A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE.
It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But
nevertheless we all do so. One may say that hankering after naughty
things is the very essence of the evil into which we have been
precipitated by Adam’s fall. When we confess that we are all sinners,
we confess that we all long after naughty things.
And ambition is a great vice--as Mark Antony told us a long time ago--a
great vice, no doubt, if the ambition of the man be with reference to
his own advancement, and not to the advancement of others. But then,
how many of us are there who are not ambitious in this vicious manner?
And there is nothing viler than the desire to know great people--people
of great rank I should say; nothing worse than the hunting of titles
and worshipping of wealth. We all know this, and say it every day of
our lives. But presuming that a way into the society of Park Lane was
open to us, and a way also into that of Bedford Row, how many of us are
there who would prefer Bedford Row because it is so vile to worship
wealth and title?
I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity of putting
forward some sort of excuse for that frame of mind in which the Rev.
Mark Robarts awoke on the morning after his arrival at Chaldicotes. And
I trust that the fact of his being a clergyman will not be allowed to
press against him unfairly. Clergymen are subject to the same passions
as other men; and, as far as I can see, give way to them, in one
line or in another, almost as frequently. Every clergyman should, by
canonical rule, feel a personal disinclination to a bishopric; but yet
we do not believe that such personal disinclination is generally very
strong.
Mark’s first thoughts when he woke on that morning flew back to Mr.
Fothergill’s invitation. The duke had sent a special message to say how
peculiarly glad he, the duke, would be to make acquaintance with him,
the parson! How much of this message had been of Mr. Fothergill’s own
manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not consider.
He had obtained a living at an age when other young clergymen are
beginning to think of a curacy, and he had obtained such a living as
middle-aged parsons in their dreams regard as a possible Paradise for
their old years. Of course he thought that all these good things had
been the results of his own peculiar merits. Of course he felt that he
was different from other parsons,--more fitted by nature for intimacy
with great persons, more urbane, more polished, and more richly endowed
with modern clerical well-to-do aptitudes. He was grateful to Lady
Lufton for what she had done for him; but perhaps not so grateful as he
should have been.
At any rate he was not Lady Lufton’s servant, nor even her dependant.
So much he had repeated to himself on many occasions, and had gone
so far as to hint the same idea to his wife. In his career as parish
priest he must in most things be the judge of his own actions--and in
many also it was his duty to be the judge of those of his patroness.
The fact of Lady Lufton having placed him in the living, could by no
means make her the proper judge of his actions. This he often said
to himself; and he said as often that Lady Lufton certainly had a
hankering after such a judgment-seat.
Of whom generally did prime ministers and official bigwigs think it
expedient to make bishops and deans? Was it not, as a rule, of those
clergymen who had shown themselves able to perform their clerical
duties efficiently, and able also to take their place with ease in high
society? He was very well off certainly at Framley; but he could never
hope for anything beyond Framley, if he allowed himself to regard Lady
Lufton as a bugbear. Putting Lady Lufton and her prejudices out of the
question, was there any reason why he ought not to accept the duke’s
invitation? He could not see that there was any such reason. If any one
could be a better judge on such a subject than himself, it must be his
bishop. And it was clear that the bishop wished him to go to Gatherum
Castle.
The matter was still left open to him. Mr. Fothergill had especially
explained that; and therefore his ultimate decision was as yet within
his own power. Such a visit would cost him some money, for he knew
that a man does not stay at great houses without expense; and then, in
spite of his good income, he was not very flush of money. He had been
down this year with Lord Lufton in Scotland. Perhaps it might be more
prudent for him to return home.
But then an idea came to him that it behoved him as a man and a priest
to break through that Framley thraldom under which he felt that he did
to a certain extent exist. Was it not the fact that he was about to
decline this invitation from fear of Lady Lufton? and if so, was that a
motive by which he ought to be actuated? It was incumbent on him to rid
himself of that feeling. And in this spirit he got up and dressed.
