THE REV. HENRY FITZACKERLEY CHAMBERLAINE.
It was decided that evening at the Vicarage that it would be better
for all parties that the reverend uncle from Salisbury should be told
to make his visit, and spend the next week at Hampton Privets; that
is, that he should come on the Monday and stay till the Saturday.
The letter was written down at the Vicarage, as Fenwick feared that
it would never be written if the writing of it were left to the
unassisted energy of the Squire. The letter was written, and the
Vicar, who walked back to Hampton Privets with his friend, took care
that it was given to a servant on that night.
On the Sunday nothing was seen of Mr. Gilmore. He did not come to
church, nor would he dine at the Vicarage. He remained the whole day
in his own house, pretending to write, trying to read, with accounts
before him, with a magazine in his hand, even with a volume of
sermons open on the table before him. But neither the accounts, nor
the magazines, nor the sermons, could arrest his attention for a
moment. He had staked everything on obtaining a certain object, and
that object was now beyond his reach. Men fail often in other things,
in the pursuit of honour, fortune, or power, and when they fail they
can begin again. There was no beginning again for him. When Mary
Lowther should have married this captain, she would be a thing lost
to him for ever;--and was she not as bad as married to this man
already? He could do nothing to stop her marriage.
Early in the afternoon of Monday the Rev. Henry Fitzackerley
Chamberlaine reached Hampton Privets. He came with his own carriage
and a pair of post-horses, as befitted a prebendary of the good
old times. Not that Mr. Chamberlaine was a very old man, but that
it suited his tastes and tone of mind to adhere to the well-bred
ceremonies of life, so many of which went out of fashion when
railroads came in. Mr. Chamberlaine was a gentleman of about
fifty-five years of age, unmarried, possessed of a comfortable
private independence, the incumbent of a living in the fens of
Cambridgeshire, which he never visited,--his health forbidding him
to do so,--on which subject there had been a considerable amount of
correspondence between him and a certain right rev. prelate, in which
the prebendary had so far got the better in the argument as not to be
disturbed in his manner of life; and he was, as has been before said,
the owner of a stall in Salisbury Cathedral. His lines had certainly
fallen to him in very pleasant places. As to that living in the
fens, there was not much to prick his conscience, as he gave up the
parsonage house and two-thirds of the income to his curate, expending
the other third on local charities. Perhaps the argument which
had most weight in silencing the bishop was contained in a short
postscript to one of his letters. "By-the-by," said the postscript,
"perhaps I ought to inform your lordship that I have never drawn
a penny of income out of Hardbedloe since I ceased to live there."
"It's a bishop's living," said the happy holder of it, "to one or two
clerical friends, and Dr. ---- thinks the patronage would be better
in his hands than in mine. I disagree with him, and he'll have to
write a great many letters before he succeeds." But his stall was
worth £800 a year and a house, and Mr. Chamberlaine, in regard to his
money matters, was quite in clover.
He was a very handsome man, about six feet high, with large light
grey eyes, a straight nose, and a well cut chin. His lips were thin,
but his teeth were perfect,--only that they had been supplied by a
dentist. His grey hair encircled his head, coming round upon his
forehead in little wavy curls, in a manner that had conquered the
hearts of spinsters by the dozen in the cathedral. It was whispered,
indeed, that married ladies would sometimes succumb, and rave about
the beauty, and the dignity, and the white hands, and the deep
rolling voice of the Rev. Henry Fitzackerley Chamberlaine. Indeed,
his voice was very fine when it would be heard from the far-off end
of the choir during the communion service, altogether trumping the
exertion of the other second-rate clergyman who would be associated
with him at the altar. And he had, too, great gifts of preaching,
which he would exercise once a week during thirteen weeks of the
year. He never exceeded twenty-five minutes; every word was audible
throughout the whole choir, and there was a grace about it that was
better than any doctrine. When he was to be heard the cathedral was
always full, and he was perhaps justified in regarding himself as one
of the ecclesiastical stars of the day. Many applications were made
to him to preach here and there, but he always refused. Stories
were told of how he had declined to preach before the Queen at
St. James's, averring that if Her Majesty would please to visit
Salisbury, every accommodation should be provided for her. As to
preaching at Whitehall, Westminster, and St. Paul's, it was not
doubted that he had over and over again declared that his appointed
place was in his own stall, and that he did not consider that he was
called to holding forth in the market-place. He was usually abroad
during the early autumn months, and would make sundry prolonged
visits to friends; but his only home was his prebendal residence in
the Close. It was not much of a house to look at from the outside,
being built with the plainest possible construction of brick; but
within it was very pleasant. All that curtains, and carpets, and
armchairs, and books, and ornaments could do, had been done lavishly,
and the cellar was known to be the best in the city. He always used
post-horses, but he had his own carriage. He never talked very much,
but when he did speak people listened to him. His appetite was
excellent, but he was a feeder not very easy to please; it was
understood well by the ladies of Salisbury that if Mr. Chamberlaine
was expected to dinner, something special must be done in the way of
entertainment. He was always exceedingly well dressed. What he did
with his hours nobody knew, but he was supposed to be a man well
educated at all points. That he was such a judge of all works of
art, that not another like him was to be found in Wiltshire, nobody
doubted. It was considered that he was almost as big as the bishop,
and not a soul in Salisbury would have thought of comparing the dean
to him. But the dean had seven children, and Mr. Chamberlaine was
quite unencumbered.
