

                                 Samuel Butler

                               Ernest Pontifex or

                              The Way of All Flesh

                        A Story of English Domestic Life

            »We know that all things work together for good to them that love
            God« (Rom. 8:28).
 

                                    Volume I

                                     Part I

                                   Chapter 1

When I was a small boy at the beginning of this century I remember an old man
who wore knee breeches and worsted stockings and used to hobble about the street
of our village with the help of a stick. He must have been getting on for eighty
in the year 1807, earlier than which date I suppose I can hardly remember him,
for I was born in 1802. A few white locks still hung about his ears, his
shoulders were bent and his knees feeble, but he was still hale, and was much
respected in our little world of Paleham. His name was Pontifex.
    His wife was said to be his master; I have been told she brought him a
little money but it cannot have been much. She was a tall square-shouldered
person (I have heard my father call her a Gothic woman) who had insisted on
being married to Mr. Pontifex when he was young, and too good natured to say nay
to any woman who wooed him. The pair had lived not unhappily together, for Mr.
Pontifex's temper was easy, and he soon learned to bow before his wife's more
stormy moods.
    Mr. Pontifex was a carpenter by trade; he was also at one time parish clerk;
when I remember him, however, he had so far risen in life as to be no longer
compelled to work with his own hands. In his earlier days he had taught himself
to draw. I do not say he drew well, but it was surprising he should draw as well
as he did. My father, who took the living of Paleham about the year 1797, became
possessed of a good many of old Mr. Pontifex's drawings, which were always of
local subjects, and so unaffectedly painstaking that they might have passed for
the work of some good early master; I remember them as hanging up framed and
glazed in the study at the rectory, and tinted, as all else in the room was
tinted, with the green reflected from the fringe of ivy leaves that grew around
the windows. I wonder how they will actually cease and come to an end as
drawings, and into what new phases of being they will then enter.
    Not content with being an artist, Mr. Pontifex must needs also be a
musician. He built the organ in the church with his own hands, and made a
smaller one which he kept in his own house. He could play much as he could draw;
not very well according to professional standards, but much better than could
have been expected. I myself showed a taste for music at an early age, and old
Mr. Pontifex on finding it out, as he soon did, became partial to me in
consequence.
    It may be thought that with so many irons in the fire he could hardly be a
very thriving man, but this was not the case. His father had been a day
labourer, and he had himself begun life with no other capital than his good
sense and good constitution; now, however, there was a goodly show of timber
about his yard, and a look of solid comfort over his whole establishment.
Towards the close of the last century and not long before my father came to
Paleham, he had taken a farm of about ninety acres, thus making a considerable
rise in life. Along with the farm there went an old-fashioned but comfortable
house with a charming garden and an orchard. The carpenter's business was now
carried on in one of the outhouses that had once been part of some conventual
buildings, the remains of which could be seen in what was called the Abbey
Close. The house itself, embosomed in honeysuckles and creeping roses, was an
ornament to the whole village, nor were its internal arrangements less exemplary
than its outside was ornamental. Report said that Mrs. Pontifex starched the
sheets for her best bed, and I can believe it. How well do I remember her
parlour half filled with the organ which her husband had built, and scented with
a withered apple or two from the pyrus japonica that grew outside the house; the
picture of the prize ox, over the chimney-piece, which Mr. Pontifex had painted;
the transparency of the man coming to show light to a coach upon a snowy night,
also by Mr. Pontifex; the little old man and little old woman who told the
weather; the china shepherd and shepherdess; the jars of feathery flowering
grasses, with a peacock's feather or two among them to set them off, and the
china bowls full of dead rose leaves dried with bay salt. All has long since
vanished and become a memory, faded, but still fragrant to myself.
    Nay but her kitchen - and the glimpses into a cavernous cellar beyond it,
wherefrom came gleams from the pale surfaces of milk cans, or it may be of the
arms and face of a milkmaid skimming the cream; or again her storeroom, where
among other treasures she kept the famous lipsalve which was one of her especial
glories, and of which she would present a shape yearly to those whom she
delighted to honour. She wrote out the recipe for this and gave it to my mother
a year or two before she died, but we could never make it as she did. When we
were children she used sometimes to send her respects to my mother, and ask
leave for us to come and take tea with her. Right well she used to ply us. As
for her temper, we never met such a delightful old lady in our lives; whatever
Mr. Pontifex may have had to put up with we had no cause of complaint, and then
Mr. Pontifex would play to us upon the organ, and we would stand round him
open-mouthed and think him the most wonderfully clever man that ever was born,
except, of course, our papa.
    Mrs. Pontifex had no sense of humour, at least I can call to mind no signs
of this, but her husband had plenty of fun in him, though few would have guessed
it from his appearance. I remember my father once sent me down to his workshop
to get some glue, and I happened to come when old Pontifex was in the act of
scolding his boy. He had got the lad - a pudding-headed fellow - by the ear, and
was saying, »What? Lost again - smothered o' wit.« I believe it was the boy who
was himself supposed to be of wandering soul, and who was thus addressed as
lost.
    Another time I remember hearing him call the village rat catcher by saying,
»Come hither, thou three days and three nights, thou,« alluding, as I afterwards
learned, to the rat catcher's periods of intoxication; but I will tell no more
of such trifles. My father's face would always brighten when old Pontifex's name
was mentioned. »I tell you, Edward,« he would say to me, »old Pontifex was not
only an able man, but he was one of the very ablest men that ever I knew.«
    This was more than I as a young man was prepared to stand. »My dear father,«
I answered, »what did he do? He could draw a little, but could he to save his
life have got a picture into the Royal Academy exhibition? He built two organs
and could play the Minuet in Samson on one and the March in Scipio on the other;
he was a good carpenter and a bit of a wag; he was a good old fellow enough, but
why make him out so much abler than he was?«
    »My boy,« returned my father, »you must not judge by the work, but by the
work in connection with the surroundings. Could Giotto or Filippo Lippi, think
you, have got a picture into the exhibition? Would a single one of those
frescoes we went to see when we were at Padua have the remotest chance of being
hung, if it were sent in for exhibition now? Why, the Academy people would be so
outraged that they would not even write to poor Giotto to tell him to come and
take his fresco away. Phew,« continued he, waxing warm, »if old Pontifex had had
Cromwell's chances he would have done all that Cromwell did, and have done it
better; if he had had Giotto's chances he would have done all that Giotto did,
and done it no worse; as it was, he was a village carpenter, and I will
undertake to say he never scamped a job in the whole course of his life.«
    »But,« said I, »we cannot judge people with so many ifs. If old Pontifex had
lived in Giotto's time he might have been another Giotto, but he did not live in
Giotto's time.«
    »I tell you Edward,« said my father with some severity, »we must judge men
not so much by what they do, as by what they make us feel that they have it in
them to do. If a man has done enough either in painting, music, or the affairs
of life, to make me feel that I might trust him in an emergency he has done
enough. It is not by what a man has actually put upon his canvas, nor yet by the
acts which he has set down, so to speak, upon the canvas of his life that I will
judge him, but by what he makes me feel that he felt and aimed at. If he has
made me feel that he felt that to be loveable which I hold loveable myself I ask
no more; his grammar may have been imperfect, but still I have understood him;
he and I are en rapport; and I say again, Edward, that old Pontifex was not only
an able man, but one of the very ablest men I ever knew.«
    Against this there was no more to be said, and my sisters eyed me to
silence. Somehow or other my sisters always did eye me to silence when I
differed from my father.
    »Talk of his successful son,« snorted my father, whom I had fairly roused,
»he is not fit to black his father's boots. He has his thousands of pounds a
year, while his father had perhaps three thousand shillings a year towards the
end of his life. He is a successful man; but his father, hobbling about Paleham
Street in his grey worsted stockings, broad-brimmed hat and brown swallow-tailed
coat, was worth a hundred of George Pontifexes, for all his carriages and horses
and the airs he gives himself.«
    »But yet,« he added, »George Pontifex is no fool either.« And this brings us
to the second generation of the Pontifex family with whom we need concern
ourselves.
 

                                   Chapter 2

Old Mr. Pontifex had married in the year 1750, but for fifteen years his wife
bore no children. At the end of that time Mrs. Pontifex astonished the whole
village by showing unmistakeable signs of a disposition to present her husband
with an heir or heiress. Hers had long ago been considered a hopeless case, and
when on consulting the doctor concerning the meaning of certain symptoms she was
informed of their significance, she became very angry, and abused the doctor
roundly for talking nonsense. She refused to put so much as a piece of thread
into a needle in anticipation of her confinement and would have been absolutely
unprepared, if her neighbours had not been better judges of her condition than
she was, and got things ready without telling her anything about it. Perhaps she
feared Nemesis, though assuredly she knew not who or what Nemesis was; perhaps
she feared the doctor had made a mistake, and she should be laughed at; from
whatever cause, however, her refusal to recognise the obvious arose, she
certainly refused to recognise it, until one snowy night in January the doctor
was sent for with all urgent speed across the rough country roads. When he
arrived he found two patients, not one, in need of his assistance, for a boy had
been born who was in due time christened George, in honour of his then reigning
majesty.
    To the best of my belief George Pontifex got the greater part of his nature
from this obstinate old lady, his mother - a mother who though she loved no one
else in the world except her husband (and him only after a fashion) was most
tenderly attached to the unexpected child of her old age; nevertheless she
showed it little.
    The boy grew up into a sturdy bright-eyed little fellow, with plenty of
intelligence, and perhaps a trifle too great readiness at book learning. Being
kindly treated at home, he was as fond of his father and mother as it was in his
nature to be of anyone, but he was fond of no one else. He had a good healthy
sense of meum, and as little of tuum as he could help; brought up much in the
open air in one of the best situated and healthiest villages in England, his
little limbs had fair play, and in those days children's brains were not
overtasked as they now are; perhaps it was for this very reason that the boy
showed an avidity to learn. At seven or eight years old he could read write and
sum better than any other boy of his age in the village. My father was not yet
rector of Paleham, and did not remember George Pontifex's childhood, but I have
heard neighbours tell him that the boy was looked upon as unusually quick and
forward. His father and mother were naturally proud of their offspring, and his
mother was determined that he should one day become one of the kings and
councillors of the earth.
    It is one thing however to resolve that one's son shall win some of life's
larger prizes, and another to square matters with fortune in this respect.
George Pontifex might have been brought up as a carpenter and succeeded in no
other way than as succeeding his father as one of the minor magnates of Paleham,
and yet have been a more truly successful man than he actually was - for I take
it there is no much more solid success in this world than what fell to the lot
of old Mr. and Mrs. Pontifex; it happened, however, that about the year 1780
when George was a boy of fifteen, a sister of Mrs. Pontifex's who had married a
Mr. Fairlie came to pay a few days' visit at Paleham. Mr. Fairlie was a
publisher, chiefly of religious works, and had an establishment in Paternoster
Row; he had risen in life and his wife had risen with him. No very close
relations had been maintained between the sisters for some years, and I forget
exactly how it came about that Mr. and Mrs. Fairlie were guests in the quiet but
exceedingly comfortable house of their sister and brother-in-law; but for some
reason or other the visit was paid, and little George soon succeeded in making
his way into his uncle and aunt's good graces. A quick intelligent boy, with a
good address, a sound constitution, and coming of respectable parents, has a
potential value which a practised business man who has need of many subordinates
is little likely to overlook. Before his visit was over Mr. Fairlie proposed to
the lad's father and mother that he should put him into his own business, at the
same time promising that if the boy did well he should not want some one to
bring him forward. Mrs. Pontifex had her son's interest too much at heart to
refuse such an offer, so the matter was soon arranged, and about a fortnight
after the Fairlies had left, George was sent up by coach to London, where he was
met by his uncle and aunt, with whom it was arranged that he should live.
    This was George's great start in life. He now wore more fashionable clothes
than he had yet been accustomed to, and any little rusticity of gait or
pronunciation which he had brought from Paleham was so quickly and completely
lost that it was ere long impossible to detect that he had not been born and
bred among people of what is commonly called education. The boy paid great
attention to his work, and more than justified the favourable opinion which Mr.
Fairlie had formed concerning him. Sometimes Mr. Fairlie would send him down to
Paleham for a few days' holiday, and ere long his parents perceived that he had
acquired a different air and manner of talking to any that he had taken with him
from Paleham. They were proud of him, and soon fell into their proper places,
resigning all appearance of a parental control, for which, indeed, there was no
kind of necessity. In return, George was always kindly to them, and to the end
of his life retained a more affectionate feeling towards his father and mother
than I imagine him ever to have felt again for man, woman, or child.
    George's visits to Paleham were never long, for the distance from London was
under fifty miles and there was a direct coach, so that the journey was easy;
there was not time, therefore, for the novelty to wear off either on the part of
the young man or of his parents. George liked the fresh country air and green
fields after the darkness to which he had been so long accustomed in Paternoster
Row - which then, as now, was a narrow gloomy lane rather than a street.
Independently of the pleasure of seeing the familiar faces of the farmers and
villagers, he liked also being seen and being congratulated on growing up such a
fine-looking and fortunate young fellow - for he was not the youth to hide his
light under a bushel. His uncle had had him taught Latin and Greek, of an
evening; he had taken kindly to these languages and had rapidly and easily
mastered what many boys take years in acquiring. I suppose his knowledge gave
him a self-confidence which made itself felt whether he intended it or no; at
any rate he soon began to pose as a judge of literature, and from this to being
a judge of art, architecture, music and everything else. The path was easy. Like
his father he knew the value of money, but he was at once more ostentatious and
less liberal than his father; while yet a boy he was a thorough little man of
the world, and did well rather upon principles which he had tested by personal
experiment and recognised as principles, than from those profounder convictions
which in his father were so instinctive that he could give no account concerning
them.
    His father, as I have said, wondered at him and let him alone. His son had
fairly distanced him, and in an inarticulate way the father knew it perfectly
well. After a few years he took to wearing his best clothes whenever his son
came to stay with him, nor would he discard them for his ordinary ones till the
young man had returned to London. I believe old Mr. Pontifex along with his
pride and affection felt also a certain fear of his son, as though of something
which he could not thoroughly understand, and whose ways, notwithstanding
outward agreement, were nevertheless not as his ways; Mrs. Pontifex however felt
nothing of this; to her, George was pure and absolute perfection, and she saw,
or thought she saw, with pleasure, that he resembled her and her family in
feature as well as in disposition rather than her husband, and his.
    When George was about twenty-five years old his uncle took him into
partnership on very liberal terms. He had little cause to regret this step. The
young man infused fresh vigour into a concern that was already vigorous, and by
the time he was thirty found himself in the receipt of not less than £1500 a
year as his share of the profits. Two years later he married a lady about seven
years younger than himself who brought him a handsome dowry; she died however in
1805 when her youngest child Alethæa was born, and her husband did not marry
again.
 

                                   Chapter 3

In the early years of this century five little children and a couple of nurses
began to make periodical visits to Paleham. It is needless to say they were a
rising generation of Pontifexes towards whom the old couple, their grandparents,
were as tenderly deferential as they would have been to the children of the Lord
Lieutenant of the County. Their names were Eliza, Maria, John, Theobald (who
like myself was born in 1802), and Alethæa. Mr. Pontifex always put the prefix
master or miss before the names of his grandchildren, except in the case of
Alethæa, who was his favourite. To have resisted his grandchildren would have
been as impossible for him as to have resisted his wife; even old Mrs. Pontifex
yielded before her son's children, and gave them all manner of license which she
would never have allowed even to my sisters and myself, who stood next in her
regard. Two regulations only they must attend to: they must wipe their shoes
well on coming into the house, and they must not overfeed Mr. Pontifex's organ
with wind, nor take the pipes out.
    By us, at the rectory, there was no time so much looked forward to as the
annual visit of the little Pontifexes to Paleham. We came in for some of the
prevailing license: we went to tea with Mrs. Pontifex to meet her grandchildren,
and then our young friends were asked to the rectory to have tea with us, and we
had what we considered great times. I fell desperately in love with Alethæa,
indeed we all fell in love with each other, plurality and exchange whether of
wives or husbands being openly and unblushingly advocated in the very presence
of our nurses; we were very merry, but it is so long ago that I have forgotten
nearly everything save that we were very merry; almost the only thing that
remains with me as a permanent impression was the fact that Theobald one day
beat his nurse and teased her, and when she said she should go away cried out,
»You shan't go away - I'll keep you on purpose to torment you.«
    One winter's morning however in the year 1811, we heard the church bell
tolling while we were dressing in the back nursery, and were told it was for old
Mrs. Pontifex. Our manservant John told us, and added with grim levity that they
were ringing the bell to come and take her away: she had had a fit of paralysis
which had carried her off quite suddenly. It was very shocking - the more so
because our nurse assured us that if God chose we might all have fits of
paralysis ourselves that very day, and be taken straight off to the day of
judgement. The day of judgement indeed, according to the opinion of those who
were most likely to know, would not under any circumstances be delayed more than
a few years longer, and then the whole world would be burned, and we ourselves
be consigned to an eternity of torture, unless we mended our ways more than we
at present seemed at all likely to do. All this was so alarming that we fell to
screaming and made such a hullabaloo that the nurse was obliged for her own
peace to reassure us. Then we wept, but more composedly, as we remembered that
there would be no more tea and cakes for us now at old Mrs. Pontifex's.
    On the day of the funeral, however, we had a great excitement. Old Mr.
Pontifex sent round a penny loaf to every inhabitant of the village, according
to a custom still not uncommon at the beginning of this century; the loaf was
called a dole. We had never heard of this custom before, besides though we had
often heard of penny loaves we had never before seen one; moreover they were
presents to us as inhabitants of the village, and we were treated as grown up
people, for our father and mother and the servants had each one loaf sent them,
but only one; we had never yet suspected that we were inhabitants at all;
finally, the little loaves were new, and we were passionately fond of new bread,
which we were seldom or never allowed to have, as it was supposed not to be good
for us. Our affection, therefore, for our old friend had to stand against the
combined attacks of archæological interest, the rights of citizenship and
property, the pleasantness to the eye and goodness for food of the little loaves
themselves, and the sense of importance which was given us by our having been
intimate with someone who had actually died. It seemed upon further enquiry that
there was little reason to anticipate an early death for any one of ourselves,
and this being so, we rather liked the idea of someone else's being put away
into the churchyard; we passed, therefore, in a short time from extreme
depression to a no less extreme exultation; a new heaven and a new earth had
been revealed to us in our perception of the possibility of benefiting by the
death of our friends, and I fear that for some time we took an interest in the
health of everyone in the village whose position rendered a repetition of the
dole in the least likely.
    Those were the days in which all great things seemed far off, and we were
astonished to find that Napoleon Buonaparte was an actually living person; we
had thought such a great man could only have lived a very long time ago, and
here he was after all almost as it were at our own doors - this lent colour to
the view that the day of judgement might indeed be nearer than we had thought -
but nurse said that was all right now and she knew. In those days the snow lay
longer and drifted deeper in the lanes than it does now, and the milk was
sometimes brought in frozen in winter, and we were taken down into the back
kitchen to see it. I suppose there are rectories up and down the country now
where the milk comes in frozen sometimes in winter and the children go down to
wonder at it - but I never see any frozen milk in London, so I suppose the
winters are warmer than they used to be.
    About one year after his wife, Mr. Pontifex also was gathered to his
fathers. My father saw him the day before he died. The old man had a theory
about sunsets and had had two steps built up against a wall in the kitchen
garden on which he used to stand and watch the sun go down whenever it was
clear. My father came on him in the afternoon, just as the sun was setting, and
saw him with his arms resting on the top of the wall looking towards the sun
over a field through which there was a path on which my father was. My father
heard him say »Good bye sun, good bye sun,« as the sun sank, and saw by his tone
and manner that he was feeling very feeble. Before the next sunset he was gone.
    There was no dole. Some of his grandchildren were brought to the funeral and
we remonstrated with them, but did not take much by doing so. John Pontifex, who
was a year older than I was, sneered at penny loaves, and intimated that if I
wanted one it must be because my papa and mamma could not afford to buy me one,
whereon I believe we did something like fighting, and I rather think John
Pontifex ran away - but it may have been the other way. I remember my sister's
nurse, for I was just outgrowing nurses myself, reported the matter to higher
quarters, and we were all of us put to some ignominy, but we had been thoroughly
awakened from our dream, and it was long enough before we could hear the words
penny loaf mentioned without our ears tingling with shame. If there had been a
dozen doles afterwards we should not have deigned to touch one of them.
    George Pontifex put up a monument to his parents, a plain slab in Paleham
church, inscribed with the following epitaph -
 
                              Sacred to the Memory
                                       of
                                 JOHN PONTIFEX
            who was born August 16, 1727 and died February 8, 1812,
                                in his 85th year
                                     and of
                             RUTH PONTIFEX his Wife
            who was born October 13, 1727 and died January 10, 1811,
                                        
                               in her 84th year.
  They were unostentatious but exemplary in the discharge of their religious,
      moral and social duties. This monument was placed by their only son.
 

                                   Chapter 4

In a year or two more came Waterloo and the European peace. Then Mr. George
Pontifex went abroad more than once. I remember seeing at Battersby in after
years the diary which he kept on the first of these occasions. It is a
characteristic document. I felt as I read it that the author before starting had
made up his mind to admire only what he thought it would be creditable in him to
admire, to look at nature and art only through the spectacles that had been
handed down to him by generation after generation of prigs and impostors. The
first glimpse of Mont Blanc threw Mr. Pontifex into a conventional ecstasy. »My
feelings I cannot express. I gasped, yet hardly dared to breathe, as I viewed
for the first time the monarch of the mountains. I seemed to fancy the genius
seated on his stupendous throne far above his aspiring brethren and in his
solitary might defying the universe. I was so overcome by my feelings that I was
almost bereft of my faculties, and would not for worlds have spoken after my
first exclamation till I found some relief in a gush of tears. With pain I tore
myself from contemplating for the first time at distance dimly seen (though I
felt as if I had sent my soul and eyes after it) this sublime spectacle.« After
a nearer view of the Alps from above Geneva he walked nine out of the twelve
miles of the descent: »My mind and heart were too full to sit still, and I found
some relief by exhausting my feelings through exercise.« In the course of time
he reached Chamonix and went on a Sunday to the Montanvert to see the Mer de
Glace. There he wrote the following verses for the visitors' book, which he
considered, so he says, »suitable to the day and scene« -
 
Lord, while these wonders of thy hand I see,
My soul in holy reverence bends to thee.
These awful solitudes, this dread repose,
Yon pyramid sublime of spotless snows,
These spiry pinnacles, those smiling plains,
This sea where one eternal winter reigns,
These are thy works, and while on them I gaze
I hear a silent tongue that speaks thy praise.
 
Some poets always begin to get groggy about the knees after running for seven or
eight lines. Mr. Pontifex's last couplet gave him a lot of trouble, and nearly
every word has been erased and rewritten once at least. In the visitors' book at
the Montanvert, however, he must have been obliged to commit himself definitely
to one reading or another. Taking the verses all round, I should say that Mr.
Pontifex was right in considering them suitable to the day; I don't like being
too hard even on the Mer de Glace, so will give no opinion as to whether they
are suitable to the scene also.
    Mr. Pontifex went on to the Great St. Bernard and there he wrote some more
verses, this time I am afraid in Latin. He also took good care to be properly
impressed by the Hospice and its situation. »The whole of this most
extraordinary journey seemed like a dream, its conclusion especially, in
gentlemanly society, with every comfort and accommodation amidst the rudest
rocks and in the region of perpetual snow. The thought that I was sleeping in a
convent and occupied the bed of no less a person than Napoleon, that I was in
the highest inhabited spot in the old world and in a place celebrated in every
part of it, kept me awake some time.« As a contrast to this, I may quote here an
extract from a letter written to me last year by his grandson Ernest, of whom
the reader will hear more presently. The passage runs: »I went up to the Great
St. Bernard and saw the dogs.« In due course Mr. Pontifex found his way into
Italy, where the pictures and other works of art - those, at least, which were
fashionable at that time - threw him into genteel paroxysms of admiration. Of
the Uffizi Gallery at Florence he writes: »I have spent three hours this morning
in the gallery and I have made up my mind that if of all the treasures I have
seen in Italy I were to choose one room it would be the Tribune of this gallery.
It contains the Venus de' Medici, the Explorator, the Pancratist, the Dancing
Faun and a fine Apollo. These more than outweigh the Laocoon and the Belvedere
Apollo at Rome. It contains, besides, the St. John of Raphael and many other
chefs-d'oeuvre of the greatest masters in the world.« It is interesting to
compare Mr. Pontifex's effusions with the rhapsodies of critics in our own
times. Not long ago a much esteemed writer informed the world that he felt
»disposed to cry out with delight« before a figure by Michael Angelo. I wonder
whether he would feel disposed to cry out before a real Michael Angelo, if the
critics had decided that it was not genuine, or before a reputed Michael Angelo
which was really by someone else. But I suppose that a prig with more money than
brains was much the same sixty or seventy years ago as he is now.
    Look at Mendelssohn again about this same Tribune on which Mr. Pontifex felt
so safe in staking his reputation as a man of taste and culture. He feels no
less safe and writes, »I then went to the Tribune. This room is so delightfully
small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, yet it contains a world of art. I
again sought out my favourite armchair which stands under the statue of the
Slave whetting his knife (L'Arrotino), and taking possession of it I enjoyed
myself for a couple of hours; for here at one glance I had the Madonna del
Cardellino, Pope Julius II., a female portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely
Holy Family by Perugino; and so close to me that I could have touched with my
hand the Venus de' Medici; beyond, that of Titian. ... The space between is
occupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a Domenichino,
etc., etc., all these within the circumference of a small semi-circle no larger
than one of your own rooms. This is a spot where a man feels his own
insignificance and may well learn to be humble.« The Tribune is a slippery place
for people like Mendelssohn to study humility in. They generally take two steps
away from it for one they take towards it. I wonder how many chalks Mendelssohn
gave himself for having sat two hours on that chair. I wonder how often he
looked at his watch to see if his two hours were up. I wonder how often he told
himself that he was quite as big a gun, if the truth were known, as any of the
men whose works he saw before him, how often he wondered whether any of the
visitors were recognising him and admiring him for sitting such a long time in
the same chair, and how often he was vexed at seeing them pass him by and take
no notice of him. But perhaps if the truth were known his two hours was not
quite two hours.
    Returning to Mr. Pontifex, whether he liked what he believed to be the
masterpieces of Greek and Italian art or no, he brought back some copies by
Italian artists, which I have no doubt he satisfied himself would bear the
strictest examination with the originals. Two of these copies fell to Theobald's
share on the division of his father's furniture, and I have often seen them at
Battersby on my visits to Theobald and his wife. The one was a Madonna by
Sassoferrato with a blue hood over her head which threw it half into shadow. The
other was a Magdalen by Carlo Dolci with a very fine head of hair and a marble
vase in her hands. When I was a young man I used to think these pictures were
beautiful, but with each successive visit to Battersby I got to dislike them
more and more and to see George Pontifex written all over both of them. In the
end I ventured after a tentative fashion to blow on them a little, but Theobald
and his wife were up in arms at once. They did not like their father and
father-in-law, but there could be no question about his power and general
ability, nor about his having been a man of consummate taste both in literature
and art - indeed the diary he kept during his foreign tour was enough to prove
this. With one more short extract I will leave this diary and proceed with my
story. During his stay in Florence Mr. Pontifex wrote: »I have just seen the
Grand Duke and his family pass by in two carriages and six, but little more
notice is taken of them than if I, who am utterly unknown here, were to pass
by.« I don't think that he half believed in his being utterly unknown in
Florence or anywhere else!
 

                                   Chapter 5

Fortune, we are told, is a blind and fickle fostermother, who showers her gifts
at random upon her nurslings. But we do her a grave injustice if we believe such
an accusation. Trace a man's career from his cradle to his grave and mark how
Fortune has treated him. You will find that when he is once dead she can for the
most part be vindicated from the charge of any but very superficial fickleness.
Her blindness is the merest fable; she can espy her favourites long before they
are born. We are as days and have had our parents for our yesterdays, but
through all the fair weather of a clear parental sky the eye of Fortune can
discern the coming storm, and she laughs as she places her favourites: it may be
in a London alley, or those whom she is resolved to ruin in kings' palaces.
Seldom does she relent towards those whom she has suckled unkindly and seldom
does she completely fail a favoured nursling.
    Was George Pontifex one of Fortune's favoured nurslings or not? On the whole
I should say that he was not, for he did not consider himself so; he was too
religious to consider Fortune a deity at all; he took whatever she gave and
never thanked her, being firmly convinced that whatever he got to his own
advantage was of his own getting. And so it was, after Fortune had made him able
to get it.
    »Nos te, nos facimus, Fortuna, deam,« exclaimed the poet. »It is we who make
thee, Fortune, a goddess«; and so it is, after Fortune has made us able to make
her. The poet says nothing as to the making of the nos. Perhaps some men are
independent of antecedents and surroundings and have an initial force within
themselves which is in no way due to causation; but this is supposed to be a
difficult question and it may be as well to avoid it. Let it suffice that George
Pontifex did not consider himself fortunate, and he who does not consider
himself fortunate is unfortunate.
    True, he was rich, universally respected and of an excellent natural
constitution. If he had eaten and drunk less he would never have known a day's
indisposition. Perhaps his main strength lay in the fact that though his
capacity was a little above the average, it was not too much so. It is on this
rock that so many clever people split. The successful man will see just so much
more than his neighbours as they will be able to see too when it is shown them,
but not enough to puzzle them. It is far safer to know too little than too much.
People will condemn the one, though they will resent being called upon to exert
themselves to follow the other. The best example of Mr. Pontifex's good sense in
matters connected with his business which I can think of at this moment is the
revolution which he effected in the style of advertising works published by the
firm. When he first became a partner one of the firm's advertisements ran thus -
 
        »Books proper to be given away at this Season. -
            The Pious Country Parishioner, being directions how a Christian may
        manage every day in the course of his whole life with safety and
        success; how to spend the Sabbath Day; what books of the Holy Scriptures
        ought to be read first; the whole method of education; collects for the
        most important virtues that adorn the soul: a discourse on the Lord's
        Supper; rules to set the soul right in sickness; so that in this
        treatise are contained all the rules requisite for salvation. The 8th
        edition with additions. Price 10d.
            * * * An allowance will be made to those who give them away.«
 
Before he had been many years a partner the advertisement stood as follows: -
 
        »The Pious Country Parishioner. A complete manual of Christian Devotion.
        Price 10d.
            A reduction will be made to purchasers for gratuitous distribution.«
 
What a stride is made in the foregoing towards the modern standard, and what
intelligence is involved in the perception of the unseemliness of the old style,
when others did not perceive it!
    Where then was the weak place in George Pontifex's armour? I suppose in the
fact that he had risen too rapidly. It would almost seem as if a transmitted
education of some generations is necessary for the due enjoyment of great
wealth. Adversity, if a man is set down to it by degrees, is more supportable
with equanimity by most people than any great prosperity arrived at in a single
lifetime. Nevertheless a certain kind of good fortune generally attends
self-made men to the last. It is their children of the first, or first and
second, generation who are in greater danger, for the race can no more repeat
its most successful performances suddenly and without its ebbings and flowings
of success than the individual can do so, and the more brilliant the success in
any one generation, the greater as a general rule the subsequent exhaustion
until time has been allowed for recovery. Hence it often happens that the
grandson of a successful man will be more successful than the son - the spirit
that actuated the grandfather having lain fallow in the son and being refreshed
by repose so as to be ready for fresh exertion in the grandson. A very
successful man, moreover, has something of the hybrid in him; he is a new
animal, arising from the coming together of many unfamiliar elements and it is
well known that the reproduction of abnormal growths, whether animal or
vegetable, is irregular and not to be depended upon, even when they are not
absolutely sterile.
    And certainly Mr. Pontifex's success was exceedingly rapid. Only a few years
after he had become a partner his uncle and aunt both died within a few months
of one another. It was then found that they had made him their heir. He was thus
not only sole partner in the business, but found himself with a fortune of some
£30,000 into the bargain, and this was a large sum in those days. Money came
pouring in upon him, and the faster it came the fonder he became of it, though,
as he frequently said, he valued it not for its own sake, but only as a means of
providing for his dear children.
    Yet when a man is very fond of his money it is not easy for him at all times
to be very fond of his children also. The two are like God and Mammon. Lord
Macaulay has a passage in which he contrasts the pleasures which a man may
derive from books with the inconveniences to which he may be put by his
acquaintances. »Plato,« he says, »is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulant.
Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays too long. No difference
of political opinion can alienate Cicero. No heresy can excite the horror of
Bossuet.« I dare say I might differ from Lord Macaulay in my estimate of some of
the writers he has named, but there can be no disputing his main proposition,
namely, that we need have no more trouble from any of them than we have a mind
to, whereas our friends are not always so easily disposed of. George Pontifex
felt this as regards his children and his money. His money was never naughty;
his money never made noise or litter, and did not spill things on the tablecloth
at meal times, or leave the door open when it went out. His dividends did not
quarrel among themselves, nor was he under any uneasiness lest his mortgages
should become extravagant on reaching manhood and run him up debts which sooner
or later he should have to pay. There were tendencies in John which made him
very uneasy, and Theobald, his second son, was idle and at times far from
truthful. His children might, perhaps, have answered, had they known what was in
their father's mind, that he did not knock his money about as he not
infrequently knocked his children. He never dealt hastily or pettishly with his
money, and that was perhaps why he and it got on so well together.
    It must be remembered that at the beginning of the nineteenth century the
relations between parents and children were still far from satisfactory. The
violent type of father, as described by Fielding, Richardson, Smollett and
Sheridan, is now hardly more likely to find a place in literature than the
original advertisement of Messrs. Fairlie &amp; Pontifex's »Pious Country
Parishioner,« but the type was much too persistent not to have been drawn from
nature closely. The parents in Miss Austen's novels are less like savage wild
beasts than those of her predecessors, but she evidently looks upon them with
suspicion, and an uneasy feeling that le père de famille est capable de tout
makes itself sufficiently apparent throughout the greater part of her writings.
In the Elizabethan time the relations between parents and children seem on the
whole to have been more kindly. The fathers and the sons are for the most part
friends in Shakespeare, nor does the evil appear to have reached its full
abomination till a long course of Puritanism had familiarised men's minds with
Jewish ideals as those which we should endeavour to reproduce in our everyday
life. What precedents did not Abraham, Jephthah and Jonadab the son of Rechab
offer? How easy was it to quote and follow them in an age when few reasonable
men or women doubted that every syllable of the Old Testament was taken down
verbatim from the mouth of God. Moreover, Puritanism restricted natural
pleasures; it substituted the Jeremiad for the Pæan, and it forgot that the poor
abuses of all times want countenance.
    Mr. Pontifex may have been a little sterner with his children than some of
his neighbours, but not much. He thrashed his boys two or three times a week and
some weeks a good deal oftener, but in those days fathers were always thrashing
their boys. It is easy to have juster views when everyone else has them, but
fortunately or unfortunately results have nothing whatever to do with the moral
guilt or blamelessness of him who brings them about; they depend solely upon the
thing done, whatever it may happen to be. The moral guilt or blamelessness in
like manner has nothing to do with the result; it turns upon the question
whether a sufficient number of reasonable people placed as the actor was placed
would have done as the actor has done. At that time it was universally admitted
that to spare the rod was to spoil the child, and St. Paul had placed
disobedience to parents in very ugly company. If his children did anything which
Mr. Pontifex disliked they were clearly disobedient to their father. In this
case there was obviously only one course for a sensible man to take. It
consisted in checking the first signs of self-will while his children were too
young to offer serious resistance. If their wills were well broken in childhood,
to use an expression then much in vogue, they would acquire habits of obedience
which they would not venture to break through till they were over twenty-one
years old. Then they might please themselves; he should know how to protect
himself; till then he and his money were more at their mercy than he liked.
    How little do we know our thoughts - our reflex actions indeed, yes; but our
reflections! Man, forsooth, prides himself on his consciousness. We boast that
we differ from the winds and waves and falling stones, and plants, which grow
they know not why, and from the wandering creatures which go up and down after
their prey, as we are pleased to say without the help of reason. We know so well
what we are doing ourselves, and why we do it, do we not? I fancy that there is
some truth in the view which is being put forward nowadays, that it is our less
conscious thoughts and our less conscious actions which mainly mould our own
lives and the lives of those who spring from us.
 

                                   Chapter 6

Mr. Pontifex was not the man to trouble himself much about his motives; people
were not so introspective then as we are now; they lived more according to a
rule of thumb. Dr. Arnold had not yet sown that crop of earnest thinkers which
we are now harvesting, and men did not see why they should not have their own
way if no evil consequences to themselves seemed likely to follow upon their
doing so. Then as now, however, they sometimes let themselves in for more evil
consequences than they had bargained for.
    Like other rich men at the beginning of this century he ate and drank a good
deal more than was enough to keep him in health. Even his excellent constitution
was not proof against a prolonged course of overfeeding, and what we should now
consider overdrinking. His liver would not unfrequently get out of order, and he
would come down to breakfast looking yellow about the eyes. Then the young
people knew that they had better look out: it is not as a general rule the
eating of sour grapes that causes the children's teeth to be set on edge;
well-to-do parents seldom eat many sour grapes; the danger to the children lies
in the parents eating too many sweet ones.
    I grant that at first sight it seems very unjust, that the parents should
have the fun and the children be punished for it, but young people should
remember that for many years they were part and parcel of their parents and
therefore had a good deal of the fun in the person of their parents. If they
have forgotten the fun now, that is no more than people do who have a headache
after having been tipsy overnight. The man with a headache does not pretend to
be a different person from the man who got drunk, and claim that it is his self
of the preceding night and not his self of this morning who should be punished;
no more should offspring complain of the headache which it has earned when in
the person of its parents, for the continuation of identity, though not so
immediately apparent, is just as real in one case as in the other. What is
really hard is when the parents have the fun after the children have been born,
and the children are punished for this.
    On these, his black days, he would take very gloomy views of things and say
to himself that in spite of all his goodness to them his children did not love
him. But who can love any man whose liver is out of order? How base, he would
exclaim to himself, was such ingratitude! How especially hard upon himself, who
had been such a model son, and always honoured and obeyed his parents though
they had not spent one hundredth part of the money upon him which he had
lavished upon his own children. »It is always the same story,« he would say to
himself, »the more young people have the more they want, and the less thanks one
gets; I have made a great mistake; I have been far too lenient with my children;
never mind; I have done my duty by them, and more; if they fail in theirs to me,
it is a matter between God and them. I, at any rate, am guiltless. Why, I might
have married again and become the father of a second and perhaps more
affectionate family, etc., etc.« He pitied himself for the expensive education
which he was giving his children; he did not see that the education cost the
children far more than it cost him, inasmuch as it cost them the power of
earning their living easily rather than helped them towards it, and ensured
their being at the mercy of their father for years after they had come to an age
when they should be independent. A public school education cuts off a boy's
retreat: he can no longer become a labourer or a mechanic, and these are the
only people whose tenure of independence is not precarious - with the exception
of course of those who are born inheritors of money, or who are placed young in
some safe and deep groove. Mr. Pontifex saw nothing of this; all he saw was that
he was spending much more money upon his children than the law would have
compelled him to do, and what more could you have? Might he not have apprenticed
both his sons to greengrocers? Might he not even yet do so tomorrow morning if
he were so minded? The possibility of this course being adopted was a favourite
topic with him when he was out of temper; true, he never did apprentice either
of his sons to greengrocers, but his boys comparing notes together had sometimes
come to the conclusion that they wished he would.
    At other times when not quite well he would have them in for the fun of
shaking his will at them. He would in his imagination cut them all out one after
another and leave his money to found almshouses, till at last he was obliged to
put them back, so that he might have the pleasure of cutting them out again next
time he was in a passion. Of course if young people allow their conduct to be in
any way influenced by regard to the wills of living persons, they are doing very
wrong and must expect to be sufferers in the end; nevertheless the powers of
will-dangling and will-shaking are so liable to abuse and are continually made
so great an engine of torture that I would pass a law, if I could, to
incapacitate any man from making a will for three months from the date of each
offence in either of the above respects, and let the bench of magistrates or
judge before whom he has been convicted dispose of his property as they shall
think right and reasonable if he dies during the time that his will-making power
is suspended.
    Mr. Pontifex would have the boys into the dining-room. »My dear John, my
dear Theobald,« he would say, »look at me. I began life with nothing but the
clothes with which my father and mother sent me up to London. My father gave me
ten shillings, and my mother five for pocket money, and I thought them
munificent. I never asked my father for a shilling in the whole course of my
life, nor took aught from him beyond the small sum he used to allow me monthly
till I was in receipt of a salary. I made my own way, and I shall expect my sons
to do the same. Pray don't take it into your heads that I am going to wear my
life out making money that my sons may spend it for me. If you want money you
must make it for yourselves as I did, for I give you my word I will not leave a
penny to either of you unless you show that you deserve it. Young people seem
nowadays to expect all kinds of luxuries and indulgences which were never heard
of when I was a boy. Why, my father was a common carpenter, and here you are
both of you at public school costing me ever so many hundreds a year, while I at
your age was plodding away behind a desk in my uncle Fairlie's counting house.
What should I not have done if I had had one half of your advantages? You should
become dukes, or found new empires in undiscovered countries, and even then I
doubt whether you would have done proportionately so much as I have done. No,
no, I shall see you through school and college, and then if you please you will
make your own way in the world.«
    In this way he would work himself up into such a state of virtuous
indignation that he would sometimes thrash the boys then and there upon some
pretext invented at the moment.
    And yet as children went, the young Pontifexes were fortunate; there would
be ten families of young people worse off for one better; they ate and drank
good wholesome food, slept in comfortable beds, had the best doctors to attend
them when they were ill, and the best education that could be had for money. The
want of fresh air does not seem much to affect the happiness of children in a
London alley: the greater part of them sing and play, as though they were on a
moor in Scotland. So the absence of a genial mental atmosphere is not commonly
recognised by children who have never known it. Young people have a marvellous
faculty of either dying or adapting themselves to circumstances. Even if they
are unhappy - very unhappy - it is astonishing how easily they can be prevented
from finding it out, or at any rate from attributing it to any other cause than
their own sinfulness.
    To parents who wish to lead a quiet life I would say: Tell your children
that they are very naughty - much naughtier than most children; point to the
young people of some acquaintances as models of perfection, and impress your own
children with a deep sense of their own inferiority. You carry so many more guns
than they do that they cannot fight you. This is called moral influence and it
will enable you to bounce them as much as you please; they think you know, and
they will not have yet caught you lying often enough to suspect that you are not
the unworldly, and scrupulously truthful person which you represent yourself to
be; nor yet will they know how great a coward you are, nor how soon you will run
away, if they fight you with persistency and judgement. You keep the dice, and
throw them, both you for your children and yourself; load them, then, for you
can easily manage to stop your children from examining them. Tell them how
singularly indulgent you are; insist on the incalculable benefit you conferred
upon them, firstly in bringing them into the world at all, but more particularly
in bringing them into it as your own children rather than anyone else's. Say
that you have their highest interests at stake whenever you are out of temper
and wish to make yourself unpleasant by way of balm to your soul. Harp much upon
these highest interests. Feed them spiritually upon such brimstone and treacle
as the late Bishop of Winchester's Sunday stories. You hold all the trump cards,
or if you do not you can filch them; if you play them with anything like
judgement you will find yourselves heads of happy united God-fearing families
even as did my old friend Mr. Pontifex. True your children will probably find
out all about it some day, but not until too late to be of much service to them
or inconvenience to yourself.
    Some satirists have complained of life inasmuch as all the pleasures belong
to the fore part of it and we must see them dwindle till we are left it may be
with the miseries of a decrepit old age. To me it seems that youth is like
spring, an overpraised season; delightful if it happen to be a favoured one, but
in practise very rarely favoured, and more remarkable as a general rule for
biting east winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what
we lose in flowers, we more than gain in fruits. Fontenelle at the age of
ninety, being asked what was the happiest time of his life, said he did not know
that he had ever been much happier than he then was, but that perhaps his best
years had been those when he was between fifty-five and seventy-five, and Dr.
Johnson placed the pleasures of old age far higher than those of youth. True, in
old age we live under the shadow of death which like a sword of Damocles may
descend at any moment, but we have so long found life to be an affair of being
rather frightened than hurt that we have become like the people who live under
Vesuvius, and chance it without much misgiving.
    I once saw a book in which it was maintained that embryos look upon birth
much as we do upon death. No one, indeed, can say that this is not so, no one
can say that we may not have had the most gloomy forebodings about birth and
have forgotten them. Embryos, it was maintained in the book to which I am
referring, hold birth to be a cataclysm - the end of their present life, and the
entry upon a world beyond the womb of which they can form so little conception
that they call it being dead. It was said that much the same arguments
concerning the possibility of a future life go on among embryos as amongst
ourselves, some maintaining that they shall enter upon a new life at birth for
which they shall be better or worse qualified according as they have done their
duty well or ill during their embryonic period of probation; while others say
that there is no such thing as life in any true sense of the word except in the
womb, and that even though there be a life beyond it must involve so much change
in personality that the embryo will not be able to recognise itself and remember
its past existence, but will to all intents and purposes be another person.
Others again say that the analogy of what an embryo can know for certain as
having fallen under its own experience should teach that there is no life save
as a succession of deaths, nor any death save as a succession of new births, and
that strictly speaking we are never either quite living or quite dead, though we
are certainly more living and more dead at some times than at others. For the
embryo has already so often changed its form as to have died and been born anew
a dozen times over before it reaches its full development - and each new phase
it has probably considered to be its be-all and end-all - so that not only is it
true that in the midst of life we are in death, but also that in the midst of
death we are in life.
    Death indeed is being swallowed up in life. If the last enemy that shall be
subdued is death then indeed is our Salvation nearer than what we thought, for
death is being defeated at all points. True, we know no more about the end of
our lives than about the beginning: we come up insensibly and go down
insensibly, but there is this advantage on the side of life, that whereas we do
come to know that we have been born we never know that we have died. Once dead
we either know no more, or we are not dead at all.
    But returning to the common use of words, and taking life and death to mean
what we generally intend, how would it be if we began life with death and lived
it backwards, beginning as old people and ending our days by entering into the
womb again and being born? Should we like it better? Could any death be so
horrible as birth? Or any decrepitude so awful as childhood in a happy united
God-fearing family?
 

