While Mr Frank Wentworth's affairs were thus gathering to a crisis,
other events likely to influence his fate were also taking place in
Carlingford. Breakfast had been served a full half-hour later than
usual in the Rectory, which had not improved the temper of the
household. Everything was going on with the most wonderful quietness
in that well-arranged house; but it was a quietness which would have
made a sensitive visitor uncomfortable, and which woke horrible
private qualms in the mind of the Rector. As for Mrs Morgan, she
fulfilled all her duties with a precision which was terrible to
behold: instead of taking part in the conversation as usual, and
having her own opinion, she had suddenly become possessed of such a
spirit of meekness and acquiescence as filled her husband with dismay.
The Rector was fond of his wife, and proud of her good sense, and her
judgment, and powers of conversation. If she had been angry and found
fault with him, he might have understood that mode of procedure; but
as she was not angry, but only silent, the excellent man was terribly
disconcerted, and could not tell what to do. He had done all he could
to be conciliatory, and had already entered upon a great many
explanations which had come to nothing for want of any response; and
now she sat at the head of the table making tea with an imperturbable
countenance, sometimes making little observations about the news,
perfectly calm and dignified, but taking no part in anything more
interesting, and turning off any reference that was made to her in the
most skilful manner. "Mr Morgan knows I never take any part in the
gossip of Carlingford," she said to Mr Proctor, without any intention
of wounding that good man; and he who had been in the midst of
something about Mr Wentworth came to an abrupt stop with the sense of
having shown himself as a gossip, which was very injurious to his
dignity. The late Rector, indeed, occupied a very uncomfortable
position between the married people thus engaged in the absorbing
excitement of their first quarrel. The quiet little arrows, which Mrs
Morgan intended only for her husband, grazed and stung him as they
passed, without missing at the same time their intended aim; and he
was the auditor, besides, of a great deal of information intended by
the Rector for his wife's benefit, to which Mrs Morgan paid no manner
of attention. Mr Proctor was not a man of very lively observation, but
he could not quite shut his eyes to the position of affairs; and the
natural effect upon his mind, in the circumstances, was to turn his
thoughts towards his mild Mary, whom he did not quite recognise as yet
under her Christian name. He called her Miss Wodehouse in his heart
even while in the act of making comparisons very unfavourable to the
Rector's wife, and then he introduced benevolently the subject of his
new rectory, which surely must be safe ground.
"It is a pretty little place," Mr Proctor said, with satisfaction: "of
course it is but a small living compared to Carlingford. I hope you
will come and see me, after--it is furnished," said the bashful
bridegroom: "it is a nuisance to have all that to look after for one's
self--"
"I hope you will have somebody to help you," said Mrs Morgan, with a
little earnestness; "gentlemen don't understand about such things.
When you have one piece of furniture in bad taste, it spoils a whole
room--carpets, for instance--" said the Rector's wife. She looked at
Mr Proctor so severely that the good man faltered, though he was not
aware of the full extent of his guiltiness.
"I am sure I don't know," he said: "I told the man here to provide
everything as it ought to be; and I think we were very successful,"
continued Mr Proctor, with a little complacency: to be sure, they were
in the dining-room at the moment, being still at the breakfast-table.
"Buller knows a great deal about that sort of thing, but then he is too
ecclesiological for my taste. I like things to look cheerful," said the
unsuspicious man. "Buller is the only man that could be reckoned on if
any living were to fall vacant. It is very odd nowadays how indifferent
men are about the Church. I don't say that it is not very pleasant at
All-Souls; but a house of one's own, you know--" said Mr Proctor,
looking with a little awkward enthusiasm at his recently-married
brother; "of course I mean a sphere--a career--"
"Oh, ah, yes," said Mr Morgan, with momentary gruffness; "but
everything has its drawbacks. I don't think Buller would take a
living. He knows too well what's comfortable," said the suffering man.
