A PRESENTATION
The old Rector of Surley was duly buried, and all his friends and
neighbours for miles round attended his burying. The Bishop was there,
sympathetic and urbane. He talked most kindly to the Misses Cooper, and
in such a way as once more to bring to their eyes those tears which the
abundant business of the past few days had almost dried up. And he was
closeted with Denis for nearly half an hour in the comfortable study of
which the young man had made himself the occupant. Thereafter he retired
to his niece's house, and spent a pleasant restful afternoon and
evening, not too much overcome with melancholy to enjoy the little
change.
Had he said anything? The sisters had hardly been able to restrain
themselves from listening outside the door, and fastened upon Denis the
moment their illustrious guest had left the house.
Denis frowned slightly. No, he had said nothing.
What had they talked about then? They were not going to be put off in
that way, by the brother they had nursed, and smacked, not so many years
before. They supposed, rather sharply, that he and the Bishop had not
spent all that time together in silence.
Denis did not give them much information, but left them to infer that
the Bishop's talk had just been that of a kind wise Father in God with a
young man setting out upon his life's work. They construed this into a
wish on his part to find out for himself whether this particular young
man was a suitable object for his patronage, and hoped afresh. If he had
_not_ been going to offer Denis the living, he would certainly have said
so, and advised him what to do when his curacy at Surley came to an end.
For a new incumbent would not want a curate. Denis would either stay on
as Rector or depart altogether.
Two or three days went past. Denis went to London on business connected
with his father's estate, and having got there sent a telegram to say
that he should not be returning until the following day.
His sisters did not quite like this. He had given no reason for staying
away over the night, and, if they would have disclaimed the right to
direct his movements, there was still a lingering idea in their minds
that they ought to be consulted about them. He had taken up no clothes,
and there was the hint of a suspicion that he had given them the slip;
also that he had stayed up to amuse himself, which would not be becoming
so soon after the sad event. Denis had always been extraordinarily
well-behaved, and wise and steady beyond his years. They prided
themselves a good deal on the way he had been brought up. He would not
do anything actually wrong; that they were sure of. Still, it was a good
thing that he would have them there to look after him. If he were
appointed Rector of Surley, he would want all the advice, and
direction, that they could give him, at his age. They had made it plain
to the Bishop, without, of course, obtruding themselves or their
desires, that he could rely upon them to give that advice and direction.
The next morning the long-expected letter came. There was no doubt about
it. It was written in the episcopal hand and sealed with the episcopal
seal. Really, it was extraordinarily tiresome of Denis not to be there
to open it.
It did not, however, take them quite half a minute to decide to open it
themselves. A longer period of hesitation would have made it appear that
it was not the most natural thing to do, as of course it was. Denis
would certainly have asked them to open it if he had known he would be
absent when it came, and after all, the letter was as important to them
as it was to him.
They drew a long breath of delight and relief as they devoured its
contents together. As they told one another immediately afterwards, they
had really not dared to hope, but now their fears were set at rest it
was easy to see that nothing else could have happened. If only their
dear father could have known!
They both thought of him, in the pleasure to which they now gave
themselves up. It would have sent him out of the world happy, the dear
old man. Really, if the Bishop had intended to present Denis all along,
he _might_ have stretched the point and relieved their father's mind of
its anxiety.
When they had settled down to the news, and to their cooling breakfast,
a slight reaction set in. They felt all the fears and doubts with which
they had lived for so long rolling back upon them, though now they
should have been set at rest. Really, it _had_ scarcely seemed possible
that the living should be given to Denis, considering his youth, and his
Deacon's orders. Their talk for a time was almost as if they were
blaming the Bishop for his presentation, and covered most of the ground
that might have been taken by the Vicar of Abington, or other clerical
critics, of such an appointment. But this state of mind, induced by
fears too little allowed, and helped by the kind things the Bishop had
said in his letter, soon disappeared. There would be a great deal of
criticism to meet, and they at least must not show themselves to be
influenced by any of it. The Bishop had made the appointment of his own
free will, and on grounds that seemed good to him. They had done nothing
to urge him, nor had they pulled any strings. That was a great comfort
to them now, and they gave themselves and one another considerable
credit for it. Then they decided that they had better not say anything
about the appointment until Denis returned home. After all, the letter
_had_ been written to him, and the news could wait. This was their only
reference to the fact of their having opened the letter, and they felt
that it covered everything.
