THE SYSTEM
Except where his feelings were deeply involved, as they had been in that
matter of Beatrix's affair with the Marquis de Lassigny, George Grafton
was a man who exercised authority with an easy grace which those who
came within its sphere scarcely realised as authority, so much did his
wishes seem to comply with their own. His family appeared to possess and
to exercise complete liberty of action, and he to fall in with their
wishes as much as they with his. But this was because they all loved one
another, and they had kept him young between them. If any of them wanted
to do anything that he did not care about, he had only to say that he
didn't care about it, and they not only didn't do it, but didn't want to
do it, because there was nothing so well worth doing as pleasing him.
This was in small matters; but there had never been any big difference
of desire, except in Beatrix's affair, which he had not handled with his
wonted easy detachment. But in the way that had turned out he had proved
to have been in the right, in a good many ways which she had not been
able to see, and now did see; and his treatment of her during her
recovery from love's illness had restored his happy ascendancy, somewhat
shaken while the illness had lain heavily upon her.
With his servants and dependants there was never any trouble at all.
They liked serving him, and took a pride in serving him well. In
business it was the same; but on the rare occasions on which he had had
to assert his authority he had done it with a decision that showed his
customary easy manner to rest upon strength, and not upon a weak
complaisance.
In business negotiation he usually had his way, because he had always
made up his mind beforehand what his way was to be, and that it was
reasonable that he should have it. By this means he missed the _coups_
that come from imposing unreasonable conditions on an opponent, but
gained a reputation for fairness and straightness of dealing which made
up for it.
He was, in fact, a man of decision and character, under his amiable
easy-going exterior, and he was not afraid of a contest, though he
preferred not to enter one unless he thought he had a good chance of
coming out victor.
It is doubtful, however, whether he had ever entered into one which
would provide such a test of his qualities, as when he decided to get
rid of the Vicar of Abington--the Reverend A. Salisbury Mercer, M.A.
This was after the commotion occasioned by Denis Cooper's refusal of the
living of Surley had died down.
The commotion had been considerable, and a good deal of it had been
created by the Vicar of Abington, who really had nothing to do with it
at all. Denis had now departed to his curacy in the East End of London,
and his sisters had betaken themselves to the Cathedral City of
Medchester, where they had many friends, or at least acquaintances, and
their activities could be made use of for the general benefit of their
fellow church-people. Mr. Leadbetter had been instituted Rector of
Surley, and it was beginning to be known that he had refused the
Bishop's offer of the living before it had been made to Denis, but had
thought better of it on going over to Surley, and finding that the
little church, otherwise undistinguished, possessed a remarkable roof
for sound. He was a bachelor, with plenty of money of his own, besides
what would come to him from his rectorate, and intended to provide a new
organ, and to train a small but exquisite choir to render a full musical
service, after the manner of Cathedrals and College Chapels, twice a
day.
Grafton unfolded his resolve to Worthing, over the dinner table, when
the girls and Miss Waterhouse had left them to their cigars.
"I'm going to get rid of Mercer," he said. "The fellow has become an
infernal nuisance, and I'm tired of him."
Worthing stared at him, and laughed. "You can't do it," he said. "I
thought you knew better than that. You're the patron of the living, and
you appoint a man when it becomes vacant. But once appointed he sticks
there till he chooses to go. You've nothing more to do with it than
anybody else."
"Oh, I know all that. When I say I'm going to get rid of him, I don't
mean that I've got the power to turn him out. But you can do a good many
things that you haven't got that sort of power over, if you go the right
way to work."
"Well, I don't care much about Mercer myself, though I've always tried
to keep my opinion dark for the sake of peace. He's a tiresome fellow,
and that's a fact; but he's never done anything that he could be shifted
for. It takes a Bishop all he knows, and a devil of a lot of money
besides, to get rid of an incumbent who's a real wrong 'un. There was a
case over at Minbrook when I first came here."
"I know that too. But to my mind a quarrelsome back-biting fellow like
Mercer does more harm in a community like this than many a man who kicks
over the traces in a way to give a handle against himself."
