Margaret Oliphant's Chronicles of Carlingford 4: The Perpetual Curate

The Perpetual Curate by Margaret Oliphant (1864)

{He} went away very hastily to his own house, and to the work which still awaited him---"When the wicked man turneth away from the evil of his ways, and doeth that which is lawful and right." Mr Wentworth, when he came back to it, sat for about an hour over his text before he wrote a single syllable. His heart had been wrung that day by the sharpest pangs which can be inflicted upon a proud and generous spirit. He was disposed to be bitter against all the world---against the dull eyes that would not see, the dull ears that could shut themselves against all suggestions either of gratitude or justice. It appeared to him, on the whole, that the wicked man was every way the best off in this world, besides being wooed and besought to accept the blessings of the other. And the Curate was conscious of an irrepressible inclination to exterminate the human vermin who made the earth such an imbroglio of distress and misery; and was sore and wounded in his heart to feel how his own toils and honest purposes availed him nothing, and how all the interest and sympathy of bystanders went to the pretender...

Welcome to the group read of Margaret Oliphant's The Perpetual Curate, the 5th work in her 'Chronicles of Carlingford' series.

Previously in this project, we have read:
- The Executor (1861) {short story} - thread here
- The Rector (1861) {short story} - thread here
- The Doctor's Family (1861) {novella} - thread here
- Salem Chapel (1863) {novel} - thread here

There is also background material about Oliphant at the beginning of the thread for The Executor and The Rector.

The Perpetual Curate was originally serialised in Blackwood's Magazine from June 1863 - September 1864, before appearing as a three-volume novel later in '64.

The volumes were originally as follows:
- Volume I: Chapters 1 - 19
- Volume II: 20 - 35
- Volume III: Chapter 36 - 48

However, many later editions number the chapters consecutively. Please let me know what format your various editions are in.

This is quite a lengthy novel, with lengthy chapters in some cases; so I suggest we set a pace of two chapters per day.

In addition to its Virago edition, shown above, The Perpetual Curate is available in a Penguin edition, and also in a number of free and inexpensive ebook editions, including at Project Gutenberg.

For this group read, please follow the usual guidelines and suggestions:

1. When posting, please begin by noting which chapter (or volume and chapter) you are referring to in bold.

2. Be mindful of others: if you have read the book before, or if you get ahead of the group, please use spoiler tags as necessary.

You may also do this to avoid forgetting a point you want to make: we will always come back to consider comments at the appropriate time.

3. If you are reading an edition with an introduction and/or endnotes, do not read them until you have completed the novel. Too often these adjuncts are full of spoilers.

4. Please speak up! Experience shows that group reads work best with lots of conversation and different contributions, so if you have any comments or questions at all, post them here so that everyone can benefit.

A couple of points before we start:

The Perpetual Curate alludes significantly to some of the previous works in the series, particularly The Rector, but also The Executor and Salem Chapel; so if you need to, please refer to the earlier threads to refresh your memories.

While discussing The Rector, the question was raised of what a perpetual curate actually was. That part of the answer most relevant to us here dealt with the status of the perpetual curate during the 19th century:

"It was revived in the early 19th century due to church / parish reform across Britain. A lot of new parishes were created, often by breaking up older, larger ones. The ministers appointed to these new areas were dubbed "perpetual curates" rather than rectors or vicars: they were paid a salary out of a administrative fund and had no right to tithes or other supplements to their income. It was a cheap way of filling the gaps. But because these situations were badly paid with little chance of better or of advancement, they tended to be filled by men who were poor and desperate, or of lower social standing."

In this case, Frank Wentworth is a well-bred, well-educated gentleman---but he is also a younger son with many brothers, whose older half-brother, Gerald, already holds the family living, and whose aunts (as we shall see) are disinclined to give him the living in their "possession". Frank has therefore accepted the poorly paid position of Perpetual Curate of St. Roque's, in Carlingford.

Cast of characters:

Francis Cecil (Frank) Wentworth - Perpetual Curate of St Roque's

Mr Wodehouse
Miss (Mary, sometimes called Molly) Wodehouse - his elder daughter
Miss Lucy Wodehouse - his younger daughter

Mr Morgan - Rector of Carlingford
Mrs Morgan - his wife
Mr Leeson - his curate

Mr Proctor - former Rector of Carlingford

Miss (Cecilia) Wentworth - Frank's aunt
Miss Leonora Wentworth - her sister
Miss Dora Wentworth - her sister

Dr Marjoribanks - the leading doctor of Carlingford
The Miss Hemmings - residents of Grange Lane

Mrs Hadwin - Frank's landlady, a clergyman's widow
Sarah - her maidservant

Mr Waters - an attorney; Mr Wodehouse's business partner
Mr Brown - a solicitor

Mr Elsworthy - a tradesman; also clerk of St Roque's
Mrs Elsworthy - his wife
Rosa Elsworthy - his pretty young niece

"Tom Smith" - a mysterious stranger

My Hayles - a druggist

Mr Burrows - a bargeman

Outside Carlingford:

Mr Wentworth - "the squire"; Frank's father
Jack Wentworth - the squire's oldest son and heir; Frank's half-brother
Gerald Wentworth - Frank's half-brother; a clergyman
Louisa Wentworth - Gerald's wife

Please come on in, and let us all know if you'll be participating or lurking.

Feel free to raise any introductory point I've forgotten (there's usually something!).

Thank you for getting us organised! I will start reading tonight.

This is a book that I own in a green Virago edition (unlike the others that I've read on my kindle) so I'm thinking about joining in even though I skipped Salem Chapel. Do you think I'll be too lost having skipped that one?

I read the Project Gutenberg version last month and I've been looking forward to the discussion!

>9 japaul22: I think you'll be fine without having read Salem Chapel.

I'm in, but due to RL I probably won't start reading until next week.

>8 Sakerfalcon:, >9 japaul22:, >10 cbl_tn:, >11 kac522:

Welcome, Claire, Jennifer, Carrie and Kathy! :)

>9 japaul22:, >10 cbl_tn:

In general you will be okay, though some points of comparison have occurred to me so some of the commentary might be a bit spoilerish.

It's more important that you (and everyone) remember the details of The Rector.

>11 kac522:

No worries!

One other remark at the outset:

Between Anthony Trollope and Margaret Oliphant, most of us have spent considerable time getting our heads around the various shades of 19th century English religious practice.

In The Perpetual Curate, however, Oliphant pretty much gives us the entire spectrum from Catholicism to Dissent. It is important that everyone understand the implications of the details given here and the reasons for the conflicts, so if there is anything that isn't clear, please ask!

Hello everyone, I'm in with an ebook downloaded from Gutenberg. Starting tonight.

>14 MissWatson:

Welcome, Birgit!

>12 lyzard: Thanks, Liz! I'm a little on the fence because I have a couple other big books going. We'll see . . .

I've got started - up to chapter 2.

>16 japaul22:

It's not short, but quite easy (or anyway, compulsive) reading, I think. :)

>17 CDVicarage:

Welcome, Kerry!

>18 lyzard: It's not short, but quite easy (or anyway, compulsive) reading, I think.

I agree completely! I read an ebook so I didn't have visual cues for the length. However, it didn't feel like a long book to me at all. I intended to read a couple of chapters a day until I finished it, but most days I read more than that because it was hard to put down. Compulsive is a good description!

As we saw in Salem Chapel (sorry, Jennifer!), Oliphant uses her opening passages to convey an enormous amount of information, and to set up the relationships and situations upon which her narratives will be based. She also draws upon the events of The Rector, in defining the issues faced by Carlingford in finding suitable men to fill what she declares to be the pivot of Carlingford life:

Volume I Chapter 1:

But in every community some centre of life is necessary. This point, round which everything circles, is, in Carlingford, found in the clergy. They are the administrators of the commonwealth, the only people who have defined and compulsory duties to give a sharp outline to life...

****

An enterprising or non-enterprising rector made all the difference in the world in Grange Lane; and in the absence of a rector that counted for anything (and poor Mr Proctor was of no earthly use, as everybody knows), it followed, as a natural consequence, that a great deal of the interest and influence of the position fell into the hands of the Curate of St Roque's...

****

Now a new régime had been inaugurated. Mr Morgan, a man whom Miss Wodehouse described as "in the prime of life," newly married, with a wife also in the prime of life, who had waited for him ten years, and all that time had been under training for her future duties---two fresh, new, active, clergymanly intellects, entirely open to the affairs of the town, and intent upon general reformation and sound management---had just come into possession. The new Rector was making a great stir all about him, as was natural to a new man; and it seemed, on the whole, a highly doubtful business whether he and Mr Wentworth would find Carlingford big enough to hold them both...

These opening passages are amusingly Trollopean, as they rest very heavily upon inter-clergy conflict; however, in Oliphant's world the basis for the conflict remains - on the whole - matters of faith and duty, not politics and personal dislike (and class prejudice).

Also very Trollopean is the suggestion that Mr Wentworth is not merely High Church, but "too high". This is something several of Trollope's ministers go through: he tends to present it as the foolishness of youth, with his young clergyman settling back into an appropriate degree of "highness" as they grow older and wiser. In Oliphant's world, however, there is real danger in this way of thinking.

The inter-faith - or rather, inter-doctrine - conflicts extend into the Wentworth family. Frank Wentworth is "too high", his brother Gerald even higher, as we shall see later; but the sisters of Frank's father, Mr Wentworth, are "low" almost to the point of being Dissenters. We learn here that Frank was given the Perpetual Curacy of St Roque's by the Evangelical Mr Bury (two Carlingford rectors ago), because he assumed the young man shared his aunts' views.

Though it was based upon a misapprehension on Mr Bury's part, the important detail is that Frank was *asked* to take on the difficult duties of minister to the poor district known as Wharfside: he has now held his position through the conclusion of Mr Bury's incumbency, Mr Proctor's failed rectorship, and the appointment and arrival of Mr Morgan, the new rector. It is not surprising that he chooses to hold his ground.

Mr Morgan's reaction tells us a great deal about his character. The more we know of him, the less we can see him doing the work that Frank is doing amongst the workmen and their families - the harder it is to imagine that he would really want to take it on himself - and there is more of jealousy and thin skin in his determination to assert his "authority", than thought for the welfare of his poorest parishioners:

"My dear, I hope I am actuated by higher motives than a desire to have it all my own way," said the Rector. "I always felt sure that Proctor would make a mess of any parish he took in hand, but I did not imagine he would have left it to anybody who pleased to work it. You may imagine what my feelings were to-day, when I came upon a kind of impromptu chapel in that wretched district near the canal. I thought it a Little Bethel, you know, of course; but instead of that, I find young Wentworth goes there Wednesdays and Fridays to do duty, and that there is service on Sunday evening, and I can't tell what besides. It may be done from a good motive---but such a disregard of all constituted authority," said the Rector, with involuntary vehemence, "can never, in my opinion, be attended by good results."

>19 cbl_tn:

Good to hear, Carrie!

Liz, is this a good time to ask about Oliphant's use of the name Wodehouse? Is it an intentional reference to Austen, and should we make inferences from her use of the name?

>22 cbl_tn:

I don't think so---though NB: Wentworth is also an Austen name. :)

However, it may be just coincidence, or use of relatively common names. I'm not aware that anyone has drawn connections between Oliphant and Austen, but those who have done more background reading around Oliphant's life may know better. Can anyone chime in here?

As we read through this series---how do people think Oliphant intended us to view Carlingford?

There's a "quaint country town" vibe overall, but when you look at the way Oliphant has her characters behave in these works, there is some terrible behaviour from these supposedly "nice" people.

Is she making a point about human nature generally? - about small-town life? Are we to be indulgent or angry in the face of what goes on?

I was just particularly struck by this description of Wharfside, the scene of Frank's unappreciated labours, and the implication of wilful blindness on the part of the townspeople:

Volume I Chapter 2:

Meanwhile Mr Wentworth, without much thought of his sins, went down George Street, meaning to turn off at the first narrow turning which led down behind the shops and traffic, behind the comfort and beauty of the little town, to that inevitable land of shadow which always dogs the sunshine. Carlingford proper knew little about it, except that it increased the poor-rates, and now and then produced a fever. The minister of Salem Chapel was in a state of complete ignorance on the subject. The late Rector had been equally uninformed. Mr Bury, who was Evangelical, had the credit of disinterring the buried creatures there about thirty years ago. It was an office to be expected of that much-preaching man; but what was a great deal more extraordinary, was to find that the only people now in Carlingford who knew anything about Wharfside, except overseers of the poor and guardians of the public peace, were the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's---who had nothing particular to do with it, and who was regarded by many sober-minded persons with suspicion as a dilettante Anglican, given over to floral ornaments and ecclesiastical upholstery---and some half-dozen people of the very élite of society, principally ladies residing in Grange Lane.

I also want to say this, and say it loudly:

This is pretty much the only place - ever - of any kind - real or fictional - that I have ever come across, that insists that The Young People Of Today are much better than their predecessors:

Volume I Chapter 2:

"I am always afraid of its being too much for her, Mr Wentworth," said the anxious elder sister; "it upsets me directly; but then I never was like Lucy---I can't tell where all you young people have learned it; we never used to be taught so in my day; and though I am twice as old as she is, I know I am not half so much good in the world," said the kind soul, with a gentle sigh.

Miss Wodehouse says this sort of thing a lot, contrasting herself unfavourably with her active and devoted young sister.

Though Oliphant's own world, and the world of her writing, were generally very conservative, we see in touches like this that things were changing---and perhaps, in her view, though she didn't dare say so out loud, changing for the better.

The other important take-away from Chapter 2 is that Frank and Lucy have not said one word to each other about their obviously mutual attachment.

A Perpetual Curacy, as touched upon in >5 lyzard:, did not bring with it the kind of income that allowed a young man to marry. Frank is in love with Lucy, but he knows he cannot support a wife - even a wife prepared to make sacrifices - and has so far guarded his tongue.

Here we have the alternative basis for the conflict between Frank and his Evangelical aunts (or rather, Miss Leonora is Evangelical, and the others do as they are told). There is a family living in the offing, but Leonora considers it her duty to appoint a Low Church minister. Frank's principles - and stubbornness - won't let him angle for the living by pretending to be other than he is, but there is a dreadful temptation in the spectre of the living of Skelmersdale, which would allow him to marry Lucy.

I downloaded a copy off Project Gutenberg and started yesterday! I haven't read the previous books, but I trust that I won't be missing out on much and I am liking it so far. I'm just on Chapter 4.

>27 Majel-Susan:

Welcome, Janet!

As indicated above, this novel does draw upon the events of The Rector. It is only a short story so it might be worth your while squeezing it in.

I thought these passages from Barchester Towers might be helpful in defining Frank's situation and dilemma, as he is confronted by his Low Low Church Aunt Leonora, who has come to look him over as the potential holder of Skelmersdale.

Barchester generally, we may recall, is "High" but not "too High", prior to arrival of its new Low Church bishop and his Evangelical chaplain. Trollope is having some fun here, but he also spells out the kinds of observances that marked the gradations of Anglican practice.

(Some editing to avoid spoilers)

In doctrine he, like his patron, is tolerant of dissent, if so strict a mind can be called tolerant of anything. With Wesleyan-Methodists he has something in common, but his soul trembles in agony at the iniquities of the Puseyites. His aversion is carried to things outward as well as inward. His gall rises at a new church with a high-pitched roof; a full-breasted black silk waistcoat is with him a symbol of Satan; and a profane jest-book would not, in his view, more foully desecrate the church seat of a Christian than a book of prayer printed with red letters and ornamented with a cross on the back...

****

Hitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme rigour of church doctrine. The clergymen of the city and neighbourhood, though very well inclined to promote High Church principles, privileges, and prerogatives, had never committed themselves to tendencies which are somewhat too loosely called Puseyite practices. They all preached in their black gowns, as their fathers had done before them; they wore ordinary black cloth waistcoats; they had no candles on their altars, either lighted or unlighted; they made no private genuflexions, and were contented to confine themselves to such ceremonial observances as had been in vogue for the last hundred years. The services were decently and demurely read in their parish churches, chanting was confined to the cathedral, and the science of intoning was unknown. One young man who had come direct from Oxford as a curate to Plumstead had, after the lapse of two or three Sundays, made a faint attempt, much to the bewilderment of the poorer part of the congregation. Dr Grantly had not been present on the occasion, but Mrs Grantly, who had her own opinion on the subject, immediately after the service expressed a hope that the young gentleman had not been taken ill, and offered to send him all kinds of condiments supposed to be good for a sore throat. After that there had been no more intoning at Plumstead Episcopi...

****

Mrs xxxxxx's church is two degrees higher than that of Mrs Grantly. This may seem strange to those who will remember that xxxxxxx was once accused of partiality to Mr Slope, but it is no less the fact. She likes her husband's silken vest, she likes his adherence to the rubric, she specially likes the eloquent philosophy of his sermons, and she likes the red letters in her own prayer-book. It must not be presumed that she has a taste for candles...

****

Frank, as we already know, is High almost to the point of Anglo-Catholicism, and he shows it in his white surplice, his choir, the decoration of his church with flowers and candles, and his intoning.

As they are presented in these novels, these touches may seem silly things to be having serious feuds over; but they were the external manifestations of the great religious conflicts that gripped England through much of the 19th century, and as such were taken very seriously indeed.

So---

Volume I Chapter 3:

"My dearest boy,---Your aunts Cecilia, Leonora, and I have just arrived at this excellent inn, the Blue Boar. Old Mr Shirley at Skelmersdale is in a very bad way, poor man, and I thought the very best thing I could do in my dearest Frank's best interests, was to persuade them to make you quite an unexpected visit, and see everything for themselves. I am in a terrible fright now lest I should have done wrong; but my dear, dear boy knows it is always his interest that I have at heart; and Leonora is so intent on having a real gospel minister at Skelmersdale, that she never would have been content with anything less than hearing you with her own ears. I hope and trust in Providence that you don't intone like poor Gerald. And oh, Frank, my dear boy, come directly and dine with us, and don't fly in your aunt Leonora's face, and tell me I haven't been imprudent. I thought it would be best to take you unawares when you had everything prepared, and when we should see you just as you always are; for I am convinced Leonora and you only want to see more of each other to understand each other perfectly. Come, my dearest boy, and give a little comfort to your loving and anxious, Aunt Dora."

****

Already before him, in dreadful prophetic vision, he saw all three seated in one of the handsome open benches in St Roque's, looking indescribable horrors at the crown of spring lilies which Lucy's own fingers were to weave for the cross above the altar, and listening to the cadence of his own manly tenor as it rang through the perfect little church of which he was so proud. Yes, there was an end of Skelmersdale, without any doubt or question now; whatever hope there might have been, aunt Dora had settled the matter by this last move of hers---an end to Skelmersdale, and an end of Lucy...

****

St Roque's was very fair to see that Easter morning. Above the communion-table, with all its sacred vessels, the carved oaken cross of the reredos was wreathed tenderly with white fragrant festoons of spring lilies, sweet Narcissus of the poets; and Mr Wentworth's choristers made another white line, two deep, down each side of the chancel. The young Anglican took in all the details of the scene on his way to the reading-desk as the white procession ranged itself in the oaken stalls. At that moment---the worst moment for such a thought---it suddenly flashed over him that, after all, a wreath of spring flowers or a chorister's surplice was scarcely worth suffering martyrdom for...

****

...just then the strains of the organ died away in lengthened whispers, and Miss Leonora Wentworth, severe and awful, swept up through the middle aisle. It was under these terrible circumstances that the Perpetual Curate, with his heart throbbing and his head aching, began to intone the morning service on that Easter Sunday...

I've started!

Chapter 1

>5 lyzard: So is Frank Wentworth's position as perpetual curate seen as a, sort of, subdivision of Mr. Morgan's position as Rector? Do they lead completely different congregations or are they supposed to work together to an extent with Frank focusing on the wharf area?

Are we to assume that the Morgans waited so long to marry for money reasons?

And what is the reference to women wearing “grey cloaks”?

Thank you!

In Chapter 2

but what was a great deal more extraordinary, was to find that the only people now in Carlingford who knew anything about Wharfside, except overseers of the poor and guardians of the public peace, were the Perpetual Curate of St Roque's---who had nothing particular to do with it, and who was regarded by many sober-minded persons with suspicion as a dilettante Anglican, given over to floral ornaments and ecclesiastical upholstery---and some half-dozen people of the very élite of society, principally ladies residing in Grange Lane.

This line made me wonder if those of “high church” were generally supposed to be less willing to engage with the poor than “low church”. We’re they assumed to be more lofty or remote or intellectual? If so, Wentworth obviously bucks this trend.

I’ll think about your question about what Oliphant is saying about Carlingford, small town life/human nature/etc as I read.

>31 japaul22:

Whoo! :)

Carlingford and St Roque's are two different parishes, though St Roque's may have been "carved out" of Carlingford when the Perpetual Curacy was established. Regardless, Wharfside is part of Carlingford, and the responsibility of the Rector of Carlingford.

But Mr Bury, when he got too old and tired, asked Frank if he would also take on Wharfside as an extra duty, which he did. Mr Proctor not having a clue, Frank kept on with it; and has continued to do so despite the arrival of Mr Morgan---which the latter sees as "defying his authority".

Yes, we learn a lot more about the Morgans later.

The position of "sisters" within Anglicanism is a complicated one, and was more so in the 19th century, and I'm not really qualified to give an overview; but (very briefly) in cases such as this, women doing official parish work would distinguish themselves via the wearing of a grey cloak. Lucy, here, is referred to as "a Sister of Mercy"; she calls herself a District Visitor, meaning she calls upon the sick and the poor and tries to assist them (and to see that they're behaving themselves).

This was also associated with "too high" High Church practice, since of course it smacked of Catholicism and nuns, and was very much disapproved by those of "lower" tendencies. (We will later find out that Mrs Morgan used to be a grey-cloak wearer, but gave it up in the face of Mr Morgan's disapproval.)

(Kerry might be able to give a more informed answer to this particular question.)

>32 japaul22:

It's ambiguous whether that is talking about High Church people broadly, "nice" people generally, or the nice people of Carlingford specifically.

I think it's just Carlingford, and one of the points that makes we wonder how critical Oliphant was really being behind her seeming indulgence.

This does make me think about Oliphant's opening description of Carlingford and how isolated those nice people are in the absence of business and (most) trade: as if they're more oblivious than most to the realities of life.

This:

Chapter 1:

In Carlingford proper there is no trade, no manufactures, no anything in particular, except very pleasant parties and a superior class of people---a very superior class of people, indeed, to anything one expects to meet with in a country town, which is not even a county town, nor the seat of any particular interest. It is the boast of the place that it has no particular interest---not even a public school: for no reason in the world but because they like it, have so many nice people collected together in those pretty houses in Grange Lane---which is, of course, a very much higher tribute to the town than if any special inducement had led them there.

We're left to decide for ourselves how backhanded a compliment that is.

>33 lyzard: and >34 lyzard: Thanks for this, very helpful!

Regarding our discussion about deciphering how we're to view Carlingford, it reminded me of a conversation I had lately with friends. We were talking about how, in some places we've lived, everyone is very - almost extremely - nice and polite, but at the same time hesitant to actually be welcoming to new families or truly helpful to people outside of their circle. And alternately some places we've lived, the tone of how people talk in everyday interaction is a bit more brusque and off-putting, but when push comes to shove they offer real help to anyone who needs it. And are more willing to engage with those different than themselves.

This strikes me as the same sort of thing that Oliphant could be noticing and commenting on.

>35 japaul22:

We don't get much sense of people coming and going in Carlingford---except amongst the clergy! There's a feeling of insularity, and of a right to judgement of others, that's almost stifling. Note a comment such as this:

Chapter 1:

He had to walk down the whole length of Grange Lane to his lodging, which was in the last house of the row, a small house in a small garden, where Mrs Hadwin, the widow of a whilom curate, was permitted by public opinion, on the score of her own unexceptionable propriety, to receive a lodger without loss of position thereby...

This is interesting---and in fact Frank sums up in a sentence a major point of dissension between the High and Low Church people:

Volume I Chapter 4:

    "My dear, the Christian life is very hard, as your aunt Leonora always says. She says she can't bear to see people playing at Christianity---"
    "People should not speak of things they don't understand," said the Perpetual Curate. "Your Exeter-Hall men, aunt Dora, are like the old ascetics---they try to make a merit of Christianity by calling it hard and terrible; but there are some sweet souls in the world, to whom it comes natural as sunshine in May."

Exeter Hall, as we touched upon in Salem Chapel, was an auditorium in London that hosted religious and philanthropic gatherings, and was an important gathering place for the Nonconformists.

To put it broadly, Low Church people and Dissenters tended very much to the "life is but a vale of tears" attitude; whereas High Church people saw nothing sinful in (to use Trollope's favourite phrase) enjoying the "good things" of life.

It says much about Frank that he views Christianity as one of those "good things".

