SUNDAY MORNING.
It was, perhaps, quite as well on the whole for Mark Robarts, that he
did not go to that supper party. It was eleven o’clock before they
sat down, and nearly two before the gentlemen were in bed. It must
be remembered that he had to preach, on the coming Sunday morning,
a charity sermon on behalf of a mission to Mr. Harold Smith’s
islanders; and, to tell the truth, it was a task for which he had now
very little inclination.
When first invited to do this, he had regarded the task seriously
enough, as he always did regard such work, and he completed his
sermon for the occasion before he left Framley; but, since that, an
air of ridicule had been thrown over the whole affair, in which he
had joined without much thinking of his own sermon, and this made him
now heartily wish that he could choose a discourse upon any other
subject.
He knew well that the very points on which he had most insisted, were
those which had drawn most mirth from Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Smith,
and had oftenest provoked his own laughter; and how was he now to
preach on those matters in a fitting mood, knowing, as he would know,
that those two ladies would be looking at him, would endeavour to
catch his eye, and would turn him into ridicule as they had already
turned the lecturer?
In this he did injustice to one of the ladies, unconsciously. Miss
Dunstable, with all her aptitude for mirth, and we may almost fairly
say for frolic, was in no way inclined to ridicule religion or
anything which she thought to appertain to it. It may be presumed
that among such things she did not include Mrs. Proudie, as she was
willing enough to laugh at that lady; but Mark, had he known her
better, might have been sure that she would have sat out his sermon
with perfect propriety.
As it was, however, he did feel considerable uneasiness; and in the
morning he got up early with the view of seeing what might be done
in the way of emendation. He cut out those parts which referred most
specially to the islands,—he rejected altogether those names over
which they had all laughed together so heartily,—and he inserted a
string of general remarks, very useful, no doubt, which he flattered
himself would rob his sermon of all similarity to Harold Smith’s
lecture. He had, perhaps, hoped, when writing it, to create some
little sensation; but now he would be quite satisfied if it passed
without remark.
But his troubles for that Sunday were destined to be many. It had
been arranged that the party at the hotel should breakfast at eight,
and start at half-past eight punctually, so as to enable them to
reach Chaldicotes in ample time to arrange their dresses before they
went to church. The church stood in the grounds, close to that long
formal avenue of lime-trees, but within the front gates. Their walk,
therefore, after reaching Mr. Sowerby’s house, would not be long.
Mrs. Proudie, who was herself an early body, would not hear of her
guest—and he a clergyman—going out to the inn for his breakfast
on a Sunday morning. As regarded that Sabbath-day journey to
Chaldicotes, to that she had given her assent, no doubt with much
uneasiness of mind; but let them have as little desecration as
possible. It was, therefore, an understood thing that he was to
return with his friends; but he should not go without the advantage
of family prayers and family breakfast. And so Mrs. Proudie on
retiring to rest gave the necessary orders, to the great annoyance of
her household.
To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants! The bishop himself
did not make his appearance till a much later hour. He in all things
now supported his wife’s rule; in all things, now, I say; for
there had been a moment, when in the first flush and pride of his
episcopacy other ideas had filled his mind. Now, however, he gave no
opposition to that good woman with whom Providence had blessed him;
and in return for such conduct that good woman administered in all
things to his little personal comforts. With what surprise did the
bishop now look back upon that unholy war which he had once been
tempted to wage against the wife of his bosom?
Nor did any of the Miss Proudies show themselves at that early hour.
They, perhaps, were absent on a different ground. With them Mrs.
Proudie had not been so successful as with the bishop. They had
wills of their own which became stronger and stronger every day.
Of the three with whom Mrs. Proudie was blessed one was already in
a position to exercise that will in a legitimate way over a very
excellent young clergyman in the diocese, the Rev. Optimus Grey; but
the other two, having as yet no such opening for their powers of
command, were perhaps a little too much inclined to keep themselves
in practice at home.
But at half-past seven punctually Mrs. Proudie was there, and so was
the domestic chaplain; so was Mr. Robarts, and so were the household
servants,—all excepting one lazy recreant. “Where is Thomas?” said
she of the Argus eyes, standing up with her book of family prayers in
her hand. “So please you, ma’am, Tummas be bad with the tooth-ache.”
“Tooth-ache!” exclaimed Mrs. Proudie; but her eyes said more terrible
things than that. “Let Thomas come to me before church.” And then
they proceeded to prayers. These were read by the chaplain, as it was
proper and decent that they should be; but I cannot but think that
Mrs. Proudie a little exceeded her office in taking upon herself
to pronounce the blessing when the prayers were over. She did it,
however, in a clear, sonorous voice, and perhaps with more personal
dignity than was within the chaplain’s compass.
