CHAPTER III.
THE NEW VICAR.
Poor Arthur Wilkinson was in a very unhappy frame of mind when heleft the party at Parker's, and, indeed, as he went to bed that nighthe was in a state not to be envied; but, nevertheless, when the endof the week came, he was able to enter the parsonage with a cheerfulstep, and to receive his mother's embrace with a smiling face. Godis good to us, and heals those wounds with a rapidity which seems tous impossible when we look forward, but which is regarded with veryinsufficient wonder when we look backward.
Before he left Oxford he had seen the head of his college and thetutor; and had also felt himself bound to visit the tradesmen inwhose black books he was written down as a debtor. None of theseaugust persons made themselves so dreadful to him as he had expected.The master, indeed, was more than civil--was almost paternally kind,and gave him all manner of hope, which came as balm poured intohis sick heart. Though he had failed, his reputation and knownacquirements would undoubtedly get him pupils; and then, if heresided, he might probably even yet have a college fellowship,though, no doubt, not quite immediately. The master advised him totake orders, and to remain within the college as long as the rulespermitted. If he should get his fellowship, they would all bedelighted to have him as one of their body; there could--so thoughtthe master--be no doubt that he might in the meantime maintainhimself at the University by his pupils. The tutor was perhaps notquite so encouraging. He was a working man himself, and of a hardertemperament than his head. He thought that Wilkinson should havegot a first, that he had owed it to his college to do so, and that,having failed to pay his debt, he should not be received with openarms--at any rate just at first. He was therefore cool, but notgenerous. "Yes; I am sorry too; it is a pity," was all he said whenWilkinson expressed his own grief. But even this was not so bad asArthur had expected, and on the whole he left his college with alightened heart.
Nor were his creditors very obdurate. They did not smile so sweetlyon him as they would have done had his name been bruited down theHigh Street as that of a successful University pet. Had such been hiscondition, they would have begged him not to distress their ears byanything so unnecessarily mundane as the mention of his very smallaccount. All that they would have wanted of him would have been thecontinuation of his favours. As it was, they were very civil. Sixmonths would do very well. Oh! he could not quite undertake to pay itin six months, but would certainly do so by instalments in two years.Two years was a long time, certainly; would not Mr. Wilkinson seniorprefer some quicker arrangement? Oh! Mr. Wilkinson senior could donothing! Ah! that was unfortunate! And so the arrangement for twoyears--with interest, of course--was accepted. And thus Mr. Wilkinsonjunior began the swimming-match of life, as so many others do, with aslight millstone round his neck. Well; it may be questioned whethereven that is not better than an air-puffed swimming-belt.
When he got home, his mother and sisters hung about him as theyalways had done, and protected him in some measure from the coldserenity of the vicar. To his father he said little on the subject,and his father said as little to him. They talked, indeed, by thehour as to the future; and Arthur, in spite of his having resolvednot to do so, told the whole story of his debts, and of hisarrangement for their payment.
"Perhaps I could do something in the spring," said Mr. Wilkinson.
"Indeed, father, you shall do nothing," said the son. "I had enough,and should have lived on it; as I did not, I must live the closernow." And so that matter was settled.
In a very few days Arthur found himself going into society with quitea gay heart. His sisters laughed at him because he would not dance;but he had now made up his mind for the church, and it would, hethought, be well for him to begin to look to those amusements whichwould be befitting his future sacerdotal life. He practised singing,therefore, fasted on Fridays, and learnt to make chessmen with alathe.
But though his sisters laughed at him, Adela Gauntlet, the daughterof the neighbouring vicar at West Putford, did not laugh. She sofar approved that by degrees she almost gave over dancing herself.Waltzes and polkas she utterly abandoned; and though she didoccasionally stand up for a quadrille, she did it in a verylack-a-daisical way, as though she would have refused that also hadshe dared to make herself so peculiar. And thus on the whole ArthurWilkinson enjoyed himself that winter, in spite of his blightedprospects, almost as well as he had on any previous winter that heremembered.
Now and again, as he walked along the little river bank that ran withso many turnings from Hurst Staple down to West Putford, he wouldthink of his past hopes, and lament that he could talk of them tono one. His father was very good to him; but he was too cold forsympathy. His mother was all affection, and kindly suggested that,perhaps, what had happened was for the best: she kindly suggestedthis more than once, but her imagination carried her no further. Hadshe not four daughters, hitherto without husbands, and also, alas!without portions? Was it not enough for her to sympathize with them?As for his sisters--his sisters were well enough--excellent girls;but they were so gay, so light-hearted, so full of fun and laughter,that he could not talk to them of his sorrows. They were neverpensive, nor given to that sober sadness which is prone to sympathy.If, indeed, Adela Gauntlet had been his sister--! And so he walkedalong the river to West Putford.