Lucy, meanwhile, has had a first, tiny arrow planted in her flesh:

Volume I, Chapter 4:

    Miss Dora's veil, which she had partly lifted, here fell over her face, as it had kept doing all the time she was speaking---but this time she did not put it back. She was no longer able to contain herself, but wept hot tears of distress and vexation, under the flimsy covering of lace. "No, of course, you will not do it---you will far rather be haughty, and say it is my fault," said poor Miss Dora. "We have all so much pride, we Wentworths---and you never think of our disappointment, and how we all calculated upon having you at Skelmersdale, and how happy we were to be, and that you were to marry Julia Trench---"
    It was just at this moment that the two reached the corner of Prickett's Lane. Lucy Wodehouse had been down there seeing the sick woman. She had, indeed, been carrying her dinner to that poor creature, and was just turning into Grange Lane, with her blue ribbons hidden under the grey cloak, and a little basket in her hand. They met full in the face at this corner, and Miss Dora's words reached Lucy's ears, and went through and through her with a little nervous thrill. She had not time to think whether it was pain or only surprise that moved her...

But the critical passage comes towards the end of the chapter.

Oliphant is on the whole approving of Frank, I think, but she sees clearly enough where (excuse the expression) his pride and prejudice get in the way, not of his duties, but of his responsibilities as a minister.

The point is made several times that he is a better minister when dealing with the people of Wharfside than at St Roque's: there is more simplicity, less performance, less self-consciousness, about the way in which he conducts himself.

Volume I, Chapter 4:

Mr Wentworth's little sermon to them was a great improvement upon his sermon at St Roque's. He told them about the empty grave of Christ, and how He called the weeping woman by her name, and showed her the earnest of the end of all sorrows. There were some people who cried, thinking of the dead who were still waiting for Easter, which was more than anybody did when Mr Wentworth discoursed upon the beautiful institutions of the Church's year; and a great many of the congregation stayed to see Tom Burrows's six children come up for baptism, preceded by the new baby, whose infant claims to Christianity the Curate had so strongly insisted upon, to the wakening of a fatherly conscience in the honest bargeman...

>28 lyzard: Thank you! I took your advice a gave The Rector a quick read, and lo and behold, appeared a familiar set, the Wodehouses and Mr Wentworth! Mr Proctor and the flavour of his pathos, unfortunately, hit somewhat close to home, but the story has given a little further glimpse of Oliphant's narrative tone. She seems to tease rather unhappily on the distress of those inapt and unequal to their circumstances...

Vol I: Ch 1-4

Frank Wentworth makes for quite a distracted minister, between attending to his duties and angsting over Lucy and the Skelmersdale living! But they are a rather sweet couple, with their almost conjugal harmony in serving Wharfside and particularly during the Easter baptismal service.

I feel bad, though, for the elder and more timid Miss Wodehouse. It is as if she is everybody's inferior, and nobody really enjoys her society...

The recurring conflict between High and Low Church within the same Anglican faith was a little surprising to me, not being at all familiar. I get the picture of what it means to be Anglo-Catholic, but I'm not too clear about the difference in Low Church, Evangelical, and Dissenter, as none of these seem to agree with our protagonist.

I also don't properly understand the concept of a "family living." If I gather correctly, the Wentworth income is quite divided, the elder Wentworth having married three times and had three families. On that score, Frank has little hope of a significant inheritance from his father and hence, his primary benefactors are his aunts, who having no children of their own, are likely to make him their heir but may also withhold this if they choose... Or am I making a mess of it? I assume that a living is not the same as an inheritance. And if his aunts were to give him the living at Skelmersdale, would he have to move there and become the local rector?

Of course, that's looking rather unlikely, given Aunt Leonora's displeasure with Frank's Easter service at St Roque. I can't help wondering if she would have approved of his Wharfside homily better. It was certainly the more beautiful of the two, and, I thought, an interesting contrast.

>26 lyzard: There is a family living in the offing, but Leonora considers it her duty to appoint a Low Church minister.

I was confused about that, too. How is Aunt Leonora in a position to appoint any church minister? Is that not for a bishop or other ecclesiastical power to decide?

>40 Majel-Susan:

I'm glad you found it worthwhile!

I guess the point is that Miss Wodehouse and Lucy are really two different generations; this touches on what I said in >25 lyzard: about the former's bemusement at her young sister's self-confidence and forthrightness. Part of this is just difference in character; but we can also imagine Miss Wodehouse undergoing a much stricter upbringing than Lucy, who is "the pet" of her father's "old age". Lucy, we would guess, has had things her own way for much of her life; while her sister was trained to submission and obedience.

>40 Majel-Susan:

As for the rest---

{*girds loins*}

A number of us here have been through Anthony Trollope's Barchester series, and had to wrap our heads around the High Church / Low Church schism, and the upheavals in 19th century English religion, apropos of those.

So I may have been guilty of skipping over those points a bit too quickly here; thank you for pulling me up.

It's a very big subject, though, and I'm still going to try to do a "long story short" version here; so if there if anything that is still unclear to you, please ask again!

Now---at the beginning of the 18th century, England was basically a Protestant country. There were remnants of the previously Catholic population. There were also Nonconformists of various types: Methodists, Presbyterians, Quakers, Dissenters, Unitarians, who rejected the Established Church on various grounds. But the Church of England was the dominant religious body.

The 18th century was a very materialistic time. There was the monarch and his or her parliament; then the aristocracy; then the gentry: and these bodies owned most of the country and its wealth and, with the church, worked to keep the classes separate and the poor in their place (there were really only the rich and the poor: the middle-classes were a 19th century phenomenon).

At that time, no gentleman worked, as we now understand work. The eldest son inherited the bulk of his father's property, while the younger sons had to find some way of supporting themselves. And the only acceptable careers were the army, the law and the church.

And to answer your last question first---one of the privileges of the landowners was to appoint the ministers of the parishes within their domains.

In practice, those livings would usually go to a younger son, to take him off his father's or brother's hands. Younger sons would study for the ministry knowing that at the end of it, there would be a family living held for them. Vocation wasn't considered very important.

Towards the end of the 18th century, there began to be a pushback about a lot of things (all tied in with the American and French Revolutions, which is a HUGE subject I'm not even going to touch upon!). The church at this time was struggling: it was widely viewed as a corrupt, almost secular organisation, hand-in-glove with the government and with very little real religious function. Many people began leaving the established church for the various Nonconformist sects, others simply gave up their religion. And finally there was an acceptance that there had to be reform.

This began over the early decades of the 19th century with a greater emphasis on vocation and training---but it took an unexpected turn with the so-called "Oxford Movement" of the 1830s and 1840s, which wanted to hit the reset button, as it were, and re-establish a much more traditional form of worship.

This set off a huge controversy, and began a lot of intra-faith brawling.

At its simplest, the High Church / Low Church split is about liturgical differences, that is, about how worship is conducted.

However, there are also class and political differences built into the conflict (just to confuse matters!). High Church people tended to be of the aristocracy and gentry; their sons went to Oxford; their politics were conservative: there were for the maintenance of the status quo. Low Church people tended to be of a lower social standing, more associated with business or trade.

The people who objected to the tenets of the Oxford Movement saw it as a backdoor attempt to re-establish Catholicism in England (and felt vindicated when some of the movement's leaders, like John Henry Newman, actually did convert).

In the wake of the Oxford Movement, High Church ministers tended to adopt "Catholic" practices such as decorating their altars, marking saints' days, feast days and festivals, and conducting their services in a more ritualistic way. At the same time there was rejection of overt Catholic tenets such as celibacy for the priesthood, confession, etc.

Low Church people, however, rejected all of these "externals" for a focus upon the teaching of the Gospel. There was also an emphasis upon personal experience and conversion, hence the use of the term "Evangelical". In fact, although Anglican, Low Church people tended to have a lot more in common with Nonconformists like the Dissenters than they did with the High Church people.

(Later we will see Frank's Aunt Leonora reject his services and those of Mr Morgan, and attend the Dissenting service at Salem Chapel instead.)

And there was an associated difference in attitude. Low Church people often viewed High Church people as casual or insincere about their faith, and thus inherently sinful; High Church people accused Low Church people of being obsessed with sin, and of sucking the joy out of everything.

But it was complicated---and didn't always make a lot of sense. A parish could have a High Church minister for years, and then he could be replaced by a Low Church minister who did everything differently (and in fact, we see this in Carlingford after the death of Mr Bury). And families could split on this point, as the Wentworths have done. Frank and his half-brother, Gerald, are High Church to the point of Anglo-Catholicism; whereas the Miss Wentworths, the sisters of their father, are Low Church to the point of Dissent.

And it was all taken terribly seriously - seriously to the point of book-burning in practice - though it can be hard to grasp that at this distance, and not least because of authors like Trollope and even Oliphant seeing the absurdity and contradictions of this in-house brawling.

And to go back to your original point---

The Wentworths are landowners; Mr Wentworth is "the squire". As such, they do have a family living, which is held by Gerald Wentworth.

The Miss Wentworths, meanwhile, have come into possession of a different piece of property, which also has the privilege of a living attached to it. The problem is that they, or anyway Miss Leonora, want a minister of their own views to hold it, which rules out Frank.

>43 lyzard: >44 lyzard: Oh, wow. Thanks so much, it's a lot clearer now!

So just to clarify, a family living refers to a professional position which is in the privilege of a prominent family of local property to bestow on whomever they choose, often a family member but not necessarily?

>43 lyzard: Thanks for that refresher, I'm finding the religious brawls rather tedious in this one. Not to mention poor Miss Dora, her constant weeping is starting to get on my nerves, to be honest.

Vol I: Ch 5

Mr and Mrs Morgan are not quite on the same page regarding Wentworth, the wife it seems, being rather taken by the nice young curate's good manners. But Mr Morgan is quite an overbearing husband! One would think that the rector should be pleased and not so hung up about a mission among the poor which he himself doesn't even have to do anything about. I mean, that is a clergyman's work, and if it is as he feels, that Frank is "overstepping" him in Wharfside, he really only needs to give it a formal nod and Frank would be "authorised" as he was in Mr Bury's day.

Perhaps she was thinking secretly to herself how much better one knows a man after being married to him three months than after being engaged to him ten years
Absolute and miserable truth! XD

Six little heathens brought into the Christian fold in his own parish without the permission of the Rector!
Do they need the Rector's permission?? I'm afraid I am quite ignorant of the parish affairs of any denomination...

Never mind, Leonora Wentworth is pretty terrible, too. And I feel bad for Dora, she's an idiot and her bumbling reminds me a little of Miss Wodehouse. Ineffective and unpersuasive. But she did so want to help her dear Frank!

Vol I: Ch 6

But poor Aunt Dora! Both her sisters now blaming her for Gerald and Frank's Romishness... However, Aunt Leonora does not seem to disapprove terribly of Frank's mission work.

Haha, little Rosa Elsworthy's first crush! I must confess that the notion of taking such serious investment, as in The Perpetual Curate so far, in the love life of one's minister is a little odd to me! XD

If Mr Wodehouse were to die, I expect that would leave both his daughters in a rather bad way. But good for Frank, now that he has finished despairing over Skalemerdale and the sun still shines.

>46 MissWatson: Oh, but she did do it for the best, you know. She tried so hard! You don't think she is to blame, oh, do you? XD

>47 Majel-Susan: I marked that line about the 3 months marriage vs. 10 years engagement also - amusing and likely true!

>50 japaul22: Well, at least, depending on one's lottery, that isn't necessarily a damning event :)
... but the discovery that he was merely a man after all, with very ordinary defects, did not lessen her loyalty

Just a note to say that we have bad storms here, my internet is spotty (to say the least), so I might be in and out for the next day or so.

>45 Majel-Susan:

I'm glad, I wasn't sure if that was making any coherent sense! :D

Yes. Of course the minister had to be suitably qualified, but otherwise there was rarely church interference.

>46 MissWatson:, >47 Majel-Susan:

In a sense I think "religious brawling" is almost the theme of this series, at least to date. It's a snapshot of where the upheaval of the Oxford Movement had left English religion, and I get the feeling that Oliphant pretty much agreed with you: that duty was not being done because the focus was on the divisions rather than the commonalities, and that too much negative human emotion was getting in the way of actual service. We see that in her comparison of Frank's two sermons in Volume I, Chapter 4, where (in her opinion) he does so much better when drops all his pretence and just speaks directly of fundamental things.

Mr Morgan is another negative face of the situation. He is middle-aged; like Mr Proctor, he has been appointed to his first ministry late, after spending many years as a scholar; he is unsure of himself, and consequently thin-skinned and territorial. He doesn't see the good that Frank is doing in Wharfside - or ask himself whether he could do as well, which clearly he couldn't - he only sees in terms of "his" parish, "his" rights, "his" authority. It is in these terms that he objects to the baptism of the Burrows children.

On a general note, I will say that Mrs Morgan may be my favourite character in the novel, and I suspect she may have been Oliphant's, too.

Aunt Dora, on the other hand, is infuriating; though we should try to remember that (i) she has been living her entire life with Aunt Leonora; and (ii) (as Frank tries to remember, also), that she was the nicest of his aunts to him when he was a little boy.

I was struck, in Volume I, Chapter 5, with Oliphant's descriptors of her characters' speech: look how easily she sum up both Mr Morgan and Aunt Leonora here:

"I beg your pardon. I quite decline interfering with Mr Wentworth; he is not at all under my jurisdiction. Indeed," said the Rector, with a smile of anger, "I might be more truly said to be under his..."

****

"I don't think there can be anything more than inadvertence in it. I should be glad if you would tell me what you object to in him. I think it is probable that he may remain a long time in Carlingford," said Miss Leonora, with charming candour, "and it would be pleasant if we could help to set him right..."

But even though these two are - albeit from very different perspectives - on the same page about Frank, Leonora still manages to step on Mr Morgan's sensitive toes:

She was not aware of the covert sarcasm of her speech. She did not know that the Rector's actual experience, though he was half as old again as her nephew, bore no comparison to that of the Perpetual Curate. She spoke in good faith and good nature, not moved in her own convictions of what must be done in respect to Skelmersdale, but very willing, if that were possible, to do a good turn to Frank...

The hilarious thing here, though, is that while Mr Morgan is attacking Frank, he does him more good with Aunt Leonora than he could ever have imagined, by uttering the magic word, "mission".

Missions were something very dear to the Evangelical heart, and it is Frank's work at Wharfside, so offensive to Mr Morgan, that keeps his aunt from casting him off altogether.

And this:

"But the mission is effective, I suppose, or you would not object to it?" said Miss Leonora, who, though a very religious woman, was not a peacemaker...

:D

>47 Majel-Susan:, >50 japaul22:, >51 Majel-Susan:

I'll try to tone done the Trollope references, but I was put in mind of him again with the description of Mrs Morgan's inner thought processes. Typical Victorian male that he was, Trollope always had the exasperating habit of insisting that as soon as a woman fell in love with a man, he became a "hero" to be "worshipped". We rarely get from him anything so devastatingly realistic as we get here from Oliphant's female perspective: a trip inside the mind of a woman who has worshipped her man as a hero:

Volume I, Chapter 5:

She sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor, tracing the objectionable pattern on the carpet with her foot, but too much vexed for the moment to think of those bouquets which were so severe a cross to her on ordinary occasions. Perhaps she was thinking secretly to herself how much better one knows a man after being married to him three months than after being engaged to him ten years; but the discovery that he was merely a man after all, with very ordinary defects, did not lessen her loyalty. She sat with her eyes bent upon the carpet, feeling a little hot and uncomfortable as her husband disclosed his weakness, and watching her opportunities to rush in and say a softening word now and then. The chances were, perhaps, on the whole, that the wife grew more loyal, if that were possible, as she perceived the necessity of standing by him and backing him out...

****

    "They have the living of Skelmersdale, I know; and I remember now that their nephew was to have had it. I hope this won't turn them against him, dear," said Mrs Morgan, who did not care the least in the world about Skelmersdale, looking anxiously in her husband's face.
    This was the climax of the Rector's trouble. "Why did not you tell me that before?" he said, with conjugal injustice, and went off to his study with a disturbed mind, thinking that perhaps he had injured his own chances of getting rid of the Perpetual Curate.

****

If Mrs Morgan had permitted herself to soliloquise after he was gone, the matter of her thoughts might have been interesting; but as neither ladies nor gentlemen in the nineteenth century are given to that useful medium of disclosing their sentiments, the veil of privacy must remain over the mind of the Rector's wife...

(Mind you, we do get quite deep inside Mrs Morgan's thoughts later on...)

Missions, as have said, are Frank's one saving grace with Leonora - would she admit that she's looking for one? - and so in Volume I, Chapter 6 she takes herself off to Wharfside to see for herself. And it goes quite well...up to a point:

When they got to the grimy canal-banks, Miss Leonora stopped the vehicle and got out. She declined the attendance of her trembling sister, and marched along the black pavement, dispersing with the great waves of her drapery the wondering children about, who swarmed as children will swarm in such localities. Arrived at the schoolroom, Miss Leonora found sundry written notices hung up in a little wooden frame inside the open door. All sorts of charitable businesses were carried on about the basement of the house; and a curt little notice about the Provident Society diversified the list of services which was hung up for the advantage of the ignorant. Clearly the Curate of St Roque's meant it. "As well as he knows how," his aunt allowed to herself, with a softening sentiment; but, pushing her inquiries further, was shown up to the schoolroom, and stood pondering by the side of the reading-desk, looking at the table which was contrived to be so like an altar. The Curate, who could not have dreamed of such a visit, and whose mind had been much occupied and indifferent to externals on the day before, had left various things lying about, which were carefully collected for him upon a bench. Among them was a little pocket copy of Thomas à Kempis, from which, when the jealous aunt opened it, certain little German prints, such as were to be had by the score at Masters's, dropped out, some of them unobjectionable enough. But if the Good Shepherd could not be found fault with, the feelings of Miss Leonora may be imagined when the meek face of a monkish saint, inscribed with some villanous Latin inscription, a legend which began with the terrible words Ora pro nobis, became suddenly visible to her troubled eyes. She put away the book as if it had stung her, and made a precipitate retreat...

"Ora pro nobis" means "pray for us": it is a phrase used in a number of Catholic litanies, and as a response during mass.

For example:

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora / Holy Mary, Mother of God, prayer for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

That and the "monkish saint" would naturally have set Leonora off.

Dora is infuriating, yes, but there are moments when you have to feel sorry for her.

Like this:

Volume I, Chapter 6:

    "I wonder if he can't pray by a sick woman without his prayer-book?" she cried. "I never was so provoked in my life. How is it he doesn't know better? His father is not pious, but he isn't a Puseyite, and old uncle Wentworth was very sound---he was brought up under the pure Gospel. How is that the boys are so foolish, Dora?" said Miss Leonora, sharply; "it must be your doing. You have told them tales and things, and put true piety out of their head."
    "My doing!" said Miss Dora, faintly; but she was too much startled by the suddenness of the attack to make any coherent remonstrance. Miss Leonora tossed back her angry head, and pursued that inspiration, finding it a relief in her perplexity.
    "It must be all your doing," she said. "How can I tell that you are not a Jesuit in disguise? one has read of such a thing. The boys were as good, nice, pious boys as one could wish to see; and there's Gerald on the point of perversion, and Frank---I tell you, Dora, it must be your fault."
    "That was always my opinion," said Miss Cecilia; and the accused, after a feeble attempt at speech, could find nothing better to do than to drop her veil once more and cry under it...

As anyone familiar with bad 19th century English religious fiction (ahem: hi there) could tell you, there was a subset of anti-Catholic novels that were absolutely vicious and absolutely stupid; though funny enough, taken the right way. Their villains were always "the Jesuits", though some of them also featured "she-Jesuits" (!?), which were even worse.

Though presumably Leonora has come by her "knowledge" via tracts, rather than novels.

Chapter 6, as Janet notes in >48 Majel-Susan:, also introduces the character of Rosa Elsworthy.

I think I need to say up front something that isn't clarified until near the end of the novel: Rosa is seventeen.

The problem is that the constant references to her as "a little girl" and how "childish" she is make her seem about twelve, and that in turn makes a lot of what happens feel very creepy.

>60 lyzard: Yep!

I think most of the dinner-table confrontation between Frank and Aunt Leonora in Volume I, Chapter 7 is probably understandable by now, but I thought I would offer just these two definitions:

The rubric is basically the calendar of the Catholic church, spelling out what must be done throughout the year and the correct conduct of mass, festivals, saints' days, etc.

Tractarianism is another reference to the Oxford Movement: the leaders of the movement published a series of documents, called Tracts For The Times, in which they spelled out their intent in reviving the earlier forms of worship, but also explained their stance on various points of doctrine. Some of these do sail very close to Catholicism.

Note that Frank rejects the Tracts but not the rubric: presumably he does follow it in terms of marking particular days.

>60 lyzard: I was really wondering how old she was!

I'm flying along, on chapter 23.

However, the critical part of Volume I, Chapter 7 comes later, when Frank has an unexpected confrontation with Miss Wodehouse:

It was all Mr Wentworth could do to hold up the trembling figure by his side. As John retreated, she gathered a little fortitude. Perhaps it was easier for her to tell her hurried tremulous story, as he guided her back to the house, than it would have been in uninterrupted leisure and quiet. The family tragedy fell in broken sentences from her lips, as the Curate bent down his astonished ear to listen. He was totally unprepared for the secret which only her helplessness and weakness and anxiety to serve her father could have drawn from Miss Wodehouse's lips; and it had to be told so hurriedly that Mr Wentworth scarcely knew what it was, except a terrible unsuspected shadow overhanging the powerful house...

This is the point at which we might start making comparisons with Salem Chapel.

(I will try to keep these comments general, so as to avoid spoilers for the latter.)

As we discussed then, Oliphant - either voluntarily, or under pressure from her publisher - blended into the plot of Salem Chapel elements that reflected the contemporary popularity of so-called "sensation fiction", with lots of secrets and melodrama.

She does this also in The Perpetual Curate. In my opinion, she does a better job of it here: I think these elements are better blended with her main, or overt, plot; plus this novel is free of the semi-satirical tone with which the Dissenters were often treated, and which was jarring when mixed with the melodrama.

In any event, Frank is here placed in possession of a secret, the keeping of which will cause him a great deal of personal anguish and public trouble...

Volume I, Chapter 8:

Mr Wentworth himself was still less explanatory. When Mr Wodehouse said to him, "What is this I hear about a brother of yours?---they tell me you've got a brother staying with you. Well, that's what I hear. Why don't you bring him up to dinner? Come to-morrow;" the Perpetual Curate calmly answered, "Thank you; but there's no brother of mine in Carlingford," and took no further notice. Naturally, however, this strange apparition was much discussed in Grange Lane; the servants first, and then the ladies, became curious about him. Sometimes, in the evenings, he might be seen coming out of Mrs Hadwin's garden-door---a shabby figure, walking softly in his patched boots. There never was light enough for any one to see him; but he had a great beard, and smoked a short little pipe, and had evidently no regard for appearances. It was a kind of thing which few people approved of. Mrs Hadwin ought not to permit it, some ladies said; and a still greater number were of the opinion that, rather than endure so strange a fellow-lodger, the Curate ought to withdraw, and find fresh lodgings. This was before the time when the public began to associate the stranger in a disagreeable way with Mr Wentworth...

It might be as well to remind ourselves of what was said about the unfortunate landlady in Chapter 1:

...a small house in a small garden, where Mrs Hadwin, the widow of a whilom curate, was permitted by public opinion, on the score of her own unexceptionable propriety, to receive a lodger without loss of position thereby...

Frank isn't the only one who is going to get a lot of grief from this:

The little household came to be very much talked of in Carlingford in consequence; and to meet that shabby figure in the evening, when one chanced to be out for a walk, made one's company sought after in the best circles of society: though the fact is, that people began to be remiss in calling upon Mrs Hadwin, and a great many only left their cards as soon as it became evident that she did not mean to give any explanation. To have the Curate to stay with her was possible, without infringing upon her position; but matters became very different when she showed herself willing to take "any one," even when in equivocal apparel and patched boots...

This is brutal:

Volume I, Chapter 8:

For one thing, his aunts did not go away; they stayed in the Blue Boar, and sent for him to dinner, till the Curate's impatience grew almost beyond bearing. It was a discipline upon which he had not calculated, and which exceeded the bounds of endurance, especially as Miss Leonora questioned him incessantly about his "work," and still dangled before him, like an unattainable sweet-meat before a child, the comforts and advantages of Skelmersdale, where poor old Mr Shirley had rallied for the fiftieth time. The situation altogether was very tempting to Miss Leonora; she could not make up her mind to go away and leave such a very pretty quarrel in progress; and there can be no doubt that it would have been highly gratifying to her vanity as an Evangelical woman to have had her nephew brought to task for missionary work carried on in another man's parish, even though that work was not conducted entirely on her own principles. She lingered, accordingly, with a great hankering after Wharfside, to which Mr Wentworth steadily declined to afford her any access. She went to the afternoon service sometimes, it is true, but only to be afflicted in her soul by the sight of Miss Wodehouse and Lucy in their grey cloaks, not to speak of the rubric to which the Curate was so faithful...

And meanwhile, there's this:

Then Lucy roused herself, apparently with a little effort. "We seem to talk of nothing but the man with the beard to-night," she said. "Mary knows everything that goes on in Carlingford---she will tell us about him; and if Miss Wentworth thinks it too late to come in, we will say good-night," she continued, with a little decision of tone, which was not incomprehensible to the Perpetual Curate. Perhaps she was a little provoked and troubled in her own person. To say so much in looks and so little in words, was a mode of procedure which puzzled Lucy. It fretted her, because it looked unworthy of her hero...

"Hero" again, you see.