"The next living that falls will have to go to some one out of the
college," said Mr Morgan. He spoke with a tone of importance and
significance which moved Mr Proctor, though he was not rapid in his
perceptions, to look across at him for further information.
"Most people have some crotchet or other," said the Rector. "When a
man's views are clear about subscription, and that sort of thing, he
generally goes as far wrong the other way. Buller might go out to
Central Africa, perhaps, if there was a bishopric of Wahuma--or what
is the name, my dear, in that Nile book?"
"I have not read it," said Mrs Morgan, and she made no further remark.
Thus discouraged in his little attempt at amity, the Rector resumed
after a moment, "Wentworth's brother has sent in his resignation to
his bishop. There is no doubt about it any longer. I thought that
delusion had been over, at all events; and I suppose now Wentworth
will be provided for," said Mr Morgan, not without a little anxiety.
"No; they are all equally crotchety, I think," said Mr Proctor. "I
know about them, through my--my connection with the Wodehouses, you
know. I should not wonder, for my own part, if he went after his
brother, who is a very intelligent man, though mistaken," the late
Rector added, with respect. "As for Frank Wentworth, he is a little
hot-headed. I had a long conversation the other night with the elder
brother. I tried to draw him out about Burgon's book, but he declined
to enter into the question. Frank has made up his mind to stay in
Carlingford. I understand he thinks it right on account of his
character being called in question here; though, of course, no one in
his senses could have had any doubt how _that_ would turn out," said
Mr Proctor, forgetting that he himself had been very doubtful about
the Curate. "From what I hear, they are all very crotchety," he
continued, and finished his breakfast calmly, as if that settled the
question. As for Mrs Morgan, even this interesting statement had no
effect upon her. She looked up suddenly at one moment as if intending
to dart a reproachful glance at her husband, but bethought herself in
time, and remained passive as before; not the less, however, was she
moved by what she had just heard. It was not Mr Wentworth she was
thinking of, except in a very secondary degree. What occupied her, and
made her reflections bitter, was the thought that her husband--the man
to whom she had been faithful for ten weary years--had taken himself
down off the pedestal on which she had placed him. "To make idols, and
to find them clay," she said plaintively in her own mind. Women were
all fools to spend their time and strength in constructing such
pedestals, Mrs Morgan thought to herself with bitterness; and as to
the men who were so perpetually dethroning themselves, how were they
to be designated? To think of her William, of whom she had once made a
hero, ruining thus, for a little petty malice and rivalry, the
prospects of another man! While these painful reflections were going
through her mind, she was putting away her tea-caddy, and preparing to
leave the gentlemen to their own affairs. "We shall see you at dinner
at six," she said, with a constrained little smile, to Mr Proctor, and
went up-stairs with her key-basket in her hand without taking any
special notice of the Rector. Mr Leeson was to come to dinner that day
legitimately by invitation, and Mrs Morgan, who felt it would be a
little consolation to disappoint the hungry Curate for once, was
making up her mind, as she went up-stairs, not to have the All-Souls
pudding, of which he showed so high an appreciation. It almost seemed
to her as if this spark of ill-nature was receiving a summary
chastisement, when she heard steps ascending behind her. Mrs Morgan
objected to have men lounging about her drawing-room in the morning.
She thought Mr Proctor was coming to bestow a little more of his
confidence upon her, and perhaps to consult her about his furnishing;
and being occupied by her own troubles, she had no patience for a
tiresome, middle-aged lover, who no doubt was going to disappoint and
disenchant another woman. She sat down, accordingly, with a sigh of
impatience at her work-table, turning her back to the door. Perhaps,
when he saw her inhospitable attitude, he might go away and not bother
her. And Mrs Morgan took out some stockings to darn, as being a
discontented occupation, and was considering within herself what
simple preparation she could have instead of the All-Souls pudding,
when, looking up suddenly, she saw, not Mr Proctor, but the Rector,
standing looking down upon her within a few steps of her chair. When
she perceived him, it was not in nature to refrain from certain
symptoms of agitation. The thoughts she had been indulging in brought
suddenly a rush of guilty colour to her face; but she commanded
herself as well as she could, and went on darning her stockings, with
her heart beating very loud in her breast.