There was hunting again on that day; and as the hounds were to meet
near Chaldicotes, and to draw some coverts lying on the verge of the
chase, the ladies were to go in carriages through the drives of the
forest, and Mr. Robarts was to escort them on horseback. Indeed it was
one of those hunting-days got up rather for the ladies than for the
sport. Great nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged hunting men; but
the young fellows like them because they have thereby an opportunity
of showing off their sporting finery, and of doing a little flirtation
on horseback. The bishop, also, had been minded to be of the party;
so, at least, he had said on the previous evening; and a place in one
of the carriages had been set apart for him: but since that, he and
Mrs. Proudie had discussed the matter in private, and at breakfast his
lordship declared that he had changed his mind.
Mr. Sowerby was one of those men who are known to be very poor--as poor
as debt can make a man--but who, nevertheless, enjoy all the luxuries
which money can give. It was believed that he could not live in
England out of jail but for his protection as a member of Parliament;
and yet it seemed that there was no end to his horses and carriages,
his servants and retinue. He had been at this work for a great many
years, and practice, they say, makes perfect. Such companions are very
dangerous. There is no cholera, no yellow-fever, no small-pox more
contagious than debt. If one lives habitually among embarrassed men,
one catches it to a certainty. No one had injured the community in this
way more fatally than Mr. Sowerby. But still he carried on the game
himself; and now on this morning carriages and horses thronged at his
gate, as though he were as substantially rich as his friend the Duke of
Omnium.
“Robarts, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they were well
under way down one of the glades of the forest,--for the place
where the hounds met was some four or five miles from the house of
Chaldicotes,--“ride on with me a moment. I want to speak to you; and if
I stay behind we shall never get to the hounds.” So Mark, who had come
expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside of Mr. Sowerby in his
pink coat.
“My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some hesitation
about going to Gatherum Castle.”
“Well, I did decline, certainly. You know I am not a man of pleasure,
as you are. I have some duties to attend to.”
“Gammon!” said Mr. Sowerby; and as he said it he looked with a kind of
derisive smile into the clergyman’s face.
“It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby; and perhaps I have no right to
expect that you should understand me.”
“Ah, but I do understand you; and I say it is gammon. I would be the
last man in the world to ridicule your scruples about duty, if this
hesitation on your part arose from any such scruple. But answer me
honestly, do you not know that such is not the case?”
“I know nothing of the kind.”
“Ah, but I think you do. If you persist in refusing this invitation
will it not be because you are afraid of making Lady Lufton angry? I do
not know what there can be in that woman that she is able to hold both
you and Lufton in leading-strings.”
Robarts, of course, denied the charge and protested that he was not
to be taken back to his own parsonage by any fear of Lady Lufton.
But though he made such protest with warmth, he knew that he did so
ineffectually. Sowerby only smiled and said that the proof of the
pudding was in the eating.
“What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be not to save him
from that sort of drudgery?” he asked.
“Drudgery! If I were a drudge how could I be here to-day?”
“Well, Robarts, look here. I am speaking now, perhaps, with more of the
energy of an old friend than circumstances fully warrant; but I am an
older man than you, and as I have a regard for you I do not like to see
you throw up a good game when it is in your hands.”
“Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you that I
appreciate your kindness.”
“If you are content,” continued the man of the world, “to live at
Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in the sunshine of the
dowager there, why, in such case, it may perhaps be useless for you to
extend the circle of your friends; but if you have higher ideas than
these, I think you will be very wrong to omit the present opportunity
of going to the duke’s. I never knew the duke go so much out of his way
to be civil to a clergyman as he has done in this instance.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to him.”
“The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself popular in the
county; but you cannot do it by obeying all Lady Lufton’s behests. She
is a dear old woman, I am sure.”
“She is, Sowerby; and you would say so, if you knew her.”
“I don’t doubt it; but it would not do for you or me to live exactly
according to her ideas. Now, here, in this case, the bishop of the
diocese is to be one of the party, and he has, I believe, already
expressed a wish that you should be another.”
“He asked me if I were going.”
“Exactly; and Archdeacon Grantley will be there.”
“Will he?” asked Mark. Now, that would be a great point gained, for
Archdeacon Grantley was a close friend of Lady Lufton.
“So I understand from Fothergill. Indeed, it will be very wrong of you
not to go, and I tell you so plainly; and what is more, when you talk
about your duty--you having a curate as you have--why, it is gammon.”