To Oliphant, that word means trouble. :)

Of course Lucy doesn't understand the details of Frank's situation: that he has been excluded from Skelmersdale, that "unattainable sweet-meat"; that he is therefore doomed to life as a Perpetual Curat; and that consequently, he cannot afford to marry. He is therefore watching his words; but he can't help his looks: and the disjunction is starting to prey on Lucy's mind, particularly after those references to the mysterious Julia Trench...

>61 cbl_tn:, >63 japaul22:

I think removing that point of confusion means we're not distracted when we shouldn't be. :D

Thanks for telling us Rosa's age, that constant reference to her as a little girl yet reading lots of novel made me wonder.
I also think that the whole tale is going in a completely unexpected direction with that mysterious stranger's arrival!

>68 MissWatson:

I suppose it just means she's small / short, but it does tend to imply the wrong things.

This is Oliphant's way: she sets up her framework and then drops a bombshell on it. :)

Ha!

This may be the cleverest thing Miss Wodehouse says in the entire book.

Volume I, Chapter 9:

    "That is Miss Dora Wentworth," said Lucy, "and the other, I suppose, is Miss Leonora, who is so very Low-Church. I think I can see the Miss Hemmings coming down George Street. If I were to go in I should be in a dreadful minority; but you are Low-Church in your heart too."
    "No, dear; only reasonable," said Miss Wodehouse, apologetically.

:D

Of course, what Lucy means by "Low-Church in your heart" is that her sister is too focused on sin, or the perception of sin: this exchange comes on the back of Miss Wodehouse warning Lucy away from Prickett's Lane because Frank is there and "people might talk".

This is made explicit in the exchange between the Miss Wodehouses and Aunt Leonora, who spells out the Low Church position (which High Church people took exception to):

    "He is so good and so nice," said kind Miss Wodehouse, "he never makes a fuss about anything he does. I am sure, to see such young creatures so pious and so devoted, always goes to my heart. When we were young it used to be so different---we took our own pleasure, and never thought of our fellow-creatures. And the young people are so good nowadays," said the gentle woman, falling instinctively into her favourite sentiment. Miss Leonora looked at her with critical eyes.
    "We are none of us good," said that iron-grey woman, whose neutral tints were so different from the soft dove-colour of her new acquaintance; "it does not become such sinful creatures to talk of anybody being good. Good works may only be beautiful sins, if they are not done in a true spirit," said Miss Leonora, turning to her list of furnished houses with a little contempt.

The High Church position was, rather, that you could be imperfect without being bad; and that you could be a sinner without being a great sinner (which is what Frank says of the dying woman in Prickett's Lane). The Low Church riposte was that High Church people were much too casual about sin generally.

Of course, criticism does Frank a great deal more good with his aunt than praise; he should probably be grateful to the awful Miss Hemmings (at least at this point...).

OTOH Mr Elsworthy's praise gets this response from Leonora:

"You will please to let me know what Dissenting chapels there are in the town, and what are the hours of the services," she said. "There must surely be a Bethesda, or Zion, or something---Salem? yes, to be sure;---perhaps there's somebody there that preaches the gospel. Send me word," said the peremptory woman...

I wonder what she'll make of Mr Beecher and his lack of aitches? :D

I think Oliphant does a very good job detailing the shift in Carlingford's attitude towards Frank.

This is where the point we touched upon already, about how Oliphant really intends us to perceive Carlingford, comes to the fore.

What has Frank done to forfeit the town's good opinion? Nothing. A stranger has moved into the house in which he lives. And he won't gossip. And on that absurdly minor point, his entire world will be turned upside-down.

Oliphant uses the Miss Hemmings to show us the pre-existing resentment that Frank has attracted in certain quarters---and uses Leonora to underscore how unjust it is. What is called into question is the sincerity of the Miss Hemmings, who no doubt consider themselves motivated by religious principle, but come across as petty and spiteful. This is, alas, a point no less relevant today, with people continuing to use religion as a mask and an excuse for bigotry and cruelty.

In the business of the lodger, Oliphant also paves the way for a far more dramatic turn in Frank's fortunes. He is aware of the shift in attitude, and his impulse is to take the high ground---to refuse to acknowledge it, or to explain himself. This is perfectly understandable, but it is a stance that will cost him dearly in the long run.

If this is the state of things under such a minor transgression, what will happen when there is real trouble?---

Volume I, Chapter 10:

On the whole, however, it was a cloudy world through which the Perpetual Curate passed as he went from his lodgings, where the whistle of the new lodger had become a great nuisance to him, past the long range of garden-walls, the sentinel window where Miss Dora looked out watching for him, and Mr Wodehouse's green door which he no longer entered every day. Over the young man's mind, as he went out to his labours, there used to come that sensation of having nobody to fall back upon, which is of all feelings the most desolate. Amid all those people who were watching him, there was no one upon whom he could rest, secure of understanding and sympathy. They were all critical---examining, with more or less comprehension, what he did; and he could not think of anybody in the world just then who would be content with knowing that he did it, and take that as warranty for the act...

Of course, Oliphant herself is not uncritical of Frank; but she has more reasonable grounds for her criticism, namely, that in his self-consciousness, he is not fulfilling his duties properly at St Roque's. She understands whu he is like that, and makes sure that we do too; but she is critical of his inability to rise above the situation. Again she draws attention to the difference in his conduct towards his two congregations; and her language is damning: could you say anything worse in context than "clever little sermons"?---

    ...the natural result was, that he grew more and more careful about the rubric, and confined his sermons, with increasing precision, to the beautiful arrangements of the Church. They were very clever little sermons, even within these limitations, and an indifferent spectator would probably have been surprised to find how much he could make out of them; but still it is undeniable that a man has less scope, not only for oratory, but for all that is worthy of regard in human speech, when, instead of the ever-lasting reciprocations between heaven and earth, he occupies himself only with a set of ecclesiastical arrangements, however perfect. The people who went to St Roque's found this out, and so did Mr Wentworth; but it did not alter the system pursued by the troubled Curate. Perhaps he gave himself some half-conscious credit for it, as being against his own interests; for there was no mistaking the countenance of Miss Leonora, when now and then, on rare occasions, she came to hear her nephew preach.
    All this, however, was confined to St Roque's, where there was a somewhat select audience, people who agreed in Mr Wentworth's views; but things were entirely different at Wharfside, where the Perpetual Curate was not thinking about himself, but simply about his work, and how to do it best. The bargemen and their wives did not know much about the Christian year; but they understood the greater matters which lay beneath...

Perversely enough, it is a confrontation with Mr Morgan that snaps Frank out of his funk:

Chapter 10:

Mr Wentworth remained standing outside in much amazement, not to say amusement, and a general sense of awakening and recovery. Next to happiness, perhaps enmity is the most healthful stimulant of the human mind. The Perpetual Curate woke up and realised his position with a sense of exhilaration, if the truth must be told. He muttered something to himself, uncomplimentary to Mr Morgan's good sense, as he turned away; but it was astonishing to find how much more lively and interesting Prickett's Lane had become since that encounter...

:D

There are some interesting touches in the argument:

    "In that case, it will perhaps be better not to say anything," he said; "but I think you will find difficulties in the way. Wharfside has some curious privileges, and pays no rates; but I have never taken up that ground. The two previous rectors made it over to me, and the work is too important to be ignored. I have had thoughts of applying to have it made into an ecclesiastical district," said the Curate, with candour, "not thinking that the Rector of Carlingford, with so much to occupy him, would care to interfere with my labours; but at all events, to begin another mission here would be folly—it would be copying the tactics of the Dissenters, if you will forgive me for saying so," said Mr Wentworth, looking calmly in the Rector's face.
    It was all Mr Morgan could do to restrain himself. "I am not in the habit of being schooled by my---juniors," said the Rector, with suppressed fury. He meant to say inferiors, but the aspect of the Perpetual Curate checked him. Then the two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence. "Anything further you may have to say, you will perhaps communicate to my solicitor," said the elder priest. "It is well known that some gentlemen of your views, Mr Wentworth, think it safe to do evil that good may come;---that is not my opinion; and I don't mean to permit any invasion of my rights. I have the pleasure of wishing you good morning."

In saying that Wharfside "pays no rates", I think (in context) that Frank is saying that the people pay no tithes, and are therefore not strictly under the spiritual authority of the Rector of Carlingford.

St Roque's itself is an "ecclesiastical district": this was one of the new parish areas created when the pre-existing ones became too large to manage, or too diverse; it was to address this situation that Perpetual Curacies were revived. Frank has rightly recognised that the needs of Wharfside are so different from those of the rest of Carlingford, that it would make more sense as its own parish.

Mr Morgan, on the other hand, in saying this---

"It is well known that some gentlemen of your views, Mr Wentworth, think it safe to do evil that good may come---"

---is basically accusing Frank of being a closet Catholic; worse still, a closet Jesuit!

>71 lyzard: Carlingford strikes me as a very insular, limited world, where people interact with very few others. Only a handful of the men have been to school and university, apparently, nobody else seems to know other places. And the lower classes remain an anonymous, alien mass, mostly. Lucy's object of charitable work has no name or face, and the people at the wharfside aren't individuals, either (so far).

>60 lyzard: Thanks for the clarification about Rosa's age. The first couple of times we see her I assumed she was literally a child which was so confusing and disturbing.

>64 lyzard: I had to reread the scene between Frank and Miss Wodehouse to make sure that Oliphant hadn't told us her secret and I'd just missed it. Now I'm intrigued to know what she is hiding - my guess is that it's connected to the bearded lodger

IMO Miss Dora is a pest - she means well but just makes things worse. I want to think well of her but she's so irritating.

I think I may be a chapter or so ahead, but I will just say that my opinion of Leonora has improved somewhat from my early impressions.

>73 MissWatson: I agree with this. Partly it's due to the limited geographical mobility compared to today - fewer people travelling, and not such great distances - but mainly I think due to a more strongly entrenched class system that limits social mobility. I very strongly agree with >35 japaul22: ; it's a very valid observation of Carlingford and its society.

>73 MissWatson:, >74 Sakerfalcon:

All of that is true (and realistic enough for the time), but the question is how critical Oliphant intended to be; or is she just being matter-of-fact?

The lack of inflow and outflow has held its class barriers much more rigidly in Carlingford than in most places at this time. This, I think, is where Oliphant's first description of the town in Chapter 1 kicks in: there's no reason for people to come to Carlingford, except for clergyman (who have an amusingly high turnover); and conversely, no-one leaves either: the town has a strange dearth of young men*; Dr Rider is really the only young man we've encountered in the series, and he is an outsider. All the older male characters have daughters, who of course don't go anywhere of their own volition. Meanwhile there are widows and spinsters but very few wives (ditto). So at the level of its "nice" people the town is stagnant.

We need to remember, though, that the town does have a busy trade class that we're not seeing in this book, who were dealt with (not always kindly) in Salem Chapel.

(*This is perhaps something we need to keep in mind going forward: Frank doesn't have any friends his own age, no-one he can turn to when he gets into trouble, and conversely to openly stick up for him. He behaviour perhaps isn't always wise but he is used to having to keep himself to himself, so what he does is understandable, at least.)

Volume I, Chapter 10 also gives us the encounter of Frank and Rosa Elsworthy in the garden of Mrs Hadwin's garden, with someone who is presumably not Srah the maidservant.

The key touch here, as we need to recognise, is this:

When he opened the garden-door with his key, and went softly in in the darkness, the Perpetual Curate was much surprised to hear voices among the trees. He waited a little, wondering, to see who it was; and profound was his amazement when a minute after little Rosa Elsworthy, hastily tying her hat over her curls, came rapidly along the walk from under the big walnut-tree, and essayed, with rather a tremulous hand, to open the door...

Why has she had her bonnet off?

That's the kind of detail that would have spoken volumes to Oliphant's readers, but which might pass by modern readers.

I have an issue with this, though:

What did he mean? Was he going to say anything to her? Was it possible that he could like her, and be jealous of her talk with—Sarah? Poor little foolish Rosa did not know what to think. She had read a great many novels, and knew that it was quite usual for gentlemen to fall in love with pretty little girls who were not of their own station;---why not with her?

That's just not true. In fact the opposite: most novels, certainly all those by women, would have told young girls that there was only one reason a gentleman might be paying attention to them, and not to be foolish. Really, the only one that ever didn't was Richardson's Pamela; and while that certainly caused a social kerfuffle, that was 120 years before this!

But there was still, even at this time, a tendency to look askance at novels generally, and to deplore their effects upon poor weak-minded girls {*eye-roll*}; and people who wrote for a living had to be careful to declare their own moral superiority to the majority of publications.

However, this busy chapter ends with Frank getting an alarming letter from his sister-in-law, and rushing off without warning to his family home:

Chapter 10

In the mean time, leaving all these gathering clouds behind him, leaving his reputation and his work to be discussed and quarrelled over as they might, the Perpetual Curate rushed through the night, his heart aching with trouble and anxiety, to help, if he could---and if not, at least to stand by---Gerald, in this unknown crisis of his brother's life...

Dora does some terrible things in this narrative---but never anything worse than this.

Meaning well of course.

Volume I, Chapter 11:

    "But, please, I wasn't walking up Grange Lane," said Rosa, with some haste. "I was at Mrs Hadwin's, where Mr Wentworth lives. I am sure I did not want to trouble him," said the little beauty, recovering her natural spirit as she went on, "but he insisted on walking with me; it was all his own doing. I am sure I didn't want him;" and here Rosa broke off abruptly, with a consciousness in her heart that she was being lectured. She rushed to her defensive weapons by natural instinct, and grew crimson all over her pretty little face, and flashed lightning out of her eyes, which at the same time were not disinclined to tears. All this Miss Dora made note of with a sinking heart.
    "Do you mean to say that you went to Mrs Hadwin's to see Mr Wentworth?" asked that unlucky inquisitor, with a world of horror in her face.
    "I went with the papers," said Rosa, "and I---I met him in the garden. I am sure it wasn't my fault," said the girl, bursting into petulant tears. "Nobody has any occasion to scold me. It was Mr Wentworth as would come;" and Rosa sobbed, and lighted up gleams of defiance behind her tears. Miss Dora sat looking at her with a very troubled, pale face. She thought all her fears were true, and matters worse than she imagined; and being quite unused to private inquisitions, of course she took all possible steps to create the scandal for which she had come to look...

****

Miss Dora gathered up her wool, and refused to permit Mr Elsworthy to send it home for her. "I can carry it quite well myself," said the indignant little woman. "I am sure you must have a great deal too much for your boys to do, or you would not send your niece about with the things. But if you will take my advice, Mr Elsworthy," said Miss Dora, "you will take care of that poor little thing: she will be getting ridiculous notions into her head;" and aunt Dora went out of the shop with great solemnity, quite unaware that she had done more to put ridiculous notions into Rosa's head than could have got there by means of a dozen darkling walks by the side of the majestic Curate, who never paid her any compliments...

Having started this small fire, Oliphant proceeds to give us a lesson, both wry and infuriating, in just how fast such a fire can spread when driven by the combination of boredom, nasty-mindedness, and personal enmity:

Volume I, Chapter 12:

    Upon which the Rector, with some circumlocution, described the appalling occurrence of the previous night,---how Mr Wentworth had walked home with little Rosa Elsworthy from his own house to hers, as had, of course, been seen by various people. The tale had been told with variations, which did credit to the ingenuity of Carlingford; and Mr Morgan's version was that they had walked arm in arm, in the closest conversation, and at an hour which was quite unseemly for such a little person as Rosa to be abroad. The excellent Rector gave the story with strong expressions of disapproval; for he was aware of having raised his wife's expectations, and had a feeling, as he related them, that the circumstances, after all, were scarcely sufficiently horrifying to justify his preamble. Mrs Morgan listened with one ear towards the door, on the watch for Mr Leeson's knock.
    "Was that all?" said the sensible woman. "I think it very likely it might be explained..."

****

"That was not all," said the Rector, following her to the door. "It is said that this sort of thing has been habitual, my dear. He takes the 'Evening Mail,' you know, all to himself, instead of having the 'Times' like other people, and she carries it down to his house, and I hear of meetings in the garden, and a great deal that is very objectionable," said Mr Morgan...

****

"But I hear a very unfavourable general account," said the Rector, who was almost equally surprised. "I hear he has been playing fast and loose with that very pretty person, Miss Wodehouse, and that her friends begin to be indignant. It is said that he has not been nearly so much there lately, but, on the contrary, always going to Elsworthy's, and has partly educated this little thing. My dear, one false step leads to another. I am not so incredulous as you are. Perhaps I have studied human nature a little more closely, and I know that error is always fruitful;---that is my experience," said Mr Morgan...

(Apologies to the non-Trollopeans among us, but---this put me very much in mind of Rachel Ray, and the way the gossip about Luke spread through Baslehurst, the moment he left town.)

>75 lyzard: I find it misleading and sometimes infuriating that we learn so little about the "trade class" and the poor people at Wharfside; presumably they are the ones building the Empire and providing all the materials goods that "their betters" enjoy while indulging in their petty intrigues?

>80 MissWatson:

Well, that's a bigger topic than we can really get into here, but it probably comes down to commercial authors writing for their audience (and not getting published if they didn't). Things did shift in that respect later in the century with the demise of the circulating library, but at the time we're talking about there wasn't much market for such novels.

(Novels, you will appreciate, were considered sinful by Low Church and Nonconformist people, so no-one was targeting them as a reading public!)

But in terms of Oliphant herself, we were given a portrait of Carlingford's trade class in Salem Chapel: not an altogether flattering one, though at this point you could argue it was no less so than the one we're getting here of the gentry.

But between that novel and this, I think the take-home point here is the stratification of Carlingford: the upper classes are Established Church, and so are the poor people of Wharfside (a touch ironically, since the Evangelical Mr Bury was the one who was worrying about them; but Frank was all he had to send them); but in between we have the business and trade people, who are Dissenters.

And that means that there are absolutely rigid class barriers in place: the classes do not touch at any point, not socially, and not even religiously. Everything conspires to keep the separation. And this, along with the lack of outside influence upon Carlingford, creates this insular and rather petty world that is about to cause our protagonist a world of grief...

>81 lyzard: That brings up a good question. Wouldn't Mr. Elsworthy be part of the trade class? Or am I missing something?

>82 cbl_tn:

Yes, it is an over-generalisation to say that *all* of the tradespeople were Dissenters: that was the predominant situation, but we see that there were exceptions including Mr Elsworthy and his neighbour, the druggist, Mr Hayles. Note, though, that these two have shops in the vicinity of Grange Lane, so they have still separated themselves from the rest of the trade-class (and their businesses would have been considered of a higher social status than the meat and dairy businesses we saw in Salem Chapel).

Frank, as we have seen, leaves town hurriedly at the end of Volume I, Chapter 10; and Oliphant then traces the awful spread and evolution of the gossip concerning him, as a result of the infuriating Dora's interference:

In Chapter 12 we are not surprised to find Mr Morgan embracing the supposed evidence of Frank's moral failing (nor to find his wife dismissing the gossip); but what is surprising, and rather dismaying, is how readily Mr Wodehouse accepts it in Chapter 13---where of course it also reaches Lucy:

    "I want to know what all this means about young Wentworth," said Mr Wodehouse. "He's gone off, it appears, in a hurry, nobody knows where. Well, so they say. To his brother's, is it? I couldn't know that; but look here---that's not all, nor nearly all---they say he meets that little Rosa at Elsworthy's every night, and walks home with her, and all that sort of thing. I tell you I don't know---that's what people say. You ought to understand all the rights of it, you two girls. I confess I thought it was Lucy he was after, for my part---and a very bad match, too, and one I should never have given my consent to. And then there is another fine talk about some fellow he's got at his house. What's the matter, Molly?---she looks as if she was going to faint."
    "Oh no," said Miss Wodehouse, faintly; "and I don't believe a word about Rosa Elsworthy," she said, with sudden impetuosity, a minute after. "I am sure Mr Wentworth could vindicate himself whenever he likes. I daresay the one story is just as true as the other; but then," said the gentle elder sister, turning with anxious looks towards Lucy, "he is proud, as is natural; and I shouldn't think he would enter into explanations if he thought people did not trust him without them."
    "That is all stuff," said Mr Wodehouse; "why should people trust him? I don't understand trusting a man in all sorts of equivocal circumstances..."

****

"And about his man who is staying at Mrs Hadwin's?" said the perplexed churchwarden; "does any one know who the fellow is? I don't understand how Wentworth has got into all this hot water in a moment. Here's the Rector in a state of fury,---and his aunts,---and now here's this little bit of scandal to crown all;---and who is this fellow in his house?"

No, nor us.

You would think that having lived in Carligford so long, Mr Wodehouse would know to take the local talk with a grain of salt; but like Mr Morgan he takes it all at face value---though with far less reason, indeed none.

We have to ask, why is everyone so willing and eager to think so badly of Frank? What has he done? We understand why Mr Morgan has his knife into him, but why is Mr Wodehouse so quick to tear into him?

(One thing Oliphant does in this stretch of her novel is attack any notion that only women gossip!)

The only vague suggestion offered is Mr Wodehouse's objection to Frank as a suitor for Lucy---unspoken, because Frank himself has never spoken, though now we get this---

"I thought it was Lucy he was after, for my part---and a very bad match, too, and one I should never have given my consent to..."

But most disturbing is Lucy's loss of faith.

However, we understand she is being hit hard from two directions here. She has already had a dose of Julia Trench when Rosa Elsworthy is thrust upon her; and this is where Frank's reluctance to speak to Lucy comes back to bite him. We know why he can't say anything; but to Lucy his refusal to commit himself begins to look like he has been trifling with her.

And of course Lucy is stuck in that awful Victorian trap, wherein a nice girl isn't supposed to admit her feelings, even to herself, until a man has spoken; so it is is quite likely she has never considered Frank's financial situation, or that that is what is keeping him silent.

But if Lucy's situation is bad, so too is her sister's: she knows enough to vindicate Frank at one point, as she says, but is unable to do so even to Lucy:

"But, Lucy," said the tender, trembling sister, who did not know how to be wise and silent, "I trust him, and you don't. Oh, my dear, it will break my heart. I know some part of it is not true. I know one thing in which he is quite---quite innocent. Oh, Lucy, my darling, if you distrust him it will be returning evil for good!" cried poor Miss Wodehouse, with tears...

>81 lyzard: Thanks for your detailed answer! It just struck me during reading that there is so much going on beyond the small world of Carlingford. I think I wouldn't have noticed it thirty years ago, but these days I look and read differently.

>85 MissWatson:

You're right, the question is how far Oliphant intended the reader to react like that.

We might just want to file this for future reference:

Volume I, Chapter 13:

    "Mr Wentworth?" asked Miss Leonora; "I should be glad to know, if anybody would inform me, what Mr Wentworth can possibly have to do with it? I daresay you misunderstood me; I said you were to look after that little girl—your niece, or whatever she is; I did not say anything about Mr Wentworth," said the strong-minded sister, looking round upon them all. For the moment she forgot all about the licence, and turned upon Mr Elsworthy with an emphasis which almost drive that troubled citizen to his knees.
    "That was how I understood it," said the clerk of St Roque's, humbly; "there wasn't nothing said about Mr Wentworth---nor there couldn't be as I know of, but what was in his favour, for there aint many young men like our clergyman left in the Church. It aint because I'm speaking to respected ladies as is his relations; folks may talk," said Mr Elsworthy, with a slight faltering, "but I never see his equal; and as for an act of kindness to an orphan child---"

The really curious thing, though, is that while the rest of Carlingford stands poised to tear him down, Leonora has been brought (in his troubles---and in his absence, which probably helps) to do him justice for the first time:

Volume I, Chapter 13:

After this last visit the active aunt returned home, going leisurely along George Street, and down Grange Lane, with meditative steps. Miss Leonora, of course, would not for kingdoms have confessed that any new light had come into her mind, or that some very ordinary people in Carlingford, no one of whom she could have confidently affirmed to be a converted person, had left a certain vivid and novel impression upon her thoughts. She went along much more slowly than usual in this new mood of reflectiveness. She was not thinking of the licensing magistrates of St Michael's nor the beautiful faith of the colporteur. Other ideas filled her mind at the moment. Whether perhaps, after all, a man who did his duty by rich and poor, and could encounter all things for love and duty's sake, was not about the best man for a parish priest, even though he did have choristers in white surplices, and lilies on the Easter altar? Whether it might not be a comfort to know that in the pretty parsonage at Skelmersdale there was some one ready to start at a moment's notice for the help of a friend or the succour of a soul...

****

"We know that God heareth not sinners; but if any man be a worshipper of God and doeth His will, him He heareth;" and it occurred to her vaguely, for the first time, that she was harder to please than her Master...

:D

The matter of Gerald Wentworth's conversion, which occupies much of Volume I, Chapters 15 - 19, is a very unexpected thing to find in a mainstream novel of this time, even a religiously themed one.

There were, as I've said, anti-Catholic English novels (a tendency stretching back to the Gothic novels of the 18th century); and in time there were Catholic novels, many of them stories of conversion (most famously John Henry Newman's semi-autobiographical Loss And Gain); and there was a female novelist whose name escapes me, who converted, regretted it, didn't re-convert, but began writing books about how you really shouldn't.

But as a subplot, Gerald Wentworth's decision to convert to Roman Catholicism is very strange.