"My dear," said the Rector, taking a seat near her, "I don't know what
it is that has risen between us. We look as if we had quarrelled; and
I thought we had made up our minds never to quarrel." The words were
rather soft in their signification, but Mr Morgan could not help
speaking severely, as was natural to his voice; which was perhaps, in
the present case, all the better for his wife.
"I don't know what you may consider quarrelling, William," said Mrs
Morgan, "but I am sure I have never made any complaint."
"No," said the Rector; "I have seen women do that before. You don't
make any complaint, but you look as if you disapproved of everything.
I feel it all the more just now because I want to consult you; and,
after all, the occasion was no such--"
"I never said there was any occasion. I am sure I never made any
complaint. You said you wanted to consult me, William?" Mrs Morgan
went on darning her stockings while she was speaking, and the Rector,
like most other men, objected to be spoken to by the lips only. He
would have liked to toss the stocking out of the window, though it
was his own, and the task of repairing it was one of a devoted wife's
first duties, according to the code of female proprieties in which
both the husband and wife had been brought up.
"Yes," said the Rector, with a sigh. "The truth is, I have just got a
letter from Harry Scarsfield, who was my pet pupil long ago. He tells
me my father's old rectory is vacant, where we were all brought up.
There used to be a constant intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory
when I was a lad. They are very nice people the Scarsfields--at least
they used to be very nice people; and Harry has his mother living with
him, and the family has never been broken up, I believe. We used to
know everybody about there," said Mr Morgan, abandoning himself to
recollections in a manner most mysterious to his wife. "There is the
letter, my dear," and he put it down upon her table, and began to play
with the reels of cotton in her workbox unconsciously, as he had not
done for a long time; which, unawares to herself, had a softening
influence upon Mrs Morgan's heart.
"I do not know anything about the Scarsfields," she said, without
taking up the letter, "and I cannot see what you have to do with this.
Does he wish you to recommend some one?" Mrs Morgan added, with a
momentary interest; for she had, of course, like other people, a
relation in a poor living, whom it would have been satisfactory to
recommend.
"He says I may have it if I have a mind," said the Rector curtly,
betraying a little aggravation in his tone.
"You, William?" said Mrs Morgan. She was so much surprised that she laid
down her stocking and looked him straight in the face, which she had not
done for many days; and it was wonderful how hard she found it to keep up
her reserve, after having once looked her husband in the eyes. "But it is
not much more than six months since you were settled in Carlingford,"
she said, still lost in amazement. "You cannot possibly mean to make a
change so soon? and then the difference of the position," said the
Rector's wife. As she looked at him, she became more and more aware of
some meaning in his face which she did not understand; and more and more,
as it became necessary to understand him, the reserves and self-defences
of the first quarrel gave way and dispersed. "I don't think I quite know
what you mean," she said, faltering a little. "I don't understand why
you should think of a change."
"A good country living is a very good position," said the Rector; "it is
not nearly so troublesome as a town like Carlingford. There is no
Dissent that I know of, and no--" (here Mr Morgan paused for a moment,
not knowing what word to use)--"no disturbing influences: of course I
would not take such a step without your concurrence, my dear," the
Rector continued; and then there followed a bewildering pause. Mrs
Morgan's first sensation after the astonishment with which she heard
this strange proposal was mortification--the vivid shame and vexation of
a woman when she is obliged to own to herself that her husband has been
worsted, and is retiring from the field.
