"It is Mr Bagnall," said I, "the vicar of Dornthwaite."
"A minister!" was Flora's answer, in an indescribable tone.
"Oh, that does not make any difference," I replied, "with the clergy
about here. Mr Digby is too old for it now, but I have heard say that
when he was a younger man, he used to be as uproarious as anybody."
At last Sam's patience seemed to be exhausted, and he and Will between
them lifted the reverend gentleman off his feet, and carried him to bed
despite his struggles. At least I supposed so from what I heard. About
ten minutes later, Sam and Will passed our door on their way back.
"Yon's a bonnie loon to ca' a minister," I heard Sam say as he went
past. "But what could ye look for in a Prelatist?"
"He gets up i' t' pu'pit, and tells us our dooty, of a Sunda', but who
does hisn of a Monda, think ye?" was old Will's response.
The footsteps passed on, and I was just going to relieve my feelings by
a good laugh, when I was stopped and astonished by Flora's voice.
"O Cary, how dreadful!"
"Dreadful!" said I, "what is dreadful?"
"That wretched man!" she said in a tone which matched her words.
"He does not think himself a wretched man, by any means," I said. "His
living is worth quite two hundred a year, and he has a little private
property beside. They say he does not stand at all a bad chance for a
deanery. His wife is not a pleasant woman, I believe; she has a temper:
but his son is carrying all before him at college, and his daughters are
thought to be among the prettiest girls in the county."
"Has he children? Poor things!" sighed Flora.
"Why, Flora, I cannot make you out," said I. "I could understand your
being uncomfortable about Angus; but what is Mr Bagnall to you?"
"Cary!" I cannot describe the tone.
"Well?" said I.
"Is the Lord nothing to me?" she said, almost passionately; "nor the
poor misguided souls committed to that man's charge, for which he will
have to give account at the last day?"
"My dear Flora, you do take things so seriously!" I said, trying to
laugh; but her tone and words had startled me, for all that.
"It is well to take sin seriously," said she. "Men are serious enough
in Hell; and sin is its antechamber."
"You don't suppose poor Mr Bagnall will be sent there, for a little too
much champagne at a hunt-supper?" said I. I did not like it, for I
thought of Father. I have heard him singing "Old King Cole" and half a
dozen more songs, all mixed up in a heap, after a hunt-supper. "Men
always do it there. And I can assure you Mr Bagnall is thought a
first-class preacher. People go to hear him even from Cockermouth."
"That is worse than ever," said Flora, "A man who preaches the truth and
serves the Devil--that must be awful!"
"Flora, you do say the queerest things!" said I. "Does your father
never do so?"
"My father?" she answered in an astonished, indignant voice. "_My
father_! Cary! but,"--with a change in the tone--"you do not know him,
of course. Why, Cary, if he knew that Angus had been for once in the
midst of such a scene as that, I think it would break my father's
heart."
I wondered how Angus had fared, and if he were singing snatches of
Scotch songs in some bed-chamber at the other end of the long gallery,
but I had not the cruelty to say it to Flora.
When we came down the next morning, I was curious to peep into the
dining-room, just to see what it was like. The wreck of a ship is the
only thing I can think of, which might look like it. Half the chairs
were flung over in all directions, and two broken to pieces; a quantity
of broken glass was heaped both on the floor and the table; dark wine
stains on the carpet, and pools upon the table, not yet dry, were
sufficient signs of what the night had been. Bessy stood in the window,
duster in hand, picking up the chairs, and setting them in their places.
"Didn't the gentlemen enjoy theirselves, Miss Cary?" said she. "My
word, but they made a night on't! I'd like to ha' been wi' 'em, just
for to see!"
I made no answer beyond nodding my head. Flora's words came back to
me,--"It is well to take sin seriously." I could not laugh and jest, as
I dare say I should have done but for them.
When I came into the parlour, I only found three of all the gentlemen in
the house,--Father, Mr Keith, and Ambrose Catterall. I thought Father
seemed rather cross, and he was finding fault with everybody for
something. Sophy's hair was rough, and Hatty had put on a gown he did
not like, and Fanny's ruffle had a hole in it; and then he turned round
and scolded my Aunt Kezia for not having us in better order. My Aunt
Kezia said never a word, but I felt sure from her drawn brow and set
lips, as she stood making tea, that she could have said a great many.
Mr Keith was silent and grave. Ambrose Catterall seemed to think it
his duty to make fun for everybody, and he laughed and joked and
chattered away finely. I asked where old Mr Catterall was.
"Oh, in bed with a headache," laughed Ambrose, "like everybody else this
morning."
"Speak for yourself," said Mr Keith. "I have not one."
