It had been an eloquent sermon; the Bishop had been at his best. That
was the general feeling. At the informal meeting which was held in the
Dean's parlour, the morning after, this feeling was strongly expressed.
"If," said Mr Dean, "words can make men temperate, then surely the
words which we were privileged to hear proceeding from the pulpit in
our beloved cathedral yesterday afternoon must have carried conviction
to many an erring soul."
So said all of them. Canon Gorse, in particular, felt bound to say that
he had heard many temperance sermons in his time, but never one which
had impressed him more strongly than the one which the Bishop had
delivered yesterday to the clerical and lay workers in the cause of
total abstinence. When the Canon made this outspoken declaration, every
parson in the room--and every man of them had preached temperance
sermons in his time, so they ought to have been good judges--exclaimed,
"Hear, hear!"
Perhaps the enthusiasm was rendered greater by the fact that, until
quite lately, the Bishop had scarcely been a stalwart. Always on the
side of temperance--oh, yes, certainly that--but on the question, the
vital question, of total abstinence his views had scarcely been so
pronounced as some of his admirers, both clerical and lay, would have
wished. Indeed, it was understood that the Bishop himself favoured a
good glass of wine at times. In fact, it was reported that he was even
esteemed a connoisseur in the matter of certain Spanish wines which are
nowadays esteemed old-fashioned. That this should have been so was, in
a degree, unfortunate; because how could teetotalism, as a propaganda,
assume those dimensions which were in every way desirable in a diocese,
the bishop of which, as it was well known, himself looked with a by no
means unloving eye on the wine when it is red! When, therefore, it was
announced that, if only for example's sake, the Bishop would
henceforward shun the spirit which is man's universal curse, it was
felt, and rightly felt, that a victory had been won. That victory had,
so to speak, been consummated by the Bishop's sermon in the cathedral
yesterday, in which he had declared himself a teetotaller, on the side
of the teetotallers, and willing, nay, anxious, to stand in their
forefront and to lead the van.
"One thing," observed Canon Gorse, "seems plain--that is, that we now
shall be on safe ground in refusing to renew the lease of 'The Rose and
Crown.' For that, thank goodness!"
Again the reverend Canon seemed but to give voice to the opinion of all
who heard him. This question of "The Rose and Crown" had been as a
thorn in the side of the cathedral chapter. "The Rose and Crown" was an
inn which actually faced the door by means of which the choir and
officiating clergy were wont to gain admittance to the sacred edifice.
Sad tales were told of it: of how quarts of stout, and such like
obnoxious fluids, had been sent in from "The Rose and Crown" to the
choirmen while they had actually been engaged in practice, and other
dreadful stories. The lease of the inn was running out. The
landlord--one George Boulter--desired its renewal. The house, and the
ground upon which it stood, was the property of the cathedral chapter.
Mr Boulter had already been privately notified that, in all
probability, his lease would not be renewed. It was the desire of the
chapter that the house should be transformed into a Church institute.
The only factor which might upon this point breed dissension had
hitherto been the Bishop. But now, as the Bishop himself had signed the
pledge, it seemed plain that, as Canon Gorse had observed, the scandal
of a number of clergymen owning a public-house would be put an end to.
The Canon had scarcely uttered his remark when the library door opened,
and a servant, entering, advanced to Mr Dean.
"Mr Boulter, sir, says he wishes to see you most particular."
"Mr Boulter!" exclaimed the Dean. The man himself, the landlord of "The
Rose and Crown." The Dean reflected. He rubbed his nose with his
glasses. "What is it that Mr Boulter can wish to say to me? However, I
will see him. Tell him so." The servant vanished. The Dean turned to
the assembled clergymen. "It is, perhaps, just as well that I should
see the man at once, and let him know clearly what our position is."
"Exactly," said Canon Gorse. "Let him understand that plainly. It will
not only be fair to ourselves, but it will also be fair to the man."
Mr Boulter was a portly person: his countenance was ruddy; in manner he
was affable. He was, all over, Mine Host of the Inn; a type of Boniface
which, if we may believe the chroniclers, used to abound, but which,
under the present advance of the teetotal forces, is, we will say
fortunately, becoming extinct. He reverenced a gentleman, but above all
things he reverenced the cloth. His motto as a boy had been "Church and
Crown"; but in these latter days he had begun to fear that both Church
and Crown were on the side of the enemy.
