CHAPTER XIV
HOW TO EXERCISE CHURCH PATRONAGE
MILDMAY made his way back to Oxford without any delay. He knew that the Master of the college, who was a man with a family, had not yet set out on the inevitable autumn tour. But I must add that, though no man could have been more anxious to obtain preferment in his own person than he was to transfer his preferment to another, yet various doubts of the practicability of what he was going to attempt interfered, as he got further and further from Brentburn, with the enthusiasm which had sprung up so warmly in Cicely’s presence. It would be very difficult, he felt, to convey to the Master the same clear perception of the rights of the case as had got into his own head by what he had seen and heard at the rectory; and if all he made by his hesitation was to throw the living into the hands of Ruffhead! For Brentburn was no longer an indifferent place – the same as any other in the estimation of the young don; quite the reverse; it was very interesting to him now. Notwithstanding the bran-new church, he felt that no other parish under the sun was half so attractive. The churchyard, with those two narrow threads of paths; the windows, with the lights in them, which glimmered within sight of the grave; the old-fashioned, sunny garden; the red cottages, with not one wall which was not awry, and projecting at every conceivable angle; the common, with its flush of heather – all these had come out of the unknown, and made themselves plain and apparent to him. He felt Brentburn to be in a manner his own; a thing which he would be willing to give to Mr. St. John, or rather to lend him for his lifetime; but he did not feel the least inclination to let it fall into the hands of any other man. Neither did he feel inclined to do as Mr. Chester, the late rector, had done – to expatriate himself, and leave the work of his parish to the curate in charge. Besides, he could not do this, for he was in perfect health; and he could neither tell the necessary lie himself, nor, he thought, get any doctor to tell it for him. As he got nearer and nearer to the moment which must decide all these uncertainties, he got more and more confused and troubled in his mind. The Master was the college, as it happened at that moment; he was by far the most influential and the most powerful person in it; and what he said was the thing that would be done. Mildmay accordingly took his way with very mingled feelings, across the quadrangle to the beautiful and picturesque old house in which this potentate dwelt. Had he any right to attempt to make such a bargain as was in his mind? It was enough that the living had been offered to him. What had he to say but yes or no?
The Master’s house was in a state of confusion when Mildmay entered it. The old hall was full of trunks, the oaken staircase encumbered with servants and young people running up and down in all the bustle of a move. Eight children of all ages, and half as many servants, was the Master – brave man! – about to carry off to Switzerland. The packing was terrible, and not less terrible the feelings of the heads of the expedition, who were at that moment concluding their last calculation of expenses, and making up little bundles of circular notes. “Here is Mr. Mildmay,” said the Master’s wife, “and, thank Heaven! this reckoning up is over;” and she escaped with a relieved countenance, giving the new comer a smile of gratitude. The head of the college was slightly flustrated, if such a vulgar word can be used of such a sublime person. I hope no one will suspect me of Romanizing tendencies, but perhaps a pale ecclesiastic, worn with thought, and untroubled by children, would have been more like the typical head of a college than this comely yet careworn papa. The idea, however, flashed through Mildmay’s mind, who had the greatest reverence for the Master, that these very cares, this evident partaking of human nature’s most ordinary burdens, would make the great don feel for the poor curate. Does not a touch of nature make the whole world kin?
“Well, Mildmay,” said the Master, “come to say good-bye? You are just in time. We are off to-night by the Antwerp boat, which we have decided is the best way with our enormous party.” Here the good man sighed. “Where are you going? You young fellows don’t know you’re born, as people say – coming and going, whenever the fancy seizes you, as light as a bird. Ah! wait till you have eight children, my dear fellow, to drag about the world.”
“That could not be for some time, at least,” said Mildmay, with a laugh; “but I am not so disinterested in my visit as to have come merely to say good-bye. I wanted to speak to you about Brentburn.”
“Ah – oh,” said the Master; “to be sure, your living. You have been to see it? Well! and how do you think it will feel to be an orderly rector, setting a good example, instead of enjoying yourself, and collecting crockery here?”
That was a cruel speech, and Mildmay grew red at the unworthy title crockery; but the Master’s savage sentiments on this subject were known. What is a man with eight children to be expected to know about rare china?
