A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE.
It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But
nevertheless we all do so. One may say that hankering after naughty
things is the very essence of the evil into which we have been
precipitated by Adam’s fall. When we confess that we are all sinners,
we confess that we all long after naughty things.
And ambition is a great vice—as Mark Antony told us a long time
ago—a great vice, no doubt, if the ambition of the man be with
reference to his own advancement, and not to the advancement of
others. But then, how many of us are there who are not ambitious in
this vicious manner?
And there is nothing viler than the desire to know great
people—people of great rank, I should say; nothing worse than the
hunting of titles and worshipping of wealth. We all know this, and
say it every day of our lives. But presuming that a way into the
society of Park Lane was open to us, and a way also into that of
Bedford Row, how many of us are there who would prefer Bedford Row
because it is so vile to worship wealth and title?
I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity of putting
forward some sort of excuse for that frame of mind in which the Rev.
Mark Robarts awoke on the morning after his arrival at Chaldicotes.
And I trust that the fact of his being a clergyman will not be
allowed to press against him unfairly. Clergymen are subject to
the same passions as other men; and, as far as I can see, give way
to them, in one line or in another, almost as frequently. Every
clergyman should, by canonical rule, feel a personal disinclination
to a bishopric; but yet we do not believe that such personal
disinclination is generally very strong.
Mark’s first thoughts when he woke on that morning flew back to Mr.
Fothergill’s invitation. The duke had sent a special message to say
how peculiarly glad he, the duke, would be to make acquaintance
with him, the parson! How much of this message had been of Mr.
Fothergill’s own manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not consider.
He had obtained a living at an age when other young clergymen are
beginning to think of a curacy, and he had obtained such a living as
middle-aged parsons in their dreams regard as a possible Paradise for
their old years. Of course he thought that all these good things had
been the results of his own peculiar merits. Of course he felt that
he was different from other parsons,—more fitted by nature for
intimacy with great persons, more urbane, more polished, and more
richly endowed with modern clerical well-to-do aptitudes. He was
grateful to Lady Lufton for what she had done for him; but perhaps
not so grateful as he should have been.
At any rate he was not Lady Lufton’s servant, nor even her dependant.
So much he had repeated to himself on many occasions, and had gone
so far as to hint the same idea to his wife. In his career as parish
priest he must in most things be the judge of his own actions—and in
many also it was his duty to be the judge of those of his patroness.
The fact of Lady Lufton having placed him in the living, could by no
means make her the proper judge of his actions. This he often said
to himself; and he said as often that Lady Lufton certainly had a
hankering after such a judgment-seat.
Of whom generally did prime ministers and official bigwigs think it
expedient to make bishops and deans? Was it not, as a rule, of those
clergymen who had shown themselves able to perform their clerical
duties efficiently, and able also to take their place with ease in
high society? He was very well off certainly at Framley; but he
could never hope for anything beyond Framley, if he allowed himself
to regard Lady Lufton as a bugbear. Putting Lady Lufton and her
prejudices out of the question, was there any reason why he ought not
to accept the duke’s invitation? He could not see that there was any
such reason. If any one could be a better judge on such a subject
than himself, it must be his bishop. And it was clear that the bishop
wished him to go to Gatherum Castle.
The matter was still left open to him. Mr. Fothergill had especially
explained that; and therefore his ultimate decision was as yet within
his own power. Such a visit would cost him some money, for he knew
that a man does not stay at great houses without expense; and then,
in spite of his good income, he was not very flush of money. He had
been down this year with Lord Lufton in Scotland. Perhaps it might be
more prudent for him to return home.
But then an idea came to him that it behoved him as a man and a
priest to break through that Framley thraldom under which he felt
that he did to a certain extent exist. Was it not the fact that he
was about to decline this invitation from fear of Lady Lufton? and
if so, was that a motive by which he ought to be actuated? It was
incumbent on him to rid himself of that feeling. And in this spirit
he got up and dressed.