Henry Gilmore was a little afraid of his uncle, but would always
declare that he was not so. "If he chooses to come over here he is
welcome," the nephew would say; "but he must live just as I do."
Nevertheless, though there was but little left of the '47 Lafitte in
the cellar of Hampton Privets, a bottle was always brought up when
Mr. Chamberlaine was there, and Mrs. Bunker, the cook, did not
pretend but that she was in a state of dismay from the hour of his
coming to that of his going. And yet, Mrs. Bunker and the other
servants liked him to be there. His presence honoured the Privets.
Even the boy who blacked his boots felt that he was blacking the
boots of a great man. It was acknowledged throughout the household
that the Squire having such an uncle, was more of a Squire than he
would have been without him. The clergyman, being such as he was, was
greater than the country gentleman. And yet Mr. Chamberlaine was only
a prebendary, was the son of a country clergyman who had happened
to marry a wife with money, and had absolutely never done anything
useful in the whole course of his life. It is often very curious to
trace the sources of greatness. With Mr. Chamberlaine, I think it
came from the whiteness of his hands, and from a certain knack he
had of looking as though he could say a great deal, though it suited
him better to be silent, and say nothing. Of outside deportment, no
doubt, he was a master.
Mr. Fenwick always declared that he was very fond of Mr.
Chamberlaine, and greatly admired him. "He is the most perfect
philosopher I ever met," Fenwick would say, "and has gone to the very
centre depth of contemplation. In another ten years he will be the
great Akinetos. He will eat and drink, and listen, and be at ease,
and desire nothing. As it is, no man that I know disturbs other
people so little." On the other hand, Mr. Chamberlaine did not
profess any great admiration for Mr. Fenwick, who he designated
as one of the smart "windbag tribe, clever, no doubt, and perhaps
conscientious, but shallow and perhaps a little conceited." The
Squire, who was not clever and not conceited, understood them both,
and much preferred his friend the Vicar to his uncle the prebendary.
Gilmore had once consulted his uncle,--once in an evil moment, as
he now felt,--whether it would not be well for him to marry Miss
Lowther. The uncle had expressed himself as very adverse to the
marriage, and would now, on this occasion, be sure to ask some
question about it. When the great man arrived the Squire was out,
still wandering round among the bullocks and sheep; but the evening
after dinner would be very long. On the following day Mr. and Mrs.
Fenwick, with Mr. and Mrs. Greenthorne, were to dine at the Privets.
If this first evening were only through, Gilmore thought that
he could get some comfort, even from his uncle. As he came near
the house, he went into the yard, and saw the Prebendary's grand
carriage, which was being washed. No; as far as the groom knew, Mr.
Chamberlaine had not gone out; but was in the house then. So Gilmore
entered, and found his uncle in the library.
His first questions were about the murder. "You did catch one man,
and let him go?" said the Prebendary.
"Yes; a tenant of mine; but there was no evidence against him. He was
not the man."
"I would not have let him go," said Mr. Chamberlaine.
"You would not have kept a man that was innocent?" said Gilmore.
"I would not have let the young man go."
"But the law would not support us in detaining him."
"Nevertheless, I would not have let him go," said Mr. Chamberlaine.
"I heard all about it."
"From whom did you hear?"
"From Lord Trowbridge. I certainly would not have let him go." It
appeared, however, that Lord Trowbridge's opinion had been given to
the Prebendary prior to that fatal meeting which had taken place in
the house of the murdered man.
The uncle drank his claret in silence on this evening. He said
nothing, at least, about Mary Lowther.
"I don't know where you got it, Harry, but that is not a bad glass of
wine."
"We think there's none better in the country, sir," said Harry.
"I should be very sorry to commit myself so far; but it is a good
glass of wine. By the bye, I hope your chef has learned to make a
cup of coffee since I was here in the spring. I think we will try it
now." The coffee was brought, and the Prebendary shook his head,--the
least shake in the world,--and smiled blandly.