"Mr Boulter," observed the Dean, as he entered the room in which that
gentleman was waiting, "I am pressed for time. Indeed, I have a meeting
in the library. I must therefore ask you to tell me in as few words as
possible what it is you wish to say."
Mr Boulter turned the brim of his hat round and round in his hands.
"It is about the lease, Mr Dean."
"I thought so. I may as well be brief with you, and clear. You may take
my word for it that the lease will not be renewed, and that, in short,
'The Rose and Crown' will cease to be an inn."
"I think not, Mr Dean."
"You think not, Mr Boulter! May I ask what you mean?"
There was something in the tone in which Mr Boulter said that he
thought not which the Dean did not understand. He stared at Mr Boulter
with dignified surprise. Mr Boulter actually smiled.
"I think that 'The Rose and Crown' will continue to be an inn. That is
what I meant, Mr Dean."
The Dean shrugged his shoulders.
"If you choose to persist in thinking so, in spite of my assurance to
the contrary, that is your affair, not mine."
The Dean turned to go, as if the interview were already at an end. Mr
Boulter coughed behind his hand.
"I should like to have one word with you before you go." The Dean faced
round. "Then am I to tell my tale?"
"Your tale? What tale?"
"About the Bishop, Mr Dean."
"About the Bishop?" The Dean looked the innkeeper up and down. A vague
suspicion crossed his mind. Already, at this hour of the morning, could
the man be drunk? There was nothing in the fellow's bearing to denote
anything of the kind. And, indeed, it was matter of common notoriety
that, personally, the landlord of "The Rose and Crown" was an
abstemious man. But, none the less, there was at that particular moment
something about Mr Boulter's manner which the Dean was at a loss to
understand. "What do you mean by your tale about the Bishop, sir?"
For a moment or two Mr Boulter continued to turn his hat round and
round in his hands, as if he found some difficulty in choosing the
exact words in which to frame what he wished to say.
"I understand," he began at last, "that yesterday the Bishop preached a
sermon upon temperance."
"You understand quite rightly. It would have done you good, Mr Boulter,
to have heard that sermon. Had you done so, you would understand how
strong would be the Bishop's opposition to any renewal of the lease of
'The Rose and Crown.'"
"Indeed!" Mr Boulter's tone was dry. "I am not so sure of that."
The Dean stared. The man's manner was so very odd.
"Be so good, Mr Boulter, as to say plainly what it is you mean."
"I don't know what you think, sir, of a bishop who comes straight from
preaching a sermon on temperance into my public-house."
"Mr Boulter!"
"It's no good you're looking at me like that, sir. I was surprised, I
don't mind owning it. But just let me tell my tale."
The Dean let him tell his tale.
"Yesterday afternoon I was standing at my private door, looking out
into the street. It was getting dusk. The service in the cathedral was
over, and I thought that everyone had gone. All of a sudden I saw the
little door open which we call the Dean's door, and which you know is
right in front of my house. Someone came out and walked quickly across
the street towards my place. I drew back and went inside. When I got
inside the bar I saw that there was some one in a little compartment
which only holds about two comfortably, and which I call a private
wine-bar. I heard him ask Miss Parkins, one of my young ladies, if we
had such a thing as a glass of good sound port."
The Dean shuddered--he scarcely knew why. The fact is that port was the
liquid of which the Bishop, in his less stalwart days, had been
esteemed such an excellent judge.
"The compartment in which he was is meant for parties who wish to keep
themselves quite private. It's boarded up on either side, and in front
of it, facing the bar, is a panel of glazed glass set in a mahogany
frame, with just enough room between it and the counter to pass, say, a
glass of wine. If the party inside wants to keep himself to himself,
it's next to impossible to see his face unless you go round by the door
in the front. I couldn't see this party's face, but I could see enough
of him to see he was a parson. He was short and stout"--the Bishop was
short and stout--"and though he had the collar of his coat turned up,
it wasn't turned up enough to hide the collar of his shirt. Seeing that
I had seen him come out of the Dean's own door in the cathedral, and
that he was a parson, things seemed a little queer. So I asked Miss
Parkins, on the quiet, if she knew who it was. I could see she couldn't
altogether make it out. She said, although she hadn't seen his face,
she seemed to know his voice. Well, he liked my port. I heard him say
so; and I heard him tell Miss Parkins that he was considered as good a
judge of port wine as any man in England." Again the Dean was conscious
of a shiver. "Anyhow, he drank a bottle of it before he went."
