Eighteen hundred and thirty-two, the darkest and most distressing year
in the life of Mr. Ferrars, closed in comparative calm and apparent
content. He was himself greatly altered, both in manner and appearance.
He was kind and gentle, but he was silent and rarely smiled. His hair
was grizzled, and he began to stoop. But he was always employed, and was
interested in his labours.
His sanguine wife bore up against their misfortunes with far more
animation. She was at first amused with her new life, and when she was
accustomed to it, she found a never-failing resource in her conviction
of a coming reaction. Mrs. Ferrars possessed most feminine qualities,
and many of them in excess. She could not reason, but her intuition was
remarkable. She was of opinion that “these people never could go on,”
and that they must necessarily be succeeded by William and his friends.
In vain her husband, when she pressed her views and convictions on him,
would shake his head over the unprecedented majority of the government,
and sigh while he acknowledged that the Tories absolutely did not now
command one fifth of the House of Commons; his shakes and sighs were
equally disregarded by her, and she persisted in her dreams of riding
upon elephants.
After all Mrs. Ferrars was right. There is nothing more remarkable in
political history than the sudden break-up of the Whig party after their
successful revolution of 1832. It is one of the most striking instances
on record of all the elements of political power being useless without a
commanding individual will. During the second year of their exile in the
Berkshire hills, affairs looked so black that it seemed no change could
occur except further and more calamitous revolution. Zenobia went to
Vienna that she might breathe the atmosphere of law and order, and
hinted to Mrs. Ferrars that probably she should never return--at least
not until Parliament met, when she trusted the House of Lords, if they
were not abolished in the interval, would save the country. And yet at
the commencement of the following year an old colleague of Mr. Ferrars
apprised him, in the darkest and deepest confidence, that “there was a
screw loose,” and he must “look out for squalls.”
In the meantime Mr. Ferrars increased and established his claims on his
party, if they ever did rally, by his masterly articles in their great
Review, which circumstances favoured and which kept up that increasing
feeling of terror and despair which then was deemed necessary for the
advancement of Conservative opinions.
At home a year or more had elapsed without change. The occasional
appearance of Nigel Penruddock was the only event. It was to all a
pleasing, and to some of the family a deeply interesting one. Nigel,
though a student and devoted to the holy profession for which he was
destined, was also a sportsman. His Christianity was muscular, and
Endymion, to whom he had taken a fancy, became the companion of his
pastimes. All the shooting of the estate was at Nigel’s command, but as
there were no keepers, it was of course very rough work. Still it was a
novel and animating life for Endymion; and though the sport was slight,
the pursuit was keen. Then Nigel was a great fisherman, and here their
efforts had a surer return, for they dwelt in a land of trout streams,
and in their vicinity was a not inconsiderable river. It was an
adventure of delight to pursue some of these streams to their source,
throwing, as they rambled on, the fly in the rippling waters. Myra, too,
took some pleasure in these fishing expeditions, carrying their luncheon
and a German book in her wallet, and sitting quietly on the bank for
hours, when they had fixed upon some favoured pool for a prolonged
campaign.
Every time that Nigel returned home, a difference, and a striking
difference, was observed in him. His person, of course, became more
manly, his manner more assured, his dress more modish. It was impossible
to deny that he was extremely good-looking, interesting in his
discourse, and distinguished in his appearance. Endymion idolised him.
Nigel was his model. He imitated his manner, caught the tone of his
voice, and began to give opinions on subjects, sacred and profane.
After a hard morning’s march, one day, as they were lolling on the turf
amid the old beeches and the juniper, Nigel said--
“What does Mr. Ferrars mean you to be, Endymion?”
“I do not know,” said Endymion, looking perplexed.
“But I suppose you are to be something?”
“Yes; I suppose I must be something; because papa has lost his fortune.”
“And what would you like to be?”
“I never thought about it,” said Endymion.
“In my opinion there is only one thing for a man to be in this age,”
said Nigel peremptorily; “he should go into the Church.”
“The Church!” said Endymion.
“There will soon be nothing else left,” said Nigel. “The Church must
last for ever. It is built upon a rock. It was founded by God; all other
governments have been founded by men. When they are destroyed, and the
process of destruction seems rapid, there will be nothing left to govern
mankind except the Church.”
“Indeed!” said Endymion; “papa is very much in favour of the Church,
and, I know, is writing something about it.”
“Yes, but Mr. Ferrars is an Erastian,” said Nigel; “you need not tell
him I said so, but he is one. He wants the Church to be the servant of
the State, and all that sort of thing, but that will not do any longer.
This destruction of the Irish bishoprics has brought affairs to a
crisis. No human power has the right to destroy a bishopric. It is a
divinely-ordained office, and when a diocese is once established, it is
eternal.”
“I see,” said Endymion, much interested.
“I wish,” continued Nigel, “you were two or three years older, and Mr.
Ferrars could send you to Oxford. That is the place to understand these
things, and they will soon be the only things to understand. The rector
knows nothing about them. My father is thoroughly high and dry, and has
not the slightest idea of Church principles.”
“Indeed!” said Endymion.
“It is quite a new set even at Oxford,” continued Nigel; “but their
principles are as old as the Apostles, and come down from them,
straight.”
“That is a long time ago,” said Endymion.
“I have a great fancy,” continued Nigel, without apparently attending to
him, “to give you a thorough Church education. It would be the making
of you. You would then have a purpose in life, and never be in doubt or
perplexity on any subject. We ought to move heaven and earth to induce
Mr. Ferrars to send you to Oxford.”
“I will speak to Myra about it,” said Endymion.
“I said something of this to your sister the other day,” said Nigel,
“but I fear she is terribly Erastian. However, I will give you something
to read. It is not very long, but you can read it at your leisure,
and then we will talk over it afterwards, and perhaps I may give you
something else.”
Endymion did not fail to give a report of this conversation and similar
ones to his sister, for he was in the habit of telling her everything.
She listened with attention, but not with interest, to his story. Her
expression was kind, but hardly serious. Her wondrous eyes gave him a
glance of blended mockery and affection. “Dear darling,” she said, “if
you are to be a clergyman, I should like you to be a cardinal.”