The Fall of Doctor Onslow

by Frances Vernon

  Onslow was faced with two equally ugly choices. Even when he thought of what scandal and exile would really mean, the idea of resigning as he had been ordered to do was as repugnant and shaming as ever. Like Anstey-Ward, he could not decide, and he had to decide quickly.

  Then Onslow recalled the existence of God, which he had scarcely touched on in his thoughts till now. Looking out of the window, he saw that there was still a little daylight, and in that daylight he could see the church tower, just across the way. He got up, fetched his hat and greatcoat, and went out. On reaching the church, he pushed open the door, and walked up the aisle to kneel in one of the front pews. The church’s cold and silence and mustiness enabled him to concentrate upon his God.

  He remained kneeling on his hassock for twenty minutes, until it was almost entirely dark. Then the sexton came in, carrying a lantern, and the noise and light disturbed him. Onslow felt almost ashamed of having been caught in prayer, as though the sexton could guess precisely why he needed to pray. Fortunately, the man did not appear to have noticed him, but even when he and his light were gone, Onslow found it hard to recapture his mood of prayerfulness, and reluctantly he got to his feet. Then he made his way back to the rectory.

  Though his prayers had been curtailed, they had been successful. God, Onslow believed, demanded that he should place himself unreservedly in the hands of the wife against whom he had so greatly offended. It would be for her to decide.

  *

  Louisa turned on Onslow in a fury when he suggested not resigning, and did not appear to take in the fact that it was her decision that mattered.

  ‘To have accepted that bishopric in the first place was madness, see where it has led us, and now you dare to suggest that you will still not resign! It is your fault that we are in this mess. Your fault entirely, and now whatever you do there will be gossip.’

  ‘I am aware.’

  ‘You think it will be humiliating to resign, but you deserve to be humiliated!’

  ‘Perhaps I do, Louisa. But I still think there is a chance.’

  ‘A chance! You have had it proved to you in the clearest possible way that he will ruin you, and still you say there is a chance! Do you want to be destroyed? Do you want to spend the rest of your life abroad? And don’t think I will accompany you.’

  ‘No, you told me that before. So it is your view that I must resign?’

  She drew breath. ‘Yes, George, that is my view, though of course I know it will not weigh with you. So be it. I shall write to Martin, telling him to expect me.’

  ‘On the contrary, I am, as I told you, concerned only to please you. If you wish it, I shall resign.’

  ‘Good. And I only hope that you are properly sensible of your own folly.’

  ‘I am. And once again, I ask you to forgive my original fault. Is that in your mind, Louisa?’

  She said nothing. She did not like the fact that Onslow, instead of reaching the only sensible decision on his own, had made her do it for him – and therefore she witheld forgiveness. Onslow looked reproachfully at her sullen face, inclined his head as though she were a stranger, and left the room.

  Back in his study, Onslow first composed a telegram to Anstey-Ward, to be sent in the morning. It said merely ‘I resign – Onslow.’ Then he turned his attention to the letter of resignation, which took him hours to write, hours interrupted by a silent dinner with Louisa. At last, the final draft ran:

  My Lord,

  Three weeks since, your lordship did me the honour of offering the bishopric of Ipswich for my acceptance. I accepted it, but I did so against the dictates of my conscience.

  I will not presume to trouble your lordship with details of the nature of my scruples, but will venture to say only that I am much afraid of a worldly ambition which I know to present a grave danger to my soul. I have until so lately, as your lordship may be aware, controlled this perilous ambition, and I therefore refused the various preferments which your lordship was good enough to offer me upon my resigning the Headmastership of Charton School. My resolution to accept neither bishopric nor deanery wavered only when I was offered the see of Ipswich, the reason being that the bishop’s palace there has the tenderest of associations for me, for it was there I courted Mrs Onslow.

