“But why should you trouble yourself to visit them at all, when you have a curate who could look after your poorer parishioners?” asked Mrs. Marshall. “The vicar of St. Dungaree’s Church only associates with, or speaks personally to, the well-to-do people of his parish. He never goes to any house of which the rent is less than seventy pounds per annum.”
“Then I suppose he does not think people with small incomes possess souls?” I ejaculated.
“Oh, dear, yes! of course they have souls. But you can’t attach as much importance to their conversion as if they were in a position to be of service to the church, as rich people can be, and a curate’s attentions are as much as they can expect.”
“Then we may conclude that the objects of a curate and of a vicar are entirely dissimilar. The curate wishes to save souls. The vicar is anxious to wheedle money out of his parishioners. Fie, Mrs. Marshall, how can you so depreciate Mr. Garth’s calling?”
“Good gracious! Miss Courtney. It’s you who are doing it, not me. I never thought of the matter in the light you are throwing upon it. And I am sure Mr. Garth understands my meaning very well.”
“To be sure I do,” responded the vicar, good-humoredly. “No doubt the vicar of St. Dungaree’s is swayed by motives which outsiders do not understand. For my own part, I am quite convinced of my own unfitness for a city living, as I have what some would consider inveterately democratic notions. For instance, I am far happier when chatting with old Mrs. Murfree, who has been bedridden for six years, and who nevertheless earns a precarious livelihood by knitting and coarse needlework, than when conversing with Lady Smythe, who imagines herself to be the greatest lady in the county. And I would much rather have a talk and a smoke with old Grey, our cobbler-poet, than be invited out to dine with the lord of the manor.”
“And that reminds me,” put in Mrs. Garth, “that Lady Smythe and her daughters are coming this afternoon for a game of tennis. The Worthingtons will probably be here, too, so I hope you will try to get back before they leave.”
The vicar, having promised to use his best endeavors in that direction, now hurried off. I would rather have been excused from meeting the coming guests, if I had consulted only my own inclination; and it required a little mental struggle on my part to induce me to persevere just then in my lately-formed resolve to be as cheerful as possible at all times. May Morris, superficial and shallow as she seemed, was a bright, merry girl, who did nothing to foster either lugubriousness or reserve, and with whom it would have been difficult for me to maintain a silent mood for any length of time. Vinnie, too, seemed to have taken immensely to me since the morning and eagerly importuned us for another romp. Thus it happened that when the Smythe family drove up to the door they were rather scandalized by seeing two young women, who were evidently utterly regardless of appearances, scampering along a sidewalk, laughing and panting, followed by a fleet-footed child, who was pelting them with daisies which had a few hours before bespangled the tennis lawn, and by an excited St. Bernard, whose occasional tugs had utterly ruined the fresh appearance of their gowns.
“There now,” I said at last. “I really must sit down a bit. Vinnie, hadn’t you better run in and ask nurse to sponge your hands and face, before any visitors see you? I think I must go in also and straighten my hair.”
“That’s just how I feel,” said May, so we all adjourned, in order to present a better appearance by-and-by.