DEBATE
“I’d rather work my own way, auntie. It would be intolerable to owe
them anything,” said William Maubray.
“I don’t say _Winston_, but Sir Richard—_he_ can be of the most immense
use to you, and without placing you or me under the slightest
obligation.”
This seemed one of Aunt Dinah’s paradoxes, or of her scampish table’s
promises, and made a commensurate impression on William’s mind.
“You saw Doctor Wagget here yesterday?”
“I know—yes—the old clergyman, isn’t he, who paid you a visit?”
“Just so: he is a very old friend—_very_—and thinks it a most desirable
arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
“You shall see,” interrupted Aunt Dinah. “One moment’s patience. I must
first show you—a paper to read.” She walked over to a little japanned
cabinet, and as she fumbled at the lock, continued, “And when you—when
you have read it—you—ah! _that’s_ it—when you have read it, I’ll tell
you exactly what I mean.”
So saying she presented a large official-looking envelope to William,
who found that it contained a letter and a paper, headed “Extract from
the will and testament of the late Sir Nathaniel Maubray, of Queen’s
Maubray, bearing date ⸺, and proved, &c., on ⸺, 1831.”
The letter was simply a courteous attorney’s intimation that he enclosed
herewith a copy, extract of the will, &c., as requested, together with a
note of the expenses.
The extract was to the following effect:
“And I bequeath to my said son Richard the advowson of, and right of
perpetual presentation to the living and vicarage of St. Maudlen of
Caudley, otherwise Maudlin, in the diocese of Shovel-on-Headley, now
absolutely vested in me, and to his heirs for ever, but upon the
following conditions—namely, that if there be a kinsman, not being a son
or stepson, of my said son or of his heir, &c., in possession, then,
provided the said kinsman shall bear the name of Maubray, his father’s
name having been Maubray, and provided the said kinsman shall be in holy
orders at the time of the said living becoming vacant, and shall be a
good and religious man, and a proper person to be the incumbent of the
said living, he shall appoint and nominate the said kinsman; and if
there be two or more kinsmen so qualified, then him that is nearest of
kin; and if there be two of equal consanguinity, then the elder of them;
and if they be of the same age, then either, at the election of the
bishop.”
Then there was a provision that in case there were no such kinsman, the
Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral of Dawdle-cum-Drone should elect a
cleric, being of the said diocese, but not of the said chapter, or of
kin to anyone of the said chapter; and that the said Richard or his
heir, should nominate the person so elected. And it was also conditioned
that his son Richard should procure, if practicable, a private Act of
Parliament to make these conditions permanent.
“He must have been a precious odd old fellow, my grand-uncle,” observed
William, as he sheathed the document again in the envelope.
“A conscientious man, anxious—with due regard to his family—to secure a
good incumbent, and to prevent simony. The living is fifteen hundred a
year, and there is this fact about it, that out of the seven last
incumbents, three were made bishops. _Three!_”
“That’s a great many,” said William, with a yawn.
“And _you’ll_ make the fourth,” said Aunt Dinah, spiritedly, and took a
pinch of her famous snuff.
“_I?_” repeated William, not quite believing his ears. “I am going to
the bar.”
“Into the Church you mean, dear William.”
“But,” remonstrated William, “but, I assure you, I, without a feeling of
fitness in fact, I could not think of it.”
“Into the Church, Sir.” Aunt Dinah rose up, and as it were, mounted
guard over him, as she sternly spoke these words.
William looked rather puzzled, and very much annoyed.
“Into—the—_Church_!” she repeated, with a terrible deliberation.
“My dear aunt,” William began.
“Yes, the _Church_. Listen to me. I have reason to know you’ll be a
bishop. Now mind, William, I’ll hear no nonsense on this subject.
_Henbane!_ Is that what you mutter?”
“Well, speak out. _What_ of Henbane? Suppose I have been favoured with a
communication; suppose I have tried to learn by that most beautiful and
innocent communion, something of the expediency of the course I
proposed, and have succeeded. What then?”