“I believe there are much better collections than mine in some country rectories,” he said; “but, never mind; I want to speak to you of something more interesting than crockery. I do not think I can take Brentburn.”
The Master framed his lips into that shape which in a profane and secular person would have produced a whistle of surprise. “So!” he said, “you don’t like it? But I thought you were set upon it. All the better for poor Ruffhead, who will now be able to marry after all.”
“That is just what I wanted to speak to you about,” said Mildmay, embarrassed. “I don’t want it to fall to Ruffhead. Listen, before you say anything! I don’t want to play the part of the dog in the manger. Ruffhead is young, and so am I; but, my dear Master, listen to me. The curate in charge, Mr. St. John, is not young; he has been twenty years at Brentburn, a laborious excellent clergyman. Think how it would look in any other profession, if either Ruffhead or I should thus step over his head.”
“The curate in charge!” said the Master, bewildered. “What are you talking about? What has he to do with it? I know nothing about your curate in charge.”
“Of course you don’t; and therefore there seemed to be some hope in coming to tell you. He is a member of our own college; that of itself is something. He used to know you, he says, long ago, when he was an undergraduate. He has been Chester’s curate at Brentburn, occupying the place of the incumbent, and doing everything for twenty years; and now that Chester is dead, there is nothing for him but to be turned out at a moment’s notice, and to seek his bread, at over sixty, somewhere else – and he has children too.”
This last sentence was added at a venture to touch the Master’s sympathies; but I don’t think that dignitary perceived the application; for what is there in common between the master of a college and a poor curate? He shook his head with, however, that sympathetic gravity and deference towards misfortune which no man who respects himself ever refuses to show.
“St. John, St. John?” he said. “Yes, I think I recollect the name: very tall – stoops – a peaceable sort of being? Yes. So he’s Chester’s curate? Who would have thought it? I suppose he started in life as well as Chester did, or any of us. What has possessed him to stay so long there?”
“Well – he is, as you say, a peaceable, mild man; not one to push himself – ”
“Push himself!” cried the Master; “not much of that, I should think. But even if you don’t push yourself, you needn’t stay for twenty years a curate. What does he mean by it? I am afraid there must be something wrong.”
“And I am quite sure there is nothing wrong,” cried Mildmay, warmly, “unless devotion to thankless work, and forgetfulness of self is wrong; for that is all his worst enemy can lay to his charge.”
“You are very warm about it,” said the Master, with some surprise; “which does you credit, Mildmay. But, my dear fellow, what do you expect me – what do you expect the college to do? We can’t provide for our poor members who let themselves drop out of sight and knowledge. Perhaps if you don’t take the living, and Ruffhead does, you might speak to him to keep your friend on as curate. But I have nothing to do with that kind of arrangement. And I’m sure you will excuse me when I tell you we start to-night.”
“Master,” said Mildmay solemnly, “when you hear of a young colonel of thirty promoted over the head of an old captain of twice his age, what do you say?”
“Say, sir!” cried the Master, whose sentiments on this, as on most other subjects, were well known; “say! why I say it’s a disgrace to the country. I say it’s the abominable system of purchase which keeps our best soldiers languishing. Pray, what do you mean by that smile? You know I have no patience to discuss such a question; and I cannot see what it has to do with what we were talking of,” he added abruptly, breaking off with a look of defiance, for he suddenly saw the mistake he had made in Mildmay’s face.
“Hasn’t it?” said the other. “If you will think a moment – Ruffhead and I are both as innocent of parochial knowledge as – as little Ned there.” (Ned at this moment had come to the window which opened upon the garden, and, knocking with impatient knuckles, had summoned his father out.) “Mr. St. John has some thirty years’ experience, and is thoroughly known and loved by the people. What can anybody think – what can any one say – if one of us miserable subalterns is put over that veteran’s head? Where but in the Church could such a thing be done – without at least such a clamour as would set half England by the ears?”
