Scenes of Clerical Life Read online

thinking that if Mr Barton had shaken into that little box a small portion of

  Scotch high-dried, he might have produced something more like an amiable emotion

  in Mrs Brick's mind than anything she had felt under his morning's exposition of

  the unleavened bread. But our good Amos laboured under a deficiency of small

  tact as well as of small cash; and when he observed the action of the old

  woman's forefinger, he said, in his brusque way, "So your snuff is all gone,

  eh?"

  Mrs Brick's eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson might be

  intending to replenish her box, at least mediately, through the present of a

  small copper.

  "Ah, well! you'll soon be going where there is no more snuff. You'll be in need

  of mercy then. You must remember that you may have to seek for mercy and not

  find it, just as you're seeking for snuff."

  At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided from Mrs Brick's

  eyes. The lid of her box went "click!" and her heart was shut up at the same

  moment.

  But now Mr Barton's attention was called for by Mr Spratt, who was dragging a

  small and unwilling boy from the rear. Mr Spratt was a small-featured,

  small-statured man, with a remarkable power of language, mitigated by

  hesitation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable sentiments in

  unexceptionable language on all occasions.

  "Mr Barton, sir�aw�aw�excuse my trespassing on your time�aw�to beg that you will

  administer a rebuke to this boy; he is�aw�aw� most inveterate in ill-behaviour

  during service-time."

  The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contending against "candles"

  at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no sooner had Mr Spratt uttered his

  impeachment, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr Barton

  and the accused.

  "That's my child, Muster Barton," she exclaimed, further manifesting her

  maternal instincts by applying her apron to her offspring's nose. "He's al'ys

  a-findin' faut wi' him, an' a-poundin' him for nothin'. Let him goo an' eat his

  roost goose as is a-smellin' up in our noses while we're a-swallering them

  greasy broth, an' let my boy allooan."

  Mr Spratt's small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of uttering sentiments not

  unexceptionable before the clergyman; but Mr Barton, foreseeing that a

  prolongation of this episode would not be to edification, said "Silence!" in his

  severest tones.

  "Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you set him the

  example of being saucy." Then stooping down to Master Fodge, and taking him by

  the shoulder, "Do you like being beaten?"

  "No- a."

  "Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you were not naughty, you

  wouldn't be beaten. But if you are naughty, God will be angry, as well as Mr

  Spratt; and God can burn you for ever. That will be worse than being beaten."

  Master Fodge's countenance was neither affirmative nor negative of this

  proposition.

  "But," continued Mr Barton, "if you will be a good boy, God will love you, and

  you will grow up to be a good man. Now, let me hear next Thursday that you have

  been a good boy."

  Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to him from

  this change of courses. But Mr Barton, being aware that Miss Fodge had touched

  on a delicate subject in alluding to the roast goose, was determined to witness

  no more polemics between her and Mr Spratt, so, saying good morning to the

  latter, he hastily left the College.

  The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and already the

  vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed through the gate. Mrs Barton

  heard him open the door, and ran out of the sitting-room to meet him.

  "I'm afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning! Let me take

  your hat. Your slippers are at the fire."

  Mr Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is difficult, when you have

  been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, to attend to the

  very minor morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly's attentions, but

  sniffed and said, "Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?"

  "It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn't go into the study, because you said

  you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Patty and I have

  been covering them, and they are all ready in the sitting-room."

  "O, I can't do those this morning," said Mr Barton, as he took off his boots and

  put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; "you must put them away

  into the parlour."

  The sitting-room was also the day-nursery and schoolroom; and while Mamma's back

  was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted on superseding Chubby in the

  guidance of a headless horse, of the red-wafered species, which she was drawing

  round the room, so that when Papa opened the door Chubby was giving tongue

  energetically.

  "Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to be quiet."

  "Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby; go with Patty, and see what Nanny is getting for our

  dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry these books into the

  parlour. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily."

  Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easychair, and took up a work on

  Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society; thinking he would

  finish it and return it this afternoon, as he was going to the Clerical Meeting

  at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had its headquarters.

  The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been founded some eight or ten

  months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. When he first came

  to Shepperton, he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose Christian

  experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr Johns, of Gun Street

  Chapel, and had been consolidated at Cambridge under the influence of Mr Simeon.

  John Newton and Thomas Scott were his doctrinal ideals; he would have taken in

  the Christian Observer and the Record, if he could have afforded it; his

  anecdotes were chiefly of the pious-jocose kind, current in dissenting circles;

  and he thought an Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable.

