XLV

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 someone 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 hotheaded. 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 upstairs 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 upstairs, 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 worktable, 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 someone?” 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 meantime, 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 Sanskrit 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 anyone 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 downstairs 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 downstairs 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 downstairs 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 tonight. 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,

When she had written this note Mrs. Morgan went downstairs, stopping at the library door in passing. “I thought I might as well ask Mr. Wentworth to come to us tonight, 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 today, I daresay he will feel rather lonely tonight.” 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 Thompson, 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.