"Well, mine's going," returned Ambrose, gaily. "A cup of Mrs Kezia's
capital tea will finish it off."
"Finish what off?" asked my Aunt Kezia.
"My last night's headache," said he.
"That tea must have come from Heaven, then, instead of China," replied
she. "Nay, Ambrose Catterall; it will take blood to finish off the
consequence of your doings last night."
"Why, Mrs Kezia, are you going to fight me?" asked he, laughing.
"Young man, why don't you fight the Devil?" answered my Aunt Kezia,
looking him full in the face. "He does not pay good wages, Ambrose."
"Never saw the colour of his money yet," said Ambrose, who seemed
extremely amused.
"I wish you never may," quoth my aunt. "But I sadly fear you are going
the way to do it."
The more Ambrose laughed, the graver my Aunt Kezia seemed to grow.
Before we had finished breakfast, Angus came languidly into the room.
"What ails you, old comrade?" said Ambrose; and Flora's eyes looked up
with the same question, but I think there were tears on the brown
velvet.
"Oh, my head aches conf--I mean--abominably," said Angus, flushing.
"Take a hair of the dog that bit you," suggested Ambrose; "unless you
think humble pie will agree with you better. I fancy Miss Drummond
would rather help you to that last."
I saw a flash in Mr Keith's eyes, which gave me the idea that he might
not be a pleasant person to meet alone in a glen at midnight, if he had
no scruples as to what he did.
"You hold your tongue!" growled Angus.
"By all means, if you prefer it," said Ambrose, lightly.
One after another, the gentlemen strolled in,--all but two who stayed in
bed till afternoon, and of these Mr Catterall was one. Among the last
to appear was Mr Bagnall; but he looked quite fresh and gay when he
came, like Ambrose.
"We had to say grace for ourselves, Mr Bagnall," said Father. "Sit
down, and let me help you to some of this turkey pie."
"Thanks--if you please. What a lovely morning!" was Mr Bagnall's
answer. "The young ladies look like fresh rosebuds with the dew on
them."
"We have not you gentlemen to thank for it, if we do," broke in Hatty.
"Our slumbers were all the less profound for your kind assistance. Oh
yes, you can look, Mr Bagnall! I mean _you_. I heard `Sally in our
Alley' about one o'clock this morning."
"No, was I singing that, now?" said Mr Bagnall, laughing. "I did not
know I got quite so far. But at a hunt-supper, you know, everything is
excusable."
"Would you give me a reference to the passage which says so, Mr
Bagnall?" came from behind the tea-pot. "I should like to note it in my
Bible."
Mr Bagnall laughed again, but rather uncomfortably.
"My dear Mrs Kezia, you do not imagine the Bible has anything to do
with a hunt-supper?"
"It is to be hoped I don't, or I should be woefully disappointed," she
answered. "But I always thought, Mr Bagnall, that the Word of God and
the ministers of God should have something to do with one another."
"Kezia, keep your Puritan notions to yourself!" roared Father from the
other end of the table; and he put some words before it which I would
rather not write. "I can't think," he went on, looking round, "wherever
Kezia can have picked up such mad whims as she has. For a sister of
mine to say such a thing to a clergyman--I declare it makes my hair
stand on end!"
"Your hair may lie down again, Brother. I've done," said my Aunt Kezia,
coolly. "As to where I got it, I should think you might know. It runs
in the blood. And I suppose Deborah Hunter was your grandmother as well
as mine."
Father's reply was full of the words I do not want to write, but it was
not a compliment to his grandmother.
"Come, Mrs Kezia," said Mr Bagnall, "let us make it up by glasses all
round, and a toast to the sweet Puritan memory of Mrs Deborah Hunter."
"No, thank you," said my Aunt Kezia. "As to Deborah Hunter, she has
been a saint in Heaven these thirty years, and finely she'd like it (if
she knew it) to have you drinking yourselves drunk in her honour. But
let me tell you--and you can say what you like after it--she taught me
that `the chief end of man was to glorify God, and to enjoy Him for
ever.' Your notion seems to be that the chief end of man is to glorify
himself, and to enjoy him for ever. I think mine's the better of the
two: and as to yours, the worst thing I wish any of you is that you may
get mine instead of it. Now then, Brother, I've had my say, and you can
have yours."
And not another word did my Aunt Kezia say, though Father stormed, and
the other gentlemen laughed and joked, and paid her sarcastic
compliments, all the while breakfast lasted. There were two who were
silent, and those were Angus and Mr Keith. Angus seemed too poorly and
unhappy to take any interest in the matter; and as to Mr Keith, I
believe in his heart (if I read it right in his eyes) that he was
perfectly delighted with my Aunt Kezia.
