THE PARSON'S ROUND.
How brilliant was that August morning when the two men went out! the sky
so blue and warm and full of sunshine, bending with friendly tenderness
toward the luxuriant earth which it embraced, lost everywhere in soft
distances, limits that were of the eye and not of the infinite melting
space--showing through the foliage, opening out sweet and full over the
breezy purpled common. The red cottage roofs, with all their lichens,
shone and basked in the light; the apples reddened moment by moment, the
yellow corn rustled and waved in every breath of air, conscious of the
coming sickle. Everything was at its fullest blaze of colour; the trees
more deeply green than usual, the sky of more profound and dazzling
blue, the heather purple-royal, showing in its moorland flush against
the russet-golden fields burning in the sun which gave them their last
perfection of ripeness; and even the flowers in the gardens blazing
their brightest to hide the fact from all men that the sweetness and
hope of the year were almost lost in that harvest and climax which
touches upon decay, as everything does which is perfect. The sun was too
fierce for anything but red burning geraniums, and gaudy hollyhocks and
rank dahlias. But the red old cottages at Brentburn were of themselves
like growths of nature, with all their stains of moss, red and grey and
yellow, relieved and thrown up by the waving greyness of the willows,
that marked every spot of special dampness, and by the wealthy green
woods that rolled away into the distance, into the sky. Everything is
musical in such a morning; the very cackle of the ducks in that brown
pond--how cool it looks to the dusty wayfarer!--takes a tone from the
golden air; the slow roll of the leisurely cart along the country road;
the voices from the cottages calling in full Berkshire drawl to Jyain or
Jeo outside. A harmonious world it seemed, with nothing in it to jar or
wound; the very air caressing every mother's son it met, blowing about
the rags as if it loved them, conveying never a chill to the most poorly
clad. How different was that broad outdoor satisfaction and fulness to
the complainings and troubles enclosed by every set of four walls in the
parish! Mildmay, as was natural, knew nothing about these nor suspected
them; his spirits rose when he came out into the summer air--to walk
along the cool side of the road in the shade, and watch the triumphant
sunshine blazing over everything, leaving not an inch even of the common
high road unglorified, brought a swell of pleasure to his heart he could
not tell why.
"You must not come to a country parish with the idea that it is
Arcadia," said Mr. St. John; "such ideas lead to a great deal of
disappointment; but you must not let yourself be discouraged either. I
don't think that Cicely knows all the outs and ins of the story about
the cottages."
"Miss St. John said nothing about the cottages."
"Ah! I thought she had put you out of spirits; that would be foolish,"
said the curate kindly. "You see, Mr. Mildmay, everybody here thinks a
great deal of a little money; it is so, I believe, in every small place;
they have little, very little, Heaven knows; and somehow, when one is
very poor, that gets to look of more importance than anything else. I
don't say so from personal experience, though I have always been poor
enough. My way, I am afraid, is to think too little of the money, not
too much--which is, perhaps, as great a mistake the other way; but it is
much easier, you know, to condemn those faults we have no mind to," Mr.
St. John added with a smile. The visit of an intelligent stranger had
quite brightened the good man up, though it ought to have depressed him,
according to all principles of good sense. The curate forgot how much he
himself must suffer from the change that was coming. Mildmay pleased
him; he was deferential to his own grey hairs and long experience; he
was willing to hear and apparently to take, his predecessor's opinion,
and Mr. St. John liked the novelty, the new companion, the attentive
listener. He walked on quite briskly, with the easy steps of a man to
whom the way is so familiar that he does not need to pause to look
where he is going. Now and then he would stop to point out a view, a
glimpse of the distant forest, a slope opening down upon the lower level
of the common, or even a pretty cottage; and one of them, a most
picturesque refuge of misery, with tiny little casement windows bulging
anyhow from the ruddy old wall, and a high roof of the most
indescribable and beautiful mixture of tints, set him easily afloat
again upon the subject of which his mind was full.
"Look at it!" he said; "it is a picture. If one could only clear them
out and shut them up--or rather throw them open, that the winds of
heaven might enter, but not our fellow-creatures, Mr. Mildmay! As I was
saying, they are all poor here. The people think you do them an injury
when you speak of anything that has to be paid for. Because I have tried
to get the cottages put into good repair, the arrangements made a little
more decent, and the places fit to live in, more than two or three of
the people have left the parish church. Yes, that is quite true--I
thought Cicely must have told you--well-to-do people, who might have
spared a few pounds well enough. It was a trial; but what of that? I
have outlived it, and perhaps done a little good."