"A bottle, Mr Boulter?"
"Yes, sir, a bottle, and one glass over. Directly he had gone my potman
went into the private wine-bar for something or other, and as soon as
he got inside he called out, 'Hallo! the gentleman's left his bag
behind.' And he handed a little leather bag across the bar. Any
gentleman who had put away a bottle of port wine in the time that
gentleman had done might forget a trifle of a bag like that. It was a
beautiful little bag. I had never seen one quite like it before. It had
got some initials and a crest stamped on one side. I opened it to see
if there was anything inside by means of which I could identify it, and
return it to the owner. There was something inside--a sermon. I never
saw anything more beautifully written than that sermon--it was like
copperplate." Once more the Dean was conscious of a shudder travelling
down his spine. The Bishop's beautiful caligraphy was famous--a fair
handwriting is nowadays too rare. "On the front page was written the
Bishop's name and address in full, and in the top left-hand corner was
written: 'Preached in the cathedral on the afternoon of the 13th of
November, 189--.' That's yesterday afternoon, sir. I've brought that
bag with me. You'll find the sermon still inside. Perhaps you know
whose bag that is, sir."
Mr Boulter picked up a small leather bag which had been lying, hitherto
unnoticed, upon a chair, and handed it to the astonished Dean. The Dean
_did_ know whose bag it was--he knew too well. There was no mistaking
those initials and that crest. There was no necessity to examine the
sermon which Mr Boulter assured him was inside. The Dean gazed at that
excellent example of fine workmanship in leather bags as if he realised
that he had all at once become an actor in what might turn out to be a
tragedy. Words proceeded from his stammering lips.
"You are, I am sure, too reasonable a man, Mr Boulter, to jump at
impossible conclusions from imperfect premisses."
"I don't know what you call 'imperfect premisses.' Directly I saw the
name and address which was written on the front page of that sermon,
Miss Parkins cried out, 'Why, it was the Bishop's voice!' She stared at
me as if she was going to have a fit--and well she might. Miss Parkins
is a good girl, as all my young ladies are, and, indeed, everybody else
about my place, although I say it." Mr Boulter glared at the Dean with
eyes which were full of meaning. "She never misses a chance of hearing
the Bishop preach when she can get one, and if there's anyone who ought
to know the Bishop's voice it's her. It seems to me, begging your
pardon, sir, that I ought to have a reward for bringing that leather
bag back safe and sound."
"Certainly, Mr Boulter. Any sum in reason you like to mention."
"The reward I want is the renewal of my lease."
"That, as I have already told you, is--"
"Excuse me just one moment, sir. You see that?" Taking an envelope out
of an inner pocket of his coat, Mr Boulter flourished it in the Dean's
face. "I've a boy who lives in London, and writes for the papers; a
smart chap he is, and well respected in his trade. I've written an
account of how the Bishop preached a sermon on temperance in the
cathedral--a fine sermon it was, I'm told by those who heard it--and of
how he then walked straight out of the cathedral into my
public-house, and put away a bottle of old port, and got so drunk that
he forgot his bag and left it behind him, with the sermon which he had
just been preaching on temperance inside of it. That account's in this
envelope. I'm going to send it to my boy, and I'm going to tell him to
turn it into money; and I'll lay you what odds you please--although I'm
no more a betting man than you are--that, before a week is over, the
tale will be told in every paper in England, ah! and known all the
world over. You're going to take away my living. My grandfather kept
'The Rose and Crown' decent, my father kept it decent, and I've kept it
decent; there's never been even so much as a shadow of a complaint made
against me by the police, nor by no one. And yet you cathedral
gentlemen have taken a sudden fad into your heads, and you're going to
ruin me. Very well, ruin me! You think you're going to do good to the
cause of temperance by shutting up 'The Rose and Crown.' What harm do
you suppose will be done to the cause of temperance by that tale being
told, as they do tell that sort of tale nowadays, in all the newspapers
of the world? I guess the cause of temperance will not get over that
tale for years--it will be always being told. At the very least, if I
do have to go I will take care that somebody else goes with me. Now
which is it to be--am I to have my lease renewed, or am I to post this
envelope?"
The Dean hesitated.