"If you think it right--if you think it best--of course I can have
nothing to say," said the Rector's wife; and she took up her stocking
with a stinging sense of discomfiture. She had meant that her husband
should be the first man in Carlingford--that he should gain everybody's
respect and veneration, and become the ideal parish-priest of that
favourite and fortunate place. Every kind of good work and benevolent
undertaking was to be connected with his name, according to the visions
which Mrs Morgan had framed when she came first to Carlingford, not
without such a participation on her own part as should entitle her to
the milder glory appertaining to the good Rector's wife. All these hopes
were now to be blotted out ignominiously. Defeat and retreat and failure
were to be the conclusion of their first essay at life. "You are the
best judge of what you ought to do," she said, with as much calmness as
she could muster, but she could have dropped bitter tears upon the
stocking she was mending if that would have done any good.
"I will do nothing without your consent," said the Rector. "Young
Wentworth is going to stay in Carlingford. You need not look up so
sharply, as if you were vexed to think _that_ had anything to do with
it. If he had not behaved like a fool, I never could have been led
into such a mistake," said Mr Morgan, with indignation, taking a
little walk to the other end of the room to refresh himself. "At the
same time," said the Rector, severely, coming back after a pause, "to
show any ill-feeling would be very unchristian either on your side or
mine. If I were to accept Harry Scarsfield's offer, Proctor and I
would do all we could to have young Wentworth appointed to
Carlingford. There is nobody just now at All-Souls to take the living;
and however much you may disapprove of him, my dear," said Mr Morgan,
with increasing severity, "there is nothing that I know to be said
against him as a clergyman. If you can make up your mind to consent to
it, and can see affairs in the same light as they appear to me, that
is what I intend to do--"
Mrs Morgan's stocking had dropped on her knees as she listened; then it
dropped on the floor, and she took no notice of it. When the Rector had
finally delivered himself of his sentiments, which he did in the voice
of a judge who was condemning some unfortunate to the utmost penalties
of the law, his wife marked the conclusion of the sentence by a sob of
strange excitement. She kept gazing at him for a few moments without
feeling able to speak, and then she put down her face into her hands.
Words were too feeble to give utterance to her feelings at such a
supreme moment. "Oh, William, I wonder if you can ever forgive me,"
sobbed the Rector's wife, with a depth of compunction which he, good
man, was totally unprepared to meet, and knew no occasion for. He was
even at the moment a little puzzled to have such a despairing petition
addressed to him. "I hope so, my dear," he said, very sedately, as he
came and sat down beside her, and could not refrain from uttering a
little lecture upon temper, which fortunately Mrs Morgan was too much
excited to pay any attention to. "It would be a great deal better if you
did not give way to your feelings," said the Rector; "but in the mean
time, my dear, it is your advice I want, for we must not take such a
step unadvisedly," and he lifted up the stocking that had fallen, and
contemplated, not without surprise, the emotion of his wife. The
excellent man was as entirely unconscious that he was being put up again
at that moment with acclamations upon his pedestal, as that he had at a
former time been violently displaced from it, and thrown into the
category of broken idols. All this would have been as Sanscrit to the
Rector of Carlingford; and the only resource he had was to make in his
own mind certain half-pitying, half-affectionate remarks upon the
inexplicable weakness of women, and to pick up the stocking which his
wife was darning, and finally to stroke her hair, which was still as
pretty and soft and brown as it had been ten years ago. Under such
circumstances a man does not object to feel himself on a platform of
moral superiority. He even began to pet her a little, with a pleasant
sense of forgiveness and forbearance. "You were perhaps a little cross,
my love, but you don't think I am the man to be hard upon you," said the
Rector. "Now you must dry your eyes and give me your advice--you know
how much confidence I have always had in your advice--"
"Forgive me, William. I don't think there is any one so good as you are;
and as long as we are together it does not matter to me where we are,"
said the repentant woman. But as she lifted up her head, her eye fell on
the carpet, and a gleam of sudden delight passed through Mrs Morgan's
mind. To be delivered from all her suspicions and injurious thoughts
about her husband would have been a deliverance great enough for one
day; but at the same happy moment to see a means of deliverance from the
smaller as well as the greater cross of her existence seemed almost too
good to be credible. She brightened up immediately when that thought
occurred to her. "I think it is the very best thing you could do," she
said. "We are both so fond of the country, and it is so much nicer to
manage a country parish than a town one. We might have lived all our
lives in Carlingford without knowing above half of the poor people,"
said Mrs Morgan, growing in warmth as she went on; "it is so different
in a country parish. I never liked to say anything," she continued, with
subtle feminine policy, "but I never--much--cared for Carlingford." She
gave a sigh as she spoke, for she thought of the Virginian creeper and
the five feet of new wall at that side of the garden, which had just
been completed, to shut out the view of the train. Life does not contain
any perfect pleasure. But when Mrs Morgan stooped to lift up some stray
reels of cotton which the Rector's clumsy fingers had dropped out of her
workbox, her eye was again attracted by the gigantic roses and tulips on
the carpet, and content and satisfaction filled her heart.