"I quite agree with you there," said Worthing, allowing himself to be
diverted to this question of the welfare of a community, which he had
much at heart. "I'm glad you take that view of it. It's the right view
for a landholder to take, in my opinion. It's up to us who are running a
place like this to keep people contented and happy. It's the human side,
as I often tell young Bradby. You've got to be just in your dealings,
but there are lots of little points where the law seems to give you an
unfair advantage. I don't say it does, but it seems to, in the way
things are looked at now, with all this Radicalism about. You can run
things all right on the old system if you bring goodwill to bear, and
remember the people you're dealing with aren't any different to what
you are yourself. It seems to me that's the best thing about the old
system--the human contact between all parties concerned."
"Well, the parson of a village ought to be the one above all others who
makes that contact. What's he there for otherwise?"
"I agree with that too. I'm a good churchman, and all that, and of
course the religious side of it is important. But to my mind it's more
important still that he should be the friend of all his people, rich and
poor alike, so that they can go to him for anything, and find a friend
in him."
"That _is_ the religious side of it, isn't it?"
"I suppose it ought to be. But the parsons now-a-days seem to want to
run a country parish as they would a town one. We don't see much of it
hereabouts, except with Brill, and he's kept in order by Lady Mansergh.
Brill's a nice kind-hearted fellow too, and if it wasn't for all that
high falutin' church business, and changing all the services from what
they've been accustomed to, and shoving them off their perches
generally, he'd do as well as any country parson. Take a man like
Williams. He's a good deal more interested in his dogs and his
carpentering than he is in his church services, I should say. I don't
want to hold him up as a perfect example, but he's the friend of all his
parishioners. Beckley's a close-fisted landlord, and doesn't get on
particularly well with his tenants. But Williams often does them a good
turn with him. He's a _human_ sort of fellow. That's what I like about
Williams."
"And that's just what Mercer isn't."
Worthing had rather forgotten about Mercer, and his inclination to make
the best of people and give everybody a chance was strong in him. He
frowned slightly. "He's cantankerous," he said. "I can't deny that."
"Yes, he's cantankerous, and a good many other things besides. There's
hardly a soul round about--of our sort, I mean--that he hasn't fallen
out with. When I first came here he warned me against the whole lot of
them, without exception."
"Did he? Well, he oughtn't to have done that. I don't believe you'd find
a nicer lot of people, take 'em all round, anywhere in England."
"That's what you told me, on the same day as he'd said the opposite, and
I'm more inclined to your opinion than his. Then he makes trouble in the
place itself. My girls and Miss Waterhouse are finding that out
constantly. There's always a lot of quarrelling going on, and if you
follow it up you generally find he has had a finger in the pie."
"Well, I can't deny that either. I've often had to smooth over things
that he has put wrong. He is a tiresome fellow, and there's no denying
it. It would certainly be a good thing for the parish if he were got rid
of. Still he hasn't done anything that he could be got rid of for, and I
don't see how you're going to bring it about."
"I'm going to ask him to go."
Worthing stared and laughed again. "I should like to be there when you
do it," he said.
"I don't think you would. If you thought I was getting the better of him
you'd want to take his part. That's what you're made like."
"Oh, I don't know about that. But I do like to keep the peace."
"If we can persuade Mr. Mercer to take himself off, I hope we shall get
somebody here who'll help you. We'd better go up to the girls now.
They'll be wanting their bridge."
When the Vicar walked up to the Abbey the next morning in answer to
Grafton's note requesting an interview, it was with anticipations not
unpleasurable. Somehow, he had never succeeded in gaining the footing of
intimacy with his chief parishioners that he felt to be his due. It was
even some weeks now since he had been invited to the house, and he had
felt aggrieved about it, because in his position he ought to have been
the most frequent guest at the only other house in the place occupied by
such people as himself.