"In any case, as you must be aware, Mr Boulter, the matter is not one
which can be decided on the spur of the moment; the decision is not
with me."
"Understand me, sir. If I go away from here without a promise of
renewal, I post this letter. I know as well as you know that in the
whole business your voice will be the ruling voice. You give me a bit
of writing in which you undertake to do your best to get my lease
renewed, and I will give you this envelope, with what's inside. And I
will give you my promise never to breathe a word that the Bishop ever
so much as came near my place. As for Miss Parkins, I know she won't
speak unless she's forced. She's a religious girl; she thinks a lot of
the Bishop, and she's too much shocked at the whole affair. I never saw
a girl so upset. Now which is it to be?"
The Dean still hesitated--with sufficient cause.
"What term of renewal would you require?"
"The last lease was for ninety-nine years, and I want this lease to be
for ninety-nine."
"Ninety-nine years, Mr Boulter?"
Mr Boulter did not get a promise of renewal for ninety-nine years, or
anything like it, but he did get "a bit of writing." With that "bit of
writing" in a secure division of his plethoric pocket-book he went
away. The Dean was left to his reflections. The leather bag he held in
one hand, the envelope which the landlord of "The Rose and Crown" had
given him he held in the other. Putting down the bag, he tore the
envelope into halves, then into quarters, and crossing the room he
dropped the fragments in the fire which burned brightly in the grate.
"Terrible! terrible!" This he said as he watched the pieces of paper
being consumed by the flames. Then he seemed to endeavour to pull
himself together. "Well, I shall have to tell them. I must give reasons
for the thing which I have done. The tale will have to travel so far,
but"--the Dean pressed his lips together; few men's countenances were
capable of assuming a severer aspect than Dean Pettifer's--"I will make
it my especial business to see that it goes no farther." He still
seemed to hesitate before returning to the apartment in which his
colleagues were awaiting him. "I must say that I never thought it of
him. I have been always conscious that in his latitudinarianism there
was a certain element of danger. But I never dreamed that he was
capable of such a thing as this--no, never!"
It was with a distinctly unsatisfactory look upon his face that he made
his reappearance in the little impromptu meeting. The criminatory
leather bag he carried in his left hand. It is not impossible that
those who were present became immediately conscious that with the Dean,
since they had seen him last, all things had not gone well. The buzz of
conversation, which had been audible as he opened the door, ceased upon
his entrance, as though something in his bearing acted as a damper.
The somewhat awkward silence was broken by Canon Gorse.
"Well, was Boulter troublesome?"
The Dean laid the bag in front of him upon the table.
"He was." The Dean carefully wiped his glasses. There was a suggestion
of curious expectation in the eyes which were fixed upon him. Their
owners already perceived that there was something in the air. Was it
possible that the landlord of "The Rose and Crown" had behaved in the
manner which, in the estimation of some persons, is a natural
characteristic of individuals of his class, and had been guilty of
actual violence in the sacred precincts of the Deanery? "He was
troublesome in a sense for which, on this occasion, I will simply say
that I was unprepared; and to such a degree that I have given him what
amounts to a virtual undertaking that his lease shall be renewed."
This was evidently not the sort of thing for which his listeners had
been waiting--one could see it by their faces. Some of them changed
colour, and some of their jaws dropped open. Canon Gorse stared at the
speaker, as if he found it difficult to believe that his own ears were
capable of fulfilling their normal functions.
"Pettifer, impossible!" Perceiving that the word might seem too strong,
he amended it. "That is to say, how do you mean?"
The Dean leaned over the table. His attitude, indeed his whole manner,
suggested severity tempered by sorrow.
"Before I say anything further I wish to have an understanding with all
of you that not one word of what I am about to utter will be breathed
by any one of you to any creature living--and by that I mean neither to
your wives, nor to your daughters, nor to any member of your
households--that it will be received as though it came to you under the
seal of the confessional." There was silence. "If anyone feels himself,
for any cause whatever, unable to give such a pledge, then I must
respectfully ask that person at once to withdraw."
No one did withdraw. No one said either Ay or Nay. So it may be
supposed that the pledge which the Dean required was unanimously given.
That the Dean understood that to be the case was evident. He held up
the little leather bag in front of him as if it were some dreadful
thing.