  But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was beginning to be felt

  in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on the Low-Church

  party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian

  doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movement was felt from the golden

  head to the miry toes of the Establishment; and so it came to pass that, in the

  district round Milby, the market-town close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed

  to have a clerical meeting every month, wherein they would exercise their

  intellects by discussing theological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement

  their brotherly love by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally

  suggested itself as an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive,

  there was provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind.

  Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided will and

  opini
on of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had no self-distrust. He

  would march very determinedly along the road he thought best; but then it was

  wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best road. And so a very little

  unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made him see that an Episcopalian

  Establishment was much more than unobjectionable, and on many other points he

  began to feel that he held opinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be

  crudely and suddenly communicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that

  has been rubbed with spices; the strong original odour was blended with

  something new and foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined

  High-Church nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the

  genuine onion-eater.

  We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to-day, because we shall

  probably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just now I am

  bent on introducing you to Mr Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski, with whom Mr

  and Mrs Barton are invited to dine to-morrow.

  CHAPTER III.

  Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the

  white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across the

  white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton and his wife are audibly crushing the

  crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on Friday evening, they

  approach the door of the above-named desirable country residence, containing

  dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, &c., situated only half a mile from the

  market-town of Milby.

  Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasant but

  uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is reclining behind a

  screen in the corner of the sofa, and allowing you to discern that the hair of

  the gentleman who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspaper over his

  knees, is becoming decidedly grey. A little "King Charles," with a crimson

  ribbon round his neck, who has been lying curled up in the very middle of the

  hearth-rug, has just discovered that that zone is too hot for him, and is

  jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accommodating his person on

  the silk gown. On the table there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as

  soon as the expected knock is heard at the door.

  The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently Mr and Mrs Barton are

  ushered in�Mr Barton erect and clerical in a faultless tie and shining cranium;

  Mrs Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk.

  "Now this is charming of you," said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing to meet

  them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance. "I am really ashamed of my

  selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in this frightful weather."

  Then, giving her hand to Amos, "And you, Mr Barton, whose time is so precious!

  But I am doing a good deed in drawing you away from your labours. I have a plot

  to prevent you from martyrising yourself."

  While this greeting was going forward, Mr Bridmain, and Jet the spaniel, looked

  on with the air of actors who had no idea of by-play. Mr Bridmain, a stiff and

  rather thick-set man, gave his welcome with a laboured cordiality. It was

  astonishing how very little he resembled his beautiful sister.

  For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As she seated herself by

  Mrs Barton on the sofa, Milly's eyes, indeed, rested�must it be

  confessed?�chiefly on the details of the tasteful dress, the rich silk of a

  pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colours in an evening), the

  black lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at the back of the small

  closely-braided head. For Milly had one weakness�don't love her any the less for

  it, it was a pretty woman's weakness�she was fond of dress; and often when she

  was making up her own economical millinery, she had romantic visions how nice it

  would be to put on really handsome stylish things�to have very stiff balloon

  sleeves, for example, without which a woman's dress was nought in those days.

  You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not? which makes us think

  foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may lie in an excessive admiration for

  small hands and feet, a tall lithe figure, large dark eyes, and dark silken

  braided hair. All these the Countess possessed, and she had, moreover, a

  delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and a clear brunette complexion.

  Her mouth, it must be admitted, receded too much from her nose and chin, and to

  a prophetic eye threatened "nut-crackers" in advanced age. But by the light of

  fire and wax-candles that age seemed very far off indeed, and you would have

  said that the Countess was not more than thirty.

  Look at the two women on the sofa together! The large, fair, mild-eyed Milly is

  timid even in friendship: it is not easy to her to speak of the affection of

  which her heart is full. The lithe, dark, thin-lipped Countess is racking her

  small brain for caressing words and charming exaggerations.

  "And how are all the cherubs at home?" said the Countess, stooping to pick up

  Jet, and without waiting for an answer. "I have been kept in-doors by a cold

  ever since Sunday, or I should not have rested without seeing you. What have you

  done with those wretched singers, Mr Barton?"

  "O, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well with a little

  practice. I was quite determined that the old set of singers should be

  dismissed. I had given orders that they should not sing the wedding psalm, as

  they call it, again, to make a new-married couple look ridiculous, and they sang

  it in defiance of me. I could put them into the Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose

  for to do so, for lifting up their voices in church in opposition to the

  clergyman."