As so often, it is difficult to know what Oliphant intends us to take away from this. Is Gerald meant as an object lesson to Frank, about the dangers of going "too High"? Is this an oblique statement of the Protestant position on Catholicism?

Apropos the latter, it was commonly said - by Protestants - that Protestantism appealed to "the intellect" while Catholicism appealed to "the senses" and was therefore not to be trusted. Going along with this view, it was asserted that Catholics weren't allowed to think for themselves. And there seems to be a note of this in Gerald's longing for "certainty".

Whatever we make of this, The Perpetual Curate is a very rare example of a novel giving us the whole spectrum of English religion, from Catholicism to Dissent.

One tiny point here:

Volume I, Chapter 17:

"I can't make out that he says that, Frank---I don't see that that's what he means," said Mr Wentworth, in a fainter tone than usual; and then he continued, with more agitation, "Louisa is a dear good soul, you know; but she's a bit of a fool, like most women. She always takes the worst view---if she can get a good cry out of anything, she will. It's she that's put this fancy into your head, eh? You don't say you had it from Gerald himself? You don't mean to tell me that? By Jove, sir!---by heaven, sir!" cried the excited Squire, blazing up suddenly in a burst of passion, "he can't be any son of mine--- For any damnable Papistical madness to give up his wife! Why, God bless us, he was a man, wasn't he, before he became a priest? A priest! He's not a priest---he's a clergyman, and the Rector of Wentworth. I can't believe it---I won't believe it!" said the head of the house, with vehemence.

We might recall that, in Chapter 3, when Frank is first confronting his Aunt Leonora, he offers deliberate provocation:

"I'm afraid, aunt, you will not hear anything worth such a long journey," said Mr Wentworth, moved, like a rash young man as he was, to display his colours at once, and cry no surrender. "I don't think an Easter Sunday is a time for much preaching; and the Church has made such ample provision for the expression of our sentiments. I am more of a humble priest than an ambitious preacher," said the young man, with characteristic youthful pretence of the most transparent kind. He looked in Miss Leonora's face as he spoke. He knew the very name of priest was an offence in its way to that highly Evangelical woman...

This section of the novel also introduces Frank's very large and complicated family.

We learn that his father has been married three times, and had several children each time; that Frank's mother was "the sensible one"; and in Volume I, Chapter 19,

that the eldest of the Wentworth brood, Jack, is a source of grief to his father---and a potential threat to his siblings.

We are on much more familiar English novel ground here. Jack, we gather, has gone right off the rails, and is living a disreputable life of debt and, possibly, dishonesty somewhere out of his family's range of vision.

BUT---the Wentworth property is entailed; nothing can prevent Jack from inheriting; and there is absolutely no guarantee that, having done so, he won't turn his step-mother and half-siblings out of the house---as he was legally entitled to do.

Jack makes his first appearance in the novel indirectly. I mentioned up above that The Perpetual Curate, like Salem Chapel, uses sensation-novel material for its own purposes; and while dealing with the latter, we saw that, though she supposedly disapproved of such writing, Oliphant was a able exponent of it.

We see that again here, with this dramatic and mysterious conclusion to Chapter 19:

    "I don't understand it," said the Curate, who looked scared and pale; "it seems to be from Jack; though why he is in Carlingford, or what he has to do---"
    "He's ill, sir, I suppose---dying; nothing else was to be looked for," said the Squire, and held out his hand, which trembled, for the telegram. "Stuff! why shouldn't I be able to bear it? Has he been any comfort to me? Can't you read it, one of you?" cried the old man.
    "'John Wentworth to the Reverend---'"
    "God bless my soul! can't you come to what he says?"
    "'Come back directly---you are wanted here; I am in trouble, as usual; and T.W.---'"
    Here the Squire took a step backwards, and set himself against a tree. "The sun comes in one's eyes," he said, rather feebly. "There's something poisonous in the air today. Here's Gerald going out of the Church; and here's Frank in Jack's secrets. God forgive him! Lads, it seems you think I've had enough of this world's good. My heir's a swindling villain, and you know it; and here's Frank going the same road too."

(Just what Frank needs: someone else willing to think the worst of him...)

...which also brings us to the end of Volume I.

Can I ask people to check in and let me know how they're going? (So I can see how much I need to speed up!)

My ebook doesn't divide into volumes, but numbers chapters continuously, I have just finished chapter XXII. So I'm three chapters int volume II?

>93 MissWatson:

Yes, that's right; the breakdown is in >3 lyzard:.

>92 lyzard: I'm at Chapter 15, so I'll be playing catch up.

>92 lyzard: Just a quick note to say that I've just started this evening and up to Chapter IX, and hope to get some extended reading time in this weekend.

I've enjoyed so many of the comments (I've only read them up to Chapter VIII), but here are a few additional observations:

>57 lyzard: Chapter V The carpet! This is what I love about Oliphant--all those domestic observations about home, daily life and community. I can just see myself in that situation staring at the design on the carpet--seeing it and not seeing it, at the same time.

And at the beginning of that chapter, when the Miss Wentworths (or is it the Misses Wentworth?) are announced, Mrs Morgan has the following thought process:
"she, poor lady, looked just sufficiently sympathetic and indignant to withdraw her mind from that first idea which usually suggested itself on the entrance of visitors--which was, what could they possibly think of her if they supposed the carpet, etc. to be her own choice?"

And near the end of Chapter V, such an interesting observation of contemporary sensibilities:

"...but as neither ladies nor gentlemen in the nineteenth century are given to that useful medium of disclosing their sentiments, the veil of privacy must remain over the mind of the Rector's wife."
Ha! It's like she's been reading your 19th century group reads, Liz!

And the last line of the chapter:
"She {Mrs Morgan} forgot her vexations about Mr Wentworth in consideration of the more palpable inconvenience of the passing train."

All I could think about is the delivery trucks on my city street when they hit that pothole right in front of my building...those little irritations of daily life.

>46 MissWatson:, >49 Majel-Susan: The sisters Leonora and Dora remind me in some ways of the sisters in Gaskell's Cranford: Miss Deborah and Miss Matty. Miss Matty doesn't break into tears quite as often, but after Deborah's death Matty can't bring herself to do things that Miss Deborah would certainly have disapproved. Thankfully Gaskell lets Miss Matty grieve her sister's death and eventually come into her own.

>98 kac522: Yes, you're right!

I finished last night and enjoyed this. I'll continue to follow along with the chapter commentaries and chime in when appropriate. Glad I chose to read this one!

>80 MissWatson:, >81 lyzard: I'd also add, based on what I've read about Oliphant, is that she focused primarily on the various levels of "middle" classes, and the distinctions between them, and that she rarely touched on upper or lower classes in her works. There is the occasional poor family (like Prickett's Lane) and gentry (like the Squire), but they are not important in her stories.

>71 lyzard: Question--I can't remember--have the Miss Hemmings appeared in any of the previous Carlingford books?

>89 lyzard: re: conversion--yes, very unusual. The only novel that I can think with something similar is in Gaskell's North and South, when Mr Hale has basically "lost" his faith, or at least his faith to continue as a minister, and it is this that causes the family to leave the south of England and move to the north. But he certainly doesn't convert to another faith.

Liz, is there a Trollope novel where a clergyman has serious doubts about his faith?

Thank you all for carrying on, my weekend suddenly spun out of control. I'll speed up a bit over the next few days.

>95 Majel-Susan:, >96 kac522:

No worries at all, just go at a comfortable pace for you.

>97 kac522:

Mrs Morgan underestimates Carlingford's attention to detail and ability to turn nothing into something: of course the town knows Mr Proctor is responsible for the carpet! :D

Mrs Morgan is a great character, very nuanced and believable and, so importantly in context, a touchstone of what's "sensible" (and we're not getting much of that at the moment!).

>98 kac522:

Interesting comparison. I think Miss Matty has a bit more sense and strength of character, although these are not called forth until she has to fend for herself. I'm not sure I can imagine Dora, or Cecilia for that matter, taking care of business as Miss Matty finally has to do.

>100 japaul22:

Good to hear, Jennifer, and we're glad to have you too. :)

Please do continue to comment!

>101 kac522:

Well, the Victorian novel was basically a middle-class phenomenon: it rose with the rise of the middle-class itself. The vast majority of novels had middle-class characters, though they often dealt with the upper-classes too either in an aspirational way, or in a "we're better off as we are" way, according to the author's views. A more religious writer, like Oliphant, would probably be more inclined to the idea of God placing people in their proper sphere.

The thing to keep in mind when assessing 19th century English writing is the nature of the audience. Literacy rates did rise as the education system expanded, but working people (even assuming they weren't Nonconformist) couldn't afford books, which were a middle-class luxury. Instead they read the penny-papers, and their main entertainment reading was the so-called "penny dreadfuls".

>102 kac522:

I don't think so. They may have been name-checked, but they haven't appeared as characters.

>103 kac522:

Gaskell fudges the issues a bit, but yes, in practice Mr Hale finds himself unable to swear to all of the 39 Articles. So it isn't about loss of faith, it's about questioning some aspects of Anglican doctrine.

There are, as I mentioned in >89 lyzard:, a subset of English novels dealing with religious conversion, usually to Catholicism, although most of them are minor works. If you're interested, Newman's Loss And Gain is the most important and the most famous, since it essentially charts his own journey to the Catholic church. But that was a one-off. Georgiana Fullerton, who was also a convert, was probably the most important English Catholic author, and dealt with conversion among other religious themes.

There isn't any such novel, because Trollope - though he had so many clergyman characters - steered clear of matters of faith, which he didn't feel himself qualified to write about. In general he takes his ministers' faith for granted, even amongst his Low Church characters---though we do get the now-familiar question of "How High is too High?", and touches like that---and his clergy are predominantly seen in their family and social interactions. This is a big difference between himself and Oliphant, and between the Barchester books and the Carlingford books.

>111 lyzard: Yes, re: Gaskell--you put that better than I did--it's Mr Hale's trouble with Anglican doctrine, not his faith.

And right, I didn't think Trollope would go that way, but as I haven't read all of his novels (maybe a little over half), I didn't know (or more likely didn't remember!) if such a loss of faith was anywhere in his books.

Just finished Part I (Ch 1-19) last night, so I'm caught up so far!

Miss Wodehouse comes with a secret to complicate Frank's life for him... I'm speculating that that secret/Mrs Hadwin's latest lodger has serious potential to upset Lucy's standing with her father and/or society. Something to do with her mother, perhaps.

I'm glad to see, though, that the narrative is giving Miss Wodehouse some credit for her discretion, as well as her intelligence as to "everything that goes on in Carlingford," which is impressive considering that Miss Wodehouse hardly seems like a busybody or the type given to minding gossip and rumours. I rather like mild, soft-spoken Molly.

I'm finding this whole Frank and Rosa fiasco rather contrived and ridiculous for my part. Still, it's interesting, though, that although previously everybody refrained from noting the likelihood of Frank soon courting Lucy, now everybody is judging him nearly as if they had already been a couple!

Neither Louisa nor Mr Wentworth understand the crux of Gerald's difficulty, that it is not a matter of the external arrangements of his priestly office, but a matter of his intrinsic conscience. Frank understands him, however, even if he disagrees. I'm with Frank on this, though, that whether he stays an Anglican priest or converts to Catholicism, he cannot be allowed to abandon his wife and children. The idea is rather shocking, especially in those times when I imagine that a family without a "man of the house" typically meant a destitute family!

Ooh, enter Jack Wentworth! In Carlingford! And in company with "T.W."? Spicy!

>103 kac522: I thought of Mr Hale in North and South, too.

>111 lyzard: Mr Hale finds himself unable to swear to all of the 39 Articles

Ahh, so that's what it was about! It wasn't clear to me what was troubling Mr Hale when I read it last December; I kept waiting for it to be explained, but it never quite was... Speaking of which, all these crises of conscience are quite depressing!

>112 kac522:, >113 Majel-Susan:, >114 Majel-Susan:

Mr Hale's situation is presented in a very oblique way, with lots of references to historical crises (many ministers were turned out of their livings in the 1660s, when they couldn't / wouldn't swear), instead of acknowledging the contemporary controversies on the same point, another aspect of the fallout from the Oxford Movement (which prompted a lot of scrutinising of all points of doctrine and procedure). Gaskell may have been discouraged from getting into that by Dickens as her editor, or as a Unitarian she may have been chary about seeming to criticise the Anglican church too directly.

The historical reality was that a lot of ministers swore to the Articles as a matter of course, without really thinking about their implications; whereas when Mr Hale examines them closely, he can't conscientiously adhere to their demands.

The comparison between Gerald and Mr Hale is fascinating, as they are at opposite ends of the religious spectrum; yet both have a crisis of conscience that means - as they recognise in advance - misery for their families as well as themselves.

However, Gerald's vision of remaining a priest and therefore being compelled (and being willing) to abandon his family is even more extreme than Mr Hale's self-exile. Gerald is presumably assuming that among them, the rest of the Wentworths will support Louisa and the children, and he's probably right; but that doesn't answer Louisa's justified horror of being, effectively, a non-wife.

Just one observation that perhaps I should have made earlier:

People sometimes get impatient with the religious content, and particularly the religious hair-splitting, that preoccupied Victorian novelists, and it is vital that their novels be placed in the correct historical context.

In the 1830s and 1840s, as we have discussed, the Oxford Movement forced a huge reexamination of the state of the church and of individual belief. And then, twenty years later, Charles Darwin happened---plus there was a wave of German scholarship dealing with geology, the age of the planet, and so on; and then another wave of fossil discoveries.

All of these things combined to really test and question people's faith and the teachings of the church; and there was a lot of controversy, and many people did have a crisis of faith---one way or the other. Some people lost their faith, or had serious doubts; others went to the other extreme, like Gerald Wentworth.

Often this stuff wasn't spelled out in the novels of the time (though you do find mutterings about the Godless Germans), but it is important to understand that this was the background to a lot of English literature from the 1860s onwards, and why novelists were so preoccupied with these subjects.

But to bring things back on point---going forward, Frank will be tormented by this assertion made by his sister-in-law, in the midst of her misery:

Volume I, Chapter 16:

And then poor Louisa lost all her courage; she threw herself down at his feet, kneeling to him. "Oh, Gerald, it is not because you want to get rid of me? You are not doing it for that? If you don't stay in the Rectory, we shall be ruined---we shall not have enough to eat! and the Rectory will go to Frank, and your children will be cast upon the world---and what, oh what is it for, unless it is to get rid of me?" cried Mrs Wentworth...

In Volume II, Chapter 20, Frank returns to Carlingford totally preoccupied with the movements of his half-brother, Jack, and the question of what on earth he could be doing in the town. Focused on this potential scandal, he has no concept of, or thought for, the actual scandal circulating in town; still less how poisonous it has become.

In his ignorance, Frank handles the Rosa situation about as badly as he could possibly have done; and in fact is very slow to grasp the extent of his danger.

In a way we can't blame him: he just doesn't realise the extreme willingness of the town to think the worst generally, and of him specifically.

We see this in a nutshell in his confrontation with Mr Elsworthy, whose shift in attitude is worth dissecting---with several petty motivations combining into a genuinely destructive new stance.

Note particularly - in a single conversation! - the leap from Elsworthy's "two straws" remark to his insinuation about "walking up Grange Lane":

"No man, I make bold to say, is more particular about keeping to his own rank of life nor me. What you did, sir, you did out of the kindness of your heart, and I'd sooner sell up and go off to the end of the world than impose upon a gentleman..."

****

"One thing as I know is, it wasn't no blame o' mine. I as good as went down on my knees to them three respected ladies when they come to inquire. I said as it was kindness in you a-seeing of the child home, and didn't mean nothing more. I ask you, sir, what could I do?" cried Mr Elsworthy. "Folks in Carlingford will talk o' two straws if they're a-seen a-blowing up Grange Lane on the same breath o' wind..."

****

"You may be sure, sir, if she knows as you want to see her, she'll come," said the worm which had been trampled on; "and them as asks me why, am I to say it was the clergyman's orders?" said Elsworthy, looking up in his turn with a consciousness of power. "That means a deal, does that. I wouldn't take it upon me to say as much, not of myself; but if them's your orders, Mr Wentworth---"

****

"There ain't another man in Carlingford as has stood up for his clergyman as I have; and as for little Rosa, sir, most folks as had right notions would have inquired into that; but being as I trusted in you, I wasn't the one to make any talk. I've said to everybody as has asked me that there wasn't nothing in it but kindness. I don't say as I hadn't my own thoughts---for gentlemen don't go walking up Grange Lane with a pretty little creature like that all for nothing; but instead o' making anything of that, or leading of you on, or putting it in the child's head to give you encouragement, what was it I did but send her away afore you came home, that you mightn't be led into temptation! And instead of feelin' grateful, you say I've been drinking! It's a thing as I scorn to answer," said Mr Elsworthy; "there ain't no need to make any reply---all Carlingford knows me; but as for Rosa, if it is understood plain between us that it's your wish, I ain't the man to interfere," continued Rosa's guardian, with a smile which drove the Curate frantic...

Belated news of Mr Wodehouse's illness sends Frank hurriedly to the house, where he finds his situation with respect to Lucy has taken a hurtful turn.

Frank is torn here: thoughts of the Wentworth Rectory and what it might mean to him clash with his affection and respect for Gerald, his concern for Gerald's family, and his father's deep anger and offence.

Meanwhile, after the initial shock blow of Julia Trench, Lucy is now drowning in the gossip about Rosa Elsworthy. We might deplore her lack of faith, but understand how mortified she is by finding herself caught up in the whispering campaign, and by being the object of the town's cruel pity:

Volume II, Chapter 21:

He could not tell what the difference was, or what it meant. He only felt in an instant, with a sense of the change that chilled him to the heart, as if somehow a wall of ice had risen between them. He could see her through the transparent veil, and hear her speak, and perceive the smile which cast no warmth of reflection on him; but in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, everything in heaven and earth was changed. Lucy herself, to her own consciousness, trembled and faltered, and felt as if her voice and her looks must betray an amount of emotion which she would have died rather than show; but then Lucy had rehearsed this scene before, and knew all she intended by it; whereas upon the Curate, in his little flush and overflow of tenderness, it fell like a sudden earthquake, rending his fair edifice of happiness asunder, and casting him out into unexpected darkness. Sudden confusion, mortification, even a sense of injury and bitterness, came swelling over his heart as he set a chair for her as far away as possible from the corner in which he had been indulging such vain and unwarrantable dreams...

Lucy has a further cause of anger with Frank, though not just with him: she knows very well that something is being kept from her. As with her hurt and offense over the possibility of Frank's faithlessness, her incomplete knowledge leads her to an unjust response:

Would you be good enough, Mr Wentworth," she went on hastily, with a strange mixture of earnestness and coldness, "if you know of anything she is keeping secret, to bid her tell me? I am able to bear anything there may be to bear---surely as well as she is, who has had no trouble," said Lucy, softly; and for a moment she wavered in her fixed composure, and the wall of ice moved as if it might fall...

****

The Curate, mortified, wounded, and disheartened as he was, had no comprehension either of the bitterness or the relenting that was in Lucy's thoughts. Rosa Elsworthy did not so much as occur to him in all his confused wonderings. He went after her to the door, too much perplexed and distressed to be indignant...

I think it would be fair to say that by this point, The Perpetual Curate has settled on a theme:

Chapter 11:

"I went with the papers," said Rosa, "and I---I met him in the garden. I am sure it wasn't my fault," said the girl, bursting into petulant tears...

Chapter 14:

The poor lady sobbed herself to sleep after a time, and saw, in a hideous dream, her sister Leonora marching from house to house of poor Frank's friends, and closing door after door with all sorts of clang and dash upon the returning prodigal. "But oh, it was not my fault---oh, my dear, she found it out herself. You do not think I was to blame?" sobbed poor aunt Dora in her troubled slumber; and her headache did not get any better notwithstanding the green tea...

Chapter 20:

"Well, sir, if you did hear, it aint no blame of mine," said the injured bookseller... "One thing as I know is, it wasn't no blame o' mine. I as good as went down on my knees to them three respected ladies when they come to inquire. I said as it was kindness in you a-seeing of the child home, and didn't mean nothing more. I ask you, sir, what could I do?" cried Mr Elsworthy...

Chapter 21:

"I dare not speak to you till I am sure there's no one listening; not that I suspect anybody of listening," said the distressed woman; "but one never knows. I am afraid it is all my fault," she continued, getting up suddenly to see that the windows were closed. "I ought to have sent him away, instead of putting my trouble upon you; and now he is in greater danger than ever. Oh, Mr Wentworth, I meant it for the best..."

****

He was an alarming apparition in his great beard and his shabbiness, and the fugitive look he had. "I couldn't help it," he broke forth...

But as we contemplate the good intentions with which Frank Wentworth's road to hell is paved, we also get confirmation of the secret that he and Miss Wodehoue are keeping:

Volume II, Chapter 21:

    "Confound these servants, they're always prowling about the house," said the new-comer. He was an alarming apparition in his great beard and his shabbiness, and the fugitive look he had. "I couldn't help it," he broke forth, with a spontaneous burst of apology and self-defence. "I heard he was ill, and I couldn't keep quiet. How is he? You don't mean to say that's my fault. Molly, can't you speak to me? How could I tell I should find you and the parson alone here, and all safe? I might have been risking my---my---freedom---everything I care for; but when I heard he was ill, I couldn't stay quiet. Is he dying?---what's the matter? Molly, can't you speak?"
    "Oh, Mr Wentworth, somebody will see him," cried Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands. "Oh Tom, Tom, how could you do it? Suppose somebody was to come in---John or somebody. If you care for your own life, oh, go away, go away!"
    "They can't touch my life," said the stranger, sullenly. "I daresay she doesn't know that. Nor the parson need not look superior---there are more people concerned than I; but if I've risked everything to hear, you may surely tell me how the old man is."
    "If it was love that brought you," said poor Miss Wodehouse; "but oh, Tom, you know I can't believe that. He is very, very ill; and it is you that have done it," cried the mild woman, in a little gush of passion---"you whom he has forgiven and forgiven till his heart is sick. Go away, I tell you, go away from the house that you have shamed. Oh, Mr Wentworth, take him away," she cried, turning to the Curate with clasped hands---"tell him to hide---to fly---or he'll be taken: he will not be forgiven this time; and if my father---if my dear father dies---" But when she got so far her agitation interrupted her. She kept her eyes upon the door with a wild look of terror, and waved her helpless hands to warn the intruder away...

We get more information later, but from the disjointed conversations in Chapter 21, we can dissect out the fact that the Wodehouse secret is greater than a mere disreputable son: Tom Wodehouse is a wanted criminal:

"Yes, I will try to explain it if I can; but I can't---indeed I don't understand," cried the poor lady, in despair. "It is something about a bill---it was something about a bill before; and I thought I could soften papa, and persuade him to be merciful; but it has all turned to greater wretchedness and misery. The first one was paid, you know, and I thought papa might relent;---but---don't cast us off, Mr Wentworth---don't go and denounce him; you might, but you will not. It would be justice, I acknowledge," cried the weeping woman; "but there is something higher than justice even in this world.."

We gather that, as a young man, Tom forged a bill, was found out, and cast off by his father---though the matter was then hushed up. He has now repeated his offence, forging his father's name to a second bill.

(Later we will learn that Tom's defence is that, since his father's name is also "Tom", it wasn't really forgery...)

Forgery was a capital offence in England until 1836; it was one of numerous "white-collar" crimes for which the death penalty was repealed after the passing of the First Reform Bill in 1832. However, it was still considered a serious enough offence to result in a lengthy prison term.

But Tom Wodehouse's position is an extremely anomalous one, as he grasps and we soon gather: he is a wanted criminal---but he is also an only son:

    "Go away, I tell you, go away from the house that you have shamed. Oh, Mr Wentworth, take him away," she cried, turning to the Curate with clasped hands---"tell him to hide---to fly---or he'll be taken: he will not be forgiven this time; and if my father---if my dear father dies---" But when she got so far her agitation interrupted her. She kept her eyes upon the door with a wild look of terror, and waved her helpless hands to warn the intruder away.
    "If he dies, matters will be altered," said the stranger: "you and I might change places then, for that matter..."

>116 lyzard: Thanks for reminding us of the context. Somehow I always put this in the late 18th century with all the scientific voyages of Cook and Bougainville etc.

Belatedly chiming in to say I’m up to chapter 29. The story is really taking off now!

>123 MissWatson:

The German geological research did start in the 18th century but much of it wasn't translated into English until later.

>124 Sakerfalcon:

Thanks, Claire!

We must remember that Jack's telegram, received at the end of Volume I, Chapter 19, made cryptic reference to "T. W.", so Frank is now aware that his brother is somehow involved with Tom Wodehouse; he fears, involved with him criminally.

Jack has also made reference to "trouble", but it is immediately clear upon his first appearance that it is Frank upon whom the trouble is to be heaped:

Volume II, Chapter 22:

The scene within was one which was never effaced from Mr Wentworth's memory. There were several bottles upon the table, which the poor Curate knew by sight, and which had been collected in his little cellar more for the benefit of Wharfside than of himself. Removed out of the current of air which was playing freely through the apartment, was some one lying on a sofa, with candles burning on a table beside him. He was in a dressing-gown, with his shirt open at the throat, and his languid frame extended in perfect repose to catch the refreshment of the breeze. Clouds of languid smoke, which were too far out of the way to feel the draught between the windows, curled over him: he had a cigar in one hand, which he had just taken from his lips, and with which he was faintly waving off a big night-moth which had been attracted by the lights; and a French novel, unmistakable in its paper cover, had closed upon the other. Altogether a more languid figure never lay at rest in undisturbed possession of the most legitimate retirement. He had the Wentworth hair, the golden-brown, which, like all their other family features, even down to their illnesses, the race was proud of, and a handsome silky beard. He had lived a hard life of pleasure and punishment; but though he had reached middle age, there was not a hair on the handsome reprobate's head which had changed out of its original colour...