But as Denis did not arrive by the train that would have brought him
home in time for lunch, and could not now be expected until six o'clock,
the news began to sit heavily upon them. They had been busy indoors all
the morning, and had had only to stifle the natural desire to tell the
servants. In the afternoon they went about the parish, and could not
forbear from encouraging several with whom they had dealings by telling
them that it was quite possible that they would not have to leave them
after all. But as they had said this before, though not perhaps with the
same satisfied look in their eyes, the secret was kept.
They came home to tea, and now they longed for Denis's return, for the
news had burnt itself right through their lightly formed purpose, and
only the hour or so that they would have to wait for him prevented their
summoning all the servants, indoor and outdoor, and imparting to them
their triumph.
There came a ring at the bell, and presently Mr. and Mrs. Mercer were
announced. Rhoda and Ethel cast a sharp and identical meaning glance at
one another before they rose to receive them. It said as plain as if
spoken: "_You_ won't be able to keep it in."
Denis's absence was explained and commented upon.
"I wanted to see him particularly," said the Vicar. "An old friend of
mine, who has somewhat broken down in health, needs an assistant priest
to go to him and do just the work that Denis has been doing here for
your dear father. It would be the very place for him, if--if he were
free to take it." He mentioned the name of his friend, of the pretty
village in Devonshire of which he was Rector, and the stipend offered,
while Rhoda and Ethel listened politely with meaning smiles on their
faces, and wondered how they could ever have liked this man.
Mrs. Mercer saw the smiles, and though she did not understand their full
import divined something of their source. "Of course, dear," she said,
"we know it is _possible_ that Denis may be preferred to this living. In
that case this offer would be of no use to him. We only thought that if
he _wasn't_--! And my husband hasn't told you that there's a charming
little house, big enough for all three of you."
"There was never really any chance of Denis's appointment here," said
the Vicar, not without annoyance. "It was quite right to humour the poor
old gentleman, as he so set his heart upon it; but Rhoda and Ethel are
far too sensible to have any such ideas themselves; and it would be
wrong too."
Rhoda had once boasted that there was nothing of the cat in her, but she
enquired very sweetly, "And why wrong, Mr. Mercer?"
"My dear girl," said the Vicar, "you know as well as I do. It would be a
job, and Bishops dare not perpetrate jobs in these days. And if you are
inclined still to cherish hopes of that sort, as it is perhaps not
altogether unnatural that you should, as you had to persuade your dear
father of it for so long, let me tell you at once that the appointment
has already been made, I am not at liberty to say in what quarter. But
you will hear about it very soon."
It was Ethel who said, "Oh, really, Mr. Mercer! Did the Bishop tell you
that himself?"
"You never told _me_, Albert, when you came back from the Palace
yesterday," said Mrs. Mercer in an aggrieved voice.
"It was not the Bishop himself, of course," said the Vicar. "But I had
it on the best authority. Please don't ask me any more. The conversation
was confidential."
"It wasn't _you_ it was offered to, dear, was it?" enquired his wife.
"No, I'm sure you would have told me that. I suppose Mr. Burgoyne must
have told you." Mr. Burgoyne was the Bishop's chaplain.
The Vicar, like most self-important but weak men, was incapable of
keeping anything to himself under pressure, and when Rhoda said, as
sweetly as before: "If you've told us as much as that I think you
_might_ tell us who the living has been offered to. Secrets are
absolutely safe with us," he hummed and ha-ed, and then said: "Well,
Burgoyne did not actually extract a promise from me to keep it to
myself, but he gave me to understand,"--how grateful he was afterwards
to have put it in that way--"that Leadbetter was to have it. It would be
an appointment not altogether free from criticism. I believe that
Leadbetter has never held a parochial charge, but he has been Precentor
of the Cathedral for a great many years, and if good livings _are_ to be
given in that sort of way, which personally I think they should not be,
I don't know that the Bishop can be greatly blamed for giving it to
him."