Mrs. Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the vicar of Framley
felt an unaccountable desire to get out of the house. In the first
place she was not dressed with her usual punctilious attention to the
proprieties of her high situation. It was evident that there was to
be a further toilet before she sailed up the middle of the cathedral
choir. She had on a large loose cap with no other strings than those
which were wanted for tying it beneath her chin, a cap with which the
household and the chaplain were well acquainted, but which seemed
ungracious in the eyes of Mr. Robarts after all the well-dressed
holiday doings of the last week. She wore also a large, loose,
dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up round her neck, and which
was not buoyed out, as were her dresses in general, with an under
mechanism of petticoats. It clung to her closely, and added to the
inflexibility of her general appearance. And then she had encased her
feet in large carpet slippers, which no doubt were comfortable, but
which struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly.
“Do you find a difficulty in getting your people together for early
morning prayers?” she said, as she commenced her operations with the
teapot.
“I can’t say that I do,” said Mark. “But then we are seldom so early
as this.”
“Parish clergymen should be early, I think,” said she. “It sets a
good example in the village.”
“I am thinking of having morning prayers in the church,” said Mr.
Robarts.
“That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and usually means worse than
nonsense. I know what that comes to. If you have three services on
Sunday and domestic prayers at home, you do very well.” And so saying
she handed him his cup.
“But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs. Proudie.”
“Then I think you should have. Where can the poor people be so well
off on Sundays as in church? The bishop intends to express a very
strong opinion on this subject in his next charge; and then I am sure
you will attend to his wishes.”
To this Mark made no answer, but devoted himself to his egg.
“I suppose you have not a very large establishment at Framley?” asked
Mrs. Proudie.
“What, at the parsonage?”
“Yes; you live at the parsonage, don’t you?”
“Certainly—well; not very large, Mrs. Proudie; just enough to do the
work, make things comfortable, and look after the children.”
“It is a very fine living,” said she; “very fine. I don’t remember
that we have anything so good ourselves,—except it is Plumstead, the
archdeacon’s place. He has managed to butter his bread pretty well.”
“His father was Bishop of Barchester.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would barely have
risen to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me see; yours is £800, is
it not, Mr. Robarts? And you such a young man! I suppose you have
insured your life highly.”
“Pretty well, Mrs. Proudie.”
“And then, too, your wife had some little fortune, had she not? We
cannot all fall on our feet like that; can we, Mr. White?” and Mrs.
Proudie in her playful way appealed to the chaplain.
Mrs. Proudie was an imperious woman; but then so also was Lady
Lufton; and it may therefore be said that Mr. Robarts ought to have
been accustomed to feminine domination; but as he sat there munching
his toast he could not but make a comparison between the two. Lady
Lufton in her little attempts sometimes angered him; but he certainly
thought, comparing the lay lady and the clerical together, that the
rule of the former was the lighter and the pleasanter. But then Lady
Lufton had given him a living and a wife, and Mrs. Proudie had given
him nothing.
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Robarts escaped to the Dragon of
Wantly, partly because he had had enough of the matutinal Mrs.
Proudie, and partly also in order that he might hurry his friends
there. He was already becoming fidgety about the time, as Harold
Smith had been on the preceding evening, and he did not give Mrs.
Smith credit for much punctuality. When he arrived at the inn he
asked if they had done breakfast, and was immediately told that not
one of them was yet down. It was already half-past eight, and they
ought to be now under way on the road.
He immediately went to Mr. Sowerby’s room, and found that gentleman
shaving himself. “Don’t be a bit uneasy,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You and
Smith shall have my phaeton, and those horses will take you there in
an hour. Not, however, but what we shall all be in time. We’ll send
round to the whole party and ferret them out.” And then Mr. Sowerby,
having evoked manifold aid with various peals of the bell, sent
messengers, male and female, flying to all the different rooms.
“I think I’ll hire a gig and go over at once,” said Mark. “It would
not do for me to be late, you know.”
“It won’t do for any of us to be late; and it’s all nonsense about
hiring a gig. It would be just throwing a sovereign away, and we
should pass you on the road. Go down and see that the tea is made,
and all that; and make them have the bill ready; and, Robarts, you
may pay it too, if you like it. But I believe we may as well leave
that to Baron Borneo—eh?”
And then Mark did go down and make the tea, and he did order the
bill; and then he walked about the room, looking at his watch, and
nervously waiting for the footsteps of his friends. And as he was so
employed, he bethought himself whether it was fit that he should be
so doing on a Sunday morning; whether it was good that he should be
waiting there, in painful anxiety, to gallop over a dozen miles in
order that he might not be too late with his sermon; whether his
own snug room at home, with Fanny opposite to him, and his bairns
crawling on the floor, with his own preparations for his own quiet
service, and the warm pressure of Lady Lufton’s hand when that
service should be over, was not better than all this.
He could not afford not to know Harold Smith, and Mr. Sowerby, and
the Duke of Omnium, he had said to himself. He had to look to rise
in the world, as other men did. But what pleasure had come to him as
yet from these intimacies? How much had he hitherto done towards his
rising? To speak the truth he was not over well pleased with himself,
as he made Mrs. Harold Smith’s tea and ordered Mr. Sowerby’s
mutton-chops on that Sunday morning.