Miss Wodehouse has indirectly informed us of the trouble her brother is in; but it is Tom who likewise lets us know how Jack Wentworth makes his living---and what kind of man he is:

    "It's all very well for you: you put a man up to everything that's dangerous, and then you leave him in the lurch, and say it don't matter. I daresay it don't matter to you. All that you've done has been to share the profit---you've nothing to do with the danger; but I'm savage to-night, and I don't mean to stand it any more," said the stranger, his great chest expanding with a panting breath. He, too, looked as if he would have liked to seize the languid spectator in his teeth and shake some human feeling into him. Jack Wentworth raised his eyebrows and looked at him, as he might have looked at a wild beast in a rage.
    "Sit down, savage, and be quiet," he said. "Why should I trouble myself about you?---any fool could get into your scrape. I am not in the habit of interfering in a case of common crime. What I do, I do out of pity," he continued, with an air of superiority, quite different from his tone to his brother. But this look, which had answered before, was not successful to-night.
    "By Jove, I am savage!" said the other, setting his teeth, "and I know enough of your ways to teach you different behaviour. The parson has treated me like a gentleman---like what I used to be, though he don't like me; but you!---By Jove! It was only my own name I signed, after all," he continued, after a pause, lowering his voice; "but you, you blackleg---"

A blackleg is someone who lives by fraud---by cheating at cards, or by luring inexperienced gamblers into a fixed game. In terms of what a "gentleman" may or may not do, it was considered just as dishonourable as committing a crime. It simply wasn't illegal.

We infer that Jack and Tom have been in a sort of partnership, with Tom (from the sound of it) taking most of the risks with regard to their "marks": drawing in them into the game so that Jack can clean them out.

However, the two have fallen on hard times, and Tom has recklessly tried to raise money by forging his father's name---and been found out:

    "As for Wodehouse, I partly understand what he has done," said the Curate. "It appears likely that he has killed his father, by the way; but I suppose you don't count that. It is forgery in the mean time; I understand as much."
    "It's my name as well as his, by Jove!" interrupted, hastily, the stranger, under his breath.
    "Such strong terms are unnecessary," said Jack; "everybody knows that bills are drawn to be renewed, and nursed, and taken care of. We've had a great failure in luck as it happens, and these ones have come down to this deuced place; and the old fellow, instead of paying them like a gentleman, has made a row, and dropped down dead, or something. I suppose you don't know any more than the women have told you. The old man made a row in the office, and went off in fire and flame, and gave up our friend here to his partner's tender mercies. I sent for you, as you've taken charge of him. I suppose you have your reasons. This is an unlikely corner to find him in, and I suppose he couldn't be safer anywhere. That's about the state of the case. I came down to look after him, out of kind feeling," said the heir of the Wentworths...

Here we have another point of connection between Salem Chapel and The Perpetual Curate, with Frank - as was Arthur Vincent - placed in the position of shielding someone (or not) from the law.

It's an interesting moral point; though as we touched on in the earlier novel, shielding someone, or more often their families, from "disgrace", regardless of the law, was considered acceptable behaviour.

(Note that in social terms, Jack's cheating is considered worse than Tom's forgery.)

Volume II, Chapter 22:

Here he was, without any fault of his own, plunged into the midst of a complication of disgrace and vice. Perhaps already the name of Lucy Wodehouse was branded with her brother's shame; perhaps still more overwhelming infamy might overtake, through that means, the heir and the name of the Wentworths. And for himself, what he had to do was to attempt with all his powers to defeat justice, and save from punishment a criminal for whom it was impossible to feel either sympathy or hope. When he thought of Jack up-stairs on the sofa over his French novel, the heart of the Curate burned within him with indignation and resentment; and his disgust at his other guest was, if less intense, an equally painful sensation. It was hard to waste his strength, and perhaps compromise his character, for such men as these; but on the other hand he saw his father, with that malady of the Wentworths hanging over his head, doing his best to live and last, like a courageous English gentleman as he was, for the sake of "the girls" and the little children, who had so little to expect from Jack; and poor stupid Mr Wodehouse dying of the crime which assailed his own credit as well as his son's safety...

The other critical point, if Tom is right, is this:

Chapter 22:

    "You daren't say as much to your brother as you say to me," he replied, after a while, in his sulky way; "but I'm a gentleman, by Jove, as well as he is." And he threw himself down in a chair, and bit his nails, and grumbled into his beard. "It's hard to ask a fellow to give up his liberty," he said, without lifting his eyes. Mr Wentworth, perhaps, was a little contemptuous of the sullen wretch who already had involved him in so much annoyance and trouble.
    "You can take your choice," he said; "the law will respect your liberty less than I shall;" and all the Curate's self-control could not conceal a certain amount of disdain.
    "By Jove!" said Wodehouse, lifting up his eyes, "if the old man should die, you'd change your tone;" and then he stopped short and looked suspiciously at the Curate. "There's no will, and I'm the heir," he said, with sullen braggadocio...

It is hard to be sure whether Oliphant intended a criticism of the prevailing system here, but either way the bottom line is that, criminal and disgraceful or not, both of these eldest sons are their fathers' heirs---and their siblings are in danger of being left in dire straits as a consequence.

The Wentworth property as we know is entailed, so nothing can be done to prevent Jack's inheritance; but if it is true that, in spite of everything, Mr Wodehouse has made no separate provision for his daughters, he is guilty of monstrous irresponsibility.

Mr Wodehouse, in his first anger, allowed a warrant to be sworn out against Tom; so that in Volume II, Chapters 23 and 24, Frank ends up with the distasteful task of persuading Mr Wodehouse's business partner, Mr Waters, to set that aside and participate in the cover-up.

And here we meet yet another ungentlemanly gentleman:

...he...had fought his way up to prosperity through many a narrow, and perhaps, if people spoke true, many a dirty avenue to fortune. He was very glad of the chance which brought his partner's reputation and credit thus under his power, and he was by no means disposed to deal gently with the prodigal son. That is to say, he was quite disinclined to let the family out of his clutches easily, or to consent to be silent and "frustrate the ends of justice" for anything else than an important equivalent. Mr Wentworth had much ado to restrain his temper while the wily attorney talked about his conscience; for the Curate was clear-sighted enough to perceive at the first glance that Mr Waters had no real intention of proceeding to extremities. The lawyer would not pledge himself to anything, notwithstanding all Mr Wentworth's arguments. "Wodehouse himself was of the opinion that the law should take its course," he said; but out of respect for his partner he might wait a few days to see what turn his illness would take. "I confess that I am not adapted for my profession, Mr Wentworth. My feelings overcome me a great deal too often," said the sharp man of business, looking full into the Curate's eyes...

>126 lyzard: Our first description of Jack felt to me like something from an earlier age - a Regency era rake.
I sometimes hear people say that they find novels from this period dry and unengaging, but Jack is one of several characters whom I want to reach into the book and slap! That to me is good writing.

>130 Sakerfalcon:

This book has an extraordinary collection of infuriating characters. :D

>130 Sakerfalcon: Yes, I was instantly reminded of some of Heyer's reprobates, especially in the way he talks. I really wish he'll get what he deserves!

>125 lyzard: Your comment put me in mind of Middlemarch where Will Ladislaw dismisses Casaubon's Magnus Opus as obsolete, because the Germans have done it before him. This may be the final push to read up about this...I never went beyond Humboldt.

Well, I couldn't stop myself and have finished. I have a few questions/comments which I'll hold until the appropriate time.

One question I can ask now about Tom "By Jove!" Wodehouse vs. Jack Wentworth: Jack seems to still have the external manners and appearances of a Wentworth "gentleman" whereas Tom seems so unlike his sisters and father, with all his slang and shabby appearance. I find the way Oliphant portrays Tom's manners a bit unlikely, considering what his upbringing must have been. Is there an explanation as to why he's so unlike the rest of his family?

>132 MissWatson:

He's the next generation of them: his background and upbringing were largely the same, but the society he's operating within is different.

German scholarship led the way for a long time in many areas, but because most English people didn't learn German in the same "automatic" way they tended to learn French and Italian (and Latin), there was a lag in its making an impact in England.

Middlemarch is set around 1830, so Will is citing material from the late 18th and early 19th centuries: basically the same time-frame as for the geological research I mentioned. The latter caused a huge storm when it was translated, because it challenged the church's teachings about the age of the planet and the Creation, and had its own opinion about the flood and so on. The publication and translation of Humboldt's Kosmos was a critical factor in this area.

>133 kac522:

Well done, Kathy! - and please do remember to post your comments!!

A couple of things are going on there. In the first place, there is a fairly significant gap between Mr Wodehouse and Mr Wentworth. The former is a working-attorney-in-a-country-town gentleman, whereas the latter is "the squire", complete with an entailed landed estate and a fortune. So though they are both gentlemen, they're not on the same social level.

(Mr Wodehouse's rejection of Frank as a suitor for Lucy underscores how much the basis of social acceptability had shifted from birth to money at this point.)

So Tom, too, is technically a gentleman by birth, but only by birth, and only just. He was kicked out of that milieu some twenty years before after committing a crime, and sunk socially since. He would have been forced to scratch a living by dubious means, and he has come out of it rough-mannered and crude and slangy---and aware of it. This is why he bangs on about being a gentleman: he knows he isn't one any more.

Jack, on the other hand, is still self-evidently a gentleman even now, whatever he may have done: he would have had an Eton-and-Oxford upbringing, and all that comes with being the heir of a gentleman of means. Presumably he drifted into his current way of life via the usual gentlemanly dissipations (probably wasted his means to the point where his father refused to pay his debts). Moreover, his "gentlemanliness" is clearly his stock-in-trade. If he is, as Tom says. a "blackleg", he lives by luring naive but wealthy people into situations where they can be drained of their possessions. He has to be overtly cultured and trustworthy to get away with what he does. Tom's hero-worship of Jack - a "real" gentleman - illustrates the effect he probably has upon his intended victims, who are likely on the fringes of society and searching for a way in.

>135 lyzard: Thanks. Jack I completely understand; with Tom I find it hard to reconcile his speech and manners compared to Miss Wodehouse, since they were children together. But I suppose twenty years is a long time.

And speaking of Jack and his powers of manipulation---

Volume II, Chapter 24:

There the three ladies were all assembled, regarding with different developments of interest the new-comer, who had thrown himself, half-reclining, on a sofa. Aunt Dora was sitting by him with a bottle of eau-de-Cologne in her hand, for this meeting had evidently gone to the heart of the returned prodigal. Aunt Dora was ready to have sacrificed all the veal in the country in honour of Jack's repentance; and the Curate stood outside upon the threshold, looking at the scene with the strangest half-angry, half-comical realisation of the state of mind of the elder brother in the parable. He had himself been rather found fault with, excused, and tolerated, among his relations; but Jack had at once become master of the position, and taken possession of all their sympathies. Mr Wentworth stood gazing at them, half-amused, and yet more angry than amused---feeling, with a little indignation, as was natural, that the pretended penitence of the clever sinner was far more effective and interesting than his own spotless loyalty and truth...

Luke 15:7: "I say to you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repents, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance..."

---which I always thought was cruel and unjust even when it wasn't a complete charade, as here. :)

>136 kac522:

He wouldn't have had anything like Jack's level of polish at the outset, and we can assume he has been living amongst the criminal class of London since: he has taken on their language, if not entirely their behaviour.

The more I read Oliphant, the less I believe she really disapproved sensation fiction: she may have disapproved its morality, but surely not its impact on the reader.

Look at how she structures this revelation:

Chapter 24:

    "If you were not such a child, I should be very angry," said the Curate; "as it is, I am very angry with the person who deludes you into coming. Go home, child," he said, opening the door to her, "and remember I will not allow you on any pretext to come here again."
    His words were low, and perhaps Rosa did not care much to listen; but there was quite light enough to show them both very plainly, as he stood at the door and she went out. Just then the Miss Hemmings were going up Grange Lane from a little tea-party with their favourite maid, and all their eyes about them. They looked very full in Mr Wentworth's face, and said How d'ye do? as they passed the door; and when they had passed it, they looked at each other with eyes which spoke volumes. Mr Wentworth shut the door violently with irrepressible vexation and annoyance when he encountered that glance. He made no farewells, nor did he think of taking care of Rosa on the way home as he had done before. He was intensely annoyed and vexed, he could not tell how. And this was how it happened that the last time she was seen in Carlingford, Rosa Elsworthy was left standing by herself in the dark at Mr Wentworth's door...

>139 lyzard: I was thinking of the similarities to Salem Chapel: in each 1) a young parson is almost ruined by gossip and 2) a young girl/woman disappears. These happen under different circumstances but the main plot points are repeated.
And the only persons with any sort of sense are middle-aged women: Mrs. Vincent (Salem Chapel) and Mrs. Morgan (PC).

>140 kac522:

Oliphant's alter-egos? :D

The situations are different, though, in that Arthur Vincent asks for much of his own trouble by his foolish infatuation and his obvious contempt for his congregation; Frank's fault (if you can call it a fault) is his naive assumption that Carlingford takes him at his own estimation---or conversely, that he judges the town by his own standards. That even at this point he refuses to react to the gossip or defend himself shows a dangerous lack of understanding.

That said, we can hardly blame Frank for for realising how far the rest of the town might go, when the people who should know him best are so quick to believe the worst of him.

We can understand that Lucy is being impacted not just by the gossip about Frank, but by the humiliation of being watched and whispered about herself. This is where the fact that Frank has not "spoken" comes into play. We know his motives are honourable, but his silence opens up a raft of unpleasant possibilities for Lucy. No doubt she has been telling herself all along that she and Frank are merely "colleagues", only to be confronted by the mortifying possibility that this is actually how he thinks about her! She should know better, really, but the complications of the Victorian social code are all against her here.

But Elsworthy's absolute conviction that Frank is responsible for Rosa's disappearance is staggering. There is a weird mixture of motives there: honest fear for his niece, social ambition (we see where Rosa gets her ideas about "gentlemen"), but also a measure of resentment and spite that must have been building for some time. Obviously Frank's rather lofty attitude is at the bottom of this; but even so, Elsworthy has had long enough, and enough close contact with him, to know Frank better than he is showing here.

But Oliphant gives us, as it were, an outside view of the situation by the inclusion of Mr Hayles in the appalling scene that unfolds at Mrs Hadwin's: that he isn't quite sure either shows us just how much danger Frank is in here:

Volume II, Chapter 25:

    "Do you think as I've shut my eyes because it's my clergyman?" cried the injured man, passionately. "I want my little girl---my little Rosa---as is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. If Mr Wentworth didn't know nothing about it, as he says," cried Elsworthy, with sudden insight, "he has a feelin' heart, and he'd be grieved about the child; but he ain't grieved, nor concerned, nor nothing in the world but angry; and will you tell me there ain't nothing to be drawn from that? But it's far from my intention to raise a talk," said the clerk, drawing closer and touching the arm of the Perpetual Curate; "let her come back, and if you're a man of your word, and behave honourable by her, there shan't be nothing said in Carlingford. I'll stand up for you, sir, against the world."
    Mr Wentworth shook off his assailant's hand with a mingled sense of exasperation and sympathy. "I tell you, upon my honour, I know nothing about her," he said. "But it is true enough I have been thinking only of myself," he continued, addressing the other. "How about the girl? When was she lost? and can't you think of any place she can have gone to? Elsworthy, hear reason," cried the Curate anxiously. "I assure you, on my word, that I have never seen her since I closed this garden-gate upon her last night."
    "And I would ask you, sir, what had Rosa to do at your garden-gate?" cried the clerk of St Roque's. "He ain't denying it, Hayles; you can see as he ain't a-denying of it. What was it as she came here for but you? Mr Wentworth, I've always had a great respect for you," said Elsworthy. "I've respected you as my clergyman, sir, as well as for other things; but you're a young man, and human nature is frail. I say again as you needn't have no fear of me. I ain't one as likes to make a talk, and no more is Hayles. Give up the girl, and give me your promise, and there ain't a man living as will be the wiser; Mr Wentworth---"
    "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the Curate, furious with indignation and resentment. "Leave this place instantly! If you don't want me to pitch you into the middle of the road, hold your tongue and go away. The man is mad!" said Mr Wentworth, turning towards the spectator, Hayles, and pausing to take breath. But it was evident that this third person was by no means on the Curate's side.
    "I don't know, sir, I'm sure," said Hayles, with a blank countenance. "It appears to me, sir, as it's an awkward business for all parties..."

"Awkward business" hardly covers it:

Volume II, Chapter 26:

The Curate saw himself hemmed in on every side without any way of escape. If he could not extract any information from Wodehouse, or if Wodehouse denied any knowledge of Rosa, what could he do to clear himself from an imputation so terrible? and if, on the other hand, Wodehouse did not come back, and so pleaded guilty, how could he pursue and put the law upon the track of the man whom he had just been labouring to save from justice, and over whose head a criminal prosecution was impending? Mr Wentworth saw nothing but misery, let him turn where he would---nothing but disgrace, misapprehension, unjust blame. He divined with the instinct of a man in deadly peril, that Elsworthy, who was a mean enough man in common circumstances, had been inspired by the supposed injury he had sustained into a relentless demon; and he saw distinctly how strong the chain of evidence was against him, and how little he could do to clear himself...

BTW, I love the fact that one of the most damning pieces of evidence against Frank is that he got up early!

Let this be a lesson to all of us... :D

>143 lyzard: A crime I'll never get charged with!

>144 kac522:

:D

And here's another one:

Chapter 26:

She felt she had more and more reason for doubting human nature in general, and for believing that the Curate of St Roque's in particular could not bear any close examination into his conduct. Mrs Hadwin sat down to her breakfast accordingly with a sense of pitying virtue which was sweet to her spirit, notwithstanding that she was, as she would have frankly acknowledged, very fond of Mr Wentworth; she said, "Poor young man," to herself, and shook her head over him as she poured out her solitary cup of tea. She had never been a beauty herself, nor had she exercised any overwhelming influence that she could remember over any one in the days of her distant youth: but being a true woman, Mrs Hadwin believed in Rosa Elsworthy, and pitied, not without a certain half-conscious female disdain, the weakness of the inevitable victim. He did not dare to stop to explain to her what it meant. He rushed out of her way as soon as he saw she meant to question him. That designing girl had got him entirely under her sway, the poor young man!

And the injustices just keep piling on.

Poor Frank!

Volume II, Chapter 27:

    "Has he made his will?" said Mr Wentworth, suddenly. He forgot that it was Lucy who was standing by him; and it was only when he caught a glance of reproach and horror from her eyes that he recollected how abrupt his question was. "Pardon me," he said; "you think me heartless to speak of it at such a time; but tell me, if you know: Miss Wodehouse, has he made his will?"
    "Oh, Mr Wentworth, I don't know anything about business," said the elder sister. "He said he would; but we have had other things to think of---more important things," said poor Miss Wodehouse, wringing her hands, and looking at Mr Wentworth with eyes full of warning and meaning, beseeching him not to betray her secret. She came nearer to the side of the bed on which Lucy and the Curate were standing, and plucked at his sleeve in her anxiety. "We have had very different things to think of. Oh, Mr Wentworth, what does it matter?" said the poor lady, interposing her anxious looks, which suggested every kind of misfortune, between the two.
    "It matters everything in the world," said Mr Wentworth. "Pardon me if I wound you---I must speak; if it is possible to rouse him, an effort must be made. Send for Mr Waters. He must not be allowed to go out of the world and leave your interests in the hands of---"
    "Oh, hush, Mr Wentworth, hush!---oh, hush, hush! Don't say any more," cried Miss Wodehouse, grasping his arm in her terror.
    Lucy rose from where she had been sitting at the bedside. She had grown paler than before, and looked almost stern in her youthful gravity. "I will not permit my father to be disturbed," she said. "I don't know what you mean, or what you are talking of; but he is not to be disturbed. Do you think I will let him be vexed in his last hours about money or anybody's interest?" she said, turning upon the Curate a momentary glance of scorn...

We've already had this:

Chapter 26---

And Lucy? But here the young man got up indignant and threw off his fears. He doubted her regard with a doubt which threw darkness over the whole universe; but that she should be able for a moment to doubt his entire devotion to her, seemed a blindness incredible. No; let who would believe ill of him in this respect, to Lucy such an accusation must look as monstrous as it was untrue. She, at least, knew otherwise; and, taking this false comfort to his heart...

Still determined to "take no notice", Frank really has no idea how much damage has been done to him; and though he does of course realise how offensive his insistence on Mr Wodehouse's will is to Lucy, who doesn't understand his motives, he hardly understands what this act is actually piling onto.

But---

Chapter 27:

    "But it must be done," said Mr Wentworth. "You will understand me hereafter. Miss Wodehouse, you must send for Mr Waters, and in the mean time I will do what I can to rouse him. It is no such cruelty as you think," said the Curate, with humility; "it is not for money or interest only---it concerns all the comfort of your life."
    This he said to Lucy, who sat defending her father. She, for her part, looked up at him with eyes that broke his heart. At that moment of all others, the unfortunate Curate perceived, by a sudden flash of insight, that nothing less than love could look at him with such force of disappointment and reproach and wounded feeling...

Um...good?

Meanwhile, at the Rectory:

Volume II, Chapter 28:

    "I beg your pardon, my dear," said Mr Morgan; "I was thinking of this story about Mr Wentworth. One is always making new discoveries of the corruption of human nature. He had behaved very badly to me; but it is very sad to see a young man sacrifice all his prospects for the indulgence of his passions; though that is a very secular way of looking at the subject," said the Rector, shaking his head mournfully. "If it is bad in a worldly point of view, what is it in a spiritual? and in this age, too, when it is so important to keep up the character of the clergy!" Mr Morgan sighed again more heavily than ever as he poured out the single glass of port, in which his wife joined him after dinner. "Such an occurrence throws a stigma upon the whole Church, as Mr Leeson very justly remarked."
    "I thought Mr Leeson must have something to do with it," said the Rector's wife. "What has Mr Wentworth been doing? When you keep a Low-Church Curate, you never can tell what he may say. If he had known of the All-Souls pudding he would have come to dinner, and we should have had it at first-hand," said Mrs Morgan, severely. She put away her peach in her resentment, and went to a side-table for her work, which she always kept handy for emergencies. Like her husband, Mrs Morgan had acquired some little "ways" in the long ten years of their engagement, one of which was a confirmed habit of needlework at all kinds of unnecessary moments, which much disturbed the Rector when he had anything particular to say.
    "My dear, I am very sorry to see you so much the victim of prejudice," said Mr Morgan...

:D

This touches on what we were saying up above, >80 MissWatson:, >81 lyzard:, about the rigid class structure in Carlingford; and about the fact, >43 lyzard:, that Low Church people generally had more in common with the Nonconformists than with their High Church "colleagues":

Chapter 28:

Mr Morgan gave a little groan in his spirit as his wife went away. To do him justice, he had a great deal of confidence in her, and was unconsciously guided by her judgment in many matters. Talking it over with Mr Leeson was a totally different thing; for whatever might be said in his defence, there could not be any doubt that the Curate professed Low-Church principles, and had been known to drink tea with Mr Beecher, the new minister of Salem Chapel. "Not that I object to Mr Beecher because he is a Dissenter," Mr Morgan said, "but because, my dear, you know, it is a totally different class of society."

The reference to Mr Beecher as the "new" minister places these events immediately after those of Salem Chapel. Never a dull moment in Carlingford!

>148 lyzard: "...needlework at all kinds of unnecessary moments..." Go Mrs Morgan!

But the vital part of Chapter 28 is Oliphant's sympathetic disection of Mrs Morgan's thoughts and emotions, as she considers Frank's awful situation---but also contrasts herself and her husband with Frank and Lucy and their (theoretical) happiness---and with the position of women generally in society:

Mrs Morgan was vaguely sensible of her disadvantages in this respect as well as in others. She never could help imagining what she might have been had she married ten years before at the natural period. "And even then not a girl," she said to herself in her sensible way, as she carried this habitual thread of thought with her along the street, past the little front gardens, where there were so many mothers with their children. On the other side of the way the genteel houses frowned darkly with their staircase windows upon the humility of Grove Street; and Mrs Morgan began to think within herself of the Miss Hemmings and other spinsters, and how they got along upon this path of life, which, after all, is never lightsome to behold, except in the future or the past. It was dead present with the Rector's wife just then, and many speculations were in her mind, as was natural. "Not that I could not have lived unmarried," she continued within herself, with a woman's pride; "but things looked so different at five-and-twenty!" and in her heart she grudged the cares she had lost, and sighed over this wasting of her years...

