself very agreeable to Mr. Finial, the architect, who had come to talk over the restorations. In that moment of stimulation she forgot all her experience of her husband’s puzzled looks, of the half-comprehension with which he looked at her, and the depths of stubborn determination which were far beyond the reach of her hastier and more generous spirit, and so went on with more satisfaction and gaiety than she had felt possible for a long time, beating her drums and blowing her trumpets, to the encounter in which her female forces were so confident of victory.