CHAPTER XVI.
THE BISHOP AND THE PRIEST.
The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house hadbeen very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carburyhad suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretendedto suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that hehad been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once toLondon, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very badfeminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but haddone so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question ofmeeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need forspeaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm,immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they couldhave the waggonnette when they pleased. "I'm afraid you'll find ittiresome driving about our lanes," he said. Lady Carbury assured himthat she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he wasstarting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he broughtto Henrietta. He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went hisway. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suittill Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her toremain with him when her mother and brother would be going out todine at Caversham. She looked up into his face as she took the roseand thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, andhonour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him sodearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with suchcousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his sideagainst her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safestguide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a loverwhom she did not love?
"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here," saidLady Carbury.
"Why so, mamma?"
"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world,and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all thegentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not acomfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!"
"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nicepeople."
"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta,don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes fromthe superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but Ibeg that you will not copy him."
"Mamma, I think that is unkind."
"And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abusepeople who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A wordfrom you might undo all that we are doing."
"What word?"
"What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother youshould use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl iswilling enough. She did refer him to her father."
"Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmotte?"
"I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Rogercould only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place,and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don'tthink there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte."
"How could he do that, mamma?"
"If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Yourbrother would be his heir."
"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."
"Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to thinkof my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And whatI say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir FelixCarbury of Carbury."
"But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?"
"You say he is so old that you will not look at him."
"I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You knowI did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great dealolder get married every day."
"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of thatkind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing willchange him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become anold misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented.You are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinateI do wish that the Melmottes should be made to understand that theproperty and title and name of the place will all go together. Itwill be so, and why should not Felix have the advantage?"
"Who is to say it?"
"Ah;--that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that onecannot get him to speak rationally."
"Oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is togo to--Felix, when he--is dead!"
"It would not kill him a day sooner."
"You would not dare to do it, mamma."
"I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not looklike that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of thekind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite servicehe might be to us without in any way hurting himself." Henriettawould fain have answered that their cousin was quick enough foranything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a schemeas that proposed. She refrained, however, and was silent. Therewas no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She wasbeginning to understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in whichher mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost todespise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.
In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Becclesthat she might telegraph to her son. "You are to dine at Cavershamon Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there." Lady Carburyhad many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female inthe office might too probably understand who was the "She," whowas spoken of as being at Caversham, and might understand alsothe project, and speak of it publicly. But then it was essentialthat Felix should know how great and certain was the opportunityafforded to him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return onMonday,--and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan andthrow over the Longestaffes and their dinner-party. Again if he weretold to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chanceof wooing her on the Sunday. It was Lady Carbury's desire to get himdown for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely wouldso tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiresswas already in the neighbourhood. Then she returned, and shut herselfup in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper which shewas writing for the "Breakfast Table." Nobody should ever accuse herjustly of idleness. And afterwards, as she walked by herself roundand round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a newbook. Whatever might happen she would persevere. If the Carburyswere unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers.Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin frombreakfast till he appeared in the drawing-room before dinner. But shewas thinking of him during every minute of the day,--how good he was,how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindnessat her hand! Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might beregarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love forher. Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would nevermarry unless she would take his hand? She came to think of him withmore tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet, she wouldnot tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty togive herself to him without loving him,--because he was so good; butshe was sure that she did not love him.
In the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs. Yeld, and theHepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles priest. Theparty consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for amixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table,--especially ifthere be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit oppositeto the master. In this case Mr. Hepworth faced the giver of thefeast, the bishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and theladies graced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such thingsto no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be theduty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of hisguests. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to theyoung priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, andthen to his
cousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening,and told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his ownhouse. She had seen it all before, no doubt; but she had neverwatched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her thathe would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wifeand the mother of his children.