"The young ladies did not honour us by riding to the meet," said Mr
Bagnall at last, looking at that one of us who sat nearest him--which,
by ill luck, happened to be Flora.
"No, Sir. I do not think my aunt would have allowed it; but--" Flora
stopped, and cast her eyes on her plate.
"But if she had, you would have been pleased to come?" suggested Mr
Bagnall, rubbing his hands.
He spoke in that disagreeable way in which some men do speak to girls--I
do not know what to call it. It is a condescending, patronising kind of
manner, as if--yes, that is it!--as if they wanted to amuse themselves
by hearing the opinion of something so totally incapable of forming one.
I wish they knew how the girls long to shake the nonsense out of them.
But Flora did not lose her temper, as I should have done: she held her
own with a quiet dignity which I envied, but could never have imitated.
"Pardon me, Sir. I was about to say the direct contrary--that if my
aunt had allowed it, I for one would rather not have gone."
"Afraid of a fall, eh?" laughed Mr Bagnall. "Well, ladies are not
expected to be as venturesome as men."
Now, why do men always fancy that it is a woman's duty to do what men
expect her? I cannot see it one bit.
"I was not afraid of that, Sir," said Flora.
Father, with whom Flora is a favourite, was listening with a smile. I
believe Aunt Drummond was his pet sister.
"No? Why, what then?" said Mr Bagnall, shaking the pepper over his
turkey pie until I wondered what sort of a throat he would have when he
had finished it.
"I am afraid of hardening my heart, Sir," said Flora, in her calm
decisive way.
"Hardening your heart, girl! What do you mean?" said Father.
"Hardening your heart by riding to hounds!"
"A little puzzling, certainly," said Sir Robert Dacre, who sat opposite.
"We must ask Miss Drummond to explain."
He did not speak in that disagreeable way that Mr Bagnall did; but
Flora flushed up when she found three gentlemen looking at her, and
asking her for an explanation.
"I mean," she answered, "that one hardens one's heart by taking pleasure
in anything which gives another creature pain. But I beg your pardon;
indeed I did not mean to put myself forward."
"No, no, child; we drew you forward," said Father, kindly. He gets over
his tempers in a moment, and he seemed to have quite forgotten the
passage at arms with my Aunt Kezia.
"Still, I do not quite understand," said Sir Robert, not at all
unkindly. "Who is the injured creature in this case, Miss Drummond?"
Flora's colour rose again. "The hare, Sir," she said.
"The hare!" cried Mr Bagnall, leaning back in his chair to laugh.
"Well, Miss Flora, you are quixotic."
"May I quote my father, Sir?" was her reply. "He says that Don Quixote
(supposing him a real person, which I take it he was not) was one of the
noblest men the world ever saw, only the world was not ready for him."
"The world not ready for him? No, I should think not!" laughed Father.
"Not just yet, my little lady-errant."
Flora smiled quietly. "Perhaps it will be, some day. Uncle Courtenay,"
she said.
"When the larks fall from the sky--eh, Miss Flora?" said Mr Bagnall,
rubbing his hands again in that odious way he has.
"When `they shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain,'" was
Flora's soft answer.
"Surely you don't suppose that literal?" replied Mr Bagnall, laughing.
"Why, you must be as bad--I had nearly said as _mad_--as my next
neighbour, Everard Murthwaite (of Holme Cultram, you know," he explained
aside to Father). "Why, he has actually got a notion that the Jews are
to be restored to Palestine! Whoever heard of such a mad idea? Only
think--the Jews!"
"Ridiculous nonsense!" said Father.
"Is it not usually the case," asked Mr Keith, who till then had hardly
spoken, "that the world counts as mad the wisest men in it?"
"Why, Mr Keith, you must be one of them!" cried Mr Bagnall.
"Of the wise men? Thank you!" said Mr Keith, drily.
There was a laugh at this.
"But I can tell you of something queerer still," Mr Bagnall went on.
"Old Cis Crosthwaite, in my parish, says she knows her sins are
forgiven."
Such exclamations came from most of the gentlemen at that!
"Preposterous!" said one. "Ridiculous!" said another. "Insufferable
presumption!" cried a third.
"Cis Crosthwaite!" said Sir Robert Dacre, more quietly.
"Yes, Cis Crosthwaite," repeated Mr Bagnall; "an old wretch of a woman
who has never been any better than she should be, and whom I met
sticking hedges only last winter. Her son Joe is the worst poacher in
the parish."
All the gentlemen seemed to think that most dreadful. I do not know why
it is they always appear to reckon snaring wild game which belongs
nobody a more wicked thing than breaking all the Ten Commandments.
Would it not have been in them if it were?