                                   Chapter 7

A few words may suffice for the greater number of the young people to whom I
have been alluding in the foregoing chapter. Eliza and Maria, the two eldest
girls, were neither exactly pretty nor exactly plain, and were in all respects
model young ladies, but Alethæa was exceedingly pretty and of a lively
affectionate disposition, which was in sharp contrast with those of her brothers
and sisters. There was a trace of her grandfather not only in her face, but in
her love of fun, of which her father had none, though not without a certain
boisterous and rather coarse quasi-humour which passed for wit with many.
    John grew up to be a good-looking gentlemanly fellow with features a trifle
too regular and finely chiselled. He dressed himself so nicely, had such good
address, and stuck so steadily to his book that he became a favourite with his
masters; he had however an instinct for diplomacy, and was less popular with the
boys. His father in spite of the lectures he would at times read him, was in a
way proud of him as he grew older; he saw in him, moreover, one who would
probably develop into a good man of business, and in whose hands the prospects
of his house would not be likely to decline. John knew how to humour his father,
and was at a comparatively early age admitted to as much of his confidence as it
was in his nature to bestow on anyone.
    His brother Theobald was no match for him, knew it, and accepted his fate.
He was not so good looking as his brother, nor was his address so good; as a
child he had been violently passionate; now, however, he was reserved and shy,
and I should say indolent in mind and body; he was less tidy than John, less
well able to assert himself, and less skilful in humouring the caprices of his
father. I do not think he could have loved anyone heartily, but there was no one
in his family circle who did not repress rather than invite his affection with
the exception of his sister Alethæa, and she was too quick and lively for his
somewhat morose temper. He was always the scapegoat, and I have sometimes
thought he had two fathers to contend against - his father and his brother John;
a third and fourth also might almost be added in his sisters Eliza and Maria.
Perhaps if he had felt his bondage very acutely he would not have put up with
it, but he was constitutionally timid, and the strong hand of his father knitted
him into the closest outward harmony with his brother and sisters.
    The boys were of use to their father in one respect: I mean that he played
them off against each other. He kept them but poorly supplied with pocket money,
and to Theobald would urge that the claims of his elder brother were naturally
paramount, while he insisted to John upon the fact that he had a numerous
family, and would affirm solemnly that his expenses were so heavy that at his
death there would be very little to divide. He did not care whether they
compared notes or no, provided they did not do so in his presence. Theobald did
not complain even behind his father's back. I knew him as intimately as anyone
was likely to know him, as a child, at school, and again at Cambridge, but he
very rarely mentioned his father's name even while his father was alive, and
never once in my hearing afterwards. At school he was not actively disliked, as
his brother was, but he was too dull and deficient in animal spirits to be
popular.
    Before he was well out of his frocks it was settled that he was to be a
clergyman. It was seemly that Mr. Pontifex, the well-known publisher of
religious books, should devote at least one of his sons to the church; this
might tend to bring business, or at any rate to keep it in the firm; besides,
Mr. Pontifex had more or less interest with bishops and church dignitaries, and
might hope that some preferment would be offered to his son through his
influence. The boy's future destiny was kept well before his eyes from his
earliest childhood, and was treated as a matter which he had already virtually
settled by his acquiescence. Nevertheless a certain show of freedom was allowed
him. Mr. Pontifex would say it was only right to give a boy his option, and was
much too equitable to grudge his son whatever benefit he could derive from this.
He had the greatest horror, he would exclaim, of driving any young man into a
profession which he did not like. Far be it from him to put pressure upon a son
of his as regards any profession, and much less when so sacred a calling as the
ministry was concerned. He would talk in this way when there were visitors in
the house and when his son was in the room. He spoke so wisely and so well that
his listening guests considered him a paragon of rightmindedness. He spoke too,
with such emphasis, and his rosy gills and bald head looked so benevolent that
it was difficult not to be carried away by his discourse; I believe two or three
heads of families in the neighbourhood gave their sons absolute liberty of
choice in the matter of their professions - and am not sure that they had not
afterwards considerable cause to regret having done so. The visitors seeing
Theobald look shy and wholly unmoved by the exhibition of so much consideration
for his wishes, would remark to themselves that the boy seemed hardly likely to
be equal to his father and would set him down as an unenthusiastic youth who
ought to have more life in him, and be more sensible of his advantages than he
appeared to be. No one believed in the righteousness of the whole transaction
more firmly than the boy himself; a sense of being ill at ease kept him silent,
but it was too profound and too much without break for him to become fully alive
to it, and come to an understanding with himself. He feared the dark scowl would
come over his father's face upon the slightest opposition. His father's violent
threats, or coarse sneers would not have been taken au sérieux by a stronger
boy, but Theobald was not a strong boy, and rightly or wrongly gave his father
credit for being quite ready to carry his threats into execution. Opposition had
never got him anything he wanted yet, nor indeed had yielding, for the matter of
that, unless he happened to want exactly what his father wanted for him. If he
had ever entertained thoughts of resistance he had none now, and the power to
oppose was so completely lost for want of exercise that hardly did the wish
remain; there was nothing left save dull acquiescence as of an ass crouched
beneath two burdens. He may have had an ill-defined sense of ideals that were
not his actuals; he might occasionally dream of himself as a soldier or a sailor
far away in foreign lands, or even as a farmer's boy upon the wolds, but there
was not go enough in him for there to be any chance of his turning his dreams
into realities, and he drifted on with his stream which was a slow, and, I am
afraid, a muddy one.
    I think the church catechism has a good deal to do with the unhappy
relations which commonly even now exist between parents and children. That work
was written too exclusively from the parental point of view; the person who
composed it did not get a few children to come in and help him; he was clearly
not young himself, nor should I say it was the work of one who even liked
children - in spite of the words my good child which if I remember rightly are
once put into the mouth of the catechist - and which after all carry an asper
sound with them. The general impression it leaves upon the mind of the young is
that their wickedness at birth was but very imperfectly wiped out at baptism and
that the mere fact of being young at all has something with it that savours more
or less distinctly of the nature of sin.
    If a new edition of the work is ever required I should like to introduce a
few words insisting on the duty of seeking all reasonable pleasure, and avoiding
all pain that can be honourably avoided. I should like to see children taught
that they should not say they like things which they do not like, merely because
certain other people say they like them, and how foolish it is to say they
believe this or that when they understand nothing about it. If it be urged that
these additions would make the catechism too long, I would curtail the remarks
upon our duty towards our neighbour, and upon the sacraments. In the place of
the paragraph beginning »I desire my Lord God our Heavenly Father« I would - but
perhaps I had better return to Theobald and leave the recasting of the catechism
to abler hands.
 

                                   Chapter 8

Mr. Pontifex had set his heart on his son's becoming a fellow of a college
before he became a clergyman. This would provide for him at once, and would
ensure his getting a living if none of his father's ecclesiastical friends gave
him one. The boy had done just well enough at school to render this possible, so
he was sent to one of the smaller colleges at Cambridge and was at once set to
read with the best private tutors that could be found. A system of examination
had been adopted a year or so before Theobald took his degree which had improved
his chances of a fellowship, for whatever ability he had was classical rather
than mathematical, and this system gave more encouragement to classical studies
than had been given hitherto.
    Theobald had the sense to see that he had a chance of independence if he
worked hard, and he liked the notion of becoming a fellow. He therefore applied
himself, and in the end took a degree which made his getting a fellowship in all
probability a mere question of time. For a while Mr. Pontifex senior was really
pleased and told his son he would present him with the works of any standard
writer whom he might select. The young man chose the works of Bacon, and Bacon
accordingly made his appearance in ten nicely bound volumes; a little
inspection, however, showed that the copy was a second-hand one.
    Now that he had taken his degree the next thing to look forward to was
ordination - about which Theobald had thought little hitherto beyond acquiescing
in it as something that would come as a matter of course some day. Now, however,
it had actually come and was asserting itself as a thing which should be only a
few months off, and this rather frightened him - inasmuch as there would be no
way out of it when he was once in it. He did not like the near view of
ordination as well as the distant one, and even made some feeble efforts to
escape, as may be perceived by the following correspondence which his son Ernest
found among his father's papers written on gilt-edged paper, in faded ink, and
tied neatly round with a piece of tape, but without any note or comment. I have
altered nothing. The letters are as follows -
 
        »My Dear Father, I do not like opening up a question which has been
        considered settled, but as the time approaches I begin to be very
        doubtful how far I am fitted to be a clergyman. Not, I am thankful to
        say, that I have the faintest doubts about the Church of England, and I
        could subscribe cordially to every one of the thirty-nine articles,
        which do indeed appear to me to be the ne plus ultra of human wisdom,
        and Paley too, leaves no loopholes for an opponent, but I am sure I
        should be running counter to your wishes if I were to conceal from you
        that I do not feel the inward call to be a minister of the gospel that I
        shall have to say I have felt when the bishop ordains me. I try to get
        this feeling, I pray for it earnestly, and sometimes half think that I
        have got it; but in a little time it wears off, and though I have no
        absolute repugnance to bring a clergyman, and trust that if I am one I
        shall endeavour to live to the Glory of God and to advance his interests
        upon earth, yet I feel that something more than this is wanted before I
        am fully justified in going into the church. I am aware that I have been
        a great expense to you in spite of my scholarships, but you have ever
        taught me that I should obey my conscience, and my conscience tells me I
        should do wrong if I became a clergyman. God may yet give me the spirit
        for which I assure you I have been and am continually praying, but he
        may not, and in that case would it not be better for me to try and look
        out for something else? I know that neither you nor John wish me to go
        into your business, nor do I understand anything about money matters,
        but is there nothing else that I can do? I do not like to ask you to
        maintain me while I go in for medicine or the bar, but when I get my
        fellowship which should not be long, first I will endeavour to cost you
        nothing further, and I might make a little money by writing or taking
        pupils. I trust you will not think this letter improper; nothing is
        further from my wish than to cause you any uneasiness; I hope you will
        make allowance for my present feelings which indeed spring from nothing
        but from that respect for my conscience, which no one has so often
        instilled into me as yourself. Pray let me have a few lines shortly. I
        hope your cold is better; with love to Eliza and Maria, I am your
        affectionate son,
                                                             Theobald Pontifex.«
 
        »Dear Theobald, I can enter into your feelings, and have no wish to
        quarrel with your expression of them. It is quite right and natural that
        you should feel as you do except as regards one passage, the impropriety
        of which you will yourself doubtless feel upon reflection, and to which
        I will not further allude than to say that it has wounded me. You should
        not have said, in spite of my scholarships. It was only proper that if
        you could do anything to assist me in bearing the heavy burden of your
        education, the money should be, as it was, made over to myself. Every
        line in your letter convinces me that you are under the influence of a
        morbid sensitiveness which is one of the devil's favourite devices for
        luring people to their destruction. I have, as you say, been at great
        expense with your education. Nothing has been spared by me to give you
        the advantages which as an English gentleman I was anxious to afford my
        son, but I am not prepared to see that expense thrown away, and to have
        to begin again from the beginning, merely because you have taken some
        foolish scruples in your head, which you should resist as no less unjust
        to yourself than to me. Don't give way to that restless desire for
        change which is the bane of so many persons of both sexes at the present
        day. Of course you needn't be ordained: nobody will compel you; you are
        perfectly free; you are twenty-three years of age and should know your
        own mind; but why not have known it sooner, instead of never so much as
        breathing a hint of opposition, until I have had all the expense of
        sending you to the university, which I should never have done unless I
        had believed you to have made up your mind about taking orders? I have
        letters from you in which you express the most perfect willingness to be
        ordained, and your brother and sisters will bear me out in saying that
        no pressure of any sort has been put upon you. You mistake your own
        mind, and are suffering from a nervous timidity which may be very
        natural but which may not the less be pregnant with serious consequences
        to yourself. I am not at all well, and the anxiety occasioned by your
        letter is naturally preying upon me. May God guide you to a better
        judgement. Your affectionate father,
                                                                   G. Pontifex.«
 
On the receipt of this letter Theobald plucked up his spirits. »My father,« he
said to himself, »tells me I need not be ordained if I do not like. I do not
like, and therefore I will not be ordained.« But what was the meaning of the
words »pregnant with serious consequences to yourself?« Did there lurk a threat
under these words - though it was impossible to lay hold of it or of them? Were
they not intended to produce all the effect of a threat without being actually
threatening? Theobald knew his father well enough to be little likely to
misapprehend his meaning, but having ventured so far on the path of opposition,
and being really anxious to get out of being ordained if he could, he determined
to venture farther. He accordingly wrote the following -
 
        »My Dear Father, You tell me - and I heartily thank you - that no one
        will compel me to be ordained. I knew you would not press ordination
        upon me if my conscience was seriously opposed to it; I have therefore
        resolved on giving up the idea, and believe that if you will continue to
        allow me what you do at present until I get my fellowship, which should
        not be long, I will then cease putting you to further expense. I will
        make up my mind as soon as possible what profession I will adopt, and
        will let you know at once. Your affectionate son,
                                                             Theobald Pontifex.«
 
The remaining letter - written by return of post - must now be given. It has the
merit of brevity -
 
        »Dear Theobald, I have received yours. I am at a loss to conceive its
        motive, but am very clear as to its effect. You shall not receive a
        single sixpence from me till you come to your senses. Should you persist
        in your folly and wickedness, I am happy to remember that I have yet
        other children, whose conduct I can depend upon to be a source of credit
        and happiness to me. Your affectionate but troubled father,
                                                                   G. Pontifex.«
 
I do not know the immediate sequel to the foregoing correspondence, but it all
came perfectly right in the end. Either Theobald's heart failed him, or he
interpreted the outward shove which his father gave him as the inward call for
which I have no doubt he prayed with great earnestness - for he was a firm
believer in the efficacy of prayer. And so am I under certain circumstances. Mr.
Tennyson has said that more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams
of, but he has wisely refrained from saying whether they are good things or bad
things. It might perhaps be as well if the world were to dream of, or even
become wide awake to some of the things that are being wrought by prayer - but
the question is avowedly difficult. In the end Theobald got his fellowship, by a
stroke of luck, almost as soon as he had taken his degree, and was ordained in
the autumn of the same year, 1825.
 

                                   Chapter 9

Mr. Allaby was rector of Crampsford, a village a few miles from Cambridge. He
too had taken a good degree, had got a fellowship, and in the course of time had
accepted a college living - of about £400 a year and a house. His private income
did not exceed £200 a year. On resigning his fellowship he married a woman a
good deal younger than himself, who bore him eleven children, nine of whom - two
sons and seven daughters - were living. The two eldest daughters had married
fairly well, but at the time of which I am now writing there were still five
unmarried - of ages varying between thirty and twenty-two - and the sons were
neither of them yet off their father's hands. It was plain that if anything were
to happen to Mr. Allaby the family would be left poorly off, and this made both
Mr. and Mrs. Allaby as unhappy as it ought to make them.
    Reader, did you ever have an income at the best none too large, which died
with you, all except £200 a year? Did you ever at the same time have two sons
who must be started in life somehow, and five daughters still unmarried for whom
you would only be too thankful to find husbands if you knew how to find them? If
morality is that which on the whole brings a man peace in his declining years -
if, that is to say, it is not an utter swindle - can you under these
circumstances flatter yourself that you have led a moral life? And this, even
though your wife has been so good a woman that you have not grown tired of her,
and has not fallen into such ill-health as lowers your own health in sympathy;
and though your family has grown up vigorous, amiable and blessed with common
sense. I know many old men and women who are reputed moral, but who are living
with partners whom they have long ceased to love, or who have ugly disagreeable
maiden daughters for whom they have never been able to find husbands - daughters
whom they loathe and by whom they are loathed, in secret, or sons whose folly or
extravagance is a perpetual wear and worry to them. Is it moral for a man to
have brought such things upon himself? Someone should do for morals what that
old Pecksniff Bacon has obtained the credit of having done for science.
    But to return to Mr. and Mrs. Allaby. Mrs. Allaby talked about having
married two of her daughters, as though it had been the easiest thing in the
world; she talked in this way because she heard other mothers do so, but in her
heart of hearts she did not know how she had done it, nor, indeed, if it had
been her doing at all. First there had been a young man, in connection with whom
she had tried to practise certain manoeuvres which she had rehearsed in
imagination over and over again, but which she found impossible to apply in
practice; then there had been weeks of a wurra-wurra of hopes and fears and
little stratagems which as often as not proved injudicious, and then somehow or
another in the end there lay the young man bound and with an arrow through his
heart at her daughter's feet. It seemed to her to be all a fluke, which she
could have little or no hope of repeating. She had indeed repeated it once, and
might perhaps with great luck repeat it yet once again - but five times over -
it was awful: why she would rather have three confinements than go through the
wear and tear of marrying a single daughter.
    Nevertheless it had got to be done, and poor Mrs. Allaby never looked at a
young man without an eye to his being a future son-in-law. Papas and mammas
sometimes ask young men whether their intentions are honourable towards their
daughters; I think young men might occasionally ask papas and mammas whether
their intentions are honourable, before they accept invitations to houses where
there are still unmarried daughters.
    »I can't afford a curate my dear,« said Mr. Allaby to his wife when the pair
were discussing what was next to be done. »It will be better to get some young
don to come and help me for a time upon a Sunday. A guinea a Sunday will do
this, and we can chop and change till we get someone who suits.« So it was
settled that Mr. Allaby's health was not so strong as it was and that he stood
in need of help in the performance of his Sunday duty.
    Mrs. Allaby had a great friend - a certain Mrs. Cowey, wife of the
celebrated Professor Cowey. She was what was called a truly spiritually minded
woman, a trifle portly, with an incipient beard, and an extensive connection
among undergraduates, more especially among those who were inclined to take part
in the great evangelical movement which was then at its height. She gave evening
parties once a fortnight at which prayer was part of the entertainment. She was
not only spiritually minded, but, as enthusiastic Mrs. Allaby used to exclaim,
she was a thorough woman of the world at the same time, and had such a fund of
strong masculine good sense. She too had daughters, but as she used to say to
Mrs. Allaby, she had been less fortunate than Mrs. Allaby herself, for one by
one they had married and left her, so that her old age would have been indeed
desolate if her Professor had [not] been spared to her.
    Mrs. Cowey of course knew the run of all the bachelor clergy in the
university, and was the very person to assist Mrs. Allaby in finding an eligible
assistant for her husband, so this last named lady drove over one morning in the
November of 1825, by arrangement to take an early dinner with Mrs. Cowey and
spend the afternoon. After dinner the two ladies retired together, and the
business of the day began. How they fenced, how they saw through one another,
with what loyalty they pretended not to see through one another, with what
gentle dalliance they prolonged the conversation, discussing the spiritual
fitness of this or that deacon and the other pros and cons connected with him
after his spiritual fitness had been disposed of, all this must be left to the
imagination of the reader. Mrs. Cowey had been so accustomed to scheming on her
own account that she would scheme for anyone rather than not scheme at all. Many
mothers turned to her in their hours of need, and, provided they were
spiritually minded, Mrs. Cowey never failed to do her best for them; if a young
bachelor of arts marriage was not made in heaven it was probably made or at any
rate attempted in Mrs. Cowey's drawing room. On the present occasion all the
deacons of the university in whom there lurked any spark of promise were
exhaustively discussed, and the upshot was that our friend Theobald was declared
by Mrs. Cowey to be about the best thing she could do that afternoon.
    »I don't know that he's a particularly fascinating young man, my dear,« said
Mrs. Cowey, »and he's only a second son, but then he's got his fellowship, and
even the second son of such a man as Mr. Pontifex the publisher should have
something very comfortable.«
    »Why yes my dear,« rejoined Mrs. Allaby complacently, »that's what one
rather feels.«
 

                                   Chapter 10

The interview like all other good things had to come to an end; the days were
short, and Mrs. Allaby had a six miles drive to Crampsford. When she was muffled
up and had taken her seat, Mr. Allaby's factotum James could perceive no change
in her appearance, and little knew what a series of delightful visions he was
driving home along with his mistress.
    Professor Cowey had published works through Theobald's father, and Theobald
had on this account been taken in tow by Mrs. Cowey from the beginning of his
university career. She had had her eye upon him for some time past, and almost
as much felt it her duty to get him off her list of young men for whom wives had
to be provided, as poor Mrs. Allaby did to try and get a husband for one of her
daughters. She now wrote and asked him to come and see her, in terms that
awakened his curiosity. When he came she broached the subject of Mr. Allaby's
failing health, and after the smoothing away of such difficulties as were only
Mrs. Cowey's due - considering the interest she had taken - it was allowed to
come to pass that Theobald should go to Crampsford for six successive Sundays,
and take the half of Mr. Allaby's duty, at half a guinea a Sunday - for Mrs.
Cowey cut down the usual stipend mercilessly, and Theobald was not strong enough
to resist.
    Ignorant of the plots which were being prepared for his peace of mind, and
with no idea beyond that of earning his three guineas, and perhaps of
astonishing the inhabitants of Crampsford by his academic learning, Theobald
walked over to the rectory one Sunday morning early in December - a few weeks
only after he had been ordained. He had taken a great deal of pains with his
sermon, which was on the subject of geology - then coming to the fore as a
theological bugbear. He showed that so far as geology was worthy anything at all
- and he was too liberal entirely to pooh-pooh it - it confirmed the absolutely
historical character of the Mosaic account of the Creation as given in Genesis.
Any phenomena which at first sight appeared to make against this view were only
partial phenomena and broke down upon investigation. Nothing could be in more
excellent taste, and when Theobald adjourned to the rectory where he was to dine
between the services, Mr. Allaby complimented him warmly upon his début, while
the ladies of the family could hardly find words with which to express their
admiration.
    Theobald knew nothing about women. The only women he had been thrown in
contact with were his sisters, two of whom were always correcting him, and a few
school friends whom these had got their father to ask to Elmhurst. These young
ladies had either been so shy that they and Theobald had never amalgamated, or
they had been supposed to be clever and had said smart things to him. He did not
say smart things himself and did not want other people to say them. Besides they
talked about music, and he hated music, or pictures, and he hated pictures, or
books, and except the classics he hated books; and then sometimes he was wanted
to dance with them, and he did not know how to dance, and did not want to know.
    At Mrs. Cowey's parties again he had seen some young ladies and been
introduced to them. He had tried to make himself agreeable, but was always left
with the impression that he had not been very successful. The young ladies of
Mrs. Cowey's set were by no means the most attractive that might have been found
in the university, and Theobald may be excused for not losing his heart to the
greater number of them, while if for a minute or two he was thrown in with one
of the prettier and more agreeable girls, he was almost immediately cut out by
someone less bashful than himself, and sneaked off feeling as far as the fair
sex was concerned like the impotent man at the pool of Bethesda.
    What a really nice girl might have done with him I cannot tell, but fate had
thrown none such in his way except his youngest sister Alethæa, whom he might
perhaps have liked if she had not been his sister. The result of his experience
was that women had never done him any good; he was not accustomed to connect
them with any pleasure; if there was a part of Hamlet in connection with them it
had been so completely cut out in the edition of the play in which he was
required to take a part that he had come to disbelieve in its existence; as for
kissing, he had never kissed a woman in his life except his sisters - and my own
sisters when we were all small children together. Over and above these kisses,
he had until quite lately been required to imprint a solemn flabby kiss night
and morning upon his father's cheek, and this, to the best of my belief was the
extent of Theobald's knowledge in the matter of kissing, at the time of which I
am now writing. The result of the foregoing was that he had come to dislike
women as mysterious beings whose ways were not as his ways, nor his thoughts
their thoughts.
    With these antecedents Theobald naturally felt rather bashful on finding
himself the admired of five strange young ladies. I remember when I was a boy
myself I was once asked to take tea at a young ladies' school where one of my
sisters was boarding. I was then about twelve years old; everything went off
well during tea time, for the Lady Principal of the establishment was present;
but there came a time when she went away and I was left alone with the girls.
The moment the mistress's back was turned the head girl, who was about my own
age, came up, pointed her finger at me, made a face, and said solemnly, »A
na-a-asty bo-o-y!« All the girls followed her in rotation, making the same
gesture and the same reproach upon my being a boy. It gave me a great scare; I
believe I cried, and I know it was a long time before I could again face a girl
without a strong desire to run away.
    Theobald felt at first much as I had myself done at the girls' school, but
the Miss Allabys did not tell him he was a nasty bo-o-y. Their papa and mamma
were so cordial, and they themselves lifted him so deftly over conversational
stiles, that before dinner was over Theobald thought the family to be a really
very charming one, and felt as though he were being appreciated in a way to
which he had not hitherto been accustomed.
    With dinner his shyness wore off. He was by no means plain, his academic
prestige was very fair; there was nothing about him to lay hold of as
unconventional or ridiculous; the impression he created upon the young ladies
was quite as favourable as that which they had created upon himself - for they
knew not much more about men than he about women.
    As soon as he was gone the harmony of the establishment was broken by a
storm which arose upon the question which of them it should be who should become
Mrs. Pontifex. »My dears,« said their father, when he saw that they did not seem
likely to settle the matter among themselves, »wait till tomorrow, and then play
at cards for him.« Having said which he retired to his study where he took
nightly a glass of whisky and water and a pipe of tobacco.
 

                                   Chapter 11

The next morning saw Theobald in his rooms coaching a pupil, and the Miss
Allabys in the eldest Miss Allaby's bedroom playing at cards, with Theobald for
the stakes.
    The winner was Christina, the second unmarried daughter, then just
twenty-seven years old, and therefore four years older than Theobald. The
younger sisters complained that it was throwing a husband away to let Christina
try and catch him, for she was so much older that she had no chance; but
Christina showed fight in a way not usual with her, for she was by nature
yielding and good tempered. Her mother thought it better to back her up, so the
two dangerous ones were packed off then and there on visits to friends some way
off, and those alone allowed to remain at home whose loyalty could be depended
upon. The brothers did not even suspect what was going on, and believed their
father's getting assistance was because he really wanted it.
    The sisters who remained at home kept their words, and gave Christina all
the help they could, for over and above their sense of fair play they reflected
that the sooner Theobald was landed, the sooner another deacon might be sent for
who might be won by themselves. So quickly was all managed that the two
unreliable sisters were actually out of the house before Theobald's next visit -
which was on the Sunday following his first.
    This time Theobald felt quite at home in the house of his new friends - for
so Mrs. Allaby insisted that he should call them. She took, she said, such a
motherly interest in young men, especially in clergymen. Theobald believed every
word she said, as he had believed his father and all his elders from his youth
up. Christina sat next him at dinner, and played her cards no less judiciously
than she had played them in her sister's bedroom. She smiled (and her smile was
one of her strong points) whenever he spoke to her; she went through all her
little artlessness, and set forth all her little wares in what she believed to
be their most taking aspect. Who can blame her? Theobald was not the ideal she
had dreamed of when reading Byron upstairs with her sisters, but he was an
actual, within the bounds of possibility, and after all not a bad actual as
actuals went. What else could she do? Run away? She dared not. Marry beneath her
and be considered a disgrace to her family? She dared not. Remain at home and
become an old maid and be laughed at? Not if she could help it. She did the only
thing that could be reasonably expected. She was drowning; Theobald might be
only a straw, but she would catch at him - and catch at him she accordingly did.
    If the course of true love never runs smooth, the course of true matchmaking
sometimes does so. The only ground for complaint in the present case was that it
was rather slow. Theobald fell into the part assigned to him more easily than
Mrs. Cowey and Mrs. Allaby had dared to hope. He was softened by Christina's
winning manners: he admired the high moral tone of everything she said; her
sweetness towards her sisters and her father and mother, her readiness to
undertake any small burden which no one else seemed willing to undertake, her
sprightly manners, all were fascinating to one who though unused to woman's
society was still a human being. He was flattered by her unobtrusive but
obviously sincere admiration for himself; she seemed to see him in a more
favourable light and to understand him better than anyone outside of this
charming family had ever done. Instead of snubbing him as his father, brother
and sisters did, she drew him out, listened attentively to all he chose to say,
and evidently wanted him to say still more. He told a college friend that he
knew he was in love now; he really was, for he liked Miss Allaby's society much
better than that of his sisters.
    Over and above the recommendations already enumerated she had another in the
possession of what was supposed to be a very beautiful contralto voice. Her
voice was certainly contralto, for she could not reach higher than D in the
treble; its only defect was that it did not go correspondingly low in the bass;
in those days however a contralto voice was understood to include even a soprano
if the soprano could not reach soprano notes, and it was not necessary that it
should have the quality which we now assign to contralto. What her voice wanted
in range and power was made up in the feeling with which she sang. She had
transposed »Angels ever bright and fair« into a lower key so as to make it suit
her voice - thus proving, as her mamma said, that she had a thorough knowledge
of the laws of harmony; not only did she do this, but at every pause she added
an embellishment of arpeggios from one end to the other of the keyboard, on a
principle which her governess had taught her; she thus added life and interest
to an air which all - so she said - must feel to be rather heavy in the form in
which Handel left it. As for her governess she indeed had been a rarely
accomplished musician: she was a pupil of the famous Dr. Clarke of Cambridge,
and used to play the overture to Atalanta arranged by Mazzinghi.
    Nevertheless it was some time before Theobald could bring his courage to the
sticking point of actually proposing. He made it quite clear that he believed
himself to be much smitten, but month after month went by - during which there
was still so much hope in Theobald that Mr. Allaby dared not discover that he
was able to do his duty for himself, and was getting impatient at the number of
half guineas he was disbursing - and yet there was no proposal. Christina's
mother assured him that she was the best daughter in the whole world and would
be a priceless treasure to the man who married her. Theobald echoed Mrs.
Allaby's sentiments with warmth, but still, though he visited the rectory two or
three times a week besides coming over on Sundays, he did not propose. »She is
heart whole yet, dear Mr. Pontifex,« said Mrs. Allaby one day, »at least I
believe she is. It is not for want of admirers - oh no - she has had her full
share of these, but she is too too difficult to please. I think however she
would fall before a great and good man,« and she looked hard at Theobald, who
blushed, but the days went by and still he did not propose.
    Another time Theobald actually took Mrs. Cowey into his confidence, and the
reader may guess what account of Christina he got from her. Mrs. Cowey tried the
jealousy manoeuvre, and hinted at a possible rival. Theobald was or pretended to
be very much alarmed; a little rudimentary pang of jealousy shot across his
bosom and he began to believe with pride that he was not only in love but
desperately in love, or he should never feel so jealous - nevertheless, day
after day still went by, and he did not propose.
    The Allabys behaved with great judgement - they humoured him till his
retreat was practically cut off though he still flattered himself that it was
open. One day about six months after Theobald had become an almost daily visitor
at the rectory the conversation happened to turn upon long engagements. »I don't
like long engagements, Mr. Allaby - do you?« said Theobald imprudently. »No,«
said Mr. Allaby in a pointed tone, »nor long courtships,« and he gave Theobald a
look which he could not pretend to misunderstand. He went back to Cambridge as
fast as he could go, and in dread of the conversation with Mr. Allaby which he
felt to be impending, composed the following letter which he dispatched that
same afternoon by a private messenger to Crampsford. The letter was as follows -
 
        »Dearest Miss Christina, I do not know whether you have guessed the
        feelings that I have long entertained for you - feelings which I have
        concealed as much as I could through fear of drawing you into an
        engagement which if you enter into it must be prolonged for a
        considerable time, but however this may be it is out of my power to
        conceal them longer; I love you, ardently, devotedly, and send these few
        lines asking you to be my wife because I dare not trust my tongue to
        give adequate expression to the magnitude of my affection for you.
            I cannot pretend to offer you a heart which has never known either
        love or disappointment. I have loved already and my heart was years in
        recovering from the grief I felt at seeing her become another's. That
        however is over, and having seen yourself I rejoice over a
        disappointment which I thought at one time would have been fatal to me.
        It has left me a less ardent lover than I should perhaps otherwise have
        been, but it has increased tenfold my power of appreciating your many
        charms and my desire that you should become my wife. Please let me have
        a few lines of answer by the bearer to let me know whether or not my
        suit is accepted; if you accept me I will at once come and talk the
        matter over with Mr. and Mrs. Allaby whom I shall hope one day to be
        allowed to call father and mother.
            I ought to warn you that in the event of your consenting to be my
        wife it may be years before our union can be consummated, for I cannot
        marry till a college living is offered me. If therefore you see fit to
        reject me I shall be grieved rather than surprised. Ever most devotedly
        yours,
                                                             Theobald Pontifex.«
 
And this was all his public school and university education had been able to do
for Theobald.
    I need not send Christina's answer, which of course was to accept. Much as
Theobald feared old Mr. Allaby I do not think he would have wrought up his
courage to the point of actually proposing but for the fact of the engagement's
being necessarily a long one during which a dozen things might turn up to break
it off. However much he may have disapproved of long engagements for other
people, I doubt whether he had any particular objection to them in his own case.
A pair of true lovers are like sunset and sunrise: there are such things every
day, but we very seldom see them. Theobald posed as the most ardent lover
imaginable, but to use the vulgarism for the moment in fashion, it was all side.
Christina was in love, as indeed she had been twenty times already, but then
Christina was impressionable, and could not even hear the name Missolonghi
mentioned without bursting into tears. When Theobald accidentally left his
sermon case behind him one Sunday she slept with it in her bosom and was forlorn
when she had as it were to disgorge it on the following Sunday; but I do not
think Theobald ever took so much as an old toothbrush of Christina's to bed with
him. Why, I knew a young man once who got hold of his mistress's skates and
slept with them for a fortnight, and cried when he had to give them up.
 

                                   Chapter 12

Theobald's engagement was all very well as far as it went, but there was an old
gentleman with a bald head and rosy cheeks in a counting house in Paternoster
Row who must sooner or later be told of what his son had in view, and Theobald's
heart fluttered when he asked himself what view this old gentleman was likely to
take of the situation. The murder, however, had to come out, and Theobald and
his intended perhaps imprudently resolved on making a clean breast of it at
once. He wrote what he and Christina, who helped him to draft the letter,
thought to be everything that was filial, and expressed himself as anxious to be
married with the least possible delay. He could not help saying this, as
Christina was at his shoulder, and he knew it was safe, for his father might be
trusted not to help him. He wound up by asking his father to use any influence
that might be at his command to help him to get a living, inasmuch as it might
be years before a college living fell vacant and he saw no other chance of being
able to marry, for neither he nor his intended had any money - except Theobald's
fellowship which would of course lapse on his taking a wife.
    Any step of Theobald's was sure to be objectionable in his father's eyes,
but that at three and twenty he should want to marry a penniless girl who was
four years older than himself, afforded a golden opportunity which the old
gentleman - for so I may now call him, as he was at least sixty - embraced with
characteristic eagerness.
    »The ineffable folly,« he wrote, on receiving his son's letter,
 
        »of your fancied passion for Miss Allaby fills me with the gravest
        apprehensions. Making every allowance for a lover's blindness, I still
        have no doubt that the lady herself is a well-conducted and amiable
        young person who would not disgrace our family, but were she ten times
        more desirable as a daughter-in-law than I can allow myself to hope,
        your joint poverty is an insuperable objection to your marriage. I have
        four other children besides yourself, and my expenses do not permit me
        to save money. This year they have been especially heavy, indeed I have
        had to purchase two not inconsiderable pieces of land which happened to
        come into the market and were necessary to complete a property which I
        have long wanted to round off in this way. I gave you an education
        regardless of expense, which has put you in possession of a comfortable
        income, at an age when many men are dependent. I have thus started you
        fairly in life and may claim that you should cease to be a drag upon me
        further. Long engagements are proverbially unsatisfactory, and in the
        present case the prospect seems interminable. What interest, pray, do
        you suppose I have that I could get a living for you? Can I go up and
        down the country begging people to provide for my son because he has
        taken it into his head to want to get married without sufficient means?
            I do not wish to write unkindly, nothing can be farther from my real
        feelings towards you, but there is often more kindness in plain speaking
        than in any amount of soft words which can end in no substantial
        performance. Of course I bear in mind that you are of age, and can
        therefore please yourself, but if you choose to claim the strict letter
        of the law, and act without consideration for your father's feelings,
        you must not be surprised if you one day find that I have claimed a like
        liberty for myself. Believe me your affectionate father,
                                                                   G. Pontifex.«
 
I found this letter along with those already given and a few more which I need
not give, but throughout which the same tone prevails, and in all of which there
is the more or less obvious shake of the will near the end of the letter.
Remembering Theobald's general dumbness concerning his father for the many years
I knew him after his father's death, there was an eloquence in the preservation
of these letters and in their endorsement, letters from my father, which seemed
to have with it some faint odour of health and nature.
    Theobald did not show his father's letter to Christina, nor, indeed, I
believe, to anyone. He was by nature secretive, and had been repressed too much
and too early to be capable of railing or blowing off steam where his father was
concerned. His sense of wrong was still inarticulate, felt as a dull dead weight
ever present day by day, and if he woke at night-time still continually present,
but he hardly knew what it was. I was about the closest friend he had, and I saw
but little of him, for I could not get on with him for long together: he said I
had no reverence; whereas I thought I had plenty of reverence for what deserved
being revered, but that the gods which he deemed golden were in reality made of
baser metal. He never, as I have said, complained of his father to me, and his
only other friends were like himself staid and prim, of evangelical tendencies,
and deeply imbued with a sense of the sinfulness of any act of insubordination
to parents - good young men, in fact - and one cannot blow off steam to a good
young man.
    When Christina was informed by her lover of his father's opposition, and of
the time which must probably elapse before they could be married, she offered -
with how much sincerity I know not - to set him free from his engagement - but
Theobald declined to be released - »not at least,« as he said, »at present.«
Christina and Mrs. Allaby knew they could manage him, and on this not very
satisfactory footing the engagement was continued.
    His engagement, and his refusal to be released at once, raised Theobald in
his own good opinion. Dull as he was he had no small share of quiet
self-approbation. He admired himself for his university distinction, for the
purity of his life (I said of him once that if he had only a better temper he
would be as innocent as a new-laid egg), for his unimpeachable integrity in
money matters. He did not despair of advancement in the church when he had once
got a living, and of course it was within the bounds of possibility that he
might one day become a bishop, and Christina said she felt convinced that this
would one day be the case.
    As was natural for the daughter and intended wife of a clergyman,
Christina's thoughts ran much upon religion, and she was resolved that even
though an exalted position in this world were denied to her and Theobald, their
virtues should be fully appreciated in the next. Her religious opinions
coincided absolutely with Theobald's own, and many a conversation did she have
with him about the glory of God, and the completeness with which they would
devote themselves to it, as soon as Theobald had got his living and they were
married. So certain was she of the great results which would then ensue that she
wondered at times at the blindness shown by Providence towards its own truest
interests in not killing off the rectors that stood between Theobald and his
living a little faster.
    In those days people believed with a simple downrightness which I do not
observe among educated men and women now. It had never so much as crossed
Theobald's mind to doubt the literal accuracy of any syllable in the Bible. He
had never seen any book in which this was disputed, nor met with anyone who
doubted it. True, there was just a little scare about geology, but there was
nothing in it. If it was said that God made the world in six days, why He did
make it in six days, neither in more nor less; if it was said that He put Adam
to sleep, took out one of his ribs and made a woman of it, why it was so as a
matter of course. He, Adam, went to sleep as it might be himself, Theobald
Pontifex, in a garden, as it might be the garden at Crampsford Rectory during
the summer months when it was so pretty, only that it was larger, and had some
tame wild animals in it. Then God came up to him, as it might be Mr. Allaby or
his father, dexterously took out one of his ribs without waking him, and
miraculously healed the wound so that no trace of the operation remained.
Finally God had taken the rib perhaps into the greenhouse, and had turned it
into just such another kind of young woman as Christina. That was how it was
done; there was neither difficulty nor shadow of difficulty about the matter.
Could not God do anything He liked, and had He not in His own inspired Book told
us that He had done this?
    This was the average attitude of fairly educated young men and women towards
the Mosaic cosmogony fifty, forty, or even twenty years ago. The combating of
infidelity, therefore, offered little scope for enterprising young clergymen,
nor had the church awakened to the activity which she has since displayed among
the poor in our large towns. These were then left almost without an effort at
resistance or co-operation to the labours of those who had succeeded Wesley.
Missionary work indeed in heathen countries was being carried on with some
energy, but Theobald did not feel any call to be a missionary. Christina
suggested this to him more than once, and assured him of the unspeakable
happiness it would be to her to be the wife of a missionary, and to share his
dangers. She and Theobald might even be martyred; of course they would be
martyred simultaneously, and martyrdom many years hence as regarded from the
arbour in the rectory garden was not painful: it would ensure them a glorious
future in the next world and at any rate posthumous renown in this - even if
they were not miraculously restored to life again - and such things had happened
ere now, in the case of martyrs. Theobald however had not been kindled by
Christina's enthusiasm, so she fell back upon the church of Rome - an enemy more
dangerous, if possible, than paganism itself. A combat with Romanism might even
yet win for her and Theobald the crown of martyrdom. True, the church of Rome
was tolerably quiet just then, but it was the calm before the storm, of this she
was assured, with a conviction deeper than she should have been able to attain
by any argument founded upon mere reason.
    »We, dearest Theobald,« she exclaimed, »will be ever faithful. We will stand
firm and support one another even in the hour of death itself. God in his mercy
may spare us from being burnt alive. He may or may not do so. Oh Lord« (and she
turned her eyes prayerfully to Heaven) »spare my Theobald, or grant that he may
be beheaded.«
    »My dearest,« said Theobald gravely, »do not let us agitate ourselves
unduly. If the hour of trial comes we shall be best prepared to meet it by
having led a quiet unobtrusive life of self-denial, and devotion to Godss glory.
Such a life let us pray God that it may please him to enable us to pray that we
may lead.«
    »Dearest Theobald,« exclaimed Christina, drying the tears that had gathered
in her eyes, »you are always, always right. Let us be self-denying, pure,
upright, truthful in word and deed.« She clasped her hands and looked up to
heaven as she spoke.
    »Dearest,« rejoined her lover, »we have ever hitherto endeavoured to be all
of these things; we have not been worldly people; let us watch and pray that we
may so continue to the end.«
    The moon had risen and the arbour was getting damp, so they adjourned
further aspirations for a more convenient season. At other times Christina
pictured herself and Theobald as braving the scorn of almost every human being
in the achievement of some mighty task which should redound to the honour of her
redeemer. She could face anything for this. But always towards the end of her
vision there came a little coronation scene high up in the golden regions of the
Heavens, and a diadem was set upon her head by the Son of Man himself, amid a
host of angels and archangels who looked on with envy and admiration, and here
even Theobald himself was out of it. If there could be such a thing as the
Mammon of Righteousness Christina would have assuredly made friends with it. Her
papa and mamma were very estimable people and would in the course of time
receive Heavenly Mansions in which they would be exceedingly comfortable; so
doubtless would her sisters; so, perhaps, even might her brothers; but for
herself she felt that a higher destiny was a-preparing, which it was her duty
never to lose sight of. The first step towards it would be her marriage with
Theobald. In spite, however, of these flights of religious romanticism,
Christina, was a good-tempered kindly-natured girl enough, who if she had
married a sensible layman - we will say a hotel keeper - would have developed
into a good landlady and been deservedly popular with her guests.
    Such was Theobald's engaged life. Many a little present passed between the
pair, and many a small surprise did they prepare pleasantly for one another.
They never quarrelled, and neither of them ever flirted with anyone else. Mrs.
Allaby and his future sisters-in-law idolised Theobald in spite of its being
impossible to get another deacon to come and be played for as long as Theobald
was able to help Mr. Allaby, which now of course he did free, gratis and for
nothing; two of the sisters, however, did manage to find husbands before
Christina was actually married, and on each occasion Theobald played the part of
decoy elephant. In the end only two out of the seven daughters remained single.
    After three or four years, old Mr. Pontifex became accustomed to his son's
engagement and looked upon it as among the things which had now a prescriptive
right to toleration. In the spring of 1831, or more than five years after
Theobald had first walked over to Crampsford, one of the best livings in the
gift of the college unexpectedly fell vacant, and was for various reasons
declined by the two fellows senior to Theobald who might each have been expected
to take it. The living was then offered to and of course accepted by Theobald,
being in value not less than £500 a year with a suitable house and garden. Old
Mr. Pontifex then came down more handsomely than was expected and settled
£10,000 on his son and daughter-in-law for life with remainder to such of their
issue as they might appoint. In the month of July 1831 Theobald and his
Christina became man and wife.
 