The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome,with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, andsomething of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with abroad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made forclerical breeches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortuneoutside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London, and hadno children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as anobleman in the country. He did live as a nobleman, and was verypopular. Among the poor around him he was idolized, and by suchclergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their theologyeither on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a modelbishop. By the very high and the very low,--by those rather whoregarded ritualism as being either heavenly or devilish,--he waslooked upon as a time-server, because he would not put to sea ineither of those boats. He was an unselfish man, who loved hisneighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and thanked God forhis daily bread from his heart, and prayed heartily to be deliveredfrom temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach acreed,--or even to hold one, if it be necessary that a man shouldunderstand and define his creed before he can hold it. Whether he wasfree from, or whether he was scared by, any inward misgivings, whoshall say? If there were such he never whispered a word of them evento the wife of his bosom. From the tone of his voice and the lookof his eye, you would say that he was unscathed by that agony whichdoubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man so placed. And yetit was observed of him that he never spoke of his faith, or enteredinto arguments with men as to the reasons on which he had based it.He was diligent in preaching,--moral sermons that were short, pithy,and useful. He was never weary in furthering the welfare of hisclergymen. His house was open to them and to their wives. The edificeof every church in his diocese was a care to him. He laboured atschools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of thepoor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that thehuman soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhapsthere was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in hisdiocese than the Bishop of Elmham.
A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, thelately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would beimpossible to conceive;--and yet they were both eminently good men.Father John was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, someagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he stooped, hewas taken to be tall. He had thick dark brown hair, which was cutshort in accordance with the usage of his Church; but which he soconstantly ruffled by the action of his hands, that, though short, itseemed to be wild and uncombed. In his younger days, when long locksstraggled over his forehead, he had acquired a habit, while talkingenergetically, of rubbing them back with his finger, which he had notsince dropped. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair,and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had ahigh, broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeksvery thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong squarechin. He was utterly without worldly means, except those which cameto him from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice tofind him food and raiment; but no man ever lived more indifferent tosuch matters than Father John Barham. He had been the younger sonof an English country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent toOxford that he might hold a family living, and on the eve of hisordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family hadresented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he haddrawn a sister with him. When banished from the house he had stillstriven to achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters,and was now absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care.But of this he never complained. It was a part of the plan of hislife that he should suffer for his faith. Had he been able to changehis creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, andpoverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortableand satisfactory as it was. He considered that his father, as aProtestant,--and in his mind Protestant and heathen were all thesame,--had been right to quarrel with him. But he loved his father,and was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with supplications,that his father might see the truth and be as he was.
To him it was everything that a man should believe and obey,--thathe should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others,and allow himself to be guided in all things by authority. Faithbeing sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could benothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him, whosebelief was true enough to produce obedience, moral conduct wouldcertainly be added. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barhama real religion; and he would teach them in season and out ofseason, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving theirtruth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which hisperseverance would create. He had but one duty before him,--to do hispart towards bringing over the world to his faith. It might be thatwith the toil of his whole life he should convert but one; that heshould but half convert one; that he should do no more than disturbthe thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. Buteven that would be work done. He would sow the seed if it might beso; but if it were not given to him to do that, he would at any rateplough the ground.
He had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury had found out thathe was a gentleman by birth and education. Roger had found outalso that he was very poor, and had consequently taken him by thehand. The young priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbour'shospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that heshould be delighted to dine at Carbury, as he was much in want ofa dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultryyard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. The apparentfrankness of the man about himself had charmed Roger, and the charmhad not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, on one winterevening in the parlour at Carbury, had tried his hand at convertinghis host. "I have the most thorough respect for your religion," Rogerhad said; "but it would not suit me." The priest had gone on with hislogic; if he could not sow the seed he might plough the ground. Thishad been repeated two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel itto be disagreeable. But the man was in earnest, and such earnestnesscommanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might bebored, he could not be injured by such teaching. Then it occurred tohim one day that he had known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for adozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth,--exceptwhen in the pulpit,--a single word of religious teaching; whereasthis man, who was a stranger to him, divided from him by the veryfact of his creed, was always talking to him about his faith. RogerCarbury was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt thatthe bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.
Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No onelooking at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart wassore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin,and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other.She had known the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken tohim of her soul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convincedher of her error, and she never repeated it. To Mr. Alf she commonlytalked of her mind; to Mr. Broune of her heart; to Mr. Booker ofher body--and its wants. She was quite ready to talk of her soul ona proper occasion, but she was much too wise to thrust the subjecteven on a bishop. Now she was full of the charms of Carbury and itsneighbourhood. "Yes, indeed," said the bishop, "I think Suffolk is avery nice county; and as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'llsay as much for Norfolk too. 'It's an ill bird that fouls its ownnest.'"
