“Well,” said Mrs. Bingham, “what are we to do? I had thought of going to her and giving her a bit of my mind, but she has got that yellow gown to make. What is your opinion, Miss Tarrant?”
“I would not degrade myself, Mrs. Bingham, by any expostulations with her. I would have nothing more to do with her. Could you not relieve her of the unfinished gown? Mrs. Swanley, I am sure, under the circumstances would be only too happy to complete it for you.”
“Mrs. Swanley cannot come near her. I should look ridiculous in her body and one of Swanley’s skirts.”
“As to the Doctor,” continued Miss Tarrant, “I wonder that he can expect to maintain any authority in matters of religion if he marries a dressmaker of that stamp. It would be impossible even if her character were unimpeachable. I am astonished, if he wishes to enter into the matrimonial state, that he does not seek some one who would be able to support him in his position and offer him the sympathy which a man who has had a University education might justifiably demand.”
Mrs. Sweeting had hitherto listened in silence. Miss Tarrant provoked her.
“It’s all a fuss about nothing, that’s my opinion. What has she done that you know to be wrong? And as to the Doctor, he’s got a right to please himself. I’m surprised at you, Miss Tarrant, for you’ve always stuck for him through thick and thin. As for that Mrs. Jenkins, I’ll take my Bible oath that the last time she washed for me she stunk of gin enough to poison me, and went away with two bits of soap in her pocket. You may credit what she says: I don’t, and never demean myself to listen to her.”
The ladies came to no conclusion. Mrs. Bingham said that she had suggested a round robin to Dr. Midleton, but that her husband decidedly “discountenanced the proposal.” Within a fortnight the election of governors was to take place. There was always a fight at these elections, and this year the Radicals had a strong list. The Doctor, whose term of office had expired, was the most prominent of the Tory and Church candidates, and never doubted his success. He was ignorant of all the gossip about him. One day in that fortnight he might have been seen in Ferry Street. He went into Mrs. Fairfax’s shop and was invited as before into the back parlour.
“I have brought you a basket of pears, and the book I promised you, the Utopia.” He sat down. “I am afraid you will think my visits too frequent.”
“They are not too frequent for me: they may be for yourself.”
“Ah! since I last entered your house I have not seen any books excepting my own. You hardly know what life in Langborough is like.”