****

The sun was just setting, and St Roque's stood out dark and picturesque against all the glory of the western sky as the Rector's wife went past. She could not help thinking of him, in his youth and the opening of his career, with a kind of wistful interest. If he had married Lucy Wodehouse, and confined himself to his own district (but then he had no district), Mrs Morgan would have contemplated the two, not, indeed, without a certain half-resentful self-reference and contrast, but with natural sympathy. And now, to think of this dark and ugly blot on his fair beginning disturbed her much. When Mrs Morgan recollected that she had left her husband and his Curate consulting over this matter, she grew very hot and angry, and felt humiliated by the thought. Was it her William, her hero, whom she had magnified for all these ten years, though not without occasional twinges of enlightenment, into something great, who was thus sitting upon his young brother with so little human feeling and so much middle-aged jealousy? It hurt her to think of it, though not for Mr Wentworth's sake...

Thank goodness! Someone! FINALLY!!

Even if it's not quite for the right reasons... :D

Chapter 28:

    "But will you tell me what it is you don't believe in?" he asked, with a smile which Mrs Morgan did not quite comprehend.
    "I will tell you," she said, with a little quiet exasperation. "I don't think you would risk your prospects, and get yourself into trouble, and damage your entire life, for the sake of any girl, however pretty she might be. Men don't do such things for women nowadays, even when it is a worthy object," said the disappointed optimist. "And I believe you are a great deal more sensible, Mr Wentworth." There was just that tone of mingled approval and contempt in this speech which a woman knows how to deliver herself of without any appearance of feeling; and which no young man, however blasé, can hear with composure.
    "Perhaps not," he said, with a little heat and a rising colour. "I am glad you think me so sensible." And then there ensued a pause, upon the issue of which depended the question of peace or war between these two. Mr Wentworth's good angel, perhaps, dropped softly through the dusky air at that moment, and jogged his perverse charge with the tip of a celestial wing. "And yet there might be women in the world for whom---" said the Curate; and stopped again. "I daresay you are not anxious to know my sentiments on the subject," he continued, with a little laugh. "I am sorry you think so badly---I mean so well of me."

And weirdly enough, as Oliphant notes, the other person who believes in Frank is Jack:

Volume II, Chapter 30:

"I take it for granted that you don't mean to insult either me or my profession," he said, gravely; "and, to tell the truth, here is one point upon which I should be glad of your help. I am convinced that it is Wodehouse who has carried away this unfortunate girl. She is a little fool, and he has imposed upon her. If you can get him to confess this, and to restore her to her friends, you will lay me under the deepest obligation," said the Perpetual Curate, with unusual energy. "I don't mind telling you that such a slander disables me, and goes to my heart." When he had once begun to speak on the subject, he could not help expressing himself fully; and Jack, who had grown out of acquaintance with the nobler sentiments, woke up with a slight start through all his moral being to recognise the thrill of subdued passion and scorn and grief which was in his brother's voice. Innocent Miss Dora, who knew no evil, had scarcely a doubt in her mind that Frank was guilty; but Jack, who scarcely knew what goodness was, acquitted his brother instantaneously, and required no other proof. Perhaps if he had been capable of any impression beyond an intellectual one, this little incident might, in Miss Dora's own language, have "done him good."

It's hard to know what we're supposed to make of Jack; whether the insistence upon his status as "a man of the world" is intended ironically or not---though the instinctive dependence not just of Mr Wentworth, but also Frank, upon his opinion would suggest not. Regardless, he does know men, even if he tends to think the worst; and his momentary correct judgement here upon Frank is striking.

Ouch.

Chapter 30:

There was a great stream of people---greater than usual; for Carlingford was naturally anxious to see how Mr Wentworth would conduct himself in such an emergency. On one side of the way Mr Wodehouse's hospitable house, shut up closely, and turning all its shuttered windows to the light, which shone serenely indifferent upon the blank frames, stood silent, dumbly contributing its great moral to the human holiday; and on the other, Elsworthy's closed shop, with the blinds drawn over the cheerful windows above, where little Rosa once amused herself watching the passengers, interposed a still more dreadful discordance. The Carlingford people talked of both occurrences with composure as they went to St Roque's. They were sorry, and shocked, and very curious; but that wonderful moral atmosphere of human indifference and self-regard which surrounds every individual soul, kept their feelings quite within bounds...

It is important we understand exactly what is going on in the ensuing chapters.

Once a clergyman was appointed to a parish, there were few things that could get him removed. There could be - and were, during the upheavals of the 19th century - accusations that as a minister, he was not teaching according to the 39 Articles (as touched upon in >111 lyzard:); or conversely there could be accusations of personal misconduct, as here.

The proceedings in the former case were entirely of the church, involving an appeal to the appropriate Bishop; but the latter involved a mix of the religious and the secular. Generally another clergyman was obliged to take the lead; but other prominent citizens would also become involved, as the matter was considered one of the moral impact upon the community generally.

This was still a rare and extraordinary occurrence, however, and Oliphant makes that clear over the final third of her novel.

>153 lyzard: I have to say, even after finishing the novel, I still don't know what to make of Jack. But I'll save my questions for the end.

So in Volume II, Chapter 31, we find a public inquiry into Frank's conduct being put into motion by Mr Morgan, at the insistence of Mr Elsworthy.

This exchange comes towards the end of their conversation, but I think it's worth putting up front:

    "I have no objection to your showing it to your wife," said Mr Morgan; "but I shall be much displeased if I hear any talk about it, Elsworthy; and I hope it is not revenge you are thinking of, which is a very unchristian sentiment," said the Rector, severely, "and not likely to afford comfort either to her or to you."
    "No, sir, nothing but justice," said Elsworthy, hoarsely, as he backed out of the room. Notwithstanding this statement, it was with very unsatisfactory sensations that Mr Morgan went up-stairs. He felt somehow as if the justice which Elsworthy demanded, and which he himself had solemnly declared to be pursuing the Curate of St Roque's, was wonderfully like revenge...

Oliphant does her usual insightful job in dissecting Mr Morgan here. To his credit, he is very well aware of his own feelings of resentment and antagonism towards Frank, and the danger he stands in of being swayed from "justice" into "revenge".

We have been led through the pathways of Mr Morgan's hostility, but we're still hardly able to measure the degree of venom expressed by Mr Elsworthy. Is this just about Frank's attitude? What exactly has Elsworthy had to "stand" from him?

Oliphant again uses Mrs Morgan as her touchstone of what is correct and reasonable here; and she puts her finger on the unanswered questions:

    "I'm a man as has always been respected, and never interfered with nobody as didn't interfere with me. The things I've stood from my clergyman, I wouldn't have stood from no man living. The way as he'd talk, sir, of them as was a deal better than himself! We was a happy family afore Mr Wentworth came nigh of us. Most folks in Carlingford knows me. There wasn't a more industrious family in Carlingford, though I say it as shouldn't, nor one as was more content, or took things more agreeable, afore Mr Wentworth come to put all wrong."
    "Mr Wentworth has been here for five years," said the Rector's wife, who was present at this interview; "have things been going wrong for all that time?"
    "I couldn't describe to nobody what I've put up with," said the clerk of St Roque's, evading the question...

****

    "It is difficult for me to act against a brother clergyman," said Mr Morgan; "but I am very sorry for you, Elsworthy---very sorry; if you could name, say, half-a-dozen gentlemen---"
    "But don't you think," said the Rector's wife, interposing, "that you should inquire first whether there is any evidence? It would make you all look very ridiculous if you got up an inquiry and found no proof against Mr Wentworth. Is it likely he would do such a thing all at once without showing any signs of wickedness beforehand---is it possible? To be sorry is quite a different thing, but I don't see---"
    "Ladies don't understand such matters," said the Rector, who had been kept at bay so long that he began to get desperate...

There are some outrageous touches throughout the ensuing conversation---one in particular, which Mr Morgan has to pull himself up over:

    Mr Morgan took down all about the Curate's untimely visit to Elsworthy on the night when he took Rosa home; and when he came to the evidence of the Miss Hemmings, who had seen the Curate talking to the unfortunate little girl at his own door the last time she was seen in Carlingford, the Rector shook his head with a prolonged movement, half of satisfaction, half of regret; for, to be sure, he had made up his mind beforehand who the culprit was, and it was to a certain extent satisfactory to have his opinion confirmed.
    "This looks very bad, very bad, I am sorry to say," said Mr Morgan; "for the unhappy young man's own sake, an investigation is absolutely necessary. As for you, Elsworthy, everybody must be sorry for you. Have you no idea where he could have taken the poor girl?---that is," said the uncautious Rector, "supposing that he is guilty---of which I am afraid there does not seem much doubt."

****

    "Perhaps, if the late Rector ain't going away directly, he would take it kind to be put on the committee; and he's a gentleman as I've a great respect for, though he wasn't not to say the man for Carlingford," said Elsworthy, with a sidelong look. He began to feel the importance of his own position as the originator of a committee, and at the head of the most exciting movement which had been for a long time in Carlingford, and could not help being sensible, notwithstanding his affliction, that he had a distinction to offer which even the late Rector might be pleased to accept.
    "I don't think Mr Proctor will stay," said Mr Morgan; "and if he does stay, I believe he is a friend of Mr Wentworth's." It was only after he had said this that the Rector perceived the meaning of the words he had uttered; then, in his confusion and vexation, he got up hastily from the table, and upset the inkstand in all the embarrassment of the moment...

But all this fades into insignificance beside the matter of---THE CARPET:

Chapter 31:

"I hope Mr Proctor is going to stay with us for a day or two," said Mrs Morgan. "I was just saying it must look like coming home to come to the house he used to live in, and which was even furnished to his own taste," said the Rector's wife, shooting a little arrow at the late Rector, of which that good man was serenely unconscious...

I've finished. I'm a Rector's wife and I sympathise about the carpet!

>159 CDVicarage:

Well done, Kerry! I'm sure we're all on the side of the Rector's wife in this one. :D

I have also finished this and will save comments till later. I was happy to see that the inquiry widens the circle of people we meet, it felt a bit claustrophobic until then.

>161 MissWatson:

Good work, Birgit!

Since people are wrapping things up, I will try to speed things up here too.

Apologies for my absence yesterday: as some of you know I have been completely distracted by regaining access to the academic library which is - or was - my main source of physical books, after being locked out of it for two years. I had my first trip in yesterday---and even borrowed their Virago edition of The Perpetual Curate just to get my hands on it! :D

This was the point in the book where I found it hard to put down. Once the trial was over and Rosa was found, I wasn't in as much of a hurry to finish the book.

In Volume II, Chapter 32, the seriousness of his situation finally sinks in with Frank; although his attention is still very much with Lucy and her sister in their bereavement.

We should note that in the 19th century, it was unusual for women to attend funerals: usually that duty fell to the male relatives, while the women stayed home. But Mr Wodehouse not having any male relatives {*cough*}, Lucy is determined to be present, and to carry her sister along also.

But bad as things are for the sisters with the loss of their father, they are clearly about to get infinitely worse.

Lucy does not know, nor Miss Wodehouse understand, the full implications of their father having apparently left no will (and he a lawyer!); and poor Frank is again left looking worldly and material-minded in his quest to grasp the situation.

The immediate necessity is for Lucy to be told the truth, as far as Miss Wodehouse knows or will admit it, about her unknown brother; what is to follow is clear enough from the tone of Tom's letter---

"Mary,---I mean to come to my father's funeral," wrote Mr Wodehouse's disowned son. "Things are changed now, as I said they would be. I and a friend of mine have set everything straight with Waters, and I mean to come in my own name, and take the place I have a right to. How it is to be after this depends on how you behave; but things are changed between you and me, as I told you they would be; and I expect you won't do anything to make 'em worse by doing or saying what's unpleasant. I add no more, because I hope you'll have sense to see what I mean, and to act accordingly.---Your brother, "Thomas Wodehouse."

And of course, this is one more rod for Frank's back, because not realising at the time the possible consequences, he was instrumental in ensuring that the criminal charges against Tom not be pursued---making him also instrumental in Tom's re-establishment as "Thomas Wodehouse".

But in fact Lucy is not prepared for any of the blows that are to fall upon her: unable to face the task ahead, Miss Wodehouse falls ill without speaking...

Oliphant's handling of Mr Wodehouse's funeral is masterly, shifting from viewpoint to viewpoint upon one of the very rare occasions in Carlingford when the different social groups gather together.

And of course the funeral itself provides cover for gossip on the two equally shocking (if entirely different) events which occur as sidelines to it: Frank's exclusion from the performance of the service; and the bearded stranger "thrusting himself" into the position of chief mourner.

Meanwhile, Mr Elsworthy takes the opportunity to (so to speak) silently air his grievances; while even Jack shows up---using the occasion to absorb the talk around him on all of these fascinating topics...

Volume II, Chapter 33:

Miss Wodehouse was a great deal more agitated than Lucy. She knew very well who it was that placed himself before her, asserting his own right without offering any help to his sisters; and vague apprehensions, which she herself could not understand, came over her just at the moment when she required her strength most. As there were no other relations present, the place of honour next to the two ladies had been tacitly conceded to Mr Proctor and Mr Wentworth; and it was thus that the Curate rendered the last service to his old friend. It was a strange procession, and concentrated in itself all that was most exciting in Carlingford at the moment. Everybody observed and commented upon the strange man, who, all remarkable and unknown, with his great beard and sullen countenance, walked by himself as chief mourner. Who was he? and whispers arose and ran through the outskirts of the crowd of the most incredible description. Some said he was an illegitimate son whom Mr Wodehouse had left all his property to, but whom the ladies knew nothing of; some that it was a strange cousin, whom Lucy was to be compelled to marry or lose her share; and after a while people compared notes, and went back upon their recollections, and began to ask each other if it was true that Tom Wodehouse died twenty years ago in the West Indies? Then behind the two ladies---poor ladies, whose fate was hanging in the balance, though they did not know it---came Mr Wentworth in his cap and gown, pale and stern as nobody ever had seen him before in Carlingford, excluded from all share in the service, which Mr Leeson, in a flutter of surplice and solemnity, was giving his valuable assistance in. The churchyard at Carlingford had not lost its semi-rural air though the town had increased so much, for the district was very healthy, as everybody knows, and people did not die before their time, as in places less favoured. The townspeople, who knew Mr Wodehouse so well, lingered all about among the graves, looking with neighbourly, calm regret, but the liveliest curiosity. Most of the shopkeepers at that end of George Street had closed their shops on the mournful occasion, and felt themselves repaid. As for Elsworthy, he stood with a group of supporters round him, as near as possible to the funeral procession; and farther off in the distance, under the trees, was a much more elegant spectator---an unlikely man enough to assist at such a spectacle, being no less a person than Jack Wentworth, in the perfection of an English gentleman's morning apparel, perfectly at his ease and indifferent, yet listening with close attention to all the scraps of talk that came in his way...

And really, we have to stop here and direct some well-deserved abuse at the late Mr Wodehouse, who has been guilty of a piece of parental irresponsibility equalled in English literature only by that of Mr Bennet in Pride And Prejudice.

(Hardly surprising to find both these situations arising in novels by female authors...Austen herself very much a victim of her male relatives' precedence.)

We understand that at the last moment, Mr Wodehouse's fatal stroke has prevented him from taking action; but with the whole twenty years of Lucy's life in which to make provision for her, and knowing full well - even if Carlingford at large did not - that his son did not die out in the West Indies at all - Mr Wodehouse has left both his daughters exposed to the the worst that an angry and resentful brother might be capable of. The explanation offered by Mr Waters in the following chapter hardly excuses the conduct of someone who, again, was himself a lawyer and should have been alert to the possible consequences of his actions.

And that worst soon makes itself felt:

Volume II, Chapter 34:

Mr Waters went on steadily with what he had to say, not sparing them a word of the preamble; and it was not till ten minutes later that Lucy started up with a sudden cry of incredulity and wonder, and repeated his last words. "His son!---whose son?" cried Lucy. She looked all round her, not knowing whom to appeal to in her sudden consternation. "We never had a brother," said the child of Mr Wodehouse's old age; "it must be some mistake." There was a dead pause after these words. When she looked round again, a sickening conviction came to Lucy's heart that it was no mistake. She rose up without knowing it, and looked round upon all the people, who were watching her with various looks of pity and curiosity and spectator-interest...

****

"All this may be very interesting to you," said the stranger out of his beard; "if Lucy don't know her brother, it is no fault of mine. Mr Waters has only said half he has got to say; and as for the rest, to sum it up in half-a-dozen words, I'm very glad to see you in my house, gentlemen, and I hope you will make yourselves at home. Where nobody understands, a man has to speak plain. I've been turned out all my life and, by Jove! I don't mean to stand it any longer. The girls can have what their father's left them," said the vagabond, in his moment of triumph. "They ain't my business no more than I was theirs. The property is freehold, and Waters is aware that I'm the heir..."

The only tiny ray of light here is that at last Lucy understands Frank's apparently callous focus on her father's will, and that the "wall of ice" he has been painfully conscious of finally melts away.

(And with curiously believability, Frank's exculpation on one point causes all of Lucy's other doubts to fade away also.)

The scene at the Wodehouses' has strange though welcome consequences for Frank: his conduct there forces the others present to reassess their opinion of him.

All unknowingly, he cows Mr Morgan; wins the reluctant respect of Dr Marjoribanks (who is prejudiced against him for religious reasons as much as any other, we should realise); and paves the way for Mr Proctor entirely to ally himself with him---on more grounds than Frank, with his absorbed focus upon Lucy, realises.

He also gains another ally in John Brown, the solicitor (who we met in the first of Oliphant's Carlingford works, The Executor); though he can do nothing for Frank, or the sisters, from a legal standpoint.

What he can and does do, though, is take up Frank's personal cause with respect to the looming inquiry. Brown does not know Frank at all---and is unprejudiced one way or another when the two men meet; and so gives us a rare example in Carlingford of sensible - to use Oliphant's own word, of straightforward - thinking:

Volume II, Chapter 35:

"...and about yourself, Mr Wentworth?" Perhaps it was because of a certain look of genuine confidence and solicitude in John Brown's honest face that the Curate's heart was moved. For the first time he condescended to discuss the matter---to tell the lawyer, with whom indeed he had but a very slight acquaintance (for John Brown lived at the other end of Carlingford, and could not be said to be in society), all he knew about Rosa Elsworthy, and something of his suspicions. Mr Brown, for his part, knew little of the Perpetual Curate in his social capacity, but he knew about Wharfside, which was more to the purpose; and having himself been truly in love once in his life, commonplace as he looked, this honest man did not believe it possible that Lucy Wodehouse's representative could be Rosa Elsworthy's seducer---the two things looked incompatible to the straightforward vision of John Brown...

Carlingford, however, remains Carlingford:

Mr Proctor, in his middle-aged uncertainty, could not help having a certain confidence in the young man's promptitude and vigour. He made up to him out of breath when he was just entering George Street. Carlingford had paid what respect it could to Mr Wodehouse's memory; and now the shutters were being taken off the shop-windows, and people in general were very willing to reward themselves for their self-denial by taking what amusement they could out of the reports which already began to be circulated about the way in which the Miss Wodehouses were "left." When the late Rector came up with the Perpetual Curate opposite Masters's shop there was quite a group of people there who noted the conjunction. What could it mean? Was there going to be a compromise? Was Carlingford to be shamefully cheated out of the "investigation," and all the details about Rosa Elsworthy, for which it hungered...?

...which brings us to the end of Volume II.

Oops! No, it doesn't---see below!

>167 lyzard: I thought of Austen too, although I was put more in mind of the Dashwoods in Sense and Sensibility.

>170 cbl_tn:

I was thinking that Mr Bennet also had twenty years to put his financial affairs in order but didn't, even knowing that his death would potentially leave his wife and daughters destitute and homeless.

At least Mrs Dashwood and her girls weren't left that badly off; though Mr Dashwood certainly should have known his son - or at least his son's wife - better.

>167 lyzard: I find it a stretch to believe that Lucy didn't know anything about Tom. I can understand if she was told he was dead, but I get the impression from this quote that she doesn't know she ever had a brother. I find it hard to think that over 20 years of her life, no one has mentioned his name, or existence, either by the family (whether directly or in overheard conversations) or by someone in the town. I'm probably in the minority on this one.

And my opinion of Miss Wodehouse took a deep dive in failing to explain all to her sister until after the funeral, when she finally had no choice but to tell Lucy. Mr Proctor and Mary Wodehouse--what a pair. I had sympathy for them in "The Rector", but here not so much.

>172 kac522:

I think we have to put this in its 19th century context. Assuming that the initial forgery was successfully hushed up, and it seems to have been, all anyone would have known twenty years before is that Tom Wodehouse went off to "the Colonies". That was true of countless young British men (which is one reason there were so many unmarried women). A lot of them never returned to England; some of them because they died. It was sad but commonplace. There wasn't much, in and of itself, to talk about.

There are scattered details showing what people did know. Elsworthy (and he's the kind who would hang onto that sort of information) obviously knows something to Tom's discredit, as we see from his hints at Frank:

Chapter 20:

"I have a deal of respect for that family, sir," said Elsworthy; "they have had troubles as few folks in Carlingford know of. How close they have kep' things, to be sure!---but not so close as them that has good memories, and can put two and two together, couldn't call to mind. My opinion, sir, if you believe me," said the clerk of St Roque's, approaching close to the Curate's ear, "is, that it's something concerning the son."

We also get this from Mr Waters---

Chapter 33:

"Some of the party are already aware that I have an important communication to make. I am very sorry if it comes abruptly upon anybody specially interested. My late partner, much respected though he has always been, was a man of peculiar views in many respects. Dr Marjoribanks will bear me out in what I say. I had been his partner for ten years before I found this out..."

---and this from Dr Marjoribanks himself:

Chapter 34:

"It's a very extraordinary revelation that has just been made to us," said Dr Marjoribanks. "I am throwing no doubt upon it, for my part; but my conviction was, that Tom Wodehouse died in the West Indies..."

We don't know where the notion that Tom died came from in the first place; though we can imagine the men talking over post-dinner port at Mr Wodehouse's and one of them saying something like, "Do you ever hear from your son?" - and Mr Wodehouse muttering something that got interpreted that way (he probably meant, "He's dead to me.").

But it's old news. Tom's been gone twenty years and dead for ten, as far as the town knows. What is there to say? Probably the town assumes that Lucy knows she had a brother who died, but why would anyone bring it up to her? Besides---it could only come to her from a woman, in the nature of things, and it doesn't seem that the townswomen know. Nor does it seem that Lucy spends much time around the ladies of Carlingford anyway, not in a one-on-one chatty way.

And let's face it: keeping young women - rather, young ladies - ignorant of "unpleasantness" was a pretty powerful Victorian tenet, even in a gossipy place like Carlingford.

But there are two women who do know: Miss Wodehouse, and Alland, the sisters' maid---the obedient daughter and the obedient servant, who had their instructions and have never said a word.

Meanwhile---I think we can agree that Mr Proctor and Miss Wodehouse are very well suited. :D

>173 lyzard: I always find it scary how easy it would have been to isolate a girl (or wife, for that matter) completely.

Yes, and it often happened.

Still, Lucy has a fair degree of freedom for a girl in her position. It's her sister, the same age twenty years earlier, who was obviously kept in a state of subjection. We should keep that in mind while judging her.

I jumped the gun up above: in fact Volume II ends with yet another escalation of Frank's troubles, with the arrival of his father, his brother, Gerald, and Gerald's wife, Louisa. The latter is understandably wrapped up in her own troubles; the other two have bought into the story of Frank's "compromising" situation.

We gather that Mr Elsworthy has followed through on the suggestion that was so repugnant to Mr Morgan (we need to give him credit for that, at least):

Chapter 35:

"We'll talk of that presently," said the elder brother; "in the mean time I want to know about you. What is all this? My father is in a great state of anxiety. He does not seem to have got rid of his fancy that you were somehow involved with Jack---and Jack is here," said Gerald, with a look which betokened some anxiety on his own part. "I wish you would give me your confidence. Right or wrong, I have come to stand by you, Frank," said the Rector of Wentworth, rather mournfully. He had been waiting at Mrs Hadwin's for the last two hours. He had seen that worthy woman's discomposed looks, and felt that she did not shake her head for nothing. Jack had been the bugbear of the family for a long time past. Gerald was conscious of adding heavily at the present moment to the Squire's troubles. Charley was at Malta, in indifferent health; all the others were boys. There was only Frank to give the father a little consolation; and now Frank, it appeared, was most deeply compromised of all; no wonder Gerald was sad. And then he drew forth the anonymous letter which had startled all the Wentworths on the previous night. "This is written by somebody who hates you," said the elder brother...

(Somehow, we notice, Frank is more at fault in associating with Jack, than Jack is in being Jack.)

Mrs Hadwin is also piling on---in her own fashion (and giving us peculiar insight into Victorian standards generally and Carlingford's in particular):

"I received your brother into my house," cried Mrs Hadwin, turning to Gerald, "because he was a clergyman and I knew his family, and hoped to find him one whose principles I could approve of. I have put up with a great deal, Mr Wentworth, more than I could tell to anybody. I took in his friend when he asked me, and gave him the spare room, though it was against my judgment. I suffered a man with a beard to be seen stealing in and out of my house in the evening..."