  "And a most wholesome discipline that would be," said the Countess; "indeed, you

  are too patient and forbearing, Mr Barton. For my part, I lose my temper when I

  see how far you are from being appreciated in that miserable Shepperton "

  If, as is probable, Mr Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to the

  insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announced just

  then, and that he had to offer his arm to the Countess.

  As Mr Bridmain was leading Mrs Barton to the dining-room, he observed, "The

  weather is very severe."

  "Very, indeed," said Milly.

  Mr Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies he spoke of the weather,

  and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view: as a question of

  climate in general, comparing England with other countries in this respect; as a

  personal question, inquiring how it affected his lady interlocutor in

  particular; and as a question of probabilities, discussing whether there would

  be a change or a continuance of the present atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen

  he talked politics, and he read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself

  for this function. Mr Barton thought him a man of considerable political

  information, but not of lively parts.

  "And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr Ely's?" said the r />
  Countess between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a little over-spiced. Mrs

  Short, of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting her best apartments, gave

  only moderate wages to her cook.)

  "Yes," said Mr Barton, "Milby is a central place, and there are many

  conveniences in having only one point of meeting."

  "Well," continued the Countess, "every one seems to agree in giving the

  precedence to Mr Ely. For my part I cannot admire him. His preaching is too cold

  for me. It has no fervour �no heart. I often say to my brother, it is a great

  comfort to me that Shepperton church is not too far of for us to go to; don't I,

  Edmund?"

  "Yes," answered Mr Bridmain, "they show us into such a bad pew at Milby�just

  where there is a draught from that door. I caught a stiff neck the first time I

  went there."

  "O, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in the pew. I was

  writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling her all about my

  feelings. She and I think alike on such matters. She is most anxious that when

  Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the living at their place,

  Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous clever man there. I have been

  describing a certain friend of mine to her, who, I think, would be just to her

  mind. And there is such a pretty rectory, Milly; shouldn't I like to see you the

  mistress of it?"

  Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blushed very red, and gave a

  little embarrassed laugh�he could rarely keep his muscles within the limits of a

  smile.

  At this moment John, the man-servant, approached Mrs Barton with a gravy-tureen,

  and also with a slight odour of the stable, which usually adhered to him

  throughout his in-door functions. John was rather nervous; and the Countess

  happening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and

  emptied itself on Mrs Barton's newly-turned black silk.

  "O, horror! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs Barton's dress," said the

  Countess to the trembling John, carefully abstaining from approaching the

  gravy-sprinkled spot on the floor with her own lilac silk. But Mr Bridmain, who

  had a strictly private interest in silks, goodnaturedly jumped up and applied

  his napkin at once to Mrs Barton's gown.

  Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to make light

  of the matter for the sake of John as well as others. The Countess felt inwardly

  thankful that her own delicate silk had escaped, but threw out lavish

  interjections of distress and indignation.

  "Dear saint that you are," she said, when Milly laughed, and suggested that, as

  her silk was not very glossy to begin with, the dim patch would not be much

  seen; "you don't mind about these things, I know. Just the same sort of thing

  happened to me at the Princess Wengstein's one day, on a pink satin. I was in an

  agony. But you are so indifferent to dress; and well you may be. It is you who

  make dress pretty, and not dress that makes you pretty."

  Alice, the buxom lady's-maid, wearing a much better dress than Mrs Barton's, now

  appeared to take Mr Bridmain's place in retrieving the mischief, and after a

  great amount of supplementary rubbing, composure was restored, and the business

  of dining was continued.

  When John was recounting his accident to the cook in the kitchen, he observed,

  "Mrs Barton's a hamable woman; I'd a deal sooner ha' throwed the gravy o'er the

  Countess's fine gownd. But laws! what tantrums she'd ha' been in arter the

  visitors was gone."

  "You'd a deal sooner not ha' throwed it down at all, I should think," responded

  the unsympathetic cook, to whom John did not make love. "Who d'you think's to

  mek gravy anuff, if you're to baste people's gownds wi' it?"

  "Well," suggested John, humbly, "you should wet the bottom of the duree a bit,

  to hold it from slippin.'"

  "Wet your granny!" returned the cook; a retort which she probably regarded in

  the light of a reductio ad absurdum, and which in fact reduced John to silence.