urrows
came up to the Curate with a downcast countenance. "Please, sir, if I've
done ye injustice in my own mind, as went sore against the grain, and
wouldn't have happened but for the women, I axes your pardon," said the
honest bargeman, which was balm and consolation to Mr Wentworth. There
was much talk in Prickett's Lane on the subject as he went to see the
sick woman in No. 10. "There aint no doubt as he sets our duty before
us clear," said one family mother; "he don't leave the men no excuse for
their goings-on. He all but named the Bargeman's Arms out plain, as it
was the place all mischief comes from." "If he'd have married Miss Lucy,
like other folks, at Easter," said one of the brides whom Mr Wentworth
had blessed, "such wicked stories couldn't never have been made up." "A
story may be made up, or it mayn't be made up," said a more experienced
matron; "but it can't be put out of the world unbeknowst no more nor a
babby. I don't believe in stories getting up that aint true. I don't say
as he don't do his duty; but things was different in Mr Bury's time, as
was the real Rector; and, as I was a-saying, a tale's like a babby--it
may come when it didn't ought to come, or when it aint wanted, but you
can't do away with it, anyhow as you like to try." Mr Wentworth did not
hear this dreary prediction as he went back again into the upper world.
He was in much better spirits, on the whole. He had calmed his own mind
and moved the hearts of others, which is to every man a gratification,
even though nothing higher should be involved. And he had regained the
moral countenance of Tom Burrows, which most of all was a comfort to
him. More than ever he longed to go and tell Lucy as he passed by the
green door. Tom Burrows's repentant face recalled Mr Wentworth's mind to
the fact that a great work was doing in Wharfside, which, after all, was
more worth thinking of than any tantalising vision of an impossible
benefice. But this very thought, so consoling in itself, reminded him of
all his vexations, of the public inquiry into his conduct which was
hanging over him, and of his want of power to offer to Lucy the support
and protection of which she might so soon stand in need; and having thus
drawn upon his head once more his whole burden of troubles, Mr Wentworth
went in to eat his dinner with what appetite he could.

The Perpetual Curate sat up late that night, as indeed was his
custom. He sat late, hearing, as everybody does who