                                   Chapter 13

A due number of old shoes had been thrown at the carriage in which the happy
pair departed from the rectory, and it had turned the corner at the bottom of
the village. It could then be seen for two or three hundred yards creeping past
a fir coppice, and after this was lost to view.
    »John,« said Mr. Allaby to his manservant, »shut the gate,« and he went
indoors with a sigh of relief which seemed to say, »I have done it, and I am
alive.« This was the reaction after a burst of enthusiastic merriment during
which the old gentleman had run twenty yards after the carriage to fling a
slipper at it - which he had duly flung.
    But what were the feelings of Theobald and Christina, when the village was
passed and they were rolling in quiet by the fir plantation? It is at this point
that even the stoutest heart must fail unless it beat in the breast of one who
is over head and ears in love. If a young man is in a small boat on a choppy sea
along with his affianced bride, and both are seasick, and if the sick swain can
forget his own anguish in the happiness of holding the fair one's head when she
is at her worst - then he is in love, and his heart will be in no danger of
failing him as he passes his fir plantation. Other people, and unfortunately by
far the greater number of those who get married must be classed among the other
people, will inevitably go through a quarter or half an hour of greater or less
badness as the case may be. Taking numbers into account I should think more
mental suffering had been undergone in the streets leading from St. George's
Hanover Square than in the condemned cells of Newgate. There is no time at which
what the Italians call la figlia della Morte lays her cold hand upon a man more
awfully than during the first half hour that he is alone with a woman whom he
has married but never genuinely loved.
    Death's daughter did not spare Theobald. He had behaved very well hitherto.
When Christina had offered to let him go, he had stuck to his post with a
magnanimity on which he had plumed himself ever since. From that time forward he
had said to himself, »I, at any rate, am the very soul of honour; I am not -«
etc., etc. True, at the moment of magnanimity the actual cash payment, so to
speak, was still distant; when his father gave formal consent to his marriage
things began to look more serious; when the college living had fallen vacant and
been accepted they looked more serious still; but when Christina actually named
the day then Theobald's heart fainted within him.
    The engagement had gone on so long that he had got into a groove - whatever
it was - and the prospect of change was disconcerting. They had got on, he
thought to himself, very nicely for a great number of years; why - why - why
should they not continue to go on as they were doing now for the rest of their
lives? But there was no more chance of escape for him than for the sheep which
is being driven to the butcher's back premises, and like the sheep he felt that
there was nothing to be gained by resistance, so he made none. He behaved, in
fact with decency, and was declared on all hands to be one of the happiest men
imaginable.
    Now, however, to change the metaphor, the drop had actually fallen, and the
poor wretch was hanging as it were in mid-air along with the creature of his
affections. This creature was now thirty-three years old and looked all her age:
she had been weeping, and her eyes and nose were reddish; if »I have done it and
I am alive« was written on Mr. Allaby's face after he had thrown the shoe, »I
have done it, and I do not see how I can possibly live much longer« was upon the
face of Theobald as he was being driven by the side of this fir plantation. This
however was not apparent at the rectory. All that could be seen there was the
bobbing up and down of the postilion's head, which just over-topped the hedge by
the roadside as he rose in his stirrups, and the black and yellow body of the
carriage.
    For some time the pair said nothing: what they must have felt during their
first half hour the reader must guess, for it is beyond my power to tell him; at
the end of that time, however, Theobald had rummaged up a conclusion from some
odd corner of his soul to the effect that now he and Christina were married the
sooner they fell into their future mutual relations the better. If people who
are in any difficulty will only do the first little reasonable thing which they
can clearly recognise as reasonable, they will always find the next step more
easy both to see and take. What, then, thought, Theobald, was here at this
moment the first and most obvious matter to be considered, and what would be an
equitable view of his and Christina's relative positions in respect to it?
Clearly their first dinner was their first joint entry into the duties and
pleasures of married life. No less clearly it was Christina's duty to order it,
and his own to eat it and pay for it.
    The arguments leading to this conclusion and the conclusion itself flashed
upon Theobald about three and a half miles after he had left Crampsford on the
road to Newmarket. He had breakfasted early, but his usual appetite had failed
him. They had left the vicarage at noon without staying for the wedding
breakfast. Theobald liked an early dinner; it dawned upon him that he was
beginning to be hungry; from this to the conclusion stated in the preceding
paragraph the steps had been easy. After a few minutes' further reflection he
broached the matter to his bride, and thus the ice was broken.
    Mrs. Theobald was not prepared for so sudden an assumption of importance.
Her nerves, never of the strongest, had been strung to their highest tension by
the event of the morning. She wanted to escape observation; she was conscious of
looking a little older than she quite liked to look as a bride who had been
married that morning; she feared the landlady, the chambermaid, the waiter -
everybody and everything; her heart beat so fast that she could hardly speak,
much less go through the ordeal of ordering dinner in a strange hotel with a
strange landlady. She begged and prayed to be let off. If Theobald would only
order dinner this once, she would order it any day and every day in future.
    But the inexorable Theobald was not to be put off with such absurd excuses.
He was master now. Had not Christina less than two hours ago promised solemnly
to honour and obey him, and was she turning restive over such a trifle as this?
The loving smile departed from his face, and was succeeded by a scowl which that
old Turk, his father, might have envied. »Stuff and nonsense, my dearest
Christina,« he exclaimed mildly, and stamped his foot upon the floor of the
carriage. »It is a wife's duty to order her husband's dinner; you are my wife,
and I shall expect you to order mine.« For Theobald was nothing if he was not
logical.
    The bride began to cry, and said he was unkind; whereon he said nothing, but
revolved unutterable things in his heart. Was this, then, the end of his six
years of unflagging devotion? Was it for this that when Christina had offered to
let him off, he had stuck to his engagement? Was this the outcome of her talks
about duty and spiritual mindedness - that now upon the very day of her marriage
she should fail to see that the first step in obedience to God lay in obedience
to himself? He would drive back to Crampsford; he would complain to Mr. and Mrs.
Allaby; he did not mean to have married Christina; he hadn't married her; it was
all a hideous dream; he would - But a voice kept ringing in his ears which said,
»YOU CAN'T, CAN'T, CAN'T.«
    »CAN'T I?« screamed the unhappy creature to himself.
    »No,« said the remorseless voice, »YOU CAN'T. YOU ARE A MARRIED MAN.«
    He rolled back in his corner of the carriage and for the first time felt how
iniquitous were the marriage laws of England. But he would buy Milton's prose
works and read his pamphlet on divorce. He might perhaps be able to get them at
Newmarket.
    So the bride sat crying in one corner of the carriage; and the bridegroom
sulked in the other, and he feared her as only a bridegroom can fear.
    Presently, however, a feeble voice was heard from the bride's corner saying,
    »Dearest Theobald - dearest Theobald forgive me; I have been very very
wrong. Please do not be angry with me. I will order the - the --« but the word
dinner was checked by rising sobs.
    When Theobald heard these words a load began to be lifted from his heart,
but he only looked towards her, and that not too pleasantly.
    »Please tell me,« continued the voice, »what you think you would like, and I
will tell the landlady when we get to Newmar --« but another burst of sobs
checked the completion of the word.
    The load on Theobald's heart grew lighter and lighter. Was it possible that
she might not be going to henpeck him after all? Besides had she not diverted
his attention from herself to his approaching dinner?
    He swallowed down more of his apprehensions and said, but still gloomily, »I
think we might have a roast fowl with bread sauce, new potatoes and green peas,
and then we will see if they could let us have a cherry tart and some cream.«
    After a few minutes more, he drew her towards him, kissed away her tears,
and assured her that he knew she would be a good wife to him.
    »Dearest Theobald,« she exclaimed in answer, »you are an angel.«
    Theobald believed her - and in ten minutes more the happy couple alighted at
the inn at Newmarket.
    Bravely did Christina go through her arduous task. Eagerly did she beseech
the landlady, in secret, not to keep her Theobald waiting longer than was
absolutely necessary.
    »If you have any soup ready, you know, Mrs. Barber, it might save ten
minutes, for we might have it while the fowl was browning.«
    See how necessity has nerved her; but in truth she had a splitting headache,
and would have given anything to have been alone.
    The dinner was a success. A pint of sherry had warmed Theobald's heart, and
he began to hope that after all matters might still go well with him. He had
conquered in the first battle, and this gives great prestige. How easy it had
been too! Why had he never treated his sisters in this way? He would do so next
time he saw them; he might in time be able to stand up to his brother John, or
even his father. Thus do we build castles in air when flushed with wine and
conquest.
    The end of the honeymoon saw Mrs. Theobald the most devotedly obsequious
wife in all England. According to the old saying Theobald had killed the cat at
the beginning. It had been a very little cat, a mere kitten in fact, or he might
have been afraid to face it, but such as it had been he had challenged it to
mortal combat, and had held up its dripping head defiantly before his wife's
face. The rest had been easy.
    Strange! that one whom I have described hitherto as so timid and easily put
upon should prove such a Tartar all of a sudden on the day of his marriage.
Perhaps I have passed over his years of courtship too rapidly. During these he
had become a tutor of his college, and had at last been Junior Dean. I never yet
knew a man whose sense of his own importance did not become adequately developed
after he had held a resident fellowship for five or six years. True -
immediately on arriving within a ten-mile radius of his father's house, an
enchantment fell upon him, so that his knees waxed weak, his greatness departed,
and he again felt himself like an overgrown baby under a perpetual cloud; but
then he was not often at Elmhurst, and as soon as he left the spell was taken
off again; once more he became the fellow and tutor of his college, the Junior
Dean, the betrothed of Christina, the idol of the Allaby womankind. From all
which it may be gathered that if Christina had been a Barbary hen, and had
ruffled her feathers in any show of resistance Theobald would not have ventured
to swagger with her, but she was not a Barbary hen, she was only a common hen,
and that too with rather a smaller share of personal bravery than hens generally
have.
 

                                   Chapter 14

Battersby-on-the-hill was the name of the village of which Theobald was now
rector. It contained 400 or 500 inhabitants, scattered over a rather large area,
and consisting entirely of farmers and agricultural labourers. The vicarage was
commodious, and placed on the brow of a hill which gave it a delightful
prospect. There was a fair sprinkling of neighbours within visiting range, but
with one or two exceptions they were the clergymen and clergymen's families of
the surrounding villages. By these the Pontifexes were welcomed as great
acquisitions to the neighbourhood. Mr. Pontifex, they said, was so clever; he
had been Senior Classic and Senior Wrangler; a perfect genius in fact, and yet
with so much sound practical common sense as well. The son of such a
distinguished man as the great Mr. Pontifex the publisher - he would come into a
large property by and by. Was there not an elder brother? Yes but there would be
so much that Theobald would probably get something very considerable. Of course
they would give dinner parties. And Mrs. Pontifex, what a charming woman she
was; she was certainly good looking; not exactly pretty perhaps, but then she
had such a sweet smile and her manner was so bright and winning. She was so
devoted too to her husband and her husband to her; they really did come up to
one's ideas of what lovers used to be in days of old; it was rare to meet with
such a pair in these degenerate times; it was quite beautiful etc., etc. Such
were the comments of the neighbours on the new arrivals.
    As for Theobald's own parishioners, the farmers were civil and the labourers
and their wives obsequious. There was a little dissent, the legacy of a careless
predecessor, but as Mrs. Theobald said proudly, »I think Theobald may be trusted
to deal with that.« The church was then an interesting specimen of late Norman
with some early English additions. It was what in these days would be called in
a very bad state of repair, but forty or fifty years ago few churches were in
good repair; if there is one feature more characteristic of the present
generation than another it is that it has been a great restorer of churches.
    Horace preached church restoration in his ode,
 
Delicta majorum immeritus lues,
Romane, donec templa refeceris
Aedesque labentes deorum et
Foeda nigro simulacra fumo.
 
Nothing went right with Rome for long together after the Augustan age, but
whether it was because she did restore the temples or because she did not
restore them I know not. They certainly went all wrong after Constantine's time,
and yet Rome is still a city of some importance.
    I may say here that before Theobald had been many years at Battersby he
found scope for useful work in the rebuilding of Battersby church, which he
carried out at considerable cost, towards which he subscribed liberally himself.
He was his own architect, and this saved expense; but architecture was not very
well understood about the year 1834, when Theobald commenced operations, and the
result is not as satisfactory as it would have been if he waited a few years
longer.
    Every man's work whether it be literature, or music, or pictures, or
architecture, or anything else is always a portrait of himself, and the more he
tries to conceal himself the more clearly will his character appear in spite of
him. I may very likely be condemning myself all the time that I am writing this
book, for I know that whether I like it or no I am portraying myself more surely
than I am portraying any of the characters whom I set before the reader. I am
sorry that it is so, but I cannot help it - after which sop to Nemesis I will
say that Battersby church in its amended form has always struck me as a better
portrait of Theobald than any sculptor or painter short of a great master would
be able to produce.
    I remember staying with Theobald some six or seven months after he was
married, and while the old church was still standing. I went to church, and felt
as Naaman must have felt on certain occasions when he had to accompany his
master on his return after having been cured of his leprosy. I have carried away
a more vivid recollection of this and of the people, than of Theobald's sermon.
Even now I can see the men in blue smock frocks reaching to their heels, and
more than one old woman in a scarlet cloak: the row of stolid, dull, vacant
plowboys, ungainly in build, uncomely in face, lifeless, apathetic, a race a
good deal more like the pre-revolution French peasant as described by Carlyle
than is pleasant to reflect upon - a race now supplanted by a smarter, comelier
and more hopeful generation, which has discovered that it too has a right to as
much happiness as it can get, and with clearer ideas about the best means of
getting it.
    They shamble in one after another, with steaming breath, for it is winter,
and loud clattering of hobnailed boots; they beat the snow from off them as they
enter, and through the opened door I catch a momentary glimpse of a dreary
leaden sky and snow-clad tombstones. Somehow or other I find the strain which
Handel has wedded to the words »There the ploughman near at hand« has got into
my head and there is no getting it out again. How marvelously old Handel
understood these people!
    They bob to Theobald as they pass the reading desk (»The people hereabouts
are truly respectful,« whispered Christina to me, »they know their betters«),
and take their seats in a long row against the wall. The choir, moreover,
clamber up into the gallery with their instruments, a violoncello, a clarinet,
and a trombone. I see them, and soon I hear them, for there is a hymn before the
service, a wild strain - remnant if I mistake not of some pre-Reformation
litany. I have heard what I believe was its remote musical progenitor in the
church of San Giovanni e Paolo at Venice not five years since; and again I have
heard it far away in mid-Atlantic upon a grey sea-Sabbath in June, when neither
winds nor waves are stirring, so that emigrants gather on deck, and their
plaintive psalm goes forth upon the silver haze of the sky, and on the
wilderness of a sea that has sighed till it can sigh no longer. Or it may be
heard at some Methodist camp meeting upon a Welsh hillside, but in the churches
it is gone forever. If I were a musician I would take it as the subject for the
adagio in a Wesleyan symphony.
    Gone now are the clarinet, the violoncello, and the trombone, wild
minstrelsy as of the doleful creatures in Ezekiel, discordant, but infinitely
pathetic. Gone is that scarebabe stentor, that bellowing bull of Bashan the
village blacksmith; gone is the melodious carpenter, gone the brawny shepherd
with the red hair, who roared more lustily than all until they came to the
words, »Shepherds with your flocks abiding,« when modesty covered him with
confusion, and compelled him to be silent, as though his own health were being
drunk. They were doomed and had a presentiment of evil, even when first I saw
them, but they had still a little lease of choir life remaining and they roared
out,
 
But I can give no idea of the effect without the music. When I was last in
Battersby church there was a harmonium played by a sweet-looking girl with a
choir of school children around her, and they chaunted the canticles to the most
correct of chaunts, and they sang hymns ancient and modern; the high pews were
gone; nay the very gallery in which the old choir had sung was removed as an
accursed thing which might remind the people of the high places, and Theobald
was old, and Christina was lying under the yew tree in the churchyard.
    But in the evening later on I saw three very old men come chuckling out of a
dissenting chapel, and, surely enough, they were my old friends the blacksmith,
the carpenter and the shepherd. There was a look of content upon their faces
which made me feel sure they had been singing; not doubtless with the old glory
of the violoncello, the clarinet, and the trombone, but still songs of Sion and
no new fangled papistry.
 

                                   Chapter 15

The hymn had engaged my attention; when it was over I had time to take stock of
the congregation. They were chiefly farmers - fat, very well-to-do folk, who had
come some of them with their wives and children from outlying farms two and
three miles away. Haters of popery, and of anything which any one might choose
to say was popish - good sensible fellows who detested theory of any kind; whose
ideal was the maintenance of the status quo with perhaps a loving reminiscence
of old war times, and a sense of wrong that the weather was not more completely
under their control; who desired higher prices and cheaper wages, but otherwise
were most contented when things were changing least; tolerators, if not lovers,
of all that was familiar; haters of all that was unfamiliar; they would have
been equally horrified at hearing the Christian religion doubted - and at seeing
it practised.
    »What can there be in common between Theobald and his parishioners?« said
Mrs. Pontifex to me, in the course of the evening, when her husband was for a
few moments absent. »Of course one must not complain, but I assure you it
grieves me to see a man of Theobald's ability thrown away upon such a place as
this. If we had only been at Gaysbury where there are the A--'s, the B--'s, the
C--'s, and Lord D--'s place, as you know, quite close, I should not then have
felt that we were living in such a desert; but - I suppose it is for the best,«
she added more cheerfully - »and then of course the Bishop will come to us
whenever he is in the neighbourhood, and if we were at Gaysbury he might have
gone to Lord D--'s.«
    Perhaps I have now said enough to indicate the kind of place in which
Theobald's lines were cast, and the sort of woman he had married. As for his own
habits - I see him trudging through muddy lanes and over long sweeps of
plover-haunted pastures to visit a dying cottager's wife. He takes her meat and
wine from his own table, and that not a little only, but liberally. According to
his lights also, he administers what he is pleased to call spiritual
consolation.
    »I am afraid I'm going to Hell, Sir,« says the sick woman with a whine. »Oh,
Sir, save me, save me, don't let me go there, I couldn't stand it, Sir, I should
die with fear; the very thought of it drives me into a cold sweat all over.«
    »Mrs. Thompson,« says Theobald gravely, »you must have faith in the precious
blood of your Redeemer, it is He alone who can save you.«
    »But are you sure, Sir,« says she, looking wistfully at him, »that he will
forgive me - for I've not been a very good woman, indeed I haven't - and if God
would only say yes outright with his mouth when I ask whether my sins are
forgiven me -«
    »But they are forgiven you, Mrs. Thompson,« says Theobald with some
sternness, for the same ground has been gone over a good many times already, and
he has borne the unhappy woman's misgivings now for a full quarter of an hour.
Then he puts a stop to the conversation by repeating prayers taken from the
visitation of the sick, and overawes the poor wretch from expressing further
anxiety as to her condition.
    »Can't you tell me Sir,« she exclaims piteously, as she sees that he is
preparing to go away, »can't you tell me that there is no day of judgement, and
that there is no such place as Hell? I can do without the Heaven, Sir, but I
cannot do with the Hell.« Theobald is much shocked.
    »Mrs. Thompson,« he rejoins impressively, »let me implore you to let no
doubt concerning these two cornerstones of our religion cross your mind at a
moment like the present. If there is one thing more certain than another it is
that we shall all appear before the judgement seat of Christ, and that the
wicked will be consumed in a lake of everlasting fire. Doubt this Mrs. Thompson
and you are lost.«
    The poor woman buries her fevered head in the coverlid in a paroxysm of fear
which at last finds relief in tears.
    »Mrs. Thompson,« says Theobald, with his hand upon the door, »compose
yourself, be calm; you must please to take my word for it that at the day of
judgement your sins will be all washed white in the blood of the lamb, Mrs.
Thompson - yea,« he exclaims frantically, »though they be as scarlet, yet shall
they be as white as wool,« and he makes off as fast as he can from the foetid
atmosphere of the cottage to the pure air outside. Oh, how thankful is he when
the interview is over.
    He returns home conscious that he has done his duty, and administered the
comforts of religion to a dying sinner. His admiring wife awaits him at the
rectory, and assures him that never yet was clergyman so devoted to the welfare
of his flock. He believes her; he has a natural tendency to believe everything
that is told him, and who should know the facts of the case better than his
wife? Poor fellow! He has done his best, but what does a fish's best come to
when the fish is out of water? He has left meat and wine; that he can do; he
will call again and will leave more meat and wine; day after day he trudges over
the same plover-haunted fields, and listens at the end of his walk to the same
agony of forebodings, which day after day he silences, but does not remove, till
at last a merciful weakness renders the sufferer careless of her future, and
Theobald is satisfied that her mind is now peacefully at rest in Jesus.
 

                                   Chapter 16

He does not like this branch of his profession - indeed he hates it - but will
not admit it to himself. The habit of not admitting things to himself has become
a confirmed one with him. Nevertheless there haunts him an ill-defined sense
that life would be pleasanter if there were no sick sinners, or if they would at
any rate face an eternity of torture with more indifference. He does not feel
that he is in his element. The farmers look as if they were in their element.
They are full-bodied, healthy and contented; but between him and them there is a
great gulf fixed. A hard and drawn look begins to settle about the corners of
his mouth, so that even if he were not in a black coat and white tie a child
might know him for a parson.
    He knows that he is doing his duty. Every day convinces him of this more
firmly; but then there is not much duty for him to do. He is sadly in want of
occupation. He has no taste for any of those field sports which were not
considered unbecoming for a clergyman forty years ago. He does not ride, nor
shoot, nor fish, nor course, nor play cricket. Study, to do him justice, he had
never really liked, and what inducement was there for him to study at Battersby?
He reads neither old books nor new ones. He does not interest himself in art,
science or politics, but he sets his back up with some promptness if any of them
show any development unfamiliar to himself. True, he writes his own sermons, but
even his wife considers that his forte lies rather in the example of his life
(which is one long act of self-devotion) than in his utterances from the pulpit.
After breakfast he retires to his study; he cuts little bits out of the Bible
and gums them with exquisite neatness by the side of other little bits; this he
calls making a harmony of the Old and New Testament. Alongside the extracts he
copies, in the very perfection of handwriting, extracts from Mede (the only man,
according to Theobald, who really understood the book of Revelation), Patrick,
and other old divines. He works steadily at this for half an hour every morning
during many years, and the result is doubtless valuable. After some years have
gone by he hears his children their lessons, and the daily oft-repeated screams
that issue from the study during the lesson hours tell their own horrible story
over the house. He has also taken to collecting a hortus siccus, and through the
interest of his father was once mentioned in the Saturday Magazine as having
been the first to find a plant whose name I have forgotten in the neighbourhood
of Battersby. This number of the Saturday Magazine has been bound in red
morocco, and is kept upon the drawing-room table. He potters about his garden;
if he hears a hen cackling he runs and tells Christina, and straightway goes
hunting for the egg.
    When the two Miss Allabys came, as they sometimes did, to stay with
Christina, they said the life led by their sister and brother-in-law was an
idyll. Happy indeed was Christina in her choice - for that she had had a choice
was a fiction which soon took root among them - and happy Theobald in his
Christina. Somehow or another Christina was always a little shy of cards when
her sisters were staying with her, though at other times she enjoyed a game of
cribbage or a rubber of whist heartily enough; but her sisters knew they would
never be asked to Battersby again if they were to refer to that little matter,
and on the whole it was worth their while to be asked to Battersby. If
Theobald's temper was rather irritable he does not vent it upon them.
    By nature reserved, if he could have found someone to cook his dinner for
him, he would rather have lived in a desert island than not. In his heart of
hearts he held with Pope that the greatest nuisance to mankind is man or words
to that effect - only that women, with the exception, perhaps, of Christina,
were worse. Yet for all this when visitors called he put a better face on than
anyone who was behind the scenes would have expected.
    He was quick too at introducing the names of any literary celebrities whom
he had met at his father's house, and soon established an all-round reputation
which satisfied even Christina herself.
    Who so integer vitæ scelerisque purus, it was asked, as Mr. Pontifex of
Battersby? Who so fit to be consulted if any difficulty about parish management
should arise? Who such a happy mixture of the sincere unenquiring Christian and
of the man of the world? - for so people actually called him. They said he was
such an admirable man of business. Certainly if he had said he would pay a sum
of money at a certain time, the money would be forthcoming at the appointed
time, and this is saying a good deal for any man. His constitutional timidity
rendered him incapable of an attempt to overreach when there was the remotest
chance of opposition or publicity, and his correct bearing, and somewhat stern
expression were a great protection to him against being overreached. He never
talked of money, and invariably changed the subject whenever money was
introduced. His expression of unutterable horror at all kinds of meanness was a
sufficient guarantee that he was not mean himself. Besides he had no business
transactions save of the most ordinary butcher's book and baker's book
description. His tastes - if he had any - were, as we have seen, simple; he had
£900 a year and a house; the neighbourhood was cheap, and for some time he had
no children to be a drag upon him. Who was not to be envied - and if envied, why
then, respected - if Theobald was not enviable?
    Yet Christina was on the whole I imagine happier than her husband. She had
not to go and visit sick parishioners; and the management of her house and the
keeping of her accounts afforded as much occupation as she desired. Her
principal duty was, as she well said, to her husband - to love him, honour him
and keep him in a good temper. To do her justice she fulfilled this duty to the
uttermost of her power. It would have been better perhaps if she had not so
frequently assured her husband that he was the best and wisest of mankind, for
no one in his little world ever dreamed of telling him anything else, and it was
not long before he ceased to have any doubt upon this matter. As for his temper,
which had become very violent at times, she took care to humour it on the
slightest sign of an approaching outbreak. She had early found that this was
much the easiest plan. The thunder was seldom for herself. Long even before her
marriage she had studied his little ways and knew how both to add fuel to the
fire as long as the fire seemed to want it, and then to damp it judiciously
down, making as little smoke as possible.
    In money matters she was scrupulousness itself. Theobald made her a
quarterly allowance for her dress, pocket money and little charities and
presents. In these last items she was liberal in proportion to her income;
indeed she dressed with great economy, and gave away whatever was over in
presents or charity. Oh what a comfort it was to Theobald to reflect that he had
a wife on whom he could depend never to cost him a sixpence of unauthorised
expenditure. To let alone her absolute submission, the perfect coincidence of
her opinion with his own upon every subject, her constant assurances to him that
he was right in everything which he took it into his head to say or do, what a
tower of strength to him was her exactness in money matters. As years went by he
became as fond of his wife as it was in his nature to be of any living thing,
and applauded himself for having stuck to his engagement - a piece of virtue of
which he was now reaping the reward. Even when Christina did outrun her
quarterly stipend by some thirty shillings or a couple of pounds, it was always
made perfectly clear to Theobald how the deficiency had arisen - there had been
an unusually costly evening dress bought which was to last a long time, or
somebody's unexpected wedding had necessitated a more handsome present than the
quarter's balance would quite allow: the excess of expenditure was always repaid
in the following quarter or quarters even though it were only by ten shillings
at a time.
    I believe, however, that after they had been married some twenty years
Christina had somewhat fallen from her original perfection as regards money. She
had got gradually in arrear during many successive quarters, till she had
contracted a chronic loan, a sort of domestic national debt, amounting to
between seven and eight pounds. Theobald at length felt that a remonstrance had
become imperative, and took advantage of his silver wedding day to inform
Christina that her indebtedness was cancelled, and at the same time to beg that
she would endeavour henceforth to equalise her expenditure and her income. She
burst into tears of love and gratitude, assured him that he was the best and
most generous of men, and never during the remainder of her married life was she
a single shilling behindhand.
    Christina hated change of all sorts no less cordially than her husband. She
and Mr. Pontifex had nearly everything in this world that they could wish for;
why, then, should people desire to introduce all sorts of changes of which no
one could foresee the end? Religion, she was deeply convinced had long since
attained its final development, nor could it enter into the heart of reasonable
man to conceive any faith more perfect than was inculcated by the Church of
England. She could imagine no position more honourable than that of a
clergyman's wife unless indeed it were a bishop's. Considering his father's
influence it was not at all impossible that Theobald might be a bishop some day
- and then - then would occur to her that one little flaw in the practise of the
Church of England - a flaw not indeed in its doctrine, but in its policy, which
she believed on the whole to be a mistaken one in this respect - I mean the fact
that a bishop's wife does not take the rank of her husband.
    This had been the doing of Elizabeth, who was a bad woman, of exceedingly
doubtful moral character, and at heart a papist to the last. Perhaps people
ought to be above mere considerations of worldly dignity, but the world was as
it was, and such things carried weight with them, whether they ought to do so or
no. Her influence as plain Mrs. Pontifex, wife, we will say, of the Bishop of
Winchester, would no doubt be considerable - such a character as hers could not
fail to carry weight if she were ever in a sufficiently conspicuous sphere for
its influence to be widely felt; but as Lady Winchester - or the Bishopess -
which would sound quite nicely - who could doubt that her power for good would
be enhanced? And it would be all the nicer because if she had a daughter the
daughter would not be Bishopess - unless indeed she were to marry a bishop too,
which would not be likely.
    These were her thoughts upon her good days; at other times she would, to do
her justice, have doubts whether she was in all respects as spiritually minded
as she ought to be. She must press on, press on, till every enemy to her
salvation was surmounted and Satan himself lay bruised under her feet. It
occurred to her on one of these occasions that she might steal a march over some
of her contemporaries if she were to leave off eating black puddings, of which
whenever they had killed a pig she had hitherto partaken freely; and if she were
also careful that no fowls were served at her table which had had their necks
wrung, but only such as had had their throats cut and been allowed to bleed. St.
Paul and the church of Jerusalem had insisted upon it as necessary that even
Gentile converts should abstain from things strangled and from blood, and they
had joined this prohibition with that of a vice about the abominable nature of
which there could be no question; it would be well therefore to abstain in
future and see whether any noteworthy spiritual result ensued. She did abstain,
and was certain that from the day of her resolve she had felt stronger, purer in
heart, and in all respects more spiritually minded than she had ever felt
hitherto. Theobald did not lay so much stress on this as she did, but as she
settled what he should have at dinner she could take care that he got no
strangled fowls; as for black puddings, happily he had seen them made when he
was a boy and had never got over his aversion for them. She wished the matter
were one of more general observance than it was; this was just a case in which
as Lady Winchester she might have been able to do what as plain Mrs. Pontifex it
was hopeless even to attempt.
    And thus this worthy couple jogged on from month to month and from year to
year. The reader, if he has passed middle life and has a clerical connection,
will probably remember scores and scores of rectors and rectors' wives who
differed in no material respect from Theobald and Christina. Speaking from a
recollection and experience extending over nearly eighty years from the time
when I was myself a child in the nursery of a vicarage, I should say I had drawn
the better rather [than] the worse side of the life of an English country parson
of some fifty years ago. I admit however that there are no such people to be
found nowadays. A more united or on the whole happier couple could not have been
found in England. One grief only overshadowed the early years of their married
life, I mean the fact that no living children were born to them.
 

                                    Part II

                                   Chapter 17

In the course of time this sorrow was removed. At the beginning of the fifth
year of her married life Mrs. Theobald was safely delivered of a boy. This was
on the sixth of September 1835.
    Word was immediately sent to old Mr. Pontifex, who received the news with
real pleasure. His son John's wife had borne daughters only, and he was
seriously uneasy lest there should be a failure in the male line of his
descendants. The good news therefore was doubly welcome and caused as much
delight at Elmhurst, as dismay in Woburn Square, where the John Pontifexes were
then living.
    Here, indeed, this freak of fortune was felt to be all the more cruel on
account of the impossibility of resenting it openly; but the delighted
grandfather cared nothing for what the John Pontifexes might feel or not feel;
he had wanted a grandson and he had got a grandson; this should be enough for
everybody; and now that Mrs. Theobald had taken to good ways she might bring him
more grandsons, which would be desirable - for he should not feel safe with
fewer than three.
    He rang the bell for the butler.
    »Gelstrap,« he said solemnly, »I want to go down into the cellar.«
    Then Gelstrap preceded him with a candle, and he went into the inner vault
where he kept his choicest wines.
    He passed many bins; there was Port 1803, Imperial Tokay 1792, Claret 1800,
Sherry 1812; these and may others were passed, but it was not for them that the
head of the Pontifex family had gone down into his inner cellar. A bin which had
appeared empty until the full light of the candle had been brought to bear upon
it was now found to contain a single pint bottle. This was the object of Mr.
Pontifex's search.
    Gelstrap had often pondered over this bottle. It had been placed there by
Mr. Pontifex himself about a dozen years previously, on his return from a visit
to his friend the celebrated traveller Dr. Jones - but there was no tablet above
the bin which might give a clue to the nature of its contents. On more than one
occasion when his master had gone out and left his keys accidentally behind him,
as he sometimes did, Gelstrap had submitted it to all the tests he could venture
upon - but it was so carefully sealed that wisdom remained quite shut out from
that entrance at which he would have welcomed her most gladly - and indeed from
all other entrances, for he could make out nothing at all.
    And now the mystery was to be solved. But Alas! it seemed as though the last
chance of securing even a sip of the contents was to be removed for ever, for
Mr. Pontifex took the bottle into his own hands and held it up to the light
after carefully examining the seal. He smiled and left the bin with the bottle
in his hands.
    Then came a catastrophe. He stumbled over an empty hamper; there was a sound
of a fall - a smash of broken glass, and in an instant the cellar floor was
covered with the liquid that had been preserved so carefully for so many years.
    With his usual presence of mind Mr. Pontifex gasped out a month's warning to
Gelstrap. Then he got up, and stamped just like Theobald had done when Christina
had wanted not to order his dinner.
    »It's water from the JORDAN,« he exclaimed furiously, »which I have been
saving for the baptism of my eldest grandson. D-- you, Gelstrap, how dared you
be so infernally careless as to leave that hamper littering about the cellar?«
    I wonder the waters of the sacred stream did not stand upright as a heap
upon the cellar floor, and rebuke him. Gelstrap told the other servants
afterwards that his master's language had made his backbone curdle.
    The moment, however, that he heard the word water, he saw his way again, and
flew to the pantry. Before his master had well noted his absence he had returned
with a little sponge and a basin, and had begun sopping up the waters of the
Jordan as though they had been a common slop.
    »I'll filter it, Sir,« said Gelstrap meekly. »It'll come quite clean.«
    Mr. Pontifex saw hope in this suggestion, which was shortly carried out
under his own eyes by the help of a piece of blotting paper and a funnel.
Eventually it was found that half a pint was saved, and this was held to be
sufficient.
    Then he made preparations for a visit to Battersby. He ordered goodly
hampers of the choicest eatables; he selected a goodly hamper of choice
drinkables; I say choice and not choicest, for although in his first exaltation
he had selected of his very best wine, yet on reflection he had felt that there
was moderation in all things, and as he was parting with his best water from the
Jordan, he would send some only of his second best wine.
    Before he went to Battersby he stayed a day or two in London, which he now
seldom did, being over seventy years old, and having practically retired from
business. The John Pontifexes who kept a sharp eye on him discovered to their
dismay that he had had an interview with his solicitors.
 

                                   Chapter 18

For the first time in his life Theobald felt that he had done something right,
and could look forward to meeting his father without alarm. The old gentleman,
indeed, had written him a most cordial letter announcing his intention of
standing godfather to the boy - nay, I may as well give it in full, as it shows
the writer at his best. It runs -
 
        »Dear Theobald, Your letter gave me very sincere pleasure, the more so
        because I had made up my mind for the worst; pray accept my most hearty
        congratulations for my daughter-in-law and for yourself.
            I have long preserved a phial of water from the Jordan for the
        christening of my first grandson, should it please God to grant me one.
        It was given me by my old friend Dr. Jones. You will agree with me that
        though the efficacy of the sacrament does not depend upon the source of
        the baptismal waters, yet, ceteris paribus, there is a sentiment
        attaching to the waters of the Jordan which should not be despised.
        Small matters like this sometimes influence a child's whole future
        career.
            I shall bring my own cook - and have told him to get everything for
        the christening dinner. Ask as many of your best neighbours as your
        table will hold. By the way I have told Lesueur not to get a lobster -
        you had better drive over yourself and get one from -- (for Battersby
        was only fourteen or fifteen miles from the seacoast); they are better
        there, at least I think so, than anywhere else in England.
            I have put your boy down for something in the event of his attaining
        the age of twenty-one years. If your brother John continues to have
        nothing but girls I may do more later on, but I have many claims upon me
        and am not so well off as you may imagine. Your affectionate father,
                                                                   G. Pontifex.«
 
A few days afterwards the writer of the above letter made his appearance in a
fly which had brought him from -- to Battersby, a distance of fourteen miles.
There was Lesueur the cook on the box with the driver, and as many hampers as
the fly could carry were disposed upon the roof and elsewhere. Next day the John
Pontifexes had to come, and Eliza, and Maria, as well as Alethæa, who by her own
special request was godmother to the boy, for Mr. Pontifex had decided that they
were to form a happy family party; so come they all must, and be happy they all
must, or it would be worse for them. Next day the author of all this hubbub was
actually christened. Theobald had proposed calling him George, after old Mr.
Pontifex, but strange to say Mr. Pontifex overruled him in favour of the name
Ernest. The word earnest was just beginning to come into fashion, and he thought
the possession of such a name might, like his having been baptised in water from
the Jordan, have a permanent effect upon his character, and influence him for
good during the more critical periods of his life.
    I was asked to be the second godfather, and was rejoiced to have an
opportunity of meeting Alethæa whom I had not seen for some few years, but with
whom I had been in constant correspondence. She and I had always been friends
from the time we had played together as children onwards. When the death of her
grandfather and grandmother severed her connection with Paleham my intimacy with
the Pontifexes was kept up by my having been at school and college with
Theobald, and each time I saw her I admired her more and more as the best,
kindest, wittiest, most loveable, and to my mind handsomest woman whom I had
ever seen. None of the Pontifexes were deficient in good looks; they were a
well-grown shapely family enough, but Alethæa was the flower of the flock even
as regards good looks, while in respect of all other qualtities that make a
woman loveable, it seemed as though the stock that had been intended for the
three daughters, and would have been about sufficient for them had all been
allotted to herself, her sisters getting none and she all.
    It is impossible for me to explain how it was that she and I never married.
We two knew exceedingly well, and that must suffice for the reader. There was
the most perfect sympathy and understanding between us; we knew that neither of
us would marry anyone else. I had asked her to marry me a dozen times over;
having said this much I will say no more upon a point which is in no way
necessary for the development of my story. For the last few years there had been
difficulties in the way of our meeting, and I had not seen her, though, as I
have said, keeping up a close correspondence with her. Naturally I was overjoyed
to meet her again; she was now just thirty years old, but I thought she looked
handsomer than ever.
    Her father, of course was the lion of the party, but seeing that we were all
meek, and quite willing to be eaten, he roared to us rather than at us. It was a
fine sight to see him tucking his napkin under his rosy old gills and letting it
fall over his capacious waistcoat while the high light from the chandelier
danced about the bump of benevolence on his bald old head like a star of
Bethlehem.
    The soup was real turtle; the old gentleman was evidently well pleased, and
was beginning to come out. Gelstrap stood behind his master's chair. I sat next
Mrs. Theobald on her left hand, and was thus just opposite her father-in-law
whom I had every opportunity for observing.
    During the first ten minutes or so, which were taken up with the soup and
the bringing in of the fish, I should probably have thought, if I had not long
since made up my mind about him, what a fine old man he was, and how proud his
children should be of him; but suddenly, as he was helping himself to lobster
sauce, he flushed crimson; a look of extreme vexation suffused his face, and he
darted two furtive but fiery glances at the two ends of the table, one for
Theobald and one for Christina. They, poor simple souls, of course saw that
something was exceedingly wrong, and so did I, but I could not guess what it was
till I heard the old man hiss in Christina's ear - »It was not made with a hen
lobster. What's the use,« he continued, »of my christening the boy Ernest, and
getting him christened in water from the Jordan, if his own father does not know
a cock from a hen lobster?«
    This cut me too, for I felt that till that moment I had not so much as known
that there were cocks and hens among lobsters, but had thought vaguely that in
the matter of matrimony they were even as the angels in heaven, and grew up very
nearly spontaneously from rocks and seaweed.
    Before the next course was over Mr. Pontifex had recovered his temper, and
from that time to the end of the evening he was at his best. He told us all
about the water from the Jordan; how it had been brought by Dr. Jones along with
some stone jars of water from the Rhine, the Rhone, the Elbe and the Danube, and
what trouble he had had with them at the custom houses, and how the intention
had been to make punch with water from the greatest rivers in Europe; and how he
Mr. Pontifex had saved the Jordan water from going into the bowl, etc., etc.
»No, no, no,« he continued, »it wouldn't have done you know, at all; very
profane idea; so we each took a pint bottle of it home with us, and the punch
was much better without it. I had a narrow escape with mine, though, the other
day. I fell over a hamper in the cellar, when I was getting it up to bring to
Battersby, and if I had not taken the greatest care the bottle would certainly
have been broken - but I saved it.« And Gelstrap was standing behind his chair
all the time.
    Nothing more happened to ruffle Mr. Pontifex, so we had a delightful
evening, which has often recurred to me while watching the after career of my
godson.
    I called a day or two afterwards and found old Mr. Pontifex still at
Battersby laid up with one of those attacks of liver and depression to which he
was becoming more and more subject. I staid luncheon. The old man was cross and
very difficult to please: he could eat nothing - had no appetite at all.
Christina tried to coax him with a little bit of the fleshly part of a mutton
chop. »How, in the name of reason can I be asked to eat a mutton chop?« he
exclaimed angrily; »you forget, my dear Christina, that you have to deal with a
stomach that is totally disorganised,« and he pushed the plate from him pouting
and frowning like a naughty old child. Writing as I do by the light of later
knowledge I suppose I should have seen nothing in this but the world's growing
pains, the disturbance inseparable from transition in human things. I suppose in
reality not a leaf goes yellow in autumn without ceasing to care about its sap
and making the parent tree very uncomfortable by long growling and grumbling -
but surely nature might find some less irritating way of carrying on business if
she would give her mind to it. Why should the generations overlap one another at
all? Why cannot we be buried as eggs in neat little cells with ten or twenty
thousands pounds each wrapped round us in Bank of England notes, and wake up, as
the sphex wasp does, to find that its papa and mamma have not only left ample
provision at its elbow but have been eaten by sparrows some weeks before we
began to live consciously on our own accounts?
    About a year and a half afterwards the tables were turned on Battersby - for
Mrs. John Pontifex was safely delivered of a boy. A year or so later still,
George Pontifex was himself struck down suddenly by a fit of paralysis, much as
his mother had been, but he did not see the years of his mother. When his will
was opened, it was found that an original bequest of £20,000 to Theobald himself
(over and above the sum that had been settled upon him and Christina at the time
of his marriage) had been cut down to £17,500 when Mr. Pontifex left something
to Ernest. The something therefore proved to be £2,500, which was to accumulate
in the hands of trustees. The rest of the property went to John Pontifex, except
that each of the daughters was left with about £15,000, over and above £5,000
apiece which they inherited from their mother.
    Theobaldss father then had told him the truth, but not the whole truth.
Nevertheless, what right had Theobald to complain? Certainly it was rather hard
to make him think that he and his were to be gainers, and get the honour and
glory of the bequest, when all the time the money was virtually being taken out
of Theobald's own pocket. On the other hand the father doubtless argued that he
had never told Theobald he was to have anything at all; he had a full right to
do what he liked with his own money; if Theobald chose to indulge in
unwarrantable expectations that was no affair of his; as it was he was providing
for him liberally; and if he did take £2,500 of Theobald's share he was still
leaving it to Theobald's son, which of course, was much the same thing in the
end.
    No one can deny that the testator had strict right upon his side;
nevertheless the reader will agree with me that Theobald and Christina might not
have considered the christening dinner so great a success if all the facts had
been before them.
    Mr. Pontifex had during his own lifetime set up a monument in Elmhurst
church to the memory of his wife (a slab with urns and cherubs like illegitimate
children of King George the Fourth, and all the rest of it), and had left space
for his own epitaph underneath that of his wife. I do not know whether it was
written by one of his children, or whether they got some friend to write it for
them. I do not believe that any satire was intended. I believe it was the
intention to convey that nothing short of the day of judgement could give anyone
an idea how quite too too Mr. Pontifex had been, but at first I found it hard to
think that it was free from guile. The epitaph begins by giving dates of birth
and death; then sets out that the deceased was for many years head of the firm
of Fairlie and Pontifex, and also resident in the parish of Elmhurst. There is
not a syllable of either praise or dispraise. The last three lines run as
follows -
 
 He now lies awaiting a joyful resurrection at the last day. What manner of man
                         he was that day will discover.
 

                                   Chapter 19

This much however we may say in the meantime - that having lived to be nearly
seventy-three years old and died rich, he must have been in very fair harmony
with his surroundings. I have heard it said sometimes that such and such a
person's life was a lie: but no man's life can be a very bad lie; as long as it
continues at all it is at worst nine-tenths of it true.
    Mr. Pontifex's life not only continued a long time, but was prosperous right
up to the end. Is not this enough? Being in this world is it not our most
obvious business to make the most of it - to observe what things do bonâ fide
tend to long life and comfort, and to act accordingly? All animals, except man,
know that the principal business of life is to enjoy it - and they do enjoy it
as much as man, and other circumstances, will allow. He has spent his life best
who has enjoyed it most - God will take care that we do not enjoy it at all more
than is good for us. If Mr. Pontifex is to be blamed it is for not having eaten
and drunk less and thus suffered less from his liver, and lived perhaps a year
or two longer.
    Goodness is naught unless it tends towards old age and a sufficiency of
means. I speak broadly and exceptis excipiendis. So the psalmist says, »The
righteous shall not lack anything that is good.« Either this is mere poetical
license, or it follows that he who lacks anything that is good is not righteous;
there is a presumption also that he who has passed a long life without lacking
anything that is good has, himself also, been good enough for practical
purposes.
    Mr. Pontifex never lacked anything he much cared about. True he might have
been happier than he was if he had cared about things which he did not care for,
but the gist of this lies in the if he had cared. We have all sinned and come
short of the glory of making ourselves as comfortable as we easily might have
done, but in this particular case Mr. Pontifex did not care, and would not have
gained much by getting what he did not want.
    There is no casting of swine's meat before men worse than that which would
flatter virtue as though her true origin were not good enough for her, but she
must have a lineage, deduced as it were by spiritual heralds, from some stock
with which she has nothing to do. Virtue's true lineage is older and more
respectable than any that can be invented for her. She springs from man's
experience concerning his own well-being - and this, though not infallible, is
still the least fallible thing we have. A system which cannot stand without a
better foundation than this must have something so unstable within itself that
it will topple over on whatever pedestal we place it.
    The world has long ago settled that morality and virtue are what bring men
peace at the last. »Be virtuous,« says the copy book, »and you will be happy.«
Surely if a reputed virtue fails often in this respect it is only an insidious
form of vice, and if a reputed vice brings no very serious mischief on a man's
later years it is not so bad a vice as it is said to be. Unfortunately though we
are all of a mind about the main opinion that virtue is what tends to happiness,
and vice what ends in sorrow, we are not so unanimous about details - that is to
say as to whether any given course, such, we will say as smoking, has a tendency
to happiness or the reverse.
    I submit it as the result of my own poor observation, that a good deal of
unkindness and selfishness on the part of parents towards children is not
generally followed by ill consequences to the parents themselves. They may cast
a gloom over their children's lives for many years without having to suffer
anything that will hurt them. I should say, then, that it shows no great moral
obliquity on the part of parents if within certain limits they make their
children's lives a burden to them.
    Granted that Mr. Pontifex's was not a very exalted character, ordinary men
are not required to have very exalted characters. It is enough if we are of the
same moral and mental stature as the main, or mean, part of men - that is to say
as the average.
    It is involved in the very essence of things that rich men who die old shall
have been mean. The greatest and wisest of mankind will be almost always found
to be the meanest - the ones who have kept the mean best between excess either
of virtue or vice. They can hardly ever have been prosperous if they have not
done this, and, considering how many miscarry altogether, it is no small feather
in a man's cap if he has been no worse than his neighbours. Homer tells us about
some one who made it his business aien aristeyein kai ypeiroxon emmenai allon
(»always to excel and to stand higher than other people«). What an
uncompanionable disagreeable person he must have surely been. Homer's heroes
generally came to a bad end and I doubt not that this gentleman, whoever he was,
did so sooner or later.
    A very high standard, again, involves the possession of rare virtues, and
rare virtues are like rare plants or animals, things that have not been able to
hold their own in the world. A virtue, to be serviceable, must, like gold, be
alloyed with some commoner but more durable metal.
    People divide off vice and virtue as though they were two things, neither of
which had with it anything of the other. This is not so. There is no useful
virtue which has not some alloy of vice, and hardly any vice, if any, which
carries not with it a little dash of virtue; virtue and vice are like life and
death or mind and matter - things which cannot exist without being qualified by
their opposite. The most absolute life contains death, and the corpse is still
in many respects living; so also it has been said, »If thou, oh Lord shouldst be
extreme to mark what is done amiss,« which shows that even the highest ideal we
can conceive will yet admit so much compromise with vice, as shall »countenance
the poor abuses of the time« if they are not too outrageous. That vice pays
homage to virtue is notorious; we call this hypocrisy; there should be a word
found for the homage which virtue not unfrequently pays - or at any rate would
be wise in paying - to vice.
    I grant that some men will find happiness in having what we all feel to be a
higher moral standard than others. If they go in for this, however, they must be
content with virtue as her own reward, and not grumble if they find lofty
Quixotism an expensive luxury whose rewards belong to a kingdom that is not of
this world. They must not wonder if they cut a poor figure in trying to make the
most of both worlds. Disbelieve as we may the details of the accounts which
record the growth of the Christian religion, yet a great part of Christian
teaching will remain as true as though we accepted the details. We cannot »serve
God and Mammon«; »strait is the way, and narrow is the gate« which leads to what
those who live by faith hold to be best worth having, and there is no way of
saying this better than the Bible has done. It is well there should be some who
think thus, as it is well there should be speculators in commerce, who will
often burn their fingers - but it is not well that the majority should leave the
mean and beaten path.
    For most men, and most circumstances, pleasure - tangible material
prosperity in this world - is the safest test of virture. Progress has ever been
through the pleasures rather than through the extreme sharp virtues, and the
most virtuous have leaned to excess rather than to asceticism. To use a
commercial metaphor, competition is so keen, and the margin of profit has been
cut down so closely that virtue cannot afford to throw any bonâ fide chance
away, and must base her action rather on the actual moneying out of conduct than
on a flattering prospectus. She will not therefore neglect - as some do who are
prudent and economical enough in other matters - the important factor of our
chance of escaping detection, or at any rate of our dying first. A reasonable
virtue will give this chance its due value, neither more nor less.
    Pleasure, after all, is a safer guide than either right or duty. For hard as
it is to know what gives us pleasure, right and duty are often harder to
distinguish still, and, if we go wrong with them, will lead us into just as
sorry a plight as a mistaken opinion concerning pleasure will lead us. When men
burn their fingers through following after pleasure they find out their mistake
and get to see where they have gone wrong more easily than when they have burnt
them through following after a fancied duty, or a fancied idea concerning right
virtue. The devil in fact when he dresses himself in angel's clothes can only be
detected by experts of exceptional skill, and so often does he adopt this
disguise that it is hardly safe to be seen talking to an angel at all, and
prudent people will follow after pleasure as a more homely, but more
respectable, and on the whole much more trustworthy guide.
    Returning to Mr. Pontifex, over and above his having lived long and
prosperously he left numerous offspring, to all of whom he communicated not only
his physical and mental characteristics with no more than the usual amount of
modification, but also no small share of characteristics which are less easily
transmitted - I mean his pecuniary characteristics. It may be said he acquired
these by sitting still and letting money run as it were right up against him,
but against how many does not money run who do not take it when it does, or who
even if they hold it for a little while cannot so incorporate it with themselves
that it shall descend through them to their offspring? Mr. Pontifex did this. He
kept what he may be said to have made, and money is like a reputation for
ability - more easily made than kept.
    Take him then all in all, I am not inclined to be so severe upon him as my
father was. Judge him according to any very lofty standard and he is nowhere.
Judge him according to a fair average standard, and there is not much fault to
be found with him. I have said what I have said in the foregoing chapter once
for all, and shall not break my thread to repeat it. It should go without saying
in modification of the verdict which the reader may be inclined to pass too
hastily not only upon Mr. George Pontifex, but also upon Theobald and Christina.
And now I will continue my story.
 

