“Miss Primrose,” said the imperturbable rector of Neverden, “is not at present in this part of the country.”
The effect of the composing draught was completely gone off, and Mr Primrose started up from the chair to which he had been so politely invited, and exclaimed with great impetuosity, “Good God! Mr Darnley, you don’t say so.”
Mr Darnley was not so much agitated as Mr Primrose, and therefore he compressed his lips and knitted his brows, and then opened his mouth and said very composedly: “Mr Primrose, I beg that you would recollect that I am a clergyman, and therefore that it is not becoming and correct, that in my presence, you should take the name of the Lord in vain.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr Primrose, with tears in his eyes, “but consider, sir, I am a father, and—”
“I also am a father,” interrupted the rector, “and have more children than you have.”
“Oh, but tell me, tell me, sir, is my child living?”
“To the best of my knowledge Miss Primrose is living.”
“But where is she? Why has she left Smatterton?”
“I believe, sir, that Miss Primrose is in London, that is all that I know of her, except—” Here the rector hesitated, as if reluctant and fearful to say all that he knew. If composure of manner be at all contagious, Mr Primrose was the last person in the world to catch the contagion; for at this dry hesitation he became more violent, and exclaimed with great earnestness:
“Mr Darnley, you are a man, and must have the feelings of humanity. I implore and conjure you by all that is sacred to put me out of this dreadful state of suspense, and tell me at once all you know of my poor child; something you must know and you ought to know.”