  Yet after many days of thought and prayer, I am writing to your lordship to say that it is my duty to resign the preferment, for I cannot, conscientiously, become a bishop. I do so trusting sincerely that by resigning so shortly after my acceptance, I am causing your lordship no grave inconvenience. Indeed I cannot believe I am doing so, for there are so many men in the Church of England better by far in every way than one who begs leave to sign himself,

  Ever your lordship’s most obedient servant,

  G. R. Onslow.

  Hinterton Rectory, November 27th, 1863.

  31

  Louisa had been right in guessing that Onslow’s resignation would be attended by gossip. Had he not also resigned Charton so swiftly four years before, there would have been few to question the official story of his acting out of admirable if eccentric scruples, but as it was, there were some who did not hesitate to question his real motives. Among these was Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford.

  One afternoon a little while before Christmas, the Bishop came upon Martin Primrose in a quiet room at their London club. The room was empty but for themselves, a circumstance which delighted him.

  ‘Why, Mr Primrose! How long it is since I last saw you.’ They had not met since shortly after the bishop attempted to demolish Darwin’s arguments at the meeting of the British Association.

  Primrose put down his newspaper. ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he said. He was not surprised by the other’s friendly manner: it was the bishop’s wish to charm and please all who met him, and it was this characteristic which had earned him the nickname ‘Soapy Sam’. A long time ago, Primrose had been on good terms with him, but that was when he had been a very young clergyman, and delighted to be treated graciously by one far more eminent than himself. Later, he began to think Wilberforce insincere, too fond of advancement, and too desirous to be all things to all men.

  ‘Do you know, you are the very man I wish to see,’ said the bishop. ‘It has been too long, upon my word!’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘I well remember our old friendship. I am presuming upon it to ask you a question.’

  ‘I hope it will be in my power to answer it.’

  ‘You, I know, are Dr Onslow’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘I am,’ said Primrose. He put nothing beyond Wilberforce. He had been in London for two weeks, and during that time he had heard plenty of speculation at parties.

  ‘My dear Mr Primrose, will you not tell me what lies behind this sudden resignation? Had he declined the bishopric one might not have been altogether surprised, but to accept it and then decline it so quickly – it presents a very odd appearance.’ The bishop was so forthright largely because he feared someone else would soon walk into the room and put a stop to the conversation.

  ‘My lord, my brother-in-law promised himself long ago that he would accept neither a bishopric nor a deanery. His motives are his own affair.’

  ‘Did he so? But then why accept one?’

  ‘He was overcome by a momentary temptation,’ said Primrose, thinking the bishop looked just like an ape.

  ‘I always knew he was not so unnaturally humble as he appears.’

  ‘Onslow is extremely humble. Why else would he have resigned?’

  ‘Do you know, Mr Primrose, I suspect you of misleading me. I am very sure there is a story behind all this, and I fancy it is one which the Archbishop ought to know.’

  ‘You may suspect me as much as you please, my lord, but I give you my word that nothing disgraceful lies behind my brother-in-law’s resignation.’ Passionately he wished that Onslow would not force him to stain his mouth and reputation with a lie, Dr Arnold’s most hated sin.

  ‘Why,’ said the bishop innocently, raising his heav
y brows, ‘I never suspected there was anything disgraceful.’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘So you will not tell me?’

  ‘There is nothing to tell.’

  ‘Mr Primrose, I do not believe you.’

  ‘I have given you my word, my lord,’ said Primrose.

  The bishop hesitated, then said:

  ‘Very true. I ought not to have said I did not believe you.’

  ‘No,’ said Primrose.

  ‘Well! I must be glad of your assurance.’ Then the bishop took up a newspaper. He sat down at the opposite end of the room from Primrose, and the two read together in hostile silence. Neither was willing to leave the room, because it seemed to both of them that to do so would be to grant the other some kind of victory.

  *

  After Christmas, Primrose met Bishop Wilberforce again, this time on the doorstep of the club. Primrose was going back to his hotel for the night, and, always ready to forgive, he accepted the bishop’s claim to be going in the same direction and his offer to share his umbrella. The night was wet and he had forgotten his own.

