"Against whom I always warned you—you know I did, my dear John," interposed Mrs. Portman.
"That you did; you very often do, my love," the doctor answered, with a laugh. "It is not from want of warning on your part, I am sure, that I have formed my opinion of most women with whom we are acquainted. Madam Fribsby is a fool, and fond of gossip, and so are some other folks. But she is good to the poor: she takes care of her mother, and she comes to church twice every Sunday. And as for Smirke, my dear—" here the doctor's face assumed for one moment a comical expression, which Mrs. Portman did not perceive (for she was looking out of the drawing-room window, and wondering what Mrs. Pybus could want, cheapening fowls again in the market, when she had had poultry from Livermore's two days before)—"and as for Mr. Smirke, my dear Betsy, will you promise me that you will never breathe to any mortal what I am going to tell you as a profound secret?"
"What is it, my dear John?—of course I won't," answered the rector's lady.
"Well then—I can not say it is a fact, mind—but if you find that Smirke is at this moment—ay, and has been for years—engaged to a young lady, a Miss—a Miss Thompson, if you will have the name, who lives on Clapham Common—yes, on Clapham Common, not far from Mrs. Smirke's house, what becomes of your story then about Smirke and Mrs. Pendennis?"
"Why did you not tell me this before?" asked the doctor's wife.—"How long have you known it?—How we all of us have been deceived in that man!"
"Why should I meddle in other folks' business, my dear?" the doctor answered. "I know how to keep a secret—and perhaps this is only an invention like that other absurd story; at least, Madam Portman, I should never have told you this but for the other, which I beg you to contradict whenever you hear it." And so saying the doctor went away to his study, and Mrs. Portman, seeing that the day was a remarkably fine one, thought she would take advantage of the weather and pay a few visits.
The doctor looking out of his study window saw the wife of his bosom presently issue forth, attired in her best. She crossed the market-place, saluting the market-women right and left, and giving a glance at the grocery and general emporium at the corner: then entering London-street (formerly Hog Lane), she stopped for a minute at Madame Fribsby's window, and looking at the fashions which hung up there, seemed hesitating whether she should enter; but she passed on, and never stopped again until she came to Mrs. Pybus's little green gate and garden, through which she went to that lady's cottage.
There, of course, her husband lost sight of Mrs. Portman. "Oh, what a long bow I have pulled," he said inwardly—"Goodness forgive me! and shot my own flesh and blood. There must be no more tattling and scandal about that house. I must stop it, and speak to Smirke. I'll ask him to dinner this very day."
Having a sermon to compose, the doctor sat down to that work, and was so engaged in the composition, that he had not concluded it until near five o'clock in the afternoon: when he stepped over to Mr. Smirke's lodgings, to put his hospitable intentions, regarding that gentleman, into effect. He reached Madame Fribsby's door, just as the curate issued from it.