The Perpetual Curate · Chapter 47 (1/2)

XLVII

The dinner-party at the Rectory, to which Mr. Wentworth did not go, was much less interesting and agreeable than it might have been had he been present. As for the Rector and his wife, they could not but feel themselves in a somewhat strange position, having between them a secret unsuspected by the company. It was difficult to refrain from showing a certain flagging of interest in the question of the church’s restoration, about which, to be sure, Mr. Finial was just as much concerned as he had been yesterday; though Mr. Morgan, and even Mrs. Morgan, had suffered a great and unexplainable diminution of enthusiasm. And then Mr. Leeson, who was quite unaware of the turn that things had taken, and who was much too obtuse to understand how the Rector could be anything but exasperated against the Perpetual Curate by the failure of the investigation, did all that he could to make himself disagreeable, which was saying a good deal. When Mrs. Morgan came into the drawing-room, and found this obnoxious individual occupying the most comfortable easy-chair, and turning over at his ease the great book of ferns, nature-printed, which was the pet decoration of the table, her feelings may be conceived by any lady who has gone through a similar trial; for Mr. Leeson’s hands were not of the irreproachable purity which becomes the fingers of a gentleman when he goes out to dinner. “I know some people who always wear gloves when they turn over a portfolio of prints,” Mrs. Morgan said, coming to the Curate’s side to protect her book if possible, “and these require quite as much care;” and she had to endure a discussion upon the subject, which was still more trying to her feelings, for Mr. Leeson pretended to know about ferns on the score of having a Wardian case in his lodgings (which belonged to his landlady), though in reality he could scarcely tell the commonest spleenwort from a lycopodium. While Mrs. Morgan went through this trial, it is not to be wondered at if she hugged to her heart the new idea of leaving Carlingford, and thought to herself that whatever might be the character of the curate (if there was one) at Scarsfield, any change from Mr. Leeson must be for the better. And then the unfortunate man, as if he was not disagreeable enough already, began to entertain his unwilling hostess with the latest news.

“There is quite a commotion in Grange Lane,” said Mr. Leeson. “Such constant disturbances must deteriorate the property, you know. Of course, whatever one’s opinion may be, one must keep it to one’s self, after the result of the investigation; though I can’t say I have unbounded confidence in trial by jury,” said the disagreeable young man.

“I am afraid I am very slow of comprehension,” said the Rector’s wife. “I don’t know in the least what you mean about trial by jury. Perhaps it would be best to put the book back on the table; it is too heavy for you to hold.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Leeson⁠—“I mean about Wentworth, of course. When a man is popular in society, people prefer to shut their eyes. I suppose the matter is settled for the present, but you and I know better than to believe⁠—”

“I beg you will speak for yourself, Mr. Leeson,” said Mrs. Morgan, with dignity. “I have always had the highest respect for Mr. Wentworth.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said the disagreeable Curate. “I forgot; almost all the ladies are on Mr. Wentworth’s side. It appears that little girl of Elsworthy’s has disappeared again; that was all I was going to say.”

And, fortunately for the Curate, Colonel Chiley, who entered the room at the moment, diverted from him the attention of the lady of the house; and after that there was no opportunity of broaching the subject again until dinner was almost over. Then it was perhaps the All Souls pudding that warmed Mr. Leeson’s soul; perhaps he had taken a little more wine than usual. He took sudden advantage of that curious little pause which occurs at a well-conducted dinner-table, when the meal is concluded, and the fruit (considered apparently, in orthodox circles, a paradisiacal kind of food which needs no blessing) alone remains to be discussed. As soon as the manner of thanks from the foot of the table was over, the Curate incautiously rushed in before anybody else could break the silence, and delivered his latest information at a high pitch of voice.

“Has anyone heard about the Elsworthys?” said Mr. Leeson; “something fresh has happened there. I hope your verdict yesterday will not be called in question. The fact is, I believe that the girl has been taken away again. They say she has gone and left a letter saying that she is to be made a lady of. I don’t know what we are to understand by that. There was some private service or other going on at St. Roque’s very early in the morning. Marriage is a sacrament, you know. Perhaps Mr. Wentworth or his brother⁠—”

“They are a queer family, the Wentworths,” said old Mr. Western, “and such lots of them, sir⁠—such lots of them. The old ladies seem to have settled down here. I am not of their way of thinking, you know, but they’re very good to the poor.”

“Mr. Frank Wentworth is going to succeed his brother, I suppose,” said Mr. Leeson; “it is very lucky for a man who gets himself talked of to have a family living to fall back upon⁠—”

“No such thing⁠—no such thing,” said Mr. Proctor, hastily. “Mr. Frank Wentworth means to stay here.”