"_I_ think they should be given to men who have borne the burden and
heat of the day in the poorer livings," said Mrs. Mercer with a sigh,
for she had been encouraged to hope, and the hope was now dead. She
didn't ask herself why her husband had left her for nearly twenty-four
hours without telling her so. There were questions about him
occasionally which she refrained from asking herself. She _had_ asked
him why he seemed so bent upon going over to Surley that afternoon, as
they had previously decided to do something else. She would have
demurred to going if she had known that this piece of news was to be
imparted to Rhoda and Ethel.
The time had come to speak. "Well, Mr. Mercer," said Rhoda, "either Mr.
Burgoyne didn't know what he was talking about, or else you
misunderstood him. I don't know what you mean by a job; I can't see one
in it myself, and I'm quite sure the Bishop wouldn't be capable of such
a thing; but he _has_ appointed Denis Rector of Surley, and in my
opinion, a very good appointment it is."
"And in mine too," said Ethel. She did not add more, because the most
interesting thing to do at the moment was to watch the Vicar's face.
There was no room for incredulity, with the announcement made in that
fashion. He could only stare. But the quality of his stare was such as
to give Rhoda and Ethel almost as much gratification as they had drawn
from the Bishop's letter.
It was a gratification, however, that was broken in upon at once, for
Mrs. Mercer, when she had once taken in the announcement, was so beaming
and so sincere in her congratulations that they had to be met in
something of the same spirit, and the full flavour of the triumph was
lost.
The Vicar, also, when he had recovered himself, added his
congratulations, and explained away as far as possible his previous
unfortunate expressions; explained also that Mr. Burgoyne's assumption
had been so near to being a direct statement that he must have been
mistaken himself as to the Bishop's intentions. He was listened to with
the utmost politeness, but was shown that he had not quite succeeded in
wiping away the mark made by the word 'job,' and was left with the
impression that if he was not very careful he would hear more of it.
He was not in fact able altogether to hide his chagrin, although he knew
well that he was affording satisfaction in showing it. He took his wife
away as soon as politeness permitted, and what he said to her on the way
home did not add to her happiness in the stroke of good fortune that had
come to her friends.
Rhoda and Ethel loudly, and almost indecently, exulted the moment their
backs were turned. Really, it was _too_ transparent. The man had got
over his disappointment at having his own absurd hopes dispelled, and
had come with no other purpose than to crow over them. _She_ had let
_that_ out. Fancy not saying a word to her about it! She was a good
little thing herself, and had really _meant_ it when she had said she
was pleased. She was worth a dozen of him, with his conceit and his
spite. Thank goodness there were not many clergymen like _him_ in the
Church. That sort of spirit did more harm to religion than any other. It
would really be almost better to have an evil-liver in a parish. Fancy
ever thinking that the Bishop could be taken in by _him_! He knew better
than _that_, at any rate. It had been a most painful exhibition, and the
sooner it was forgotten the better.
It gave them something to talk about until Denis came home, when they
both flew at him with the news, Rhoda brandishing the Bishop's letter.
Questions as to what he had been doing, and why he hadn't let them know,
could wait.
Denis's surprised displeasure at their action in opening the letter took
them aback. In their eagerness to impart the news they had forgotten
that there was anything irregular in the way they had obtained it. They
were not accustomed to accept criticism from their brother, but whatever
excuses may be made to one's self for opening letters addressed to
somebody else, when there is strong curiosity to be satisfied, the doing
so wears a different aspect when the excuses have to be made to that
somebody else. Denis listened gravely to what they had to say, and then
went off to his study, and his gravity and silence had this much effect
that they did not follow him there, as they would have thought
themselves justified in doing in almost any other circumstances.
Nor did they see him again until they all three met in the drawing-room
before dinner.