"I have felt the same thing, my dear," said Mr Morgan. "I don't say
anything against Mr Finial as an architect, but Scott himself could make
nothing of such a hideous church. I don't suppose Wentworth will mind,"
said the Rector, with a curious sense of superiority. He felt his own
magnanimous conduct at the moment almost as much as his wife had done,
and could not help regarding Carlingford Church as the gift-horse which
was not to be examined too closely in the mouth.
"No," said Mrs Morgan, not without a passing sensation of doubt on
this point; "if he had only been frank and explained everything, there
never could have been any mistake; but I am glad it has all happened,"
said the Rector's wife, with a little enthusiasm. "Oh, William, I have
been such a wretch--I have been thinking--but now you are heaping
coals of fire on his head," she cried, with a hysterical sound in her
throat. It was no matter to her that she herself scarcely knew what
she meant, and that the good Rector had not the faintest understanding
of it. She was so glad, that it was almost necessary to be guilty of
some extravagance by way of relieving her mind. "After all Mr Proctor's
care in fitting the furniture, you would not, of course, think of
removing it," said Mrs Morgan; "Mr Wentworth will take it as we did; and
as for Mrs Scarsfield, if you like her, William, you may be sure I
shall," the penitent wife said softly, in the flutter and tremor of her
agitation. As he saw himself reflected in her eyes, the Rector could not
but feel himself a superior person, elevated over other men's shoulders.
Such a sense of goodness promotes the amiability from which it springs.
The Rector kissed his wife as he got up from his seat beside her, and
once more smoothed down, with a touch which made her feel like a girl
again, her pretty brown hair.
"That is all settled satisfactorily," said Mr Morgan, "and now I must
go to my work again. I thought, if you approved of it, I would write
at once to Scarsfield, and also to Buller of All-Souls."
"Do," said the Rector's wife--and she too bestowed, in her middle-aged
way, a little caress, which was far from being unpleasant to the
sober-minded man. He went down-stairs in a more agreeable frame of
mind than he had known for a long time back. Not that he understood
why she had cried about it when he laid his intentions before her. Had
Mr Morgan been a Frenchman, he probably would have imagined his wife's
heart to be touched by the graces of the Perpetual Curate; but, being
an Englishman, and rather more certain, on the whole, of her than of
himself, it did not occur to him to speculate on the subject. He was
quite able to content himself with the thought that women were
incomprehensible, as he went back to his study. To be sure, it was
best to understand them, if you could; but if not, it did not so very
much matter, Mr Morgan thought; could in this pleasant condition of
mind he went down-stairs and wrote a little sermon, which ever after
was a great favourite, preached upon all special occasions, and always
listened to with satisfaction, especially by the Rector's wife.