It had not always been so. On the Graftons' first arrival he had felt
himself free to run in and out of the house on the most intimate terms,
and had always been sure of a welcome, as was only right and proper. It
had begun to steal over him lately, in wafts of cold suspicion, which he
had put away from him whenever they approached, that his welcome had
perhaps never been quite so warm as he had taken for granted. He had
also begun to suspect that certain criticisms he had passed upon the
Graftons--of course without meaning anything by them--might have come to
their ears, and accounted for the cessation of invitations, to lunch and
to dine, which had never failed even after the running in and out showed
itself to be not quite what they wanted. But this suspicion had
stiffened him against them. If they proved themselves difficult to get
on with, as so many people in this part of the world unfortunately did,
he was not the man to give in to them. He had his own position of
dignity and responsibility and would take his stand unflinchingly upon
that. It was the duty of a Squire and a parson to keep on good terms
with one another for the sake of example, especially when the people of
a parish were so quarrelsome and difficult to manage as they were at
Abington. He had done all he could to bring that happy state of things
about. If the other party was blind to the advantages, nay to the
Christian duty, of such an understanding, then he must pursue his course
unflinchingly apart. On no account would he knuckle under, and debase
his sacred profession.
Still, he had no _wish_ to quarrel, and it was somewhat of a relief to
be asked to a consultation with Grafton, no doubt upon some measure of
importance in connection with the parish. There had been far too little
of that co-operation. A Squire might do so much to help a parson in his
devoted labours for the good of the community, and Grafton had done so
little, though on his first coming the Vicar had had strong hopes that
here was at last a man who would back him up, in his spiritual duties,
as he in his turn was only too anxious to give help and advice, in _all_
matters, in return.
But in spiritual matters he had even been denied what was undoubtedly
his due. Grafton had not even come to church regularly, nor put pressure
on his household to do so. The last was inexcusable. The Vicar could
make allowances for a man in Grafton's position who worked in London,
though not very regularly, and looked upon his days in the country as
holidays. But his servants ought to be _made_ to come to church. The
Vicar had felt so strongly about this that he had once told Grafton so,
and pointed out that he himself was always there in fair weather or
foul. Grafton had said that most of his servants did attend church
regularly, and none of them kept away altogether, and had not been able
to see that that was not the point. And pressed to exercise his
authority he had refused to do so.
Then there was that point of Barbara's confirmation. Miss Waterhouse had
asked him the previous year whether he should be holding confirmation
classes, and he had said that he should, for the Advent confirmation,
but only for the young people of the village, and that of course Barbara
could not be expected to attend them. He had offered, at the sacrifice
of his own valuable time to prepare Barbara for confirmation by herself,
and Miss Waterhouse had thanked him, but had put the matter off. Then
when the time had drawn near, and he had raised the question, he had
been told that Barbara would not be confirmed that year at all. They
would be in London after Christmas and she would be confirmed in the
spring, at the church where her sisters had been. But they had not moved
to London after Christmas, and Barbara had not been confirmed. He had
asked about it and received an evasive answer.
He was thinking of this, and getting nettled about it, as he walked
through the park to the Abbey, when it suddenly occurred to him that
this was probably what Grafton wanted to see him about. Well, if it was,
that would put a good many things right. He would pocket the offence
that he had felt and had been _right_ in feeling, at having had his
offer treated in the fashion it had been, and would renew it. Barbara
was a very interesting child--she was seventeen, and ought to have been
confirmed long ago--and he would enjoy his talks with her. By the time
he reached the house he was convinced that it was Barbara's religious
education that Grafton wished to see him about.
He was received in the long, low library, with its ranks of mellow
russet books which no one ever read, its raftered ceiling, and its
latticed windows. It was the room which Grafton called his, but seldom
used except for business purposes or when men were staying in the house.
He was writing at a table at the far end of the room when the Vicar was
announced, and came forward to greet him at once with his pleasant
friendly air. It was no part of his intention to antagonise him.