“Dear me!” said the disagreeable Curate, with an elaborate pause of astonishment. “Things must be bad indeed,” added that interesting youth, with solemnity, shaking the devoted head, upon which he did not know that Mrs. Morgan had fixed her eyes, “if his own family give him up, and leave him to starve here. They would never give him up if they had not very good cause. Oh, come; I shouldn’t like to believe that! I know how much a curate has to live on,” said Mr. Leeson, with a smile of engaging candour. “Before they give him up like that, with two livings in the family, they must have very good cause.”

“Very good cause indeed,” said Mrs. Morgan, from the head of the table. The company in general had, to tell the truth, been a little taken aback by the Curate’s observations; and there was almost the entire length of the table between the unhappy man and the Avenger. “So good a reason, that it is strange how it should not have occurred to a brother clergyman. That is the evil of a large parish,” said the Rector’s wife, with beautiful simplicity; “however hard one works, one never can know above half of the poor people; and I suppose you have been occupied in the other districts, and have not heard what a great work Mr. Wentworth is doing. I have reason to know,” said Mrs. Morgan, with considerable state, “that he will remain in Carlingford, in a very different position from that which he has filled hitherto. Mr. Leeson knows how much a curate has to live upon, but I am afraid that is all he does know of such a life as Mr. Wentworth’s.” Mrs. Morgan paused for a moment to get breath, for her excitement was considerable, and she had many wrongs to avenge. “There is a great deal of difference in curates as well as in other things,” said the indignant woman. “I have reason to know that Mr. Wentworth will remain in Carlingford in quite a different position. Now and then, even in this world, things come right like a fairy tale⁠—that is, when the authority is in the right hands;” the Rector’s wife went on, with a smile at her husband, which disarmed that astonished man. “Perhaps if Mr. Leeson had the same inducement as Mr. Wentworth, he too would make up his mind to remain in Carlingford.” Mrs. Morgan got up, as she made this speech, with a rustle and sweep of drapery which seemed all addressed to the unhappy Curate, who stumbled upon his feet like the other gentlemen, but dared not for his life have approached her to open the door. Mr. Leeson felt that he had received his congé, as he sank back into his chair. He was much too stunned to speculate on the subject, or ask himself what was going to happen. Whatever was going to happen, there was an end of him. He had eaten the last All Souls pudding that he ever would have presented to him under that roof. He sank back in the depth of despair upon his seat, and suffered the claret to pass him in the agony of his feelings. Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Morgan were avenged.

This was how it came to be noised abroad in Carlingford that some great change of a highly favourable character was about to occur in the circumstances and position of the Curate of St. Roque’s. It was discussed next day throughout the town, as soon as people had taken breath after telling each other about Rosa Elsworthy, who had indisputably been carried off from her uncle’s house on the previous night. When the Wentworth family were at dinner, and just as the board was being spread in the Rectory, where Mrs. Morgan was half an hour later than usual, having company, it had been discovered in Elsworthy’s that the prison was vacant, and the poor little bird had flown. Mr. Wentworth was aware of a tumult about the shop when he went to the Miss Wodehouses, but was preoccupied, and paid no attention; but Mr. Leeson, who was not preoccupied, had already heard all about it when he entered the Rectory. That day it was all over the town, as may be supposed. The poor, little, wicked, unfortunate creature had disappeared, no one knew how, at the moment, apparently, when Elsworthy went to the railway for the evening papers, a time when the errand-boys were generally rampant in the well-conducted shop. Mrs. Elsworthy, for her part, had seized that moment to relieve her soul by confiding to Mrs. Hayles next door how she was worrited to death with one thing and another, and did not expect to be alive to tell the tale if things went on like this for another month, but that Elsworthy was infatuated like, and wouldn’t send the hussy away, his wife complained to her sympathetic neighbour. When Elsworthy came back, however, he was struck by the silence in the house, and sent the reluctant woman upstairs⁠—“To see if she’s been and made away with herself, I suppose,” the indignant wife said, as she obeyed, leaving Mrs. Hayles full of curiosity on the steps of the door. Mrs. Elsworthy, however uttered a shriek a moment after, and came down, with a frightened face, carrying a large pincushion, upon which, skewered through and through with the biggest pin she could find, Rosa had deposited her letter of leave-taking. This important document was read over in the shop by an ever-increasing group, as the news got abroad⁠—for Elsworthy, like his wife, lost his head, and rushed about hither and thither, asking wild questions as to who had seen her last. Perhaps, at the bottom, he was not so desperate as he looked, but was rather grateful than angry with Rosa for solving the difficulty. This is what the poor little runaway said:⁠—

Dear Uncle and Aunt⁠—I write a line to let you know that them as can do better for me than any belonging to me has took me away for good. Don’t make no reflections, please, nor blame nobody; for I never could have done no good nor had any ’appiness at Carlingford after all as has happened. I don’t bear no grudge, though aunt has been so unkind; but I forgive her, and uncle also. My love to all friends; and you may tell Bob Hayles as I won’t forget him, but will order all my physic regular at his father’s shop.⁠—Your affectionate niece,