GLEBE LAND.
The fifteenth of July was a Sunday, and it had been settled for some
time past that on this day Mr. Puddleham would preach for the first
time in his new chapel. The building had been hurried on through the
early summer in order that this might be achieved; and although the
fittings were not completed, and the outward signs of the masons and
labourers had not been removed,--although the heaps of mortar were
still there, and time had not yet sufficed to have the chips cleared
away,--on Sunday the fifteenth of July the chapel was opened. Great
efforts were made to have it filled on the occasion. The builder
from Salisbury came over with all his family, not deterred by the
consideration that whereas the Puddlehamites of Bullhampton were
Primitive Methodists, he was a regular Wesleyan. And many in the
parish were got to visit the chapel on this the day of its glory, who
had less business there than even the builder from Salisbury. In most
parishes there are some who think it well to let the parson know that
they are independent and do not care for him, though they profess
to be of his flock; and then, too, the novelty of the thing had its
attraction, and the well-known fact that the site chosen for the
building had been as gall and wormwood to the parson and his family.
These causes together brought a crowd to the vicarage-gate on that
Sunday morning, and it was quite clear that the new chapel would be
full, and that Mr. Puddleham's first Sunday would be a success. And
the chapel, of course, had a bell,--a bell which was declared by Mrs.
Fenwick to be the hoarsest, loudest, most unmusical, and ill-founded
miscreant of a bell that was ever suspended over a building for the
torture of delicate ears. It certainly was a loud and brazen bell;
but Mr. Fenwick expressed his opinion that there was nothing amiss
with it. When his wife declared that it sounded as though it came
from the midst of the shrubs at their own front gate, he reminded
her that their own church bells sounded as though they came from the
lower garden. That one sound should be held by them to be musical
and the other abominable, he declared to be a prejudice. Then there
was a great argument about the bells, in which Mrs. Fenwick, and
Mary Lowther, and Harry Gilmore were all against the Vicar. And,
throughout the discussion, it was known to them all that there were
no ears in the parish to which the bells were so really odious as
they were to the ears of the Vicar himself. In his heart of hearts
he hated the chapel, and, in spite of all his endeavours to the
contrary, his feelings towards Mr. Puddleham were not those which
the Christian religion requires one neighbour to bear to another.
But he made the struggle, and for some weeks past had not said a
word against Mr. Puddleham. In regard to the Marquis the thing was
different. The Marquis should have known better, and against the
Marquis he did say a great many words.
They began to ring the bell on that Sunday morning before ten
o'clock. Mrs. Fenwick was still sitting at the breakfast-table, with
the windows open, when the sound was first heard,--first heard, that
is, on that morning. She looked at Mary, groaned, and put her hands
to her ears. The Vicar laughed, and walked about the room.
"At what time do they begin?" said Mary.
"Not till eleven," said Mrs. Fenwick. "There, it wants a quarter to
ten now, and they mean to go on with that music for an hour and a
quarter."
"We shall be keeping them company by-and-by," said the Vicar.
"The poor old church bells won't be heard through it," said Mrs.
Fenwick.
Mrs. Fenwick was in the habit of going to the village school for half
an hour before the service on Sunday mornings, and on this morning
she started from the house according to her custom at a little after
ten. Mary Lowther went with her, and as the school was in the village
and could be reached much more shortly by the front gate than by the
path round by the church, the two ladies walked out boldly before the
new chapel. The reader may perhaps remember that Mrs. Fenwick had
promised her husband to withdraw that outward animosity to the chapel
which she had evinced by not using the vicarage entrance. As they
went there was a crowd collected, and they found that after the
manner of the Primitive Methodists in their more enthusiastic days,
a procession of worshippers had been formed in the village, which at
this very moment was making its way to the chapel. Mrs. Fenwick, as
she stood aside to make way for them, declared that the bell sounded
as though it were within her bonnet. When they reached the school
they found that many a child was absent who should have been there,
and Mrs. Fenwick knew that the truant urchins were amusing themselves
at the new building. And with those who were not truant the clang of
the new bell distracted terribly that attention which was due to the
collect. Mrs. Fenwick herself confessed afterwards that she hardly
knew what she was teaching.
Mr. Fenwick, according to his habit, went into his own study when the
ladies went to the school, and there, according to custom also on
Sunday mornings, his letters were brought to him, some few minutes
before he started on his walk through the garden to the church. On
this morning there were a couple of letters for himself, and he
opened them both. One was from a tradesman in Salisbury, and the
other was from his wife's brother-in-law, Mr. Quickenham. Before he
started he read Mr. Quickenham's letter, and then did his best to
forget it and put it out of his mind till the morning service should
be over. The letter was as follows:--
Pump Court, June 30, 1868.
DEAR FENWICK,
I have found, as I thought I should, that Lord Trowbridge
has no property in, or right whatever to, the bit of
ground on which your enemies have been building their new
Ebenezer. The spot is a part of the glebe, and as such
seems to have been first abandoned by a certain parson
named Brandon, who was your predecessor's predecessor.
