lady off. They say a green Yule makes a fat churchyard; but so does a white Yule
too, for that matter. When the stool's rotten enough, no matter who sits on't."
However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of Mrs Patten's decease was
again thrown into the dim distance in her imagination, for Miss Janet Gibbs met
her with the news that Mrs Patten was much better, and led her, without any
preliminary announcement, to the old lady's bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached
the end of her circumstantial narrative how the attack came on and what were her
aunt's sensations�a narrative to which Mrs Patten, in her neatly-plaited
night-cap, seemed to listen with a contemptuous resignation to her niece's
historical inaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by
a shake of the head�when the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the yard pavement
announced the arrival of Mr Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted person presently
made its appearance up-stairs. He found Mrs Patten going on so well that there
was no need to look solemn. He might glide from condolence into gossip without
offence, and the temptation of having Mrs Hackit's ear was irresistible.
"What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson's," was the
remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himself back in
the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient.
"Eh, dear me!" said Mrs Hackit, "disgraceful enough. I stuck to Mr Barton as
long as I could, for his wife's sake; but I can't countenance such goings on.
It's hateful to see that woman coming with 'em to service of a Sunday, and if Mr
Hackit wasn't churchwarden and I didn't think it wrong to forsake one's own
parish, I should go to Knebley church. There's many parish'ners as do."
"I used to think Barton was only a fool," observed Mr Pilgrim, in a tone which
implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. "I thought he
was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first came. But that's
impossible now."
"O, it's as plain as the nose in your face," said Mrs Hackit, unreflectingly,
not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison,�"comin' to Milby, like a sparrow
perchin' on a bough, as I may say, with her brother, as she called him; and
then, all on a sudden, the brother goes off wi' himself, and she throws herself
on the Bartons. Though what could make her take up wi' a poor notomise of a
parson, as hasn't got enough to keep wife and children, there's one above
knows�I don't."
"Mr Barton may have attractions we don't know of," said Mr Pilgrim, who piqued
himself on a talent for sarcasm. "The Countess has no maid now, and they say Mr
Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette�laces her boots, and so forth."
"Tilette, be fiddled!" said Mrs Hackit, with indignant boldness of metaphor;
"an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone for them
children�an' another comin' on. What she must have to go through! It goes to my
heart to turn my back on her. But she's i' the wrong to let herself be put upon
a' that manner."
"Ah! I was talking to Mrs Farquhar about that the other day. She said, 'I think
Mrs Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n.'" (Mr Pilgrim gave this quotation with
slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs Farquhar had uttered a remarkable
sentiment.) "They find it impossible to invite her to their house while she has
that equivocal person staying with her."
"Well!" remarked Miss Gibbs, "if I was a wife, nothing should induce me to bear
what Mrs Barton does."
"Yes, it's fine talking," said Mrs Patten, from her pillow; "old maids' husbands
are al'ys well managed. If you was a wife you'd be as foolish as your betters,
belike."
"All my wonder is," observed Mrs Hackit, "how the Bartons make both ends meet.
You may depend on't she's got nothing to give 'em; for I understand as he's been
havin' money from some clergy charity. They said at fust as she stuffed Mr
Barton wi' notions about her writing to the Chancellor an'her fine friends, to
give him a living. Howiver, I don't know what's true an' what's false. Mr Barton
keeps away from our house now, for I gev him a bit o' my mind one day. Maybe
he's ashamed of himself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a
Sunday."
"O, he must be aware he's getting into bad odour everywhere. The clergy are
quite disgusted with his folly. They say Carpe would be glad to get Barton out
of the curacy if he could; but he can't do that without coming to Shepperton
himself, as Barton's a licensed curate; and he wouldn't like that, I suppose."
At this moment Mrs patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr Pilgrim
to professional attentions; and Mrs Hackit, observing that it was Thursday, and
she must see after the butter, said good-by, promising to look in again soon,
and bring her knitting.
This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month�the day on which the
Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Barton has
reasons for not attending, he will very likely be a subject of conversation
amongst his clerical brethren. Suppose we go there, and hear whether Mr Pilgrim
has reported their opinion correctly.
There is not a numerous party to-day, for it is a season of sore throats and
catarrhs; so that the exegetical and theological discussions, which are the
preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual; and although a
question relative to the Epistle of Jude has not been quite cleared up, the
striking of six by the church clock, and the simultaneous announcement of
dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be importunate.
Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortable
dining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains glow with the double light of
fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering on the pure damask, and a
soup-tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to
inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by the delicate visitation of
atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact! Especially if you have confidence
in the dinner-giving capacity of your host�if you know that he is not a man who
entertains grovelling views of eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of
hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the finer influences of the palate, expects
his guest to be brilliant on ill-flavoured gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr
Ely was particularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon
had probably contributed quite as much as the central situation of Milby to the
selection of his house as a clerical rendezvous. He looks particularly graceful
at the head of his table, and, indeed, on all occasions where he acts as
president or moderator�a man who seems to listen well, and is an excellent
amalgam of dissimilar ingredients.
At the other end of the table, as "Vice," sits Mr Fellowes, rector and
magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice and the
readiest of tongues. Mr Fellowes once obtained a living by the persuasive charms
of his conversation,
and the fluency with which he interpreted the opinions of
an obese and stammering baronet, so as to give that elderly gentleman a very
pleasing perception of his own wisdom. Mr Fellowes is a very successful man, and
has the highest character everywhere except in his own parish, where, doubtless
because his parishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is always at fierce
feud with a farmer or two, a colliery proprietor, a grocer who was once
churchwarden, and a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk.
At Mr Ely's right hand you see a very small man with a sallow and somewhat puffy
face, whose hair is brushed straight up, evidently with the intention of giving
him a height somewhat less disproportionate to his sense of his own importance
than the measure of five feet three accorded him by an oversight of nature. This
is the Rev. Archibald Duke, a very dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the
gloomiest view of mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of
the "Pickwick Papers," recently completed, one of the strongest proofs of
original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr Duke was not burdened with a family, his
yearly expenditure was apt considerably to exceed his income; and the unpleasant
circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat breakfasts, may
probably have contributed to his desponding views of the world generally.
Next to him is seated Mr Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair and
whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; at least, I
know that he soon afterwards published a volume of poems, which were considered
remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his acquaintance. Mr Furness
preached his own sermons, as any one of tolerable critical acumen might have
certified by comparing them with his poems: in both, there was an exuberance of
metaphor and simile entirely original, and not in the least borrowed from any
resemblance in the things compared.
On Mr Furness's left you see Mr Pugh, another young curate, of much less marked
characteristics. He had not published any poems; he had not even been plucked;
he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; read prayers and a sermon
twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day sallying forth on his parochial
well-polished boots�an equipment which he probably supposed hieroglyphically to
represent the spirit of Christianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe.
Mr Pugh's vis-�-vis is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about forty�middle-sized,
broad-shouldered, with a negligently-tied cravat, large irregular features, and
a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown hair. To a superficial glance, Mr
Cleves is the plainest and least clerical-looking of the party; yet, strange to
say, there is the true parish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on
by his flock; a clergyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought
of as the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging
rather than severe. Mr Cleves has the wonderful art of preaching sermons which
the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because he talks
condescending twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, and knows how to
disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more attentively, and you
will see that his face is a very interesting one�that there is a great deal of
humour and feeling playing in his grey eyes, and about the corners of his
roughly cut mouth:�a man, you observe, who has most likely sprung from the
harder-working section of the middle class, and has hereditary sympathies with
the checkered life of the people. He gets together the working men in his parish
on a Monday evening, and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on useful
practical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select passages from an
agreeable book, and commenting on them; and if you were to ask the first
labourer or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of man the parson was, he would
say,�"a uncommon knowin', sensable, free-spoken gentleman; very kind an'
good-natur'd too." Yet for all this, he is perhaps the best Grecian of the
party, if we except Mr Baird, the young man on his left.
Mr Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writer and
metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he used to preach in a little church
something like a barn, to a congregation consisting of three rich farmers and
their servants, about fifteen labourers, and the due proportion of women and
children. The rich farmers understood him to be "very high learnt;" but if you
had interrogated them for a more precise description, they would have said that
he was "a thinnish-faced man, with a sort o' cast in his eye, like."
Seven, altogether: a delightful number for a dinner-party, supposing the units
to be delightful, but everything depends on that. During dinner Mr Fellowes took
the lead in the conversation, which set strongly in the direction of
mangold-wurzel and the rotation of crops; for Mr Fellowes and Mr Cleves
cultivated their own glebes. Mr Ely, too, had some agricultural notions, and
even the Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive to that class of mundane subjects by
the possession of some potato-ground. The two young curates talked a little
aside during these discussions, which had imperfect interest for their
unbeneficed minds; and the transcendental and near-sighted Mr Baird seemed to
listen somewhat abstractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangoldwurzel
than that they were some form of the "Conditioned."