"The cottagers, at least, must have been grateful to you," said Mildmay;
but the curate shook his head.
"The cottagers thought I was only trying to get them turned out," he
said. "They almost mobbed me once. I told them they should not take
lodgers and lodgers till every room was crowded. They are as bad as the
landlords; but, poor souls! it was easy to forgive them, for the
shilling or two they gained was such an object to them. I thought it
best to tell you; but there was really nothing in it, nothing to be
annoyed about. It was soon over. You, a young man, need not be
discouraged by any such episode as that."
"Mr. St. John, there is something which discourages me much more," said
Mildmay. "When I came yesterday to see Brentburn, I did not know you at
all. I had heard your name; that was all. I thought you were most likely
a man of my own standing, or younger----"
"As a curate ought to be," said Mr. St. John, once more shaking his
head. "Yes; I was saying to Cicely, it is almost a stigma upon a man to
be a curate at my age; but so it is, and I cannot help it. Perhaps if I
had not settled down so completely when I was young, if I had been more
energetic; I feel that now--but what good does it do? it is too late now
to change my nature. The children are the worst," he said, with a sigh,
"for they must come upon the girls." Then recovering himself with a
faint smile, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mildmay, for going off with my own
thoughts. You said it discouraged you. Do you mean my example? You must
take it as a lesson and a warning, not as an example. I am very sensible
it is my own fault."
"I came to supplant you, to take your place, to turn you out of your
home," said Mildmay, finding it a kind of relief to his feelings to
employ Cicely's words, "and you received me like a friend, took me into
your house, made me sit at your table----"
The curate was startled by his vehemence. He laughed, then looked at him
half alarmed. "What should I have done else?" he said. "I hope you are a
friend. Supplant me! I have been here a great deal longer than I had any
right to expect. Of course, we all knew a new rector would come. The
girls, indeed, had vague notions about something that might be
done--they did not know what, poor things! how should they? But of
course from the first I was aware what must happen. No, no; you must not
let _that_ trouble you. I am glad, on the contrary, very glad, that the
people are going to fall into hands like yours."
"Poor hands," said Mildmay. "Mr. St. John, you may think it strange that
I should say this; but it is you who ought to be the rector, not me. You
ought to stay here; I feel it. If I come after all, I shall be doing a
wrong to the people and to you, and even to the Church, where such
things should not be."
Once more Mr. St. John slowly shook his head; a smile came over his
face; he held out his hand. "It is pleasant to hear you say it; somehow
it is pleasant to hear you say it. I felt sure Cicely had been saying
something to you this morning. But no, no; they would never have given
me the living, and I should never have asked for it. As for a wrong,
nobody will feel it a wrong; not myself, nor the Church, and the people
here last of all."
"They must look upon you as their father," said Mildmay warmly. "Nothing
else is possible. To them it is the greatest wrong of all."
"You speak like a--boy," said the curate. "Yes; you speak like a kind,
warm-hearted boy. The girls say the same kind of things. You are all
young, and think of what ought to be, not of what is. The people! The
Church does not give them any voice in the matter, and it is just as
well. Mr. Mildmay, I've been a long time among them. I've tried to do
what I could for them. Some of them like me well enough; but the people
have never forgotten that I was only curate--not rector. They have
remembered it all these twenty years, when sometimes I was half tempted
to forget it myself."
"Oh, sir, do not think so badly of human nature!" said Mildmay, almost
with a recoil from so hard a judgment.
"Do I think badly of human nature? I don't feel that I do; and why
should this be thinking badly? Which is best for them to have, a man who
is well off, who is a real authority in the parish, whom the farmers and
masters will stand in awe of, and who will be able to help them in
trouble--or a poor man who has to struggle for himself, who has nothing
to spare, and no great influence with any one? I shall feel it, perhaps,
a little," said Mr. St. John, with a smile; "but it will be quite
unreasonable to feel it. In a month you will be twice as popular in the
parish as I am after twenty years."
"It is not possible!" said the young man.