He had now fully made up his mind to go into the church. While yetthinking of high academical honours, and the brighter paths ofambition, he also had dreamed of the bar. All young men I believedo, who have high abilities, a taste for labour, and scanty fortune.Senior wranglers and double-firsts, when not possessed of means forpolitical life, usually find their way to the bar. It is on the benchof judges, not on the bench of bishops, that we must look for them inafter life. Arthur, therefore, had thought of the joys of a Chancerywig, and had looked forward eagerly to fourteen hours' daily labourin the purlieus of Lincoln's Inn. But when, like many another, hefound himself disappointed in his earliest hopes, he consoled himselfby thinking that after all the church was the safer haven. And whenhe walked down to West Putford there was one there who told him thatit was so.
But we cannot follow him too closely in these early days. He did gointo the church. He did take pupils at Oxford, and went abroad withtwo of them in the long vacation. After the lapse of the year, he didget his fellowship; and had by that time, with great exertion, paidhalf of that moiety of his debt which he had promised to liquidate.This lapse in his purposed performance sat heavy on his clericalconscience; but now that he had his fellowship he would do better.
And so somewhat more than a year passed away, during which he was butlittle at Hurst Staple, and very little at West Putford. But still heremembered the sweetly-pensive brow that had suited so well with hisown feelings; and ever and again, he heard from one of the girls athome, that that little fool, Adela Gauntlet, was as bad as a parsonherself, and that now she had gone so far that nothing would induceher to dance at all.
So matters stood when young Wilkinson received at Oxford a letterdesiring his instant presence at home. His father had been strickenby paralysis, and the house was in despair. He rushed off, of course,and arrived only in time to see his father alive. Within twenty-fourhours after his return he found himself the head of a wailing family,of whom it would be difficult to say whether their wants or theirgriefs were most heartrending. Mr. Wilkinson's life had been insuredfor six hundred pounds; and that, with one hundred a year whichhad been settled on the widow, was now the sole means left for themaintenance of her and her five children;--the sole means exceptingsuch aid as Arthur might give.
"Let us thank God that I have got the fellowship," said he to hismother. "It is not much, but it will keep us from starving."
But it was not destined that the Wilkinsons should be reduced even tosuch poverty as this. The vicarage of Hurst Staple was in the gift ofthe noble family of Stapledean. The late vicar had been first tutorand then chaplain to the marquis, and the vicarage had been conferredon him by his patron. In late years none of the Wilkinsons had seenanything of
the Stapledean family. The marquis, though not an oldman, was reported to be very eccentric, and very cross. Though he hada beautiful seat in the neighbourhood--not in the parish of HurstStaple, but in that of Deans Staple, which adjoins, and which waschiefly his property--he never came to it, but lived at a much lessinviting mansion in the north of Yorkshire. Here he was said toreside quite alone, having been separated from his wife; whereas,his children had separated themselves from him. His daughters weremarried, and his son, Lord Stanmore, might more probably be foundunder any roof in the country than that of his father.
The living had now to be given away by the marquis, and the Wilkinsonfamily, who of late years had had no communication with him, didnot even think of thinking of it. But a fortnight after the funeral,Arthur received a letter with the postmark of Bowes on it, which, onbeing opened, was found to be from Lord Stapledean, and which verycurtly requested his attendance at Bowes Lodge. Now Bowes Lodge wassome three hundred miles from Hurst Staple, and a journey thitherat the present moment would be both expensive and troublesome. Butmarquises are usually obeyed; especially when they have livings togive away, and when their orders are given to young clergymen. SoArthur Wilkinson went off to the north of England. It was the middleof March, and the east wind was blowing bitterly. But at twenty-fourthe east wind does not penetrate deep, the trachea is all butinvulnerable, and the left shoulder knows no twinges.
Arthur arrived at the cold, cheerless village of Bowes with a rednose, but with eager hopes. He found a little inn there, but hehardly knew whether to leave his bag or no. Lord Stapledean had saidnothing of entertaining him at the Lodge--had only begged him, if itwere not too much trouble, to do him the honour of calling on him.He, living on the northern borders of Westmoreland, had asked a manin Hampshire to call on him, as though their houses were in adjacentstreets; but he had said nothing about a dinner, a bed, or given anyof those comfortable hints which seem to betoken hospitality.