When Mrs Morgan was left alone she sat doing nothing for an entire
half-hour, thinking of the strange and unhoped-for change that in a
moment had occurred to her. Though she was not young, she had that
sense of grievousness, the unbearableness of trouble, which belongs to
youth; for, after all, whatever female moralists may say on the
subject, the patience of an unmarried woman wearing out her youth in
the harassments of a long engagement, is something very different from
the hard and many-sided experience of actual life. She had been
accustomed for years to think that her troubles would be over when the
long-expected event arrived; and when new and more vexatious troubles
still sprang up after that event, the woman of one idea was not much
better fitted to meet them than if she had been a girl. Now that the
momentary cloud had been driven off, Mrs Morgan's heart rose more
warmly than ever. She changed her mind in a moment about the All-Souls
pudding, and even added, in her imagination, another dish to the
dinner, without pausing to think that _that_ also was much approved by
Mr Leeson; and then her thoughts took another turn, and such a vision
of a perfect carpet for a drawing-room--something softer and more
exquisite than ever came out of mortal loom; full of repose and
tranquillity, yet not without seducing beauties of design; a carpet
which would never obtrude itself, but yet would catch the eye by
dreamy moments in the summer twilight or over the winter fire--flashed
upon the imagination of the Rector's wife. It would be sweet to have a
house of one's own arranging, where everything would be in harmony;
and though this sweetness was very secondary to the other satisfaction
of having a husband who was not a clay idol, but really deserved his
pedestal, it yet supplemented the larger delight, and rounded off all
the corners of Mrs Morgan's present desires. She wished everybody as
happy as herself, in the effusion of the moment, and thought of Lucy
Wodehouse, with a little glow of friendliness in which there was still
a tincture of admiring envy. All this that happy girl would have
without the necessity of waiting for it; but then was it not the
Rector, the rehabilitated husband, who would be the means of producing
so much happiness? Mrs Morgan rose up as lightly as a girl when she
had reached this stage, and opened her writing-desk, which was one of
her wedding-presents, and too fine to be used on common occasions. She
took out her prettiest paper, with her monogram in violet, which was
her favourite colour. One of those kind impulses which are born of
happiness moved her relieved spirit. To give to another the
consolation of a brighter hope, seemed at the moment the most natural
way of expressing her own thankful feelings. Instead of going
down-stairs immediately to order dinner, she sat down instead at the
table, and wrote the following note:--
"MY DEAR MR WENTWORTH,--I don't know whether you will think me a
fair-weather friend seeking you only when everybody else is seeking
you, and when you are no longer in want of support and sympathy.
Perhaps you will exculpate me when you remember the last conversation
we had; but what I write for at present is to ask if you would waive
ceremony and come to dinner with us to-night. I am aware that your
family are still in Carlingford, and of course I don't know what
engagements you may have; but if you are at liberty, pray come. If Mr
Morgan and you had but known each other a little better things could
never have happened which have been a great grief and vexation to me;
and I know the Rector _wishes very much_ to have a little conversation
with you, and has something to speak of in which you would be
interested. Perhaps my husband might feel a little strange in asking
you to overstep the barrier which somehow has been raised between you
two; but I am sure if you knew each other better you would understand
each other, and this is one of the things we women ought to be good
for. I will take it as a proof that you consider me a friend if you
accept my invitation. Our hour is half-past six.--Believe me, very
sincerely, yours,
"M. MORGAN."
When she had written this note Mrs Morgan went down-stairs, stopping
at the library door in passing. "I thought I might as well ask Mr
Wentworth to come to us to-night, as we are to have some people to
dinner," she said, looking in at the door. "I thought you might like
to talk to him, William; and if his people are going away to-day, I
daresay he will feel rather lonely to-night." Such was the Jesuitical
aspect in which she represented the flag of truce she was sending. Mr
Morgan was a little startled by action so prompt.
"I should like to hear from Buller first," said the Rector; "he might
like to come to Carlingford himself, for anything I can tell; but, to
be sure, it can do no harm to have Wentworth to dinner," said Mr
Morgan, doubtfully; "only Buller, you know, might wish--and in that
case it might not be worth our trouble to make any change."