  In the middle of the unavoidable Haymarket, where the prostitutes clustered thickly, the bishop told Primrose that he had heard the true story of Onslow’s resignation from a lady next to whom he had been sitting at a dinner party.

  ‘I need scarcely say that I was shocked beyond measure. Your reticence no longer surprises me, Mr Primrose.’

  Primrose said nothing.

  ‘And to think you said there was nothing disgraceful!’ Having made this point, the bishop went on: ‘Do you not think it is truly astonishing that the young man in question has not been more discreet? It seems he has told several persons with whom he was up at Cambridge, and the story has spread widely since then.’

  ‘A lady told you?’ said Primrose at last.

  ‘Yes, the news has even reached female ears. I was shocked myself, but ladies nowadays have so little modesty – impure minds and painted faces. Now my dear sir, who is it who is using his hold over Dr Onslow?’

  Primrose pulled himself together. Furious at the bishop’s smug, unchristian tone, he said:

  ‘That is no concern of yours or anyone’s, my lord. And I am astonished that a man in your position cares to credit idle gossip.’

  ‘Idle gossip, Mr Primrose! A most shameful circumstance, a highly reputed clergyman discovered to be – corrupt, and you call it idle gossip! You surely do not still deny that it is true?’

  ‘Will you tell me precisely what you have learnt from your lady informant?’

  There was a pause, then the bishop said:

  ‘She told me, Mr Primrose, that Dr Onslow is known to have been over-fond, shall I say, of the young man I mentioned, and she believes that someone, she does not know who, who knows this, is using his knowledge to force Dr Onslow to resign the preferment.’

  ‘We are all of us sinners, Onslow included,’ said Primrose. ‘I believe neither you nor I have the right to sit in judgement on him.’

  ‘But I fancy,’ said the bishop, ‘that both the Prime Minister and the Archbishop have the right to sit in judgement on him. And I have told them the whole.’

  Primrose was thinking of how it would affect Onslow if he ever knew that his secret was common knowledge in certain circles, that Bright had boasted about his love for him: it was a moment or two before he took in the sense of the bishop’s words.

  *

  Lord Palmerston, who had failed to be in the least shocked, and who was getting very old, forgot all about someone’s hold on Onslow and offered him the next vacant deanery, which Onslow refused. The Archbishop of Canterbury was horrified enough to satisfy the bishop, but he did not think of taking any action against Onslow. He dreaded a public scandal involving an eminent clergyman, as did most of those who knew and relished their knowledge. Even Bishop Wilberforce dreaded it. He, in telling the Prime Minister and the Archbishop, had not meant to have Onslow hounded out of the country. It was only his wish to make sure that the man would never again be offered a high preferment – he was in perfect agreement with Dr Anstey-Ward.

  Onslow never found out that there were many people who knew at least a part of his story. Such people were, in any case, still a minority. To most he remained a modest man of stern faith, the decliner of bishoprics on principle, a suitable example for young clergymen to follow. Invited to preach in Westminster Abbey, he was at first inclined to say no, but then the thought of how this would irritate Anstey-Ward roused him to accept. He still had spirit enough for that. In August 1864, the sermons he preached there were published, just as they used to be in his Charton days. And so, as he remained for the most part immured at Hinterton, his reputation quietly grew and grew.

  32

  On April 30th 1865, some eighteen months after he had resigned the bishopric of Ipswich, Onslow wrote to Primrose.

  My dear Martin,

  I know that I have neglected you of late, but I hope you will excuse me. I have done so because I have been struggling for many weeks to write a letter of immense personal importance, and it seemed to me impossible to fob you off, as it were, with trivial reports of my doings. For you must be my judge, now that I am at last writing this letter.

  How to begin? I can only think to write quite bluntly: I have lost my faith in God. This calamity came upon me quite suddenly some three months ago. I did not climb down the chasm of unbelief by the steps of doubt: no, I fell from its edge straight into the abyss, and there I remain. Daily I pray to the God in Whom I cannot believe for the restoration of the faith which has sustained me all my life, but it is of no avail.