                                   Chapter 20

The birth of his son opened Theobald's eyes to a good deal which he had but
faintly realised hitherto. He had had no idea how great a nuisance a baby was.
Babies come into the world so suddenly at the end, and upset everything so
terribly when they do come: why cannot they steal in upon us with less of a
shock to the domestic system? His wife, too, did not recover rapidly from her
confinement; she remained an invalid for months; here was another nuisance, and
an expensive one, which interfered with the amount which Theobald liked to put
by out of his income against, as he said, a rainy day, or to make provision for
his family if he should have one. Now he was getting a family, so that it became
all the more necessary to put money by, and here was the baby hindering him.
Theorists may say what they like about a man's children being a continuation of
his own identity, but it will generally be found that those who talk in this way
have no children of their own. Practical family men know better.
    About twelve months after the birth of Ernest there came a second, also a
boy, who was christened Joseph, and less than twelve months afterwards, a girl
to whom was given the name Charlotte. A few months before this girl was born
Christina paid a visit to the John Pontifexes in London, and, knowing her
condition, passed a good deal of time at the Royal Academy exhibition looking at
the types of female beauty portrayed by the Academicians, for she had made up
her mind that the child this time was to be a girl. Alethæa warned her not to do
this but she persisted, and certainly the child turned out plain, but whether
the pictures caused this or no I cannot say.
    Theobald had never liked children. He had always got away from them as soon
as he could, and so had they from him; oh, why he was inclined to ask himself
could not children be born into the world grown up? If Christina could have
given birth to a few full-grown clergymen in priest's orders - of moderate
views, but inclining rather to Evangelicism, with comfortable livings and in all
respects facsimiles of Theobald and Christina themselves - why there might have
been more sense in it; or if people could buy ready-made children of whatever
age and sex they liked at a shop instead of always having to make them at home
and to begin at the beginning with them - that might do better, but as it was he
did not like it. He felt as he had felt when he had been required to come and be
married to Christina - that he had been going on for a long time quite nicely
and would much rather continue things on their present footing. In the matter of
getting married he had been obliged to pretend he liked it; but times were
changed, and if he did not like a thing now, he could find a hundred
unexceptionable ways of making his dislike apparent.
    It might have been better if Theobald in his younger days had kicked more
against his father. The fact that he had not done so encouraged him to expect
the most implicit obedience from his own children. He could trust himself, he
said, and so did Christina, to be more lenient than perhaps his father had been
to himself; his danger, he said (and so again did Christina) would be rather in
the direction of being too indulgent; he must be on his guard against this, for
no duty could be more paramount than that of teaching a child to obey its
parents in all things.
    He had read not long since of an Eastern traveller, who while exploring
somewhere in the more remote parts of Arabia or Asia Minor, had come upon a
remarkably hardy, sober, industrious little Christian community - all of them in
the best of health - who had turned out to be the actual living descendents of
Jonadab the son of Rechab; and two men in European costume indeed, but speaking
English with a broken accent, and by their colour evidently oriental, had come
begging to Battersby soon afterwards, and represented themselves as belonging to
these people; they had said they were collecting funds to promote the conversion
of their fellow tribesmen to the English branch of the Christian religion. True,
they turned out to be imposters, for when he gave them a pound, and Christina
five shillings from her private purse, they went and got drunk with it in the
next village but one to Battersby; still this did not invalidate the story of
the Eastern traveller. Then there were the Romans - whose greatness was probably
due to the wholesome authority exercised by the head of a family over all its
members. Some Romans had even killed their children; this was going too far, but
then the Romans were not Christians, and knew no better.
    The practical outcome of the foregoing was a conviction in Theobald's mind,
and if in his, then in Christina's, that it was their duty to begin training up
their children in the way they should go, even from their earliest infancy. The
first signs of self-will must be carefully looked for, and plucked up by the
roots at once before they had time to grow. Theobald picked up this numb serpent
of a metaphor and cherished it in his bosom.
    Before Ernest could well crawl he was taught to kneel; before he could well
speak he was taught to lisp the Lord's prayer, and the general confession. How
was it possible that these things could be taught too early? If his attention
flagged, or his memory failed him, here was an ill weed which would grow apace,
unless it were plucked out immediately, and the only way to pluck it out was to
whip him, or shut him up in a cupboard, or dock him of some of the small
pleasures of childhood. Before he was three years old he could read, and, after
a fashion, write. Before he was four he was learning Latin, and could do rule of
three sums.
    As for the child himself, naturally of an even temper, he doted upon his
nurse, on kittens and puppies and on all things that would do him the kindness
of allowing him to be fond of them. He was fond of his mother too, but as
regards his father, he has told me in later life, he could remember no feeling
but fear and shrinking. Christina did not remonstrate with Theobald concerning
the severity of the tasks imposed upon their boy, nor yet as to the continual
whippings that were daily found necessary at lesson times. Indeed, when during
any absence of Theobald's the lessons were entrusted to her, she found to her
sorrow that it was the only thing to do, and she did it no less effectually than
Theobald himself; nevertheless she was fond of her boy, which Theobald never
was, and it was long before she could destroy all affection for herself in the
mind of her first-born. But she persevered.
 

                                   Chapter 21

Strange! for she believed she doted upon him and certainly she loved him better
than either of her other children. Her version of the matter was that there had
never yet been two parents so self-denying and devoted to the highest welfare of
their children as Theobald and herself. For Ernest, a very great future - she
was certain of it - was in store. This made severity all the more necessary, so
that from the first he might have been kept pure from every taint of evil. She
could not allow herself the scope for castle building which, we read, was
indulged in by every Jewish matron before the appearance of the Messiah, for the
Messiah had now come; but there was to be a millennium shortly, certainly not
later than 1866, when Ernest would be just about the right age for it, and a
modern Elias would be wanted to herald its approach. Heaven would bear her
witness that she had never shrunk from the idea of martyrdom for herself and
Theobald, nor would she avoid it for her boy, if his life was required of her in
her Redeemer's service. Oh no! If God told her to offer up her first-born, as he
had told Abraham, she would take him up to Pigbury Beacon and plunge the. ... No
- that she could not do, but it would be unnecessary - some one else might do
that. It was not for nothing that Ernest had been baptised in water from the
Jordan. It had not been her doing, nor yet Theobald's. They had not sought it.
When water from the sacred stream was wanted for a sacred infant, the channel
had been found through which it was to flow from far Palestine over land and sea
to the door of the house where the child was lying. Why it was a miracle! It
was! It was! She saw it all now. The Jordan had left its bed and flowed into her
own house. It was idle to say that this was not a miracle. No miracle was
effected without means of some kind; the difference between the faithful and the
unbeliever consisted in the very fact that the former could see a miracle where
the latter could not. The Jews could see no miracle even in the raising of
Lazarus and the feeding of the five thousand. The John Pontifexes would see no
miracle in this matter of the water from the Jordan. The essence of a miracle
lay not in the fact that means had been dispensed with, but in the adoption of
means to a great end that had not been available without interference; and no
one would suppose that Dr. Jones would have brought the water unless he had been
directed. She would tell this to Theobald, and get him to see it in the ..., and
yet perhaps it would be better not. The insight of women upon matters of this
sort was deeper and more unerring than that of men. It was a woman and not a man
who had been filled most completely with the whole fullness of the Deity. But
why had they not treasured up the water after it was used? It ought never,
never, to have been thrown away, but it had been. Perhaps, however, this too was
for the best - they might have been tempted to set too much store by it, and it
might have become a source of spiritual danger to them - perhaps even of
spiritual pride - the very sin of all others which she most abhorred. As for the
channel through which the Jordan had flowed to Battersby, that mattered not more
than the earth through which the river ran in Palestine itself. Dr. Jones was
certainly worldly - very worldly; so, she regretted to feel had been her
father-in-law, though in a less degree; spiritual, at heart, doubtless, and
becoming more and more spiritual continually as he grew older, still he was
tainted with the world, till a very few hours, probably, before his death,
whereas she and Theobald had given up all for Christ's sake. They were not
worldly. At least Theobald was not. She had been but she knew that that was all
forgiven her now - all, washed white in the blood of her dear, dear Redeemer.
She was sure she had grown in grace since she had left off eating things
strangled and blood - this was as the washing in Jordan as against Abana and
Pharpar rivers of Damascus. Her boy should never touch a strangled fowl nor a
black pudding - that, at any rate, she could see to. He should have a coral from
the neighbourhood of Joppa - there were coral insects on those coasts, so that
the thing could easily be done with a little energy; she would write to Dr.
Jones about it, etc., etc. And so on for hours together day after day for years.
Truly Mrs. Theobald loved her child according to her lights with an exceeding
great fondness, but the dreams she dreamed in sleep were sober realities in
comparison with those she indulged in while awake.
    When Ernest was in his second year, Theobald, as I have already said, began
to teach him to read. He began to whip him two days after he had begun to teach
him.
    It was painful, as he said to Christina, but it was the only thing to do -
and it was done. The child was puny, white and sickly, so they sent continually
for the doctor who dosed him with calomel and James's powder. All was done in
love, anxiety, timidity, stupidity and impatience. They were stupid in little
things; and he that is stupid in little will be stupid also in much.
    Presently old Mr. Pontifex died, and then came the revelation of the little
alteration he had made in his will simultaneously with his bequest to Ernest. It
was rather hard to bear, especially as there was no way of conveying a bit of
their minds to the testator now that he could no longer hurt them. As regards
the boy himself anyone must see that the bequest would be an unmitigated
misfortune to him. To leave him a small independence was perhaps the greatest
injury which one could inflict upon a young man. It would cripple his energies,
and deaden his desire for active employment. Many a youth was led into evil
courses by the knowledge that on arriving at majority he would come into a few
thousands. They might surely have been trusted to have their boy's interests at
heart, and must be better judges of those interests than he, at twenty-one,
could be expected to be: besides if Jonadab, the son of Rechab's father - or
perhaps it might be simpler under the circumstances to say Rechab at once - if
Rechab, then, had left handsome legacies to his grandchildren - why Jonadab
might not have found those children so easy to deal with, etc. »My dear,« said
Theobald, after having discussed the matter with Christina for the twentieth
time, »my dear, the only thing to guide and console us under misfortunes of this
kind is to take refuge in practical work. I will go and pay a visit to Mrs.
Jones.«
    On those days Mrs. Jones would be told that her sins were all washed white,
etc., a little sooner and a little more peremptorily, than on others.
 

                                   Chapter 22

I used to stay at Battersby for a day or two sometimes, while my godson and his
brother and sister were children. I hardly know why I went, for Theobald and I
grew yearly more and more apart, but one gets into grooves sometimes, and the
supposed friendship between myself and the Pontifexes continued to exist, though
it was now little more than rudimentary. My godson pleased me more than either
of the other children, but he had not much of the buoyancy of childhood, and was
more like a puny sallow little old man than I liked. The young people however
were very ready to be friendly.
    I remember Ernest and his brother hovered round me on the first day of one
of these visits with their hands full of fading flowers, which they at length
proffered me. On this I did what I suppose was expected, and enquired if there
was a shop near where they could buy sweeties. They said there was, so I felt in
my pockets, but only succeeded in finding twopence halfpenny in small money.
This I gave them, and the youngsters aged four and three toddled off at once.
Ere long they returned, and Ernest said, »We can't get sweeties for all this
money« (I felt rebuked, but no rebuke was intended); »we can get sweeties for
this,« showing a penny, »and for this,« showing another penny, »but we cannot
get them for all this,« and he added the halfpenny to the twopence. I suppose
they had wanted a twopenny cake, or something like that. I was amused and left
them to solve the difficulty their own way, being anxious to see what they would
do.
    Presently Ernest said, »May we give you back this« (showing the halfpenny)
»and not give you back this and this« (showing the pence)? I assenting, they
gave a sigh of relief and went on their way rejoicing. A few more presents of
pence and small toys completed the conquest, and they then began to take me into
their confidence.
    They told me a good deal which I am afraid I ought not to have listened to.
They said that if grandpapa had lived longer he would most likely have been made
a lord, and that then papa would have been the honourable and reverend, but that
grandpapa was now in heaven singing beautiful hymns with Grandmamma Allaby to
Jesus Christ, who was very fond of them; and that when Ernest was ill, his mamma
had told him he need not be afraid of dying, for he would go straight to heaven,
if only he would be sorry for having done his lessons so badly and vexed his
dear papa, and if he would promise never, never to vex him any more; and that
when he got to heaven Grandpapa and Grandmamma Allaby would meet him and he
would be always with them, and they would be very good to him and teach him to
sing ever such beautiful hymns, more beautiful by far than those which he was
now so fond of, etc., etc.; but he did not wish to die, and was glad when he got
better, for there were no kittens in heaven, and he did not think there were
cowslips to make cowslip tea with.
    Their mother was plainly disappointed in them. »My children are none of them
geniuses, Mr. Overton,« she had said to me at breakfast one morning. »They have
fair abilities, and thanks to Theobald's tuition they are forward for their
years, but they have nothing like genius: genius is a thing quite apart from
this, is it not?«
    Of course I said it was »a thing quite apart from this,« but if my thoughts
had been laid bare they would have appeared as »Give me my coffee ma'am
immediately and don't talk.« I have no idea what genius is, but so far as I can
form any conception about it I should say it was a stupid word which cannot be
too soon abandoned to scientific and literary claqueurs.
    I do not know exactly what Christina expected but I should imagine it was
something like this - »My children ought to be all geniuses because they are
mine and Theobald's, and it is naughty of them not to be; but of course they
cannot be so good and clever as Theobald and I were, and if they show signs of
being so it will be naughty of them. Happily however they are not this, and yet
it is very dreadful that they are not. As for genius - hoity-toity indeed, why a
genius should turn intellectual somersaults as soon as it is born, and none of
my children have yet been able to get into the newspapers. I will not have
children of mine give themselves airs - it is enough for them that Theobald and
I should do so.«
    She did not know, poor woman, that the true greatness wears an invisible
cloak, under cover of which it goes in and out among men without being
suspected; if its cloak does not conceal it from itself always, and from others
for many years, its greatness will ere long shrink to very ordinary dimensions.
What, then, it may be asked is the good of being great? The answer is that you
may understand greatness better in others whether alive or dead, and choose
better company from these, and enjoy and understand that company better when you
have chosen it - also that you may be able to give pleasure to the best people
and live in the lives of those who are yet unborn. This, one would think, was
substantial gain enough for greatness without its wanting to ride roughshod over
us - not even when disguised as humility.
    I was there on a Sunday, and observed the rigour with which the young people
were taught to observe the Sabbath: they might not cut out things, nor use their
paint box on a Sunday, and this they thought rather hard because their cousins
the John Pontifexes might do these things. Their cousins might play with their
toy train on Sunday, but though they had promised that they would run none but
Sunday trains, all traffic had been prohibited. One treat only was allowed them
- on Sunday evenings they might choose their own hymns.
    In the course of the evening they came into the drawing-room and as an
especial treat were to sing some of their hymns to me instead of saying them, so
that I might hear how nicely they sang. Ernest was to choose the first hymn and
he chose one about some people who were to come to the sunset tree. I am no
botanist, and do not know what kind of tree a sunset tree is, but the words
began, »Come, come, come; come to the sunset tree for the day is past and gone.«
The tune was rather pretty and had taken Ernest's fancy, for he was unusually
fond of music and had a sweet little child's voice which he liked using.
    He was, however, very late in being able to sound a hard C or K, and instead
of saying »Come,« he said »tum, tum, tum.«
    »Ernest,« said Theobald from the armchair in front of the fire where he was
sitting with his hands folded before him, »don't you think it would be very nice
if you were to say come like other people, instead of tum?«
    »I do say tum,« replied Ernest, meaning that he had said »come.«
    Theobald was always in a bad temper on Sunday evening. Whether it is that
they are as much bored with the day as their neighbours, or whether they are
tired, or whatever the cause may be, clergymen are seldom at their best on
Sunday evening; I had already seen signs that evening that my host was cross,
and was a little nervous at hearing Ernest say so promptly, »I do say tum,« when
his papa had said he did not say it as he should.
    Theobald noticed the fact that he was being contradicted in a moment. He had
been sitting in an armchair in front of the fire with his hands folded, doing
nothing, but he got up at once and went to the piano.
    »No Ernest, you don't,« he said; »you say nothing of the kind, you say tum
not come. Now say come after me, as I do.«
    »Tum,« said Ernest at once, »is that better?« I have no doubt he thought it
was, but it was not.
    »Now Ernest, you are not taking pains: you are not trying as you ought to
do. It is high time you learned to say come; why Joey can say come, can't you,
Joey?«
    »Yeth I can,« replied Joey promptly, and he said something which was not far
off »come.«
    »There, Ernest, do you hear that? There's no difficulty about it nor shadow
of difficulty. Now take your own time: think about it and say come after me.«
    The boy remained silent for a few seconds and then said »tum« again.
    I laughed, but Theobald turned to me impatiently and said, »Please do not
laugh Overton, it will make the boy think it does not matter, and it matters a
great deal«; then turning to Ernest he said, »Now Ernest, I will give you one
more chance, and if you don't say come I shall know that you are self-willed and
naughty.«
    He looked very angry and a shade came over Ernest's face, like that which
comes upon the face of a puppy when it is being scolded without understanding
why. The child saw well what was coming now, was frightened, and of course said
»tum« once more.
    »Very well Ernest,« said his father catching him angrily by the shoulder. »I
have done my best to save you, but if you will have it so you will,« and he
lugged the little wretch out of the room crying by anticipation. A few minutes
more and we could hear screams coming from the dining-room across the hall which
separated the drawing-room from the dining-room, and knew that poor Ernest was
being beaten.
    »I have sent him up to bed,« said Theobald, as he returned to the
drawing-room, »and now, Christina, I think we will have the servants in to
prayers,« and he rang the bell for them, red-handed as he was.
 

                                   Chapter 23

The manservant William came and set the chairs for the maids, and presently they
filed in. First Christina's maid, then the cook, then the housemaid, then
William and then the coachman. I sat opposite them and watched their faces as
Theobald read a chapter from the Bible. They were nice people, but more absolute
vacancy I never saw upon the countenances of human beings.
    Theobald began by reading a few verses from the Old Testament according to
some system of his own. On this occasion the passage came from the fifteenth
chapter of Numbers; it had no particular bearing that I could see upon anything
which was going on just then, but the spirit which breathed throughout the whole
seemed to me to be so like that of Theobald himself that I could understand
better after hearing it how he came to think as he thought and act as he did.
How is it, I wonder, that all religious officials from God the Father to the
parish beadle shall be so arbitrary and exacting?
    The verses are as follows -
 
        »But the soul that doeth aught presumptuously, whether he be born in the
        land or a stranger, the same reproacheth the Lord, and that soul shall
        be cut off from among his people.
            Because he hath despised the word of the Lord, and hath broken his
        commandment, that soul shall be utterly cut off; his iniquity shall be
        upon him.
            And while the children of Israel were in the wilderness they found a
        man that gathered sticks upon the Sabbath day.
            And they that found him gathering sticks brought him unto Moses and
        Aaron and unto all the congregation.
            And they put him in ward because it was not declared what should be
        done to him.
            And the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall be surely put to death;
        all the congregation shall stone him with stones without the camp.
            And all the congregation brought him without the camp, and stoned
        him with stones and he died as the Lord commanded Moses.
            And the Lord spoke unto Moses saying,
            Speak unto the children of Israel and bid them that they make them
        fringes in the borders of their garments throughout their generations,
        and that they put upon the fringe of the borders a riband of blue.
            And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that you may look upon it and
        remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them, and that ye seek
        not after your own heart and your own eyes.
            That ye may remember and do all my commandments and be holy unto
        your God.
            I am the Lord your God which brought you out of the land of Egypt to
        be your God. I am the Lord your God.«
 
My thoughts wandered while Theobald was reading the above, and reverted to a
little matter which I had observed in the course of the afternoon.
    It happened that some years previously a swarm of bees had taken up their
abode in the roof of the house under the slates, and had multiplied, so that the
drawing-room was a good deal frequented by these bees during the summer, when
the windows were open. The drawing-room paper was of a pattern which consisted
of bunches of red and white roses, and I saw several bees at different times fly
up to these bunches and try them under the impression that they were real
flowers; having tried one bunch they tried the next and the next and the next
till they reached the one that was nearest the ceiling, then they went down
bunch by bunch as they had ascended till they were stopped by the back of the
sofa; on this they ascended bunch by bunch to the ceiling again; and so on and
so on till I was tired of watching them. As I thought of the family prayers
being repeated night and morning, night and morning, week by week, month by
month, and year by year, I could not help thinking how like it was to the way in
which the bees went up the wall and down the wall, bunch by bunch without ever
suspecting that so many of the associated ideas should be present and yet the
main idea be wanting hopelessly and forever.
    When Theobald had finished reading we all knelt down and the Carlo Dolci and
the Sassoferrato looked down upon a sea of upturned backs, as we buried our
faces in our chairs. I noted that Theobald prayed that we might be made truly
honest and conscientious in all our dealings and smiled at the introduction of
the truly. Then my thoughts ran back to the bees, and I reflected that after all
it was perhaps as well, at any rate for Theobald, that our prayers were seldom
marked by any very encouraging degree of response, for if I had thought there
was the slightest chance of my being heard I should have prayed that some one
might ere long treat him as he had treated Ernest.
    Then my thoughts wandered on to those calculations which people make about
waste of time and how much one can get done if one gives ten minutes a day to
it, and I was thinking [what] improper suggestion I could make in connection
with this and the time spent on family prayers which should at the same time be
just tolerable, when I heard Theobald beginning, »The grace of our Lord Jesus
Christ« and in a few seconds the ceremony was over, and the servants filed out
again as they had filed in.
    As soon as they had left the drawing-room, Christina, who was a little
ashamed of the transaction to which I had been a witness, imprudently returned
to it and began to justify it, saying that it cut her to the heart, and that it
cut Theobald to the heart and a good deal more, but that »it was the only thing
to be done.«
    I received this as coldly as I decently could, and by my silence during the
rest of the evening showed that I disapproved of what I had seen.
    Next day I was to go back to London, but before I went I said I should like
to take some new-laid eggs back with me, so Theobald took me to the house of a
labourer in the village who lived a stone's throw from the rectory as being
likely to supply me with them. Ernest for some reason or other was allowed to
come too. I think the hens had begun to sit, but at any rate for some reason
eggs were scarce, and the cottager's wife could not find me more than seven or
eight, which we proceeded to wrap up in separate pieces of paper so that I might
take them to town safely.
    This operation was carried on upon the ground in front of the cottage door,
and while we were in the midst of it the cottager's little boy, a lad much about
Ernest's age, trod upon one of the eggs that was wrapped up in paper and broke
it.
    »There now Jack,« said his mother, »see what you've done, you've broken a
nice egg and cost me a penny - here Emma,« she added, calling her daughter,
»take the child away, there's a dear.«
    Emma came at once, and walked off with the youngster, taking him out of
harm's way.
    »Papa,« said Ernest after we had left the house, »why didn't Mrs. Heaton
whip Jack when he trod on the egg?«
    I was spiteful enough to give Theobald a grim smile which said as plainly as
words could have done that I thought Ernest had hit him rather hard.
    Theobald coloured and looked angry. »I dare say,« he said quickly, »that his
mother will whip him now that we are gone.«
    I was not going to have this and said I did not believe it, and so the
matter dropped, but Theobald did not forget it, and my visits to Battersby were
henceforth less frequent.
    On our return to the house we found the postman had arrived and had brought
a letter appointing Theobald to a rural deanery which had lately fallen vacant
by the death of one of the neighbouring clergy who had held the office for many
years. The bishop wrote to Theobald most warmly and assured him that he valued
him as among the most hard-working and devoted of his parochial clergy.
Christina of course was delighted, and gave me to understand that it was only an
instalment of the much higher dignities which were in store for Theobald when
his merits were more widely known.
    I did not then foresee how closely my godson's life and mine were in after
years to be bound up together; if I had, I should doubtless [have] looked upon
the youngster with different eyes and noted much to which I paid no attention at
the time. I was glad to get away from him, for I could do nothing for him, or
chose to say that I could not, and the sight of so much suffering was painful to
me. A man should not only have his own way as far as possible, but he should
only consort with things that are getting their own way so far that they are at
any rate comfortable. Unless for short times under exceptional circumstances, he
should not even see things that have been stunted or starved, much less should
he eat meat that has been vexed by having been over-driven or underfed, or
afflicted with any disease; nor should he touch vegetables that have not been
well grown. For all these things cross a man; whatever a man comes in contact
with in any way forms a cross with him which will leave him better or worse, and
the better things he is crossed with the more likely he is to live long and
happily. All things must be crossed a little or they would cease to live - but
holy things such for example as Giovanni Bellini saints have been crossed with
nothing but what is good of its kind.
 

                                   Chapter 24

The storm which I have described in the previous chapter was a sample of those
that occurred daily for many years. No matter how clear the sky, it was always
liable to cloud over now in one quarter now in another, and the thunder and
lightning were upon the young people before they knew where they were.
    »And then, you know,« said Ernest to me, when I asked him not long since to
give me more of his childish reminiscences for the benefit of my story, »we used
to learn Mrs. Barbauld's hymns; they were in prose, and there was one about the
lion which began, Come, and I will show you what is strong. The lion is strong;
when he raiseth himself from his lair, when he shaketh his mane, when the voice
of his roaring is heard the cattle of the field fly, and the beasts of the
desert hide themselves for he is very terrible. I used to say this to Joey and
Charlotte about my father himself when I got a little older, but they were
always didactic, and said it was naughty of me.
    One great reason why clergymen's households are generally unhappy is because
the clergyman is so much at home or close about the house. The doctor is out
visiting patients half his time; the lawyer and the merchant have offices away
from home, but the clergyman has no official place of business which shall
ensure his being away from home for many hours together at stated times. Our
great days were when my father went for a day's shopping to -. We were some
miles from this place, and commissions used to accumulate on my father's list
till he would make a day of it and go and do the lot. As soon as his back was
turned the air felt lighter; as soon as the hall door opened to let him in again
the law with its all-reaching touch not, taste not, handle not was upon us
again. The worst of it was that I could never trust Joey and Charlotte, they
would go a good way with me and then turn back, or even the whole way and then
their consciences would compel them to tell papa and mamma. They liked running
with the hare up to a certain point, but their instinct was towards the hounds.
    It seems to me,« he continued, »that the family is a survival of the
principle which is more logically embodied in the compound animal - and the
compound animal is a form of life which has been found incompatible with high
development. I would do with the family among mankind what nature has done with
the compound animal, and confine it to the lower and less progressive races.
Certainly there is no inherent love for the family system on the part of nature
herself. Poll the forms of life and you will find it in a ridiculously small
minority. The fishes know it not, and they get along quite nicely. The ants and
the bees who far outnumber man sting their fathers to death as a matter of
course, and are given to the atrocious mutilation of nine-tenths of the
offspring committed to their charge, yet where shall we find communities more
universally respected? Take the cuckoo again - is there any bird which we like
better?«
    I saw he was running off from his own reminiscences and tried to bring him
back to them, but it was no use.
    »What a fool,« he said, »a man is to remember anything that happened more
than a week ago unless it was pleasant, or unless he wants to make some use of
it.
    Sensible people get the greater part of their own dying done during their
own lifetime. A man at five and thirty should no more regret not having had a
happier childhood than he should regret not having been born a prince of the
blood. He might be happier if he had been more fortunate in childhood, but for
aught he knows if he had, something else might have happened which might have
killed him long ago. If I had to be born again I would be born at Battersby of
the same father and mother as before, and I would not alter anything that has
ever happened to me.«
    I said I knew all about that, but it was not the point; I had a story to
tell and must make it clear how things came about as they did - but I could get
no more out of him.
    The most amusing incident that I can remember about his childhood was that
when he was about seven years old he told me he was going to have a natural
child. I asked him his reasons for thinking this, and he explained that papa and
mamma had always told him nobody had any children till they were married, and as
long as he had believed this of course he had had no idea of having a child till
he was grown up; but not long since he had been reading Mrs. Markham's history
of England and had come upon the words, »John of Gaunt had several natural
children«; he had therefore asked his governess what a natural child was - were
not all children natural?
    »Oh, my dear,« said she, »a natural child is a child a person has before he
is married.« On this it seemed to follow logically that if John of Gaunt had had
children before he was married, he Ernest Pontifex might have them also, and he
would be obliged to me if I would tell him what he had better do under the
circumstances.
    I was very much amused and enquired how long [ago] he had made this
discovery. He said about a fortnight, and he did not know where to look for the
child, for it might come at any moment. »You know,« he said, »babies come so
suddenly; one goes to bed one night and next morning there is a baby. Why it
might die of cold if we are not on the lookout for it. I hope it will be a boy.«
    »And you have told your governess about this?«
    »Yes, but she puts me off and doesn't't help me; she says it will not come for
many years and she hopes not then.«
    »And are you quite sure that you have not made any mistake in all this?«
    »Oh no; because Mrs. Burne, you know, she called here a few days ago and I
was sent for to be looked at. And mamma held me out at arm's length and said, Is
he Mr. Pontifex's child, Mrs. Burne, or is he mine? Of course she couldn't have
said this if papa had not had some of the children himself. I did think the
gentleman had all the boys and the lady all the girls, but it can't be like
this, or else mamma would not have asked Mrs. Burne to guess; but then Mrs.
Burne said, Oh, he's Mr. Pontifex's child of course, and I didn't quite know
what she meant by saying of course: it seemed as though I was right in thinking
that the husband has all the boys and the wife all the girls; I wish you would
explain to me all about it.«
    This I could hardly do, so I changed the conversation, after reassuring him
as best I could.
 

                                   Chapter 25

After an interval of three or four years after the birth of her daughter
Christina had had one more child. She had never been strong since she married
and had a presentiment that she should not survive this last confinement. She
accordingly wrote the following letter which was to be given, as she endorsed
upon it, to her sons when Ernest was sixteen years old. It reached him on his
mother's death many years later, for it was the baby who died now, and not
Christina. It was found among papers which she had repeatedly and carefully
arranged, with the seal already broken. This I am afraid shows that Christina
had read it and thought it too creditable to be destroyed when the occasion that
had called it forth had gone by. It is as follows -
 
                                                     »Battersby, March 15, 1841.
        My Two Dear Boys, when this is put into your hands will you try to bring
        to mind the mother whom you lost in your childhood, and whom I fear you
        will almost have forgotten? You Ernest will remember her best for you
        are past five years old, and the many times that she has taught you your
        prayers and hymns and sums, and told you stories, and our happy Sunday
        evenings will not quite have passed from your mind, and you, Joey,
        though only four will perhaps recollect some of these things. My dear,
        dear boys, for the sake of that mother who loved you very dearly - and
        for the sake of your own happiness forever and ever - attend to and try
        to remember, and from time to time read over again the last words she
        can ever speak to you. When I think about leaving you all two things
        press heavily upon me: one your father's sorrow (for you my darlings
        after missing me a little while will soon forget your loss), the other
        the everlasting welfare of my children. I know how long and deep the
        former will be - and I know that he will look to his children to be his
        almost only earthly comfort. You know (for I am certain that it will
        have been so) how he has devoted his life to you and taught you and
        laboured to lead you to all that is right and good. Oh! then, be sure
        that you are his comforts. Let him find you obedient, affectionate and
        attentive to his wishes, upright, self-denying, and diligent, let him
        never blush for or grieve over the sins and follies of those who owe him
        such a debt of gratitude, and whose first duty it is to study his
        happiness. You have both of you a name which must not be disgraced, a
        father and a grandfather of whom to show yourselves worthy; your
        respectability and well-doing in life rest mainly with yourselves, but
        far, far beyond earthly respectability and well-doing, and compared with
        which they are as nothing, your eternal happiness rests with yourselves.
        You know your duty, but snares and temptations from without beset you,
        and the nearer you approach to manhood the more strongly will you feel
        this. With God's help, with God's word, and with humble hearts you will
        stand in spite of everything, but should you leave off seeking in
        earnest for the first, and applying to the second - should you learn to
        trust in yourselves, or to the advice and example of too many around you
        - you will - you must fall. Oh! let God be true and every man a liar. He
        says you cannot serve Him and Mammon. He says that strait is the gate
        that leads to eternal life. Many there are who seek to widen it; they
        will tell you that such and such self-indulgences are but venial
        offences - that this and that worldly compliance are excusable and even
        necessary; the thing cannot be; for in a hundred and a hundred places he
        tells you so - look to your bibles and seek there whether such counsel
        is true - and if not oh! halt not between two opinions, if God is the
        Lord follow Him; only be strong and of a good courage, and He will never
        leave you nor forsake you. Remember, there is not in the Bible one law
        for the rich, and one for the poor - one for the educated and one for
        the ignorant. To all there is but one thing needful. All are to be
        living to God and their fellow creatures, and not to themselves. All
        must seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness - must deny
        themselves, be pure and chaste and charitable in the fullest and widest
        sense - all, forgetting those things that are behind must press forward
        towards the mark, for the prize of the high calling of God.
            And now I will add but two things more. Be true through life to each
        other - love as only brothers should do - strengthen, warn, encourage
        one another - and let who will be against you, let each feel that in his
        brother he has a firm and faithful friend who will be so to the end;
        and, oh! be kind and watchful over your dear sister - without mother or
        sisters she will doubly need her brothers' love and tenderness and
        confidence. I am certain she will seek them, and will love you and try
        to make you happy; be sure then that you do not fail her, and remember
        that were she to lose her father and remain unmarried, she would doubly
        need protectors - to you, then, I especially commend her - oh! my three
        darling children, be true to each other, your Father, and your God. May
        He guide and bless you, and grant that in a better and happier world I
        and mine may meet again. Your most affectionate mother,
                                                            Christina Pontifex.«
 
From enquiries I have made I have satisfied myself that most mothers write
letters like this shortly before their confinements, and that about fifty per
cent keep them afterwards as Christina did.
 

                                   Chapter 26

The foregoing letter shows how much greater was Christina's anxiety for the
eternal than for the temporal welfare of her sons. One would have thought she
had sowed enough of such religious wild oats by this time, but she had plenty
still to sow. To me it seems that those who are happy in this world are better
and more loveable people than those who are not, and that thus in the event of a
resurrection and day of judgement, they will be the most likely to be deemed
worthy of a heavenly mansion. Perhaps a dim unconscious perception of this was
the reason why Christina was so anxious for Theobald's earthly happiness, or was
it merely due to a conviction that his eternal welfare was so much a matter of
course that it only remained to secure his earthly happiness? He was to »find
his sons obedient, affectionate, attentive to his wishes, self-denying and
diligent« - a goodly string forsooth of all the virtues most convenient to
parents; he was never to have to blush for the follies of those »who owed him
such a debt of gratitude« and »whose first duty it was to study his happiness.«
How like maternal solicitude is this! Solicitude for the most part lest the
offspring should come to have wishes and feelings of its own, which may occasion
money difficulties, fancied or real. It is this that is at the bottom of the
whole mischief; but whether this last proposition is granted or no, at any rate
we observe that Christina had a sufficiently keen appreciation of the duties of
children towards their parents, and felt the task of fulfilling them adequately
to be so difficult that she was very doubtful how far Ernest and Joey would
succeed in mastering it. It is plain in fact that her supposed parting glance
upon them was one of some suspicion. But there was no suspicion of Theobald:
that he should have devoted his life to his children - why this was such a mere
platitude, as almost to go without saying.
    How, let me ask, was it possible that a child only a little past five years
old, trained in such an atmosphere of prayers and hymns and sums and happy
Sunday evenings - to say nothing of daily oft-repeated beatings over the said
prayers and hymns, etc., etc., about which our authoress is silent - how was it
possible that a lad so trained should grow up in any healthy or vigorous
development, even though in her own way his mother was undoubtedly very fond of
him, and sometimes told him stories? Can the eye of any reader fail to detect
the coming wrath of God as about to descend upon the head of him who should be
nurtured under the shadow of such a letter as the foregoing?
    I have often thought that the Church of Rome does wisely in not allowing her
priests to marry. Certainly it is a matter of common observation in England that
the sons of clergymen are frequently unsatisfactory. The explanation is very
simple, but is so often lost sight of that I may perhaps be pardoned for giving
it here.
    The clergyman is expected to be a kind of human Sunday. Things must not be
done in him which are venial in the week-day classes. He is paid for this
business of leading a stricter life than other people. It is his raison d'être.
If his parishioners feel that he does this they approve of him, for they look
upon him as their own contribution towards what they deem a holy life. This is
why the clergyman is so often called a vicar - he being the person whose
vicarious goodness is to stand for that of those entrusted to his charge. But
his home is his castle as much as that of any other Englishman and with him as
with others unnatural tension in public is followed by exhaustion when tension
is no longer necessary. His children are the most defenceless things he can
reach, and it is on them in nine cases out of ten that he will relieve his mind.
    A clergyman, again, can hardly ever allow himself to look facts fairly in
the face. It is his profession to support one side; it is impossible, therefore,
for him to make an unbiased examination of the other.
    We forget that every clergyman with a living or curacy is as much a paid
advocate as the barrister who is trying to persuade a jury to acquit a prisoner.
We should listen to him with the same suspense of judgement, the same full
consideration of the arguments of the opposing counsel, as a judge does when he
is trying a case. Unless we know these and can state them in a way that our
opponents would admit to be a fair representation of their views we have no
right to claim that we have formed an opinion at all. The misfortune is that by
the law of the land one side only can be heard.
    Theobald and Christina were no exceptions to the general rule. When they
came to Battersby they had every desire to fulfil the duties of their position,
and to devote themselves to the honour and glory of God. But it was Theobald's
duty to see the honour and glory of God through the eyes of a church which had
lived three hundred years without finding reason to change a single one of its
opinions.
    I should doubt whether he ever got as far as doubting the wisdom of his
church upon any single matter. His scent for possible mischief was tolerably
keen; so was Christina's; and it is likely that if either of them detected in
him or herself the first faint symptoms of a want of faith they were nipped no
less peremptorily in the bud than signs of self-will in Ernest were, and I
should imagine more successfully. Yet Theobald considered himself, and was
generally considered to be, and indeed perhaps was, an exceptionally truthful
person; indeed he was generally looked upon as the embodiment of all those
virtues which make the poor respectable, and the rich respected. In the course
of time he and his wife became persuaded, even to unconsciousness, that no one
could even dwell under their roof without deep cause for thankfulness. Their
children, their servants, their parishioners must be fortunate ipso facto that
they were theirs. There was no road to happiness here or hereafter, but the road
that they had themselves travelled, no good people who did not think as they did
upon every subject, and no reasonable person who had wants, the gratification of
which would be inconvenient to them - Theobald and Christina.
    This was how it came to pass that the children were white and puny. They
were suffering from homesickness. They were starving through being over-crammed
with the wrong things. Nature came down upon them, but she did not come down on
Theobald and Christina. Why should she? They were not leading a starved
existence. There are two classes of people in this world, those who sin and
those who are sinned against; if a man must belong to either he had better do so
to the first than to the second.
 

                                   Chapter 27

I will give no more of the details of my hero's earlier years. Enough that he
struggled through them, and at twelve years old knew every page of his Latin and
Greek grammars by heart. He had read the greater part of Virgil, Horace, and
Livy, and I do not know how many Greek plays; he was proficient in arithmetic,
knew the first four books of Euclid thoroughly, and had a fair knowledge of
French. It was now time he went to school, and to school he was accordingly to
go, under the famous Dr. Skinner of Roughborough.
    Theobald had known Dr. Skinner slightly at Cambridge. He had been a burning
and a shining light in every position he had filled from his boyhood upwards. He
was a very great genius. Everyone knew this; they said, indeed, that he was one
of the few people to whom the word genius could be applied without exaggeration.
Had he not taken I don't know how many university scholarships in his freshman's
year? Had he not been afterwards Senior Wrangler, and First Chancellor's
Medallist and I do not know how many more things besides? And then he was such a
wonderful speaker; at the Union Debating Club he had been without a rival, and
had, of course, been president; his moral character - a point on which so many
geniuses were weak - was absolutely irreproachable; foremost of all, however,
among his many great qualities, and perhaps more remarkable even than his
genius, was what biographers have called the simple-minded and childlike
earnestness of his character - an earnestness which might be perceived by the
solemnity with which he spoke even about trifles. It is hardly necessary to say
he was on the Liberal side in politics.
    His personal appearance was not particularly prepossessing. He was about the
middle height, portly, and had a couple of fierce gray eyes, that flashed fire
from beneath a pair of great bushy beetling eyebrows and overawed all who came
near him. It was in respect of his personal appearance, however, that if he was
vulnerable at all his weak place was to be found. His hair when he was a young
man was red, but soon after he had taken his degree he had a brain fever which
caused him to have his head shaved; when he reappeared he did so wearing a wig -
and one which was a good deal more off red than his hair had been. He not only
never discarded his wig, but year by year it edged itself a little more and a
little more off red, till by the time he was forty there was not a trace of red
remaining, and his wig was brown.
    When Dr. Skinner was a very young man - hardly more than five and twenty -
the headmastership of Roughborough Grammar School had fallen vacant, and he had
been unhesitatingly appointed. The result justified the selection. Dr. Skinner's
pupils distinguished themselves whichever university they went to. He moulded
their minds after the model of his own, and stamped an impress upon them which
was indelible in after-life; whatever else a Roughborough man might be, he was
sure to make everyone feel that he was a God-fearing earnest Christian, and a
Liberal, if not a Radical, in politics. Some boys, of course, were incapable of
appreciating the beauty and loftiness of Dr. Skinner's nature. Some such boys,
alas! there will be in every school; upon them Dr. Skinner's hand was very
properly a heavy one. His hand was against them, and theirs against him during
the whole time of the connection between them. They not only disliked him, but
they hated all that he more especially embodied, and throughout their lives
disliked all that reminded them of him. Such boys however were in a minority,
the spirit of the place being decidedly Skinnerian.
    I once had the honour of playing a game of chess with this great man. It was
during the Christmas holidays and I had come down to Roughborough for a few days
to see Alethæa Pontifex (who was then living there) on business. It was very
gracious of him to take notice of me, for if I was a light of literature at all
it was of the very lightest kind.
    It was true that in the intervals of business I had written a good deal, but
my works had been almost exclusively for the stage, and for those theatres that
devoted themselves to extravaganza and burlesque. I had written many pieces of
this description, full of puns and comic songs, and they had had a fair success,
but my best piece had been a treatment of English history during the Reformation
period, in the course of which I had introduced Cranmer, Sir Thomas More, Henry
the Eighth, Catherine of Aragon, and Oliver Cromwell (in his youth better known
as the Malleus Monachorum) and had made them dance a break-down. I had also
dramatised Pilgrim's Progress for a Christmas Pantomime, and made an important
scene of Vanity Fair, with Mr. Greatheart, Apollyon, Christiana, Mercy and
Hopeful as the principal characters. The orchestra played music taken from
Handel's best known works, but the time was a good deal altered, and altogether
they were not exactly as Handel left them. Mr. Greatheart was very stout and had
a red nose; he wore a capacious waistcoat and a shirt with a huge frill down the
middle of the front. Hopeful was up to as much mischief as I could give him; he
wore the costume of a young swell of the period, and had a cigar in his mouth
which was continually going out.
    Christiana did not wear much of anything: indeed it was said that the dress
which the stage manager had originally proposed for her had been considered
inadequate even by the Lord Chamberlain, but this is not the case. With all
these delinquencies upon my mind it was natural that I should feel convinced of
sin while playing chess (which I hate) with the great Dr. Skinner of
Roughborough - the historian of Athens and editor of Demosthenes. Dr. Skinner,
moreover, was one of those who pride themselves on being able to set people at
their ease at once, and I had been sitting on the edge of my chair all the
evening. But I have always been very easily overawed by a schoolmaster.
    The game had been a long one, and at half-past nine, when supper came in, we
had each of us a few pieces remaining.
    »What will you take for supper, Dr. Skinner?« said Mrs. Skinner in a silvery
voice.
    He made no answer for some time, but at last in a tone of almost superhuman
solemnity, he said, first, »Nothing,« and then, »Nothing whatever.«
    By and by, however, I had a sense come over me as though I were nearer the
consummation of all things than I had ever yet been. The room seemed to grow
dark as an expression came over Dr. Skinner's face which showed that he was
about to speak. The expression gathered force, the room grew darker and darker.
»Stay,« he at length added - and I felt that here at any rate was an end to a
suspense which was rapidly becoming unbearable - »Stay - I may presently take a
glass of cold water - and a small piece of bread and butter.«
    As he said the word »butter« his voice sank to a hardly audible whisper;
then there was a sigh as though of relief when the sentence was concluded, and
the universe this time was safe.
    Another ten minutes of solemn silence finished the game. The Doctor rose
briskly from his seat and placed himself at the supper table. »Mrs. Skinner,« he
exclaimed jauntily, »what are those mysterious-looking objects surrounded by
potatoes?«
    »Those are oysters, Dr. Skinner.«
    »Give me some, and give Overton some.«
    And so on till he had eaten a good plate of oysters, a scallop shell of
minced veal nicely browned, some apple tart, and a hunk of bread and cheese.
This was the small piece of bread and butter.
    The cloth was now removed and tumblers with teaspoons in them, a lemon or
two and a jug of boiling water were placed upon the table. Then the great man
unbent. His face beamed.
    »And what shall it be to drink?« he exclaimed persuasively. »Shall it be
brandy and water? No. It shall be gin and water. Gin is the more wholesome
liquor.«
    So gin it was, hot and stiff too.
    Who can wonder at him or do anything but pity him? Was he not headmaster of
Roughborough School? To whom had he owed money at any time? Whose ox had he
taken? Whose ass had he taken, or whom had he defrauded? What whisper had ever
been breathed against his moral character? If he had become rich it was by the
most honourable of all means - his literary attainments; over and above his
great works of scholarship his Meditations upon the Epistle and Character of St.
Jude had placed him among the most popular of English theologians; it was so
exhaustive that no one who bought it need ever meditate upon the subject again -
indeed it exhausted all who had anything to do with it. He had made £5000 by
this work alone, and would very likely make another £5000 before he died. A man
who had done all this and wanted a piece of bread and butter had a right to
announce the fact with some pomp and circumstance. Nor should his words be taken
without searching for what he used to call a deeper and more hidden meaning.
Those who searched for this even in his lightest utterances would not be without
their reward. They would find that bread and butter was Skinnerese for oyster
patties and apple tart, and gin hot the true translation of water.
    But independently of their money value his works had made him a lasting name
in literature. So probably Gallio was under the impression that his fame would
rest upon the treatises on Natural History which we gather from Seneca that he
compiled and which for aught we know may have contained a complete theory of
evolution; but the treatises are all gone and Gallio has become immortal for the
very last reason in the world that he expected, and for the very last reason
that would have flattered his vanity. He has become immortal because he cared
nothing about the most important movement with which he was ever brought into
connection (I wish people who are in search of immortality would lay the lesson
to heart and not make so much noise about important movements), and so, if Dr.
Skinner becomes immortal, it will probably be for some reason very different
from the one which he so fondly imagined.
    Could it be expected to enter into the head of such a man as this that in
reality he was making his money by corrupting youth? - that it was his paid
profession to make the worse appear the better reason in the eyes of those who
were too young and inexperienced to be able to find him out? - that he kept out
of the sight of those whom he professed to teach material points of the
argument, for the production of which they had a right to rely upon the honour
of anyone who made professions of sincerity? That he was a passionate
half-turkey-cock, half-gander of a man whose sallow bilious face and
hobble-gobble voice could scare the timid, but who would take to his heels
readily enough if he were met firmly? That his Meditations on St. Jude, such as
they were, were cribbed without acknowledgement, and would have been below
contempt if so many people did not believe them to have been written honestly?
Mrs. Skinner might have perhaps kept him a little more in his proper place if
she had thought it worth while to try, but she had enough to attend to in
looking after her household and seeing that the boys were well fed and looked to
if they were ill - which she took good care they were.
 