By that time the effect upon him of their well-meant action might have
been expected to have worn off, and they were ready to talk it all over
in the way he should have been prepared to do when they had first told
him. Really, he looked _quite_ like a Rector already, standing up before
the fire in his silk waist-coat, with a look of self-possession and
dignity that gave them a new idea of him. Perhaps they felt, as they
came in together and saw him standing there, that he was, after all, the
source from which the importance that was still happily to be theirs was
to be drawn, and that the manner in which they had hitherto borne
themselves towards him might have to be altered in some respects.
Rhoda dropped a curtsey, and said: "Homage to the Rector of Surley"; and
Ethel followed suit.
Denis did not smile. "Have you told anybody of the Bishop's offer?" he
said.
Rhoda drew herself together. It was time this rebellious spirit was
crushed. "My dear boy," she said, "if you are still nursing a grievance
at our having opened the Bishop's letter, which, after all, concerns us
as much as it does you, do please get rid of it. It isn't a pretty
spirit. You have already shut yourself up for nearly two hours, in which
we might have been talking of the good thing that has happened; and
surely that is enough."
He repeated his question. "Have you told anybody of the offer?"
"We told nobody," said Ethel, "as the letter was written to you, until
Mr. and Mrs. Mercer called this afternoon. He had got it into his head
that the living had been offered to Mr. Leadbetter, and came over with
no other purpose than to tell us that, and see how we should take it. He
hadn't even told his wife. When he had crowed over us enough, of course
we had to tell him."
"It would have been impossible to have kept it to ourselves without
acting a lie," added Rhoda.
Denis considered this piece of information, and drew away from the fire.
"I'm very sorry you told him," he said, with his face half averted from
them. "I have already written to refuse the Bishop's offer. I don't feel
myself equal yet to the responsibilities of a parish. I want to do some
years' hard work in a town first."
After a pause of consternation and incredulity, both sisters set on him
at once. How could he possibly have made such a decision? It was really
too outrageous. And without giving them the slightest warning! Couldn't
he trust the Bishop to know and do what was right? Why on earth hadn't
he taken their advice before doing such a thing?
All the scandalised surprise came back to that, and it was the first
thing he answered, when the flood of speech showed signs of abating.
"I didn't tell you," he said, "because I didn't think there was any
chance of the offer being made to me, and I wanted to avoid this sort of
discussion."
Dinner was announced at that moment, and further discussion had to be
put off until the parlour-maid had left them to themselves and their
food for a time. The interval had been spent in almost complete silence,
all three of them nerving themselves for what was to come.
All three began to speak at the same time, when the maid had shut the
door behind her; but it was Denis who continued his speech, his sisters
relinquishing theirs to listen to him.
"You ought not to make this difficult for me," he said. "I made up my
mind long ago, and I'm sure I was right to do it. I didn't want to tell
our dear father, because his ideas on these things were old-fashioned,
and I don't think he could have seen it in its true light. But _you_
ought to be able to. I'm very sorry for your own disappointment, but you
ought to be able to judge a matter like this on higher grounds."
This speech gave them plenty of material, and the sharp attack was
renewed. How could he say such a wicked thing about their dear father!
And the idea of accusing _them_ of thinking about themselves in that
worldly way! He must know very well that all their thoughts had been for
him, and for the good of the parish in which they had worked nearly all
their lives. Please drop _that_ unworthy charge, if he could not see it
all in its proper light yet.
There was plenty more of it, and he sat silent and flushed under the
attack. But so far it had only stiffened him.
It is difficult for a domineering woman to relinquish the weapons which
temperament thrusts into her hands, but they came to see that they could
not move him by censure, and they descended to argument, as a half-way
house to reasoning, but not without showing annoyance that they were
forced to do so.
Surely the Bishop must know better than he what was the right thing to
do in a matter like this! Wouldn't it be almost an impertinence to throw
the offer back in his face? He could see _that_, couldn't he? And it was
not only the Bishop; it was the dying wish of their dear father, which
really it was preposterous to set aside as merely old-fashioned. And
_they_ had no doubt about its being the right thing to accept, whatever
their opinion might be worth. Did he really feel justified in going
against the opinions of people so much older and wiser than himself?