  How ironical it is that this should have happened to me. Am I not celebrated for the straitness of my faith? my utter lack of patience with all cavillers, doubters, latitudinarians? Have I not poured scorn on those who doubt that the Book of Daniel was written by the prophet Daniel, as Christ Himself believed? Did I not consider Dr Arnold himself to be too lax in his interpretation of doctrine, his tolerance of dissenters? Has not only my exceeding love for you enabled me to tolerate your religious beliefs? All my life I have known that you and Dr Arnold were the best Christians of my acquaintance, yet still in my arrogance I condemned you. I know still that you, Martin, are the best Christian alive, and how I long to be in every way like you! How I long even to resemble the various authors of Essays and Reviews, whom I condemned and you defended in the Edinburgh, so much to my disgust! With all my heart now I wish I could be a generous Broad Churchman, but I cannot. To me now it is all or nothing, Rome or scepticism – and I cannot believe in the dogmas of Rome.

  Why was I so blind? It was made clear to me from the first that it is those who question who are the best Christians, that it is those who question who are truly engaged in the struggle to obey God’s will and not their own. I was so firm in my belief because I never gave that belief earnest consideration – in short, my faith was never truly of the heart, as yours is, or even of the brain, but only that of unquestioning assent. Even in my Tractarian days, I never struggled, truly struggled – although I suppose that I did have a vision of how it would be if I began to question, did perceive that in my case to acknowledge a single difficulty would be to doubt all, and was thus attracted to that sternly sheltering faith. Yet I never asked myself as so many did, as I would have done had I been an honest man – if Canterbury, why not Rome?

  And now all doctrine appears to me to be utterly false. Instead of believing in God and His Church, I believe all that the sceptics have said, and can do no other. The faith I thought so secure was as brittle as an eggshell, smashed the first time I devoted a single moment’s earnest thought to it, instead merely of rejoicing in complicated arguments designed to show that that which seems against reason in fact conforms to it, such as Mr Mansel has given us.

  Martin, I woke one morning thinking idly of Roman Catholic beliefs. And then for the first time I asked myself in all seriousness why men such as we should believe one mysterious doctrine which seems to con
found reason, such as the Trinity or the Incarnation, and reject others. On what grounds, save those of inherited orthodoxy and prejudice? Thus it seemed to me. If God became Man, born of a virgin, why should not He become flesh when a priest mutters words over a wafer of bread? Why indeed should the Holy House of Loretto not have flown through the air? I could think of no answer, where once I believe I would have thought of a score. But I experienced no desire to turn to Rome. Instead of thinking if one belief be true then so must the others, I thought if one be false, then so must the others. With hideous suddenness, I began to envisage this world not as a Catholic but, let us have the word with no bark on it, as an atheist sees it. I saw Man as an automaton, descended from monkeys, in a vast and godless universe – and it seemed to me a blinding revelation of terrible truth. All the sceptics’ arguments I had ever heard poured into my brain, and I found I could not reject them as I used to. All counter-arguments seemed false.

  Onslow had found himself obsessed by thoughts of what Anstey-Ward had said to him that evening at Poplar House, but he did not say this. Not even to Primrose had he confessed that he and Anstey-Ward had spent the evening in that manner, for it seemed to him ridiculous, shameful.

  I believe my faith must for years have been like burnt paper which keeps its shape in ashes till lightly blown upon, for the least little thing destroyed it. Naturally, I prayed, prayed hard, and I pray still – but the longer I pray the less real does God seem to me. I think of His Son, our Redeemer, on the cross, and it means nothing to me. I cry Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachtani? for I can no longer believe that He died to save us. I cannot believe in His divinity, I see only an unfortunate man. All at once the Christian vision has been taken away from me, because I now see that never, in my whole life, except perhaps when we were in the Sixth at Rugby, has it been wholly real to me. I believe now that always, inside me, there was an atheist buried.