“Softly, softly,” cried the Master. “(Get away, you little imp. I’ll come presently.) You mustn’t abuse the Church, Mildmay. Our arrangements may be imperfect, as indeed all arrangements are which are left in human hands. But, depend upon it, the system is the best that could be devised; and there is no real analogy between the two professions. A soldier is helpless who can only buy his promotion, and has no money to buy it with. But a clergyman has a hundred ways of making his qualifications known, and as a matter of fact I think preferment is very justly distributed. I have known dozens of men, with no money and very little influence, whose talents and virtues alone – but you must know that as well as I do. In this case there must be something behind – something wrong – extreme indolence, or incapacity, or something – ”
“There is nothing but extreme modesty, and a timid retiring disposition.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried the Master; “these are the pretty names for it. Indolence which does nothing for itself, and hangs a dead weight upon friends. Now, tell me seriously and soberly, why do you come to me with this story? What, in such a case, do you suppose I can do?”
“If you were a private patron,” said Mildmay, “I should say boldly, I have come to ask you to give this living to the best man – the man who has a right to it; not a new man going to try experiments like myself, but one who knows what he is doing, who has done all that has been done there for twenty years. I would say you were bound to exercise your private judgment on behalf of the parish in preference to all promises or supposed rights; and that you should offer the living of Brentburn to Mr. St. John without an hour’s delay.”
“That is all very well,” said the Master, scratching his head, as if he had been a rustic clodhopper, instead of a learned and accomplished scholar, “and very well put, and perhaps true. I say, perhaps true, for of course this is only one side of the question. But I am not a private patron. I am only a sort of trustee of the patronage, exercising it in conjunction with various other people. Come, Mildmay, you know as well as I do, poor old St. John, though his may be a hard case, has no claim whatever upon the college; and if you don’t accept it, there’s Ruffhead and two or three others who have a right to their chance. You may be sure Ruffhead won’t give up his chance of marriage and domestic bliss for any poor curate. Of course the case, as you state it, is hard. What does the parish say?”
“The parish! I was not there long enough to find out the opinion of the parish.”
“Ah, you hesitate. Look here, Mildmay; if I were a betting man, I’d give you odds, or whatever you call it, that the parish would prefer you.”
“It is impossible; or, if they did, it would only be a double wrong.” But Mildmay’s voice was not so confident as when he had been pleading Mr. St. John’s cause, and his eyes fell before the Master’s penetrating eyes.
“A wrong if you like, but it’s human nature,” said the Master, with some triumph. “I will speak to the Dean about it, if I see him this afternoon, and I’ll speak to Singleton. If they think anything of your arguments, I shan’t oppose. But I warn you I don’t think it the least likely. His age, if there were nothing else, is against him, rather than in his favour. We don’t want parishes hampered with an old man past work.”
“He is just as old being curate as if he were rector.”
“Yes, yes. But to give him the living now, at his age, would be to weight the parish with him till he was a hundred, and destroy the chance for young men like yourself. You don’t mind, but I can tell you Ruffhead does. No, no. Singleton will never hear of it; and what can I do? I am going away.”
“Singleton will do whatever you tell him,” said Mildmay; “and you could write even though you are going away.”
“Hush, hush,” said the Master, with a half laugh, “that is all a popular delusion. Singleton is the most independent-minded man I know – and the others are as obstinate as pigs. Talk of turning them as one likes! Poor old St. John, though! we might hear of another place to suit him, perhaps. He has something of his own, I suppose – some private income? How many children has he? of course, being only a curate, he must have heaps of children. (Coming, you rascal! coming, Ned.)”
“He has two daughters grown up,” said Mildmay, “and two small children; and so far as I can judge is – What is there to laugh at?” he added, with a look of the greatest surprise.
“So, so; he has daughters?” said the Master, with a burst of genial laughter. “That is it? Don’t blush, my dear fellow; as good men as you have been in the same predicament. Go and marry her, which will be much more sensible; and I hope Miss St. John is everything that is pretty and charming for your sake.”
Perhaps Mildmay blushed, but he was not aware of it. He felt himself grow pale in a white heat of passion. “This is a very poor joke,” he said. “Excuse me, Master, if I must say so. I speak to you of an injury to the Church, and a serious wrong to one of her priests, and you answer me with a jest most inappropriate to the occasion. I saw Miss – I mean Mr. St. John and his family for the first time two days ago. Personal feeling of any kind has not been my inducement to make this appeal to your sense of justice. But I have made a mistake, it seems. Good morning! I will not detain you more.”