Only Sir Robert Dacre said, "Poor old creature! don't let us saddle her
with Joe's sins. I dare say she has plenty of her own."
"Plenty? I should think so. She is a horrid old wretch," answered Mr
Bagnall. "And do but think, if this miserable creature has not the
arrogance and presumption to say that her sins are forgiven!"
"I suppose Christ died that somebody's sins might be forgiven?" said Mr
Keith, in his quiet way.
"Of course, but those are respectable people," Mr Bagnall said, rather
indignantly.
"Before or after the forgiveness?" asked Mr Keith.
"Sir," said Mr Bagnall, rather stiffly, "I am not accustomed to discuss
such matters as these at table."
"Are you not? I am," said Mr Keith, quite simply.
"But," continued Mr Bagnall, "I thought every one understood the
orthodox view--namely, that a man must do his best, and practise virtue,
and lead a proper sort of life, and then, when God Almighty sees you a
decent and fit person, and endeavouring to be good He helps you with His
grace." [Note 2.]
"Of course!" said the Vicar of Sebergham--I suppose by way of Amen.
"Men are to do their best, then, and practise these virtues, in the
first instance, without any assistance from God's grace? That Gospel
sounds rather ill tidings," was Mr Keith's answer.
Everybody was listening by this time. Sir Robert Dacre, I thought,
seemed secretly diverted; and Hatty's eyes were gleaming with fun.
Father looked uncomfortable, and as if he did not know what Mr Keith
would be at. From my Aunt Kezia little nods of satisfaction kept coming
to what he said.
"Sir," demanded Mr Bagnall, looking his adversary straight in the face,
"are you not orthodox?"
He spoke rather in the tone in which he might have asked, "Are you not
honest?"
"May I ask you to explain the word, before I answer?" was Mr Keith's
response.
"I mean, are you one of these Methodists?"
"Certainly not. I belong to the Kirk of Scotland."
Mr Bagnall's "Oh!" seemed to say that some at any rate of Mr Keith's
queer notions might be accounted for, if he were so unfortunate as to
have been born in a different Church.
"But," pursued Mr Keith, "seeing that the Church of England, and the
Kirk of Scotland, and the Methodists, all accept the Word of God as the
rule of faith, they should all, methinks, be sound in the faith, if that
be what you mean by `orthodox.'"
"By `orthodox,'" said the Vicar of Sebergham, after a sonorous clearing
of his throat, "I understand a man who keeps to the Articles of the
Church, and does not run into any extravagances and enthusiasm."
"Hear him!" cried Mr Bagnall, as if he were at a Tory meeting. Hatty
burst out laughing, but immediately smothered it in her handkerchief.
"I do hear him, and with pleasure," said Mr Keith. "I am no friend to
extravagance, I assure you. Let a Churchman keep to the Bible and the
Articles, and I ask no more of him. But excuse me if I say that we are
departing from the question before us, which was the propriety, or
impropriety, of one saying that his sins were forgiven. May I ask why
you object to that?--and is the objection to the forgiveness, or to the
proclamation of it?"
"Sir," said Mr Bagnall, warmly, "I think it presumption--arrogance--
horrible self-conceit."
"To have forgiveness?--or to say so?"
"I cannot answer such a question, Sir!" said Mr Bagnall, getting red in
the face, and seizing the pepper-box once more, with which he dusted his
pie recklessly. "When a man sets himself up to be better than his
neighbours in that way, it is scandalous--perfectly scandalous, Sir!"
"`Better than his neighbours!'" repeated Mr Keith, as if he were
considering the question. "If a pardoned criminal be better than his
neighbours, I suppose the neighbours are worse criminals?"
"Sir, you misunderstand me. They fancy themselves better than others."
Mr Bagnall was getting angry.
"But seeing all are criminals alike, and they own it every Sunday," was
Mr Keith's answer, "does it not look rather odd that an objection
should be made to one of them stating that he has been pardoned? Is it
because the rest are unpardoned, and are conscious of it?"
"Come, friends!" said Sir Robert, before Mr Bagnall could reply. "Let
us not lose our tempers, I beg. Mr Keith is a Scotsman, and such are
commonly good reasoners and love a tilt; and 'tis but well in a young
man to keep his wits in practice. But we must not get too far, you
know."
"Just so! just so!" saith Father, who I think was glad to have a stop
put to this sort of converse. "Mr Bagnall, I am sure, bears no malice.
Sir Robert, when do the Holme Cultram hounds meet next?"
Mr Bagnall growled something, I know not what, and gave himself up to
his pie for the rest of the time, Mr Keith smiled, and said no more.
But I know in whose hands I thought the victory rested.
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