                                   Chapter 28

Ernest had heard awful accounts of Dr. Skinner's temper, and of the bullying
which the younger boys had to put up with at the hands of the bigger ones. He
had now got about as much as he could stand, and felt as though it must go
hardly with him if his burdens of whatever kind were to be increased. He did not
cry on leaving home, but I am afraid he did on being told that he was getting
near to Roughborough. His father and mother were with him, having posted from
home in their own carriage; Roughborough had as yet no railway, and as it was
only some forty or forty-five miles from Battersby, this was the easiest way of
getting there.
    On seeing him cry, his mother felt flattered and caressed him. She said she
knew he must feel very sad at leaving such a happy home, and going among people
who though they would be very good to him could never, never, be as good as his
dear papa and she had been - still she was herself, if he only knew it, much
more deserving of pity than he was, for the parting was more painful to her than
it could possibly be to him, etc. Ernest, on being told that his tears were for
grief at leaving home, took it all on trust and did not find out that he was
crying not because he was so far from Battersby, but because he was so near
Roughborough. Presently he pulled himself together, and was fairly calm by the
time he reached Dr. Skinner's.
    On their arrival first they had lunch, with Dr. and Mrs. Skinner; then Mrs.
Skinner took Christina over the bedrooms, and showed her where her own dear
little boy was to sleep. Whatever men may think about the study of man, women do
really believe the noblest study for womankind to be woman, and Christina was
too much engrossed with Mrs. Skinner herself to pay much attention to anything
else; I daresay Mrs. Skinner, too, was taking pretty accurate stock of
Christina. Christina was charmed - as indeed she generally was with any new
acquaintance, for she found in them (and so must we all) something of the nature
of a cross. As for Mrs. Skinner, I imagine she had seen too many Christinas to
find much regeneration in the sample now before her; I believe her private
opinion echoed the dictum of a well-known headmaster who declared that all
parents were fools, but more especially mothers; she was, however, all smiles
and sweetness, and Christina devoured these graciously as tributes paid more
particularly to herself, and such as no other mother would have been at all
likely to have won.
    In the meantime Theobald and Ernest were with Dr. Skinner in Dr. Skinner's
library - the room where new boys were examined, and old ones had up for rebuke
or chastisement. If the walls of that room could speak what an amount of
blundering and capricious cruelty would they bear witness to!
    Like all houses, Dr. Skinner's had its peculiar smell. In this case the
prevailing odour was one of Russia leather, but along with it there was a
subordinate savour as of a chemist's shop. This came from a small laboratory in
one corner of the room - the possession of which, together with the free
chattery and smattery use of such words as carbonate, hyposulphite, phosphate,
and affinity, were enough to convince even the most skeptical that Dr. Skinner
had a profound knowledge of chemistry.
    I may say in passing that Dr. Skinner had dabbled in a great many other
things as well as chemistry. He was a man of many small knowledges, and each one
of them dangerous. I remember Alethæa Pontifex once said in her wicked way to
me, that Dr. Skinner put her in mind of the Bourbon princes on their return from
exile after the battle of Waterloo, only that he was their exact converse; for
whereas they had learned nothing and forgotten nothing, Dr. Skinner had learned
everything and forgotten everything. And this puts me in mind of another of her
wicked sayings about Dr. Skinner. She told me one day that he had the
harmlessness of the serpent and the wisdom of the dove.
    But to return to Dr. Skinner's library - over the chimney-piece there was a
Bishop's half-length portrait of Dr. Skinner himself painted by the elder
Pickersgill whose merit Dr. Skinner had been among the first to discern and
foster. There were no other pictures in the library, but in the dining-room
there was a fine collection which the Doctor had got together with his usual
consummate taste. He added to it largely in later life, and when it came to the
hammer at Christie and Manson's, as it did not long since, it was found to
comprise many of the latest and most matured works of Solomon Hart, O'Neil,
Charles Landseer, and more of our recent Academicians than I can at the moment
remember. There were thus brought together and exhibited at one view many works
which had attracted attention at the Academy exhibitions, and as to whose
ultimate destiny there had been some curiosity. The prices realised were
disappointing to the executors, but, then, these things are so much matters of
chance. An unscrupulous writer in a well-known weekly paper had written the
collection down; moreover there had been one or two large sales a short time
before Dr. Skinner's, so that at this last there was rather a panic, and a
reaction against the high prices that had ruled lately.
    The table of the library was loaded with books many deep, MSS. of all kinds
were confusedly mixed up with them - boys' exercises, probably, and examination
papers - but all littering untidily about. The room in fact was as depressing
from its slatternliness as from its atmosphere of erudition. Theobald and
Ernest, as they entered it, stumbled over a large hole in a Turkey carpet, and
the dust that rose showed how long it was since it had been taken up and beaten.
This, I should say, was no fault of Mrs. Skinner's but was due to the Doctor
himself who declared that if his papers were even once disturbed it would be the
death of him. Near the window was a green cage containing a pair of turtle doves
whose plaintive cooing added to the melancholy of the place. The walls were
covered with book shelves from floor to ceiling, and on every shelf the books
stood in double rows. It was horrible. Prominent among the most prominent upon
the most prominent shelf were a series of splendidly bound volumes entitled
»Skinner's Works.«
    Boys are sadly apt to rush to conclusions, and Ernest believed that Dr.
Skinner knew all the books in this terrible library, and that he, if he were to
be any good, should have to learn them too. His heart fainted within him.
    He was told to sit on a chair against the wall and did so, while Dr. Skinner
jawed to Theobald upon the topics of the day. He talked about the Hampden
Controversy, then raging, and discoursed learnedly about præmunire; then he
talked about the revolution which had just broken out in Sicily, and rejoiced
that the Pope had refused to allow foreign troops to pass through his dominions
in order to crush it. Dr. Skinner and the other masters took in the Times among
them, and Dr. Skinner echoed the Times' leaders. In those days there were no
penny papers and Theobald only took in the Spectator - for he was at that time
on the Whig side in politics; besides this he used to receive the Ecclesiastical
Gazette once a month, but he saw no other papers, and was amazed at the ease and
fluency with which Dr. Skinner ran from subject to subject.
    The Pope's action in the matter of the Sicilian revolution naturally led the
Doctor to the reforms which his holiness had introduced into his dominions, and
he laughed consumedly over the joke which had not long since appeared in Punch
to the effect that Pio No No should rather have been named Pio Yes Yes, because
as the Doctor explained he granted everything his subjects asked for. Anything
like a pun went straight to Dr. Skinner's heart.
    Then he went on to the matter of these reforms themselves. They opened up a
new æra in the history of Christendom, and would have such momentous and
far-reaching consequences that they might even lead to a reconciliation between
the churches of England and Rome. Dr. Skinner had lately published a pamphlet
upon this subject which had shown great learning and had attacked the Church of
Rome in a way which did not promise much hope of reconciliation. He had grounded
his attack upon the letters A.M.D.G. which he had seen outside a Roman Catholic
chapel, and which of course stood for »Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem.« Could anything
be more idolatrous?
    I am told, by the way, that I must have let my memory play me one of the
tricks it often does play me, when I said the Doctor proposed »Ad Mariam Dei
Genetricem« as the full harmonies, so to speak, which should be contracted upon
the bass A.M.D.G., for that this is bad Latin and that the doctor really
harmonised the letters thus: »Ave Maria Dei Genetrix.« No doubt the Doctor did
what was right in the matter of Latinity - I have forgotten the little Latin I
ever knew, and am not going to look the matter up, but I believe the Doctor said
»Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem,« and if so we may be sure that »Ad Mariam Dei
Genetricem« is good enough Latin, at any rate for ecclesiastical purposes.
    The reply of the local priest had not yet appeared, and Dr. Skinner was
jubilant, but when the answer appeared and it was solemnly declared that
A.M.D.G. stood for nothing more dangerous than »Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam,« it was
felt that though this subterfuge would not succeed with any intelligent
Englishman, still it was a pity Dr. Skinner had selected this particular point
for his attack, for he had to leave his enemy in possession of the field, and
when people are left in possession of the field spectators have an awkward habit
of thinking that their adversary does not dare to come to the scratch.
    Dr. Skinner was telling Theobald all about his pamphlet and I doubt whether
this gentleman was much more comfortable than Ernest himself. He was bored, for
in his heart he hated Liberalism, though he was ashamed to say so, and as I have
said professed to be on the Whig side. He did not want to be reconciled to the
Church of Rome; he wanted to make all Roman Catholics turn protestants, and
could never understand why they would not do so; but the Doctor talked in such a
truly Liberal spirit, and shut him up so sharply when he tried to edge in a word
or two, that he had to let him have it all his own way, and this was not what he
was accustomed to. He was wondering how he could bring it to an end, when a
diversion was created by the discovery that Ernest had begun to cry - doubtless
through an intense but inarticulate sense of a boredom greater than he could
bear. He was evidently in a highly nervous state and a good deal upset by the
excitement of the morning. Mrs. Skinner, therefore, who came in with Christina
at this juncture, proposed that he should spend the afternoon with Mrs. Jay the
matron, and not be introduced to his young companions until the following
morning. His father and mother now bade him an affectionate farewell, and the
lad was handed over to Mrs. Jay.
    Oh schoolmasters - if any of you read this book - bear in mind when any
particularly timid drivelling urchin is brought by his papa into your study, and
you treat him with the contempt which he deserves, and afterwards make his life
a burden to him for years - bear in mind that it is exactly in the disguise of
such a boy as this that your future chronicler will appear. Never see a wretched
little heavy-eyed mite sitting on the edge of a chair against your study wall
without saying to yourselves, »Perhaps this boy is he who, if I am not careful,
will one day tell the world what manner of man I was.« If even two or three
schoolmasters learn this lesson and remember it, the preceding chapters will not
have been written in vain.
 

                                   Chapter 29

Soon after his father and mother had left him he dropped asleep over a book
which Mrs. Jay had given him and did not awake till dusk. Then he sat down on a
stool in front of the fire which showed pleasantly in the late January twilight,
and began to muse. He felt weak, feeble, ill at ease and unable to see his way
out of the innumerable troubles that were before him. Perhaps, he said to
himself, he might even die, but this, far from being an end of his troubles,
would prove the beginning of new ones; for at the best he would only go to
Grandpapa Pontifex and Grandmamma Allaby, and though they would perhaps be more
easy to get on with than papa and mamma, yet they were undoubtedly not so really
good, and were more worldly; moreover they were grown-up people - especially
Grandpapa Pontifex who so far as he could understand had been very much
grown-up, and he did not know why, but there was always something that kept him
from loving any grown-up people very much - except one or two of the servants
who had indeed been as nice as anything that he could imagine. Besides even if
he were to die and go to heaven, he supposed he should have to complete his
education somewhere.
    In the meantime his father and mother were rolling along the muddy roads,
each in his or her own corner of the carriage, and each revolving many things
which were, and which were not to come to pass. Times have changed since I last
showed them to the reader as sitting together silently in a carriage, but except
as regards their mutual relations, they have altered singularly little. When I
was younger I used to think the prayer book was wrong in requiring us to say the
general confession twice a week from childhood to old age without making
provision for our not being quite such great sinners at seventy as we had been
at seven; granted that we should go to the wash like table-cloths at least once
a week, still I used to think a day ought to come when we should want rather
less rubbing and scrubbing at. Now that I have grown older myself I have seen
that the church has estimated probabilities better than I had done.
    The pair said not a word to one another, but watched the fading light and
naked trees, the brown fields with here and there a melancholy cottage by the
roadside, and the rain that fell fast upon the carriage windows. It was a kind
of afternoon on which nice people for the most part like to be snug at home, and
Theobald was a little snappish at reflecting how many miles he had to post
before he could be at his own fireside again. However there was nothing for it,
so the pair sat quietly and watched the roadside objects flit by them, and get
greyer and grimmer as the light faded.
    Though they spoke not to one another there was one nearer to each of them
with whom they could converse freely. »I hope,« said Theobald to himself, »I
hope he'll work - or else that Skinner will make him. I don't like Skinner, I
never did like him, but he is unquestionably a man of genius, and no one turns
out so many pupils who succeed at Oxford and Cambridge, and that is the best
test. I have done my share towards starting him well. Skinner said he had been
well grounded and was very forward. I suppose he will presume upon it now, and
do nothing, for his nature is an idle one. He's not fond of me; I'm sure he is
not. He ought to be after all the trouble I have taken with him, but he is
ungrateful and selfish. It is an unnatural thing for a boy not to be fond of his
own father. If he was fond of me I should be fond of him, but I cannot like a
son who, I am sure, dislikes me. He shrinks out of my way whenever he sees me
coming near him. He will not stay five minutes in the same room with me if he
can help it. He is deceitful. He would not want to hide himself away so much if
he were not deceitful. That is a bad sign and one which makes me fear he will
grow up extravagant. I am sure he will grow up extravagant. I should have given
him more pocket money if I had not known this - but what is the good of giving
him pocket money? It is all gone directly. If he doesn't't buy something with it
he gives it away to the first little boy or girl he sees who takes his fancy. He
forgets that it's my money he is giving away. I give him money that he may have
money and learn to know its uses - not that he may go and squander it away
immediately. I wish he was not so fond of music, it will interfere with his
Latin and Greek. I will stop it as much as I can. Why, when he was translating
Livy the other day he slipped out Handel's name in mistake for Hannibal's, and
his mother tells me he knows half the tunes in the Messiah by heart; what should
a boy of his age know about the Messiah? If I had shown half as many dangerous
tendencies when I was a boy my father would have apprenticed me to a
greengrocer, of that I'm very sure, etc., etc.«
    Then his thoughts turned to Egypt and the tenth plague. It seemed to him
that if the little Egyptians had been anything like Ernest, the plague must have
been a very doubtful one. If the Israelites were to come to England now he
should be greatly tempted not to let them go.
    Mrs. Theobald's thoughts ran in a different current. »Lord Lonsford's
grandson - it's a pity his name is Figgins, however blood is blood as much
through the female line as the male - indeed perhaps even more so if the truth
were known. I wonder who Mr. Figgins was. I think Mrs. Skinner said he was dead;
however, I must find out all about him. It would be delightful if young Figgins
were to ask Ernest home for the holidays. Who knows but he might meet Lord
Lonsford himself or at any rate some of Lord Lonsford's other descendants?«
    Meanwhile the boy himself was still sitting moodily before the fire in Mrs.
Jay's room. »Papa and mamma,« he was saying to himself, »are much better and
cleverer than anyone else, but I, alas! shall never be either good or clever.«
    Mrs. Pontifex continued -
    »Perhaps it would be best to get young Figgins on a visit to ourselves
first. That would be charming. Theobald would not like it, for he does not like
children; I must see how I can manage it, for it would be so nice to have young
Figgins - or stay - Ernest shall go and stay with the Figginses and meet the
future Lord Lonsford, who I should think must be about Ernest's age, and then if
he and Ernest were to become friends Ernest might ask him to Battersby, and he
might fall in love with Charlotte. I think we have done most wisely in sending
Ernest to Dr. Skinner's. Dr. Skinner's piety is no less remarkable than his
genius. One can tell these things at a glance, and he must have felt it about me
no less strongly than I about him. I think he seemed much struck with Theobald
and myself - indeed Theobald's intellectual power must impress any one, and I
was showing, I do believe, to my best advantage. When I smiled at him and said I
left my boy in his hands with the most entire confidence that he would be as
well cared for as if he were at my own house, I am sure he was greatly pleased.
I should not think many of the mothers who bring him boys can impress him so
favourably, or say such nice things to him as I did. My smile is sweet when I
desire to make it so. I never was perhaps exactly pretty, but I was always
admitted to be fascinating. Dr. Skinner is a very handsome man - too good on the
whole I should say for Mrs. Skinner. Theobald says he is not handsome, but men
are no judges, and he has such a pleasant bright face. I think my bonnet became
me. As soon as I get home I will tell Chambers to trim my blue and yellow merino
with -- etc., etc.«
    All this time the letter which has been given above was lying in Christina's
private little Japanese cabinet, read and re-read and approved of many times
over, not to say if the truth were known rewritten more than once, though dated
as in the first instance - and this too though Christina was fond enough of a
joke in a small way.
    Ernest, still in Mrs. Jay's room, mused onward thus: »Grown-up people,« he
said to himself - »when they were ladies and gentlemen - never did naughty
things, but he was always doing them. He had heard that some grown-up people
were worldly, which of course was wrong, still this was quite distinct from
being naughty and did not get them punished or scolded. His own papa and mamma
were not even worldly; they had often explained to him that they were
exceptionally unworldly; he well knew that they had never done anything naughty
since they had been children, and that even as children they had been nearly
faultless. Oh! how different from himself! When should he learn to love his papa
and mamma as they had loved theirs? How could he hope ever to grow up to be as
good and wise as they, or even tolerably good and wise? Alas! never. It could
not be. He did not love his papa and mamma, in spite of all their goodness both
in themselves and to him. He hated papa, and did not like mamma, and this was
what none but a bad and ungrateful boy would do after all that had been done for
him. Besides he did not like Sunday; he did not like anything that was really
good; his tastes were low and such as he was ashamed of. He liked people best if
they sometimes swore a little if it was not at him. As for his catechism and
Bible readings he had no heart in them. He had never attended to a sermon in his
life. Even when he had been taken to hear Mr. Vaughan at Brighton, who as
everyone knew preached such beautiful sermons for children, he had been very
glad when it was all over, nor did he believe be could get through church at all
if it was not for the voluntary upon the organ, and the hymns and chaunting. The
catechism was awful. He had never been able to master what it was that he
desired of his Lord God and Heavenly Father, nor had he yet got hold of a single
idea in connection with the word sacrament. His duty towards his neighbour was
another bugbear. It seemed to him that he had duties towards everybody, lying in
wait for him upon every side, but that nobody had any duties towards him. Then
there was that awful and mysterious word business. What did it all mean? What
was business? His papa was a wonderfully good man of business; his mamma had
often told him so - but he should never be one. It was hopeless, and very awful,
for people were continually telling him that he would have to earn his own
living. No doubt: but how - considering how stupid, idle, ignorant,
self-indulgent and physically puny he was? All grown-up people were clever,
except servants - and even these were cleverer than ever he should be. Oh why,
why, why, could not people be born into the world as grown-up persons?
    Then he thought of Casabianca. He had been examined in that poem by his
father not long before. When only would he leave his position? To whom did he
call? Did he get an answer? Why? How many times did he call upon his father?
What happened to him? What was the noblest life that perished there? Do you
think so? Why do you think so? And all the rest of it. Of course he thought
Casabianca's was the noblest life that perished there; there could be no two
opinions about that; it never occurred to him that the moral of the poem was
that young people cannot begin too soon to exercise discretion in the obedience
they pay to their papa and mamma. Oh no! the only thought in his mind was that
he should never never have been like Casabianca, and that Casabianca would have
despised him so much if he could have known him that he would not have
condescended to speak to him. There was nobody else in the ship worth reckoning
at all: it did not matter how much they were blown up. Mrs. Hemans knew them all
and they were a very indifferent lot. Besides Casabianca was so good looking and
came of such a good family.«
    And thus his small mind kept wandering on till he could follow it no longer,
and again went off into a doze.
 

                                   Chapter 30

Next morning Theobald and Christina arose feeling a little tired from their
journey, but happy in that best of all happiness, the approbation of their own
consciences. It would be their boy's fault henceforth if he were not good, and
as prosperous as it was at all desirable that he should be. What more could
parents do than they had done? The answer »nothing« will rise as readily to the
lips of the reader as to those of Theobald and Christina themselves.
    A few days later and the parents were gratified at receiving the following
letter from their son -
 
        »My Dear Mamma, I am very well Dr. Skinner made me do about the horse
        free and exulting roaming in the wide fields in Latin verse, but as I
        had done it with Papa I knew how to do it, and it was nearly all right,
        and he put me in the fourth form under Mr. Templer, and I have to begin
        a new Latin grammar not like the old but much harder, I know you wish me
        to work and I will try very hard with best love to Joey and Charlotte,
        and to Papa I remain your affectionate son,
                                                                        Ernest.«
 
Nothing could be nicer or more proper. It really did seem as though the boy were
inclined to turn over a new leaf.
    When the boys had all come back, and the examinations were over, the routine
of the half year began; Ernest found that his fears about being kicked about and
bullied were exaggerated. Nobody did anything very dreadful to him. He had to
run errands between certain hours for the elder boys, and to take his turn at
greasing the footballs, etc., but there was an excellent spirit in the school as
regards bullying.
    Nevertheless he was far from happy. Dr. Skinner was much too like his
father. True Ernest was not thrown in with him much yet, but he was always
there; there was no knowing at what moment he might not put in an appearance,
and whenever he did show it was to storm about something. He was like the lion
in the Bishop of Oxford's Sunday story, always liable to rush out from behind
some bush and devour some one when least expecting it. He called Ernest an
audacious reptile and said he wondered the earth did not open and swallow him up
because he pronounced »Thalia« with i short. »And that to me,« he thundered,
»who never made a false quantity in my life« - surely he would have been a much
nicer person if he had made false quantities in his youth like other people.
Ernest could not imagine how the boys in Dr. Skinner's form continued to live;
but yet they did and even throve, and strange as it may seem idolised him, or
professed to do so in after life. To Ernest it seemed like living under the
crater of Vesuvius.
    He was himself, as has been said, in Mr. Templer's form, who was snappish,
but not downright wicked, and was very easy to crib under. Ernest used to wonder
how Mr. Templer could be so blind - for he supposed Mr. Templer must have
cribbed when he was school - and would ask himself whether he should forget his
youth when he got old as Mr. Templer had forgotten it. He used to think he never
could possibly forget any part of it.
    Then there was Mrs. Jay; she was sometimes very alarming; a few days after
the half year had commenced, there being some little extra noise in the hall,
she rushed in with her spectacles on her forehead and her cap strings flying,
and called the boy whom Ernest had selected as his hero the
»rampingest-scampingest-rackety-tackety-tow-row-roaringest boy in the whole
school.« But she used to say one thing which Ernest liked; if the Doctor went
out to dinner, and there were no prayers, she would come in and say, »Young
gentlemen, prayers are excused this evening,« and, take her for all in all, she
was a kindly old soul enough.
    Most boys soon discover the difference between noise and actual danger, but
to others it is so unnatural to menace, unless they mean mischief, that they are
long before they leave off taking turkey-cocks and ganders au sérieux. Ernest
was one of this latter sort, and found the atmosphere of Roughborough so gusty
that he was glad to shrink out of sight and out of mind whenever he could. He
disliked the games worse even than the squalls of the classroom and hall, for he
was still feeble, not filling out and attaining his full strength till a much
later age than most boys. This was perhaps due to the closeness with which his
father had kept him to his book in childhood, but I think in part also to a
tendency towards lateness in attaining maturity, hereditary in the Pontifex
family - which was one also of unusual longevity. At thirteen or fourteen he was
a mere bag of bones, with upper arms about as thick as the wrists of other boys
of his age; his little chest was pigeon-breasted; he appeared to have no
strength nor stamina whatever, and finding he always went to the wall in
physical encounters, whether undertaken in jest or earnest, even with boys
shorter than himself, the timidity natural to childhood increased upon him to an
extent that I am afraid amounted to cowardice. This rendered him even less
capable than he might otherwise have been, for as confidence increases power, so
want of confidence increases impotence. After he had had the breath knocked out
of him and been well shinned half a dozen times in scrimmages at football -
scrimmages in which he had become involved sorely against his will - he ceased
to see any further fun in football, and shirked that noble game in a way that
got him into trouble with the elder boys, who would stand no shirking on the
part of the younger ones.
    He was as useless and ill at ease with cricket as with football, nor in
spite of all his efforts could he ever throw a ball or a stone. It soon became
plain, therefore, to everyone that Pontifex was a young muff, a mollycoddle, not
to be tortured, but still not to be rated highly. He was not however actively
unpopular, for it was seen that he was quite square - inter pares - not at all
vindictive, easily pleased, perfectly free with whatever little money he had; no
greater lover of his school work than of the games, and generally more
inclinable to moderate vice than to immoderate virtue.
    These qualities will prevent any boy from sinking very low in the opinion of
his school fellows; but Ernest thought he had fallen lower than he probably had,
and hated and despised himself for what he, as much as anyone else, believed to
be his cowardice. He did not like the boys whom he thought like himself. His
heroes were strong and vigorous, and the less they inclined towards him the more
he worshipped them. All this made him very unhappy, for it never occurred to him
that the instinct which made him keep out of games for which he was ill adapted
was more reasonable than the reason which would have driven him into them.
Nevertheless he followed his instinct for the most part rather than his reason -
Sapiens suam si sapientiam nôrit.
 

                                   Chapter 31

With the masters Ernest was ere long in absolute disgrace. He had more liberty
now than he had known heretofore. The heavy hand and watchful eye of Theobald
were no longer about his path and about his bed and spying out all his ways; and
punishment by way of copying out lines of Virgil was a very different thing from
the savage beatings of his father. The copying out in fact was often less
trouble than the lesson. Latin and Greek had nothing in them which commended
them to his instinct as likely to bring him peace even at the last; still less
did they hold out any hope of doing so within some more reasonable time; the
deadness inherent in these defunct languages themselves had never been
artificially counteracted by a system of bonâ fide rewards for application;
there had been any amount of punishments for want of application, but no good
comfortable bribes had baited the hook which was to allure him to his good.
    Indeed the more pleasant side of learning to do this or [that] had always
been treated as something with which Ernest had no concern. We had no business
with pleasant things at all; at any rate very little business; at any rate not
he, Ernest. We were put into this world not for pleasure, but duty, and pleasure
had in it something more or less sinful in its very essence. If we were doing
anything we liked, we, or at any rate he, Ernest, should apologise and think he
was being mercifully dealt with if not at once told to go and do something else.
With what he did not like, however, it was different; the more he disliked a
thing the greater the presumption that it was right. It never occurred to him
that the presumption was in favour of the rightness of what was most pleasant,
and that the onus of proving that it was not right lay with those who disputed
its being so.
    I have said more than once he believed in his own depravity; never was there
a little mortal more ready to accept without cavil whatever he was told by those
who were in authority over him; he thought, at least, that he believed it, for
as yet he knew nothing of that other Ernest that dwelt within him and was so
much stronger and more real than the Ernest of which he was conscious. The dumb
Ernest persuaded with inarticulate feelings too swift and sure to be
translateable into such debateable things as words, but practically insisted as
follows -
    »Growing is not the easy plain-sailing business that it is commonly supposed
to be: it is hard work - harder than any but a growing boy can understand; it
requires attention, and you are not strong enough to attend to your bodily
growth, and to your lessons too. Besides this Latin and Greek is great humbug;
the more people know of it the more odious they generally are; the nice people
whom you delight in either never knew any at all or forgot what they had learned
as soon as they could; they never turned to the classics after they were no
longer forced to read them; then they are nonsense; all very well in their own
time and country, but out of place here. Never learn anything until you find you
have been made uncomfortable for a good long while by not knowing it; when you
find that you have occasion for this or that knowledge, or foresee that you will
have occasion for it shortly, the sooner you learn it the better, but till then
spend your time in growing bone and muscle; these will be much more useful to
you than Latin and Greek, nor will you ever be able to make them if you do not
do so now, whereas Latin and Greek can be acquired at any time by those who want
them.
    You are surrounded on every side with lies which would deceive even the
elect, if the elect were not generally so uncommonly wide awake; the self of
which you are conscious, your reasoning and reflecting self, will believe these
lies and bid you act in accordance with them. This conscious self of yours,
Ernest, is a prig - begotten of prigs, and trained in priggishness; I will not
allow it to shape your actions, though it will doubtless shape your words for
many a year to come. Your papa is not here to beat you now, this is a change in
the conditions of your existence, and should be followed by changed actions.
Obey me, your true self, and things will go tolerably well with you, but only
listen to that outward and visible old husk of yours which is called your
father, and I will rend you in pieces even unto the third and fourth generation
as one who has hated God; for I, Ernest, am the God who made you.«
    How shocked Ernest would have been if he could have heard the advice he was
receiving; what consternation too there would have been at Battersby; but the
matter did not end here, for this same wicked inner self gave him bad advice
about his pocket money, the choice of his companions, and on the whole Ernest
was attentive and obedient to its behests, more so than Theobald had been. The
consequence was he learned little, his mind growing more slowly and his body
rather faster than heretofore: and when by and by his inner self urged him in
directions where he met obstacles beyond his strength to combat, he took -
though with passionate compunctions of conscience - the nearest course to the
one from which he was debarred which circumstances would allow.
    It may be guessed that Ernest was not the chosen friend of the more sedate
and well-conducted youth then studying at Roughborough. Some of the less
desirable boys used to go to public houses and drink more beer than was good for
them; Ernest's inner self can hardly have told him to ally himself to these
young gentlemen, but he did so at an early age, and was sometimes made pitiably
sick by an amount of beer which would have produced no effect upon a stronger
boy; Ernest's inner self must have interposed at this point and told him that
there was not much fun in this, for he dropped the habit ere it had taken firm
hold over him, and never resumed it; but he contracted another at the
disgracefully early age of between thirteen and fourteen which he did not
relinquish, though to the present day his conscious self keeps dinging it into
him that the less he smokes the better.
    And so matters went on till my hero was nearly fourteen years old! If by
that time he was not actually a young blackguard, he belonged to a debateable
class between the sub-reputable and the upper disreputable, with perhaps rather
more leaning to the latter except so far as vices of meanness were concerned,
from which indeed he was fairly free. I gather this partly from what Ernest has
told me, and partly from his school bills which I remember Theobald showed me
with much complaining. There was an institution at Roughborough called the
monthly merit money; the maximum sum which a boy of Ernest's age could get was
four shillings and sixpence; several boys got four shillings and few less than
sixpence, but Ernest never got more than half a crown and seldom more than
eighteen pence; his average would, I should think be about one and nine pence,
which was just too much for him to rank among the downright bad boys, but too
little to put him among the good ones.
 

                                   Volume II

                                     Part I

                                   Chapter 32

I must return to Miss Alethæa Pontifex, of whom I have said perhaps too little
hitherto, considering how great her influence upon my hero's destiny proved to
be.
    On the death of her father, which happened when she was about thirty-two
years old, she parted company with her sisters between whom and herself there
had been little sympathy, and came up to London. She was determined, so she
said, to make the rest of her life as happy as she could, and she had clearer
ideas about the best way of setting to work to do this than women, or indeed
men, generally have.
    Her fortune consisted, as I have said, of £5000 which had come to her by her
mother's marriage settlements, and £15,000 left her by her father, over both
which sums she had now absolute control. These brought her in about £900 a year,
and the money being invested in none but the soundest securities she had no
anxiety about her income. She meant to be rich, so she formed a scheme of
expenditure which involved an annual outlay of about £500, and determinted to
put the rest by. »If I do this,« she said laughingly, »I shall probably just
succeed in living comfortably within my income.« In accordance with this scheme
she took unfurnished apartments in a house in Gower Street of which the lower
floors were let out as offices. John Pontifex tried to get her to take a house
to herself, but Alethæa told him to mind his own business so plainly that he had
to beat a retreat. She had never liked him, and from that time dropped him
almost entirely.
    Without going much into society she yet became acquainted with most of the
men and women who had attained a position in the literary, artistic and
scientific worlds, and it was singular how highly her opinion was valued in
spite of her never having attempted in any way to distinguish herself. She could
have written if she had chosen but she enjoyed seeing others work, and
encouraging them, better than taking a more active part herself. Perhaps
literary people liked her all the better because she did not write.
    I, as she very well knew, had always been devoted to her, and she might have
had a score of other admirers if she had liked, but she had discouraged them
all, and railed at matrimony as women seldom do unless they have a comfortable
income of their own. She by no means, however, railed at man as she railed at
matrimony, and though living after a fashion in which even the most censorious
could find nothing to complain of, as far as she properly could she defended
those of her own sex whom the world condemned most severely.
    In religion she was I should think as nearly a free-thinker as anyone could
be whose mind seldom turned upon the subject. She went to church, but disliked
equally those who aired either religion or irreligion. I remember once hearing
her press a late well-known philosopher to write a novel instead of pursuing his
attacks upon religion. The philosopher did not much like this, and dilated upon
the importance of showing people the folly of much that they pretended to
believe. She smiled and said demurely, »Have they not Moses and the prophets?
Let them hear them.« But she would say a wicked thing quietly on her own account
sometimes, and called my attention once to a passage in her prayer-book which
gave an account of the walk to Emmaus with the two disciples, and how Christ had
called them »fools and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets had told
them« - the all being printed in small capitals.
    Though scarcely on terms with her brother John she had kept up closer
relations with Theobald and his family, and had paid a few days' visit to
Battersby once in every two years or so. Alethæa had always tried to like
Theobald and join forces with him as much as she could - for they two were the
hares of the family, the rest being all hounds - but it was no use. I believe
her chief reason for maintaining relations with her brother was that she might
keep an eye on his children and give them a lift, if they proved nice.
    When Miss Pontifex had come down to Battersby in old times the children had
not been beaten, and their lessons had been made lighter. She easily saw that
they were overworked and unhappy, but she could hardly guess how all-reaching
was the régime under which they lived. She knew she could not interfere
effectually then, and wisely forbore to make too many enquiries. Her time, if
ever it was to come, would be when the children were no longer living under the
same roof as their parents. It ended in her making up her mind to have nothing
to do with either Joey or Charlotte, but to see so much of Ernest as should
enable her to form an opinion about his disposition and abilities.
    He had now been a year and a half at Roughborough and was nearly fourteen
years old, so that his character had begun to shape. His aunt had not seen him
for some little time and thinking that if she was to exploit him she could do so
now perhaps better than at any other time, she resolved on going down to
Roughborough on some pretext which should be good enough for Theobald, and
taking stock of her nephew under circumstances in which she could get him for
some few hours to herself. Accordingly in August 1849 when Ernest was just
entering on his fourth half year a cab drove up to Dr. Skinner's with Miss
Pontifex who asked and obtained leave for Ernest to come and dine with her at
the Swan Hotel.
    She had written to Ernest to say she was coming and he was of course upon
the lookout for her. He had not seen her for so long that he was rather shy at
first, but her good nature soon set him at his ease; she was so strongly biassed
in favour of anything young that her heart warmed towards him at once - though
his appearance was less prepossessing than she had hoped. She took him to a cake
shop and gave him whatever he liked as soon as she had got him off the school
premises; and Ernest felt at once that she contrasted favourably even with his
aunts the Misses Allaby, who were so very sweet and good. The Misses Allaby were
very poor; sixpence was to them what five shillings was to Alethæa. What chance
had they against one who, if she had a mind, could put by out of her income
twice as much as they, poor women, could spend?
    The boy had plenty of prattle in him when he was not snubbed, and Alethæa
encouraged him to chatter whatever came uppermost. He was always ready to trust
anyone who was kind to him; it took many years to make him reasonably wary in
this respect - if indeed, as I sometimes doubt, he ever will be as wary as he
ought to be - and in a short time he had quite dissociated his aunt from his
papa and mamma and the rest with whom his instinct told him he should be on his
guard. Little did he know how great, as far as he was concerned, were the issues
that depended upon his behaviour; if he had so known, he would perhaps have
played his part less successfully.
    His aunt drew from him more details of his home and school life than his
papa and mamma would have approved of, but he had no idea that he was being
pumped. She got out of him all about the happy Sunday evenings, and how he and
Joey and Charlotte quarrelled sometimes, but she took no side and treated
everything as though it were a matter of course. Like all the boys, he could
mimic Dr. Skinner, and when warmed with dinner, and two glasses of sherry which
made him nearly tipsy, he favoured his aunt with samples of the Doctor's manner
and spoke of him familiarly as Sam.
    »Sam,« he said, »is an awful old humbug.« It was the sherry that brought out
this piece of swagger, for whatever else he was Dr. Skinner was a reality to
Master Ernest - before which indeed he sank into his boots in no time. Alethæa
smiled, and said, »I must not say anything to that, must I?« Ernest said, »I
suppose not,« and was checked. By and by he vented a number of small second-hand
priggishnesses which he had caught up as believing them to be the correct thing,
and made it plain that even at that early age Ernest believed in Ernest with a
belief which was amusing from its absurdity. His aunt judged him charitably, as
she was sure to do; she knew very well where the priggishnesses came from, and
seeing that the string of his tongue had been loosened sufficiently gave him no
more sherry.
    It was after dinner, however, that he completed the conquest of his aunt.
She then discovered that, like herself, he was passionately fond of music, and
that too of the highest class. He knew and hummed or whistled to her all sorts
of pieces out of the works of the great masters which a boy of his age could
hardly be expected to know, and it was evident that this was purely instinctive,
inasmuch as music received no kind of encouragement at Roughborough. There was
no boy in the school as fond of music as he was. He picked up his knowledge, he
said, from the organist of St. Michael's Church, who used to practise sometimes
on a week-day afternoon. Ernest had heard the organ booming away as he was
passing outside the church, and had sneaked inside and so up into the organ
loft, where in the course of time the organist became accustomed to him as a
familiar visitant, and the pair became friends.
    It was this which decided Alethæa that the boy was worth taking pains with.
»He likes the best music,« she thought, »and he hates Dr. Skinner; this is a
very fair beginning.« When she sent him away at night with a sovereign in his
pocket (and he had only hoped to get five shillings) she felt as though she had
had a good deal more than her money's worth for her money.
 

                                   Chapter 33

Next day Miss Pontifex returned to town, with her thoughts full of her nephew
and how she could best be of use to him.
    It appeared to her that to do him any real service she must devote herself
almost entirely to him; she must, in fact, give up living in London, at any rate
for a long time, and live at Roughborough where she could see him continually.
This was a serious undertaking; she had lived in London for the last twelve
years, and naturally disliked the prospect of a small country town such as
Roughborough. Was it a prudent thing to attempt so much? Must not people take
their chances in this world? Can anyone do much for anyone else unless by making
a will in his favour and dying then and there? Should not each look after his
own happiness, and will not the world be best carried on if everyone minds his
own business and leaves other people to mind theirs? Life is not a donkey race
in which everyone is to ride his neighbour's donkey and the last is to win, and
the psalmist long since formulated a common experience when he declared that no
man can make agreement for his brother nor make a covenant unto God for him, for
it cost more to redeem their souls, so he must let that alone for ever.
    All these excellent reasons for letting her nephew alone occurred to her and
many more, but against them there pleaded a woman's love for children, and her
desire to find someone among the younger branches of her own family to whom she
could become warmly attached, and whom she could attach warmly to herself.
    Over and above this she wanted someone to leave her money to; she was not
going to leave it to people about whom she knew very little merely because they
happened to be sons and daughters of brothers and sisters whom she had never
liked. She knew the power and value of money exceedingly well, and how many
loveable people suffer and die yearly for the want of it; she was little likely
to leave it without being satisfied that her legatees were square, loveable, and
more or less hard up. She wanted those to have it who would be most likely to
use it genially and sensibly, and whom it would thus be likely to make most
happy; if she could find one such among her nephews and nieces, so much the
better; it was worth taking a great deal of pains to see whether she could or
could not; but if she failed, she must find an heir who was not related to her
by blood.
    »Of course,« she had said to me, more than once, »I shall make a mess of it.
I shall choose some nice- well-dressed screw, with gentlemanly manners which
will take me in, and he will go and paint Academy pictures, or write for the
Times, or do something just as horrid the moment the breath is out of my body.«
    As yet, however, she had made no will at all, and this was one of the few
things that troubled her. I believe she would have left most of her money to me
if I had not stopped her. My father left me abundantly well off, and my mode of
life has been always simple, so that I have never known uneasiness about money;
moreover I was especially anxious that there should be no occasion given for
ill-natured talk; she knew well, therefore, that her leaving money to me would
be of all things the most likely to weaken the ties that existed between us,
provided I was aware of it, but I did not mind her talking about the question
whom she should make her heir, so long as it was well understood that I was not
to be the person.
    Ernest had satisfied her as having enough hope in him to tempt her strongly
to take him up, but it was not till after many days' reflection that she
gravitated towards actually doing so - with all the break in her daily ways that
this would entail. At least she said it took her some days and certainly it
appeared to do so, but from the moment she had begun to broach the subject I had
guessed how things were going to end.
    It was now arranged she should take a house at Roughborough and go and live
there for a couple of years. As a compromise, however, to meet some of my
objections, it was also arranged that she should keep her rooms in Gower Street
and come to town for a week once in each month; of course also she would leave
Roughborough during the whole of the holidays. After two years the thing was to
come to an end unless it proved a great success. She should by that time at any
rate have made up her mind what the boy's character was, and would then act as
circumstances might determine.
    The pretext she put forward ostensibly was that her doctor said she ought to
live a year or two in the country after so many years of London life, and had
recommended Roughborough on account of the purity of its air, and its easy
access to and from London - for by this time the railway had reached it. She was
anxious not to give her brother and sister any right to complain, if on seeing
more of her nephew she found she could not get on with him, and she was also
anxious not to raise false hopes of any kind in the boy's own mind.
    Having settled how everything was to be, she wrote to Theobald and said she
meant taking a house in Roughborough as from Michaelmas then approaching, and
mentioned, as though casually, that one of the attractions of the place would be
that her nephew was at school there, and she should hope to see more of him than
she had done hitherto.
    Theobald and Christina knew how dearly Alethæa loved London and thought it
very odd that she should want to go and live at Roughborough, but they did not
suspect that she was going there solely on her nephew's account, much less that
she had thought of making Ernest her heir. If they had guessed this they would
have been so jealous that I half believe they would have asked her to go and
live somewhere else. Alethæa, however, was two or three years younger than
Theobald; she was still some years short of fifty and might very well live to
eighty-five or ninety; her money, therefore, was not worth taking much trouble
about, and her brother and sister-in-law had dismissed it so to speak from their
minds with costs, after assuming, however, that if anything did happen to her
while they were still alive, the money would as a matter of course come to them.
    The prospect of Alethæa's seeing much of Ernest was a more serious matter.
Christina smelt mischief from afar, as indeed she often did. Alethæa was worldly
- as worldly, that is to say, as a sister of Theobald's could be. In her letter
to Theobald she had said she knew how much of his and Christina's thoughts were
taken up with anxiety for their boy's welfare. Alethæa had thought this handsome
enough, but Christina had wanted something hotter and stronger. »How can she
know how much we think of our darling?« she exclaimed, when Theobald showed her
his sister's letter. »I think, my dear, Alethæa would understand these things
better if she had children of her own.« The least that would have satisfied
Christina was to have been told that there never yet had been any parents
comparable to Theobald and herself. She did not feel easy that an alliance of
some kind would not grow up between aunt and nephew, and neither she nor
Theobald wanted Ernest to have allies. Joey and Charlotte were quite as many
allies as were good for him. After all, however, if Alethæa chose to go and live
at Roughborough they could not well stop her, and must make the best of it.
    In a few weeks' time Alethæa did choose to go and live at Roughborough. A
house was found with a field and a nice little garden which suited her very
well. »At any rate,« she said to herself, »I will have fresh eggs and flowers.«
She even considered the question of keeping a cow, but in the end decided not to
do so. She furnished her house throughout anew, taking nothing whatever from her
establishment in Gower Street, and by Michaelmas - for the house was empty when
she took it - she was settled comfortably down, and had begun to make herself at
home.
    One of Miss Pontifex's first moves was to ask a dozen or so of the smartest
and most gentlemanly boys to breakfast with her. From her seat in church she
could see the faces of the upper-form boys, and soon made up her mind which of
them it would be best to cultivate; Miss Pontifex, sitting opposite the boys in
church, and reckoning them up with her keen eyes from under her veil by all a
woman's criteria, came to a truer conclusion about the greater number of those
she scrutinised than ever Dr. Skinner had done. She fell in love with one boy
from seeing him put on his gloves.
    Miss Pontifex, as I have said, got hold of some of these youngsters, through
Ernest, and fed them well. No boy can stand being fed well by a good-natured and
still handsome woman. Boys are very like nice dogs in this respect - give them a
bone and they will like you at once. Alethæa employed every other little
artifice which she thought likely to win their allegiance to herself, and
through this their countenance for her nephew. She found the football club in a
slight money difficulty and gave half a sovereign towards its removal. The boys
had no chance against her, she shot them down one after another as easily as
though they had been roosting pheasants. Nor did she escape scathless herself,
for as she wrote to me, she quite lost her heart to half a dozen of them. »How
much nicer they are,« she wrote, »and how much more they know, than those who
profess to teach them.«
    I believe it has been lately maintained that it is the young and fair who
are the truly old and truly experienced inasmuch as it is they who alone have a
living memory to guide them; »the whole charm,« it has been said, »of youth lies
in its advantage over age in respect of experience, and when this has for some
reason failed or been misapplied, the charm is broken. When we say that we are
getting old, we should say rather that we are getting new or young, and are
suffering from inexperience - trying to do things which we have never done
before, and failing worse and worse till in the end we are landed in the utter
impotence of death.«
    Miss Pontifex died many a long year before the above passage was written,
but she had arrived independently at much the same conclusion.
    She first, therefore, squared the boys - Dr. Skinner was even more easily
dealt with. He and Mrs. Skinner called as a matter of course as soon as Miss
Pontifex was settled. She fooled him to the top of his bent, and obtained the
promise of a MS. copy of one of his minor poems (for Dr. Skinner had the
reputation of being quite one of our most facile and elegant minor poets) on the
occasion of his first visit. The other masters and masters' wives were not
forgotten. Alethæa laid herself out to please, as indeed she did wherever she
went, and if any woman lays herself out to do this she generally succeeds.
 

