As the season drew to its close at Albano, and the period of returning
to Rome approached, the church committee, following the precedent of all
previous years, fell out, and held a succession of vestry-meetings for
mutual abuse and recrimination. Partisanship is the badge of church
patrons; and while the parson had his adherents, and the organist his
supporters, there were half a dozen very warm friends who advocated the
cause of the bell-ringer,--a drunken little heathen, who, because he had
never crossed the threshold of a Catholic church for years, was given
brevet rank as a member of the Reformed religion.
The time of auditing the church accounts is usually a sort of day of
judgment on the clergyman. All the complaints that can be preferred
against him are kept for that occasion. A laudable sentiment possibly
prompts men to ascertain what they have got for their money; at all
events, people in no wise remarkable for personal thrift show at such
times a most searching spirit of inquiry, and eagerly investigate the
cost of sweeping out the vestry and clearstarching the chaplain's bands.
As to the doctrine of the parson, and the value of his ministration,
there were a variety of opinions. He was too high for this one, too dry
for that; he was not impressive, not solemn nor dignified with some,
while others deemed him deficient in that winning familiarity which is
so soothing to certain sinners. Some thought his sermons too high-flown
and too learned, others asked why he only preached to the children in
the gallery. On one only point was there anything like unanimity:
each man who withdrew his subscription did so on principle. None--not
one--referred his determination to contribute no longer to any motive
of economy. All declared that it was something in the celebration of the
service--a doctrine inculcated in the pulpit--something the parson had
said, or something he had worn--obliged them, “with infinite regret,”
to withdraw what they invariably called “their mite.” In fact, one thing
was clear: a more high-minded, right-judging, scrupulous body of people
could not be found than the congregation, whatever might be said or
thought of him whose duty it was to guide them.
Lady Augusta Bramleigh had gone off to Rome, and a small three-cornered
note, highly perfumed, and most nervously written, informed the
committee that she was quite ready to continue her former subscription,
or more, if required; that she was charmed with the chaplain, pleased
with the choir, and generally delighted with every one,--a testimony
more delicately valuable from the fact that she had been but once to the
church during the entire season.
Sir Marcus Cluff, after reading out the letter, took occasion to observe
on the ventilation of the church, which was defective in many respects.
There was a man in King Street--he thought his name was Harmond,
or something like Harmond, but it might be Fox--who had invented a
self-revolving pane for church windows. It was perfectly noiseless, and
the cost a mere trifle, though it required to be adjusted by one of
the patentee's own people; some mistakes having occurred by blundering
adaptation, by which two persons had been asphyxiated at Redhill.
The orator was here interrupted by Mrs. Trumpler, who stoutly affirmed
that she had come there that day at great inconvenience, and was in
no wise prepared to listen to a discourse upon draughts, or the rival
merits of certain plumbers. There were higher considerations than these
that might occupy them, and she wished to know if Mr. L'Estrange was
prepared to maintain the harsh, and she must say the ungenerous and
unscholarlike, view he had taken of the character of Judas. If so, she
withdrew her subscription, but added that she would also in a pamphlet
explain to the world the reasons of her retirement, as well as the other
grounds of complaint she had against the chaplain.
One humble contributor of fifteen francs alleged that, though
nutcrackers were a useful domestic implement, they formed an unpleasant
accompaniment to the hymns, and occasionally startled devotionally
minded persons during the service; and he added his profound regret
at the seeming apathy of the clergyman to the indecent interruption;
indeed, he had seen the parson sitting in the reading-desk, while these
disturbances continued, to all appearance unmoved and indifferent.
A retired victualler, Mr. Mowser, protested that to see the walk of the
clergyman, as he came up the aisle, “was enough for _him_;” and he had
only come to the meeting to declare that he himself had gone over to the
sect of the Nuremberg Christians, who, at least, were humble-minded
and lowly, and who thought their pastor handsomely provided for with a
thousand francs a year, and a suit of black clothes at Christmas.
In a word, there was much discontent abroad, and a very general opinion
seemed to prevail that, what with the increasing dearness of butchers'
meat, and an extra penny lately added to the income-tax, it behoved
every one to see what wise and safe economy could be introduced into
their affairs. It is needless to say how naturally it suggested
itself to each that the church subscription was a retrenchment at once
practicable and endurable.