But Mrs Hadwin also speaks the magic words---

"I would not have believed it---I could not have believed it of you---not whatever people might say: to think of that abandoned disgraceful girl coming openly to my door---"

And among the infuriating stupidity, stubbornness, spite and rancour exhibited by Mrs Hadwin, Sarah, Elsworthy and Tom Wodehouse, Frank finally snaps---and in the right direction:

    "Be silent, sir!" said the Curate. "I give you till noon to-morrow; after that I will spare you no longer. You understand what I mean. I have been too merciful already. To-morrow, if everything is not arranged to my satisfaction here---"
    "It was my own name," said Wodehouse, sullenly; "nobody can say it wasn't my own name. You couldn't do me any harm---you know you wouldn't, either, for the sake of the girls; I'll---I'll give them a thousand pounds or so, if I find I can afford it. Come, you don't mean that sort of thing, you know," said the conscious criminal; "you wouldn't do me any harm."
    "If I have to fight for my own reputation I shall not spare you," cried the Curate. "Mind what I say! You are safe till twelve o'clock to-morrow; but after that I will have no mercy---not for your sisters' sake, not for any inducement in the world..."

But it is, of all people, Dora who saves the day---

Chapter 35:

    "Oh, Frank, my dear, don't be angry! I couldn't help coming," cried Miss Dora. "Come and sit down by me here. I slipped out and did not even put on my bonnet, that nobody might know. Oh, Frank, I don't know what to say. I am so afraid you have been wicked. I have just seen that---that girl. I saw her out of my window. Frank! don't jump up like that. I can't go on telling you if you don't stay quiet here."
    "Aunt, let me understand you," cried the Curate. "You saw whom? Rosa Elsworthy? Don't drive me desperate, as all the others do with their stupidity. You saw her? when?---where?"
    "Oh Frank, Frank! to think it should put you in such a way---such a girl as that! Oh, my dear boy, if I had thought you cared so much, I never would have come to tell you. It wasn't to encourage you—---t wasn't. Oh, Frank, Frank! that it should come to this!" cried Miss Dora, shrinking back from him with fright and horror in her face.
    "Come, we have no time to lose," said the Curate, who was desperate. He picked up her shawl, which had fallen on the floor, and bundled her up in it in the most summary way. "Come, aunt Dora," said the impetuous young man; "you know you were always my kindest friend. Nobody else can help me at this moment. I feel that you are going to be my deliverer. Come, aunt Dora---we must go and find her, you and I. There is not a moment to lose..."

---and that does close Volume II.

Volume III opens with an appropriately dramatic statement of Frank's circumstances, upon the opening of the inquiry into his conduct:

Chapter 36:

The first investigation into the character of the Rev. F. C. Wentworth, Curate of St Roque's was fixed to take place in the vestry of the parish church, at eleven o'clock on the morning of the day which followed this anxious night. Most people in Carlingford were aware that the Perpetual Curate was to be put upon his trial on that sunny July morning; and there was naturally a good deal of curiosity among the intelligent townsfolk to see how he looked, and what was the aspect of the witnesses who were to bear testimony for or against him. It is always interesting to the crowd to see how a man looks at a great crisis of his life---or a woman either, for that matter; and if a human creature, at the height of joy, or in the depths of sorrow, is a spectacle to draw everybody's eyes, there is a still greater dramatic interest in the sight when hope and fear are both in action, and the alternative hangs between life or death. It was life or death to Mr Wentworth, though the tribunal was one which could inflict no penalties. If he should be found guilty, death would be a light doom to the downfall and moral extinction which would make an end of the unfaithful priest; and, consequently, Carlingford had reason for its curiosity...

This is Oliphant's version of a courtroom scene, that great lure to the novelist. (Those who participated in the group read, think back to Trollope's Orley Farm: that novel is a thorough denunciation of the legal profession---yet even in doing so, Trollope could not resist the opportunity of a courtroom scene!)

There is a fascinating shift in the emotional balance here: nothing has changed overtly, yet Frank is himself again for the first time in many weeks, while those who felt themselves qualified to sit in judgement on him have exchanged righteous indignation for reluctant embarrassment.

What is really interesting is the way that John Brown plays the role of moral touchstone here: the very fact that he has interested himself in Frank's affairs makes a statement to Carlingford:

There were six of the amateur judges, of whom one had felt his heart fail him at the last moment. The five who were steadfast were Mr Morgan, Dr Marjoribanks, old Mr Western (who was a distant cousin of the Wodehouses, and brother-in-law, though old enough to be her grandfather, of the beautiful Lady Western, who once lived in Grange Lane), and with them Mr Centum, the banker, and old Colonel Chiley. Mr Proctor, who was very uneasy in his mind, and much afraid lest he should be called upon to give an account of the Curate's behaviour on the previous night, had added himself as a kind of auxiliary to this judicial bench. Mr Waters had volunteered his services as counsellor, perhaps with the intention of looking after the interests of a very different client; and to this imposing assembly John Brown had walked in, with his hands in his pockets, rather disturbing the composure of the company in general, who were aware what kind of criticism his was...

(Somehow, we notice, Frank is more at fault in associating with Jack, than Jack is in being Jack.)

Isn't it always like that, though? People generally don't expect much from someone who is always unreliable and they don't hold it against them when they behave as expected, but when someone who is usually dependable lets them down, they find a single lapse hard to forgive. Maybe that's why I sympathize with Frank so much. I see him as a kindred spirit!

>178 lyzard:

"Willingness to think ill" is certainly a major theme of this novel; though it isn't clear whether Oliphant is being condemnatory or just shrugging her shoulders.

You're right, though: it's Frank's very steadfastness that brings all this down on him: the surety in his attitude to his life and his work. We see that absolutely with Elsworthy. He's the macrocosm of the situation, but it feels like everyone has been watching out for a chink in Frank's armour, and can hardly contain themselves when they think they've found one. It's a pretty dismal statement on humanity.

Volume III, Chapter 36:

While the bed of justice was being arranged, a very odd little group collected in the outer room, where Elsworthy, in a feverish state of excitement, was revolving about the place from the door to the window, and where the Miss Hemmings sat up against the wall, with their drapery drawn up about them, to show that they were of different clay from Mrs Elsworthy, who, respectful but sullen, sat on the same bench. The anxious public peered in at the door whenever it had a chance, and took peeps through the window when the other privilege was impossible. Besides the Miss Hemmings and the Elsworthys there was Peter Hayles, who also had seen something, and the wife of another shopkeeper at the end of George Street; and there was the Miss Hemmings' maid, who had escorted them on that eventful night of Rosa's disappearance. Not one of the witnesses had the smallest doubt as to the statement he or she was about to make; they were entirely convinced of the righteousness of their own cause, and the justice of the accusation, which naturally gave a wonderful moral force to their testimony. Besides---but that was quite a different matter---they all had their little grudges against Mr Wentworth, each in his secret heart...

We see here again Oliphant's ability to shift from perspective to perspective during a complicated scene.

You can feel Oliphant enjoying herself throughout this set-piece, which feels like its purpose is less to vindicate Frank than to expose the pettiness and ill-will of the people who have brought matters to this pass. Also, hopefully - though we can't count on it - to make those responsible feel thoroughly ashamed of themselves.

Not to mention Frank's family---weirdly enough, Jack excluded:

Mr Wentworth scarcely waited for the assent which everybody united in murmuring, but seated himself heavily on the bench, as if glad to sit down anywhere. He suffered Frank to grasp his hand, but scarcely gave it; nor, indeed, did he look, except once, with a bitter momentary glance at the brothers. They were sons a father might well have been proud of, so far as external appearances went; but the Squire's soul was bitter within him. One was about to abandon all that made life valuable in the eyes of the sober-minded country gentleman. The other---"And I could have sworn by Frank," the mortified father was saying in his heart. He sat down with a dull dogged composure. He meant to hear it all, and have it proved to him that his favourite son was a villain.

Frank of course can't see anything humorous in the situation, still less anything to be enjoyed---so thank goodness for John Brown, who gets in the blows that Frank won't stoop to:

    "Yes, yes," said Mr Waters, who saw John Brown's humorous eye gleaming round upon the little assembly; "but let us come to the immediate matter in hand. Your niece disappeared from Carlingford on the---?"
    "Yes, yes," said Mr Western, "we must not sink into conversation; that's the danger of all unofficial investigations. It seems natural to let him tell his story as he likes: but here we have got somebody to keep us in order. It's natural, but it ain't law---is it, Brown?"
    "I don't see that law has anything to do with it," said John Brown, with a smile.
    "Order! order!" said the Rector, who was much goaded and aggravated by this remark...

****

    "Stop a moment," said John Brown. "Peter Hayles is outside, I think. If the Rector wishes to preserve any sort of legal form in this inquiry, may I suggest that a conversation repeated is not evidence? Let Elsworthy tell what he knows, and the other can speak for himself."
    "It is essential we should hear the conversation," said the Rector, "since I believe it was of importance. I believe it is an important link in the evidence---I believe---"
    "Mr Morgan apparently has heard the evidence before," said the inexorable John Brown.

Oliphant also has her fun by tormenting Carlingford - and us - with Frank's request for an adjournment, and with the mystery over the contents of his note.

She has plenty to do in the interim, however, including crafting one of 19th century English literature's most awkward proposals of marriage (which wasn't short of them):

Volume III, Chapter 37:

    "I don't know whether you recollect," said Mr Proctor---"I shall never forget it---one time when we all met in a house where a woman was dying,---I mean your sister and young Wentworth, and you and I;---and neither you nor I knew anything about it," said the late Rector, in a strange voice. It was not a complimentary way of opening his subject, and the occurrence had not made so strong an impression upon Miss Wodehouse as upon her companion. She looked a little puzzled, and, as he made a pause, gave only a murmur of something like assent, and waited to hear what more he might have to say.
    "We neither of us knew anything about it," said Mr Proctor---"neither you how to manage her, nor I what to say to her, though the young people did. I have always thought of you from that time. I have thought I should like to try whether I was good for anything now---if you would help me," said the middle-aged lover. When he had said this he walked to the window, and once more looked out, and came back redder than ever. "You see we are neither of us young," said Mr Proctor; and he stood by the table turning over the books nervously, without looking at her, which was certainly an odd commencement for a wooing.
    "That is quite true," said Miss Wodehouse, rather primly. She had never disputed that fact by word or deed, but still it was not pleasant to have the statement thus thrust upon her without any apparent provocation. It was not the sort of thing which a woman expects to have said to her under such circumstances. "I am sure I hope you will do better---I mean be more comfortable---this time," she continued, after a pause, sitting very erect on her seat.
    "If you will help me," said Mr Proctor, taking up one of the books and reading the name on it, which was lucky for him, for it was Miss Wodehouse's name, which he either had forgotten or never had known...

In fact the only thing more awkward is the conversation between the sisters afterwards:

    Before many minutes had passed, Lucy had thrown aside all the books, and was sitting by her sister's side in half-pleased, disconcerted amazement to hear her story. Only half-pleased---for Lucy, like most other girls of her age, thought love and marriage were things which belonged only to her own level of existence, and was a little vexed and disappointed to find that her elder sister could condescend to such youthful matters. On the whole, she rather blushed for Mary, and felt sadly as if she had come down from an imaginary pedestal. And then Mr Proctor, so old and so ordinary, whom it was impossible to think of as a bridegroom, and still less as a brother. "I shall get used to it presently," said Lucy, with a burning flush on her cheek, and a half feeling that she had reason to be ashamed; "but it is so strange to think of you in that way, Mary. I always thought you were too---too sensible for that sort of thing," which was a reproach that went to Miss Wodehouse's heart.
    "Oh, Lucy, dear," said that mild woman, who in this view of the matter became as much ashamed of herself as Lucy could desire...

****

Miss Wodehouse at last was driven to bay. She had done all for the best, but nobody gave her any credit for it; and now this last step, by which she had meant to provide a home for Lucy, was about to be contradicted and put a stop to altogether. She put away Lucy's arm, and rejected her consolations. "What is the use of pretending to be fond of me if I am always to be wrong, and never to have my---my own way in anything?" cried the poor lady...

Good for you, Mary! (I think we should all be calling her "Mary" now, don't you?)

On a much more serious note---

After we touched on the likelihood of Lucy's ignorance about Tom in >172 kac522:, >173 lyzard:, >174 MissWatson:, >175 lyzard: I found this very striking:

Volume III, Chapter 37:

The two sisters, preoccupied by their father's illness and death, had up to this time but a vague knowledge of the difficulties which surrounded the Perpetual Curate. His trial, which Mr Proctor had reported to his newly-betrothed, had been unsuspected by either of them; and they were not even aware of the event which had given rise to it---the disappearance of Rosa Elsworthy.

Granted, they've been secluding themselves; but the fact that nothing has come to them via the servants - who must know Lucy's interest in Frank - is remarkable, and shows that Mr Wodehouse ran a very tight ship.

This I think makes it easier to accept that no gossip about Tom ever reached Lucy, if something so immediate and important could be kept from her.

Volume III, Chapter 38:

The hours between the two sessions of Frank's inquiry also allow for a strange confrontation between the members of the Wentworth family, who have gathered at the home of the Miss Wentworths ---who are conspicuous by their absence, as the male branch of the family thrashes out their various difficulties.

Oliphant covers a lot of ground here, though her focus is upon Jack's reunion with his father and the reflections forced upon both as a consequence.

We learn a lot here about the social mores of the time and the ingrained privilege of the eldest son. Mr Wentworth has no hesitation denouncing Wodehouse as "a scoundrel"; but of his son, who is more culpable if less vulnerable to the law, he can still say that he is, "The most important member of the family." Though he has expressed, and continues to express, suspicion of Frank on the flimsiest of grounds (grounds that keep shifting, as if he is determined to cling to those suspicions), Mr Wentworth can nevertheless think this of "the heir":

Mr Wentworth could not restrain a certain melting of the heart towards his first-born. "He's not what I could wish, but he's a man of the world, and might give us some practical advice," said the Squire, with his anxious looks. Of what possible advantage advice, practical or otherwise, could have been in the circumstances, it was difficult to see; but the Squire was a man of simple mind, and still believed in the suggestions of wisdom. He still sat in the easy-chair, looking wistfully at Jack, and with a certain faith that matters might even yet be mended, if the counsel of his eldest son, as a man of the world, could be had and could be trusted...

Oliphant gives us the various shadings of Jack's emotions as he confronts his family: there is shame, but there is also anger and resentment, and a twisted sort of pride: he knows what he is and what he is done - that "Wodehouse was his allotted companion" - but in his own mind - in his own assessment of himself - there is still the reality that he is "the heir of Wentworth". Nothing can change that.

But Oliphant also throws in this, from the one female member of the family: it may be a shallow sort of objection to a complex problem, but she's not wrong; least of all wrong in conjunction with this analysis of Jack:

"And this is how it is to be!" cried Louisa. "He knows what is coming, and he does not care---and none of you will interfere or speak to him! It is not as if he did not know what would happen. He tells you himself that he will be nothing; and even if he can put up with it after being a man of such consideration in the county, how am I to put up with it? We have always been used to the very best society," said poor Louisa, with tears. "The Duke himself was not more thought of; and now he tells you he is to be nothing!" Mrs Wentworth stopped to dry her eyes with tremulous haste. "He may not mind," said Louisa, "for at least he is having his own way. It is all very well for a man, who can do as he pleases; but it is his poor wife who will have to suffer..."

Oliphant's final shift is into the consciousness of Mr Morgan.

She doesn't spare him:

Volume III, Chapter 39:

...he had an unpleasant conviction that it was somebody who would clear the Curate. "Of course I shall be very glad," the Rector said to himself; but it is a fact, that in reality he was far from being glad, and that a secret conviction of this sentiment, stealing into his mind, made matters still more uncomfortable. This private sense of wishing evil to another man, of being unwilling and vexed to think well of his neighbour, was in itself enough to disturb the Rector's tranquillity...

****

To tell the truth, the Rector felt anything but comfortable; when he glanced up at the stranger, who was looking askance at the people in the room as if they had been so many policemen in disguise, a disagreeable sudden conviction that this sullen rascal looked a great deal more like the guilty man than Mr Wentworth did, came into Mr Morgan's mind, and made him sick with annoyance and embarrassment. If it should turn out so! if it should become apparent that he, for private prejudices of his own, had been persecuting his brother! This thought produced an actual physical effect for the moment upon the Rector, but its immediate visible consequence was simply to make him look more severe, almost spiteful, in a kind of unconscious self-vindication...

****

He listened to Frank Wentworth's address with a kind of impatient annoyance and resistance. "What is the good of saying any more about it?" Mr Morgan was saying in his soul. "For heaven's sake let us bury it and be done with it, and forget that we ever made such asses of ourselves." But at the same time the Rector knew this was quite impossible...

With the resumption of the inquiry, Oliphant gets to enjoy another round of "courtroom drama". Frank's witness is, of course, the captured Rosa, who - eventually - exculpates him:

Chapter 39:

She had made an involuntary rush towards him when she saw him first. Then she stopped short, and looked all round her with a bewildered sudden consciousness. The blood rushed to her face, scorching and burning; she uttered a sudden cry of anguish and shame. "Oh, don't forsake me!---don't forsake me!---listen to the gentlemen!" cried poor Rosa, and fell down in a sudden agony of self-comprehension at Wodehouse's feet...

It is hard to know whether to laugh or cry at the closing speech of Mr Morgan's "inquiry":

"You shall not leave this house," said the Rector, more peremptorily still, "without hearing what must be the opinion of every gentleman, of every honest man. You have been the occasion of bringing an utterly unfounded accusation against a---a young clergyman," said Mr Morgan, with a succession of gasps, "of---of the very highest character. You have, as I understand, sir, abused his hospitality, and---and done your utmost to injure him when you owed him gratitude. Not content with that, sir," continued the Rector, "you have kept your---your very existence concealed, until the moment when you could injure your sisters. You may perhaps be able to make a miserable amends for the wrong you have done to the unfortunate girl up-stairs, but you can never make amends to me, sir, for betraying me into a ridiculous position, and leading me to do---an---an absurd and---and incredible injustice---to a---to my---to Mr Frank Wentworth. Sir, you are a scoundrel!" cried Mr Morgan, breaking down abruptly in an access of sudden fury...

Volume III, Chapter 40 gives us a better idea than we've ever had before of the nature of the relationship between Jack and Tom Wodehouse.

Possibly Jack has never before let himself really contemplate exactly what that relationship says about him. He remains convinced that there is a gulf between Wodehouse and himself; but Oliphant encourages us to question what the real difference is between "the shabby villain" and "the heir of the Wentworths"---and whether Jack's awareness, as opposed to Wodehouse's incomprehension, makes him better or worse:

"We have had some---a---business connection—for some years. I don't say you have reason to be actually grateful for that; but, at least, it brought you now and then into the society of gentlemen. A man who robs a set of women, and leaves the poor creature he has ruined destitute, is a sort of cur we have nothing to say to," said the heir of the Wentworths, contemptuously. "We do not pretend to be saints, but we are not blackguards; that is to say," said Jack, with a perfectly calm and harmonious smile, "not in theory, nor in our own opinion. The fact accordingly is, my friend, that you must choose between us and those respectable meannesses of yours. By Jove! the fellow ought to have been a shopkeeper, and as honest as---Diogenes," said Jack. He stood looking at his wretched associate with the overwhelming impertinence of a perfectly well-bred man, no way concealing the contemptuous inspection with which his cool eyes travelled over the disconcerted figure from top to toe, seeing and exaggerating all its tremors and clumsy guiltiness. The chances are, had Jack Wentworth been in Wodehouse's place, he would have been master of the position as much as now. He was not shocked nor indignant like his brothers. He was simply contemptuous, disdainful, not so much of the wickedness as of the clumsy and shabby fashion in which it had been accomplished...

Note that, along the way, Wodehouse too is referred to as "the heir". This feels like Oliphant getting in another blow at the system of primogeniture, which gave such power to an accident of birth, and privileged men like these two over men like Frank---and left women like the Miss Wodehouses (not to mention all the younger Wentworths) reliant upon their charity:

    As for the offender, who had been defiant in his sulky fashion up to this moment, his courage oozed out at his finger-ends under Jack Wentworth's eye.
    "I am my own master," he stammered, "nowadays. I ain't to be dictated to---and I shan't be, by Jove! As for Jack Wentworth, he's well known to be neither more nor less---"
    "Than what, Mr Wodehouse?" said the serene and splendid Jack. "Don't interest yourself on my account, Frank. This is my business at present. If you have any prayer-meetings in hand, we can spare you---and don't forget our respectable friend in your supplications. Favour us with your definition of Jack Wentworth, Mr Wodehouse. He is neither more nor less---?"
    "By Jove! I ain't going to stand it," cried Wodehouse; "if a fellow's to be driven mad, and insulted, and have his money won from him, and made game of---not to say tossed about as I've been among 'em, and made a drudge of, and set to do the dirty work," said the unfortunate subordinate, with a touch of pathos in his hoarse voice;---"I don't mean to say I've been what I ought; but, by Jove! to be put upon as I've been, and knocked about; and at the last they haven't the pluck to stand by a fellow, by Jove!" muttered Mr Wodehouse's unlucky heir...

>187 lyzard: I think from a modern perspective, Jack is the bigger villain, in the way he unscrupulously exploits his advantages as if they were a god-given right.

>188 MissWatson:

I agree, though I'm not sure that isn't the point Oliphant is making in 1864 too.

Though religious issues per se have receded while Frank sorts out his secular ones, the conversation between him and Gerald is worth examining:

Chapter 40:

    "Can abstract right in an institution, if that is what you aim at, be worth the sacrifice of your existence---your power of influencing your fellow-creatures?" This Mr Wentworth said, being specially moved by the circumstances in which he found himself---for, under any other conditions, such sentiments would have produced the warmest opposition in his Anglican bosom. But he was so far sympathetic that he could be tolerant to his brother who had gone to Rome.
    "I know what you mean," said Gerald; "it is the prevailing theory in England that all human institutions are imperfect. My dear Frank, I want a Church which is not a human institution. In England it seems to be the rule of faith that every man may believe as he pleases. There is no authority either to decide or to punish. If you can foresee what that may lead us to, I cannot. I take refuge in the true Church, where alone there is certainty---where," said the convert, with a heightened colour and a long-drawn breath, "there is authority clear and decisive. In England you believe what you will, and the result will be one that I at least fear to contemplate; in Rome we believe what---we must," said Gerald. He said the words slowly, bowing his head more than once with determined submission, as if bending under the yoke. "Frank, it is salvation!" said the new Catholic, with the emphasis of a despairing hope. And for the first time Frank Wentworth perceived what it was which had driven his brother to Rome.
    "I understand you now," said the Perpetual Curate; "it is because there is no room for our conflicting doctrines and latitude of belief. Instead of a Church happily so far imperfect, that a man can put his life to the best account in it, without absolutely delivering up his intellect to a set of doctrines, you seek a perfect Church, in which, for a symmetrical system of doctrine, you lose the use of your existence!" Mr Wentworth uttered this opinion with all the more vehemence, that it was in direct opposition to his own habitual ideas; but even his veneration for his "Mother" yielded for the moment to his strong sense of his brother's mistake.
    "It is a hard thing to say," said Gerald, "but it is true. If you but knew the consolation, after years of struggling among the problems of faith, to find one's self at last upon a rock of authority, of certainty---one holds in one's hand at last the interpretation of the enigma," said Gerald...

It was generally taken for granted in 19th century English literature that Protestantism was "right" and Catholicism was "wrong", and left at that. This is a very rare instance of the issues being articulated---and Oliphant does quite a remarkable job in allowing Gerald to speak for himself about what drew him to his new Church, while making it perfectly clear that those were - from the English / Protestant point of view - the very things that were considered objectionable: the certainty that Gerald seeks was considered a delusive lure.

"You accept the explanation of the Church in respect to doctrines," said the Curate, after that pause, "and consent that her authority is sufficient, and that your perplexity is over---that is well enough, so far as it goes: but outside lies a world in which every event is an enigma, where nothing that comes offers any explanation of itself; where God does not show Himself always kind, but by times awful, terrible---a God who smites and does not spare. It is easy to make a harmonious balance of doctrine; but where is the interpretation of life?"

Oliphant plays fair by admitting how strongly Frank himself has felt the pull of the historical Church---so that this conversation paves the way for later reflection on what he really does believe with regard to his very High Church-ness, and for a retreat to just-High-Enough (which we see often in Trollope too).

Before we go on---

I meant to draw attention to this at the time, but it got lost in the shuffle of the inquiry.

In discussing Lucy's ignorance about Tom we touched upon the narrowness and isolation that often marked the lives of Victorian women; but I'm not sure anything could make that point more devastatingly clear than this throwaway observation about Dora:

Volume III, Chapter 38:

...explanations of a very varied kind were going on in the house of the Miss Wentworths. It was a very full house by this time, having been invaded and taken possession of by the "family" in a way which entirely obliterated the calmer interests and occupations of the habitual inhabitants. The three ladies had reached the stage of life which knows no personal events except those of illness and death; and the presence of Jack Wentworth, of Frank and Gerald, and even of Louisa, reduced them altogether to the rank of spectators, the audience, or at the utmost the chorus, of the drama; though this was scarcely the case with Miss Dora, who kept her own room, where she lay on the sofa, and received visits, and told the story of her extraordinary adventure, the only adventure of her life...

Frank comes down to breakfast the morning after all these exciting events armed with Lucy's note, and just as well---since Leonora has just received word that Mr Shirley has finally died, and Skelmersdale is free.