“Why, Mildmay! a man may have his joke. Don’t take it in this tragical way. And don’t be so withering in your irony about my sense of justice,” said the Master, with a laugh, half apologetic, half angry. But he did not ask the young man to sit down again. “Justice goes both ways,” he added; “and I have justice to the college, and justice to its more distinguished members, and even to the parish, for whose good we are called upon to act – to consider; as well as justice to Mr. St. John, which really is not our affair. But, my dear fellow, all this is very admirable in you – and don’t think I fail to see that, though you say I made a poor joke. Yes, I am in a hurry, there is no denying it; but I’ll see Singleton, and leave the matter in his hands. Meet you in the Oberland, eh? My wife talks of St. Moritz, but we never can drag the children all that way. Good-bye.”
Mildmay marched out of the old house with all his pulses tingling. It seemed to him that poor Cicely, in the midst of all the anxieties that lurked in her young eyes, had been insulted. Was it that sort of folly he was thinking of, or she, poor girl, who had said nothing to him but reproaches? But yet, I will allow, that absolutely innocent as he felt of any such levity, the accusation excited him more, perhaps, than was needful. He could not forget or forgive it, as one forgives a sorry jest at one’s own expense, the reason being, he said to himself, that it was an insult to her, and that this insult had come upon a young innocent creature through him, which was doubly hard. He was still tingling with this blow, when he met his second in succession, so to speak, Mr. Ruffhead, who was serving a curacy near Oxford, and who had a slight unspoken, unacknowledged grudge at his brother Fellow who had been preferred before himself. Mildmay, in his excitement, laid hold upon this probable heir of his, in case he should give up Brentburn, and poured the whole story into his ears, asking with some heat and passion for his advice. “I don’t see how I can take the living over Mr. St. John’s head; it seems to me the most terrible injustice,” he cried.
Mr. Ruffhead shook his head.
“You must not ask my advice,” said that sensible person. “If you don’t take it, and it’s offered to me, I shall of course. I don’t know Mr. St. John, and if one neglected one’s own interests for every hard case one heard of, where would one be? I can’t afford to play with my chances. I daresay you think I am very hard-hearted; but that is what I should do.”
This plain declaration of sentiment subdued Mildmay, and brought him back to matters of fact. “I suppose you are right; but I have not made up my mind to decline the living,” he said coldly, and did not ask Ruffhead to dinner as he had at first intended. No man, they say, likes his heir, and this kind of inheritance was doubly disagreeable to think of. Certainly, if the only alternative was Ruffhead and his honeymooning (which somehow it disgusted Mildmay to think of, as of something almost insulting to himself), it would be better, much better, that he himself should take Brentburn. He would not give it up only to see it passed on to this commonplace fellow, to enable him, forsooth, to marry some still more commonplace woman. Good heavens! was that the way to traffic with a cure of souls? He went back to his beautiful rooms in a most disturbed state of mind, and drew up impatiently the blinds which were not intended to be drawn up. The hot August light came in scorching and broad over all his delights, and made him loathe them; he tripped upon, and kicked away to the end of the room, a rug for which you or I, dear reader, would have given one of our ears; and jerked his Italian tapestry to one side, and I think, if good sense had not restrained him, would have liked to take up his very best bit of china and smash it into a hundred pieces. But after a while he smiled at himself, and reduced the blaze of daylight to a proper artistic tone, and tried to eat some luncheon. Yesterday at the same hour he had shared the curate’s dinner, with Cicely at the head of the table, looking at him with sweet eyes, in which there was still the dewy look of past tears. She had the house and all its cares upon her delicate shoulders, that girl; and her innocent name had been made the subject of a jest – through him!
