One morning he was told that a gentleman had asked for him, and been
shown into the dining-room. Descending, he saw the tall slender figure
of Bateman, now a clergyman, and lately appointed curate of a
neighbouring parish. Charles had not seen him for a year and a half, and
shook hands with him very warmly, complimenting him on his white
neckcloth, which somehow, he said, altered him more than he could have
expected. Bateman's manner certainly was altered; it might be the
accident of the day, but he did not seem quite at his ease; it might be
that he was in a strange house, and was likely soon to be precipitated
into the company of ladies, to which he had never been used. If so, the
trial was on the point of beginning, for Charles said instantly that he
must come and see his mother, and of course meant to dine with them; the
sky was clear, and there was an excellent footpath between Boughton and
Melford. Bateman could not do this, but he would have the greatest
pleasure in being introduced to Mrs. Reding; so he stumbled after
Charles into the drawing-room, and was soon conversing with her and the
young ladies.
"A charming prospect you have here, ma'am," said Bateman, "when you are
once inside the house. It does not promise outside so extensive a view."
"No, it is shut in with trees," said Mrs. Reding; "and the brow of the
hill changes its direction so much that at first I used to think the
prospect ought to be from the opposite windows."
"What is that high hill?" said Bateman.
"It is Hart Hill," said Charles; "there's a Roman camp atop of it."
"We can see eight steeples from our windows," said Mrs. Reding;--"ring
the bell for luncheon, my dear."
"Ah, our ancestors, Mrs. Reding," said Bateman, "thought more of
building churches than we do; or rather than we have done, I should say,
for now it is astonishing what efforts are made to add to our
ecclesiastical structures."
"Our ancestors did a good deal too," said Mrs. Reding; "how many
churches, my dear, were built in London in Queen Anne's time? St.
Martin's was one of them."
"Fifty," said Eliza.
"Fifty were intended," said Charles.
"Yes, Mrs. Reding," said Bateman; "but by ancestors I meant the holy
Bishops and other members of our Catholic Church previously to the
Reformation. For, though the Reformation was a great blessing" (a glance
at Charles), "yet we must not, in justice, forget what was done by
English Churchmen before it."
"Ah, poor creatures," said Mrs. Reding, "they did one good thing in
building churches; it has saved us much trouble."
"Is there much church-restoration going on in these parts?" said
Bateman, taken rather aback.
"My mother has but lately come here, like yourself," said Charles; "yes,
there is some; Barton Church, you know," appealing to Mary.
"Have your walks extended so far as Barton?" said Mary to Bateman.
"Not yet, Miss Reding, not yet," answered he; "of course they are
destroying the pews."
"They are to put in seats," said Charles, "and of a very good pattern."
"Pews are intolerable," said Bateman; "yet the last generation of
incumbents contentedly bore them; it is wonderful!"
A not unnatural silence followed this speech. Charles broke it by asking
if Bateman intended to do anything in the improvement line at Melford.
Bateman looked modest.
"Nothing of any consequence," he said; "some few things were done; but
he had a rector of the old school, poor man, who was an enemy to that
sort of thing."
It was with some malicious feeling, in consequence of his attack on
clergymen of the past age, that Charles pressed his visitor to give an
account of his own reforms.
"Why," said Bateman, "much discretion is necessary in these matters, or
you do as much harm as good; you get into hot water with churchwardens
and vestries, as well as with old rectors, and again with the gentry of
the place, and please no one. For this reason I have made no attempt to
introduce the surplice into the pulpit except on the great festivals,
intending to familiarize my parishioners to it by little and little.
However, I wear a scarf or stole, and have taken care that it should be
two inches broader than usual; and I always wear the cassock in my
parish. I hope you approve of the cassock, Mrs. Reding?"
"It is a very cold dress, sir--that's my opinion--when made of silk or
bombazeen; and very unbecoming too, when worn by itself."
"Particularly behind," said Charles; "it is quite unshapely."
"Oh, I have remedied that," said Bateman; "you have noticed, Miss
Reding, I dare say, the Bishop's short cassock. It comes to the knees,
and looks much like a continuation of a waistcoat, the straight-cut coat
being worn as usual. Well, Miss Reding, I have adopted the same plan
with the long cassock; I put my coat over it."
Mary had difficulty to keep from smiling; Charles laughed out.
"Impossible, Bateman," he said; "you don't mean you wear your tailed
French coat over your long straight cassock reaching to your ankles?"
"Certainly," said Bateman gravely; "I thus consult for warmth and
appearance too; and all my parishioners are sure to know me. I think
this a great point, Miss Reding: I hear the little boys as I pass say,
'That's the parson.'"
"I'll be bound they do," said Charles.
"Well," said Mrs. Reding, surprised out of her propriety, "did one ever
hear the like!"
Bateman looked round at her, startled and frightened.
"You were going to speak of your improvements in your church," said
Mary, wishing to divert his attention from her mother.
"Ah, true, Miss Reding, true," said Bateman, "thank you for reminding
me; I have digressed to improvements in my own dress. I should have
liked to have pulled down the galleries and lowered the high pews; that,
however, I could not do. So I have lowered the pulpit some six feet. Now
by doing so, first I give a pattern in my own person of the kind of
condescension or lowliness to which I would persuade my people. But this
is not all; for the consequence of lowering the pulpit is, that no one
in the galleries can see or hear me preach; and this is a bonus on those
who are below."
