SUNDAY MORNING.
It was, perhaps, quite as well on the whole for Mark Robarts, that he did
not go to that supper party. It was eleven o’clock before they sat down,
and nearly two before the gentlemen were in bed. It must be remembered
that he had to preach, on the coming Sunday morning, a charity sermon on
behalf of a mission to Mr. Harold Smith’s islanders; and, to tell the
truth, it was a task for which he had now very little inclination.
When first invited to do this, he had regarded the task seriously enough,
as he always did regard such work, and he completed his sermon for the
occasion before he left Framley; but, since that, an air of ridicule had
been thrown over the whole affair, in which he had joined without much
thinking of his own sermon, and this made him now heartily wish that he
could choose a discourse upon any other subject.
He knew well that the very points on which he had most insisted, were
those which had drawn most mirth from Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Smith, and
had oftenest provoked his own laughter; and how was he now to preach on
those matters in a fitting mood, knowing, as he would know, that those
two ladies would be looking at him, would endeavour to catch his eye, and
would turn him into ridicule as they had already turned the lecturer?
In this he did injustice to one of the ladies, unconsciously. Miss
Dunstable, with all her aptitude for mirth, and we may almost fairly say
for frolic, was in no way inclined to ridicule religion or anything which
she thought to appertain to it. It may be presumed that among such things
she did not include Mrs. Proudie, as she was willing enough to laugh at
that lady; but Mark, had he known her better, might have been sure that
she would have sat out his sermon with perfect propriety.
As it was, however, he did feel considerable uneasiness; and in the
morning he got up early with the view of seeing what might be done in the
way of emendation. He cut out those parts which referred most specially
to the islands,—he rejected altogether those names over which they had
all laughed together so heartily,—and he inserted a string of general
remarks, very useful, no doubt, which he flattered himself would rob his
sermon of all similarity to Harold Smith’s lecture. He had, perhaps,
hoped, when writing it, to create some little sensation; but now he would
be quite satisfied if it passed without remark.
But his troubles for that Sunday were destined to be many. It had been
arranged that the party at the hotel should breakfast at eight and start
at half-past eight punctually, so as to enable them to reach Chaldicotes
in ample time to arrange their dresses before they went to church.
The church stood in the grounds, close to that long formal avenue of
lime-trees, but within the front gates. Their walk therefore, after
reaching Mr. Sowerby’s house, would not be long.
Mrs. Proudie, who was herself an early body, would not hear of her
guest—and he a clergyman—going out to the inn for his breakfast on a
Sunday morning. As regarded that Sabbath-day journey to Chaldicotes, to
that she had given her assent, no doubt with much uneasiness of mind; but
let them have as little desecration as possible. It was, therefore, an
understood thing that he was to return with his friends; but he should
not go without the advantage of family prayers and family breakfast. And
so Mrs. Proudie on retiring to rest gave the necessary orders, to the
great annoyance of her household.
To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants! The bishop himself
did not make his appearance till a much later hour. He in all things
now supported his wife’s rule; in all things now, I say; for there had
been a moment, when in the first flush and pride of his episcopacy other
ideas had filled his mind. Now, however, he gave no opposition to that
good woman with whom Providence had blessed him; and in return for such
conduct that good woman administered in all things to his little personal
comforts. With what surprise did the bishop now look back upon that
unholy war which he had once been tempted to wage against the wife of his
bosom?
Nor did any of the Miss Proudies show themselves at that early hour.
They, perhaps, were absent on a different ground. With them Mrs. Proudie
had not been so successful as with the bishop. They had wills of their
own which became stronger and stronger every day. Of the three with
whom Mrs. Proudie was blessed one was already in a position to exercise
that will in a legitimate way over a very excellent young clergyman in
the diocese, the Rev. Optimus Grey; but the other two, having as yet no
such opening for their powers of command, were perhaps a little too much
inclined to keep themselves in practice at home.
But at half-past seven punctually Mrs. Proudie was there, and so was
the domestic chaplain; so was Mr. Robarts, and so were the household
servants,—all excepting one lazy recreant. “Where is Thomas?” said she of
the Argus eyes, standing up with her book of family prayers in her hand.
“So please you, ma’am, Tummas be bad with the tooth-ache.” “Tooth-ache!”
exclaimed Mrs. Proudie; but her eye said more terrible things than
that. “Let Thomas come to me before church.” And then they proceeded to
prayers. These were read by the chaplain, as it was proper and decent
that they should be; but I cannot but think that Mrs. Proudie a little
exceeded her office in taking upon herself to pronounce the blessing when
the prayers were over. She did it, however, in a clear, sonorous voice,
and perhaps with more personal dignity than was within the chaplain’s
compass.
Mrs. Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the vicar of Framley felt
an unaccountable desire to get out of the house. In the first place she
was not dressed with her usual punctilious attention to the proprieties
of her high situation. It was evident that there was to be a further
toilet before she sailed up the middle of the cathedral choir. She had
on a large loose cap with no other strings than those which were wanted
for tying it beneath her chin, a cap with which the household and the
chaplain were well acquainted, but which seemed ungracious in the eyes of
Mr. Robarts after all the well-dressed holiday doings of the last week.
