by George Eliot
CHAPTER XXIII.
"I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there's no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused."--_Henry IV._
When Philip Debarry had come home that morning and read the letterswhich had not been forwarded to him, he laughed so heartily at Mr.Lyon's that he congratulated himself on being in his private room.Otherwise his laughter would have awakened the curiosity of Sir Maximus,and Philip did not wish to tell any one the contents of the letter untilhe had shown them to his uncle. He determined to ride over to therectory to lunch; for as Lady Mary was away, he and his uncle might be_tete-a-tete_.
The rectory was on the other side of the river, close to the church ofwhich it was the fitting companion: a fine old brick-and-stone house,with a great bow-window opening from the library on to the deep-turfedlawn, one fat dog sleeping on the door-stone, another fat dog waddlingon the gravel, the autumn leaves duly swept away, the lingeringchrysanthemums cherished, tall trees stooping or soaring in the mostpicturesque variety, and a Virginian creeper turning a little rustic hutinto a scarlet pavilion. It was one of those rectories which are amongthe bulwarks of our venerable institutions--which arrest disintegratingdoubt, serve as a double embankment against Popery and Dissent, andrally feminine instinct and affection to reinforce the decisions ofmasculine thought.
"What makes you look so merry, Phil?" said the rector, as his nephewentered the pleasant library.
"Something that concerns you," said Philip, taking out the letter. "Aclerical challenge. Here's an opportunity for you to emulate the divinesof the sixteenth century and have a theological duel. Read this letter."
"What answer have you sent the crazy little fellow?" said the rector,keeping the letter in his hand and running over it again and again, withbrow knit, but eyes gleaming without any malignity.
"Oh, I sent no answer. I awaited yours."
"Mine!" said the rector, throwing down the letter on the table. "Youdon't suppose I'm going to hold a public debate with a schismatic ofthat sort? I should have an infidel shoemaker next expecting me toanswer blasphemies delivered in bad grammar."
"But you see how he puts it," said Philip. With all his gravity ofnature he could not resist a slightly mischievous prompting, though hehad a serious feeling that he should not like to be regarded as failingto fulfill his pledge. "I think if you refuse, I shall be obliged tooffer myself."
"Nonsense! Tell him he is himself acting a dishonorable part ininterpreting your words as a pledge to do any preposterous thing thatsuits his fancy. Suppose he had asked you to give him land to build achapel on doubtless that would have given him a 'lively satisfaction.'A man who puts a non-natural, strained sense on a promise is no betterthan a robber."
"But he has not asked for land. I dare say he thinks you won't object tohis proposal. I confess there's a simplicity and quaintness about theletter that rather pleases me."
"Let me tell you, Phil, he's a crazy little firefly, that does a greatdeal of harm in my parish. He inflames the Dissenters' minds onpolitics. There's no end to the mischief done by these busy, pratingmen. They make the ignorant multitude the judges of the largestquestions, both political and religious, till we shall soon have noinstitution left that is not on a level with the comprehension of ahuckster or a drayman. There can be nothing more retrograde--losing allthe results of civilization, all the lessons of Providence--letting thewindlass run down after men have been turning at it painfully forgenerations. If the instructed are not to judge for the uninstructed,why, let us set Dick Stubbs to make our almanacs, and have a Presidentof the Royal Society elected by universal suffrage."
The rector had risen, placed himself with his back to the fire, andthrust his hands in his pockets, ready to insist further on this wideargument. Philip sat nursing one leg, listening respectfully, as healways did, though often listening to the sonorous echo of his ownstatements, which suited his uncle's needs so exactly that he did notdistinguish them from his own impressions.
"True," said Philip; "but in special cases we have to do with specialconditions. You know I defend the casuists. And it may happen that, forthe honor of the church in Treby, and a little also for my honor,circumstances may demand a concession even to some notions of aDissenting preacher."
"Not at all. I should be making a figure which my brother clergy mightwell take as an affront to themselves. The character of theEstablishment has suffered enough already through the Evangelicals, withtheir extempore incoherence and their pipe-smoking piety. Look atWimple, the man who is vicar of Shuttleton--without his gown and bandsanybody would take him for a grocer in mourning."
"Well, I shall cut a still worse figure, and so will you, in theDissenting magazines and newspapers. It will go the round of thekingdom. There will be a paragraph headed, 'Tory Falsehood and ClericalCowardice,' or else, 'The Meanness of the Aristocracy and theIncompetence of the Beneficed Clergy.'"
"There would be a worse paragraph if I were to consent to the debate. Ofcourse it would be said that I was beaten hollow, and, that now thequestion had been cleared up at Treba Magna, the Church had not a soundleg to stand on. Besides," the rector went on, frowning and smiling,"it's all very well for you to talk, Phil; but this debating is not soeasy when a man's close upon sixty. What one writes or says must besomething good and scholarly; and, after all had been done, this littleLyon would buzz about one like a wasp, and cross-question and rejoin.Let me tell you, a plain truth may be so worried and mauled by fallaciesas to get the worst of it. There's no such thing as tiring atalking-machine like Lyon."
"Then you absolutely refuse?"
"Yes, I do."
"You remember that when I wrote my letter of thanks to Lyon you approvedmy offer to serve him if possible."
"Certainly I remember it. But suppose he had asked you to vote for civilmarriage, or to go and hear him preach every Sunday?"