This was rather more difficult to meet. They were considerations that he
had spent much anxious thought over, during the long hour that he had
spent by himself. And he could not yet be quite certain that he had
solved them in the right way, though he had conscientiously followed the
light that was in him. Also, his sisters had established a considerable
authority over him, and he was uncomfortable in withstanding them.
But he won through this stage, the contest being occasionally broken
into by the intrusions of the maid, and the intervals being spent in
bringing up more ammunition for the guns of argument.
He could only decide such a matter on his own conscience, which had
given him a strong leading. He was quite sure that the Bishop would
respect his decision. Couldn't they accept it now as having been made,
and help him in looking forward and preparing for the new work he had
undertaken?
This plea seemed to show a slight weakening. They drew from him the
admission that his letter of refusal had not yet been posted, and set
themselves ardently to induce him to reconsider it. Under the violence
of the attack he seemed to waver, though the streak of obstinacy in him,
almost more than the weight of his convictions, was all the time
stiffening him under the appearance of indecision, which was only the
result of not being able to find immediate answers to each and all of
their arguments.
The battle moved its scene from the dining-room to the drawing-room, and
raged with varying degrees of heat until it was nearly time for family
prayers. It flared up hotly when Denis told them that he had spent the
night with the Vicar of the London parish of whom he had already
accepted a curacy; for he had to admit that he had been in negotiation
about it for some time, and they pointed out to him with some truth
that if he had told them of this, instead of keeping it himself as if it
were a shameful secret, all the present trouble would have been avoided.
And was it _possible_ that he had said nothing to the Bishop about it,
when he had had that long talk with him, and he had been so kind?
In their offence at having been kept in the dark themselves, they had
not at once fastened upon this, the weakest of all places in the young
man's armour. Why had he not told the Bishop, in that talk in which the
announcement of such a decision would only have drawn the kindest
sympathy and the wisest advice? He had asked himself that question many
times during the hour he had spent by himself battling with his
temptation, and there had been no answer to it for which he could take
any credit to himself.
For the temptation of the world, as represented by the Rectory of
Surley, had been almost overwhelming, and although he had set in hand
his arrangements under the belief that there was little likelihood of
its being offered to him, he had not had the courage to make the offer
impossible. He had set out to burn his boats by entering into
correspondence with the London Vicar, but he had not been able to bring
himself to apply the match, and it is doubtful if he would have done so
later if he had not spent that evening with the devoted priest who had
fired his spiritual ambition afresh. Coming down in the train he had
reproached himself greatly for his vacillation, and his boats had flared
up behind him in a most illuminating conflagration. He reproached
himself unsparingly for having, as he now saw, desired to gain from the
Bishop's views defence for a young man's burying himself at the outset
of his career in a comfortable country living, instead of trying to gain
from him support for his higher ambitions. But he could not disguise
from himself that his lack of frankness must appear most blameworthy to
the man to whom in such a talk he had owed frankness above all things,
and indeed, as he blushed hotly to think, simulated it.
Well, he had committed a grave fault, and must abide its consequences in
lessened estimation of him by the man with whom he would have liked to
stand well. But to disguise the fault by taking a reward for it would
not help matters, and was an act which, in the sensitive state of
conscience he had reached, would be impossible to him. The very fact
that he had led the Bishop to imagine that he would be ready to accept
the responsibilities and emoluments of Surley now prevented his doing
so, more than any other fact.
But it may be imagined how much of this his sisters were able to accept,
in their state of irritation and anger against him. They could only see
the inexcusable fault, and it seemed to them the strongest reason yet
advanced why he should obey their urging.
The poor badgered young man rose from his seat of purgation, saying that
it was nearly time for prayers, but that he would rather not conduct
them to-night, not feeling in tune for them, and would go to his study.
Then they fell upon him for wanting to avoid the very thing that would
most help him to come to a right decision, and pointed out how very
wrong his ideas must be since he could not even face his devotions.
So the servants were summoned, and he read and prayed before his
household, and gained some solace and support from doing so.
When prayers were over he said, in a quieter voice than they had
permitted him to use during the greater part of the contest, that he
could not discuss the question any more. If he had done wrong, as he
knew he had, he was now going to do right, and his letter of refusal
would be sent to the Bishop the next morning.