She wore also a large, loose, dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up
round her neck, and which was not buoyed out, as were her dresses in
general, with an under mechanism of petticoats. It clung to her closely,
and added to the inflexibility of her general appearance. And then she
had encased her feet in large carpet slippers, which no doubt were
comfortable, but which struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly.
“Do you find a difficulty in getting your people together for early
morning-prayers?” she said, as she commenced her operations with the
teapot.
“I can’t say that I do,” said Mark. “But then we are seldom so early as
this.”
“Parish clergymen should be early, I think,” said she. “It sets a good
example in the village.”
“I am thinking of having morning prayers in the church,” said Mr. Robarts.
“That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and usually means worse than
nonsense. I know what that comes to. If you have three services on Sunday
and domestic prayers at home, you do very well.” And so saying she handed
him his cup.
“But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs. Proudie.”
“Then I think you should have. Where can the poor people be so well off
on Sundays as in church? The bishop intends to express a very strong
opinion on this subject in his next charge; and then I am sure you will
attend to his wishes.”
To this Mark made no answer, but devoted himself to his egg.
“I suppose you have not a very large establishment at Framley?” asked
Mrs. Proudie.
“What, at the parsonage?”
“Yes; you live at the parsonage, don’t you?”
“Certainly—well; not very large, Mrs. Proudie; just enough to do the
work, make things comfortable, and look after the children.”
“It is a very fine living,” said she; “very fine. I don’t remember
that we have anything so good ourselves,—except it is Plumstead, the
archdeacon’s place. He has managed to butter his bread pretty well.”
“His father was bishop of Barchester.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would barely have risen
to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me see; yours is 800_l._, is it not,
Mr. Robarts? And you such a young man! I suppose you have insured your
life highly.”
“Pretty well, Mrs. Proudie.”
“And then, too, your wife had some little fortune, had she not? We cannot
all fall on our feet like that; can we, Mr. White?” and Mrs. Proudie in
her playful way appealed to the chaplain.
Mrs. Proudie was an imperious woman; but then so also was Lady Lufton;
and it may therefore be said that Mr. Robarts ought to have been
accustomed to feminine domination; but as he sat there munching his
toast he could not but make a comparison between the two. Lady Lufton
in her little attempts sometimes angered him; but he certainly thought,
comparing the lay lady and the clerical together, that the rule of the
former was the lighter and the pleasanter. But then Lady Lufton had given
him a living and a wife, and Mrs. Proudie had given him nothing.
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Robarts escaped to the Dragon of Wantly,
partly because he had had enough of the matutinal Mrs. Proudie, and
partly also in order that he might hurry his friends there. He was
already becoming fidgety about the time, as Harold Smith had been on
the preceding evening, and he did not give Mrs. Smith credit for much
punctuality. When he arrived at the inn he asked if they had done
breakfast, and was immediately told that not one of them was yet down. It
was already half-past eight, and they ought to be now under weigh on the
road.
He immediately went to Mr. Sowerby’s room, and found that gentleman
shaving himself. “Don’t be a bit uneasy,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You and
Smith shall have my phaeton, and those horses will take you there in an
hour. Not, however, but what we shall all be in time. We’ll send round to
the whole party and ferret them out.” And then Mr. Sowerby having evoked
manifold aid with various peals of the bell sent messengers, male and
female, flying to all the different rooms.
“I think I’ll hire a gig and go over at once,” said Mark. “It would not
do for me to be late, you know.”
“It won’t do for any of us to be late; and it’s all nonsense about hiring
a gig. It would be just throwing a sovereign away, and we should pass you
on the road. Go down and see that the tea is made, and all that; and make
them have the bill ready; and, Robarts, you may pay it too, if you like
it. But I believe we may as well leave that to Baron Borneo—eh?”
And then Mark did go down and make the tea, and he did order the bill;
and then he walked about the room, looking at his watch, and nervously
waiting for the footsteps of his friends. And as he was so employed,
he bethought himself whether it was fit that he should be so doing on
a Sunday morning; whether it was good that he should be waiting there,
in painful anxiety, to gallop over a dozen miles in order that he might
not be too late with his sermon; whether his own snug room at home, with
Fanny opposite to him, and his bairns crawling on the floor, with his own
preparations for his own quiet service, and the warm pressure of Lady
Lufton’s hand when that service should be over, was not better than all
this.
He could not afford not to know Harold Smith, and Mr. Sowerby, and the
Duke of Omnium, he had said to himself. He had to look to rise in the
world, as other men did. But what pleasure had come to him as yet from
these intimacies? How much had he hitherto done towards his rising? To
speak the truth he was not over well pleased with himself, as he made
Mrs. Harold Smith’s tea and ordered Mr. Sowerby’s mutton chops on that
Sunday morning.
At a little after nine they all assembled; but even then he could not
make the ladies understand that there was any cause for hurry; at least
Mrs. Smith, who was the leader of the party, would not understand it.