"But he has not asked that."
"Something as unreasonable, though."
"Well," said Philip, taking up Mr. Lyon's letter and lookinggraver--looking even vexed, "it is rather an unpleasant business for me.I really felt obliged to him. I think there's a sort of worth in the manbeyond his class. Whatever may be the reason of the case, I shalldisappoint him instead of doing him the service I offered."
"Well, that's a misfortune; we can't help it."
"The worst of it is, I should be insulting him to say, 'I will doanything else, but not just this that you want.' He evidently feelshimself in company with Luther and Zwingle and Calvin, and considers ourletters part of the history of Protestantism."
"Yes, yes. I know it's rather an unpleasant thing, Phil. You are awarethat I would have done anything in reason to prevent you from becomingunpopular here. I consider your character a possession to all of us."
"I think I must call on him forthwith and explain and apologize."
"No, sit still; I've thought of something," said the rector, with asudden revival of spirits. "I've just seen Sherlock coming in. He is tolunch with me to-day. It would do no harm for him to hold the debate--acurate and a young man--he'll gain by it; and it would release you fromany awkwardness, Phil. Sherlock is not going to stay here long, youknow; he'll soon have his title. I'll put the thing to him. He won'tobject if I wish it. It's a capital idea. It will do Sherlock good. He'sa clever fellow, but he wants confidence."
Philip had not time to object before Mr. Sherlock appeared--a youngdivine of good birth and figure, of sallow complexion and bashfuladdress.
"Sherlock, you have come in most opportunely," said the rector. "A casehas turned up in the parish in which you can be of eminent use. I knowthat is what you have desired ever since you have been with me. But I'mabout so much myself that there really has not been sphere enough foryou. You are a studious man, I know; I dare say you have all thenecessary matter prepared--at your finger-ends, if not on paper."
Mr. Sherlock smiled with rather a trembling lip, willing to distinguishhimself, but hoping that the rector only all
uded to a dialogue onBaptism by Aspersion, or some other pamphlet suited to the purposes ofthe Christian Knowledge Society. But as the rector proceeded to unfoldthe circumstances under which his eminent service was to be rendered, hegrew more and more nervous.
"You'll oblige me very much, Sherlock," the rector ended, "by going intothis thing zealously. Can you guess what time you will require? becauseit will rest with us to fix the day."
"I should be rejoiced to oblige you, Mr. Debarry, but I really think Iam not competent to----"
"That's your modesty, Sherlock. Don't let me hear any more of that. Iknow Filmore of Corpus said you might be a first-rate man if yourdiffidence didn't do you injustice. And you can refer anything to me,you know. Come, you will set about the thing at once. But, Phil, youmust tell the preacher to send a scheme of the debate--all the differentheads--and he must agree to keep rigidly within the scheme. There, sitdown at my desk and write the letter now; Thomas shall carry it."
Philip sat down to write, and the rector, with his firm ringing voice,went on at his ease, giving "indications" to his agitated curate.
"But you can begin at once preparing a good, cogent, clear statement,and considering the probable points of assault. You can look into Jewel,Hall, Hooker, Whitgift, and the rest: you'll find them all here. Mylibrary wants nothing in English divinity. Sketch the lower ground takenby Usher and those men, but bring all your force to bear on marking outthe true High-Church doctrine. Expose the wretched cavils of theNoncomformists, and the noisy futility that belongs to schismaticsgenerally. I will give you a telling passage from Burke on theDissenters, and some good quotations which I brought together in twosermons of my own on the Position of the English Church in Christendom.How long do you think it will take you to bring your thoughts together?You can throw them afterward into the form of an essay; we'll have thething printed; it will do you good with the Bishop."
With all Mr. Sherlock's timidity, there was fascination for him in thisdistinction. He reflected that he could take coffee and sit up late, andperhaps produce something rather fine. It might be a first step towardthat eminence which it was no more than his duty to aspire to. Even apolemical fame like that of a Philpotts must have had a beginning. Mr.Sherlock was not insensible to the pleasure of turning sentencessuccessfully, and it was a pleasure not always unconnected withpreferment. A diffident man likes the idea of doing somethingremarkable, which will create belief in him without any immediatedisplay of brilliancy. Celebrity may blush and be silent, and win agrace the more. Thus Mr. Sherlock was constrained, trembling all thewhile, and much wishing that his essay were already in print.
"I think I could hardly be ready under a fortnight."
"Very good. Just write that, Phil, and tell him to fix the precise dayand place. And then we'll go to lunch."
The rector was quite satisfied. He had talked himself into thinking thathe should like to give Sherlock a few useful hints, look up his ownearlier sermons, and benefit the curate by his criticism, when theargument had been got into shape. He was a healthy-natured man, but thatwas not at all a reason why he should not have those sensibilities tothe odor of authorship which belong to almost everybody who is notexpected to be a writer--and especially to that form of authorshipwhich is called suggestion, and consists in telling another man that hemight do a great deal with a given subject, by bringing a sufficientamount of knowledge, reasoning, and wit to bear upon it.
Philip would have had some twinges of conscience about the curate, if hehad not guessed that the honor thrust upon him was not altogetherdisagreeable. The Church might perhaps have had a stronger supporter;but for himself, he had done what he was bound to do: he had done hisbest toward fulfilling Mr. Lyon's desire.