"It's a broad hint, certainly," said Charles.
"But it's a hint for those below also," continued Bateman; "for no one
can see or hear me in the pews either, till the sides are lowered."
"One thing only is wanting besides," said Charles, smiling and looking
amiable, lest he should be saying too much; "since you are full tall,
you must kneel when you preach, Bateman, else you will undo your own
alterations."
Bateman looked pleased. "I have anticipated you," he said; "I preach
sitting. It is more comformable to antiquity and to reason to sit than
to stand."
"With these precautions," said Charles, "I really think you might have
ventured on your surplice in the pulpit every Sunday. Are your
parishioners contented?"
"Oh, not at all, far from it," cried Bateman; "but they can do nothing.
The alteration is so simple."
"Nothing besides?" asked Charles.
"Nothing in the architectural way," answered he; "but one thing more in
the way of observances. I have fortunately picked up a very fair copy of
Jewell, black-letter; and I have placed it in church, securing it with a
chain to the wall, for any poor person who wishes to read it. Our church
is emphatically the 'poor man's church,' Mrs. Reding."
"Well," said Charles to himself, "I'll back the old parsons against the
young ones any day, if this is to be their cut." Then aloud: "Come, you
must see our garden; take up your hat, and let's have a turn in it.
There's a very nice terrace-walk at the upper end."
Bateman accordingly, having been thus trotted out for the amusement of
the ladies, was now led off again, and was soon in the aforesaid
terrace-walk, pacing up and down in earnest conversation with Charles.
"Reding, my good fellow," said he, "what is the meaning of this report
concerning you, which is everywhere about?"
"I have not heard it," said Charles abruptly.
"Why, it is this," said Bateman; "I wish to approach the subject with as
great delicacy as possible: don't tell me if you don't like it, or tell
me just as much as you like; yet you will excuse an old friend. They
say you are going to leave the Church of your baptism for the Church of
Rome."
"Is it widely spread?" asked Charles coolly.
"Oh, yes; I heard it in London; have had a letter mentioning it from
Oxford; and a friend of mine heard it given out as positive at a
visitation dinner in Wales."
"So," thought Charles, "you are bringing _your_ witness against me as
well as the rest."
"Well but, my good Reding," said Bateman, "why are you silent? is it
true--is it true?"
"What true? that I am a Roman Catholic? Oh, certainly; don't you
understand, that's why I am reading so hard for the schools?" said
Charles.
"Come, be serious for a moment, Reding," said Bateman, "do be serious.
Will you empower me to contradict the report, or to negative it to a
certain point, or in any respect?"
"Oh, to be sure," said Charles, "contradict it, by all means, contradict
it entirely."
"May I give it a plain, unqualified, unconditional, categorical, flat
denial?" asked Bateman.
"Of course, of course."
Bateman could not make him out, and had not a dream how he was teasing
him. "I don't know where to find you," he said. They paced down the walk
in silence.
Bateman began again. "You see," he said, "it would be such a wonderful
blindness, it would be so utterly inexcusable in a person like yourself,
who had known _what_ the Church of England was; not a Dissenter, not an
unlettered layman; but one who had been at Oxford, who had come across
so many excellent men, who had seen what the Church of England could be,
her grave beauty, her orderly and decent activity; who had seen churches
decorated as they should be, with candlesticks, ciboriums, faldstools,
lecterns, antependiums, piscinas, rood-lofts, and sedilia; who, in fact,
had seen the Church Service _carried out_, and could desiderate
nothing;--tell me, my dear good Reding," taking hold of his button-hole,
"what is it you want--what is it? name it."
"That you would take yourself off," Charles would have said, had he
spoken his mind; he merely said, however, that really he desiderated
nothing but to be believed when he said that he had no intention of
leaving his own Church. Bateman was incredulous, and thought him close.
"Perhaps you are not aware," he said, "how much is known of the
circumstances of your being sent down. The old Principal was full of the
subject."
"What! I suppose he told people right and left," said Reding.
"Oh, yes," answered Bateman; "a friend of mine knows him, and happening
to call on him soon after you went down, had the whole story from him.
He spoke most kindly of you, and in the highest terms; said that it was
deplorable how much your mind was warped by the prevalent opinions, and
that he should not be surprised if it turned out you were a Romanist
even while you were at St. Saviour's; anyhow, that you would be one day
a Romanist for certain, for that you held that the saints reigning with
Christ interceded for us in heaven. But what was stronger, when the
report got about, Sheffield said that he was not surprised at it, that
he always prophesied it."
"I am much obliged to him," said Charles.
"However, you warrant me," said Bateman, "to contradict it--so I
understand you--to contradict it peremptorily; that's enough for me.
It's a great relief; it's very satisfactory. Well, I must be going."
"I don't like to seem to drive you away," said Charles, "but really you
must be going if you want to get home before nightfall. I hope you don't
feel lonely or overworked where you are. If you are so at any time,
don't scruple to drop in to dinner here; nay, we can take you in for a
night, if you wish it."
Bateman thanked him, and they proceeded to the hall-door together; when
they were nearly parting, Bateman stopped and said, "Do you know, I
should like to lend you some books to read. Let me send up to you
Bramhall's Works, Thorndike, Barrow on the Unity of the Church, and
Leslie's Dialogues on Romanism. I could name others, but content myself
with these at present. They perfectly settle the matter; you can't help
being convinced. I'll not say a word more; good-bye to you, good-bye."