In spite of herself, Mrs Morgan's countenance fell; her pretty scheme
of poetic justice, her vision of tasteful and appropriate furniture,
became obscured by a momentary mist. "At least it is only right to ask
him to dinner," she said, in subdued tones, and went to speak to the
cook in a frame of mind more like the common level of human
satisfaction than the exultant and exalted strain to which she had
risen at the first moment. Then she put on a black dress, and went to
call on the Miss Wodehouses, who naturally came into her mind when she
thought of the Perpetual Curate. As she went along Grange Lane she
could not but observe a hackney cab, one of those which belong to the
railway station, lounging--if a cab could ever be said to lounge--in
the direction of Wharfside. Its appearance specially attracted Mrs
Morgan's attention in consequence of the apparition of Elsworthy's
favourite errand-boy, who now and then poked his head furtively
through the window, and seemed to be sitting in state inside. When she
had gone a little further she encountered Wodehouse and Jack
Wentworth, who had just come from paying their visit to the sisters.
The sight of these two revived her sympathies for the lonely women who
had fallen so unexpectedly out of wealth into poverty; but yet she
felt a little difficulty in framing her countenance to be partly
sorrowful and partly congratulatory, as was necessary under these
circumstances; for though she knew nothing of the accident which had
happened that morning, when Lucy and the Perpetual Curate saw each
other alone, she was aware of Miss Wodehouse's special position, and
was sympathetic as became a woman who had "gone through" similar
experiences. When she had got through her visit and was going home, it
struck her with considerable surprise to see the cab still lingering
about the corner of Prickett's Lane. Was Elsworthy's pet boy
delivering his newspapers from that dignified elevation? or were they
seizing the opportunity of conveying away the unfortunate little girl
who had caused so much annoyance to everybody? When she went closer,
with a little natural curiosity to see what else might be inside
besides the furtive errand-boy, the cab made a little rush away from
her, and the blinds were drawn down. Mrs Morgan smiled a little to
herself with dignified calm. "As if it was anything to me!" she said
to herself; and so went home to put out the dessert with her own
hands. She even cut a few fronds of her favourite maidenhair to
decorate the peaches, of which she could not help being a little
proud. "I must speak to Mr Wentworth, if he comes, to keep on
Thompson," she said to herself, and then gave a momentary sigh at the
thought of the new flue, which was as good as her own invention, and
which it had cost her both time and money to arrange to her
satisfaction. The peaches were lovely, but who could tell what they
might be next year if a new Rector came who took no interest in the
garden?--for Thomson, though he was a very good servant, required to
be looked after, as indeed most good servants do. Mrs Morgan sighed a
little when she thought of all her past exertions and the pains, of
which she was scarcely yet beginning to reap the fruit. One man
labours, and another enters into his labours. One thing, however, was
a little consolatory, that she could take her ferns with her. But on
the whole, after the first outburst of feeling, the idea of change,
notwithstanding all its advantages, was in itself, like most human
things, a doubtful pleasure. To be sure, it was only through its
products that her feelings were interested about the new flue, whereas
the drawing-room carpet was a standing grievance. When it was time to
dress for dinner, the Rector's wife was not nearly so sure as before
that she had never liked Carlingford. She began to forget the thoughts
she had entertained about broken idols, and to remember a number of
inconveniences attending a removal. Who would guarantee the safe
transit of the china, not to speak of the _old_ china, which was one
of the most valuable decorations of the Rectory? This kind of
breakage, if not more real, was at least likely to force itself more
upon the senses than the other kind of fracture which this morning's
explanation had happily averted; and altogether it was with mingled
feelings that Mrs Morgan entered the drawing-room, and found it
occupied by Mr Leeson, who always came too early, and who, on the
present occasion, had some sufficiently strange news to tell.