There was hunting again on that day; and as the hounds were to meet
near Chaldicotes, and to draw some coverts lying on the verge of the
Chace, the ladies were to go in carriages through the drives of the
forest, and Mr. Robarts was to escort them on horseback. Indeed it
was one of those hunting-days got up rather for the ladies than for
the sport. Great nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged hunting
men; but the young fellows like them because they have thereby an
opportunity of showing off their sporting finery, and of doing a
little flirtation on horseback. The bishop, also, had been minded to
be of the party; so, at least, he had said on the previous evening;
and a place in one of the carriages had been set apart for him: but
since that, he and Mrs. Proudie had discussed the matter in private,
and at breakfast his lordship declared that he had changed his mind.
Mr. Sowerby was one of those men who are known to be very poor—as
poor as debt can make a man—but who, nevertheless, enjoy all the
luxuries which money can give. It was believed that he could not
live in England out of jail but for his protection as a member of
Parliament; and yet it seemed that there was no end to his horses
and carriages, his servants and retinue. He had been at this work
for a great many years, and practice, they say, makes perfect. Such
companions are very dangerous. There is no cholera, no yellow-fever,
no small-pox more contagious than debt. If one lives habitually among
embarrassed men, one catches it to a certainty. No one had injured
the community in this way more fatally than Mr. Sowerby. But still he
carried on the game himself; and now on this morning carriages and
horses thronged at his gate, as though he were as substantially rich
as his friend the Duke of Omnium.
“Robarts, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they were well
under way down one of the glades of the forest,—for the place
where the hounds met was some four or five miles from the house of
Chaldicotes,—“ride on with me a moment. I want to speak to you; and
if I stay behind we shall never get to the hounds.” So Mark, who had
come expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside of Mr. Sowerby
in his pink coat.
“My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some hesitation
about going to Gatherum Castle.”
“Well, I did decline, certainly. You know I am not a man of pleasure,
as you are. I have some duties to attend to.”
“Gammon!” said Mr. Sowerby; and as he said it he looked with a kind
of derisive smile into the clergyman’s face.
“It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby; and perhaps I have no right
to expect that you should understand me.”
“Ah, but I do understand you; and I say it is gammon. I would be the
last man in the world to ridicule your scruples about duty, if this
hesitation on your part arose from any such scruple. But answer me
honestly, do you not know that such is not the case?”
“I know nothing of the kind.”
“Ah, but I think you do. If you persist in refusing this invitation
will it not be because you are afraid of making Lady Lufton angry? I
do not know what there can be in that woman that she is able to hold
both you and Lufton in leading-strings.”
Robarts, of course, denied the charge and protested that he was not
to be taken back to his own parsonage by any fear of Lady Lufton.
But though he made such protest with warmth, he knew that he did so
ineffectually. Sowerby only smiled and said that the proof of the
pudding was in the eating.
“What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be not to save him
from that sort of drudgery?” he asked.
“Drudgery! If I were a drudge how could I be here to-day?”
“Well, Robarts, look here. I am speaking now, perhaps, with more of
the energy of an old friend than circumstances fully warrant; but
I am an older man than you, and as I have a regard for you I do not
like to see you throw up a good game when it is in your hands.”
“Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you that I
appreciate your kindness.”
“If you are content,” continued the man of the world, “to live at
Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in the sunshine of the
dowager there, why, in such case, it may perhaps be useless for you
to extend the circle of your friends; but if you have higher ideas
than these, I think you will be very wrong to omit the present
opportunity of going to the duke’s. I never knew the duke go so much
out of his way to be civil to a clergyman as he has done in this
instance.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to him.”
“The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself popular
in the county; but you cannot do it by obeying all Lady Lufton’s
behests. She is a dear old woman, I am sure.”
“She is, Sowerby; and you would say so, if you knew her.”
“I don’t doubt it; but it would not do for you or me to live exactly
according to her ideas. Now, here, in this case, the bishop of the
diocese is to be one of the party, and he has, I believe, already
expressed a wish that you should be another.”
“He asked me if I were going.”
“Exactly; and Archdeacon Grantly will be there.”
“Will he?” asked Mark. Now, that would be a great point gained, for
Archdeacon Grantly was a close friend of Lady Lufton.