There can, however, be no doubt that the ground is glebe,
and that you are bound to protect it as such, on behalf of
your successors, and of the patrons of the living.
I found some difficulty in getting at the terrier of the
parish,--which you, who consider yourself to be a model
parson, I dare say, have never seen. I have, however,
found it in duplicate. The clerk of the Board of
Guardians, who should, I believe, have a copy of it, knew
nothing about it; and had never heard of such a document.
Your bishop's registrar was not much more learned,--but I
did find it in the bishop's chancery; and there is a copy
of it also at Saint John's, which seems to imply that
great attention has been paid by the college as patron to
the interests of the parish priest. This is more than has
been done by the incumbent, who seems to be an ignorant
fellow in such matters. I wonder how many parsons there
are in the Church who would let a Marquis and a Methodist
minister between them build a chapel on the parish glebe?
Yours ever,
RICHARD QUICKENHAM.
If I were to charge you through an attorney for my trouble
you'd have to mortgage your life interest in the bit of
land to pay me. I enclose a draft from the terrier as far
as the plot of ground and the vicarage-gate are concerned.
Here was information! This detestable combination of dissenting
and tyrannically territorial influences had been used to build a
Methodist Chapel upon land of which he, during his incumbency in the
parish, was the freehold possessor! What an ass he must have been
not to know his own possessions! How ridiculous would he appear when
he should come forward to claim as a part of the glebe a morsel of
land to which he had paid no special attention whatever since he had
been in the parish! And then, what would it be his duty to do? Mr.
Quickenham had clearly stated that on behalf of the college, which
was the patron of the living, and on behalf of his successors, it was
his duty to claim the land. And was it possible that he should not
do so after such usage as he had received from Lord Trowbridge? So
meditating,--but grieving that he should be driven at such a moment
to have his mind forcibly filled with such matters,--still hearing
the chapel bell, which in his ears drowned the sound from his own
modest belfry, and altogether doubtful as to what step he would take,
he entered his own church. It was manifest to him that of the poorer
part of his usual audience, and of the smaller farmers, one half were
in attendance upon Mr. Puddleham's triumph.
During the whole of that afternoon he said not a word of the
barrister's letter to any one. He struggled to banish the subject
from his thoughts. Failing to do that, he did banish it from his
tongue. The letter was in the pocket of his coat; but he showed it to
no one. Gilmore dined at the vicarage; but even to him he was silent.
Of course the conversation at dinner turned upon the chapel. It was
impossible that on such a day they should speak of anything else.
Even as they sat at their early dinner Mr. Puddleham's bell was
ringing, and no doubt there was a vigour in the pulling of it which
would not be maintained when the pulling of it should have become a
thing of every week. There had been a compact made, in accordance
with which the Vicar's wife was to be debarred from saying anything
against the chapel, and, no doubt, when the compact was made, the
understanding was that she should give over hating the chapel. This
had, of course, been found to be impossible, but in a certain way she
had complied with the compact. The noise of the bell however, was
considered to be beyond the compact, and on this occasion she was
almost violent in the expression of her wrath. Her husband listened
to her, and sat without rebuking her, silent, with the lawyer's
letter in his pocket. This bell had been put up on his own land, and
he could pull it down to-morrow. It had been put up by the express
agency of Lord Trowbridge, and with the direct view of annoying him;
and Lord Trowbridge had behaved to him in a manner which set all
Christian charity at defiance. He told himself plainly that he had no
desire to forgive Lord Trowbridge,--that life in this world, as it is
constituted, would not be compatible with such forgiveness,--that he
would not, indeed, desire to injure Lord Trowbridge otherwise than by
exacting such penalty as would force him and such as he to restrain
their tyranny; but that to forgive him, till he should have been so
forced, would be weak and injurious to the community. As to that, he
had quite made up his mind, in spite of all doctrine to the contrary.
Men in this world would have to go naked if they gave their coats
to the robbers who took their cloaks; and going naked is manifestly
inexpedient. His office of parish priest would be lowered in the
world if he forgave, out of hand, such offences as these which had
been committed against him by Lord Trowbridge. This he understood
clearly. And now he might put down, not only the bell, but with the
bell the ill-conditioned peer who had caused it to be put up--on
glebe land. All this went through his mind again and again, as he
determined that on that day, being Sunday, he would think no more
about it.
When the Monday came it was necessary that he should show the letter
to his wife,--to his wife, and to the Squire, and to Mary Lowther. He
had no idea of keeping the matter secret from his near friends and
advisers; but he had an idea that it would be well that he should
make up his mind as to what he would do before he asked their advice.