                                   Chapter 34

Miss Pontifex soon found out that Ernest did not like games - but she saw also
that he could hardly be expected to like them. He was perfectly well shaped but
unusually devoid of physical muscular strength. He got a fair share of this in
after life, but it came much later with him than with other boys, and at the
time of which I am writing he was a mere little skeleton. He wanted something to
develop his arms and chest without knocking him about as much as the school
games did. To supply this want by some means which should add also to his
pleasures was Alethæa's first anxiety. Rowing would have answered every purpose,
but unfortunately there was no river at Roughborough.
    Whatever it was to be it must be something which he should like as much as
other boys liked cricket or football, and he must think the wish for it to have
come originally from himself; it was not very easy to find anything that would
do, but ere long it occurred to her that she might enlist his love of music on
her side, and asked him one day when he was spending a half-holiday at her house
whether he would like her to buy an organ for him to play on. Of course the boy
said yes; then she told him about her grandfather and the organs he had built.
It had never entered into his head that he could make one, but when he gathered
from what his aunt had said that this was not out of the question, he rose as
eagerly to the bait as she could have desired, and wanted to begin learning to
saw and plane so that he might make the wooden pipes at once.
    Miss Pontifex did not see how she could well have hit upon anything more
suitable, and she liked also the idea that he would incidentally get a knowledge
of carpentering, for she was impressed, perhaps foolishly, with the wisdom of
the German custom which gives every boy a handicraft of some sort.
    Writing to me on this matter she said, »Professions are all very well for
those who have connection and interest as well as capital - but otherwise they
are white elephants. How many men do not you and I know who have talent,
assiduity, excellent good sense, straightforwardness - every quality in fact
which should command success, and who yet go on from year to year waiting and
hoping against hope for the work which never comes? How indeed is it likely to
come unless to those who either are born with interest, or who marry in order to
get it? Ernest's father and mother have no interest, and if they had they would
not use it. I suppose they will make him a clergyman, or try to do so - perhaps
it is the best thing to do with him, for he could buy a living with the money
his grandfather left him, but there is no knowing what the boy will think of it
when the time comes, and for aught we know he may insist on going to the
backwoods of America, as so many other young men are doing now, etc., etc. -«
but, anyway, he would like making an organ and this could do him no harm, so the
sooner he began the better.
    Alethæa thought it would save trouble in the end if she told her brother and
sister-in-law of this scheme. »I do not suppose,« she wrote, »Dr. Skinner will
approve very cordially of my attempt to introduce organ-building into the
curriculum of Roughborough, but I will see what I can do with him, for I have
set my heart on owning an organ built by Ernest's own hands, which he may play
on as much as he likes while it remains in my house and which I will lend him
permanently as soon as he gets one of his own, but which is to be my property
for the present, inasmuch as I mean to pay for it.« This was put in to make it
plain to Theobald and Christina that they should not be out of pocket in the
matter.
    If Alethæa had been as poor as the Misses Allaby the reader may guess what
Ernest's papa and mamma would have said to this proposal; but then, if she had
been as poor as they, she would never have made it. They did not like Ernest's
getting more and more into his aunt's good books, still it was perhaps better
that he should do so than that she should be driven back upon the John
Pontifexes. The only thing, said Theobald, which made him hesitate was that the
boy might be thrown with low associates later on if he were to be encouraged in
his taste for music - a taste which Theobald had always disliked. He had
observed with regret that he had ere now shown rather a hankering after low
company, and he might make acquaintance with those who would corrupt his
innocence. Christina shuddered at this, but when they had aired their scruples
sufficiently they felt (and when people begin to feel they are invariably going
to take what they believe to be the more worldly course) that to oppose
Alethæa's proposal would be injuring their son's prospects more than was right.
So they consented, but not too graciously.
    After a time, however, Christina got used to the idea, and then
considerations occurred to her which made her throw herself into it with
characteristic ardour. If Miss Pontifex had been a railway stock she might have
been said to have been buoyant in the Battersby market for some few days;
buoyant for long together she could never be, still for a time there really was
an upward movement. Christina's mind wandered to the organ itself; she seemed to
have made it with her own hands; there would be no other in England to compare
with it for combined sweetness and power. She already heard the famous Dr.
Walmisley of Cambridge mistaking it for a Father Smith. It would come no doubt,
in reality, to Battersby Church, which wanted an organ - for it must be all
nonsense about Alethæa's wishing to keep it, and Ernest would not have a house
of his own for ever so many years, and they could never have it at the rectory.
Oh no! Battersby Church was the only proper place for it.
    Of course they would have a grand opening, and the bishop would come down,
and perhaps young Figgins might be on a visit to them - she must ask Ernest if
Figgins had yet left Roughborough - he might even persuade his grandfather Lord
Lonsford to be present. Lord Lonsford and the bishop and everyone else would
then compliment her, and Dr. Wesley or Dr. Walmisley who should preside (it did
not much matter which) would say to her, »My dear Mrs. Pontifex, I never yet
played upon so remarkable an instrument.« Then she would give him one of her
very sweetest smiles and say she feared he was flattering her, on which he would
rejoin with some pleasant little trifle about remarkable men (the remarkable man
being for the moment Ernest) having invariably had remarkable women for their
mothers - and so on and so on. The advantage of doing one's praising for oneself
is that one can lay it on so thick, and exactly in the right places.
    Theobald wrote Ernest a short and surly letter á propos of his aunt's
intentions in this matter.
    »I will not commit myself,« he said, »to an opinion whether anything will
come of it; this will depend entirely upon your own exertions; you have had
singular advantages hitherto and your kind aunt is showing every desire to
befriend you, but you must give greater proof of stability and steadiness of
character than you have given yet if this organ matter is not to prove in the
end to be only one disappointment the more.
    I must insist on two things: firstly, that this new iron in the fire does
not distract your attention from your Latin and Greek« (»They aren't mine,«
thought Ernest, »and never have been«) »and secondly, that you bring no smell of
glue or shavings into the house here, if you make any part of the organ during
your holidays.«
    Ernest was still too young to know how unpleasant a letter he was receiving.
He believed the innuendoes contained in it to be perfectly just. He knew he was
sadly deficient in perserverance. He liked some things for a little while, and
then found he did not like them any more - and this was as bad as anything well
could be. His father's letter gave him one of his many fits of melancholy over
his own worthlessness, but the thought of the organ consoled him, and he felt
sure that here at any rate was something to which he could apply himself
steadily without growing tired of it.
    It was settled that the organ was not to be begun before the Christmas
holidays were over, and that till then Ernest should do a little plain
carpentering, so as to get to know how to use his tools. Miss Pontifex had a
carpenter's bench set up in an outhouse upon her own premises, and made terms
with the most respectable carpenter in Roughborough by which one of his men was
to come for a couple of hours twice a week and set Ernest on the right way; then
she discovered she wanted this or that simple piece of work done, and gave the
boy a commission to do it, paying him handsomely as well as finding him in tools
and materials. She never gave him a syllable of good advice, or talked to him
about everything's depending upon his own exertions, but she kissed him often
and would come into the workshop and act the part of one who took an interest in
what was being done so cleverly as ere long to become really interested.
    What boy would not take kindly to almost anything with such assistance? All
boys like making things; the exercise of sawing, planing and hammering proved
exactly what his aunt had wanted to find - something that should exercise, but
not too much, and at the same time amuse; when Ernest's sallow face was flushed
with his work and his eyes were sparkling with pleasure he looked quite another
boy to what he had done when his aunt had taken him in hand only a few months
earlier. His inner self never told him that this was humbug as it did about the
Latin and Greek. Making stools and drawers was worth living for, and after
Christmas there loomed the organ, which was scarcely ever absent from his mind.
    His aunt let him invite his friends, encouraging him to bring those whom her
quick senses told her were the most desirable. She smartened him up also in his
personal appearance, always without preaching to him. Indeed she worked wonders
during the short time that was allowed her, and if her life had been spared I
cannot think that my hero would have ever come under the shadow of that cloud
which cast so heavy a gloom over his younger manhood; but unfortunately for him
his gleam of sunshine was too hot and brilliant to last, and he had many a storm
yet to weather, before he became fairly happy. For the present, however, he was
supremely so, and his aunt was happy and grateful for his happiness, the
improvement she saw in him, and his unrepressed affection for herself. She
became fonder of him from day to day in spite of his many faults and almost
incredible foolishness. It was perhaps on account of these very things that she
saw how much he had need of her; but at any rate from whatever cause, she became
strengthened in her determination to be to him in the place of parents and find
in him a son rather than a nephew. But still she made no will.
 

                                   Chapter 35

All went well during the first part of the following half year. Miss Pontifex
spent the greater part of the holidays in London, and I also saw her at
Roughborough when I spent a few days with her, though of course staying at the
Swan. I heard all about my godson in whom, however, I took less interest than I
said I did. I took more interest in the stage at that time than in anything
else, and as for Ernest, I found him a nuisance for engrossing so much of his
aunt's attention, and taking her so much from London. The organ was begun, and
made fair progress during the first two months of the half year. Ernest was
happier than he had ever been before, and was struggling upwards. The best boys
took more notice of him for his aunt's sake, and he consorted less with those
who led him into mischief.
    But much as Miss Pontifex had done she could not all at once undo the effect
of such surroundings as the boy had had at Battersby. Much as he feared and
disliked his father (though he still knew not how much this was), he had caught
much from him; if Theobald had been kinder he would have modelled himself upon
him entirely and ere long would probably have become as thorough a little prig
as could have easily been found.
    Fortunately his temper had come to him from his mother, who when not
frightened, and when there was nothing on the horizon which might cross the
slightest whim of her husband, was an amiable good-natured woman. If it was not
such an awful thing to say of anyone I should say that she meant well.
    Ernest had also inherited his mother's love of building castles in air, and
- so I suppose it must be called - her vanity. He was very fond of showing off,
and provided he could attract attention cared little from whom it came, nor what
it was for. He caught up, parrot-like, whatever jargon he heard from his elders
which he thought was the correct thing, and aired it in season and out of season
as though it were his own.
    Miss Pontifex was old enough and wise enough to know that this is the way in
which even the greatest geniuses as a general rule begin to develop and was more
pleased with his receptiveness and reproductiveness than alarmed at the things
he caught and reproduced.
    She saw that he was much attached to herself and trusted to this rather than
to anything else. She saw also that his conceit was not very profound, and that
his fits of self-abasement were as extreme as his exaltation had been. His
impulsiveness, and sanguine trustfulness in any who smiled pleasantly at him, or
indeed who were not absolutely unkind to him made her more anxious about him
than any other point in his character; she saw clearly that he would have to
find himself rudely undeceived many a time and oft, before he would learn to
distinguish friend from foe within reasonable time. It was her perception of
this which led her to take the action which she was so soon called upon to take.
    Her health was for the most part excellent, and she had never had a serious
illness in her life. One morning however soon after Easter, 1850, she awoke
feeling seriously unwell. For some little time there had been a talk of fever in
the neighbourhood, but in those days the precautions that ought to be taken
against the spread of infection were not so well understood as now, and nobody
did anything. In a day or two it became plain that Miss Pontifex had got an
attack of typhoid fever and was dangerously ill. On this she sent off a
messenger to town, and desired him not to return without her lawyer and myself.
    We arrived on the afternoon of the day on which we had been summoned, and
found her still free from delirium: indeed the cheery way in which she received
us made it difficult to think she could be in danger. She at once explained her
wishes, which had reference, as I expected they would, to her nephew, and
repeated the substance of what I have already referred to as her main source of
uneasiness concerning him. Then she begged me by our long and close intimacy, by
the suddenness of the danger that had fallen on her and her powerlessness to
avert it, to undertake what she said she well knew if she died would be an
unpleasant and invidious trust.
    She wanted to leave the bulk of her money ostensibly to me, but in reality
to her nephew, so that I should hold it in trust for him till he was
twenty-eight years old, but neither he nor anyone else, except her lawyer and
myself, was to know anything about it. She would leave £5000 in other legacies,
and £15,000 to Ernest - which by the time he was twenty-eight would have
accumulated to say £30,000. »Sell out of the debentures,« she said »- where the
money now is - and put it into Midland Ordinary.
    Let him make his mistakes,« she said, »upon the money his grandfather left
him. I am no prophet, but even I can see that it will take that boy many years
to see things as his neighbours see them. He will get no help from his father
and mother, who would never forgive him for his good luck if I left him the
money outright; I daresay I am wrong, but I think he will have to lose the
greater part or all of what he has, before he will know how to keep what he will
get from me.«
    Supposing he went bankrupt before he was twenty-eight years old, the money
was to me mine absolutely, but she could trust me, she said, to hand it over to
Ernest all in due time.
    »If,« she continued, »I am mistaken, the worst that happens is that he comes
into a larger sum at twenty-eight instead of a smaller one at say twenty-three,
for I would never trust him with it earlier, and if he knows nothing about it he
will not be unhappy for the want of it.«
    She begged me to take £2000 in return for the trouble I should have in
taking charge of the boy's estate, and as a sign of the testatrix's hope that I
would now and again look after him while he was still young. The remaining £3000
I was to pay in legacies and annuities to friends and servants.
    In vain both her lawyer and myself remonstrated with her on the unusual and
hazardous nature of this arrangement; we told her that sensible people will not
take a more sanguine view concerning human nature than the courts of chancery
do; we said in fact everything that anyone else would say; she admitted
everything, but urged that her time was short, that nothing would induce her to
leave her money to her nephew in the usual way - »It is an unusually foolish
will,« she said, »but he is an unusually foolish boy,« and she smiled quite
merrily at her little sally. Like all the rest of the family she was very
stubborn when her mind was made up. So the thing was done as she wished it.
    No provision was made for either my death or Ernest's - Miss Pontifex had
settled it that we were neither of us going to die, and was too ill to go into
details; she was so anxious moreover to sign her will while still able, that we
had practically no alternative but to do as she told us. If she recovered we
would see things put on a more satisfactory footing, and further discussion
would evidently impair her chance of recovery; it seemed, then, only too likely
that it was a case of this will, or no will at all.
    When the will was signed I wrote a letter in duplicate, saying that I held
all Miss Pontifex had left me in trust for Ernest except as regards £5000, but
that he was not to come into the bequest, and was to know nothing whatever about
it directly or indirectly, till he was twenty-eight years old, and if he was
bankrupt before he came into it the money was to be mine absolutely. At the foot
of each letter Miss Pontifex wrote, »The above was my understanding when I made
my will,« and then signed her name. The solicitor and his clerk witnessed; I
kept one copy myself, and handed the other to Miss Pontifex's solicitor.
    When all this had been done she became more easy in her mind. She talked
principally about her nephew. »Don't scold him,« she said, »if he is volatile,
and continually takes things up only to throw them down again. How can he find
out his strength or weakness otherwise? A man's profession,« she said, and here
she gave one of her old wicked little laughs, »is not like his wife, which he
must take once for all for better for worse, without proof beforehand - let him
go here and there, and learn his truest liking by finding out what, after all,
he catches himself turning to most habitually - then let him stick to this; but
I daresay Ernest will be forty or five and forty before he settles down. Then
all his previous infidelities will work together to him for good if he is the
boy I hope he is.
    Above all,« she continued, »do not let him work up to his full strength,
except once or twice in his lifetime; nothing is well done nor worth doing
unless, take it all round, it has come pretty easily. Theobald and Christina
would give him a pinch of salt and tell him to put it upon the tails of the
seven deadly virtues« - here she laughed again in her old manner at once so
mocking and so sweet - »I think if he likes pancakes he had perhaps better eat
them on Shrove Tuesday, but this is enough.« These were the last coherent words
she spoke. From this time she grew continually worse, and was never free from
delirium till her death - which took place less than a fortnight afterwards to
the inexpressible grief of those who knew and loved her.
 

                                   Chapter 36

Letters had been written to Miss Pontifex's brothers and sisters, and one and
all came post-haste to Roughborough. Before they arrived the poor lady was
already delirious, and for the sake of her own peace at the last I am half glad
she never recovered consciousness.
    I had known these people all their lives, as none can know each other but
those who have played together as children; I knew how they had all of them -
perhaps Theobald least, but all of them more or less - made her life a burden to
her until the death of her father had made her mistress of herself, and I was
displeased at their coming one after the other to Roughborough, and enquiring
whether their sister had recovered consciousness sufficiently to be able to see
them. It was known that she had sent for me on being taken ill, and that I
remained at Roughborough, and I own I was angered by the mingled air of
suspicion, defiance, and inquisitiveness, with which they regarded me. They
would all, except Theobald I believe, have cut me downright if they had not
believed me to know something they wanted to know themselves, and might have
some chance of learning from me - for it was plain I had been in some way
concerned with the making of their sister's will. None of them suspected what
the ostensible nature of the will would be, but I think they feared Miss
Pontifex was about to leave money for public uses. John said to me in his
blandest manner that he fancied he remembered to have heard his sister say that
she thought of leaving money to found a college for the relief of dramatic
authors in distress; to this I had made no rejoinder, and I have no doubt his
suspicions were deepened.
    When the end came, I got Miss Pontifex's solicitor to write and tell her
brothers and sisters how she had left her money; they were not unnaturally
furious, and went each to his or her separate home without attending the
funeral, and without paying any attention to myself. This was perhaps the
kindest thing they could have done by me, for their behaviour made me so angry
that I became almost reconciled to Alethæa's will out of pleasure at the anger
it had aroused. But for this I should have felt the will keenly, as having been
placed by it in the position which of all others I had been most anxious to
avoid, and as having saddled me moreover with a very heavy responsibility. Still
it was impossible for me to escape, and I could only let things take their
course.
    Miss Pontifex had expressed a wish to be buried at Paleham; in the course of
the next few days I therefore took the body thither. I had not been to Paleham
since the death of my father some six years earlier. I had often wished to go
there, but had shrunk from doing so though my sisters had been two or three
times. I could not bear to see the house which had been my home for so many
years of my life in the hands of strangers. To ring ceremoniously at a bell
which I had never yet pulled except as a boy in jest, to feel that I had nothing
to do with the garden in which I had in childhood gathered so many a nosegay,
and which had seemed my own for many years after I had reached man's estate, to
see the rooms bereft of every familiar feature, and made so unfamiliar in spite
of their familiarity - had there been any sufficient reason I should have taken
these things as matters of course, and should no doubt have found them much
worse in anticipation than in reality, but as there had been no especial reason
why I should go to Paleham I had hitherto avoided doing so. Now, however, my
going was a necessity, and I confess I never felt more subdued than I did on
arriving there with the dead playmate of my childhood.
    I found the village more changed than I had expected. The railway had come
there, and a brand new yellow brick station was on the site of old Mr. and Mrs.
Pontifex's cottage. Nothing but the carpenter's shop was now standing. I saw
many faces I knew, but even in six years they seemed to have grown wonderfully
older. Some of the very old were dead, and the old were getting very old in
their stead. I felt like the changeling in the fairy story who came back after a
seven years' sleep. Everyone seemed glad to see me though I had never given them
particular cause to be so, and everyone who remembered old Mr. and Mrs. Pontifex
spoke warmly of them and was pleased at their granddaughter's wishing to be laid
near them. Entering the churchyard and standing in the twilight of a gusty
cloudy evening on the spot close beside old Mrs. Pontifex's grave which I had
chosen for Alethæa's, I thought of the many times that she - who would lie there
henceforth - and I who must surely lie one day in some such another place,
though when and where I knew not, had romped over this very spot as childish
lovers together.
    Next morning I followed her to the grave, and in due course set up a plain
upright slab to her memory as like as might be to those over the graves of her
grandmother and grandfather. I gave the dates and places of her birth and death,
but added nothing except that this stone was set up by one who knew and loved
her. Knowing how fond she had been of music I had been half inclined at one time
to inscribe a few bars of music, if I could find any which seemed suitable to
her character, but I knew how much she would have disliked anything singular in
connection with her tombstone and did not do it.
    Before, however, I had come to this conclusion I had thought that Ernest
might be able to help me to the right thing and had written to him upon the
subject. The following is the answer that I received -
 
        »Dear Godpapa, I send you the best bit I can think of; it is the subject
        of the last of Handel's six grand fugues and goes thus -
        
        
        
        It would do better for a man, especially for an old man who was very
        sorry for things, than for a woman, but I cannot think of anything
        better; if you do not like it for Aunt Alethæa I shall keep it for
        myself - Your affectionate godson,
                                                               Ernest Pontifex.«
 
Was this the little lad who could get sweeties for twopence but not for twopence
halfpenny? Dear, dear me, I thought to myself, how these babes and sucklings do
give us the go-by surely. Choosing his own epitaph at fifteen as for a man who
had been very sorry for things, and such a strain as that - why it might have
done for Leonardo da Vinci himself; then I set the boy down as a conceited young
jackanapes - which no doubt he was - but so are many other young people of
Ernest's age.
 

                                   Chapter 37

If Theobald and Christina had not been too well pleased when Miss Pontifex first
took Ernest in hand, they were still less so when the connection between the two
was interrupted so prematurely. They said they had made sure from what their
sister had said that she was going to make Ernest her heir; I do not think their
sister had given them so much as a hint to this effect. Theobald indeed gave
Ernest to understand that she had done so in a letter which will be given
shortly, but if Theobald wanted to make himself disagreeable a trifle light as
air would forthwith assume in his imagination whatever form was most convenient
to him. I do not think they had even made up their minds what Alethæa was to do
with her money before they knew of her being at the point of death, and, as I
have said already, if they had thought it likely that Ernest would be made heir
over their own heads without their having at any rate a life interest in the
bequest, they would have soon thrown obstacles in the way of further intimacy
between aunt and nephew.
    This, however, did not bar their right to feeling aggrieved now that neither
they nor Ernest had taken anything at all, and they could profess disappointment
on their boy's behalf which they would have been too proud to admit upon their
own. In fact, it was only amiable of them to be disappointed under these
circumstances.
    Christina said the will was simply fraudulent, and was convinced that it
could be upset if she and Theobald went the right way to work. Theobald, she
said, should go before the Lord Chancellor, not in full court, but in chambers
where he could explain the whole matter; or perhaps it would be even better if
she were to go herself - and I dare not trust myself to describe the rêverie to
which this last idea gave rise. I believe in the end Theobald died and the Lord
Chancellor (who had become a widower a few weeks earlier) made her an offer,
which however she firmly but not ungratefully declined; she should ever, she
said, continue to think of him as a friend - at this point the cook came in
saying the butcher had called, and what would she please to order.
    I think Theobald must have had an idea that there was something behind the
bequest to me, but he said nothing about it to Christina. He was angry and felt
wronged because he could not get at Alethæa to give her a piece of his mind any
more than he had been able to get at his father. »It is so mean of people,« he
exclaimed to himself, »to inflict an injury of this sort and then shirk facing
those whom they have injured; let us hope that at any rate they and I may meet
in Heaven«; but of this he was doubtful, for when people had done so great a
wrong as this, it was hardly to be supposed that they would go to Heaven at all
- and as for his meeting them in another place, the idea never so much as
entered his mind.
    One so angry and, of late, so little used to contradiction might be trusted,
however, to avenge himself upon someone, and Theobald had long since developed
the organ by means of which he might vent spleen with least risk and greatest
satisfaction to himself. This organ it may be guessed was nothing else than
Ernest; to Ernest, therefore, he proceeded to unburden himself - not personally,
but by letter.
    »You ought to know,« he wrote, »that your Aunt Alethæa had given your mother
and me to understand that it was her wish to make you her heir - in the event,
of course, of your conducting yourself in such a manner as to give her
confidence in you; as a matter of fact, however, she has left you nothing, and
the whole of her property has gone to your godfather Mr. Overton. Your mother
and I are willing to hope that if she had lived longer you would yet have
succeeded in winning her good opinion, but it is too late to think of this now.
    The carpentering and organ-building must at once be discontinued. I never
believed in the project, and have seen no reason to alter my original opinion. I
am not sorry for your own sake that it is to be an end, nor, I am sure, will you
regret it yourself in after years.
    A few words more as regards your own prospects. You have, as I believe you
know, a small inheritance which is yours legally under your grandfather's will.
This bequest was made inadvertently, and, I believe, entirely through a
misunderstanding on the lawyer's part. The bequest was probably intended not to
take effect till after the death of your mother and myself; nevertheless as the
will is actually worded it will now be at your command if you live to be
twenty-one years old. From this, however, large deductions must be made. There
will be legacy duty, and I do not know whether I am not entitled to deduct the
expenses of your education and maintenance from birth to your coming of age; I
shall not in all likelihood insist on this right to the full, if you conduct
yourself properly, but a considerable sum should certainly be deducted; there
will therefore remain very little - say £1000 or £2000 at the outside, as what
will be actually yours - but the strictest account shall be rendered you in due
time.
    This, let me warn you most seriously, is all that you must expect from me« -
even Ernest saw that it was not from Theobald at all - »at any rate till after
my death, which for aught any of us know may be yet many years distant. It is
not a large sum, but it is sufficient if supplemented by steadiness and
earnestness of purpose. Your mother and I gave you the name Ernest, as hoping
that it would remind you continually of, etc., etc. -« for I really cannot copy
more of this effusion. It was the same old will-shaking game and came
practically to this, that Ernest was no good, and that if he went on as he was
going now, he would probably have to go about the streets begging without any
shoes and stockings soon after he had left school, or at any rate, college; and
that he, Theobald, and Christina, were almost too good for this world
altogether.
    After he had written this, Theobald felt quite good-natured and sent the
Mrs. Thompson of the moment more soup and wine even than her usual not illiberal
allowance.
    Ernest was deeply, passionately, upset by his father's letter: to think that
after all even his dear aunt - the one person of his relations whom he really
loved - should have turned against him, and thought badly of him after all. This
was the unkindest cut of all. In the hurry of her illness Miss Pontifex, while
thinking only of his welfare, had omitted to make such small present mention of
him as should have made his father's innuendoes stingless; and her illness being
infectious, she had not seen him after its nature was known; I myself did not
know of Theobald's letter, nor think enough about my godson to guess what might
easily be his state. It was not till many years afterwards that I found
Theobald's letter in the pocket of an old portfolio which Ernest had used at
school and in which other old letters and school documents were collected, which
I have used in this book. He had forgotten that he had it, but told me when he
saw it that he remembered it as the first thing that made him begin to rise in a
rebellion against his father which he recognised as righteous, though he dared
not openly avow it. Not the least serious thing was that it would, he feared, be
his duty to give up the legacy his grandfather had left him; for if it was his
only through a mistake, how could he keep it?
    During the rest of the half year Ernest was listless and unhappy. He was
very fond of some of his schoolfellows, but afraid of those whom he believed to
be better than himself, and prone to idealise everyone into being his superiors
except those who were obviously a good deal beneath him. He held himself much
too cheap, and because he was without that physical strength and vigour which he
so much coveted, and also because he knew he shirked his lessons, he believed
that he was without anything which could deserve the name of a good quality; he
was naturally bad, and one of those for whom there was no place for repentance
though he sought it even with tears. So he shrank out of sight of those whom in
his boyish way he idolised, never for a moment suspecting that he might have
capacities to the full as high as theirs though of a different kind, and fell in
more with those who were reputed of the baser sort, with whom he could at any
rate be upon equal terms. Before the end of the half year he had dropped from
the estate to which he had been raised during his aunt's stay at Roughborough,
and his old dejection - varied however with bursts of conceit rivalling those of
his mother - resumed its sway over him. »Pontifex,« said Dr. Skinner, who had
fallen upon him in hall one day like a moral landslip, before he had time to
escape, »do you never laugh? Do you always look so preternaturally grave?« The
Doctor had not meant to be unkind, but the boy turned crimson, and escaped.
    There was one place only where he was happy, and that was in the old church
of St. Michael when his friend the organist was practising. About this time
those cheap editions of the great oratorios began to appear, and Ernest got them
all as soon as they were published; he would sometimes sell a school book to a
second-hand dealer and buy a number or two of the Messiah, or the Creation, or
Elijah with the proceeds. This was simply cheating his papa and mamma, but
Ernest was falling low again - or thought he was - and he wanted the music much
and the Sallust, or whatever it was, little. Sometimes the organist would let
him play by himself, staying after he himself was gone and locking up the organ
and the church in time to get back for calling over. At others while his friend
was playing he would wander round the church looking at the monuments and the
old stained glass windows, enchanted as regards both ears and eyes at once. Once
the old rector got hold of him as he was watching a new window being put in
which the rector had bought in Germany - the work, it was supposed, of Albert
Dürer. He questioned Ernest, and finding that he was so fond of music he said in
his old trembling voice (for he was over eighty), »Then you should have known
Dr. Burney who wrote the history of music. I knew him exceedingly well when I
was a young man.« That made Ernest's heart beat, for he knew that Dr. Burney,
when a boy at school at Chester, used to break bounds that he might watch Handel
smoking his pipe in the Exchange coffee house - and now he was in the presence
of one who if he had not seen Handel himself had at least seen those who had
seen him.
    These were oases in his desert - but as a general rule the boy looked thin
and pale, and as though he had a secret which depressed him - which no doubt he
had, but for which I cannot blame him. He rose in spite of himself higher in the
school, but fell ever into deeper and deeper disgrace with the masters, and did
not gain in the opinion of those boys about whom he was persuaded that they
could assuredly never know what it was to have a secret weighing upon their
minds. This was what Ernest felt so keenly; he did not much care about the boys
who liked him, and idolised some who kept him as far as possible at a distance,
but this is pretty much the case with all boys everywhere.
    At last things reached a crisis below which they could not very well go, for
at the end of the half year but one after his aunt's death Ernest brought back a
document in his portmanteau which Theobald stigmatised as infamous and
outrageous. I need hardly say I am alluding to his school bill.
    This document was always a source of anxiety to Ernest, for it was gone into
with scrupulous care, and he was a good deal cross-examined about it. He would
sometimes write in for articles necessary for his education, such as a
portfolio, or a dictionary, and sell the same, as I have explained, in order to
eke out his pocket money - probably to buy either music or tobacco. These frauds
were sometimes, as Ernest thought, in imminent danger of being discovered, and
it was a load off his breast when the cross-examination was safely over. This
time Theobald had made a great fuss about the extras but had grudgingly passed
them; it was another matter however with the character and the moral statistics
with which the bill concluded.
    The page on which these details were to be found was headed:
 

Report of the Conduct and Progress of Ernest Pontifex Upper Vth Form - half year
                             ending Midsummer 1851

I recommend that his pocket money be made to depend upon his merit money.
                                                         S. Skinner, Headmaster.
 

                                   Chapter 38

Ernest was thus in disgrace from the beginning of the holidays, but an incident
soon occurred which led him into delinquencies compared with which all his
previous sins were venial.
    Among the servants at the rectory was a remarkably pretty girl named Ellen;
she came from Devonshire, I think from near Torquay, and was daughter of a
fisherman who had been drowned when she was a child. Her mother set up a small
shop in the village where her husband had lived, and just managed to make a
living; Ellen remained with her till she was fourteen, when she first went out
to service. Four years later when she was about eighteen, but so well grown that
she might have passed for twenty, she had been strongly recommended to Christina
who was then in want of a housemaid, and had now been at Battersby about twelve
months.
    As I have said, the girl was remarkably pretty; she looked the perfection of
health and good temper, indeed there was a serene expression upon her face which
captivated almost all who saw her; she looked as if matters always had gone well
with her and were always going to do so, and as if no conceivable combination of
circumstances could put her for long together out of temper either with herself
or anyone else. Her complexion was clear, but high; her eyes were grey and
beautifully shaped; her lips were full and restful - with something of an
Egyptian Sphinx-like character about them; when I learned that she came from
Devonshire I fancied I saw a strain of far-away Egyptian blood in her, for I had
heard, with what truth I know not, that the Egyptians made settlements on the
coast of Devonshire and Cornwall long before the Romans conquered Britain. Her
hair was a rich brown, and her figure - of about the middle height - perfect,
but erring if at all on the side of robustness. Altogether she was one of those
girls about whom one is inclined to wonder how they can remain unmarried a week
or a day longer.
    Her face (as indeed faces generally are, though I grant they lie sometimes)
was a fair index to her disposition. She was good nature itself, and everyone in
the house, not excluding I believe even Theobald himself after a fashion, was
fond of her. As for Christina she took the very warmest interest in her, and
used to have her into the dining-room twice a week and prepare her for
confirmation (for by some accident she had never been confirmed) by explaining
to her the geography of Palestine and the different routes taken by St. Paul
upon his various journeyings in Asia Minor.
    When Bishop Treadwell did actually come down to Battersby and hold a
confirmation there (Christina had her wish, he slept at Battersby, and she had a
grand dinner party for him, and called him My Lord several times) he was so much
struck with her pretty face and modest demeanour when he laid his hands upon
her, that he asked Christina about her; when she replied that Ellen was one of
her own servants, the bishop seemed, so she thought, or chose to think, quite
pleased that so pretty a girl should have found so exceptionally good a
situation.
    Ernest used to get up early during the holidays so that he might play the
piano before breakfast without disturbing his papa and mamma - or perhaps
better, without being disturbed by them. Ellen would generally be there sweeping
the drawing-room floor and dusting while he was playing, and the boy, who was
ready to make friends with most people, soon became very fond of her. He was not
as a general rule sensitive to the charms of the fair sex; indeed he had hardly
been thrown in with any women except his aunts Allaby, and his Aunt Alethæa, his
mother, his sister Charlotte, and Mrs. Jay - sometimes also he had had to take
off his hat to the Miss Skinners, and had felt as if he should sink into the
earth on doing so - but his shyness had worn off with Ellen and the pair had
become fast friends.
    Perhaps it was well that Ernest was not at home for very long together, but
as yet I am almost ashamed to say that his affection though hearty was quite
Platonic. He was not only innocent, but deplorably - I might even say guiltily -
innocent. His preference was based upon the fact that Ellen never scolded him,
but was always smiling and good tempered; besides she used to like to hear him
play, and this gave him additional zest in playing. The morning access to the
piano was indeed the one distinct advantage which the holidays had in Ernest's
eyes, for at school he could not get at a piano except quasi-surreptitiously at
the shop of Mr. Pearsall the music-seller.
    On returning this midsummer he was shocked to find his favourite looking
pale and ill. All her good spirits had left her, the roses had fled her cheek,
and she seemed on the point of going into a decline. She said she was unhappy
about her mother, whose health was failing, and was afraid she was herself not
long for this world. Christina of course noticed the change; »I have often
remarked,« she said, »that those very fresh-coloured healthy-looking girls are
the first to break up. I have given her calomel and James's powders repeatedly,
and though she does not like it, I think I must show her to Mr. Martin when he
next comes here.«
    »Very well, my dear,« said Theobald, and so next time Mr. Martin came Ellen
was sent for. Mr. Martin soon discovered what would probably have been apparent
to Christina herself if she had been able to conceive of such an ailment in
connection with a servant who lived under the same roof as Theobald and herself
- the purity of whose married life should have preserved all unmarried people
who came near them from any taint of mischief.
    Handel very seldom falls into a trap, but I call to mind one instance in
which, great poet as he was, he was certainly off his guard - it occurs in the
air »How willing my paternal love,« in Samson. Here Manoah, Samson's father,
tells us how good he is, and how little Samson really has to suffer in being
blind - inasmuch as he, Manoah, can see perfectly well. This, he avers, should
be enough for Samson:
 
»Though wandering in the shades of night
While I have eyes, he needs no light.«
 
Exactly so: this is the British parent theory all over. No wonder Milton's
daughters did not like him. I have never been able to understand how Handel
failed to see and point the humour of this passage with that exquisitely playful
irony which he has elsewhere displayed in Samson, and which no one has so
inimitably translated into music as he. Handel has treated these two lines with
the utmost pathos, and I have looked in vain for the slightest hint of his
having smelt a rat anywhere in their vicinity. I suppose the explanation lies in
the fact that he lost his own father when he was six years old, was independent
at the age of fifteen, if not earlier, and never married - so that his ideas of
family life were drawn mainly from what the poets told him about it. So again in
the air »Such tears as tender fathers shed,« he lays no emphasis on the word
such. From all of which we conclude that even a Handel cannot be trusted to
write about things which he does not understand.
    However this may be, when it was discovered that in three or four months
more Ellen would become a mother, Christina fell into much the same trap that
Handel and Milton did before her, and sung herself a song to the effect that so
long as she had a husband and family herself Ellen need be in no hurry about
either the one or the other. She, Christina, had been unmarried till she was
three and thirty years old, and would have remained so without a murmur till she
died unless there had been a Theobald to marry her. This was what society and
the Bible alike commanded, and she, who had complied, had a right to be
indignant with those who did not comply. I believe, however, her natural good
nature would have prompted her to deal as leniently with the case as she could
if she had not been panic stricken lest any mercy on her and Theobald's part
should be construed into toleration, however partial, of so great a sin; hereon
she dashed off into the conviction that the only thing to do was to pay Ellen
her wages, and pack her off on the instant, bag and baggage out of a house which
purity had more especially and particularly singled out for its abiding city.
When she thought of the fearful contamination which Ellen's continued presence
even for a week would occasion, she could not hesitate.
    Then came the question - horrid thought - as to who was the partner of
Ellen's guilt? Was it? Could it be - her own son - her darling Ernest? Or if not
the actual father might he not be as guilty as though he were? Ernest was
getting a big boy now. She could excuse any young woman for taking a fancy to
him, and as for himself - why she was sure he was behind no young man of his age
in appreciation of the charms of a nice-looking young woman. So long as he was
innocent she did not mind this - but oh if he was guilty!
    She could not bear to think of it, and yet it would be mere cowardice not to
look such a matter in the face - her hope was in the Lord and she was ready to
bear cheerfully and make the best of any suffering he might think fit to lay
upon her. That the baby must be either a boy or girl - this much at any rate was
clear. No less clear was it that the child if a boy would resemble Theobald -
and if a girl - herself. Resemblance whether of body or mind generally leaped
over a generation. The guilt of the parents must not be shared by the innocent
offspring of shame - oh no - and such a child as this would be too, etc., etc.
    The child was in the act of being consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury (and
a two-fold interest would attach to him as an illegitimate archbishop - for of
course it would never do for Ernest to marry Ellen now and legitimise him) when
Theobald came in from a visit in the parish and was told of the shocking
discovery.
    Christina said nothing about Ernest, and I believe was more than half angry
when the blame was laid upon other shoulders. She was easily consoled however,
and fell back on the double reflection, firstly that her son was pure, and
secondly that she was quite sure he would not have been so, had it not been for
his religious convictions which had held him back - as of course it was only to
be expected they would.
    Theobald agreed that no time must be lost in paying Ellen her wages and
packing her off. So this was done, and less than two hours after Mr. Martin had
entered the house, Ellen was sitting beside John the coachman, with her face
muffled up so that it could not be seen, weeping bitterly as she was being
driven to the station.
 

                                    Part II

                                   Chapter 39

Ernest had been out all the morning but came in to the yard of the rectory from
the spinney behind the house just as Ellen's things were being put into the
carriage. He thought it was Ellen whom he then saw get into the carriage but as
her face had been hidden by her handkerchief he had not been able to see plainly
who it was, and dismissed the idea as improbable.
    He went to the back-kitchen window, at which the cook was standing peeling
the potatoes for dinner, and found her crying bitterly. Ernest was much
distressed, for he liked the cook, and of course wanted to know what all the
matter was; who it was that had just gone off in the pony carriage and why. The
cook told him it was Ellen, but said that no earthly power should make it cross
her lips why it was that she was going away; when, however, Ernest took her au
pied de la lettre, and asked no further questions, she told him all about it
after extorting the most solemn promises of secrecy.
    It took Ernest some minutes to arrive at the facts of the case, but when he
understood them he leaned up against the pump, which stood near the back-kitchen
window, and mingled his tears with the cook's.
    Then his blood began to boil within him. He did not see that after all his
father and mother could have done much otherwise than what they actually did.
They might perhaps have been less precipitate, and tried to keep the matter a
little more quiet, but this would not have been easy, nor would it have mended
things very materially. The bitter fact remains that if a girl does certain
things she must do them at her peril, no matter how young and pretty she is nor
to what temptation she has succumbed. This is the way of the world, and as yet
there has been no help found for it.
    Ernest could only see what he gathered from the cook, namely that his
favourite Ellen was being turned adrift with a matter of three pounds in her
pocket, to go she knew not where, and do she knew not what, and that she had
said she should hang or drown herself, which the boy implicitly believed she
would.
    With greater promptitude than he had shown yet, he reckoned up his money and
found he had two shillings and threepence at his command; there was his knife
which might sell for a shilling, and there was the silver watch his Aunt Alethæa
had given him shortly before she died. The carriage had been gone now a full
quarter of an hour, and it must have got some distance ahead, but he would do
his best, and there were short cuts which would perhaps give him a chance. He
was off at once, and from the top of the hill just past the rectory paddock
could see the carriage, looking very small, on a bit of road which showed
perhaps a mile and a half in front of him.
    One of the most popular amusements at Roughborough was an institution called
the hounds - more commonly known elsewhere as hare and hounds - but the hare was
a couple of boys who were called foxes, and boys are so particular about
correctness of nomenclature where their sports are concerned that I dare not say
they played hare and hounds; these were the hounds, and that was all. Ernest's
want of muscular strength did not tell against him here; there was no jostling
up against boys who though neither older nor taller than he were yet more
robustly built; if it came to mere endurance he was as good as any one else; so
as there was no boating, he had naturally taken to the hounds as his favourite
amusement. His lungs thus exercised had become developed, and as a run of six or
seven miles across country was not more than he was used to, he did not despair,
by the help of the short cuts, of overtaking the carriage, or at the worst of
catching Ellen at the station before the train left. So he ran and ran and ran
till his first wind was gone, and his second came, and he could breathe more
easily. Never with the hounds had he run so fast and with so few breaks as now,
but with all his efforts and the help of the short cuts he did not catch up
[with] the carriage, and would not probably have done so had not John happened
to turn his head and seen him running and making signs for the carriage to stop
from a quarter of a mile off. He was now about five miles from home, and was
nearly done up.
    He was crimson with his exertion, covered with dust, and with his trousers
and coat sleeves a trifle short for him he cut a poor figure enough as he thrust
on Ellen his watch, his knife and the little money he had. The one thing he
implored of her was not to do those dreadful things which she had threatened -
for his sake if for nothing else.
    Ellen at first would not hear of taking anything from him, but the coachman
who was from the North Country sided with Ernest. »Take it, my lass,« he said
kindly, »take what thou canst get whiles thou canst get it - as for Master
Ernest here - he has run well after thee; therefore let him give thee what he is
minded.«
    Ellen did what she was told, and the two parted with many tears, the girl's
last words being that she should never forget him; and that they should meet
again hereafter, she was sure they should, and then she would repay him.
    Then Ernest got into a field by the roadside, flung himself on the grass,
and waited under the shadow of a hedge till the carriage should pass on its
return from the station and pick him up, for he was dead beat. Thoughts which
had already occurred to him with some force now came more strongly before him,
and he saw that he had got himself into a mess the more - or rather into half a
dozen messes the more.
    In the first place he should be late for dinner - and this was one of the
offences on which Theobald had no mercy. Also he should have to say where he had
been, and there was danger of being found out if he did not speak the truth. Not
only this, but sooner or later it must come out that he was no longer possessed
of the beautiful watch which his dear aunt had given him - and what, pray, had
he done with it? Or how had he lost it? The reader will know very well what he
ought to have done. He should have gone straight home, and if questioned should
have said, »I have been running after the carriage to catch our housemaid Ellen,
whom I am very fond of; I have given her my watch, my knife and all my pocket
money, so that I have now no pocket money at all and shall probably ask you for
some more sooner than I otherwise might have done, and you will also have to buy
me a new watch, and a knife.« But then fancy the consternation which such an
announcement would have occasioned. Fancy the scowl, and flashing eyes of the
infuriate Theobald, »You unprincipled young scoundrel,« he would exclaim, »do
you mean to vilify your own parents, by implying that they have dealt harshly by
one whose profligacy has disgraced their house?«
    Or he might take it with one of those sallies of sarcastic calm, of which he
believed himself to be a master. »Very well, Ernest, very well; I shall say
nothing; you can please yourself; you are not yet twenty-one, but pray act as if
you were your own master; your poor aunt doubtless gave you the watch that you
might fling it away upon the first improper character you came across; I think I
can now understand, however, why she did not leave you her money; and after all
your godfather may just as well have it as the kind of people on whom you would
lavish it, if you had had it.«
    Then his mother would burst into tears and implore him to repent and seek
the things belonging to his peace while there was yet time, by falling on his
knees to Theobald and assuring him of his unfailing love for him as the kindest
and tenderest father in the universe. Ernest could do all this just as well as
Theobald himself, and now as he lay on the grass, speeches, some one or other of
which was as certain to come as the sun to set, kept running in his head till
they confuted the idea of telling the truth by reducing it to an absurdity.
Truth might be heroic, but it was not within the range of practical domestic
politics.
    Having settled it, then, that he was to tell a lie, what lie should he tell?
Should he say he had been robbed? He had enough imagination to know that he had
not enough imagination to carry him out here. Young as he was, his instinct told
him that the best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the
longest way - who husbands it too carefully to waste it where it can be
dispensed with. The simplest course would be to say that he had lost the watch,
and was late for dinner because he had been looking for it. He had been out for
a long walk (he chose the line across the fields that he had actually taken) and
the weather being very hot, he had taken off his coat and waistcoat; in carrying
these over his arm his watch, his money, and his knife had dropped out of them.
He had got nearly home when he found out his loss, and had run back as fast as
he could, looking along the line he had followed till at last he had given it
up; seeing the carriage coming back from the station, he had let it pick him up
and bring him home.
    This covered everything, the running and all; for his face still showed that
he must have been running hard; the only question was whether he had been seen
about the rectory by any but the servants for a couple of hours or so before
Ellen had gone, and this he was happy to believe was not the case, for he had
been out except during his few minutes' interview with the cook. His father had
been out in the parish; his mother had certainly not come across him, and his
brother and sister had also been out with the governess. He knew he could depend
upon the cook and the other servants - the coachman would see to this - on the
whole, therefore, both he and the coachman thought the story as proposed by
Ernest would about meet the requirements of the case.
 