CHAPTER XV
THE ARTIST AND THE HOUSEKEEPER
I DO not suppose that Cicely St. John had really any hope in her new acquaintance, or believed, when she looked at the matter reasonably, that his self-renunciation, if he had the strength of mind to carry it out, would really secure for her father the living of Brentburn. But yet a certain amount of faith is natural at her years, and she was vaguely strengthened and exhilarated by that suppressed expectation of something pleasant that might possibly happen, which is so great an element in human happiness; and, with this comfort in her soul, went about her work, preparing for the worst, which, to be sure, notwithstanding her hope, was, she felt, inevitable. Mab, when the stranger’s enthusiastic adoption of her sister’s suggestion was told to her, accepted it for her part with delight, as a thing settled. A true artist has always more or less a practical mind. However strong his imagination may be, he does not confine himself to fancies, or even words, but makes something tangible and visible out of it, and this faculty more or less shapes the fashion of his thinking. Mab, who possessed in addition that delightful mixture of matter-of-factness which is peculiar to womankind, seized upon the hope and made it into reality. She went to her work as gaily as if all the clouds had been in reality dispersed from her path. This time it was little Annie, the nursemaid – Cicely having interfered to protect the babies from perpetual posing – who supplied her with the necessary “life.” Annie did not much like it. She would have been satisfied, indeed, and even proud, had “her picture” been taken in her best frock, with all her Sunday ribbons; but to be thrust into a torn old dingy garment, with bare feet, filled the little handmaiden with disgust and rage great enough for a full-grown woman. “Folks will think as I hain’t got no decent clothes,” she said; and Mab’s injudicious consolation, to the effect that “folks would never see the picture,” did not at all mend the matter. Cicely, however, drew up her slight person, and “looked Miss St. John,” according to Mab’s description; and Annie was cowed. There were at least twenty different representations in Mab’s sketch-books of moments in which Cicely had looked Miss St. John; and it was Mab’s conviction in life as well as in art that no opponent could stand before such a demonstration. Bare-footed, in her ragged frock, Annie did not look an amiable young person, which, I am ashamed to say, delighted the artist. “She will do for the naughty little girl in the fairy tale, the one with toads and frogs dropping from her lips,” cried Mab, in high glee. “And if it comes well I shall send it to Mr. Mildmay, to show we feel how kind he is.”
“Wait till he has been kind,” said Cicely, shaking her head. “I always liked the naughty little girl best, not that complacent smiling creature who knew she had been good, and whom everybody praised. Oh, what a pity that the world is not like a fairy tale! where the good are always rewarded, and even the naughty, when they are sorry. If we were to help any number of old women, what would it matter now?”
“But I suppose,” said Mab, somewhat wistfully, for she distrusted her sister’s words, which she did not understand, and was afraid people might think Cicely Broad Church, “I suppose whatever may happen in the meantime, it all comes right in the end?”
“Papa is not so very far from the end, and it has not come right for him.”
“O Cicely, how can you talk so! Papa is not so old. He will live years and years yet!” cried Mab, her eyes filling.
“I hope so. Oh, I hope so! I did not think of merely living. But he cannot get anything very great now, can he, to make up for so long waiting? So long – longer,” said Cicely, with a little awe, thinking of that enormous lapse of time, “than we have been alive!”
“If he gets the living, he will not want anything more,” said Mab, blithely working away with her charcoal. “How delightful it will be! More than double what we have now? Fancy! After all, you will be able to furnish as you said.”
“But not in amber satin,” said Cicely, beguiled into a smile.
“In soft, soft Venetian stuff, half green, half blue, half no colour at all. Ah! she has moved! Cicely, Cicely, go and talk to her, for heaven’s sake, or my picture will be spoilt!”
“If you please, miss, I can’t stop here no longer. It’s time as I was looking after the children. How is Betsy to remember in the middle of her cooking the right time to give ‘em their cod-liver oil?”
“I’ll go and look after the children,” said Cicely. “What you have got to do, Annie, is to stop here.”
Upon which Annie burst into floods of tears, and fell altogether out of pose. “There ain’t no justice in it!” she said. “I’m put up here to look like a gipsy or a beggar; and mother will never get over it, after all her slaving and toiling to get me decent clothes!”
Thus it will be perceived that life studies in the domestic circle are very difficult to manage. After a little interval of mingled coaxing and scolding, something like the lapsed attitude was recovered, and Annie brought back into obedience. “If you will be good, I’ll draw a picture of you in your Sunday frock to give to your mother,” said Mab – a promise which had too good an effect upon her model, driving away the clouds from her countenance; and Cicely went away to administer the cod-liver oil. It was not a very delightful office, and I think that now and then, at this crisis, it seemed to Cicely that Mab had the best of it, with her work, which was a delight to her, and which occupied both her mind and her fingers; care seemed to fly the moment she got that charcoal in her hand. There was no grudge in this sense of disadvantage. Nature had done it, against which there is no appeal. I don’t think, however, that care would have weighed heavily on Mab, even if she had not been an artist. She would have hung upon Cicely all the same if her occupation had been but needlework, and looked for everything from her hands.