"It will do no harm if I put my bag into the gig," said Arthur; andso, having wisely provided for contingencies, he started for BowesLodge.
Wisely, as regarded probabilities, but quite uselessly as regardedthe event! Hardy as he was, that drive in the gig from Bowes didaffect him unpleasantly. That Appleby road has few sheltered spots,and when about three miles from Bowes he turned off to the right, thecountry did not improve. Bowes Lodge he found to be six miles fromthe village, and when he drove in at the gate he was colder than hehad been since he left Hurst Staple.
There was very little that was attractive about the house or grounds.They were dark and sombre, and dull and dingy. The trees were allstunted, and the house, of which half the windows were closed, wasgreen with the effects of damp. It was large enough for the residenceof a nobleman of moderate pretensions; but it had about it none ofthat spruce, clean, well-cared-for appearance which is common to thecountry-houses of the wealthy in England.
When he descended from the gig he thought that he might as well leavehis bag there. The sombre-looking servant in black clothes who openedthe door made no inquiry on the subject; and, therefore, he merelytold his Jehu to drive into the yard and wait for further orders.
His lordship was at home, said the sombre, dingy servant, and inhalf a minute Arthur found himself in the marquis's study and in themarquis's presence, with his nose all red and moist, his feet in anagony of cold, his fingers benumbed, and his teeth chattering. He wasbarely allowed time to take off his greatcoat, and, as he did so, hefelt almost disinclined to part with so good a friend.
"How do you do, Mr. Wilkinson?" said the marquis, rising from hischair behind the study table, and putting out the ends of his fingersso as to touch the young clergyman's hand. "Pray take a seat." AndArthur seated himself--as, indeed, he had no alternative--on astraight-backed old horsehair-bottomed chair which stood immediatelyunder a tall black book-case. He was miles asunder from the fire; andhad he been nearer to it, it would have availed him but little; forthe grate was one of those which our grandfathers cleverly inventedfor transmitting all the heat up the chimney.
The marquis was tall, thin, and gray-haired. He was, in fact, aboutfifty; but he looked to be at least fifteen years older. It wasevident from his face that he was a discontented, moody, unhappyman. He was one who had not used the world over well; but who wasquite self-assured that the world had used him shamefully. He wasnot without good instincts, and had been just and honest in hisdealings--except in those with his wife and children. But he believedin the justness and honesty of no one else, and regarded all men ashis enemies--especially those of his own flesh and blood. For thelast ten years he had shut himself up, and rarely appeared in theworld, unless to make some statement, generally personal to himself,in the House of Lords, or to proffer, in a plaintive whine to hisbrother peers, some complaint as to his neighbour magistrates,to which no one cared to listen, and which in latter years thenewspapers had declined to publish.
Arthur, who had always heard of the marquis as his father's oldpupil, was astonished to see before him a man so aged. His father hadbeen only fifty-five when he died, and had appeared to be a hale,strong man. The marquis seemed to be worn out with care and years,and to be one whose death might be yearly expected. His father,however, was gone; but the marquis was destined to undergo yet manymore days of misery.
"I was very sorry to hear of your father's sudden death," said LordStapledean, in his cold, thin voice.
"It was very sudden, my lord," said Arthur, shuddering.
"Ah--yes; he was not a prudent man;--always too fond of strong wine."
"He was always a temperate man," said the son, rather disgusted.
"That is, he never got drunk. I dare say not. As a parish clergyman,it was not likely that he should. But he was an imprudent man in hismanner of living--very."
Arthur remained silent, thinking it better to say nothing further onthe subject.
"I suppose he has not left his family well provided for?"
"Not very well, my lord. There is something--and I have afellowship."
"Something!" said the marquis, with almost a sneer. "How much is thissomething?" Whereupon Arthur told his lordship exactly the extent ofhis mother's means.
"Ah, I thought as much. That is beggary, you know. Your father was avery imprudent man. And you have a fellowship? I thought you brokedown in your degree." Whereupon Arthur again had to explain the factsof the case.
"Well, well, well. Now, Mr. Wilkinson, you must be aware that yourfamily have not the slightest claim upon me."
"Your lordship is also aware that we have made none."