The argument here is interesting: Oliphant is obviously in sympathy with Mr Wentworth's "simple" way of looking at things:

Volume III, Chapter 41:

"I'd never have any peace of mind if I filled up a family living with a stranger---unless, of course," Mr Wentworth added in a parenthesis---an unlikely sort of contingency which had not occurred to him at first---"you should happen to have no second son.---The eldest the squire, the second the rector. That's my idea, Leonora, of Church and State."

---but my own sympathies are with Leonora:

"Your second son might be either a fool or a knave..."

(At this point she thinks Gerald is both, of course!)

---at least up to a point: that point being Leonora's mortified recognition of how she has has allowed herself to be manipulated into the appointment of Skelmersdale by Julia Trench and her curate!-- a blow to her self-love aggravated by Jack's dropping of his mask of "repentance":

She too had been taken in a little by Jack's pleasant farce of the Sinner Repentant; and it occurred to her to feel a little ashamed of herself as she went up-stairs. After all, the ninety-and-nine just men of Jack's irreverent quotation were worth considering now and then; and Miss Leonora could not but think with a little humiliation of the contrast between her nephew Frank and the comfortable young Curate who was going to marry Julia Trench. He was fat, it could not be denied; and she remembered his chubby looks, and his sermons about self-denial and mortification of the flesh, much as a pious Catholic might think of the Lenten oratory of a fat friar...

****

...and then she could not help thinking again of Frank. To be sure, he was not of her way of thinking; but when she remembered the "investigation" and its result, and the secret romance involved in it, her Wentworth blood sent a thrill of pride and pleasure through her veins. Miss Leonora, though she was strong-minded, was still woman enough to perceive her nephew's motives in his benevolence to Wodehouse; but these motives, which were strong enough to make him endure so much annoyance, were not strong enough to tempt him from Carlingford and his Perpetual Curacy, where his honour and reputation, in the face of love and ambition, demanded that he should remain...

I finished the book last night, and there were a few things that stood out to me, which I will wait to discuss.

Have we talked about Mr Leeson and what a gloriously awful character he is?

>193 Sakerfalcon:...Mr Leeson and the puddings...

What is All Souls pudding? Does anyone know?

>193 Sakerfalcon:

Well done, Claire!

I am tied up today but hope to wrap things up tomorrow, so everyone please spend the interim remembering those comments you saved to the end! :)

>193 Sakerfalcon:, >194 kac522:

There really are some awful people in this book, all different shades of awful. Mr Leeson is something special, though! :D

>195 CDVicarage:

I don't know if it's a real thing or not! The references have the feel of an in-joke, though, so you never know.

It's nice that All Soul's trusts its graduates with the recipe!---

Chapter 28:

The pudding, though it was the Rector's favourite pudding, prepared from a receipt only known at All-Souls, in which the late respected Head of that learned community had concentrated all his genius, was eaten in uneasy silence...

Meant to point out this touch, too:

Volume III, Chapter 41:

He smiled in himself at these evidences of popular penitence, but was not the less pleased to find himself reinstated in his place in the affections and respect of Carlingford. "After all, it was not an unnatural mistake," he said to himself, and smiled benignly upon the excellent people who had found out the error of their own ways. Carlingford, indeed, seemed altogether in a more cheerful state than usual, and Mr Wentworth could not but think that the community in general was glad to find that it had been deceived, and so went upon his way, pleasing himself with those maxims about the ultimate prevalence of justice and truth, which make it apparent that goodness is always victorious, and wickedness punished, in the end. Somehow even a popular fallacy has an aspect of truth when it suits one's own case...

As we saw during Salem Chapel, Oliphant allows herself an interesting amount of pragmatic leeway in such situations: it was far more common, almost obligatory, for an author to trot out a platitude about Providence in a situation like this; a frank acknowledgement that things do not always work out for the best, that justice is not always served, is very unusual---and sits interestingly beside Frank's challenge to Gerald in Chapter 40 regarding the unexplained cruelties of daily life.

And even as she allowed Arthur Vincent to voice what amounted to a lack of faith in God, later she allows Frank's thoughts to stray into this unwontedly cynical path; and really, we can hardly blame him:

Chapter 44:

He could not help thinking, as they emerged into the road, that it was chiefly the impatient and undutiful who secured their happiness. Those who were constant and patient, and able to deny themselves, instead of being rewarded for their higher qualities, were, on the contrary, put to the full test of the strength that was in them; while those who would not wait attained what they wanted, and on the whole, as to other matters, got on just as well as their stronger-minded neighbours. This germ of thought, it may be supposed, was stimulated into very warm life by the reflection that Lucy would have to leave Carlingford with her sister, without any definite prospect of returning again; and a certain flush of impatience came over the young man, not unnatural in the circumstances. It seemed to him that everybody else took their own way without waiting; and why should it be so certain that he alone, whose "way" implied harm to no one, should be the only man condemned to wait?

>198 lyzard: Yes, much more frank than Trollope in Orley Farm.

Speaking of things you wouldn't find in Trollope---

Volume III, Chapter 45:

It was not Mr Wentworth she was thinking of, except in a very secondary degree. What occupied her, and made her reflections bitter, was the thought that her husband---the man to whom she had been faithful for ten weary years---had taken himself down off the pedestal on which she had placed him. "To make idols, and to find them clay," she said plaintively in her own mind. Women were all fools to spend their time and strength in constructing such pedestals, Mrs Morgan thought to herself with bitterness; and as to the men who were so perpetually dethroning themselves, how were they to be designated?

Anyway!---

I meant to have wrapped this up by now and will try via a sort of summarising post.

I must say I was a bit disappointed with the over-neatness of the ending of The Perpetual Curate, and from her meta-references to novels, it feels like Oliphant may have been too. So perhaps she was under some publishing pressure either to lighten up, or to fill out a certain number of pages.

In fact this put me rather in mind of our group read of Our Mutual Friend some years back - I can't remember whether any of you were along for that? - when in the course of basically rewriting the ending to suit myself, I complained that Dickens had made things too easy for the characters.

I'm not mean, but I prefer a little struggle to a saloon passage. Frank and Lucy having made their choice, they should have had to face life on a Perpetual Curate's salary, at least for a time.

Among other things, this would have book-ended Mrs Morgan's regrets over not being allowed to have her struggle, and shown where she was being realistic and where she got lucky.

Also, as written there is never any proper resolution to Mr Morgan's plot-thread: he just runs away.

I find it strange that after the events of The Perpetual Curate, Salem Chapel and The Rector, which devote so much time to the question of what makes a good minister, we never get any sense here of Mr Morgan as Rector of Carlingford---whether he is doing a good job or not.

But I think we should have had Mr Morgan standing his ground for a time - as a form of penance, if you like - and him and Frank being forced to work together with respect to Wharfside; and hopefully finding their way to serving that community better.

After that, some time later, could have come an intimation of a country living for the Morgans, and Frank and Lucy taking over Carlingford.

As it is, it's all too easy for my taste.

So I hope everyone remembers all those comments they were going to post at the end??

Go for it!

I'll start with these:

1) I don't understand what motivates Jack to make Tom Wodehouse give the house to his sisters. Why does Jack suddenly get all ethical and moral, instead of letting Wodehouse keep the house? And what will happen to the house once Mary and Lucy are married? Do they have ownership and get the proceeds if sold, or does it belong to Tom?

2) I didn't seem to understand what's going to happen to Gerald and his wife--maybe it was mentioned, but I missed it. Are they staying together, or is he going into a monastery? If they stay together, what will he do? If they aren't together, how will she & the children be supported?

I'm also wondering if some plot threads were purposefully left hanging because Oliphant may have had plans to continue them in a subsequent book.

3) And talk about leaving things up in the air---Inquiring Minds Want to Know--what will Lucy do about the carpet?

>203 kac522:

I think "ethical and moral" is going a bit too far. It's a gesture of goodwill towards Frank---although not one made to Frank's face. There are all sorts of little glimpses into Jack's thought processes as he watches events unfold, and he appreciates Frank more than he ever lets on.

The house is being gifted to the sisters, or possibly just to Mary as the elder. We get Mr Proctor's point-of-view about him and Mary having to offer Lucy a home which they can ill-afford, but Jack probably thinks the opposite: that Mary will be one more reason Frank and Lucy can't get married. By compelling Wodehouse to give up the house (which he doesn't want, though he does the proceeds from it), it puts a roof over Mary's head - or provides a source of income for both sisters, as a sale or a rental - and that takes some of the financial pressure off Frank.

These events, and being forced into company with his father and brothers for the first time in years, has made Jack take a long look at himself. He isn't going to change, but he knows what he ought to be, and he makes a gesture or two that goes along with his conception of himself as "the heir of Wentworth"---including (on top of the house business) compelling Wodehouse to marry Rosa.

Actually, the critical touch regarding Jack (and this runs into your second point) is this:

Chapter 46:

    "Good-bye, sir," said the old man, and then made a pause before he held out his hand. "You'll not forget what I've said, Jack," he added, with a little haste. "It's true enough, though I haven't that confidence in you that---that I might have had. I am getting old, and I have had two attacks, sir," said Mr Wentworth, with dignity; "and anyhow, I can't live for ever. Your brothers can make their own way in the world, but I haven't saved all that I could have wished. When I am gone, Jack, be just to the girls and the little children," said the Squire; and with that took his son's hand and grasped it hard, and looked his heir full in the face.
    Jack Wentworth was not prepared for any such appeal; he was still less prepared to discover the unexpected and inevitable sequence with which one good sentiment leads to another. He quite faltered and broke down in this unlooked-for emergency. "Father," he said unawares, for the first time for ten years, "if you wish it, I will join you in breaking the entail."
    "No such thing, sir," said the Squire, who, so far from being pleased, was irritated and disturbed by the proposal. "I ask you to do your duty, sir, and not to shirk it," the head of the house said, with natural vehemence, as he stood with that circle of Wentworths round him, giving forth his code of honour to his unworthy heir.

This then follows:

"In that case," the prodigal went on with a certain huskiness in his voice, "I daresay I should not turn out so great a rascal as---as I ought to do. To-day and yesterday it has even occurred to me by moments that I was your son, sir," said Jack Wentworth...

The heir of the Wentworths suddenly doesn't want to be the heir of the Wentworths---partly because he feels unworthy, partly because of what his "duty" will involve, namely, taking responsibility for all of his half-siblings. If the entail were broken, Mr Wentworth could leave his property and money as he chose; as it is, the bulk of it goes automatically to Jack.

My own feeling is that Jack will end up appointing Gerald his agent for the management of the property, which will provide for him and Louisa, and rid Jack of most of his responsibilities. The good feeling won't last.

>203 kac522:

Regarding Gerald, his new church has rejected him, basically: he is left as a layman, a country gentleman with no work and very little income:

Chapter 47:

...his mother's fortune being now Gerald's sole dependence...

Gerald, being the second son, inherited his mother's portion; it doesn't sound like it was much. Beyond that his plot-thread is left hanging: he and his family may have to stay at Wentworth, or they may retreat away from the parish he gave up.

>203 kac522:

When Lucy starts to worry about the carpet, we will know that she is fully ensconced as Mrs Rector of Carlingford. :D

>201 lyzard: I was also struck by Oliphant breaking the fourth wall and talking about her dislike of neat endings in books, before going on to create one herself! I felt that the tension in the book dropped significantly after Frank's reputation is salvaged; obviously there were still plenty of loose ends to be tied up, but the sense of urgency was gone, which to my mind is a fault with the plotting. Your theory that she was committed to produce a certain number of words seems plausible in light of this. Perhaps having Frank continue to struggle, as you suggest, might have helped to maintain the pace of the plot.

>203 kac522: I also felt that Gerald's future was brushed over; either that, or dealt with so subtly that I missed it!

>207 Sakerfalcon:

Since she was writing for serialisation in Blackwood's, she would have had to fill a certain number of pages---and no more. Perhaps she couldn't fit her desired ending into the space available and had to simplify it?

>207 Sakerfalcon: I also thought the tension peaked too early. I wanted to keep reading to find out what happened with the trial. Once it was over, I didn't feel any urgency about finishing the book.

>201 lyzard: I don't see how Mr. Morgan could have stayed after a public humiliation when it became evident that he had chosen the wrong side in Frank's case. He's a vain man and I can't see him swallowing his pride and sticking things out in Carlingford. "Getting out of Dodge" is a common reaction under these circumstances. I could name several instances where this has happened in a church from personal knowledge.

>209 cbl_tn:

Again, I think the option of fleeing was too easy: he should have had to stick it out, at least for a while, and make his peace with Frank. I don't doubt that he wanted to run, though!

Another question (or maybe complaint): why is it that so many people in this town can't answer a simple question? Dora Wentworth, Mr Elsworthy, Rosa, Miss Hemmings...it started getting very annoying after awhile. Am I the only one bothered by this?

Otherwise, I enjoyed this novel much more than Salem Chapel; it seemed to move along and had some clever observations--engaged me more, similar to the stories at the beginning of the series.

I also liked this better than Salem Chapel, mostly because of those remarkable women, Mrs Morgan and Aunt Leonora. Having two featherbrains like Dora and Mary Wodehouse was a bit much. I wondered at never meeting the present Mrs Wentworth, Frank's stepmother. And yes, Mr Morgan should have paid a bit for chosing the wrong side, learning a little humility wouldn't have done him any wrong.

>211 kac522:

People ARE annoying, haven't you noticed?? :D

I think only Dora suffers from that chronically, though, as a result of being Leonora's sister. Miss Hemmings also suffers from being a sister, but her reluctance to give what she thinks is harmful evidence is different from Dora's fluttering. Rosa is about avoiding the consequences of her actions; and as for Mr Elsworthy, it's because he likes making speeches.

As I said in >120 lyzard:, for me it wasn't about not answering questions, it was the constant protestations of "it's not my fault", and that we do get from an exasperating number of people.

>212 MissWatson:

You bring up something worrying. Oliphant does present Mr Wentworth overtly as a kind of exemplar feudal landlord, but behind that there are a number of touches that seem to me very critical of his approach to life, and the non-presence of the third Mrs Wentworth is one of them.

This is as much as we ever learn about her:

Chapter 3:

"We were down at the old Hall a week ago, and saw your father and the rest. They are all well; and the last boy is rather like you, if you will think that any compliment. Mrs Wentworth is pleased, because you are one of the handsome ones, you know. Not much fear of the Wentworths dying out of the country yet awhile..."

Chapter 17:

"I can see it now. It must have been their mother," said the Squire, meditatively; "she died very young, poor girl! her character was not formed. As for your dear mother, my boy, she was always equal to an emergency; she would have given us the best of advice, had she been spared to us this day. Mrs Wentworth is absorbed in her nursery, as is natural, and I should not care to consult her much on such a subject.."

Chapter 19:

So the girls talked at their window, Mrs Wentworth being, as usual, occupied with her nursery, and nobody else at hand to teach them wisdom...

Chapter 44:

"Your mother, Frank, was a specimen of what a woman ought to be---not to speak of her own children, there was nobody else who ever knew how to manage Gerald and Jack. Of course I am not speaking of Mrs Wentworth, who has her nursery to occupy her," said the Squire, apologetically...

It isn't clear whether Mrs Wentworth has been banished to the nursery or whether it's a voluntary retreat (how many step-children does she have?), but the dismissive tone is disturbing.

Oliphant presents Mr Wentworth overtly as a kind of expemplar feudal landlord, but behind that there are quite a number of tacit criticisms of his approach to life---or perhaps, again, of male privilege---and even aside from the implications of these passages with respect to his wife, his continuing to breed like this, given the situation with the entail, seems very irresponsible.

(Which links him to our conversation about Mr Wodehouse and Austen's fathers, in >167 lyzard:, >170 cbl_tn:, >171 lyzard:.)

>211 kac522:, >212 MissWatson:

As I said at the outset, I think the blending of the different elements and tones is much better here than in Salem Chapel; and I also think that Frank is a much more complete character than Arthur Vincent, who we never really got to the bottom of (possibly because Oliphant was writing out of her element, amongst the Dissenters).

The detail in which Oliphant follows Aunt Leonora's thought processes and shifting moods is remarkable, and I think Mrs Morgan is a triumph (not least because she is the only character here who is never annoying!).

Do we have any final comments?

I don't have much to add. I thought it was fun to read, and that the plot rolled along nicely, but agree that the ending was a bit too easy. For whatever reason, I was really drawn to Jack Wentworth despite his behavior - he seemed somehow more modern than the other characters.

>215 lyzard: I totally agree that Aunt Leonora and Mrs Morgan are well-done and the most interesting characters.

Thanks again, Liz, for leading us through this novel. I always take away so much more in a book from your comments and discussion.

Thank you Liz, I enjoyed this very much!

I have enjoyed this one, and read on faster than the timetable required!. Salem Chapel I didn't really read properly but relied on the tutoring thread to get me through the story.

I am interested in what might happen to the characters, whereas I wasn't last time. It might be my CofE background, after all the established church has never had much time for Dissenters in any form!

Do we hear any more about these people in the next books? I don't know what the time-gap is between this and Miss Marjoribanks.

Thank you for this, it has been great to have the expert commentary and shares thoughts with everyone. I enjoyed Oliphant's characters who, while frequently annoying, were mostly drawn in subtle shades of grey.

>220 CDVicarage:

:D

I don't know anything about the remaining series works. Past experience suggests some of these characters will show up but not in any significant manner.

Thank you, everyone! I'm glad that you all seem to have enjoyed it in spite (or because?) of some really annoying people! :D

Of course we are now at the point where I say "What next?" - the usual question of whether you would like to continue with this series or mix it up with something else?

The other issue is timing. The next group read generally will be Anthony Trollope's Miss Mackenzie, which we don't have a date for yet, but probably May or June (I need to ask around about that). Our next Virago read would therefore most likely be August or September. Please let me know your preferences below.

>223 lyzard: Miss Mackenzie is delightful and I will be there!

And I am open to whatever Virago you are willing to lead :) although I think I would like to get back to Carlingford at some point.

>223 lyzard: I'm planning to be around for Miss Mackenzie, but I've got a vacation planned for August/September, so I can't commit to that yet.

>224 kac522:

Excellent!

We can certainly go on with Carlingford if that is the general consensus.

>225 MissWatson:

We won't try and plan anything definite now, but revisit later on and see about everyone's availability.

>223 lyzard: I'd like to read the rest of the Carlingford books with the group. I'm also up for picking up where we left off in the chronological Virago reads at some point. I often find pre-C19th literature heavy going so I really enjoy having the encouragement to get through and enjoy these books.

>227 Sakerfalcon:

I'm happy to go with that plan, Claire.

I've had quite the reading slump and only managed to finish yesterday... Welp for my belated comments!

I can't help feeling that it would have been for the best had everyone agreed sooner to a thorough investigation and even Frank's informal trial.

>121 lyzard: I actually felt a touch of sympathy for Tom Wodehouse there. I mean, it isn't quite the time or place for him to show his face in the house, but he does seem concerned about his father, only to be shut out of the house once more. Well, of course, though, his concern over his father's health quickly becomes an interest in his father's money... :/

>122 lyzard: since his father's name is also "Tom", it wasn't really forgery...
I was wondering about that. I imagine, in that case, many young men, both innocent and guilty, would have been committing forgery every time they signed their name. Or was there a proper way to do it, like "Thomas Wodehouse II"?

>205 lyzard: Regarding Gerald, his new church has rejected him, basically: he is left as a layman, a country gentleman with no work and very little income
I figure it was the custom of the time, but to my modern sensibilities, it just boggles my mind how a young-ish, fit and well-educated man could be at a loss for work, if he came from an old and rich family. I'm never surprised, when reading Victorian or Regency novels, by the number of young, "well-bred" men in that fall into dissolute lifestyles, much like Jack Wentworth.

>182 lyzard: Yess!! I actually really enjoyed Chapter 37, with Mr Proctor's proposal. Molly gets a chance at marriage---true, not with someone she knows well at all, but with someone congenial enough, and neither are very particular people so they will make a sufficiently peaceable couple---and she asserts her will for once over Lucy. And Mr Proctor, he is terrible and so inadvertently insulting that I could not help but be charmed by the whole affair. And his attempt to persuade Molly that "at least we might try..." It was so funny and I was like, try? Speak up, man! This is marriage you are talking about, there is no trying, only doing or not doing!

"Then it shall be for good and all!" cried Mr Proctor, with a sudden impulse of energy.

More like it, Mr Proctor, much more like it. And how thoughtful of him to have had a little postcard of the new rectory painted for her. I think they make a cute couple.

More about couples, I was rather amused how Mr Morgan is torn between wanting to convict Frank, wanting not to be unjust, and wanting not to displease his wife, to whom he was really quite awful for that interval there. But I did also enjoy the reconciliation between Mr and Mrs Morgan, when (a bit too sanguinely) Mrs Morgan decides that her husband was after all still very worthy of her admiration!

>201 lyzard: I was not much surprised or bothered that Mr Morgan runs away, but I felt they have learned something of humility (or was it just humiliation?) from the fiasco of Frank's trial, and they accept quite simply that they are not well-suited for a town post and that they want to return home. But yes, would have been informative to know what kind of job Mr Morgan is doing in Carlingford, though I suspect it probably isn't too great, considering that Mr Morgan should have done more for Wharfside either personally or by formally sanctioning Frank's work there, rather than uselessly resenting Frank's service among the town's poor.

>201 lyzard: I agree also that the ending was a touch neat (and going meta, too XD), and I was sorry too that Lucy and Frank never get to weather out poverty as a young couple for even a bit. I mean, the narrative was pushing rather for the benefits of marrying young, and I would have liked to see Aunt Dora's advice really accepted and lived. Speaking of which, poor old, annoying, dear Aunt Dora really made an impression on me there. She was young, charming, pretty and had her prospectives once, a long time ago, too, just nobody but her remembers anymore... I actually thought that with the house gifted to Molly, Lucy and Frank were going to be able to get married and live there.

Hmm. I sensed a very "gather ye rosebuds" sentiment from the narrative, what with the contrast that Mrs Morgan invariably makes between Lucy and her own long engagement, Aunt Dora's urgent counsel to Frank not to put off marriage until it never happens, and the awkward sobriety of Molly and Mr Proctor's middle-aged engagement.

That theme reminded me also of another group read for The Bertrams by Trollope, in which conflict occurs for two couples, George Bertram and Caroline Waddington, and Arthur Wilkinson and Adela Gauntlet, in part due to their hesitating and delaying marriage.

Long engagements must have caused Victorians anxiety...

Hi, Janet! Thank you so much for persisting, and for coming back to post your thoughts. Sorry I've been slow to respond, we've been having our election here: very distracting. :)

>229 Majel-Susan:

Part of the problem there is that there was no real authority for taking such action. The church authorities usually only intervened in doctrinal matters, if there was a feeling the minister wasn't preaching the true gospel (or was, for example, "too Catholic"). The wasn't really a process for dealing with (alleged) behavioural issues unless, as here, someone was willing to take it on.

Also it probably felt longer to us, being inside everyone's head. :)

It WAS forgery and I doubt even Tom really believed it wasn't, though he had obviously decided that playing dumb on that point was his best defence.

I've said this before in various contexts, mostly re: Trollope, but one of the fascinating things in 19th century literature is watching the attitude to work change - at least for men - over the course of it. Even as late as the 1840s there was an insistence that a part of being a gentleman was being "leisured" but a generation later there is a distinct feeling that, as you say, these "young-ish, fit and well-educated" men should be doing something to support themselves, at least. It isn't at all surprising that, with nothing to do, so many ran off the rails.

This doesn't really apply to Gerald, of course, who has just now given up the career he trained for. In the longer term, as I say, I think managing the property for first his father, then Jack, is his most likely destiny.

I actually think Mr Proctor and Mary will do better than the Morgans in one respect: I don't think there will be any "idol worship" or self-fooling---which as you note has become a necessary part of their marriage.

I suppose Oliphant didn't want to muddy the waters by changing how we view Mr Morgan, but it does leave a hole, and particularly in light of bringing back Mr Proctor after dissecting his job performance in The Rector.

>230 Majel-Susan:

I was also thinking very much of The Bertrams in that respect---though naturally Trollope blames the inability to make "a leap of faith" on the woman, while Oliphant blames it on the man. :D

The ending also made me think of the over-easy neatness of Our Mutual Friend where, after making the whole novel about the corrupting power of money, Dickens rewards his characters with---money?

Long-engagement anxiety is, if you look for it, a very recurring theme in Victorian literature, which is littered with stories of people with an unfulfilled romance in their past. Part of this was realistic enough: life was terribly uncertain, and often it would be a matter of the man going off to "make his fortune" and never coming back.

However, the subtext here is that the longer an engagement went, the greater the likelihood - or the greater the assumption - that the pair would give in to temptation and the woman would be "ruined". A woman who didn't marry after any length of engagement would be viewed with suspicion and her chances of marriage be greatly reduced, even if the engagement was never fulfilled because of the man's death. This is one reason why, with these sad back-stories, it is so often a spinster looking back.

Thank you again, everybody!

A reminder: we will be doing Trollope's Miss Mackenzie in June; I will be posting around about that shortly. Hope to see you all there! :)

Sorry, I should have done this a little earlier:

There was a brief discussion of when to schedule a group read of Miss Marjoribanks at the end of our reading of Trollope's Miss Mackenzie: the greater vote then was for October and, as it turns out, that suits me better too; so October it is.

I will post reminders around again in a couple of weeks.