“So I understand from Fothergill. Indeed, it will be very wrong of
you not to go, and I tell you so plainly; and what is more, when you
talk about your duty—you having a curate as you have—why, it is
gammon.” These last words he spoke looking back over his shoulder
as he stood up in his stirrups, for he had caught the eye of the
huntsman, who was surrounded by his hounds, and was now trotting on
to join him.
During a great portion of the day, Mark found himself riding by the
side of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady leaned back in her carriage. And
Mrs. Proudie smiled on him graciously, though her daughter would not
do so. Mrs. Proudie was fond of having an attendant clergyman; and
as it was evident that Mr. Robarts lived among nice people—titled
dowagers, members of Parliament, and people of that sort—she was
quite willing to instal him as a sort of honorary chaplain _pro tem_.
“I’ll tell you what we have settled, Mrs. Harold Smith and I,” said
Mrs. Proudie to him. “This lecture at Barchester will be so late on
Saturday evening, that you had all better come and dine with us.”
Mark bowed and thanked her, and declared that he should be very happy
to make one of such a party. Even Lady Lufton could not object to
this, although she was not especially fond of Mrs. Proudie.
“And then they are to sleep at the hotel. It will really be too late
for ladies to think of going back so far at this time of the year. I
told Mrs. Harold Smith, and Miss Dunstable, too, that we could manage
to make room at any rate for them. But they will not leave the other
ladies; so they go to the hotel for that night. But, Mr. Robarts, the
bishop will never allow you to stay at the inn, so of course you will
take a bed at the palace.”
It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was to be given
on Saturday evening, the next morning would be Sunday; and, on that
Sunday, he would have to preach at Chaldicotes. “I thought they were
all going to return the same night,” said he.
“Well, they did intend it; but you see Mrs. Smith is afraid.”
“I should have to get back here on the Sunday morning, Mrs. Proudie.”
“Ah, yes, that is bad—very bad, indeed. No one dislikes any
interference with the Sabbath more than I do. Indeed, if I am
particular about anything it is about that. But some works are works
of necessity, Mr. Robarts; are they not? Now you must necessarily
be back at Chaldicotes on Sunday morning!” And so the matter was
settled. Mrs. Proudie was very firm in general in the matter of
Sabbath-day observances; but when she had to deal with such persons
as Mrs. Harold Smith, it was expedient that she should give way a
little. “You can start as soon as it’s daylight, you know, if you
like it, Mr. Robarts,” said Mrs. Proudie.
There was not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it was a very
pleasant day for the ladies. The men rode up and down the grass roads
through the Chace, sometimes in the greatest possible hurry as though
they never could go quick enough; and then the coachmen would drive
very fast also, though they did not know why, for a fast pace of
movement is another of those contagious diseases. And then again
the sportsmen would move at an undertaker’s pace, when the fox had
traversed and the hounds would be at a loss to know which was the
hunt and which was the heel; and then the carriage also would go
slowly, and the ladies would stand up and talk. And then the time for
lunch came; and altogether the day went by pleasantly enough.
“And so that’s hunting, is it?” said Miss Dunstable.
“Yes, that’s hunting,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“I did not see any gentleman do anything that I could not do myself,
except there was one young man slipped off into the mud; and I
shouldn’t like that.”
“But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my dear?” said Mrs.
Harold Smith.
“And nobody caught any foxes,” said Miss Dunstable. “The fact is,
Mrs. Smith, that I don’t think much more of their sport than I do of
their business. I shall take to hunting a pack of hounds myself after
this.”
“Do, my dear, and I’ll be your whipper-in. I wonder whether Mrs.
Proudie would join us.”
“I shall be writing to the duke to-night,” said Mr. Fothergill to
Mark, as they were all riding up to the stable-yard together. “You
will let me tell his grace that you will accept his invitation—will
you not?”
“Upon my word, the duke is very kind,” said Mark.
“He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,” said Fothergill.