Any one who wishes to convince himself how dear to the Protestant heart
is the right of private judgment, has only to attend a vestry-meeting
of a church supported on the voluntary system. It is the very grandest
assertion of that great principle. There is not a man there represented
by ten francs annual subscription who has not very decided opinions of
the doctrine he requires for his money; and thus, while no one agreed
with his neighbor, all concurred in voting that they deemed the chaplain
had not fulfilled their expectations, and that they reserved their
right to contribute or not for the ensuing year, as future thought and
consideration should determine.
L'Estrange had gone into Rome to meet Augustus Bramleigh and Ellen, who
were coming to pass the Christmas with him, when Sir Marcus Cluff called
to announce this unpleasant resolution of the Church patrons.
“Perhaps I could see Miss L'Estrange?” said he to the servant, who had
said her master was from home.
Julia was seated working at the window as Sir Marcus entered the room.
“I hope I do not come at an unseemly hour; I scarcely know the time one
ought to visit here,” he began, as he fumbled to untie the strings of
his respirator. “How nice and warm your room is; and a south aspect,
too. Ah! that's what my house fails in.”
“I 'm so sorry my brother is not at home, Sir Marcus. He will regret
not meeting you.”
“And I 'm sorry, too. I could have broken the bad news to him, perhaps,
better than--I mean--oh, dear! if I begin coughing, I shall never cease.
Would you mind my taking my drops? They are only aconite and lettuce;
and if I might ask for a little fresh water. I 'm so sorry to be
troublesome.”
Though all anxiety to know to what bad news he referred, she hastened to
order the glass of water he desired, and calmly resumed her seat.
“It 's spasmodic,--this cough. I don't know if that be any advantage,
or the reverse; but the doctor says 'only spasmodic,' which would lead
one to suppose it might be worse. Would you do me the great favor to
drop thirty-five--be sure only thirty-five--of these? I hope your hand
does not shake?”
“No, Sir Marcus. It is very steady.”
“What a pretty hand it is! How taper your fingers are; but you have
these dimples at the knuckles they say are such signs of cruelty.”
“Oh, Sir Marcus!”
“Yes, they say so. Nana Sahib had them, and that woman--there, there,
you have given me thirty-seven.”
“No, I assure you, Sir Marcus, only thirty-five. I'm a practised hand at
dropping medicine. My brother used to have violent headaches.”
“And you always measured his drops, did you?”
“Always. I 'm quite a clever nurse, I assure you.”
“Oh, dear! do you say so?” And as he laid down his glass he looked at
her with an expression of interest and admiration, which pushed her
gravity to its last limit.
“I don't believe a word about the cruelty they ascribe to those dimples.
I pledge you my word of honor I do not,” said he, seriously.
“I 'm sincerely glad to hear you say so,” said she, trying to seem
grave.
“And is your brother much of an invalid?”
“Not now. The damp climate of Ireland gave him headaches; but he rarely
has them here.”
“Ah, and you have such a quiet way of moving about; that gentle gliding
step, so soothing to the sick. Oh, you don't know what a boon it is; and
the common people never have it, nor can they acquire it. When you went
to ring the bell, I said to myself, 'That 's it,--that's what all the
teaching in the world cannot impart.'”
“You will make me very vain, Sir Marcus. All the more that you give me
credit for merits I never suspected.”
“Have you a cold hand?” asked he, with a look of eagerness.
“I really don't know. Perhaps I have.”
“If I might dare. Ah,” said he, with much feeling, as he touched her
hand in the most gentle manner--“ah! that is the greatest gift of nature
A small hand, perfect in form, beautiful in color, and cold as marble.”
Julia could resist no longer, but laughed out one of those pleasant
merry laughs whose music make an echo in the heart.
“I know well enough what you are saying to yourself. I think I hear you
muttering, 'What an original, what a strange creature it is;' and so
I am, I won't deny it. One who has been an invalid for eighteen years;
eighteen years passed in the hard struggle with an indolent alimentary
system, for they say it 's no more. There 's nothing organic; nothing
whatever. Structurally, said Dr. Boreas of Leamington, structurally you
are as sound as a roach. I don't fully appreciate the comparison; but I
take it the roach must be a very healthy fish. Oh, here's your brother
coming across the garden. I wish he had not come just yet; I had
a--no matter, perhaps you 'd permit me to have a few words with you
to-morrow?”