"Of course you have not. It would have been very improper on yourpart, or on your mother's, had you done so--very. People make claimsupon me who have been my enemies through life, who have injured meto the utmost of their power, who have never ceased striving to makeme wretched. Yes, these very people make claims on me. Here--here isa clergyman asking for this living because he is a friend of LordStanmore--because he went up the Pyramids with him, and encouragedhim in all manner of stupidity. I'd sooner--well, never mind. Ishan't trouble myself to answer this letter." Now, as it happenedthat Lord Stanmore was a promising young nobleman, already muchthought of in Parliament, and as the clergyman alluded to was knownby Arthur to be a gentleman very highly reputed, he considered itbest to hold his tongue.
"No one has a claim on me; I allow no one to have such claims. What Iwant I pay for, and am indebted for nothing. But I must put some oneinto this living."
"Yes; your lordship must of course nominate some one." Wilkinson saidso much, as the marquis had stopped, expecting an answer.
"I can only say this: if the clergymen in Hampshire do their dutyas badly as they do here, the parish would be better off without aparson."
"I think my father did his duty well."
"Perhaps so. He had very little to do; and as it never suited me toreside there, there was never any one to look after him. However,I make no complaint. Here they are intolerable--intolerable,self-sufficient, impertinent up
starts, full of crotchets of theirown; and the bishop is a weak, timid fool; as for me, I never goinside a church. I can't; I should be insulted if I did. It hashowever gone so far now that I shall take permission to bring thematter before the House of Lords."
What could Wilkinson say? Nothing. So he sat still and tried to drivethe cold out of his toes by pressing them against the floor.
"Your father certainly ought to have made some better provision,"continued Lord Stapledean. "But he has not done so; and it seems tome, that unless something is arranged, your mother and her childrenwill starve. Now, you are a clergyman?"
"Yes, I am in orders."
"And can hold a living? You distinctly understand that your motherhas no claim on me."
"Surely none has been put forward, Lord Stapledean?"
"I don't say it has; but you may perhaps fancy by what I say that Imyself admit that there is a claim. Mind; I do no such thing. Not inthe least."
"I quite understand what you mean."
"It is well that you should. Under these circumstances, if I had thepower, I would put in a curate, and pay over the extra proceeds ofthe living for your mother's maintenance. But I have no such power."
Arthur could not but think that it was very well his lordship had nosuch power. If patrons in general were so privileged there would be,he thought, but little chance for clergymen.
"As the law stands I cannot do that. But as you are luckily inorders, I can put you in--on this understanding, that you shallregard the income as belonging rather to your mother and to yoursisters than to yourself."
"If your lordship shall see fit to present me to the living, mymother and sisters will of course want nothing that I can give them."
"Ah--h--h--h, my young friend! but that will not be sufficient forme. I must have a pledge from you--your word as a gentleman and aclergyman, that you take the living on an understanding that theincome is to go to your father's widow. Why should I give you fivehundred pounds a year? Eh? Tell me that. Why should I nominate ayoung man like you to such a living? you, whom I never saw in mylife? Tell me that."
Arthur Wilkinson was a man sufficiently meek in spirit, as ordinarymeekness goes--the ordinary meekness, that is, of a young clergymanof the Church of England--but he was not quite inclined to put upwith this.
"I am obliged, my lord, to say again that I have not asked for sogreat a favour from you. Indeed, till I received your letter desiringme to come here, I had no other thought of the living than that ofvacating the house whenever your nominee should present himself."
"That's all very well," said Lord Stapledean; "but you must be avery unnatural son if on that account you refuse to be the means ofproviding for your unfortunate mother and sisters."
"I refuse! why, my lord, I regard it as much my duty to keep mymother and sisters from want as my father did. Whether I am to havethis living or no, we shall live together; and whatever I have willbe theirs."
"That's all very well, Mr. Wilkinson; but the question I ask you isthis: if I make you vicar of Hurst Staple, will you, after deductinga fair stipend for yourself as curate--say one hundred and fiftypounds a year if you will--will you make over the rest of the incometo your mother as long as she lives?"
This was a question to which Wilkinson found it very difficult togive a direct answer. He hardly knew whether he would not be guiltyof simony in making such a promise, and he felt that at any rate thearrangement would be an improper one.
"If you knew," said he, at last, "the terms on which my mother and Ilive together, you would perceive that such a promise is not needed."