"Ah, my dear Mr. Mildmay, a great many things are possible! The girls
think like you. I suppose it is natural; but when you come to take
everything into account--the only thing to have been desired was that I
should have died before Mr. Chester; or, let us say that he should have
outlived me, which sounds more cheerful. Come," said the curate with an
effort, "don't let us think of this. I hope you are a friend, Mr.
Mildmay, as I said; but, as you say yourself, you are only a friend of
yesterday, so why you should take my burden on your shoulders I don't
know. I think we may venture to call on the Ascotts now. He is a little
rough, or rather bluff, but a good man; and she is a little--fanciful,"
said the curate, searching for a pleasant word, "but a kind woman. If
you take to them, and they to you----"
"On what pretence should I go to see them, unsettled as I am about my
future?" said Mildmay, hesitating.
The curate looked at him with a smile. He rang the bell, then opened the
door, which, like most innocent country doors, opened from the outside.
Then he fixed his mild eyes upon the young man. He had some gentle
insight in his way by right of his years and experience of life,
simple-minded as he was. "You go as the new rector--the best of
introductions," he said, and led the way smiling. It was not difficult,
perhaps, to see through the struggle in Mildmay's mind between his own
wish and determination, and his sympathetic sense of the hardship
involved to others. I think the curate was quite right in believing that
it was the personal inclination which would gain the day, and not the
generous impulse; as, indeed, Mr. St. John fully recognized it ought to
be.
Mr. Ascott was in his library, reading the newspaper, but with such an
array of papers about him, as made that indulgence look momentary and
accidental. He was not the squire of the parish, but he had a
considerable landed property in the neighbourhood, and liked to be
considered as holding that position. He received Mr. Mildmay, boldly
introduced by the curate as the new rector, with the greatest
cordiality. "I had not seen the appointment," he said, "but I am most
happy to welcome you to the parish. I hope you like what you have seen
of it? This is quite an agreeable surprise."
Mildmay found it very difficult to reply, for was not every word of
congratulation addressed to him an injury to his companion, whose star
must set as his rose? The curate, however, showed no such feeling. His
_amour propre_ was quite satisfied by being the first to know and to
present to the parish its new rector. "Yes, I thought you would be
pleased to hear at once," he said, with gentle complacency. "I would not
let him pass your door."
"Poor Chester! This reminds me of him," said Mr. Ascott. "He came to
Brentburn in my father's time, when I was a young fellow at home fresh
from the university. He was a very accomplished man. It was a pity he
had such bad health. A parish gets out of order when it is without the
proper authorities. Even a good deputy--and St. John, I am sure, has
been the best of deputies--is never like the man himself."
"That is just what I have been saying," said Mr. St. John; but though he
took it with great equanimity, it was less pleasant to him to hear this,
than to say it himself. "I think I will leave you now," he added. "I
have a great deal to do this morning. Mr. Ascott will tell you many
things that will be really valuable, and at two o'clock or sooner we
will expect you at the rectory."
"It is a pity to trouble you and your girls, St. John. He can have some
luncheon here. Mrs. Ascott will be delighted to see him."
"I shall be at the rectory without fail," said Mildmay, with a sense of
partial offence. He belonged to the rectory, not to this complacent
secular person. A certain _esprit de corps_ was within him. If the rest
of the world neglected the poor curate, he at least would show that to
him the old priest was the first person in the parish. "Or," he added,
hesitating, "I will go with you now."
Mr. St. John did not wish this. He felt that he would be less at his
ease with his poor people if conscious of this new man fresh from
Oxford at his elbow. There might be, for anything he knew to the
contrary, newfangled ways even of visiting the sick. To talk to them
cheerily, kindly, as he had always done, might not fall in with the
ideas of duty held by "high" schools of doctrine, of whatever kind. He
went away plodding along the high road in the sultry noon, with a smile
still upon his face, which faded, however, when the stimulus of
Mildmay's company, and the gratification of presenting the stranger to
the great people of the parish, had subsided. These circumstances were
less exhilarating when the curate was alone, and had to remember Wilkins
and all the outstanding bills, and the fact that the furniture in the
rectory was to be sold, and that Cicely that very night would ask him
once more what he had made up his mind to do. What could he make up his
mind to do? The very question, when he put it to himself merely, and
when it was not backed up by an eager young face, and a pair of eyes
blazing into him, was bewildering enough; it made the curate's head go
round and round. Even when he came to Brentburn twenty years ago it was
not his own doing. Friends had found the appointment for him, and
arranged all the preliminaries. Nothing had been left for him but to
accept it, and he had accepted. And at that time he had Hester to fall
back upon. But now to "look out for something," to apply for another
curacy, to advertise and answer advertisements, describing himself and
his capabilities--how was he to do it? He was quite ready to consent to
anything, to let Cicely manage for him if she would; but to take the
initiative himself! The very thought of this produced a nervous
confusion in his mind which seemed to make an end of all his powers.