“To-morrow, or whenever you like, Sir Marcus; but pray forgive me if I
run away now to ask my brother if our visitors have come.”
“They 'll be here to-morrow evening, Ju,” said George, as she rushed to
meet him. “Is that Guff's phaeton I see at the gate?”
“Yes; the tiresome creature has been here the last hour. I 'll not go
back to him. You must take your share now.”
By the time L'Estrange entered the room, Sir Marcus had replaced his
respirator, and enveloped himself in two of his overcoats and a fur boa.
“Oh, here you are,” said he, speaking with much difficulty. “I can't
talk now; it brings on the cough. Come over in the evening, and I 'll
tell you about it.”
“About what, pray?” asked the other, curtly.
“There 's no use being angry. It only hurries the respiration, and
chokes the pulmonary vessels. They won't give a sixpence--not one of
them. They say that you don't preach St. Paul--that you think too much
about works. I don't know what they don't say; but come over about
seven.”
“Do you mean that the subscribers have withdrawn from the church?”
Sir Marcus had not breath for further discussion, but made a gesture of
assent with his head.
L'Estrange sank down on a chair overpowered, nor did he speak to, or
notice, the other as he withdrew.
“Are you ill, dearest George?” said Julia, as she saw her brother pale
and motionless on the chair. “Are you ill?”
“They've all withdrawn from the church, Julia. Guff says they are
dissatisfied with me, and will contribute no longer.”
“I don't believe it's so bad as he says. I 'm sure it's not.
They cannot be displeased with you, George. It's some mere passing
misconception. You know how they 're given to these little bickerings
and squabbles; but they have ever been kind and friendly to you.”
“You always give me courage, Ju; and even when I have little heart for
it, I like it.”
“Come in to dinner now, George; and if I don't make you laugh, it's
a wonder to me. I have had such a scene with Sir Marcus as might have
graced a comedy.”
It was not an easy task to rally her brother back to good spirits, but
she did succeed at last “And now,” said she, as she saw him looking once
more at ease and cheerful, “what news of the Bramleighs--are they ever
to come?”
“They'll be here to-morrow evening, Ju. Unless they were quite sure the
Culduffs had left for Naples, they would not venture here; and perhaps
they were so far in the right.”
“I don't think so; at least, if I had been Nelly, I 'd have
given anything for such an opportunity of presenting myself to my
distinguished relations, and terrifying them by the thought of those
attentions that they can neither give me nor deny me.”
“No, no, Julia, nothing of the kind; there would be malice in that.”
“Do I deny it? A great deal of malice in it, and there's no good comedy
in life without a slight flavor of spitefulness. Oh, my poor dear
George, what a deep sigh that was! How sad it is to think that all your
example and all your precept do so little, and that your sister acquires
nothing by your companionship except the skill to torment you.”
“But why will you say those things that you don't mean--that you
couldn't feel?”
“I believe I do it, George, just the way a horse bounds and rears
and buck-leaps. It does not help him on his road, but it lightens the
journey; and then it offers such happy occasion for the exercise of that
nice light hand of my brother to check these aberrations. You ought
to be eternally grateful for the way I develop your talents as a
moralist--I was going to say a horse-breaker.”
“I suppose,” said he, after a moment's silence, “I ought to go over to
Sir Marcus and learn from him exactly how matters stand here.”
“No, no; never mind him--at least, not this evening. Bores are bad
enough in the morning, but after dinner, when one really wants to think
well of their species, they are just intolerable; besides, I composed a
little song while you were away, and I want you to hear it, and then you
know we must have some serious conversation about Sir Marcus; he is to
be here to-morrow.”
“I declare, Ju--”
“There, don't declare, but open the pianoforte, and light the candles;
and as I mean to sing for an hour at least, you may have that cigar that
you looked so lovingly at, and put back into the case. Ain't I good for
you, as the French say?”
“Very good, too good for me,” said he, kissing her, and now every trace
of his sorrow was gone, and he looked as happy as might be.