'Sorry, little 'un, but a parson has to "rule his children!" It's one
of Timothy's conditions.'
'Oh, that was deacons, daddy! and you're a vicar.'
'Or if "a man desires the office of a bishop," Meg.'
'But _do_ you, father?' I asked gravely, 'for if you don't you haven't
got a leg to stand on, and I----'
'No, I don't desire the office of a bishop, Meg; I don't want to do
anything different from what I am doing now. I don't, I don't.'
'Why, father,' I exclaimed, 'does anybody want you to?'
'I loathe natives,' he replied, and went out of the room hurriedly.
Sometimes I don't understand my father; he says things that don't seem
to have the slightest bearing on the subject under discussion.
When Ross came home in the summer for the holidays he was bigger than
ever. I had the greatest difficulty in keeping him in his place. He
seemed to think he could go straight on from that moment when he went
seven feet high and said, 'There, darling.' He actually had the cheek
to say, 'Because I don't choose' to me once, and we had words about it!
Aunt Amelia invited herself to stay for six weeks while he was home.
Relations were slightly strained all the time and when she said to
father in front of Ross, 'I hope Meg has been quite steady since.' I
really thought they were both going to blow up, but we escaped with a
slammed door and father's threat to go into lodgings.
Ross calmed down later in the day and observed that 'It was a quaint
family, all cracked on something: Aunt Amelia on Calvinism, Uncle Jasper
on Archaeology, Cousin Emily on animals, and you,' he added rudely,
'on--er bluebells.'
'And daddy?' I asked, ignoring the insult.
'Oh, daddy's passion is souls,' and he changed the conversation quickly.
But I was never so horrified in all my life. To think that my brother
should compare father with Aunt Amelia.
'Souls,' I gasped, 'whatever do you mean? Are you _ab-so-lu-tely_
dotty, Ross?'
'You never _can_ see anything farther than your nose, Meg. What do you
suppose he said he was going to change the kids' service for that
Sunday?'
For 'that Sunday' was the one that comes once a month, when the village
children have to go to church, to say the catechism to father, instead
of having Sunday school. He said at lunch if we had no other
engagements he'd be most awfully obliged if Aunt Amelia and I would go
and help keep the kids quiet as several of the teachers were away.
Aunt Amelia observed that she never had engagements on Sunday (she is
tiring), and of course I said I would go, though privately I thought it
was a sin and a shame to spend that gorgeous afternoon in learning what
your godfathers and godmothers did for you. Ours never did anything for
us, except to send us ten bob at Christmas, though Ross's godmother says
she is going to leave him all her money and me her diamonds.
It was so hot in church, and the children were so naughty. The small
boy next to me was a little devil. His name was Tommy Vellacott. He
had a picture in his Prayer Book and he would keep sticking pins in it.
Father stopped once and asked what he was doing.
'Pwicking holes in the Virgin Mawry,' he said, and all the children
tittered. Daddy started the Catechism again and said to Tommy,--
'What is thy duty towards God?'
Tommy looked bored but replied that his duty was to believe in Him, to
fear Him, and to love Him.'
Father seemed to think it was a heaven-sent opportunity to point a
practical moral, so remarked that if children really loved God, they
ought not to bring a dead mouse in church to frighten the others with,
and that if Tommy were sorry he had better put it in the porch. (That's
the worst of father, he isn't satisfied with repentance; you have to
burn the vanities as well).
'Don't love God,' said Tommy.
Father stared down at the little heathen with a startled look on his
face.
'You don't love God, Tommy?'
'No,' said Tommy, who is nothing if not truthful, 'course I don't, only
believe in Him.'
I thought it was the most humorous thing I had ever heard, but Aunt
Amelia was horrified, and at tea said that the present generation was
hopeless and that Tommy's remark was a specimen of the apostasy of the
age.
'Well, I belong to the church militant, Amelia, so I'm not willing to
leave it at that,' said daddy, rather as if he were trying to keep his
temper. So I, by way of pouring oil on the troubled waters, said,--
'But, daddy, don't most people feel like Tommy? They "believe," but I
think it's most frightfully difficult to love the Man of Sorrows.'
Father looked at me with much the same expression as he had when he
looked at Tommy, but he only said gently,--
'Darling, I don't think you will love the Man of Sorrows until you've
become acquainted with grief yourself.'
I felt a pig for the rest of the day; it seemed such a rotten thing to
have said to father.
The next time the kids had to go to church father said he was going to
chuck the catechism and tell them stories instead, and let them choose
their own hymns.
Aunt Amelia (who was still staying with us for our sins) observed that
nothing was gained by leaving the old paths; and then father made
another of those extraordinary remarks that don't seem to have the
slightest connection with the rest of the conversation.
'"A Hindoo, though dying of thirst, will refuse water if offered in a
foreign cup, but he will drink the _same_ water if offered in his own."'