The Vicar began the conversation. "I wondered, as I came up," he said in
his pompous but would-be-intimate manner, "whether it was about
Barbara's confirmation you wanted to talk to me. She really ought to
have been confirmed last year, and the intention was that she should be
this spring, wasn't it? There will be a confirmation either here or at
Feltham later on in the year, and I shall be very pleased to prepare her
for it if you wish it. I could come here once or twice a week, or she
could come to me, whichever you preferred."
Grafton was about to refuse, rather shortly, when he bethought himself.
"Are you going to have a confirmation class?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. But I shouldn't expect her to attend that. It's for the boys
and girls of the village. There are one or two farmers' daughters this
year, but nobody of the same class as Barbara. You couldn't--"
"What has class got to do with it?" Grafton interrupted him. "I should
have thought in a matter like that everybody was equal."
"Oh, well, if you take it like that!" said the Vicar, "_I_ think so, of
course, but--"
"What should you teach her?" asked Grafton.
"What should I teach her?" He seemed somewhat at a loss. "I shouldn't
teach her any Roman doctrine, if that's what you're thinking of. Good
Prayer Book doctrine, you know. At confirmation you take upon yourself
the vows that others have made for you in your Baptism. You'll find it
all in the Prayer Book. Careful preparation deepens the spiritual life,
at a time when the young soul is at its most malleable, and open to
religious impressions. It is a very blessed opportunity."
He spoke with unction. Grafton looked as if he were suffering from a
slight nausea. "I don't care a bit about doctrine," he said. "I do
believe in Christianity, and I think I recognise its spirit when I see
it. I see it in my daughter Caroline. She hasn't a thought in her head
that isn't sweet and good. She never thinks of herself when there's
anybody else to think of. She does everybody good all round her, by just
being herself."
The Vicar rather enjoyed theological discussion. "That's an interesting
point of view," he said. "And a very natural one. I admire Caroline
myself--enormously. But I should say hers was a natural goodness. Very
beautiful, of course, and something to thank God for; but not of
_itself_ religious."
"Why not?"
"Perhaps I should say not of itself Christian. You may observe the same
sort of goodness in people who don't follow the Christian religion--in
Buddhists and so forth. In the Christian religion we are taught to look
for Grace, and--"
"Oh, well, grace or goodness--it's the same thing. I won't go on with
this; I didn't ask you to be good enough to come and see me to talk
about Barbara's confirmation. I shouldn't want you to prepare her. It's
yourself I want to talk about. You're not very comfortable here at
Abington, are you? You don't care for the people round you, and you find
it difficult to get on with the villagers."
The Vicar's mouth opened. "I don't understand you," he said.
"I know that as patron of this living I've no sort of authority over the
man who holds it, or anything of that sort; but I might be able to ease
the wheels a bit if you saw your way to exchanging it for another. I
believe such things are done. I don't know whether you've ever thought
about it."
The Vicar was still at a loss. "The living is certainly not much of a
prize," he said, with a laugh. "It couldn't be held except by a man with
private means of his own--considerable private means. If you had any
idea of raising the endowment--"
"Well, I might do that--or add to the income, or whatever it might be,
for a man who could make himself happy here, and get on with us all. I
won't beat about the bush, Mercer. You seem to have got at loggerheads
with everybody here, and it's no more comfortable for us than it is for
you. You haven't fallen out with us yet, but I can't help feeling it may
come any time. If I could do anything to make it easy for you to get
away from a place where you don't find congenial society, we could part
on good terms now, and it might save trouble in the future."
The Vicar now understood that the proposal was not to raise the
endowment of the living for his own benefit. He had not yet grasped the
fact that he was being invited to quit.
"I can only say that if you and I fall out it won't be my fault," he
said. "It's quite true that the people round here--your sort of people,
I mean--are a cantankerous lot."
"Well, I don't find them so, Mercer. I don't find them so."
He did not like being contradicted in this resolute fashion. "I'm afraid
we must agree to differ on that point then," he said stiffly.
"It's the _whole_ point, Mercer. It isn't only one or two you've managed
to fall out with; that might happen to anybody, though if sensible
people manage to fall out with their neighbours they generally manage to
fall in again sooner or later. It's the whole lot. When we first came
here you warned me against every single family about here we were likely
to make friends with, except two. And you've fallen out with them
since."