"Coffee is the very devil in the country," said Harry Gilmore, who
did not dare to say that the mixture was good in opposition to his
uncle's opinion.
After the coffee, which was served in the library, the two men sat
silent together for half an hour, and Gilmore was endeavouring to
think what it was that made his uncle come to Bullhampton. At last,
before he had arrived at any decision on this subject, there came
first a little nod, then a start and a sweet smile, then another nod
and a start without the smile, and, after that, a soft murmuring of a
musical snore, which gradually increased in deepness till it became
evident that the Prebendary was extremely happy. Then it occurred to
Gilmore that perhaps Mr. Chamberlaine might become tired of going to
sleep in his own house, and that he had come to the Privets, as he
could not do so with comfortable self-satisfaction in the houses
of indifferent friends. For the benefit of such a change it might
perhaps be worth the great man's while to undergo the penalty of a
bad cup of coffee.
And could not he, too, go to sleep,--he, Gilmore? Could he not fall
asleep,--not only for a few moments on such an occasion as this,--but
altogether, after the Akinetos fashion, as explained by his friend
Fenwick? Could he not become an immoveable one, as was this divine
uncle of his? No Mary Lowther had ever disturbed that man's
happiness. A good dinner, a pretty ring, an easy chair, a china
tea-cup, might all be procured with certainty, as long as money
lasted. Here was a man before him superbly comfortable, absolutely
happy, with no greater suffering than what might come to him from a
chance cup of bad coffee, while he, Harry Gilmore himself, was as
miserable a devil as might be found between the four seas, because a
certain young woman wouldn't come to him and take half of all that he
owned! If there were any curative philosophy to be found, why could
not he find it? The world might say that the philosophy was a low
philosophy; but what did that matter, if it would take away out
of his breast that horrid load which was more than he could bear?
He declared to himself that he would sell his heart with all its
privileges for half-a-farthing, if he could find anybody to take it
with all its burden. Here, then, was a man who had no burden. He was
snoring with almost harmonious cadence,--slowly, discreetly,--one
might say, artistically, quite like a gentleman; and the man who so
snored could not but be happy. "Oh, d----n it!" said Gilmore, in a
private whisper, getting up and leaving the room; but there was more
of envy than of anger in the exclamation.
"Ah! you've been out," said Mr. Chamberlaine, when his nephew
returned.
"Been to look at the horses made up."
"I never can see the use of that; but I believe a great many men
do it. I suppose it's an excuse for smoking generally." Now, Mr.
Chamberlaine did not smoke.
"Well; I did light my pipe."
"There's not the slightest necessity for telling me so, Harry. Let us
see if Mrs. Bunker's tea is better than her coffee." Then the bell
was rung, and Mr. Chamberlaine desired that he might have a cup of
black tea, not strong, but made with a good deal of tea, and poured
out rapidly, without much decoction. "If it be strong and harsh I
can't sleep a wink," he said. The tea was brought, and sipped very
leisurely. There was then a word or two said about certain German
baths from which Mr. Chamberlaine had just returned; and Mr. Gilmore
began to believe that he should not be asked to say anything about
Mary Lowther that night.
But the Fates were not so kind. The Prebendary had arisen with the
intention of retiring for the night, and was already standing before
the fire, with his bedroom candle in his hand, when something,--the
happiness probably of his own position in life, which allowed him to
seek the blessings of an undivided couch,--brought to his memory the
fact that his nephew had spoken to him about some young woman, some
young woman who had possessed not even the merit of a dowry.
"By the bye," said he, "what has become of that flame of yours,
Harry?" Harry Gilmore became black and glum. He did not like to hear
Mary spoken of as a flame. He was standing at this moment with his
back to his uncle, and so remained, without answering him. "Do you
mean to say that you did not ask her, after all?" asked the uncle.
"If there be any scrape, Harry, you had better let me hear it."
"I don't know what you call a scrape," said Harry. "She's not going
to marry me."
"Thank God, my boy!" Gilmore turned round, but his uncle did
not probably see his face. "I can assure you," continued Mr.
Chamberlaine, "that the idea made me quite uncomfortable. I set some
inquiries on foot, and she was not the sort of girl that you should
marry."
"By G----," said Gilmore, "I'd give every acre I have in the world,
and every shilling, and every friend, and twenty years of my life, if
I could only be allowed at this moment to think it possible that she
would ever marry me!"
"Good heavens!" said Mr. Chamberlaine. While he was saying it, Harry
Gilmore walked off, and did not show himself to his uncle again that
night.