"I shall not the less think it necessary to exact it. I am puttinggreat trust in you as it is, very great trust; more so perhaps thanI am justified in doing." His lordship here alluded merely to thedisposition of the vicarial tithes, and not at all to the care ofsouls which he was going to put into the young man's hands.
Arthur Wilkinson again sat silent for awhile.
"One would think," said his lordship, "that you would be glad tohave the means of securing your mother from beggary. I imagined thatyou would have been in some measure gratified by my--my--my goodintentions towards your family."
"So I am, my lord; so I am. But I doubt whether I should be justifiedin giving such a pledge."
"Justified! you will make me almost doubt, Mr. Wilkinson, whether Ishall be justified in putting the living into your hands; but, at anyrate, I must have an answer."
"What time can you allow me to consider my answer?"
"What time! It never struck me that you could require time. Well;you can let me have your decision to-morrow morning. Send it me inwriting, so that I may have it before ten. The post goes out attwelve. If I do not hear from you before ten, I shall conclude thatyou have refused my offer." And so speaking the marquis got up fromhis chair.
Arthur also got up, and promised that he would send a letter overfrom Bowes the first thing on the following morning.
"And tell the messenger to wait for an answer," said his lordship;"and pray express yourself definitely, so that there may be nodoubt." And then, muttering something as to his hope that the inn wascomfortable, and saying that the state of his health prohibited himfrom entertaining visitors, the marquis again put out his fingers,and Arthur soon found himself in the gig on his journey to Bowes.
He intended returning to town on the following day by thetwelve-o'clock mail, of which Lord Stapledean had spoken. But beforethat he had a difficult task to perform. He had no friend to consult,no one of whom he could ask advice, nothing to rely on but his ownhead and his own heart. That suggestion as to simony perplexed him.Had he the right, or could he have it, to appropriate the income ofthe living according to terms laid down by the lay impropriator? Atone time he thought of calling on the old clergyman of the parish andasking him; but then he remembered what the marquis had said of theneighbouring parsons, and felt that he could not well consult one ofthem on any matter in which his lordship was concerned.
In the evening he considered the matter long and painfully, sittingover a cup of some exquisitely detestable concoction called tea bythe Bowesian landlady. "If he had only left me to myself," thoughtArthur, "I should do at least as much as that for them. It is forthem that I want it; as for myself, I should be more comfortable atOxford." And then he thought of West Putford, and Adela Gauntlet.This arrangement of Lord Stapledean's would entirely prevent thepossibility of his marrying; but then, the burden of his mother andsisters would prevent that equally under any circumstances.
It would be a great thing for his mother to be left in her old house,among her old friends, in possession of her old income. As regardedmoney, they would all be sufficiently well provided for. For himself,his fellowship and his prescribed stipend would be more than enough.But there was something in the proposition that was very distastefulto him. He did not begrudge the money to his mother; but he didbegrudge her the right of having it from any one but himself.
But yet the matter was of such vital moment. Where else was he tolook for a living? From his college in the course of years he mightget one; but he could get none that would be equal in value to thisof Hurst Staple, and to his fellowship combined. If he should refuseit, all those whom he loved would in truth suffer great privation;and that privation would not be rendered more endurable by theknowledge that such an offer had been refused.
Thus turning the matter over painfully in his mind, he resolved atlast to accept the offer of the marquis. The payment after all wasto be made to his own mother. The funds of the living were not to bealienated--were not, in truth, to be appropriated otherwise than theywould have been had no such conditions as these been insisted on.And how would he be able to endure his mother's poverty if he shouldthrow away on her behalf so comfortable a provision? He determined,therefore, to accept the goods the gods had provided him, cloggedthough they were with alloy, like so many other gifts of fortune;and accordingly he wrote a letter to Lord Stapledean, in which hestated "that he would accept the living, subject to the stipu
lationsnamed--namely, the payment to his mother, during her life, of threehundred and fifty pounds per annum out of the tithes." To this hereceived an answer from the marquis, very short and very cold, butnevertheless satisfactory.
The presentation to the living was, in fact, made in his favour, andhe returned home to his family laden with good news. The dear oldvicarage would still be their own; the trees which they had planted,the flower-beds which they had shaped, the hives which they had putup, would not go into the hands of strangers. And more than this,want no longer stared them in the face. Arthur was welcomed backwith a thousand fond caresses, as one is welcomed who bringeth gladtidings. But yet his heart was sad. What should he now say to AdelaGauntlet?
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