William did not answer the challenge, and after a brief pause she
continued—
“Come, come, my dear William, you know your poor old aunt loves you; you
have been her first, and very nearly her only object, and you won’t
begin to vex her now, and after all to break her heart about nothing.”
“But I assure you,” William began.
“A moment’s patience,” broke in Aunt Dinah, “you won’t let me speak. Of
course you may argue till doomsday, if you keep all the talk to
yourself. I say, William, there are not six peers in England can show as
good blood as you, and I’ll not hear of your being shut up in a beggarly
garret in Westminster Hall, or the Temple, or wherever it is they put
the—the paltry young barristers, when you might and _must_ have a
bishopric if you choose it, and marry a peer’s daughter. And choose what
you will, _I_ choose that, and into the Church you go; yes, into the
_Church_, the Church, Sir, the _Church_! and that’s enough, I hope.”
William was stunned and looked helplessly at his aunt, whom he loved
very much. But the idea of going into the Church, the image of his old
friend Dykes, turned into a demure curate as he had seen him three weeks
ago. The form of stout Doctor Dalrymple, with his pimples and shovel
hat, and a general sense of simony and blasphemy came sickeningly over
him; his likings, his conscience, his fears, his whole nature rose up
against it in one abhorrent protest, and he said, very pale and in the
voice of a sick man, gently placing his hand upon his aunt’s arm, and
looking with entreating eyes into hers:
“My dear aunt, to go into the Church without any kind of suitability, is
a tremendous thing, for mere gain, a dreadful kind of sin. I know I’m
quite unfit. I _could_ not.”
William did not know for how many years his aunt had been brooding over
this one idea, how she had lived in this air-built castle, and what a
crash of hopes and darkness of despair was in its downfall. But if he
had, he could not help it. Down it must go. Orders were not for him.
Deacon, priest, or bishop, William Maubray never could be.
Miss Perfect stared at him with pallid face.
“I tell you what, William,” she exclaimed, “you had better think
twice—you had better⸺”
“I _have_ thought—indeed I have—for Doctor Sprague suggested the Church
as a profession long ago; but I can’t. I’m not fit.”
“You had better grow fit, then, and give up your sins, Sir, and save
both your soul and your prospects. It _can_ be nothing but wickedness
that prevents your taking orders—holy orders. Mercy on us! A blasphemy
and a sin to take holy orders! What sort of state _can_ you be in?”
“I wish to Heaven I _were_ good enough, but I’m not. I may not be worse
than a good many who go into the Church. Others may, but I couldn’t.”
“_You_ couldn’t! You conceited, young, provoking coxcomb! As if the
world were looking for miracles of piety from _you_? _Who_ on earth
expects you to be one bit more pious than other curates who do their
best? Who are you, pray, that anything more should be expected from you?
Do your duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call
you. _That’s_ simple. We expect no more.”
“But that’s everything,” said William, with a hopeless shake of his
head.
“What’s everything? I can’t see. I don’t comprehend you. Of course
there’s a pleasure in crossing and thwarting me. But of let or hindrance
to your entering the Church, there is and can be none, except your
secret resolution to lead a wicked life.”
“I’m not worse than other fellows. I’m better, I believe, than many who
do get ordained; but I do assure you, I have thought of it before now,
often, and it is quite out of the question.”
“You _won’t_?” said Aunt Dinah, aghast, in a low tone, and she gaped at
him with flashing eyes, her gold spectacles shut up, and tightly grasped
like a weapon in her hand. He had never seen her, or anyone, look so
pallid. And after a pause, she said slowly, in a very low tone—
“Once more, William—yes or no.”
“My dear aunt, forgive me; don’t be vexed, but I must say no,” moaned
poor William Maubray thus sorely pressed.
Aunt Dinah Perfect looked at him in silence; the same white, bright
stare. William was afraid that she was on the point of having a fit. Who
could have imagined the discussion of his profession so convulsive and
frightful an ordeal?
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