In the course of time the bishop arrived upon his yearly visitation.
He was a large, handsome man, with an apostolic manner. He never
condemned; he only remonstrated, and was in himself a harmless and
well-meaning person. But he found a most unsatisfactory state of
affairs in Abingdon parish. The breach between the pastor and the flock
was so wide that, had they not been the slowest and least aggressive
people in the world, they would have long since parted company.
The bishop spent one night at the rectory, and thereafter accepted
very thankfully the lavish hospitality of the laity. The rain leaked
into the bishop’s room at the rectory, and its steady drip, drip, drip
kept him awake. The bed upon which his episcopal form reposed was very
hard, and next morning, when he peered out of his curtainless window,
he saw Mr. Conyers chopping up wood for the black cook. That was enough
for the bishop. The next day he went to Belfield, preferring Mrs.
Shapleigh’s company to the discomforts of Conyers’s meagre home.
Of course, bishop and pastor had talked about the Campdown race course,
and Mr. Conyers had been gently chided for excessive zeal. Mr. Conyers
thereupon said his conscience would not let him remain silent when he
saw the evil the matter was doing. He knew at least a dozen members
of his congregation who had become bankrupt through frequenting the
course, and he knew another one--he meant Blair, but did not speak
the name--who was on the highway to ruin. He had been grieved to see
Mr. Skelton’s immense fortune and great personal influence thrown in
the scale in favour of racing, and it was from the sincerest sense of
duty that he had preached in season and out of season against what had
become a public shame and scandal.
The bishop, in a sonorous voice but with weak reason, argued that
horse racing, although to be deplored, was not necessarily wrong. Mr.
Conyers respectfully submitted that it had proved very wrong in his
personal experience, and that he was striving to prevail against what
was obviously and palpably an evil to the community, and he could not
think it reasonable to suppose that the obvious evil to the men of
the county was balanced by the possible good to the horse. The bishop
“hemmed” and “ha’d” and beat about the bush. Then Conyers was induced,
by some foolish impulse, to impart to the bishop the doubts he had
laboured under. The bishop, who accepted all he was taught without
investigation, strongly recommended Mr. Conyers to do the same. Mr.
Conyers’s mind was unfortunately so constituted that he couldn’t do it.
On the whole, the bishop never had a more uncomfortable visit in his
life, and was sincerely glad when Mrs. Shapleigh’s carriage hove in
sight.
Mrs. Shapleigh was not insensible to the honour of entertaining a
bishop, and even confided to Mr. Shapleigh a wish that the bishop, who
was a widower of two years’ standing, might take a fancy to Sylvia, who
was only thirty years his junior.
The bishop preached the following Sunday at church, and Bulstrode
went to hear him, and took so much snuff during the sermon that the
bishop sneezed seventeen times without any intermission. The bishop,
however, had heard of Bulstrode’s great learning, and of Skelton
and all the glories of Deerchase, and he gently insinuated to Mrs.
Shapleigh that he would like to meet them. So Mrs. Shapleigh at once
sent a darky tearing across the bridge with an invitation for the next
day. The bishop spent his time at Belfield, when he was neither eating
nor sleeping, sitting in a capacious chair in the drawing-room, and
listening very gravely to Mrs. Shapleigh’s prattle.
Sylvia spent most of her time out in the boat with Lewis, in order
to get rid of the bishop, who bored her to death. Lewis told this
to Bulstrode, who repeated it to Skelton. Skelton laughed quietly.
That spirited young woman was not likely to fancy a person after the
bishop’s pattern. Nevertheless, both of these prodigies--Skelton and
Bulstrode--as Mrs. Shapleigh considered them, accepted her invitation
to dinner, and so did Conyers, whose pleasure in going to Belfield was
that Sylvia comforted and understood him.
Bulstrode was disgusted because Conyers came to dine at Belfield that
day. He had meant to wallop the bishop, figuratively speaking, but
respect for Conyers would restrain him.
Skelton was indifferent. He went because he hoped to be amused,
and because the glory of the bishop’s visit would be dimmed if
the distinguished Mr. Skelton, of Deerchase, failed to pay his
respects; and then, he found Sylvia the most interesting woman of his
acquaintance, and he wanted to see how she and the bishop got on. He
was very much diverted upon this last point. The bishop was quite
willing to overlook the thirty years’ difference in their ages, but
Miss Sylvia perversely and subtly brought it forward at every turn.
Old Tom, too, seemed bitten by a devil of contradiction, and the more
Mrs. Shapleigh tried to give the conversation at the dinner table an
evangelical turn, the more persistently old Tom talked about the races,
past and future, the coming spring meeting, the beauties and delights
of racing, and his determination, if he couldn’t be a vestryman and a
manager too, to resign from the vestry. Sylvia cast a roguish glance
at Skelton every now and then from under her eyelashes, and Skelton’s
eyes laughed back at her sympathetically. The bishop shook his head
deprecatingly at Mr. Shapleigh, but said nothing in condemnation. Out
of compliment to Skelton and Bulstrode he tried very hard to introduce
some knotty metaphysical talk, but luck was against him. Skelton
declined to enter the lists with such an antagonist, and Bulstrode
professed the most hypocritical ignorance upon every possible point of
view presented by the bishop. “Don’t know, I’m sure”--“Never heard of
it before”--“Good Gad, ask Skelton there; he reads, I don’t”--until the
bishop became so insistent that Bulstrode suddenly turned and rent him.
This very much amused Sylvia, sitting quiet and demure, playing at
eating her dinner. Then Skelton launched into talk of horses and dogs,
all very refined, very spirited, but to Conyers, watching him with sad
eyes, very painful. How could such a man waste time on such subjects?
Between horse racing and philosophy, poor Conyers had a dull time of it.
[Illustration: SYLVIA DID MUCH FOR HERSELF ... BY THAT SPEECH.
--_Page 139_]
The bishop, however, although he was lamentably deficient in the
philosophy learned out of books, was nevertheless an excellent
philosopher in action, and ate a very good dinner in much comfort,
without disturbing himself about either the principles or the practices
of his neighbours. After dinner Skelton went up to Sylvia in a corner
of the drawing-room, and said in a low voice:
“How have you stood him?”
“Dreadfully ill, I am afraid,” answered Sylvia, hopelessly. “If it
hadn’t been for little Lewis and his boat, I should have gone mad in
these last few days.”
Skelton’s eyes kindled. “How fond that boy is of you!”
“How can one help being fond of him? He is so manly, so intelligent,
so affectionate!” Without knowing it Sylvia did much for herself in
Skelton’s regard by that speech.
Mrs. Shapleigh insisted that Sylvia should play on the guitar for the
bishop. Sylvia began to tune it, but two strings snapped in succession.
Skelton then offered to string it for her, but then the new strings
snapped. Sylvia shot him a grateful glance, as the guitar was laid
away. Mrs. Shapleigh expressed to the bishop, and everybody else, her
regret that the bishop couldn’t have heard Sylvia sing. When she said
so to Bulstrode, he remarked in an audible growl:
“Drat the bishop!”
The reverend gentleman was luckily deaf to this, and Skelton
immediately rose to go, with a wicked smile at Sylvia, who, in her
way, seemed to lack for appreciation of her mother’s ecclesiastical
idol quite as much as Bulstrode. When Skelton was back at Deerchase
that night he thought Sylvia one of the most winning girls he had
ever met. But then, he could not admire a charming girl as other men
could. He was bound hand and foot. This idea threw him in one of his
silent rages, and he walked the library floor for a long time, railing
inwardly at Fate.