"This bag is the Bishop's--our beloved Bishop's bag. I know it, of my
own knowledge, to be the bag which he had with him in the cathedral
yesterday afternoon. It still contains the MS. of the sermon which the
Bishop preached, and which we all rejoiced to hear. This bag has just
been brought to me by the landlord of 'The Rose and Crown.' It was
left, unintentionally left, on his premises by a person who, at the
close of yesterday afternoon's service, went out of the Dean's door of
the cathedral into one of Mr Boulter's private bars, and there and then
consumed a bottle of port wine."
The Dean ceased. There again was silence--there well might be. The Dean
again went on,--
"A son of Mr Boulter's is engaged on one of those scurrilous journals
which are called society papers. Mr Boulter proposed to send this story
up to his son to print. On the understanding that the matter shall be
confined to his own breast, I have deemed it wisdom to give him, as I
have said, what virtually amounts to an undertaking that his lease
shall be renewed. That is all I have to say. You will feel with me that
it is too much. May I ask you not to speak of this matter even among
yourselves, but, as I shall do, to do your best to blot it from your
minds? Let us, if we can, forget that this thing has ever been. And
now, with your permission, I will wish you all good-day."
They went like a flock of sheep, although there was almost a suspicion
of pathos in the manner of their parting. When they were gone the Dean
set himself to perform a task of the exceeding delicacy of which, to
say the least, he was fully conscious. He was not a man to palter with
what he deemed his duty. He was certainly not a man to shrink from
doing a thing merely because the thing was disagreeable. Therefore,
scarcely had the last of his colleagues turned his back on the Deanery
than he put the little leather bag into a larger bag, and, with that
larger bag grasped firmly in his hand, he strode off to the Palace.
He was going to make it his business to see that without any further
unnecessary loss of time the Bishop came into what was, undoubtedly,
his own again.
He found his lordship in the library. The Bishop was dictating to his
secretary, the Rev. John Budgen. The secretary was seated at a table;
the Bishop took his ease in a capacious arm-chair. As the Dean entered,
his lordship greeted him with that genial heartiness for which the
Bishop of Boundersville is famed. Not a trace of guilty consciousness
about him anywhere--not a trace! It was with a sort of shock that the
Dean noticed that there was nothing of the kind.
"How do, Pettifer? I'm doing what I call my morning task of
stone-breaking--writing letters, by proxy, to a lot of people who have
more time on their hands than they know what to do with, and who,
therefore, insist upon wasting mine. Anything particular to say to me?"
The Dean was, perhaps, too refined--the thing is possible. He was not
only a fine scholar, he was a fine gentleman. He was of opinion that
dignitaries, and particularly all dignitaries of the Church, should
have the standard of manners which was peculiarly his own. The Bishop's
heartiness, his rough-and-ready methods of expression, had always
grated on his high-strung sensibilities; especially did they grate just
then.
"I am bound to state, my lord, that what I have to say to you is of the
first importance."
The Bishop looked at him a little quizzically. Possibly the Dean's
exaggerated preciseness appealed to a sense which there is no reason
why even a bishop should be without.
"Excuse me, Budgen; I'll ring when I'm ready." The secretary withdrew.
"Now, Pettifer, fire away. Who killed the cat, and which cat's been
killed?"
Such a fashion of speech was actually offensive to the Dean. Perhaps
the spirit of mischief still lingered in the Bishop's breast; perhaps,
at times, the Bishop found the Dean almost as trying as the Dean found
him. Under the circumstances such a bearing on the part of the Bishop
shocked the Dean almost into speechlessness. He gazed at his spiritual
superior in a manner which, unless he was mistaken, made his lordship
wince. "Has your lordship not missed your lordship's sermon-bag?"
At the question his lordship plainly started.
"My sermon-bag, Pettifer? What do you mean?"
"My lord, I mean what I say."
The Bishop was perturbed. Rising from his chair, he began to fidget
about the room. "Why do you ask?"
"Because it has been returned to me."
"Returned to you--no!"
"Yes, my lord; I have it here." The Dean produced the little bag from
inside the larger one. He held it up in front of him as he had held it
up in front of him at the impromptu meeting at the Deanery. "I will not
ask how it came to stray from your lordship's keeping."
The Bishop looked at the Dean; the Dean looked straight at him. It was
evident that his lordship was not completely at his ease.
"I perceive that you have heard the story."
"I regret, my lord, to say that I have."