                                   Chapter 40

When Ernest got home and sneaked in through the back door, he heard his father's
voice in its angriest tones, enquiring whether Master Ernest had already
returned. He felt as Jack must have felt in the story of Jack and the bean
stalk, when from the oven in which he was hidden he heard the ogre ask his wife
what young children she had got for his supper. With much courage, and as the
event proved, with not less courage than discretion, he took the bull by the
horns, and announced himself at once as having just come in after having met
with a terrible misfortune. Little by little he told his story, and though
Theobald stormed somewhat at his incredible folly and carelessness, he got off
better than he expected. Theobald and Christina had indeed at first been
inclined to connect his absence from dinner with Ellen's dismissal, but on
finding it clear (as Theobald said - everything was always clear with Theobald)
that Ernest had not been in the house all the morning, and could therefore have
known nothing of what had happened, he was acquitted on this count - for once in
a way, without a stain upon his character. Perhaps Theobald was in a good
temper; he may have seen from the paper that morning that his stocks had been
rising; it may have been this or twenty other things, but whatever it was he did
not scold so much as Ernest had expected, and, seeing the boy look exhausted and
believing him to be much grieved at the loss of his watch, Theobald actually
prescribed him a glass of wine after his dinner, which, strange to say, did not
choke him, but made him see things more cheerfully than was usual with him.
    That night when he said his prayers, he inserted a few paragraphs to the
effect that he might not be discovered, and that things might go well with
Ellen, but he was anxious and ill at ease. His guilty conscience pointed out to
him a score of weak places in his story through any one of which detection might
even yet easily enter. Next day and for many days afterwards he fled when no man
was pursuing, and trembled each time he heard his father's voice calling for
him. He had already so many causes of anxiety that he could stand little more,
and even in spite of all his endeavours to look cheerful, even his mother could
see that something was preying upon his mind. Then the idea returned to her that
after all her son might not be innocent in the Ellen matter - and this was so
interesting that she felt bound to get as near the truth as she could.
    »Come here, my poor pale-faced heavy-eyed boy,« she said to him one day in
her kindest manner, »come and sit down by me and we will have a little quiet
confidential talk together, will we not?«
    The boy went mechanically to the sofa. Whenever his mother wanted what she
called a confidential talk with him she always selected the sofa as the most
suitable ground on which to open her campaign. All mothers do this; the sofa is
to them what the dining-room is to their husbands. In the present case the sofa
was particularly well adapted for a strategic purpose, being an old-fashioned
one with a high back, mattrass, bolsters and cushions. Once safely penned into
one of its deep corners, it was, like a dentist's chair, not too easy to get out
of again. Here she could get at him better to pull him about, if this should
seem desirable, or if she thought fit to cry she could bury her head in the sofa
cushion and abandon herself to an agony of grief which seldom failed of its
effect. None of her favourite manoeuvres were so easily adopted in her usual
seat - the armchair on the right hand side [of] the fireplace, and so well did
her son know from his mother's tone that this was going to be a sofa
conversation that he took his place like a lamb as soon as she began to speak
and before she could reach the sofa herself.
    »My dearest boy,« began his mother taking hold of his hand and placing it
within her own, »promise me never to be afraid either of your dear papa or of
me; promise me this, my dear, as you love me promise it to me,« and she kissed
him again and again and stroked his hair. But with her other hand she still kept
hold of his; she had got him and she meant to keep him.
    The lad hung down his head and promised. What else could he do? »You know
there is no one, dear, dear Ernest, who loves you so much as your papa and I do;
no one who watches so carefully over your interests or who is so anxious to
enter into all your little joys and troubles as we are; but, my dearest boy, it
grieves me to think sometimes that you have not that perfect love for and
confidence in us which you ought to have. You know, my darling, that it would be
as much our pleasure as our duty to watch over the development of your moral and
spiritual nature, but alas! you will not let us see your moral and spiritual
nature - at times we are almost inclined to doubt whether you have a moral and
spiritual nature at all. Of your inner life, my dear, we know nothing beyond
such scraps as we can glean in spite of you, from little things which escape you
almost before you know that you have said them.«
    The boy winced at this. It made him feel hot and uncomfortable all over. He
knew so well how careful he ought to be, and yet do what he could, from time to
time his forgetfulness of the part betrayed him into unreserve. His mother saw
that he winced, and enjoyed the scratch she had given him. Had she felt less
confident of victory she had better have foregone the pleasure of touching as it
were the eyes at the end of the snail's horns in order to enjoy seeing the snail
draw them in again - but she knew that when she had got him well down into the
sofa, and held his hand she had the enemy almost absolutely at her mercy, and
could do pretty much what she liked.
    »Papa does not feel,« she continued, »that you love him with that fullness
and unreserve which would prompt you to have no concealment from him, and to
tell him everything freely and fearlessly as your most loving earthly friend
next only to your Heavenly Father. Perfect love, as we know, casteth out fear:
your father loves you perfectly, my darling, but he does not feel as though you
loved him perfectly in return. If you fear him it is because you do not love him
as he deserves, and I know it sometimes cuts him to the very heart to think that
he has earned from you a deeper and more willing sympathy than you display
towards him. Oh Ernest, Ernest, do not grieve one who is so good and
noble-hearted by conduct which I can call by no other name than ingratitude.«
    Ernest could never stand being spoken to in this way by his mother: for he
still believed that she loved him, and that he was fond of her and had a friend
in her - up to a certain point. But his mother was beginning to come to the end
of her tether; she had played the domestic confidence trick upon him times out
of number already. Over and over again had she wheedled from him all she wanted
to know, and afterwards got him into the most horrible scrape by telling the
whole to Theobald. Ernest had remonstrated more than once upon these occasions,
and had pointed out to his mother how disastrous to him his confidences had
been, but Christina had always joined issue with him and shown him in the
clearest possible manner that in each case she had been right, and that he could
not reasonably complain. Generally it was her conscience that forbade her to be
silent, and against this there was no appeal, for we are all bound to follow the
dictates of our conscience. Ernest used to have to recite a hymn about
conscience. It was to the effect that if you did not pay attention to its voice
it would soon leave off speaking. »My mamma's conscience has not left off
speaking,« said Ernest to one of his chums at Roughborough, »it's always
jabbering.«
    When a boy has once spoken so disrespectfully as this about his mother's
conscience it is practically all over between him and her; Ernest through sheer
force of habit, of the sofa, and of the return of the associated ideas, was
still so moved by the siren's voice as to yearn to sail towards her, and fling
himself into her arms, but it would not do; there were other associated ideas
that returned also, and the mangled bones of too many a murdered confession were
lying whitening round the skirts of his mother's dress to allow him by any
possibility to trust her further. So he hung his head and looked sheepish, but
kept his own counsel.
    »I see my dearest,« continued his mother, »either that I am mistaken, and
that there is nothing on your mind, or that you will not unburden yourself to
me; but, oh Ernest, tell me at least this much: is there nothing that you repent
of, nothing which makes you unhappy in connection with that miserable girl
Ellen?«
    Ernest's heart failed him. »I am a dead boy now,« he said to himself. He had
not the faintest conception what his mother was driving at, and thought she
suspected about the watch; but he held his ground.
    I do not believe he was much more of a coward than his neighbours, only he
did not know that all sensible people are cowards when they are off their beat,
or when they think they are going to be roughly handled. I believe, if the truth
were known, it would be found that even the valiant St. Michael himself tried
hard to shirk his famous combat with the dragon: he pretended not to see all
sorts of misconduct on the dragon's part; shut his eyes to the eating up of I do
not know [how] many hundreds of men women and children whom he had promised to
protect; allowed himself to be publicly insulted a dozen times over without
resenting it; and in the end when even an angel could stand it no longer he
shilly-shallied and temporised an unconscionable time before he would fix the
day and hour for the encounter. As for the actual combat it was much such
another wurra-wurra as Mrs. Allaby had had with the young man who had in the end
married her eldest daughter, till after a time, behold, there was the dragon
lying dead, while he was himself alive and not very seriously hurt after all.
    »I do not know what you mean, mamma,« exclaimed Ernest anxiously and more or
less hurriedly.
    His mother construed his manner into indignation at being suspected, and
being rather frightened herself she turned tail and scuttled off as fast as her
tongue could carry her.
    »Oh,« she cried, »I see by your tone that you are innocent! Oh! oh! how I
thank my heavenly father for this; may he for his dear son's sake keep you
always pure. Your father, my dear« (here she spoke hurriedly but gave him a
searching look) »was as pure as a spotless angel when he came to me - [so be]
self- truly truthful both in word and deed, never forgetful whose son and
grandson you are, nor of the name we gave you, of the sacred stream in whose
waters your sins were washed out of you through the blood and blessing of
Christ, etc.«
    But Ernest cut this - I will not say short - but a great deal shorter than
it would have been if Christina had had her say out - by extricating himself
from his mamma's embrace and showing a clean pair of heels. As he got near the
purlieus of the kitchen (where he was more at ease) he heard his father calling
his mother, and again his guilty conscience rose against him. »He has found all
out now,« it cried, »and he is going to tell mamma - this time I am done for.«
But there was nothing in it; his father only wanted the key of the cellaret.
Then Ernest slunk off into a coppice or spinney behind the rectory paddock, and
consoled himself with a pipe of tobacco. Here in the wood with the summer's sun
streaming through the trees, and a book, and his pipe, the boy forgot his cares,
and had an interval of that rest without which I verily believe his life would
have been insupportable.
    Of course Ernest was made to look for his lost property, and a reward was
offered for it; but it seemed he had wandered a good deal off the path, thinking
to find a lark's nest, more than once, and looking for a watch and purse on
Battersby pie-wipes was like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay: besides it
might have been found and taken by some tramp, or by a magpie, of which there
were many in the neighbourhood, so that after a week or ten days the search was
discontinued, and the unpleasant fact had to be faced that Ernest must have
another watch, another knife, and a small sum of pocket money.
    It was only right, however, that Ernest should pay half the cost of the
watch; this should be made easy for him, for it should be deducted from his
pocket money in half-yearly instalments extending over two, or even it might be,
three years. In Ernest's own interests, then, as well as those of his father and
mother, it would be well the watch should cost as little as possible, so it was
resolved to buy a second-hand one. Nothing was to be said to Ernest, but it was
to be bought, and laid upon his plate as a surprise just before the holidays
were over. Theobald would have to go to the county town in a few days and could
then find some second-hand watch which would answer sufficiently well. In the
course of time, therefore, Theobald went, furnished with a long list of
household commissions, among which was the purchase of a watch for Ernest.
    Those, as I have said, were always happy times, when Theobald was away for a
whole day certain; the boy was beginning to feel easy in his mind as though God
had heard his prayers, and he was not going to be found out. Altogether the day
had proved an unusually tranquil one, but alas! it was not to close as it had
begun; the fickle atmosphere in which he lived was never more likely to breed a
storm than after such an interval of brilliant calm, and when Theobald returned
Ernest had only to look in his face to see that a hurricane was approaching.
    Christina too saw that something had gone very wrong, and was quite
frightened lest Theobald should have heard of some serious money loss; he did
not however at once unbosom himself, but rang the bell and said to the servant,
»Tell Master Ernest I wish to speak to him in the dining-room.«
 

                                   Chapter 41

Long before Ernest reached the dining-room his ill-divining soul had told him
that his sin had found him out. What head of a family ever sends for any of its
members into the dining-room, if his intentions are honourable?
    When he reached it he found it empty - his father having been called away
for a few minutes unexpectedly upon some parish business - and he was left in
the same kind of suspense as people are in after they have been ushered into
their dentist's anteroom.
    Of all the rooms in the house he hated the dining-room worst. It was here
that he had had to do his Latin and Greek lessons with his father. It had a
smell of some particular kind of polish or varnish which was used in polishing
the furniture, and neither I nor Ernest can even now come within range of the
smell of this kind of varnish without our hearts failing us.
    Over the chimney-piece there was a veritable old master, one of the few
original pictures which Mr. George Pontifex had brought from Italy. It was
supposed to be a Salvator Rosa and had been bought as a great bargain. The
subject was Elijah or Elisha (whichever it was) being fed by the ravens in the
desert. There were the ravens in the upper right-hand corner with bread and meat
in their beaks and claws, and there was the prophet in question in the lower
left-hand corner looking longingly up towards them. When Ernest was a very small
boy it had been a constant matter of regret to him that the food which the
ravens carried never actually reached the prophet; he did not understand the
limitation of the painter's art, and wanted the meat and the prophet to be
brought into direct contact. One day with the help of some steps which had been
left in the room he had clambered up to the picture and with a piece of bread
and butter traced a greasy line right across it from the ravens to Elisha's
mouth, after which he had felt more comfortable.
    Ernest's mind was drifting back to this youthful escapade when he heard his
father's hand on the door, and in another second Theobald entered.
    »Oh Ernest,« said he, in an off-hand rather cheery manner, »there's a little
matter which I should like you to explain to me, as I have no doubt you very
easily can.«
    Thump, thump, thump, went Ernest's heart against his ribs; but his father's
manner was so much nicer than usual that he began to think it might be all only
another false alarm.
    »It had occurred to your mother and myself that we should like to set you up
with a watch again before you went back to school« (»Oh that's all,« said Ernest
to himself, quite relieved), »and I have been to-day to look out for a
second-hand one which should answer every purpose so long as you are at school.«
    Theobald spoke as if watches had half a dozen purposes besides time-keeping,
but he could hardly open his mouth without using one or other of his tags, and
answering every purpose was one of them.
    Ernest was breaking out into the usual expressions of gratitude, when
Theobald continued, »You are interrupting me,« and Ernest's heart thumped again.
    »You are interrupting me, Ernest. I have not yet done.« Ernest was instantly
dumb.
    »I passed several shops with second-hand watches for sale, but I saw none of
a description and price which pleased me till at last I was shown one which had,
so the shopman said, been left with him recently for sale, and which I at once
recognised as the one which had been given you by your Aunt Alethæa. Even if I
had failed to recognise it, as perhaps I might have done, I should have
identified it directly it reached my hands, inasmuch as it had E.P., a present
from A.P. engraved upon the inside.
    I need say no more to show that this was the very watch which you told your
mother and me that you had dropped out of your pocket« - up to this time
Theobald's manner had been studiously calm, and his words had been uttered
slowly; but here he suddenly quickened and flung off the mask as he added the
words, »or some such cock and bull story, which your mother and I were too
truthful to disbelieve. You can guess what must be our feelings now.«
    Ernest felt that this last home-thrust was just. In his less anxious moments
he had thought his papa and mamma green for the readiness with which they had
believed him, but he could not deny that their credulity was proof of their
habitual truthfulness of mind. In common justice he must own that it was very
dreadful for two such truthful people to have a son as untruthful as he knew
himself to be.
    »Believing that a son of your mother and myself would be incapable of
falsehood, I at once assumed that some tramp had picked the watch up and was now
trying to dispose of it.«
    This to the best of my belief was not accurate. Theobald's first assumption
had been that it was Ernest who was trying to sell the watch, and it was an
inspiration of the moment to say that his magnanimous mind had at once conceived
the idea of a tramp.
    »You may imagine how shocked I was when I discovered that the watch had been
brought for sale by that miserable woman Ellen« - here Ernest's heart hardened a
little, and he felt as near an approach to an instinct to turn as one so
defenceless could be expected to feel; his father quickly perceived this and
continued, »who was turned out of this house under circumstances which I will
not pollute your ears by more particularly describing.
    I put aside the horrid conviction which was beginning to dawn upon me, and
assumed that in the interval between her dismissal and her leaving this house,
she had added theft to her other sin, and having found your watch in your
bedroom had purloined it. It even occurred to me that you might have missed your
watch after the woman was gone, and, suspecting who had taken it, had run after
the carriage in order to recover it; but when I told the shopman of my
suspicions he assured me that the person who left it with him had declared most
solemnly that it had been given her by her master's son, whose property it was,
and who had a perfect right to dispose of it.
    Determined to know the truth, I insisted that the shopkeeper should send for
this woman, and interrogate her in my hearing, but without her seeing me. This
was accordingly done, and from an inner room, I heard all that passed.
    At first - as women of that stamp invariably do - she tried prevarication,
but on being threatened that she should at once be given into custody if she did
not tell the whole truth, she described the way in which you had run after the
carriage, till as she said you were black in the face, and insisted on giving
her all your pocket money, your knife, and your watch. She added that my
coachman John - whom I shall instantly discharge - was witness to the whole
transaction. Now Ernest, be pleased to tell me whether this appalling story is
true or false?«
    It never occurred to Ernest to ask his father why he did not hit a man his
own size, or to stop him midway in the story with a remonstrance against being
kicked when he was down. The boy was too much shocked and shaken to be
inventive; he could only drift, and stammer out that the tale was true.
    »So I fear,« said Theobald, »and now Ernest be good enough to ring the
bell.«
    When the bell had been answered, Theobald desired that John should be sent
for, and when John came Theobald calculated the wages due to him, and desired
him at once to leave the house.
    John's manner was quiet and respectful, and [he] took his dismissal as a
matter of course, for Theobald had hinted enough to make him understand why he
was being discharged; but when he saw Ernest sitting pale and awestruck on the
edge of his chair against the dining-room wall, a sudden thought seemed to
strike him, and turning to Theobald he said in a broad Northern accent which I
will not attempt to reproduce -
    »Look here master, I can guess what all this is about - now before I goes I
want to have a word with you.«
    »Ernest,« said Theobald, »leave the room.«
    »No Master Ernest, you shan't,« said John planting himself against the door.
»Now, master,« he continued, »you may do as you please about me; I've been a
good servant to you, and I don't mean to say as you've been a bad master to me;
but I do say that if you bear hardly on Master Ernest here, I have those in the
village as 'll hear on't and let me know; and if I do hear on't I'll come back
and break every bone in your skin - so there.«
    John's breath came and went quickly, as though he would have been well
enough pleased to begin the bone-breaking business at once. Theobald turned of
an ashen colour - not, as he explained afterwards, at the idle threats of a
detected and angry ruffian, but at such atrocious insolence from one of his own
servants.
    »I shall leave Master Ernest, John,« he rejoined proudly, »to the reproaches
of his own conscience.« (»Thank God and thank John,« thought Ernest.) »As for
yourself, I admit that you have been an excellent servant until this unfortunate
business came on, and I shall have much pleasure in giving you a character, if
you want one. Have you anything more to say?«
    »No more nor what I have said,« said John sullenly, »but what I've said I
means and I'll stick to - character or no character.«
    »Oh you need not be afraid about your character, John,« said Theobald
kindly, »and as it is getting late, there can be no occasion for you to leave
the house before tomorrow morning.«
    To this there was no reply from John, who retired, packed up his things, and
left the house at once.
    When Christina heard what had happened she said she could condone all except
that Theobald should have been subjected to such insolence from one of his own
servants through the misconduct of his son. Theobald was the bravest man in the
whole world, and could easily have collared the wretch and turned him out of the
room, but how far more dignified, how far nobler had been his reply. How it
would tell in a novel or upon the stage - for though the stage as a whole was
immoral, yet there were doubtless some plays which were improving spectacles -
she could fancy the whole house hushed with excitement at hearing John's menace,
and hardly breathing by reason of their interest and expectation of the coming
answer. Then the actor - probably the great and good Mr. Macready - would say,
»I shall leave Master Ernest, John, to the reproaches of his own conscience,« oh
it was sublime! What a roar of applause must follow - then she should enter
herself, and fling her arms about her husband's neck, and call him her
lion-hearted husband. When the curtain dropped, it would be buzzed about the
house that the scene just witnessed had been drawn from real life, and had
actually occurred in the household of the Rev. Theobald Pontifex, who had
married a Miss Allaby, etc., etc.
    As for Ernest the suspicions which had already crossed her mind were
deepened; but she thought it better to leave the matter where it was. At present
she was in a very strong position. Ernest's official purity was firmly
established, but at the same time he had shown himself so impressionable that
she was able to fuse two contradictory impressions concerning him into a single
idea, and consider him as a kind of Joseph and Don Juan in one. This was what
she had wanted all along; but her vanity being gratified by the possession of
such a son, there was an end of it; the son himself was naught.
    Let me say in passing that this power of cutting logical Gordian knots and
fusing two contradictory or conflicting statements into a harmonious whole - is
one without which no living being whether animal or plant could continue to live
for a single day, or indeed could ever have come into existence. This holds good
concerning all things that have a reproductive system, but it is most easily
seen in the case of those forms that are reproduced by parents of different
sexes. The first thing which the male and female elements must do when they
unite to form offspring is to fuse the conflicting memories and inconsistent
renderings of their two parents into a single consistent story. But to return.
    No doubt if John had not interfered Ernest would have had to expiate his
offence with ache, penury and imprisonment. As it was, the boy was to consider
himself as undergoing these punishments and as suffering pangs of unavailing
remorse inflicted on him by his conscience into the bargain; but beyond the fact
that Theobald kept him more closely to his holiday task, and the continued
coldness of his parents, no ostensible punishment was meted out to him. Ernest
however tells me that he looks back upon this as the time when he began to know
that he had a cordial and active dislike for both his parents, which I suppose
means that he was now beginning to be aware that he was reaching man's estate.
 

                                   Chapter 42

About a week before he went back to school his father again sent for him into
the dining-room, and told him that he should restore him his watch, but that he
should deduct the sum he had paid for it - for he had thought it better to pay a
few shillings rather than dispute the ownership of the watch, seeing that Ernest
had undoubtedly given it to Ellen - from his pocket money, in payments which
should extend over two half years. He would therefore have to go back to
Roughborough this half year with only five shillings pocket money. If he wanted
more he must earn more merit money.
    Ernest was not so careful about money as a pattern boy should be. He did not
say to himself, »Now I have got a sovereign which must last me fifteen weeks,
therefore I may spend exactly one shilling and threepence in each week« - and
spend exactly one and threepence in each week accordingly. He ran through his
money at about the same rate as other boys did, being pretty well cleaned out a
few days after he had got back to school. When he had no more money, he got a
little into debt, and when as far in debt as he could see his way to repaying,
he went without luxuries. Immediately he got any money he would pay his debts;
if there was any over he would spend it; if there was not - and there seldom was
- he would begin to go on tick again.
    His finance was always based upon the supposition that he should go back to
school with one pound in his pocket - of which he owed say a matter of fifteen
shillings. There would be five shillings for sundry school subscriptions - but
when these were paid, the weekly allowance of sixpence given to each boy in
hall, his merit money (which this half he was resolved should come to a good
sum), and renewed credit, would carry him through the half.
    The sudden failure of 15/ was disastrous to my hero's scheme of finance. His
face betrayed his emotions so clearly that Theobald said he was determined »to
learn the truth at once, and this time without days and days of falsehood«
before he reached it. The melancholy fact was not long in coming out, namely
that the wretched Ernest added debt to the vices of idleness, falsehood - and
possibly - for it was not impossible - immorality.
    How had he come to get into debt? Did the other boys do so? Ernest
reluctantly admitted that they did.
    With what shops did they get into debt?
    This was asking too much. Ernest said he did not know.
    »Oh Ernest, Ernest,« exclaimed his mother, who was in the room, »do not so
soon a second time presume upon the forbearance of the tenderest-hearted father
in the world - give time for one stab to heal before you wound him with
another.«
    This was all very fine, but what was Ernest to do? How could he get the
school shopkeepers into trouble by owning that they let some of the boys go on
tick with them? There was Mrs. Cross, a good old soul who used to sell hot rolls
and butter for breakfast, or eggs and toast, or it might be the quarter of a
fowl with bread sauce and mashed potatoes, for which she would charge 6d. If she
made a farthing out of the sixpence it was as much as she did. When the boys
would come trooping into her shop after the hounds how often had not Ernest
heard her say to her servant girls, »Now then, you wanches, git some cheers.«
All the boys were fond of her, and was he, Ernest, to tell tales about her? It
was horrible.
    »Now look here, Ernest,« said his father, with his blackest scowl, »I am
going to put a stop to this nonsense once for all. Either take me fully into
your confidence, as a son should take a father, and trust me to deal with this
matter as a clergyman and a man of the world - or understand distinctly that I
shall take the whole story to Dr. Skinner, who I imagine will take much sterner
measures than I should.«
    »Oh Ernest, Ernest,« sobbed Christina, »be wise in time and trust those who
have already shown you that they know but too well how to be forbearing.«
    No genuine hero of romance should have hesitated what to do. Nothing should
have cajoled or frightened him into telling tales out of school. Ernest thought
of his ideal boys: they, he well knew, would have let their tongues be cut out
of them before information could have been wrung from any word of theirs. But
Ernest was not an ideal boy, and he was not strong enough for his surroundings;
I doubt how far any boy could withstand the moral pressure which was brought to
bear upon him; at any rate he could not do so, and after a little more writhing
he yielded himself a passive prey to the enemy. He consoled himself with the
reflection that his papa had not played the confidence trick on him quite as
often as his mamma had, and that probably it was better he should tell his
father, than that his father should insist on Dr. Skinner's making an enquiry.
His papa's conscience jabbered a good deal, but not as much as his mamma's. The
little fool forgot that he had not given his father as many chances of betraying
him as he had given to Christina.
    Then it all came out. He owed this at Mrs. Cross's, and this to Mrs. Jones,
and this at the Swan and Bottle public house, to say nothing of another shilling
or sixpence or two in other quarters. Nevertheless Theobald and Christina were
not satiated, but rather the more they discovered the greater grew their
appetite for discovery; it was their obvious duty to find out everything, for
though they might rescue their own darling from this hotbed of iniquity without
getting to know more than they knew at present, were there not other papas and
mammas with darlings whom also they were bound to rescue if it were yet
possible? What boys, then, owed money to these harpies, as well as Ernest?
    Here, again, there was a feeble show of resistance, but the thumbscrews were
instantly applied, and Ernest, demoralised as he already was, recanted and
submitted himself to the powers that were. He told only a little less than he
knew or thought he knew. He was examined, re-examined, cross-examined - sent to
the retirement of his own bedroom and cross-examined again; the smoking in Mrs.
Jones's kitchen all came out - which boys smoked and which did not; which boys
owed roughly how much and where, which boys swore and used bad language.
Theobald was resolved that this time Ernest should, as he called it, take him
into his confidence without reserve, so the school list which went with Dr.
Skinner's half-yearly bill was brought out, and the most secret character of
each boy was gone through seriatim by Mr. and Mrs. Pontifex, so far as it was in
Ernest's power to give information concerning it - and yet Theobald had on the
preceding Sunday preached a less feeble sermon than he commonly preached, upon
the horrors of the Inquisition. No matter how awful was the depravity revealed
to them, the pair never flinched, but probed and probed, till they were on the
point of reaching subjects more delicate than they had yet touched upon. Here
Ernest's unconscious self took the matter up, and made a resistance to which his
conscious self was unequal, by tumbling him off his chair in a fit of fainting.
    Mr. Martin was sent for and pronounced the boy to be seriously unwell; at
the same time he prescribed absolute rest and absence from nervous excitement.
So the anxious parents were unwillingly compelled to be content with what they
had got already - being frightened into leading him a quiet life for the short
remainder of the holidays. They were not idle, but Satan can find as much
mischief for busy hands as for idle ones, so he sent a little job in the
direction of Battersby which Theobald and Christina undertook immediately. It
would be a pity, they reasoned, that Ernest should leave Roughborough now that
he had been there three years; it would be difficult to find another school for
him, and to explain why he had left his present. Besides, Dr. Skinner and
Theobald were supposed to be old friends, and it would be unpleasant to offend
him; these were all valid reasons for not removing the boy. The proper thing to
do, then, would be to warn Dr. Skinner confidentially of the state of his
school, and to furnish him with a school list annotated with the remarks
extracted from Ernest, which should be appended to the name of each boy.
    Theobald was the perfection of neatness; while his son was ill upstairs he
copied out the school list so that he could throw his comments into a tabular
form, which assumed the following shape - only that of course I have changed the
names. One cross in each square was to indicate occasional offence; two stood
for frequent and three for habitual delinquency.
 
Drinking Swearing
Smoking beer at the and Notes
Swan and Obscene
Bottle Language
Smith 0 0 xx Will smoke
next half.
Brown xxx 0 x
Jones x xx xxx 3
Robinson xx x x
 
And thus through the whole school.
    Of course in justice to Ernest, Dr. Skinner would be bound over to secrecy
before a word was said to him - but Ernest being thus protected, he could not be
furnished with the facts too completely.
 

                                   Chapter 43

So important did Theobald consider this matter that he made a special journey to
Roughborough before the half year began. It was a relief to have him out of the
house, but as his destination was not mentioned, Ernest guessed where he had
gone.
    To this day he considers his conduct at this crisis to have been one of the
most serious lâches of his life - one which he can never think of without shame
and indignation. He says he ought to have run away from home. But what good
could he have done if he had? He would have been caught, brought back, and
examined two days later instead of two days earlier. A boy of barely sixteen
cannot stand against the moral pressure of a father and mother who have always
oppressed him, any more than he can cope physically with a powerful full-grown
man. True, he may allow himself to be killed rather than yield, but this is
being so morbidly heroic as to come close round again to cowardice; for it is
little else than suicide, which is universally condemned as cowardly.
    On the re-assembling of the school it became apparent that something had
gone wrong. Dr. Skinner called the boys together and with much pomp
excommunicated Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Jones, by declaring their shops to be out of
bounds. The street in which the Swan and Bottle was was also forbidden. The
vices of drinking and smoking, therefore, were clearly aimed at, and before
prayers Dr. Skinner spoke a few impressive words about the abominable sin of
using bad language. Ernest's feelings can be imagined.
    Next day at the hour when the daily punishments were read out, though there
had not yet been time for him to have offended, Ernest Pontifex was declared to
have incurred every punishment which the school provided for evil-doers. He was
placed on the idle list for the whole half year, and on perpetual detentions;
his bounds were curtailed; he was to attend Junior callings-over; in fact he was
so hemmed in with punishments upon every side that it was hardly possible for
him to go outside the school gates. This unparalleled list of punishments
inflicted on the first day of the half year, and intended to last till the
ensuing Christmas holidays, was not connected with any specified offence. It
required no great penetration, therefore, on the part of the boys to connect
Ernest with the putting Mrs. Cross and Mrs. Jones's shops out of bounds.
    Great indeed was the indignation about Mrs. Cross who, it was known,
remembered Dr. Skinner himself as a small boy only just got into jackets, and
had doubtless let him have many a sausage and mashed potato upon deferred
payment. The head boys assembled in conclave to consider what steps should be
taken, but hardly had they done so before Ernest knocked timidly at the
head-room door and took the bull by the horns by explaining the facts as far as
he could bring himself to do so. He made a clean breast of everything except
about the school list, and the remarks he had made about each boy's character.
This infamy was more than he could own to, and he kept his counsel concerning
it. Fortunately he was safe in doing so, for Dr. Skinner, pedant and more than
pedant though he was, had still just sense enough to turn on Theobald in the
matter of the school list. Whether he resented being told that he did not know
the characters of his own boys, or whether he dreaded a scandal about the
school, I know not, but when Theobald had handed him the list over which he had
expended so much pains, Dr. Skinner had cut him uncommonly short and then and
there, with more suavity than was usual with him, committed it to the flames
before Theobald's own eyes.
    Ernest got off with the head boys easier than he expected. It was admitted
that the offence, heinous though it was, had been committed under extenuating
circumstances; the frankness with which the culprit had confessed all, his
evidently unfeigned remorse, and the fury with which Dr. Skinner was pursuing
him tended to bring about a reaction in his favour, as though he had been more
sinned against than sinning.
    As the half year wore on his spirits gradually revived, and when attacked by
one of his fits of self-abasement [he] was in some degree consoled by the having
found out that even his father and mother, whom he had supposed so immaculate,
were no better than they should be. About the fifth of November it was a school
custom to meet on a certain common not far from Roughborough and burn somebody
in effigy, this being the compromise arrived at in the matter of fireworks and
Guy Fawkes festivities. This year it was decided that Pontifex's governour
should be the victim, and Ernest though a good deal exercised in mind as to what
he ought to do, in the end saw no sufficient reason for holding aloof from
proceedings which as he justly remarked could not do his father any harm.
    It so happened that the bishop had held a confirmation at the school on the
fifth of November. Dr. Skinner had not quite liked the selection of this day,
but the bishop was pressed by many engagements, and had been compelled to make
the arrangement as it then stood. Ernest was among those who had to be
confirmed, and was deeply impressed with the solemn importance of the ceremony.
When he felt the huge old bishop drawing down upon him as he knelt in chapel, he
could hardly breathe, and when the apparition paused before him and laid its
hands upon his head, he was frightened almost out of his wits. He felt that he
had arrived at one of the great turning points of his life, and that the Ernest
of the future could resemble only very faintly the Ernest of the past.
    This happened at about noon, but by the one o'clock dinner-hour the effects
of the confirmation had worn off, and he saw no reason why he should forego his
annual amusement with the bonfire; so he went with the others and was very
valiant, till the image was actually produced and was about to be burnt; then he
felt frightened; it was a poor thing enough made of paper, calico and straw, but
they had christened it The Rev. Theobald Pontifex, and he had a revulsion of
feeling as he saw it being carried towards the bonfire. Still he held his
ground, and in a few minutes when all was over felt none the worse for having
assisted at a ceremony which after all was prompted by a boyish love of mischief
rather than by rancour.
    I should say that Ernest had written to his father and told him of the
unprecedented way in which he was being treated; he even ventured to suggest
that Theobald should interfere for his protection and reminded him how the story
had been got out of him - but Theobald had had enough of Dr. Skinner for the
present; the burning of the school list had been a rebuff which did not
encourage him to meddle a second time in the internal economies of Roughborough.
He therefore replied that he must either remove Ernest from Roughborough
altogether, which would for many reasons be undesirable, or trust to the
discretion of the headmaster as regards the treatment he might think best for
any of his pupils. Ernest said no more; he still felt that it was so
discreditable to him to have allowed any confession to be wrung from him, that
he could not press the promised amnesty for himself.
    It was during the Mother Cross row, as it was long styled among the boys,
that a remarkable phenomenon was witnessed at Roughborough - I mean that of the
head boys under certain conditions doing errands for their juniors. The head
boys had no bounds and could go to Mrs. Cross's whenever they liked; they
actually, therefore, made themselves go-betweens, and would get anything from
either Mrs. Cross's or Mrs. Jones's for any boy, no matter how low in the
school, between the hours of a quarter to nine and nine in the morning, and a
quarter to six and six in the afternoon. By degrees, however, the boys grew
bolder, and the shops though not openly declared in bounds again, were tacitly
allowed to be so.
 

                                   Chapter 44

I may spare the reader more details about my hero's school days. He rose, always
in spite of himself, into the Doctor's form, and for the last two years or so of
his time was among the præposters, though he never rose into the upper half of
them. He did little, and I think the Doctor rather gave him up as a boy whom he
had better leave to himself, for he rarely made him construe, and he used to
send in his exercises or no pretty much as he liked. His tacit unconscious
obstinacy had in time effected more even than a few bold sallies in the first
instance would have done. To the end of his career his position, inter pares,
was what it had been at the beginning, namely among the upper part of the less
reputable class - whether of seniors or juniors - rather than among the lower
part of the more respectable.
    Once only in the whole course of his school life did he get praise from Dr.
Skinner for any exercise, and this he has treasured as the best example of
guarded approval which he has ever seen. He had had to write a copy of Alcaics
on »The dogs of the monks of St. Bernard,« and when the exercise was returned to
him he found the Doctor had written on it: »In this copy of Alcaics - which is
still excessively bad - I fancy that I can discern some faint symptoms of
improvement.« Ernest says that if the exercise was any better it must have been
by a fluke. I suppose these were the Alcaics he was referring to when he told me
he had not gone inside the hospice when he visited the Great St. Bernard in
after years.
    »As I look back upon it,« he said to me but the other day with a hearty
laugh, »I respect myself more for having never once got the best mark for an
exercise than I should do if I had got it every time it could be got. I am glad
nothing could make me do Latin and Greek verses - I am glad Skinner could never
get any moral influence over me; I am glad I was idle at school, and I am glad
my father overtasked me as a boy - otherwise, likely enough I should have
acquiesced in the swindle, and might have written as good a copy of Alcaics
about the dogs of the monks of St. Bernard as my neighbours, and yet I don't
know, for I remember there was another boy, who sent in a Latin copy of some
sort, but for his own pleasure he wrote the following -
 
The dogs of the monks of St. Bernard go
To pick little children out of the snow,
And round their necks is the cordial gin
Tied with a little bit of bob-bin.
 
I should have liked to have written that, and I did try, but I couldn't. I
didn't quite like the last line, and tried to mend it, but I couldn't.«
    I fancied I could see traces of bitterness against the instructors of his
youth in Ernest's manner, and said something to this effect.
    »Oh no,« he replied, still laughing, »no more than St. Anthony felt towards
the devils who had tempted him, when he met some of them casually a hundred or a
couple of hundred of years afterwards. Of course he knew they were devils, but
that was all right enough; there must be devils. St. Anthony probably liked
these devils better than most others, and, for old acquaintance sake, showed
them as much indulgence as was compatible with decorum.
    Besides, you know,« he added, »it was St. Anthony who tempted the devils
quite as much as they who tempted him; for his peculiar sanctity was a greater
temptation to tempt him than they could stand. Strictly speaking it was the
devils who were the more to be pitied, for they were led up by St. Anthony to be
tempted and fell, whereas St. Anthony did not fall. I believe I was a
disagreeable and unintelligible boy, and if ever I meet Skinner there is no one
whom I would shake hands with, or do a good turn to more readily.«
    At home things went on rather better; the Ellen and Mother Cross rows sank
slowly down upon the horizon, and even at home he had quieter times now that he
had become a præpostor; nevertheless the watchful eye and protecting hand were
still ever over him to guard his comings in and his goings out, and to spy out
all his ways. Is it wonderful that the boy though always trying to keep up
appearances as though he were cheerful and contented - and at times actually
being so - wore often an anxious jaded look when he thought none were looking,
which told of an almost incessant conflict within.
    Doubtless Theobald saw these looks and knew how to interpret them, but it
was his profession to know how to shut his eyes to things that were inconvenient
- no clergyman could keep his benefice for a month if he could not do this;
besides he had allowed himself for so many years to say things he ought not to
have said, and not to say the things he ought to have said that he was little
likely to see anything that he thought it more convenient not to see unless he
was made to do so.
    It was not much that was wanted. To make no mysteries where nature has made
none; to bring his conscience under something like reasonable control; to give
Ernest his head a little more; to ask fewer questions and to give him pocket
money with a desire that it should be spent upon menus plaisirs. ...
    »Call that not much indeed,« laughed Ernest, as I read him what I have just
written. »Why it is the whole duty of a father - but it is the mystery-making
which is the worst evil. If people would dare to speak to one another
unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the world by the time a
hundred years from now was over.«
    To return, however, to Roughborough. On the day of his leaving, when he was
sent for into the library to be shaken hands with he was surprised to feel that
though assuredly glad to leave, he did not do so with any especial grudge
against the Doctor rankling in his breast. He had come to the end of it all, and
was still alive, nor, take it all round, more seriously amiss than other people.
Dr. Skinner received him graciously, and was even frolicsome after his own heavy
fashion. Young people are almost always placable, and Ernest felt as he went
away that another such interview would not only have wiped off all old scores,
but have brought him round into the ranks of the Doctor's admirers and
supporters - among whom it is fair to say that the greater number of the more
promising boys were found.
    Just before saying good bye, the Doctor actually took down a volume from
those shelves which had seemed so awful six years previously, and gave it to him
after having written his name in it, and the words pilias kai eynoias xarin -
which I believe mean »with all kind wishes from the donor.« The book was one
written in Latin by a German - Schömann, »De comitiis Atheniensibus« - not
exactly light and cheerful reading, but Ernest felt it was high time he got to
understand the Athenian constitution and manner of voting; he had got them up a
great many times already, but had forgotten them as fast as he had learned them;
now, however, that the Doctor had given him this book, he would master the
subject once for all. How strange it was: he wanted to remember these things
very badly; he knew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself
they no sooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again; he had such a
dreadful memory, whereas if anyone played him a piece of music and told him
where it came from, he never forgot that, though he made no effort to retain it,
and was not even conscious of trying to remember it at all. His mind must be
badly formed and he was no good.
    Having still a short time to spare, he got the keys of St. Michael's church
and went to have a farewell practise upon the organ, which he could now play
fairly well. He walked up and down the aisle for a while in meditative mood, and
then settling down to the organ played »They loathed to drink of the river«
about six times over, after which he felt more composed and happier; then,
tearing himself away from the instrument he loved so well, he hurried to the
station.
    As the train drew out he looked down from a high embankment on to the little
house his aunt had taken, and where it might [be] said she had died through her
desire to do him a kindness. There were the two well-known bow windows, out of
which he had often stepped to run across the lawn into the workshop. He
reproached himself with the little gratitude he had shown towards this kind lady
- the only one of his relations whom he had ever felt as though he could have
taken into his confidence. Dearly as he loved her memory, he was glad she had
not known the scrapes he had got into since she died; perhaps she might not have
forgiven them - and how awful that would have been; but then if she had lived
perhaps many of his ills would have been spared him. As he mused thus he grew
sad again; where, he asked himself, was it all to end? Was it to be always sin,
shame and sorrow in the future, as it had been in the past, and the
ever-watchful eye and protecting hand of his father laying burdens on him
greater than he could bear - or was he too some day or another to come to feel
that he was fairly well and happy?
    There was a grey mist across the sun, so that the eye could bear its light,
and Ernest while musing as above was looking right into the middle of the sun
himself, as into the face of one whom he knew and was fond of. At first his face
was grave, but kindly, as of a tired man who feels that a long task is over; but
in a few seconds the more humorous side of his misfortunes presented itself to
him, and he smiled half reproachfully, half merrily, as thinking how little all
that had happened to him really mattered, and how small were his hardships as
compared with those of most people. Still looking into the eye of the sun and
smiling dreamily, he thought how he had helped to burn his father in effigy, and
his look grew merrier till at last he broke out into a laugh - exactly at this
moment the light veil of cloud parted from the sun, and he was brought back to
terra firma by the breaking forth of the sunshine. On this he became aware that
he was being watched attentively by a fellow traveller opposite to him, an
elderly gentleman with a large head and iron-grey hair.
    »My young friend,« said he good-naturedly, »you really must not carry on
conversations with people in the sun, while you are in a public railway
carriage.«
    The old gentleman said not another word, but unfolded a Times and began to
read it - as for Ernest he blushed crimson. The pair did not speak during the
rest of the time they were in the carriage, but they eyed each other from time
to time so that the face of each was impressed on the recollection of the other.
 

                                   Chapter 45

Some people say their school days were the happiest of their lives. They may be
right, but I always look with suspicion upon those whom I hear saying this. It
is hard enough to know whether one is happy or unhappy now, and still harder to
compare the relative happiness or unhappiness of different times of one's life;
the utmost that can be said is that we are fairly happy so long as we are not
distinctly aware of being miserable. As I was talking with Ernest one day not so
long since about this, he said he was so happy now that he was sure he had never
been happier, and did not wish to be so - but that Cambridge was the first place
where he had ever been consciously and continuously happy.
    How can any boy fail to feel an ecstasy of pleasure on first finding himself
in rooms which he knows for the next few years are to be his castle? Here he
will not be compelled to turn out of the most comfortable place as soon as he
has ensconced himself in it because papa or mamma happen to come into the room,
and he should give it up to them. The most cosy chair here is for himself; there
is no one even to share the room with him, or to interfere with his doing as he
likes in it - smoking included. Why if such a room looked out both back and
front on to a blank dead wall it would still be a paradise; how much more then
when the view is of some quiet grassy court, or cloister or garden, as from the
windows of the greater number of rooms at Oxford and Cambridge.
    Theobald as an old fellow and tutor of Emmanuel - at which college he had
entered Ernest - was able to obtain from the present tutor a certain preference
in the choice of rooms; Ernest's therefore were very pleasant ones looking out
upon the grassy court that is bounded by the fellows' gardens.
    Theobald accompanied him to Cambridge, and was at his best while doing so;
he liked the jaunt, and even he was not without a certain feeling of pride in
having a full-blown son at the university. Some of the reflected rays of this
splendour were allowed to fall upon Ernest himself. Theobald said he was
»willing to hope« - this was one of his tags - that his son would turn over a
new leaf now that he had left school, and for his own part he was only too ready
- this was another tag - to let byegones be byegones.
    Ernest, not yet having his name on the books, was able to dine with his
father at the fellows' table of one of the other colleges on the invitation of
an old friend of his father's; he there made acquaintance with sundry of the
good things of this life, the very names of which were new to him, and felt as
he ate them that he was now indeed receiving a liberal education. When at length
the time came for him to go to Emmanuel, where he was to sleep in his new rooms,
his father came with him to the gates and saw him safe into college; a few
minutes more and he found himself alone in a room for which he had a latchkey.
    From this time he dated many days which if not quite unclouded were upon the
whole very happy ones. I need not however describe them, as the life of a quiet
steady-going undergraduate has been told in a score of novels better than I can
tell it. Some of Ernest's schoolfellows came up to Cambridge at the same time as
himself, and with these he continued on friendly terms during the whole of his
college career; other schoolfellows were only a year or two years his seniors;
these called on him, and he thus made a sufficiently favourable entrée into
college life. A straightforwardness of character that was stamped upon his face,
a love of humour, and a temper which was more easily appeased than ruffled, made
up for some awkwardness and want of savoir faire; he soon became a not unpopular
member of the best set of his year; and though neither capable of becoming, nor
aspiring to become, a leader, was admitted by the leaders as among their nearer
hangers-on.
    Of ambition he had at that time not one particle; greatness, or indeed
superiority of any kind, seemed so far off and incomprehensible to him that the
idea of connecting it with himself never crossed his mind; if he could escape
the notice of all those with whom he did not feel himself en rapport, he
conceived that he had triumphed sufficiently. He did not care about taking a
good degree except that it must be good enough to keep his father and mother
quiet; he did not dream of being able to get a fellowship; if he had, he would
have tried hard to do so, for he became so fond of Cambridge that he could not
bear the thought of having to leave it; the briefness indeed of the season
during which his present happiness was to last was the only thing that now
seriously troubled him - or the only thing but one.
    Having now less to attend to in the matter of growing, and having got his
head more free, he took to reading fairly well: not because he liked it, but
because he was told he ought to do so, and his natural instinct, like that of
all very young men who are good for anything, was to do as those in authority
told him. The intention at Battersby was (for Dr. Skinner had said that Ernest
could never get a fellowship) that he should take a sufficiently good degree to
be able to get a tutorship or mastership in some school preparatory to taking
orders. When he was twenty-one years old his money was to come into his own
hands, and the best thing he could do with it would be to buy the next
presentation to a living, the rector of which was now old, and live on his
mastership or tutorship till the living fell in. He could buy a very good living
for the sum which his grandfather's legacy now amounted to, for Theobald had
never had any serious intention of making deductions for his son's maintenance
and education, and the money had accumulated till it was now about five thousand
pounds; he had only talked about making deductions in order to stimulate the boy
to exertion as far as possible, by making him think that this was his only
chance of escaping starvation - or perhaps from pure love of teasing. When
Ernest had a living of £600 or £700 a year with a house, and not too many
parishioners - why, he might add to his income by taking pupils, or even keeping
a school, and then, say at thirty, he might marry.
    It was not easy for Theobald to hit on any much more sensible plan. He could
not get Ernest into business, for he had no business connections - besides he
did not know what business meant; he had no interest, again, at the bar;
medicine was a profession which subjected its students to ordeals and
temptations which these fond parents shrank from on behalf of their boy; he
would be thrown in with companions and familiarised with details which might
sully him, and though he might stand, it was only too possible that he would
fall. Besides, ordination was the road which Theobald knew and understood, and
indeed the only road about which he knew anything at all, so not unnaturally it
was the one he chose for Ernest.
    The foregoing had been instilled into my hero from earliest boyhood, much as
it had been instilled into Theobald himself, and with the same result - the
conviction, namely, that he was certainly to be a clergyman, but that it was a
long way off yet, and he supposed it was all right. As for the duty of reading
hard, and taking as good a degree as he could, this was plain enough, so he set
himself to work, as I have said, steadily, and to the surprise of everyone as
well as himself got a college scholarship, of no great value, but still a
scholarship, in his freshman's term. It is hardly necessary to say that Theobald
stuck to the whole of this money, believing the pocket money he allowed Ernest
to be sufficient for him, and knowing how dangerous it was for young men to have
money at command. I do not suppose it even occurred to him to try and remember
what he had felt himself when his father took a like course in regard to
himself.
    Ernest's position in this respect was much what it had been at school except
that things were on a larger scale. His tutor's and cook's bills were paid for
him; his father sent him his wine; over and above this he had £50 a year with
which to keep himself in clothes and all other expenses; this was about the
usual thing at Emmanuel in Ernest's day, though many had much less than this.
Ernest did as he had done at school - he spent what he could, soon after he
received his money; he then incurred a few modest liabilities, and then lived
penuriously-till next term, when he would immediately pay his debts, and start
new ones to much the same extent as those which he had just got rid of. When he
came into his £5000 and became independent of his father, £15 or £20 served to
cover the whole of his unauthorised expenditure.
    He joined the boat club, and was constant in his attendance at the boats. He
still smoked, but never took more wine or beer than was good for him - except
perhaps on the occasion of a boating supper, but even then he found the
consequences unpleasant and soon learned how to keep within safe limits. He
attended chapel as far as compelled; he communicated two or three times a year,
because his tutor told him he ought to; in fact he set himself to live soberly
and cleanly, as I imagine all his instincts prompted him to do, and when he fell
- as who that is born of woman can help sometimes doing? - it was not till after
a sharp tussle with a temptation that was more than his flesh and blood could
stand; then he was very penitent and would go a fairly long while without
sinning again. And this was how it had always been with him since he had arrived
at years of indiscretion.
    Even to the end of his career at Cambridge he was not aware that he could do
anything, but others had begun to see that he was not wanting in ability, and
sometimes told him so. He did not believe it, indeed he knew very well that if
they thought him clever they were being taken in, but it pleased him to have
been able to take them in, and he tried to do so still further; he was therefore
a good deal on the lookout for cants that he could catch and apply in season,
and might have done himself some mischief thus if he had not been ready to throw
over any cant as soon as he had come across another more nearly to his fancy;
his friends used to say that when he rose he flew like a snipe, darting several
times in various directions before he settled down to a steady straight flight -
but when he had once got into this he would keep to it.
 