These last words he spoke looking back over his shoulder as he stood
up in his stirrups, for he had caught the eye of the huntsman who was
surrounded by his hounds, and was now trotting on to join him.
During a great portion of the day, Mark found himself riding by the
side of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady leaned back in her carriage. And
Mrs. Proudie smiled on him graciously though her daughter would not do
so. Mrs. Proudie was fond of having an attendant clergyman; and as it
was evident that Mr. Robarts lived among nice people--titled dowagers,
members of parliament, and people of that sort--she was quite willing
to instal him as a sort of honorary chaplain _pro tem_.
“I’ll tell you what we have settled, Mrs. Harold Smith and I,” said
Mrs. Proudie to him. “This lecture at Barchester will be so late on
Saturday evening, that you had all better come and dine with us.”
Mark bowed and thanked her, and declared that he should be very happy
to make one of such a party. Even Lady Lufton could not object to this,
although she was not especially fond of Mrs. Proudie.
“And then they are to sleep at the hotel. It will really be too late
for ladies to think of going back so far at this time of the year. I
told Mrs. Harold Smith, and Miss Dunstable too, that we could manage
to make room at any rate for them. But they will not leave the other
ladies; so they go to the hotel for that night. But, Mr. Robarts, the
bishop will never allow you to stay at the inn, so of course you will
take a bed at the palace.”
It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was to be given
on Saturday evening, the next morning would be Sunday; and, on that
Sunday, he would have to preach at Chaldicotes. “I thought they were
all going to return the same night,” said he.
“Well, they did intend it; but you see Mrs. Smith is afraid.”
“I should have to get back here on the Sunday morning, Mrs. Proudie.”
“Ah, yes, that is bad--very bad, indeed. No one dislikes any
interference with the Sabbath more than I do. Indeed, if I am
particular about anything it is about that. But some works are works
of necessity, Mr. Robarts; are they not? Now you must necessarily be
back at Chaldicotes on Sunday morning!” and so the matter was settled.
Mrs. Proudie was very firm in general in the matter of Sabbath-day
observances; but when she had to deal with such persons as Mrs. Harold
Smith, it was expedient that she should give way a little. “You can
start as soon as it’s daylight, you know, if you like it, Mr. Robarts,”
said Mrs. Proudie.
There was not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it was a very
pleasant day for the ladies. The men rode up and down the grass
roads through the chase, sometimes in the greatest possible hurry as
though they never could go quick enough; and then the coachmen would
drive very fast also though they did not know why, for a fast pace
of movement is another of those contagious diseases. And then again
the sportsmen would move at an undertaker’s pace, when the fox had
traversed and the hounds would be at a loss to know which was the hunt
and which was the heel; and then the carriage also would go slowly, and
the ladies would stand up and talk. And then the time for lunch came;
and altogether the day went by pleasantly enough.
“And so that’s hunting, is it?” said Miss Dunstable.
“Yes, that’s hunting,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“I did not see any gentleman do anything that I could not do myself,
except there was one young man slipped off into the mud; and I
shouldn’t like that.”
“But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my dear?” said Mrs.
Harold Smith.
“And nobody caught any foxes,” said Miss Dunstable. “The fact is, Mrs.
Smith, that I don’t think much more of their sport than I do of their
business. I shall take to hunting a pack of hounds myself after this.”
“Do, my dear, and I’ll be your whipper-in. I wonder whether Mrs.
Proudie would join us.”
“I shall be writing to the duke to-night,” said Mr. Fothergill to Mark,
as they were all riding up to the stable-yard together. “You will let
me tell his grace that you will accept his invitation--will you not?”
“Upon my word, the duke is very kind,” said Mark.
“He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,” said Fothergill.