The Bishop plainly flushed; perhaps he found the Dean's tone and manner
slightly galling.
"Perhaps it was not quite the thing to do, but"--his lordship shrugged
his shoulders--"what does it matter?"
The Dean, in his turn, winced.
"What does it matter, my lord? Surely your lordship knows that it
matters."
"How did the bag come into your possession, Pettifer?"
"It was brought to me by Mr Boulter, the landlord of 'The Rose and
Crown.'"
"Boulter!--'The Rose and Crown!'--No, by George!"
His lordship said "By George!" and as he said it the Dean shrunk back
as if he had received a blow.
"Mr Boulter, as the price of his silence, extracted from me a promise
that his lease should be renewed."
The Bishop woke up. He showed more alertness than he had hitherto
displayed.
"You promised him that his lease should be renewed--the lease of 'The
Rose and Crown'?"
"I did. I thought it better that I should do so than that such a story
should be told."
"Story? What story?"
The Dean, before he answered, indulged himself with a pause for
consideration.
"My lord, if any word which I may utter seems lacking in respect, as
coming from me to you, I entreat your pardon. My lord, when I heard
that, after preaching a sermon, and so grand a sermon, upon total
abstinence, you passed straight from the cathedral pulpit to the bar of
a common public-house, and there drank so large a quantity of wine
that, in the temporary forgetfulness which it occasioned, you left the
sermon itself behind you in the bar, I felt that it were better that I
should promise almost anything than that such a story should be told."
As he listened the Bishop's countenance underwent a variety of
changes. When the Dean had finished the Bishop dropped into a chair,
and--laughed. Not a genteel simper, but a loud and a long guffaw. The
Dean felt that he could not endure such levity even from a bishop--his
own bishop, too.
"My lord, in such a matter you may see occasion for merriment, but if
you could have seen, at the Deanery, the faces of the cathedral clergy
as I told to them the story--"
"Pettifer, what do you mean?"
Springing to his feet, the Bishop grasped the speaker by the arm. The
Dean was startled.
"I say, if you could only have seen their faces--"
"Do you mean to say that you have told this story to anyone?"
"I was constrained to state my reasons for giving such a promise to the
landlord of 'The Rose and Crown.'"
"I hardly know if I ought not to strike you, Arthur Pettifer."
"My lord!"
"I hardly know if I ought not to pillory you in the market-place, and
so compel you to do penance for your slanderous tongue. I have long
been conscious of a certain pharisaical narrowness in your mental and
in your moral outlook. I have seen in you what has seemed to me a
hideous tendency to think the worst both of women and of men. But I
never thought you capable of such gross obliquity of judgment as you
yourself appear now to own to. Is it possible that you believed that
such a story as you have told me could be true?"
The Dean had turned quite pale. He seemed to speak beneath his breath.
"Is it possible that Boulter lied?"
"Is it possible, Arthur Pettifer, that you could believe that I--I,
Ralph Ingall, with whose life's history you are as well acquainted
almost as myself--could so perjure myself that, as God's minister, in
God's house, I could pledge myself never again to let alcohol pass my
lips in any shape or form, and that then, with that pledge still warm
upon my lips, I could pass straight into a pot-house and stupefy myself
with wine?"
"Was it--was it Budgen, then?"
"Budgen? Budgen? Pettifer, this is worse and worse! You know that
Budgen has never touched a drop of alcoholic stimulant since the day
that he was born. I will tell you the story of that bag so far as I
know it myself. And I will see that your promise to the man Boulter is
kept both in the spirit and the letter. I will place it upon you, as an
enduring penance, that for the continued existence of his
drink-shop you, and you alone, shall be responsible."
The Dean was silent. He seemed to totter as a man who received a
crushing blow. The Bishop paced up and down the room. Like an accusing
spirit--possessed of a tolerable corporation--he poured out upon the
Dean a curious, correct, and circumstantial history of the adventures
of his sermon-bag.