"I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling,"said Lady Carbury. "Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire andLancashire have become great towns, an
d have lost all localdistinctions."
"We still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "SillySuffolk!"
"But that was never deserved."
"As much, perhaps, as other general epithets. I think we are a sleepypeople. We've got no coal, you see, and no iron. We have no beautifulscenery, like the lake country,--no rivers great for fishing, likeScotland,--no hunting grounds, like the shires."
"Partridges!" pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy.
"Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery.We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can'tincrease and multiply as they do in the great cities."
"I like this part of England so much the best for that very reason.What is the use of a crowded population?"
"The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury."
"Oh, yes," said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to hervoice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divinearrangement. "The world must be peopled; but for myself I like thecountry better than the town."
"So do I," said Roger; "and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty,and radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. The poorpeople touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. Thereis something left among us of old English habits."
"That is so nice," said Lady Carbury.
"Something left of old English ignorance," said the bishop. "All thesame I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. Whatbeautiful flowers you have here, Mr. Carbury! At any rate, we cangrow flowers in Suffolk."
Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, andwas in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour. She was, perhaps, alittle stauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and though shewas willing to admit that Mr. Barham might not have ceased to be agentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not quitesure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to dowith him. Mr. Carbury had not taken them unawares. Notice had beengiven that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declaredthat he would be very happy to meet the priest. But Mrs. Yeld had hadher misgivings. She never ventured to insist on her opinion after thebishop had expressed his; but she had an idea that right was right,and wrong wrong,--and that Roman Catholics were wrong, and thereforeought to be put down. And she thought also that if there were nopriests there would be no Roman Catholics. Mr. Barham was, no doubt,a man of good family, which did make a difference.
Mr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturnhumility with which he commenced his operations was in exactproportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy.Mrs. Yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civilwords, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almostovercame her dislike to his profession. She spoke of the poorof Beccles, being very careful to allude only to their materialposition. There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the youngwomen would have finery. Where did they get the money to buy thosewonderful bonnets which appeared every Sunday? Mr. Barham was verymeek, and agreed to everything that was said. No doubt he had a planready formed for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularlywithin her husband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring itabout on this occasion. It was not till he made some apparentlychance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of "ourpeople," that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversationby observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.
When the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in theway of conversation with the priest, and asked questions as to themorality of Beccles. It was evidently Mr. Barham's opinion that "hispeople" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer."But the Irish always drink," said Mr. Hepworth.
"Not so much as the English, I think," said the priest. "And youare not to suppose that we are all Irish. Of my flock the greaterproportion are English."
"It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours," said thebishop. "Of course I am aware that there are a certain number ofpersons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give theexact number in this diocese. But in my own immediate neighbourhoodI could not put my hand upon any families which I know to be RomanCatholic."
"It is not, my lord, because there are none."
"Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know myneighbours."
"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said Mr.Hepworth.
"They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in ourSaviour," said the priest.
"I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn," said the bishop,with a curious smile. "We were speaking of those who are stillattached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a newreligion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should bethe first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordancewith our idea of human nature. But that an old faith should remainwith the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not soeasily intelligible."
The bishop thinks that the priest's analogyis not correct.]
"The Roman population still believed," said Carbury, "when thepatricians had learned to regard their gods as simply usefulbugbears."
"The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. Thepeople clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to italso."
"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said thepriest.
"That begs the whole question," said the bishop, turning to his host,and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately beenimported into the palace styes. Father Barham turned to Mr. Hepworthand went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was amistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor.There were the A----s and the B----s, and the C----s and the D----s.He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him thesefaithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some daybe enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristinecondition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbourshe did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham,though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew thename of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.
"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwardsto Roger Carbury, "and I do not doubt but that he is an excellentgentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."
"I like him because he is doing the best he can according to hislights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare."
"That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him.But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in hiscompany."
"I am sure he would repeat nothing."
"Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going toget the best of me."
"I don't think it answers," said Mrs. Yeld to her husband as theywent home. "Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestantsare Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics."
"You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn'thave them decline to meet each other."
"It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion."
"It ought to be," said the bishop.
"Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but Idon't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again."
"I don't know that I do, either," said the bishop; "but if he comesin my way I hope I shall treat him civilly."
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