‘Why, I thought, in my ignorance, they were gatherings of benevolent ladies, to work for benevolent ends!’
‘Ah, that is what they pretend to be, but things are not what they seem. Believe me, Mr. Wentworth, that the Dorcas as it is conducted in country towns is a mockery, a delusion and a snare.’
Wentworth shook his head and groaned.
‘Yes, that is so; my wife went to one, as I have said. It was her first attendance and her last. The professed object was work for the poor, the real one scandal. The women talked of all the other women in the town; how this one went on when her husband was away; how forward was one young miss, and how sly another; how mean was this man, how extravagant that. There was a good deal more talking than working, and the over-righteous were the worst of all, and the most uncharitable. Never was there a more unpleasant display of feminine littleness. But, bless me, I am gossiping myself, when I came here on a very pressing occasion. And now, after this preliminary remark, let us proceed to business. It is one which you can help most materially.’
‘Pray proceed,’ again remarked Wentworth.
‘It is one that requires a good deal of thinking about.’
‘So much the better. I always love to have a nut to crack.’
‘We have an old woman in Sloville Workhouse who says there is an heir to the Strahan estates.’
‘I know it,’ said Wentworth.
‘Well, this old woman has told her story all over the town, and everyone believes it.’