"There was a man at my college whose name I need not mention. We were
ordained together. I will put it gently, and will say that he did not
take full advantage of his opportunities. I believe that, for some time
now, he has ceased to exercise his clerical office. He has become a
reporter for the '----'"--the Bishop named a paper which all good
Churchmen are supposed to read--"and he came to me yesterday afternoon,
into the vestry, after I had done my sermon. Possibly you may have seen
him there. He told me that he had come down from town specially to
report my sermon. According to him the train had been late, and he only
arrived in time to hear a part. He asked me if I would let him see my
notes. On the spur of the moment I handed him my bag, with the sermon
in it. I told him that he might make, what he expressed a desire to
make, a verbatim copy, and that he was then to return to me my
property. I felt immediately afterwards that I had, perhaps, not done
the wisest possible thing. But it was then too late. After the story
you have told me, what he did with bag and sermon I can guess."
While the Bishop was still speaking a servant appeared at the door.
"My lord, a person--I believe a clergyman--desires me to inform your
lordship that he wishes to see you at once upon very pressing
business."
"Yes, my lord; that is so."
The scandalised servant turned to find that the person alluded to had,
uninvited, found his way into the Bishop's presence. The Bishop
recognised his visitor; he signified the same to the servant who had
_not_ shown him in.
The visitor in question was an individual of somewhat doubtful
appearance. He looked half cleric, half layman. He was short and stout,
and so far resembled the Bishop, but the resemblance went no farther.
The Bishop, taking possession of the little leather bag which the Dean
still retained, held it out to the newcomer.
"Well, sir, have you come to make another copy of my sermon? As you
perceive, it has been returned to me, but not by you."
The stranger wiped his brow. He seemed more than a trifle embarrassed.
"I regret to say that I have not yet taken a copy of it, my lord. The
fact is, my lord, that, as I told you yesterday, I left town without
having lunched, and after leaving your lordship in the cathedral I felt
so exhausted that I just stepped across the road to take a glass of
wine--"
"Quite so, sir. I understand too well. Since my sermon upon temperance
has once been returned by the landlord of a tavern, I do not think that
I care to run the risk of its reaching me by means of a similar channel
a second time. So far as you are concerned, sir, my sermon must go
unreported." The Bishop rang the bell. The servant reappeared. "Dawes,
show this gentleman out."
The gentleman was shown out, though it seemed, from his manner, that
there still was something which he would have wished to say.
When he had gone the Bishop placed the little leather bag upon a table.
He turned to the Dean. He looked at him, and he said, more in sorrow
than in anger,--
"Pettifer, how long does it take you to know a man?"
MR BLOXAM AND THE BRITISH
CONSTITUTION
I say that the British constitution is in a shameful condition. I say
that any system of legislation which breeds matrimonial discord and
sets a husband against his wife, or, what is much worse, a wife against
her husband, is a disgrace to civilisation. I say it without
hesitation. I have said it before, and I say it again.
Look at me and Mrs Bloxam. From the first I have had difficulties with
that woman. She has never properly perceived the inevitable and natural
superiority of the husband over the wife. No, not once. I can prove it
out of the mouths of a cloud of witnesses. But when it comes to making
the husband the laughing-stock of his native land, not to speak of his
own parish, and an object of derision in the low columns of a ribald
press, then I assert, emphatically, that something must be done. And it
will have to be done, too, and that before very long. I've had enough
of it, I do know that. The time has come to throw aside the entangled
folds of the cloak of dignity, and to wave the impassioned arms of a
threatening Nemesis. Let her beware. And her aiders and abettors, let
them beware also.
I had a difference with our rector. I do not deny that the Reverend
George Crookenden has his good points. Every man has. Although Mr
Crookenden failed to see that I have mine. Therefore, when it was
pointed out that the parish of Copstone was in a state of educational
inefficiency, I threw my weight into the scale of intelligence. It was
shown that the Church school was a failure. So I said, "Let there be a
School Board." And there was a School Board. And what is more, I was
put forward as a candidate. I admit that, at first, I was unwilling. I
declare, positively, that I refused five distinct and separate times.
But at last I was overpersuaded. I stood. And now I wish to goodness
that I hadn't. But who can foresee the march of events as they trickle
through the convoluted waterways of an impenetrable thicket?
Mrs Bloxam has always been an enemy to the intellectual advance of the
age.
"Bother your books and things!" she would say. "I want a girl with some
knowledge of housework. Is she going to get it out of them?"
"Certainly, if she looks for it in the proper quarter."
"And pray, what do you call the proper quarter?" Mrs Bloxam looked at
me in a way I particularly dislike, as if I were an inferior animal.
"You are yourself such an omnivorous reader that no doubt you will be
able to throw light upon the subject."