At a little after nine they all assembled; but even then he could
not make the ladies understand that there was any cause for hurry;
at least Mrs. Smith, who was the leader of the party, would not
understand it. When Mark again talked of hiring a gig, Miss Dunstable
indeed said that she would join him; and seemed to be so far earnest
in the matter that Mr. Sowerby hurried through his second egg in
order to prevent such a catastrophe. And then Mark absolutely did
order the gig; whereupon Mrs. Smith remarked that in such case she
need not hurry herself; but the waiter brought up word that all
the horses of the hotel were out, excepting one pair, neither of
which could go in single harness. Indeed, half of their stable
establishment was already secured by Mr. Sowerby’s own party.
“Then let me have the pair,” said Mark, almost frantic with delay.
“Nonsense, Robarts; we are ready now. He won’t want them, James.
Come, Supplehouse, have you done?”
“Then I am to hurry myself, am I?” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “What
changeable creatures you men are! May I be allowed half a cup more
tea, Mr. Robarts?”
Mark, who was now really angry, turned away to the window. There
was no charity in these people, he said to himself. They knew the
nature of his distress, and yet they only laughed at him. He did not,
perhaps, reflect that he had assisted in the joke against Harold
Smith on the previous evening.
“James,” said he, turning to the waiter, “let me have that pair of
horses immediately, if you please.”
“Yes, sir; round in fifteen minutes, sir: only Ned, sir, the
post-boy, sir; I fear he’s at his breakfast, sir; but we’ll have him
here in less than no time, sir!”
But before Ned and the pair were there, Mrs. Smith had absolutely got
her bonnet on, and at ten they started. Mark did share the phaeton
with Harold Smith, but the phaeton did not go any faster than the
other carriages. They led the way, indeed, but that was all; and when
the vicar’s watch told him that it was eleven, they were still a
mile from Chaldicotes’ gate, although the horses were in a lather of
steam; and they had only just entered the village when the church
bells ceased to be heard.
“Come, you are in time, after all,” said Harold Smith. “Better time
than I was last night.” Robarts could not explain to him that the
entry of a clergyman into church, of a clergyman who is going to
assist in the service, should not be made at the last minute, that it
should be staid and decorous, and not done in scrambling haste, with
running feet and scant breath.
“I suppose we’ll stop here, sir,” said the postilion, as he pulled
up his horses short at the church-door, in the midst of the people
who were congregated together ready for the service. But Mark had not
anticipated being so late, and said at first that it was necessary
that he should go on to the house; then, when the horses had again
begun to move, he remembered that he could send for his gown, and
as he got out of the carriage he gave his orders accordingly. And
now the other two carriages were there, and so there was a noise
and confusion at the door—very unseemly, as Mark felt it; and the
gentlemen spoke in loud voices, and Mrs. Harold Smith declared
that she had no prayer-book, and was much too tired to go in at
present;—she would go home and rest herself, she said. And two
other ladies of the party did so also, leaving Miss Dunstable to go
alone;—for which, however, she did not care one button. And then one
of the party, who had a nasty habit of swearing, cursed at something
as he walked in close to Mark’s elbow; and so they made their way up
the church as the absolution was being read, and Mark Robarts felt
thoroughly ashamed of himself. If his rising in the world brought him
in contact with such things as these, would it not be better for him
that he should do without rising?
His sermon went off without any special notice. Mrs. Harold Smith was
not there, much to his satisfaction; and the others who were did not
seem to pay any special attention to it. The subject had lost its
novelty, except with the ordinary church congregation, the farmers
and labourers of the parish; and the “quality” in the squire’s great
pew were content to show their sympathy by a moderate subscription.
Miss Dunstable, however, gave a ten-pound note, which swelled up the
sum total to a respectable amount—for such a place as Chaldicotes.
“And now I hope I may never hear another word about New Guinea,” said
Mr. Sowerby, as they all clustered round the drawing-room fire after
church. “That subject may be regarded as having been killed and
buried; eh, Harold?”
“Certainly murdered last night,” said Mrs. Harold, “by that awful
woman, Mrs. Proudie.”
“I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her out of the
arm-chair,” said Miss Dunstable. “I was expecting it, and thought
that I should come to grief in the scrimmage.”
“I never knew a lady do such a brazen-faced thing before,” said Miss
Kerrigy, a travelling friend of Miss Dunstable’s.
“Nor I—never; in a public place, too,” said Dr. Easyman, a medical
gentleman, who also often accompanied her.
“As for brass,” said Mr. Supplehouse, “she would never stop at
anything for want of that. It is well that she has enough, for the
poor bishop is but badly provided.”
“I hardly heard what it was she did say,” said Harold Smith; “so I
could not answer her, you know. Something about Sundays, I believe.”
“She hoped you would not put the South Sea islanders up to Sabbath
travelling,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“And specially begged that you would establish Lord’s-day schools,”
said Mrs. Smith; and then they all went to work and picked Mrs.
Proudie to pieces from the top ribbon of her cap down to the sole of
her slipper.
“And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love with her
daughters. That’s the hardest thing of all,” said Miss Dunstable.
But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed he did not feel that he
had spent a profitable Sunday.