He now understood that he was being brought to book, and he liked that
less than anything. He grew red and gobbled like a turkey cock before he
spoke.
"This is a most unwarrantable attack," he said. "Did you ask me to come
here to receive a lecture from you, Mr. Grafton?"
"I asked you to come here to see if we couldn't come to some mutual
understanding that needn't reflect upon you if we can do so. My reasons
for wanting a change made are likely to be painful to you, I know, and
probably surprising as well. But I must state them if anything is to
come of it. So I do so as directly as possible. If you'll accept them,
and talk it over on the grounds that I should like a change made, so
much the better. Then we needn't go over the reasons any more."
"You'd like a change made." He understood it now, and summoned all his
powers of resistance, and resentment. "And you really think, Mr.
Grafton, that because you've bought this property, and live in the
biggest house on it, you can order things in that way. Let me tell you
that there is one house in this parish that you have _not_ bought, and
that is my humble Vicarage. You have no more right to dispose of that
than you have of--of the Bishop's Palace at Medchester. You--"
"Can't we talk over things reasonably, Mercer? If I thought I had that
sort of power, I should make some attempt to exercise it, shouldn't I? I
shouldn't be asking you if we can't come to some understanding."
"And what understanding on such a subject is possible, I should like to
know. You want me to go; that's the plain truth of the matter. Do you
think I'm not a fit person to exercise my duties here, may I ask?"
Grafton was silent, with a silence that was significant.
There was a drop in the temperature. "For my own satisfaction this must
be cleared up," said the Vicar, speaking with dignified restraint. "If
you have any charges to bring against me I must know what they are, so
that I can meet them in the open."
"There are no charges, Mercer, to be met in that way. I've told you
already why I should like a change made, if you can bring yourself to
consider it. It isn't only the people of our own sort, as you say, that
you don't get on with. You're at loggerheads with half your parishioners
at one time or another. My girls are always coming across it, wherever
they go. They're keen--Caroline is especially--to make friends with the
people in the place, and for us who live here in a certain relation with
them to do what we can for them. It's one of the pleasures of
landholding to be given that sort of opportunity. We've all of us come
to see that. I believe we should be as happy and contented a community
as you'd find anywhere, if--well, if it weren't for you, Mercer. I don't
want to be offensive, but that's what it comes to."
The Vicar was trembling with anger. "But this is outrageous," he
exclaimed.
"Oh, I don't think so," said Grafton easily. "I've no wish to offend
you, but it seems to me that the state of things I want here is worth
taking that risk for. I tell you plainly that you seem to me such a
difficulty in the way of it that if you go on here I can't continue to
offer you the friendship of myself and my family. In ordinary life, if a
man you know is continually acting in a way you don't like, you drop
his acquaintance, or if it's necessary you fight him. I don't want to
fight you, and I don't suppose you want to fight me. I've said enough to
show you that I've reasons which seem to me important for wanting to
come to the understanding with you that I've indicated. I don't want to
argue about them, or to push them in. They're there. I'll ask you to
think over what I've said. Anything I can do to make it advantageous and
agreeable to you to find some other place to work in, I will do; and if
you decide to go, well, as far as people outside will be able to see,
you and we will part as friends, and you'll be going, of course, of your
own free will."
He rose from his chair, and the Vicar rose at the same time. He had an
enormous amount to say, but found it difficult to say it as Grafton
walked down the long room, opened the door for him, and accompanied him
through the dining-room into the hall.
"It wants thinking over, I know," said Grafton, taking no notice of his
beginnings of sentences. "You can't decide this sort of thing in a
hurry. If you and Mrs. Mercer will come and dine with us to-morrow
night, you and I could have a friendly talk about it afterwards and see
if there's anything to be done. Caroline will write Mrs. Mercer a note."
The Vicar was on the doorstep, still striving for speech. Grafton said
good-bye to him, and returned to the library.