What could a young flattered fool of a parson do, but say that he
would go? Mark did say that he would go; and in the course of the
evening his friend Mr. Sowerby congratulated him, and the bishop
joked with him and said that he knew that he would not give up good
company so soon; and Miss Dunstable said she would make him her
chaplain as soon as Parliament would allow quack doctors to have such
articles—an allusion which Mark did not understand, till he learned
that Miss Dunstable was herself the proprietress of the celebrated
Oil of Lebanon, invented by her late respected father, and patented
by him with such wonderful results in the way of accumulated fortune;
and Mrs. Proudie made him quite one of their party, talking to him
about all manner of church subjects; and then at last, even Miss
Proudie smiled on him, when she learned that he had been thought
worthy of a bed at a duke’s castle. And all the world seemed to be
open to him.
But he could not make himself happy that evening. On the next morning
he must write to his wife; and he could already see the look of
painful sorrow which would fall upon his Fanny’s brow when she
learned that her husband was going to be a guest at the Duke of
Omnium’s. And he must tell her to send him money, and money was
scarce. And then, as to Lady Lufton, should he send her some message,
or should he not? In either case he must declare war against her. And
then did he not owe everything to Lady Lufton? And thus in spite of
all his triumphs he could not get himself to bed in a happy frame of
mind.
On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the disagreeable
task of writing. Saturday would do as well; and on Saturday morning,
before they all started for Barchester, he did write. And his letter
ran as follows:—
Chaldicotes, — November, 185—.
DEAREST LOVE,—You will be astonished when I tell you how
gay we all are here, and what further dissipations are in
store for us. The Arabins, as you supposed, are not of
our party; but the Proudies are,—as you supposed also.
Your suppositions are always right. And what will you
think when I tell you that I am to sleep at the palace
on Saturday? You know that there is to be a lecture in
Barchester on that day. Well; we must all go, of course,
as Harold Smith, one of our set here, is to give it. And
now it turns out that we cannot get back the same night
because there is no moon; and Mrs. Bishop would not allow
that my cloth should be contaminated by an hotel;—very
kind and considerate, is it not?
But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than
this. There is to be a great party at Gatherum Castle
next week, and they have talked me over into accepting an
invitation which the duke sent expressly to me. I refused
at first; but everybody here said that my doing so would
be so strange; and then they all wanted to know my reason.
When I came to render it, I did not know what reason I had
to give. The bishop is going, and he thought it very odd
that I should not go also, seeing that I was asked.
I know what my own darling will think, and I know that she
will not be pleased, and I must put off my defence till I
return to her from this ogre-land,—if ever I do get back
alive. But joking apart, Fanny, I think that I should
have been wrong to stand out, when so much was said about
it. I should have been seeming to take upon myself to
sit in judgment upon the duke. I doubt if there be a
single clergyman in the diocese, under fifty years of
age, who would have refused the invitation under such
circumstances,—unless it be Crawley, who is so mad on the
subject that he thinks it almost wrong to take a walk out
of his own parish.
I must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week—indeed,
we only go there on Friday. I have written to Jones about
the duties. I can make it up to him, as I know he wishes
to go into Wales at Christmas. My wanderings will all be
over then, and he may go for a couple of months if he
pleases. I suppose you will take my classes in the school
on Sunday, as well as your own; but pray make them have a
good fire. If this is too much for you, make Mrs. Podgens
take the boys. Indeed I think that will be better.
Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts.
Tell her from me, that as regards the bishop, as well as
regarding another great personage, the colour has been
laid on perhaps a little too thickly. Not that Lady Lufton
would ever like him. Make her understand that my going to
the duke’s has almost become a matter of conscience with
me. I have not known how to make it appear that it would
be right for me to refuse, without absolutely making a
party matter of it. I saw that it would be said, that I,
coming from Lady Lufton’s parish, could not go to the Duke
of Omnium’s. This I did not choose.
I find that I shall want a little more money before I
leave here, five or ten pounds—say ten pounds. If you
cannot spare it, get it from Davis. He owes me more than
that, a good deal.
And now, God bless and preserve you, my own love. Kiss my
darling bairns for papa, and give them my blessing.
Always and ever your own,
M. R.
And then there was written, on an outside scrap which was folded
round the full-written sheet of paper, “Make it as smooth at Framley
Court as possible.”
However strong, and reasonable, and unanswerable the body of Mark’s
letter may have been, all his hesitation, weakness, doubt, and fear,
were expressed in this short postscript.