What could a young flattered fool of a parson do, but say that he would
go? Mark did say that he would go; and, in the course of the evening
his friend Mr. Sowerby congratulated him, and the bishop joked with him
and said that he knew that he would not give up good company so soon;
and Miss Dunstable said she would make him her chaplain as soon as
parliament would allow quack doctors to have such articles--an allusion
which Mark did not understand, till he learned that Miss Dunstable was
herself the proprietress of the celebrated Oil of Lebanon, invented
by her late respected father, and patented by him with such wonderful
results in the way of accumulated fortune; and Mrs. Proudie made him
quite one of their party, talking to him about all manner of church
subjects; and then at last, even Miss Proudie smiled on him, when she
learned that he had been thought worthy of a bed at a duke’s castle.
And all the world seemed to be open to him.
But he could not make himself happy that evening. On the next morning
he must write to his wife; and he could already see the look of painful
sorrow which would fall upon his Fanny’s brow when she learned that
her husband was going to be a guest at the Duke of Omnium’s. And he
must tell her to send him money, and money was scarce. And then, as
to Lady Lufton, should he send her some message, or should he not? In
either case he must declare war against her. And then did he not owe
everything to Lady Lufton? And thus in spite of all his triumphs he
could not get himself to bed in a happy frame of mind.
On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the disagreeable task
of writing. Saturday would do as well; and on Saturday morning, before
they all started for Barchester, he did write. And his letter ran as
follows:--
“Chaldicotes,--November, 185--.
“DEAREST LOVE,--You will be astonished when I tell you how gay
we all are here, and what further dissipations are in store for
us. The Arabins, as you supposed, are not of our party; but the
Proudies are,--as you supposed also. Your suppositions are always
right. And what will you think when I tell you that I am to sleep
at the palace on Saturday? You know that there is to be a lecture
in Barchester on that day. Well; we must all go, of course, as
Harold Smith, one of our set here, is to give it. And now it
turns out that we cannot get back the same night because there is
no moon; and Mrs. Bishop would not allow that my cloth should be
contaminated by an hotel;--very kind and considerate, is it not?
“But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than this.
There is to be a great party at Gatherum Castle next week, and
they have talked me over into accepting an invitation which the
duke sent expressly to me. I refused at first; but everybody
here said that my doing so would be so strange; and then they
all wanted to know my reason. When I came to render it, I did
not know what reason I had to give. The bishop is going, and he
thought it very odd that I should not go also, seeing that I was
asked.
“I know what my own darling will think, and I know that she will
not be pleased, and I must put off my defence till I return
to her from this ogre-land,--if ever I do get back alive. But
joking apart, Fanny, I think that I should have been wrong to
stand out, when so much was said about it. I should have been
seeming to take upon myself to sit in judgment upon the duke.
I doubt if there be a single clergyman in the diocese, under
fifty years of age, who would have refused the invitation under
such circumstances,--unless it be Crawley, who is so mad on the
subject that he thinks it almost wrong to take a walk out of his
own parish.
“I must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week--indeed, we only
go there on Friday. I have written to Jones about the duties. I
can make it up to him, as I know he wishes to go into Wales at
Christmas. My wanderings will all be over then, and he may go
for a couple of months if he pleases. I suppose you will take my
classes in the school on Sunday, as well as your own; but pray
make them have a good fire. If this is too much for you, make
Mrs. Podgens take the boys. Indeed I think that will be better.
“Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts. Tell her
from me, that as regards the bishop, as well as regarding another
great personage, the colour has been laid on perhaps a little
too thickly. Not that Lady Lufton would ever like him. Make her
understand that my going to the duke’s has almost become a matter
of conscience with me. I have not known how to make it appear
that it would be right for me to refuse, without absolutely
making a party matter of it. I saw that it would be said, that
I, coming from Lady Lufton’s parish, could not go to the Duke of
Omnium’s. This I did not choose.
“I find that I shall want a little more money before I leave
here, five or ten pounds--say ten pounds. If you cannot spare it,
get it from Davis. He owes me more than that, a good deal.
“And now, God bless and preserve you, my own love. Kiss my
darling bairns for papa, and give them my blessing.
“Always and ever your own,
“M. R.”
And then there was written, on an outside scrap which was folded round
the full-written sheet of paper, “Make it as smooth at Framley Court as
possible.”
However strong, and reasonable, and unanswerable the body of Mark’s
letter may have been, all his hesitation, weakness, doubt, and fear,
were expressed in this short postscript.