But it was not until Annie was released, and could throw off the ragged frock in which she had been made picturesque, and return to her charge, that Cicely could begin the more important business that waited for her. She took this quite quietly, not thinking it necessary to be on the look-out for a grievance, and took her work into the nursery, where the two babies were playing in a solemn sort of way. They had their playthings laid out upon the floor, and had some mild little squabbles over them. “Zat’s Harry’s!” she heard again and again, mingled with faint sounds of resistance. The children were very mysterious to Cicely. She was half afraid of them as mystic incomprehensible creatures, to whom everybody in heaven and earth did injustice. After a while she put down her work and watched them play. They had a large box of bricks before them, playthings which Cicely herself well remembered, and the play seemed to consist in one little brother diving into the long box in search of one individual brick, which, when he produced it, the other snatched at, saying, “Zat’s Harry’s.” Charley, who wanted both his hands to swim with on the edge of the box, did not have his thumb in his mouth this time; but he was silenced by the unvarying claim. They did not laugh, nor did they cry, as other children do; but sat over the box of bricks, in a dumb conflict, of which it was impossible to tell whether it was strife or play.
“Are they all Harry’s?” asked Cicely, suddenly moved to interfere. The sound of the voice startled the little creatures on the floor. They turned right round, and contemplated her from the carpet with round and wondering eyes.
“Zat’s Harry’s,” said the small boy over again with the iteration common to children. Charley was not prepared with any reply. He put his thumb into his mouth in default of any more extended explanation. Cicely repeated her question – I fear raising her voice, for patience was not Cicely’s forte; whereupon Harry’s eyes, who was the boldest, got bigger and bigger, and redder and redder, with fright, and Charley began to whimper. This irritated the sister much. “You little silly things!” she said, “I am not scolding you. What are you crying for? Come here, Harry, and tell me why you take all the bricks? They are Charley’s too.”
Children are the angels of life; but they are sometimes little demons for all that. To see these two pale little creatures sitting half dead with fright, gazing at her sunny young countenance as if she were an ogre, exasperated Cicely. She jumped up, half laughing, half furious, and at that movement the babies set up a unanimous howl of terror. This fairly daunted her, courageous as she was. She went back to her seat again, having half a mind to cry too. “I am not going to touch you,” said Cicely piteously. “Why are you frightened at me? If you will come here I will tell you a story.” She was too young to have the maternal instinct so warmly developed as to make her all at once, without rhyme or reason, “fond of” her little half-brothers; but she was anxious to do her duty, and deeply wounded that they did not “take to her.” Children, she said to herself with an internal whisper of self-pity, had always taken to her before; and she was not aware of that instinctive resistance, half defiance, half fright, which seems to repel the child-dependant from those whose duty it is to take care of it – most unreasonable, often most cruel, but yet apparently most universal of sentiments. Is it that the very idea of a benefactor, even before the mind is capable of comprehending what it is, sets nature on edge? This was rather a hard lesson for the girl, especially as, while they were still howling, little Annie burst in indignant, and threw herself down beside the children, who clung to her, sobbing, one on each side. “You have made ‘em cry, miss,” cried Annie, “and missus’s orders was as they was never to be allowed to cry. It is very dangerous for boys; it busts their little insides. Did she frighten ‘em, then? the naughty lady. Never mind, never mind, my precious! Annie’s here.”
To see this child spread out upon the floor with these chicks under her wings would have been amusing to a cool spectator. But Cicely did not take it in that light. She waited till the children were pacified, and had returned to their play, and then she took the little nursemaid by the arm, and led her to the door. “You are not to enter this room again or come near the children,” she said, in a still voice which made Annie tremble. “If you make a noise I will beat you. Go downstairs to your sister, and I will see you afterwards. Not a word! I have nothing more to say to you here.”