"You must come upstairs and see my wife," said Mr. Ascott. "She will be
delighted to make your acquaintance. She has been a great deal in
society, and I don't doubt you and she will find many people to talk
about. As for me, I am but a country fellow, I don't go much into the
world. When your interests are all in the country, why, stick to the
country is my maxim; but my wife is fond of fine people. You and she
will find a hundred mutual acquaintances in half-an-hour, you will see."
"But I am not fond of fine people--nor have I so many acquaintances."
"Oh, you Oxford dons know everybody. They all pass through your hands.
Come along, it will be quite a pleasure for my wife to see you.
Adelaide, I am bringing you some one who will be a surprise to you as
well as a pleasure. Mr. Mildmay, our new rector, my dear."
"Our new rector!" Mrs. Ascott said, with a subdued outcry of surprise.
She was seated in a corner of a large light room with three or four
large windows looking out upon a charming lawn and garden, beyond which
appeared the tufted undulations of the common, and the smooth green turf
and white posts of the race-ground. With a house like this, looking out
upon so interesting a spot, no one need be surprised that Mrs. Ascott's
fine friends "kept her up," and that for at least one week in the year
she was as popular and sought after as any queen. Though it was only one
week in the year, it had a certain influence upon her manners. She lived
all the year through in a state of reflected glory from this brief but
ever-recurring climax of existence. The air of conferring a favour, the
look of gracious politeness, yet preoccupation, which suited a woman
over-balanced by the claims of many candidates for her hospitality,
never departed from her. She gave that little cry of surprise just as
she would have done had her husband brought a stranger to her to see if
she could give him a bed for the race week. "I am delighted to make Mr.
Mildmay's acquaintance," she said; "but, my dear, I thought there was
going to be an effort made for poor Mr. St. John?" This was in a lower
tone, as she might have said, "But there is only one spare room, and
that I have promised to Mr. St. John." Her husband laughed.
"I told you, my dear, that was nonsense. What do ladies know of such
matters? They talked of some foolish petition or other to the Lord
Chancellor, as if the Lord Chancellor had anything to do with it! You
may be very thankful you had me behind you, my dear, to keep you from
such a foolish mistake. No; Mr. Mildmay has it, and I am very glad. The
dons have done themselves credit by their choice, and we are in great
luck. I hope you will not be like your predecessor, Mr. Mildmay, and
take a dislike to the parish. We must do our best, Adelaide, to prevent
that."
"Indeed, I hope so," said the lady. "I am sure I am delighted. I think
I have met some relations of yours, Mr. Mildmay--the Hamptons of
Thornbury? Yes; I felt sure I had heard them mention you. You recollect,
Henry, they lunched with us here the year before last, on the cup day?
They came with Lady Teddington--charming people. And you know all the
Teddingtons, of course? What a nice family they are! We see a great deal
of Lord Charles, who is often in this neighbourhood. His dear mother is
often rather anxious about him. I fear--I fear he is just a little
disposed to be what you gentlemen call fast."
"We gentlemen don't mince our words," said her husband; "rowdy young
scamp, that is what I call him; bad lot."
"You are very severe, Henry--very severe--except when it is a favourite
of your own. How glad I am we are getting some one we know to the
rectory. When do you take possession, Mr. Mildmay? We shall be quite
near neighbours, and will see a great deal of you, I hope."
"I do not feel quite sure, since I have been here, whether I will come
to the rectory at all," said Mildmay. "Mr. St. John was so hasty in his
announcement, that I feel myself a swindler coming here under false
pretences. I have not made up my mind whether I will accept the living
or not."
"Since you have been here? Then you don't like the place," said Mr.
Ascott. "I must say I am surprised. I think you are hasty, as well as
St. John. Poor Chester, to be sure, did not like it, but that was
because he thought it did not agree with him. The greatest nonsense! it
is as healthy a place as any in England; it has a hundred advantages.