When Mark again talked of hiring a gig, Miss Dunstable indeed said that
she would join him; and seemed to be so far earnest in the matter that
Mr. Sowerby hurried through his second egg in order to prevent such
a catastrophe. And then Mark absolutely did order the gig; whereupon
Mrs. Smith remarked that in such case she need not hurry herself; but
the waiter brought up word that all the horses of the hotel were out,
excepting one pair neither of which could go in single harness. Indeed,
half of their stable establishment was already secured by Mr. Sowerby’s
own party.
“Then let me have the pair,” said Mark, almost frantic with delay.
“Nonsense, Robarts; we are ready now. He won’t want them, James. Come,
Supplehouse, have you done?”
“Then I am to hurry myself, am I?” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “What
changeable creatures you men are! May I be allowed half a cup more tea,
Mr. Robarts?”
Mark, who was now really angry, turned away to the window. There was no
charity in these people, he said to himself. They knew the nature of his
distress, and yet they only laughed at him. He did not, perhaps, reflect
that he had assisted in the joke against Harold Smith on the previous
evening.
“James,” said he, turning to the waiter, “let me have that pair of horses
immediately, if you please.”
“Yes, sir; round in fifteen minutes, sir: only Ned, sir, the post-boy,
sir; I fear he’s at his breakfast, sir; but we’ll have him here in less
than no time, sir!”
But before Ned and the pair were there, Mrs. Smith had absolutely got
her bonnet on, and at ten they started. Mark did share the phaeton with
Harold Smith, but the phaeton did not go any faster than the other
carriages. They led the way, indeed, but that was all; and when the
vicar’s watch told him that it was eleven, they were still a mile from
Chaldicotes’ gate, although the horses were in a lather of steam; and
they had only just entered the village when the church bells ceased to be
heard.
“Come, you are in time, after all,” said Harold Smith. “Better time than
I was last night.” Robarts could not explain to him that the entry of
a clergyman into church, of a clergyman who is going to assist in the
service, should not be made at the last minute, that it should be staid
and decorous, and not done in scrambling haste, with running feet and
scant breath.
“I suppose we’ll stop here, sir,” said the postilion, as he pulled up
his horses short at the church-door, in the midst of the people who were
congregated together ready for the service. But Mark had not anticipated
being so late, and said at first that it was necessary that he should
go on to the house; then, when the horses had again begun to move, he
remembered that he could send for his gown, and as he got out of the
carriage he gave his orders accordingly. And now the other two carriages
were there, and so there was a noise and confusion at the door—very
unseemly, as Mark felt it; and the gentlemen spoke in loud voices, and
Mrs. Harold Smith declared that she had no prayer-book, and was much too
tired to go in at present;—she would go home and rest herself, she said.
And two other ladies of the party did so also, leaving Miss Dunstable to
go alone;—for which, however, she did not care one button. And then one
of the party, who had a nasty habit of swearing, cursed at something as
he walked in close to Mark’s elbow; and so they made their way up the
church as the absolution was being read, and Mark Robarts felt thoroughly
ashamed of himself. If his rising in the world brought him in contact
with such things as these, would it not be better for him that he should
do without rising?
His sermon went off without any special notice. Mrs. Harold Smith was not
there, much to his satisfaction; and the others who were did not seem to
pay any special attention to it. The subject had lost its novelty, except
with the ordinary church congregation, the farmers and labourers of the
parish; and the “quality” in the squire’s great pew were content to show
their sympathy by a moderate subscription. Miss Dunstable, however,
gave a ten-pound note, which swelled up the sum total to a respectable
amount—for such a place as Chaldicotes.
“And now I hope I may never hear another word about New Guinea,” said Mr.
Sowerby, as they all clustered round the drawing-room fire after church.
“That subject may be regarded as having been killed and buried; eh,
Harold?”
“Certainly murdered last night,” said Mrs. Harold, “by that awful woman,
Mrs. Proudie.”
“I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her out of the
arm-chair,” said Miss Dunstable. “I was expecting it, and thought that I
should come to grief in the scrimmage.”
“I never knew a lady do such a brazen-faced thing before,” said Miss
Kerrigy, a travelling friend of Miss Dunstable’s.
“Nor I—never; in a public place, too,” said Dr. Easyman, a medical
gentleman, who also often accompanied her.
“As for brass,” said Mr. Supplehouse, “she would never stop at anything
for want of that. It is well that she has enough, for the poor bishop is
but badly provided.”
“I hardly heard what it was she did say,” said Harold Smith; “so I could
not answer her, you know. Something about Sundays, I believe.”
“She hoped you would not put the South Sea islanders up to Sabbath
travelling,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“And specially begged that you would establish Lord’s-day schools,” said
Mrs. Smith; and then they all went to work and picked Mrs. Proudie to
pieces, from the top ribbon of her cap down to the sole of her slipper.
“And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love with her
daughters. That’s the hardest thing of all,” said Miss Dunstable.
But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed he did not feel that he had
spent a profitable Sunday.