"What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling!" said Mr Fellowes, when the cloth
was being drawn. "I went over his farm at Tetterley with him last summer. It is
really a model farm; first-rate dairy, grazing and wheat land, and such splendid
farm-buildings! An expensive hobby, though. He sinks a good deal of money there,
I fancy. He has a great whim for black cattle, and he sends that drunken old
Scotch bailiff of his to Scotland every year, with hundreds in his pocket, to
buy these beasts."
"By the by," said Mr Ely, "do you know who is the man to whom Lord Watling has
given the Bramhill living?"
"A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, and was
very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair. That's why Sargent
got the living."
"Sargent," said Mr Ely. "I know him. Isn't he a showy talkative fellow; has
written travels in Mesopotamia, or something or that sort?"
"That's the man."
"He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe's curate. He got into rather bad odour
there, through some scandal about a flirtation, I think."
"Talking of scandal," returned Mr Fellowes, "have you heard the last story about
Barton? Nisbett was telling me the other day that he dines alone with the
Countess at six, while Mrs Barton is in the kitchen acting as cook."
"Ah," said Mr Cleves, with good-natured humour twinkling in his eyes, "depend
upon it, that is a corrupt version. The original text is,
that they all dined
together with six�meaning six children�and that Mrs Barton is an excellent
cook."
"I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad business," said the
Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying that his wish was a strong figure of
speech.
"Well," said Mr Fellowes, filling his glass and looking jocose, "Barton is
certainly either the greatest gull in existence, or he has some cunning
secret,�some philtre or other to make himself charming in the eyes of a fair
lady. It isn't all of us that can make conquests when our ugliness is past its
bloom."
"The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the very outset," said Mr
Ely. "I was immensely amused one night at Granby's, when he was telling us her
story about her husband's adventures. He said, 'When she told me the tale, I
felt I don't know how,�I felt it from the crown of my head to the sole of my
feet.'"
Mr Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. Amos's fervour and
symbolic action, and every one laughed except Mr Duke, whose after-dinner view
of things was not apt to be jovial. He said,�
"I think some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr Barton on the scandal he is
causing. He is not only imperilling his own soul, but the souls of his flock."
"Depend upon it," said Mr Cleves, "there is some simple explanation of the whole
affair, if we only happened to know it. Barton has always impressed me as a
right-minded man, who has the knack of doing himself injustice by his manner."
"Now I never liked Barton," said Mr Fellowes. "He's not a gentleman. Why, he
used to be on terms of intimacy with that canting Prior, who died a little while
ago;�a fellow who soaked himself with spirits, and talked of the Gospel through
an inflamed nose."
"The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I dare say," said Mr Ely.
"Well," observed Mr Cleves, "the poor fellow must have a hard pull to get along,
with his small income and large family. Let us hope the Countess does something
towards making the pot boil."
"Not she," said Mr Duke; "there are greater signs of poverty about them than
ever."
"Well, come," returned Mr Cleves, who could be caustic sometimes, and who was
not at all fond of his reverend brother, Mr Duke, "that's something in Barton's
favour at all events. He might be poor without showing signs of poverty."
Mr Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blushing, and Mr Ely came to
his relief by observing,�
"They're making a very good piece of work of Shepperton Church. Dolby, the
architect, who has it in hand, is a very clever fellow."
"It's he who has been doing Coppleton Church," said Mr Furness. "They've got it
in excellent order for the visitation."
This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and thus opened a wide
duct, which entirely diverted the stream of animadversion from that small
pipe�that capillary vessel, the Rev. Amos Barton.
The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the esoteric part of their
profession; so we will at once quit the dining-room at Milby Vicarage, lest we
should happen to overhear remarks unsuited to the lay understanding, and perhaps
dangerous to our repose of mind.
CHAPTER VII.
I dare say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at Shepperton Vicarage
is very puzzling to you also, dear reader, as well as to Mr Barton's clerical
brethren; the more so, as I hope you are not in the least inclined to put that
very evil interpretation on it which evidently found acceptance with the sallow
and dyspeptic Mr Duke, and with the florid and highly peptic Mr Fellowes. You
have seen enough, I trust, of the Rev. Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was
more apt to fall into a blunder than into a sin�more apt to be deceived than to
incur a necessity for being deceitful: and if you have a keen eye for