Perhaps this sort of thing mayn't suit you as a clergyman," he said,
waving his hand towards the distant race-course; "but it gives a great
deal of life to the place."
"And so near town," said Mrs. Ascott; "and such nice people in the
neighbourhood! Indeed, Mr. Mildmay, you must let us persuade you; you
must really stay."
"Come, now," cried her husband, "let's talk it over. What's your
objection? Depend upon it, Adelaide, it is those pets of yours, the St.
John's who have been putting nonsense into his head."
"Poor things, what do they know!" said Mrs. Ascott, with a sigh. "But
indeed, Mr. Mildmay, now that we have seen you, and have a chance of
some one we can like, with such nice connections, we cannot let you go."
This was all very flattering and pleasant. "You are extremely kind,"
said Mildmay. "I must put it to the credit of my relations, for I have
no right to so much kindness. No, it is not any objection to the place.
It is a still stronger objection. I heard Mrs. Ascott herself speak of
some effort to be made for Mr. St. John----"
"I--what did I say?" cried the lady. "Mr. St. John? Yes, I was sorry, of
course; very sorry."
"It was all nonsense," said the husband. "I told her so. She never meant
it; only what could she say to the girls when they appealed to her? She
is a soft-hearted goose--eh, Adelaide? One prefers women to be so. But
as for old St. John, it is sheer nonsense. Poor old fellow! yes, I am
sorry for him. But whose fault is it? He knew Chester's life was not
worth _that_; yet he has hung on, taking no trouble, doing nothing for
himself. It is not your part or our part to bother our minds for a man
who does nothing for himself."
"That is true enough," said Mildmay; "but his long services to the
parish, his age, his devotion to his work--it does not seem right. I
don't say for you or for me, but in the abstract----"
"Devotion?" said Mr. Ascott. "Oh yes; he has done his work well enough,
I suppose. That's what is called devotion when a man dies or goes away.
Yes, oh yes, we may allow him the credit of that, the poor old fogey,
but--yes, oh yes, a good old fellow enough. When you have said that,
there's no more to say. Perhaps in the abstract it was a shame that
Chester should have the lion's share of the income, and St. John all the
work; but that's all over; and as for any hesitation of yours on his
account----"
"It may be foolish," said the young man, "but I do hesitate--I cannot
help feeling that there is a great wrong involved--to Mr. St. John, of
course, in the first place--but without even thinking of any individual,
it is a sort of thing that must injure the Church; and I don't like to
be the instrument of injuring the Church."
"Tut--tut--tut!" said Mr. Ascott; "your conscience is too tender by
far."
"Mr. Mildmay," said the lady sweetly, "you must not expect me to follow
such deep reasoning. I leave that to superior minds; but you ought to
think what a great thing it is for a parish to have some one to look up
to--some one the poor people can feel to be really their superior."
"Not a poor beggar of a curate," cried her husband. "There, Adelaide!
you have hit the right nail on the head. That's the true way to look at
the subject. Poor old St. John! I don't say he's been well treated by
destiny. He has had a deal of hard work, and he has stuck to it; but,
bless you! how is a man like that to be distinguished from a Dissenting
preacher, for instance? Of course, he's a clergyman, in orders and all
that, as good as the Archbishop of Canterbury; but he has no
position--no means--nothing to make him the centre of the parish, as the
clergyman ought to be. Why, the poorest labourer in the parish looks
down upon the curate. 'Parson's just as poor as we is,' they say. I've
heard them. He has got to run up bills in the little shops, and all
that, just as they have. He has no money to relieve them with when
they're out of work. The farmers look down upon him. They think nothing
of a man that's poor; and as for the gentry----"
"Stop, Henry," said Mrs. Ascott; "the gentry have always been very kind
to the St. Johns. We were always sorry for the girls. Poor things! their
mother was really quite a lady, though I never heard that she had
anything. We were all grieved about this last sad affair, when he
married the governess; and I should always have made a point of being
kind to the girls. That is a very different thing, however, Mr.
Mildmay," she added, with a sweet smile, "from having a clergyman whom
one can really look up to, and who will be a friend and neighbour as
well as a clergyman. You will stay to luncheon? I think I hear the
bell."