He started, therefore, for a turn through the parish before breakfast
on Monday morning,--and resolved as to his course of action. On no
consideration whatever would he have the chapel pulled down. It was
necessary for his purpose that he should have his triumph over the
Marquis,--and he would have it. But the chapel had been built for a
good purpose which it would adequately serve, and let what might be
said to him by his wife or others, he would not have a brick of it
disturbed. No doubt he had no more power to give the land for its
present or any other purpose than had the Marquis. It might very
probably be his duty to take care that the land was not appropriated
to wrong purposes. It might be that he had already neglected his
duty, in not knowing, or in not having taken care to learn the
precise limits of the glebe which had been given over to him for
his use during his incumbency. Nevertheless, there was the chapel,
and there it should stand, as far as he was concerned. If the
churchwardens, or the archdeacon, or the college, or the bishop had
power to interfere, as to which he was altogether ignorant, and chose
to exercise that power, he could not help it. He was nearly sure that
his own churchwardens would be guided altogether by himself,--and as
far as he was concerned the chapel should remain unmolested. Having
thus resolved he came back to breakfast and read Mr. Quickenham's
letter aloud to his wife and Mary Lowther.
"Glebe!" said the Vicar's wife.
"Do you mean that it is part of your own land?" asked Mary.
"Exactly that," said the Vicar.
"And that old thief of a Marquis has given away what belongs to us?"
said Mrs. Fenwick.
"He has given away what did not belong to himself," said the Vicar.
"But I can't admit that he's a thief."
"Surely he ought to have known," said Mary.
"As for that, so ought I to have known, I suppose. The whole thing
is one of the most ridiculous mistakes that ever was made. It has
absolutely come to pass that here, in the middle of Wiltshire, with
all our maps, and surveys, and parish records, no one concerned has
known to whom belonged a quarter of an acre of land in the centre
of the village. It is just a thing to write an article about in a
newspaper; but I can't say that one party is more to blame than the
other; that is, in regard to the ignorance displayed."
"And what will you do, Frank?"
"Nothing."
"You will do nothing, Frank?"
"I will do nothing; but I will take care to let the Marquis know the
nature of his generosity. I fancy that I am bound to take on myself
that labour, and I must say that it won't trouble me much to have to
write the letter."
"You won't pull it down, Frank?"
"No, my dear."
"I would, before a week was over."
"So would I," said Mary. "I don't think it ought to be there."
"Of course it ought not to be there," said Mrs. Fenwick.
"They might as well have it here in the garden," said Mary.
"Just the same," said Mrs. Fenwick.
"It is not in the garden; and, as it has been built, it shall
remain,--as far as I am concerned. I shall rather like it, now that
I know I am the landlord. I think I shall claim a sitting." This was
the Vicar's decision on the Monday morning, and from that decision
the two ladies were quite unable to move him.
This occurred a day or two after the affair of the rubies, and at
a time when Mary was being very hard pressed to name a day for her
wedding. Of course such pressure had been the result of Mr. Gilmore's
success on that occasion. She had then resolutely gone to work to
overcome her own, and his, melancholy gloom, and, having in a great
degree succeeded, it was only natural that he should bring up that
question of his marriage day. She, when she had accepted him, had
done so with a stipulation that she should not be hurried; but we all
know what such stipulations are worth. Who is to define what is and
what is not hurry? They had now been engaged a month, and the Squire
was clearly of opinion that there had been no hurry. "September was
the nicest month in the year," he said, "for getting married and
going abroad. September in Switzerland, October among the Italian
lakes, November in Florence and Rome. So that they might get home
before Christmas after a short visit to Naples." That was the
Squire's programme, and his whole manner was altered as he made it.
He thought he knew the nature of the girl well enough to be sure
that, though she would profess no passionate love for him before
starting on such a journey, she would change her tone before she
returned. It should be no fault of his if she did not change it. Mary
had at first declined to fix any day, had talked of next year, had
declared that she would not be hurried. She had carried on the fight
even after the affair of the rubies, but she had fought in opposition
to strong and well-disciplined forces on the other side, and she had
begun to admit to herself that it might be expedient that she should
yield. The thing was to be done, and why not have it done at once?
She had not as yet yielded, but she had begun to think that she would
yield.
At such a period it was of course natural that the Squire should
be daily at the vicarage, and on this Monday morning he came down
while the minds of all his friends there were intent on the strange
information received from Mr. Quickenham. The Vicar was not by when
Mr. Gilmore was told, and he was thus easily induced to join in
the opinion that the chapel should be made to disappear. He had a
landlord's idea about land, and was thoroughly well-disposed to stop
any encroachment on the part of the Marquis.
"Lord Trowbridge must pull it down himself, and put it up again
elsewhere," said the Squire.
"But Frank says that he won't let the Marquis pull it down," said
Mrs. Fenwick, almost moved to tears by the tragedy of the occasion.
[Illustration: Mr. Quickenham's letter discussed.]
Then the Vicar joined them, and the matter was earnestly debated;--so
earnestly that, on that occasion, not a word was said as to the day
of the wedding.