                                   Chapter 46

When he was in his third year a magazine was founded at Cambridge, the
contributions to which were exclusively by undergraduates. Ernest sent in an
essay upon the Greek Drama, which he has declined to let me reproduce here
without his being allowed to re-edit it. I have therefore been unable to give it
in its original form, but when pruned of its redundancies (and this is all that
has been done to it) it runs as follows -
 
        »I shall not attempt within the limits at my disposal to make a résumé
        of the rise and progress of the Greek drama, but will confine myself to
        considering whether the reputation enjoyed by the three chief Greek
        tragedians, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides is one that will be
        permanent, or whether they too will one day be held to have been
        overrated.
            Why, I ask myself, do I see much that I can easily admire in Homer,
        Thucydides, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Aristophanes, Theocritus, parts of
        Lucretius, Horace's satires and epistles, to say nothing of other
        ancient writers, and yet find myself at once repelled by even those
        works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides which are most generally
        admired? With the first-named writers I am in the hands of men who feel,
        if not as I do, still as I can understand their feeling, and as I am
        interested to see that they should have felt; with the second I have so
        little sympathy that I cannot understand how anyone can ever have taken
        any interest in them whatever. Their highest flights to me are dull,
        pompous and artificial productions, which if they were to appear now for
        the first time would, I should think, either fall dead or be severely
        handled by the critics. I wish to know whether it is I who am in fault
        in this matter, or whether part of the blame may not rest with the
        tragedians themselves.
            How far, I wonder, did the Athenians genuinely like these poets, and
        how far was the applause which was lavished upon them due to fashion or
        affectation? How far, in fact, did admiration for the orthodox
        tragedians take that place among the Athenians which going to church
        does among ourselves?
            This is a venturesome question considering the verdict now generally
        given for over two thousand years, nor should I have permitted myself to
        ask it if it had not been suggested to me by one whose reputation stands
        as high, and has been sanctioned for as long time, as those of the
        tragedians themselves - I mean by Aristophanes.
            Numbers, weight of authority and time have conspired to place
        Aristophanes on as high a literary pinnacle as any ancient writer, with
        the exception perhaps of Homer, but he makes no secret of heartily
        hating Euripides and Sophocles, and I strongly suspect only praises
        Aeschylus that he may run down the other two with greater impunity. For
        after all there is no such difference between -Aeschylus and his
        successors as will render the former very good, and the latter very bad;
        and the thrusts at Aeschylus which Aristophanes puts into the mouth of
        Euripides go too well home to have been written by an admirer.
            It may be observed that while Euripides accuses Aeschylus of being
        pomp-bundle- worded - which I suppose means bombastic and given to
        rhodomontade, Aeschylus retorts on Euripides that he is 'a gossip
        gleaner, a describer of beggars, and a rag stitcher' - from which it may
        be inferred that he was truer to the life of his own times than Aeschylus
        was. It happens, however, that a faithful rendering of contemporary life
        is the very quality which gives its most permanent interest to any work
        of fiction, whether in literature or painting, and it is a not unnatural
        consequence that while only seven plays by Aeschylus and the same number
        by Sophocles have come down to us, we have no fewer than nineteen by
        Euripides.
            This however is a digression; the question before us is whether
        Aristophanes really liked Aeschylus or only pretended to do so. It must
        be remembered that the claims of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides to
        the foremost place among tragedians were held to be as incontrovertible
        as those of Dante, Petrarch, Tasso, and Ariosto to be the greatest of
        Italian poets are held among the Italians of to-day. If we can fancy
        some witty genial writer, we will say in Florence, finding himself bored
        by all the poets I have named, we can yet believe he would be unwilling
        to admit that he disliked them without exception. He would prefer to
        think he could see something at any rate in Dante, whom he could
        idealise more easily inasmuch as he was more remote; in order to carry
        his countrymen the farther with him, he would endeavour to meet them
        more than was consistent with his own instincts. Without some such
        palliation as admiration for one, at any rate, of the tragedians, it
        would be almost as dangerous for Aristophanes to attack them as it would
        be for an Englishman now to say that he did not think very much of the
        Elizabethan dramatists. Yet which of us in his heart likes any of the
        Elizabethan dramatists except Shakespeare? Are they in reality anything
        else than literary Struldbrugs?
            I conclude upon the whole that Aristophanes did not like any of the
        tragedians; yet no one will deny that this keen, witty, outspoken writer
        was as good a judge of literary value, and as able to see any beauties
        that the tragic dramas contained, as nine-tenths, at any rate, of
        ourselves. He had, moreover, the advantage of thoroughly understanding
        the standpoint from which the tragedians expected their work to be
        judged - and what was his conclusion? Briefly it was little else than
        this - that they were a fraud, or something very like it. For my own
        part I cordially agree with him. I am free to confess that with the
        exception, perhaps, of some of the psalms of David I know no writings
        which seem so little to deserve their reputation. I do not know that I
        should particularly mind my sisters reading them, but I will take good
        care never to read them myself.«
 
This last bit about the psalms was awful, and there was a great fight with the
editor as to whether or no it should be allowed to stand. Ernest himself was
frightened at it, but he had once heard someone say that the psalms were many of
them very poor, and on looking at them more closely after he had been told this,
he found that there could hardly be two opinions on the subject; so he caught up
the remark and reproduced it as his own, concluding that these psalms had
probably never been written by David at all, but had got in among the others by
mistake.
    The essay, perhaps on account of the passage about the psalms, created quite
a sensation, and on the whole was well received. Ernest's friends praised it
more highly than it deserved, and he was himself very proud of it, but he dared
not show it at Battersby. He knew also that he was now at the end of his tether;
this was his one idea (I feel sure he had caught more than half of it from other
people) and now he had not another thing left to write about. He found himself
cursed with a small reputation - which seemed to him much bigger than it was,
and a consciousness that he could never keep it up. Before many days were over
he felt his unfortunate essay to be a white elephant to him, which he must feed
by hurrying into all sorts of frantic attempts to cap his triumph, and, as may
be imagined, these attempts were failures.
    He did not understand that if he waited and listened and observed, another
idea of some kind would probably occur to him some day, and that the development
of this would in its turn suggest still further ones. He did not yet know that
the very worst way of getting hold of ideas is to go hunting expressly after
them. The way to get them is to study something of which one is fond, and to
note down whatever crosses one's mind in reference to it, either during study or
relaxation, in a little notebook kept always in the waistcoat pocket. Ernest has
got to know all about this now, but it took him a long time to find it out, for
this is not the kind of thing that is taught at schools and universities.
    Nor yet did he know that ideas, no less than the living beings in whose
minds they arise, must be begotten by parents not very unlike themselves - the
most original still differing but slightly from the parents that have given rise
to them. Life is like a fugue, everything must grow out of the subject, and
there must be nothing new. Nor, again, did he see how hard it is to say where
one idea ends and another begins, nor yet how closely this is paralleled in the
difficulty of saying where a life begins or ends, or an action, or indeed
anything - there being a unity in spite of infinite multitude, and an infinite
multitude in spite of unity. He thought ideas came into clever people's heads by
a kind of spontaneous generation, without parentage in the thoughts of others or
the course of observation; for as yet he believed in genius, of which he well
knew that he had none, if it was the fine-frenzied thing he thought it was.
    Not very long before this he had come of age, and Theobald had handed him
over his money which amounted now to £5000; it was invested to bring in £5 per
cent and gave him therefore an income of £250 a year. He did not, however,
realise the fact (he could realise nothing so foreign to his experience) that he
was independent of his father for a long time afterwards; nor did Theobald make
any difference in his manner towards him. So strong was the hold which habit and
association held over both father and son, that the one considered he had as
good a right as ever to dictate, and the other that he had as little right as
ever to gainsay.
    During his last year at Cambridge he overworked himself through this very
blind deference to his father's wishes, for there was no reason why he should
take more than a poll degree except that his father laid such stress upon his
taking honours. He became so ill, indeed, that it was doubtful how far he would
be able to go in for his degree at all; but he managed to do so, and when the
lists came out was found to be placed higher than either he or anyone else
expected, being among the first three or four senior optimes, and a few weeks
later, in the lower half of the second class of the Classical Tripos. Ill as he
was when he got home, Theobald made him go over all the examination papers with
him, and in fact reproduce as nearly as possible the replies that he had sent
in. So little kick had he in him, and so deep was the groove into which he had
got, that while at home he spent several hours a day in continuing his classical
and mathematical studies as though he had not yet taken his degree.
 

                                   Chapter 47

Ernest returned to Cambridge for the May term of 1858, on the plea of reading
for ordination, with which [he] was now face to face - and much nearer than he
liked. Up to this time though not religiously inclined he had never doubted the
truth of anything that had been told him about Christianity. He had never seen
anyone who doubted, nor read anything that raised a suspicion in his mind as to
the historical character of the miracles recorded in the Old and New Testaments.
    It must be remembered that the year 1858 was the last of a term during which
the peace of the Church of England was singularly unbroken. Between 1844, when
the Vestiges of Creation appeared, and 1859, when Essays and Reviews marked the
commencement of that storm which has raged until the present time (1867), there
was not a single book published in England that caused serious commotion within
the bosom of the Church. Perhaps Buckle's History of Civilisation and Mill's
Liberty were the most alarming, but they neither of them reached the substratum
of the reading public, and Ernest and his friends were ignorant of their very
existence. The Evangelical movement, with the exception to which I shall revert
presently, had become almost a matter of ancient history. Tractarianism had
subsided into a tenth day's wonder: it was at work, but it was not noisy. The
Vestiges were forgotten before Ernest came up to Cambridge; the Catholic
aggression scare had lost its terrors; ritualism was still unknown by the
general provincial public; the Gorham and Hampden controversies were defunct
some years since; dissent was not spreading; the Crimean war was the one
engrossing subject, to be followed by the Indian Mutiny and the Franco-Austrian
war. These great events turned men's minds from speculative subjects, and there
was no enemy to the faith which could assure even a languid interest. At no time
probably since the beginning of the century could an ordinary observer have
detected less sign of coming disturbance than at that of which I am writing.
    I need hardly say that the calm was only on the surface. Older men, who knew
more than undergraduates are likely to do, must have seen that the wave of
skepticism which had already broken over Germany was setting towards our own
shores - nor was it long, indeed, before it reached them. Ernest had hardly been
ordained before three works in quick succession arrested the attention even of
those who paid least heed to theological controversy - I mean Essays and
Reviews, Charles Darwin's Origin of Species, and Bishop Colenso's Criticisms on
the Pentateuch.
    This, however, is a digression. I must revert to the one phase of spiritual
activity which had any life in it during the time Ernest was at Cambridge - that
is to say, to the remains of the Evangelical awakening of more than a generation
earlier which was connected with the name of Simeon.
    There were still a good many Simeonites, or as they were more briefly called
Sims, in Ernest's time. Every college contained some of them, but their
headquarters were at Caius, whither they were attracted by Mr. Clayton, who was
at that time senior tutor, and among the sizars of St. John's.
    Behind the then chapel of this last-named college, there was a labyrinth
(this was the name it bore) of dingy tumble-down rooms tenanted exclusively by
the poorest undergraduates, who were dependent upon sizarships and scholarships
for the means of taking their degrees. To many even at St. John's, the existence
and whereabouts of the labyrinth in which the sizars chiefly lived was unknown;
some men in Ernest's time who had rooms in the first court had never found their
way through the sinuous passage which led to it.
    In the labyrinth there dwelt men of all ages, from mere lads to grey-haired
old men who had entered late in life. They were rarely seen except in hall or
chapel, or at lecture - where their manners of feeding, praying, and studying
were considered alike objectionable;
    no one knew whence they came, whither they went, nor what they did, for they
never showed at cricket or the boats; they were a gloomy seedy-looking confrérie
who had as little to glory in [in] clothes and manners as in the flesh itself.
    Ernest and his friends used to consider themselves marvels of economy for
getting on with so little money, but the greater number of dwellers in the
labyrinth would have considered one-half of their expenditure to be an exceeding
measure of affluence; and so doubtless any domestic tyranny which had been
experienced by Ernest was a small thing to what the average Johnian sizar had
had to put up with.
    A few would at once emerge on its being found after their first examination
that they were likely to be ornaments to the college; these would win valuable
scholarships that enabled them to live in some degree of comfort, and would
amalgamate with the more studious of those who were in a better social position;
but even these, with few exceptions, were long in shaking off the uncouthness
they brought with them to the university, nor would their origin cease to be
easily recognisable till they had become dons and tutors. I have seen some of
these men attain high position in the world of politics or science, and yet
still retain a look of labyrinth and Johnian sizarship.
    Unprepossessing, then, in feature, gait, and manners, unkempt and
ill-dressed beyond what can be easily described, these poor fellows formed a
class apart whose thoughts and ways were not as the thoughts and ways of Ernest
and his friends, and it was among them that Simeonism chiefly flourished.
    Destined most of them for the church (for in those days holy orders were
seldom heard of), the Simeonites held themselves to have received a very loud
call to the ministry, and were ready to pinch themselves for years so as to
prepare for it by the necessary theological courses. To most of them the
becoming clergymen would be the entrée into a social position from which they
were at present kept out by barriers which they well knew to be impassable;
ordination, therefore, opened fields for ambition which made it the central
point in their thoughts, rather than as with Ernest, something which he supposed
would have to be done some day, but about which, as about dying, he trusted that
he need not yet concern himself.
    By way of preparing themselves more completely they would have meetings in
one another's rooms for tea and prayer, and other spiritual exercises. Placing
themselves under the guidance of a few well-known tutors they would teach in
Sunday schools, and be instant, in season and out of season, in imparting
spiritual instruction to all whom they could persuade to listen to them.
    But the soil of the more prosperous undergraduates was not suitable for the
seed they tried to sow. The small pieties with which they larded their
discourse, if chance threw them into the company of one whom they considered
worldly, caused nothing but aversion in the minds of those for whom they were
intended. When they distributed tracts - dropping them by night into good men's
letter boxes when they were asleep - their tracts got burnt, or met with even
worse contumely; they were themselves also treated with the ridicule which they
reflected proudly had been the lot of true followers of Christ in all ages.
Often at their prayer meetings was the passage of St. Paul's referred to in
which he bids his Corinthian converts note concerning themselves that they were
for the most part neither well-bred nor intellectual people. They reflected with
pride that they too had nothing to be proud of in these respects, and, like St.
Paul, gloried in the fact that in the flesh they had not much to glory.
    Ernest had several Johnian friends, and came thus to hear about the
Simeonites and to see some of them, who were pointed out to him as they passed
through the courts. They had a repellent attraction for him; he disliked them
but he could not bring himself to leave them alone. On one occasion he had gone
so far as to parody one of the tracts they had sent round in the night, and to
get a copy dropped into each of the leading Simeonites' boxes. The subject he
had taken was Personal Cleanliness. Cleanliness, he said, was next to Godliness;
he wished to know on which side it was to stand, and concluded by exhorting
Simeonites to a freer use of the tub. I cannot commend my hero's humour in this
matter; his tract is not brilliant, but I mention the fact as showing that at
this time he was something of a Saul, and took pleasure in persecuting the elect
- not, as I have said, that he had any hankering after skepticism, but because,
like the farmers in his father's village, though he would not stand seeing the
Christian religion made light of, he was not going to see it taken seriously if
he could help it. Ernest's friends thought his dislike for Simeonites was due to
his being the son of a clergyman who, it was known, bullied him; it is more
likely, however, that it rose from an unconscious sympathy with them, which, as
in St. Paul's case, in the end drew him into the ranks of those whom he had most
despised and hated.
 

                                   Chapter 48

Once recently, when he was down at home after taking his degree, his mother had
had a short conversation with him about his becoming a clergyman - set on
thereto by Theobald, who shrank from the subject himself. (This time it was
during a turn taken in the garden, and not on the sofa - which was reserved for
supreme occasions.)
    »You know, my dearest boy,« she said to him, »that papa« (she always called
Theobald papa, when talking to Ernest) »is so anxious you should not go into the
church blindly, and without fully realising the difficulties of a clergyman's
position. He has considered all of them himself, and has been shown how small
they are, when they are faced boldly, but he wishes you too to feel them as
strongly and completely as possible before committing yourself to irrevocable
vows, so that you may never, never, have to regret the step you will have
taken.«
    This was the first time Ernest had heard that there were any difficulties,
and he not unnaturally enquired in a vague way after their nature.
    »That, my dear boy,« rejoined Christina, »is a question which I am not
fitted to enter upon either by nature or education. I might easily unsettle your
mind without being able to settle it again. Oh no! Such questions are far better
avoided by women, and, I should have thought, by men, but papa wished me to
speak to you upon the subject so that there might be no mistake hereafter, and I
have done so. Now, therefore, you know all.«
    The conversation ended here, so far as this subject was concerned, and
Ernest thought he did know all. His mother would not have told him he knew all -
not about a matter of that sort - unless he actually did know it; well, it did
not come to very much; he supposed there were some difficulties, but his father,
who at any rate was an excellent scholar and a learned man, was probably quite
right here, and he need not trouble himself more about them. So little
impression did the conversation make on him that it was not till long afterwards
that happening to remember it he saw what a piece of sleight of hand had been
practised upon him. Theobald and Christina, however, were satisfied that they
had done their duty by opening their son's eyes to the difficulties of assenting
to all a clergyman must assent to. This was enough; it was matter for rejoicing
that though they had been put so fully and candidly before him he did not find
them serious. It was not in vain that they had prayed for so many years to be
made truly honest and conscientious.
    »And now my dear,« resumed Christina, after having disposed of all the
difficulties that might stand in the way of Ernest's becoming a clergyman,
»there is another matter on which I should like to have a talk with you. It is
about your sister Charlotte. You know how clever she is, and what a dear kind
sister she has been and always will be to yourself and Joey. I wish, my dearest
Ernest, that I saw more chance of her finding a suitable husband than I do at
Battersby, and I sometimes think you might do more than you do to help her.«
    Ernest began to chafe at this, for he had heard it so often, but he said
nothing.
    »You know, my dear, a brother can do so much for his sister if he lays
himself out to do it. A mother can do very little - indeed it is hardly a
mother's place to seek out young men; it is a brother's place to find a suitable
partner for his sister; all that I can do is to try to make Battersby as
attractive as possible to any of your friends whom you may invite. And in that,«
she added with a little toss of the head, »I do not think I have been deficient
hitherto.«
    Ernest said he had already at different times asked several of his friends.
    »Yes, my dear, but you must admit that they were none of them exactly the
kind of young man whom Charlotte could be expected to take a fancy to. Indeed I
must own to having been a little disappointed that you should have yourself
chosen any of these as your intimate friends.«
    Ernest winced again -
    »You never brought down Figgins when you were at Roughborough; now I should
have thought Figgins would have been just the kind of boy whom you might have
asked to come and see us.«
    Figgins had been gone through times out of number already - Ernest had
hardly known him, and Figgins being nearly three years older than Ernest had
left long before he did. Besides, he had not been a nice boy and had made
himself unpleasant to Ernest in many ways.
    »Now,« continued his mother, »there's Towneley. I have heard you speak of
Towneley as having rowed with you in a boat at Cambridge. I wish, my dear, you
would cultivate your acquaintance with Towneley and ask him to pay us a visit.
The name has an aristocratic sound, and I think I have heard you say he is an
eldest son.«
    Ernest flushed at the sound of Towneley's name.
    What had really happened in respect of Ernest's friends was briefly this.
His mother liked to get hold of the names of the boys and especially of any who
were at all intimate with her son; the more she heard, the more she wanted to
know; there was no gorging her to satiety; she was like a ravenous young cuckoo
being fed upon a grass plot by a water wag-tail; she would swallow all that
Ernest could bring her and yet be as hungry as before. And she always went to
Ernest for her meals rather than to Joey, for Joey was either more stupid or
more impenetrable - at any rate she could pump Ernest much the better of the
two.
    From time to time an actual live boy had been thrown to her, either by being
caught and brought to Battersby, or by being asked to meet her if at any time
she came to Roughborough. She had generally made herself agreeable, or fairly
agreeable, as long as the boy was present, but as soon as she got Ernest to
herself again she changed her note. Into whatever form she might throw her
criticisms it came always in the end to this - that his friend was no good; that
Ernest was not much better, and that he should have brought her someone else,
for this one would not do at all.
    The more intimate the boy had been, or was supposed to be with Ernest the
more he was declared to be naught, till in the end he had hit upon the plan of
saying concerning any boy whom he particularly liked that he was not one of his
especial chums, and that indeed he hardly knew why he had asked him; but he
found he only fell on Scylla in trying to avoid Charybdis, for though the boy
was declared to be more successful, it was Ernest who was naught for not
thinking more highly of him.
    When she had once got hold of a name she never forgot it. »And how is
so-and-so?« she would exclaim, mentioning some former friend of Ernest's with
whom he had either now quarrelled or who had long since proved to be a mere
comet and no fixed star at all. How Ernest would wish he had never mentioned
so-and-so's name, and vow to himself that he never would talk about his friends
in future; but in a few hours he would forget and would prattle away as
imprudently as ever; then his mother would pounce noiselessly on his remarks as
a barn-owl pounces upon a mouse - and would bring them up in a pellet six months
afterwards when they were no longer in harmony with their surroundings.
    Then there was Theobald. If a boy, or college friend, had been invited to
Battersby Theobald would lay himself out at first to be agreeable. He could do
this well enough when he liked, and as regards the outside world he generally
did like. His clerical neighbours, and indeed all his neighbours, respected him
yearly more and more, and would have given Ernest sufficient cause to regret his
imprudence if he had dared to hint that he had anything however little to
complain of. Theobald's mind worked in this way: »Now I know Ernest has told
this boy what a disagreeable person I am, and I will just show him that I am not
disagreeable at all but a good old fellow, a jolly old boy, in fact a regular
old brick, and that it is Ernest who is in fault all through.«
    So he would behave very nicely to the boy at first, and the boy would be
delighted with him, and side with him against Ernest. Of course if Ernest had
got the boy to come to Battersby he wanted him to enjoy his visit, and was
therefore pleased that Theobald should behave so well, but at the same time he
stood so much in need of moral support that it was painful to him to see one of
his own familiar friends go over to the enemy's camp. For no matter how well we
may know a thing - how clearly we may see a certain patch of colour, for
example, as red - it shakes us and knocks us about to find another see it, or be
more than half inclined to see it as green.
    Theobald had generally begun to get a little impatient before the end of the
visit but the impression formed during the earlier part was the one which the
visitor had generally carried away with him. Theobald never discussed any of the
boys with Ernest. It was Christina who did this. Theobald let them come, because
Christina in a quiet persistent way insisted on it; when they did come he
behaved as I have said civilly, but he did not like it, whereas Christina did
like it very much; she would have had half Roughborough and half Cambridge to
come and stay at Battersby if she could have managed it, and if it would not
have cost so much money; she liked their coming, so that she might make a new
acquaintance, and she liked tearing them to pieces and flinging the bits over
Ernest as soon as she had had enough of them.
    The worst of it was that she had so often proved to be right. Boys and young
men are violent in their affections, but they are seldom very constant; it is
not till they get older that they really know the kind of friend they want; in
their earlier essays young men are simply learning to judge character. Ernest
had been no exception to the general rule. His swans had one after the other
proved to be more or less geese even in his own estimation, and he was beginning
almost to think that his mother was a better judge of character than he was; but
I think it may be assumed with some certainty that if Ernest had brought her a
real young swan she would have declared it to be the ugliest and worse goose of
all that she had yet seen.
    At first he had not suspected that his friends were wanted with a view to
Charlotte; it was understood that Charlotte and they might perhaps take a fancy
for one another, and that would be so very nice would it not? But he did not see
that there was any deliberate malice aforethought in the arrangement. Now,
however, that he had woke up to what it all meant he was less inclined to bring
any friend of his to Battersby. It seemed to his silly young mind almost
dishonest to ask your friend to come and see you when all you really mean is
»Please marry my sister.« It was like trying to obtain money under false
pretences. If he had been fond of Charlotte it might have been another matter,
but he thought her one of the most disagreeable young women if not the most
disagreeable young woman in the whole circle of his acquaintance.
    She was supposed to be very clever: all young ladies are either very pretty
or very clever or very sweet; they may take their choice as to which category
they will go in for, but go in for one of the three they must. It was hopeless
to try and pass Charlotte off as either pretty or sweet; so she became clever as
the only remaining alternative. Ernest never knew what particular branch of
study it was in which she showed her talent, for she could neither play nor sing
nor draw, but so astute are women that his mother and Charlotte really did
persuade him into thinking that she, Charlotte, had something more akin to true
genius (that odious word again!) than any other member of the family. Not one,
however, of all the friends whom Ernest had been inveigled into trying to
inveigle had shown the least sign of being so far struck with Charlotte's
commanding powers as to wish to make them his own, and this may have had
something to do with the rapidity and completeness with which Christina had
dismissed them one after another and had wanted a new one.
    And now she wanted Towneley. Ernest had seen this coming and had tried to
avoid it, for he knew how impossible it was for him to have asked Towneley even
though he had wished to do so. Towneley belonged to one of the most exclusive
sets in Cambridge and was perhaps the most popular man among the whole number of
undergraduates. He was big and very handsome - as it seemed to Ernest the
handsomest man whom he ever had seen or ever could see, for it was impossible to
imagine a more lively and agreeable countenance - he was good at cricket and
boating, very good natured, singularly free from conceit, not clever, but very
sensible, and lastly his father and mother had been drowned by the overturning
of a boat when he was only two years old and had left him as their only child
and heir to one of the finest estates in the South of England. Fortune every now
and then does things handsomely by a man all round; Towneley was one of those to
whom she had taken a fancy, and the universal verdict in this case was that she
had chosen wisely.
    Ernest had seen Towneley as every one else in the university (except, of
course, dons) had seen him, for he was a man of mark; being very susceptible,
had liked him even more than most people did, but at the same time it never so
much as entered into his head that he should come to know him. He liked looking
at him if he got a chance - and was very much ashamed of himself for doing so -
but there the matter ended.
    By a strange accident however during Ernest's last year, when the names of
the crews for the scratch fours were drawn he had found himself coxswain of a
crew among whom was none other than his especial hero Towneley. The three others
were ordinary mortals but they could row fairly well and the crew on the whole
was rather a good one.
    Ernest was frightened out of his wits. Why, I do not know, but young men are
so silly. I suppose he thought Towneley would eat him alive. When however the
two met he found Towneley no less remarkable for his entire want of anything
like side, and for his power of setting those whom he came across at their ease,
than he was for outward accomplishments; the only difference he found between
Towneley and other people was that he was so very much more easy to get on with.
Of course Ernest worshipped him more and more.
    The scratch fours being ended the connection between the two came to an end,
but Towneley never passed Ernest thenceforward without a nod and a few
good-natured words. In an evil moment he had mentioned Towneley's name at
Battersby, and now what was the result? Here was his mother plaguing him to ask
Towneley to come down to Battersby and marry Charlotte. Why, if he had thought
there was the remotest chance of his marrying Charlotte he would have gone down
on his knees to him and told him what an odious young woman she was, and
implored him to save himself while there was yet time.
    But Ernest had not prayed to be made truly honest and conscientious for as
many years as Christina had. He tried to conceal what he felt and thought as
well as he could, and led the conversation back to the difficulties which a
clergyman might feel to stand in the way of his being ordained - not because he
had any misgivings, but as a diversion. His mother however thought she had
settled all that and he got no more out of her. Soon afterwards he found the
means of escaping, and was not slow to avail himself of them.
 

                                   Chapter 49

On his return to Cambridge in the May term of 1858 Ernest and a few other
friends who were also intended for orders came to the conclusion that they must
now take a more serious view of their position. They therefore attended chapel
more regularly than hitherto, and held evening meetings of a somewhat furtive
character at which they would study the New Testament. They even began to commit
the Epistles of St. Paul to memory in the original Greek. They now got up
Beveridge on the Thirty-nine Articles, and Pearson on the Creed; in their hours
of recreation they read More's Mystery of Godliness, which Ernest thought was
charming, and Taylor's Holy Living and Dying, which also impressed him deeply,
through what he thought was the splendour of its language. They handed
themselves over to the guidance of Dean Alford's notes on the Greek Testament,
which made Ernest better understand what was meant by difficulties, but also
made him feel how shallow and impotent were the conclusions arrived at by German
neologians -with whose works, being innocent of German, he was not otherwise
acquainted. Some of the friends who joined him in these pursuits were Johnians,
and the meetings were often held within the walls of St. John's.
    I do not know how tidings of these furtive gatherings had reached the
Simeonites, but they must have come round to them in some way, for they had not
been continued many weeks before a circular was sent round to each of the young
men who attended them, informing them that the Rev. Gideon Hawke, a well-known
London Evangelical preacher whose sermons were then much talked of, was about to
visit his young friend Badcock of John's, and would be glad to say a few words
to any who might wish to hear them, in Badcock's rooms, on a certain evening in
May.
    Badcock was one of the most notorious of all the Simeonites. Not only was he
ugly, dirty, ill-dressed, bumptious, and in every way objectionable, but he was
deformed and waddled when he walked so that he had won the nickname which I can
only reproduce by calling it »Here's my back, and there's my back,« because the
lower parts of his back emphasised themselves demonstratively as though about to
fly off in different directions - like the two extreme notes in the chord of the
augmented sixth - with every step he took. It may be guessed, therefore, that
the receipt of the circular had for a moment an almost paralysing effect on
those to whom it was addressed, owing to the astonishment which it occasioned
them. It certainly was a daring surprise, but like so many deformed people,
Badcock was forward and hard to check; he was a pushing fellow to whom the
present was just the opportunity he wanted for carrying war into the enemy's
quarters.
    Ernest and his friends consulted. Moved by the feeling that as they were now
preparing to be clergymen they ought not to stand so stiffly on social dignity
as heretofore, and also perhaps by the desire to have a good private view of a
preacher who was then much upon the lips of men, they decided to accept the
invitation. When the appointed time came they went with some confusion and
self-abasement to the rooms of this man, on whom they had looked down hitherto
as from an immeasurable height, and with whom nothing would have made them
believe a few weeks earlier that they could ever come to be on speaking terms.
    Mr. Hawke was a very different-looking person from Badcock. He was
remarkably handsome, or rather would have been but for the thinness of his lips,
and a look of too great firmness and inflexibility. His features were a good
deal like those of Leonardo da Vinci; more-over he was kempt, looked in vigorous
health, and was of a ruddy countenance. He was extremely courteous in his
manner, and paid a good deal of attention to Badcock, of whom he seemed to think
highly. Altogether our young friends were taken aback, and inclined to think
smaller beer of themselves and larger of Badcock than was agreeable to the old
Adam who was still alive within them. A few well-known Sims from St. John's and
other colleges were present, but not enough to swamp the Ernest set, as for the
sake of brevity I will call them.
    After a short preliminary conversation in which there was nothing to offend,
the business of the evening began by Mr. Hawke's standing up at one end of the
table, and saying, »Let us pray.« The Ernest set did not like this, but they
could not help themselves, so they knelt down and repeated the Lord's Prayer and
a few others after Mr. Hawke, who delivered them remarkably well. Then, when all
had sat down, Mr. Hawke addressed them, speaking without notes, and taking for
his text the words, »Saul, Saul, why kickest thou against the pricks?« Whether
owing to Mr. Hawke's manner, which was impressive, or to his well-known
reputation for ability, or whether from the fact that each one of the Ernest set
knew that he had been more or less a persecutor of the Sims and yet felt
instinctively that the Sims were after all much more like the early Christians
than he was himself - at any rate the text, familiar though it was, went home to
the consciences of Ernest and his friends as it had never yet done. If Mr. Hawke
had stopped here he would have almost said enough; as he scanned the faces
turned towards him, and saw the impression he had made, he was perhaps minded to
bring his sermon to an end before beginning it, but if so he reconsidered
himself, and proceeded as follows. I give the sermon in full, for it is a
typical one, and will explain a state of mind which in another generation or two
will seem to stand sadly in need of explanation.
    »My young friends,« said Mr. Hawke, »I am persuaded there is not one of you
here who doubts the existence of a Personal God. If there were, it is to him
assuredly that I should first address myself. Should I be mistaken in my belief
that all here assembled accept the existence of a God, who is present amongst us
though we see him not, and whose eye is upon our most secret thoughts, let me
implore the doubter to confer with me in private before we part; I will then put
before him considerations through which God has been mercifully pleased to
reveal himself to me, so far as man can understand him, and which I have found
bring peace to the minds of others who have doubted.
    I assume also that there is none who doubts but that this God after whose
likeness we have been made did in the course of time have pity upon man's
blindness, and assume our nature, taking flesh, and coming down and dwelling
among us as a man indistinguishable physically from ourselves. He who made the
sun moon and stars, the world and all that therein is, came down from Heaven in
the person of his son, with the express purpose of leading a scorned life, and
dying the most cruel shameful death which fiendish ingenuity has invented.
    While on earth he worked many miracles. He gave sight to the blind, raised
the dead to life, fed thousands with a few loaves and fishes, and was seen to
walk upon the waves, but at the end of his appointed time he died, as was
foredetermined, upon the cross, and was buried by a few faithful friends. Those,
however, who had put him to death set a jealous watch over his tomb.
    There is no one, I feel sure, in this room who doubts any part of the
foregoing, but if there is, let me again pray to him to confer with me in
private, and I doubt not that by the blessing of God his doubts will cease.
    The day but one after our Lord was buried - the tomb being still jealously
guarded by enemies - an angel was seen descending from Heaven with glittering
raiment and a countenance that shone like fire. This glorious being rolled away
the stone from the grave, and our Lord himself came forth, risen from the dead.
    My young friends, this is no fanciful story like those of the ancient
deities, but a matter of plain history as certain as that you and I are now here
together. If there is one fact better vouched for than another in the whole
range of certainties it is the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Nor is it less well
assured that a few weeks after he had risen from the dead, our Lord was seen by
many hundreds of men and women to rise amid a host of angels into the air, upon
a heavenward journey till the clouds covered him and concealed him from the
sight of men.
    It might be said that the truth of these statements has been denied - but
what, let me ask you, has become of the questioners? Where are they now? Do we
see them or hear of them? Have they been able to hold what little ground they
made during the supineness of the last century? Is there one of your fathers or
mothers or friends who does not see through them? Is there a single teacher or
preacher in this great university who has not examined what these men had to
say, and found it naught? Did you ever meet one of them or do you find any of
their books securing the respectful attention of those competent to judge
concerning them? I think not; and I think also you know as well as I do why it
is that they have sunk back into the abyss from which they for a time emerged:
it is because after the most careful and patient examination by the ablest and
most judicial minds of many countries, their arguments were found so untenable
that they themselves renounced them. They fled from the field routed, dismayed,
and suing for peace, nor have they again come to the front in any civilised
country.
    You know these things. Why, then, do I insist upon them? My dear young
friends, your own consciousness will have made the answer to each one of you
already; it is because, though you know so well that these things did verily and
indeed happen, you know also that you have not realised them to yourselves as it
was your duty to do, nor heeded their momentous, awful import.
    And now let me go further. You all know that you will one day come to die -
or if not to die - for there are not wanting signs which make me hope that the
Lord may come again, while some of us now present are alive - yet to be changed;
for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, for
this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal put on immortality,
and the saying shall be brought to pass that is written, Death is swallowed up
in victory.
    Do you, or do you not believe that you will one day stand before the
judgement seat of Christ? Do you or do you not believe that you will have to
give an account for every idle frivolous word that you have ever spoken? Do you,
or do you not believe that you are called to live, not according to the will of
man, but according to the will of that Christ who came down from Heaven out of
love for you, who suffered and died for you, who calls you to him, and yearns
towards you that you may take heed even in this your day - but who, if you heed
not, will also one day judge you, and with whom there is no variableness nor
shadow of turning?
    My dear young friends, strait is the way, and narrow is the gate that
leadeth to eternal life, and few there be which find it. Few, few, few, for he
who will not give up ALL for Christ's sake - has given nothing.
    If you would live in the friendship of this world - if indeed you are not
prepared to give up everything you most fondly cherish should the Lord require
it of you, then I say put the idea of Christ deliberately on one side at once.
Spit upon him, buffet him, crucify him anew, do anything you like so long as you
secure the friendship of this world while it is still in your power to do so;
the pleasures of this brief life may not be worth paying for by the torments of
eternity, but they are something while they last. If, on the other hand, you
would live in the friendship of God, and be among the number of those for whom
Christ has not died in vain; if, in a word, you value your eternal welfare, then
give up the friendship of this world; of a surety you must make your choice
between God and Mammon, for you cannot serve both.
    I put these considerations before you, if so homely a term may be pardoned,
as a plain matter of business. There is nothing low or unworthy in this, as some
lately have pretended, for all nature shows us that there is nothing more
acceptable to God than an enlightened view of our own self-interest; never let
anyone delude you here; it is a simple question of fact; did certain things
happen or did they not? If they did happen, is it reasonable to suppose that you
will make yourselves and others more happy by one course of conduct or by
another?
    And now let me ask you what answer you have made to this question hitherto?
Whose friendship have you chosen? If, knowing what you know, you have not yet
begun to act according to the immensity of the knowledge that is in you, then he
who builds his house and lays up his treasure on the edge of a crater of molten
lava is a sane, sensible person in comparison with yourselves. I say this as no
figure of speech, or bugbear with which to frighten you, but as an unvarnished
unexaggerated statement which will be no more disputed by yourselves than by
me.«
    And now Mr. Hawke, who up to this time had spoken with singular quietness,
changed his manner to one of greater warmth and continued -
    »Oh my young friends turn, turn, turn, now while it is called to-day - now
from this hour, from this instant; stay not even to gird up your loins; look not
behind you for a second, but fly into the bosom of that Christ who is to be
found of all who seek him, and from that fearful wrath of God which lieth in
wait for those who know not the things belonging to their peace. For the Son of
Man cometh as a thief in the night, and there is not one of us can tell but what
this day his soul may be required of him. If there is even one here who has
heeded me« (and he let his eye fall for an instant upon almost all his hearers,
but especially on the Ernest set), »I shall know that it was not for nothing
that I felt the call of the Lord, and heard, as I thought, a voice by night that
bade me come hither quickly, for there was a chosen vessel who had need of me.«
    Here Mr. Hawke ended rather abruptly; his earnest manner, striking
countenance and excellent delivery had produced an effect greater than the
actual words I have given can convey to the reader; the virtue lay in the man
more than in what he said; as for the last few mysterious words about his having
heard a voice by night, their effect was magical; there was not one who did not
look down to the ground, nor who in his heart did not half believe that he was
the chosen vessel on whose especial behalf God had sent Mr. Hawke down to
Cambridge. Even if this were not so, each one of them felt that he was now for
the first time in the actual presence of one who had had a direct communication
from the Almighty, and they were thus suddenly brought a hundredfold nearer to
the New Testament miracles. They were amazed, not to say scared, and as though
by tacit consent they gathered together, thanked Mr. Hawke for his sermon, said
goodnight in a humble deferential manner to Badcock and the other Simeonites,
and left the room together. They had heard nothing but what they had been
hearing all their lives; how was it, then, that they were so dumbfounded by it?
I suppose partly because they had lately begun to think more seriously and were
in a fit state to be impressed, partly from the greater directness with which
each felt himself addressed, through the sermon's being spoken in a room, and
partly to the logical consistency, freedom from exaggeration, and profound air
of conviction with which Mr. Hawke had spoken. His simplicity and obvious
earnestness had impressed them even before he had alluded to his special
mission, but this clenched everything, and the words »Lord is it I?« were upon
the hearts of each as they walked pensively home through moonlit courts and
cloisters.
    I do not know what passed among the Simeonites after the Ernest set had left
them, but they would have been more than mortals if they had not been a good
deal elated with the results of the evening. Why, one of Ernest's friends was in
the university eleven, and he had actually been in Badcock's rooms, and slunk
off on saying goodnight as meekly as any of them. It was no small thing to have
scored a success like this.
 

                                   Chapter 50

Ernest felt now that the turning point of his life had come. He would give up
all for Christ - even his tobacco.
    So he gathered together his pipes and pouches, and locked them up in his
portmanteau under his bed where they should be out of sight, and as much out of
mind as possible. He did not burn them, because someone might come in who wanted
to smoke, and though he might abridge his own liberty, yet, as smoking was not a
sin, there was no reason why he should be hard on other people.
    After breakfast he left his rooms to call on a man named Dawson, who had
been one of Mr. Hawke's hearers on the preceding evening, and who was reading
for ordination at the forthcoming Ember Weeks, now only four months distant.
This man had been always of a rather serious turn of mind - a little too much so
for Ernest's taste - but times had changed, and Dawson's undoubted sincerity
seemed to render him a fitting councillor for Ernest at the present time. As he
was going through the first court of John's on his way to Dawson's rooms, he met
Badcock, and greeted him with some deference. His advance was received with one
of those ecstatic gleams which shone occasionally upon the face of Badcock, and
which, if Ernest had known more, would have reminded him of Robespierre. As it
was he saw it, and unconsciously recognised the unrest and self-seekingness of
the man, but could not yet formulate them; he disliked Badcock worse than ever,
but as he was going to profit by the spiritual benefits which he had put in his
way, he was bound to be civil to him, and civil he therefore was.
    Badcock told him that Mr. Hawke had returned to town immediately his
discourse was over, but that before doing so he had enquired particularly who he
Ernest, and two or three others were. I believe each one of Ernest's friends was
given to understand that he had been more or less particularly enquired after.
Ernest's vanity - for he was his mother's son - was tickled at this; the idea
again presented itself to him that he might be the one for whose benefit Mr.
Hawke had been sent. There was something, too, in Badcock's manner which
conveyed the idea that he could say more if he chose, but had been enjoined to
silence.
    On reaching Dawson's rooms, he found his friend in raptures over the
discourse of the preceding evening. Hardly less delighted was he with the effect
it had produced on Ernest. He had always known, he said, that Ernest would come
round; he had been sure of it, but he had hardly expected the conversion to be
so sudden. Ernest said no more had he, but now that he saw his duty so clearly
he would get ordained as soon as possible, and take a curacy, even though the
doing so would make him have to go down from Cambridge earlier, which would be a
great grief to him. Dawson applauded this determination, and it was arranged
that as Ernest was still more or less of a weak brother, Dawson should take him,
so to speak, in spiritual tow for a while, and strengthen and confirm his faith.
    An offensive and defensive alliance therefore was struck up between this
pair (who were in reality singularly ill assorted), and Ernest set to work to
master the books on which the bishop would examine him. Others gradually joined
them till they formed a small set, or church (for these are the same things),
and the effect of Mr. Hawke's sermon instead of wearing off in a few days, as
might have been expected, became more and more marked - so much so that it was
necessary for Ernest's friends to hold him back rather than urge him on, for he
seemed likely to develop - as indeed he for a time did - into a religious
enthusiast.
    In one matter only did he openly backslide. He had, as I said above, locked
up his pipes and tobacco, so that he might not be tempted to use them. All day
long on the day after Mr. Hawke's sermon he let them lie in his portmanteau
bravely; but this was not very difficult for he had for some time given up
smoking till after hall. After hall this day he did not smoke till chapel time,
and then went to chapel in self-defence. When he returned he determined to look
at the matter from a common sense point of view. On this he saw that provided
tobacco did not injure his health - and he really could not see that it did - it
stood much on the same footing as tea or coffee.
    Tobacco had nowhere been forbidden in the Bible; but then it had not yet
been discovered, and had probably only escaped proscription for this reason. We
can conceive of St. Paul or even our Lord himself as drinking a cup of tea, but
we cannot imagine either of them as smoking a cigarette or a churchwarden.
Ernest could not deny this, and admitted that Paul would almost certainly have
condemned tobacco in good round terms if he had known of its existence. Was it
not then taking rather a mean advantage over the Apostle to stand on his not
having actually forbidden it? On the other hand, it was possible that God knew
Paul would have forbidden smoking, and had purposely arranged the discovery of
tobacco for a period at which Paul should be no longer living. This might seem
rather hard on Paul considering all he had done for Christianity, but it would
be made up to him in other ways.
    These reflections satisfied Ernest that on the whole he had better smoke, so
he sneaked to his pormanteau and brought out his pipes and tobacco again. There
should be moderation, he felt, in all things, even in virtue - so for that night
he smoked immoderately. It was a pity, however, that he had bragged to Dawson
about giving up smoking. The pipes had better be kept in a cupboard for a week
or two till in other and easier respects Ernest should have proved his
steadfastness. Then they might steal out again little by little - and so they
did.
    Ernest now wrote home a letter couched in a vein different from his ordinary
one. His letters were usually all common form and padding, for, as I have
already explained, if he wrote about anything that really interested him, his
mamma always wanted to know more and more about it - every fresh answer being as
the lopping off of a hydra's head and giving birth to half a dozen or more new
questions - but in the end it came invariably to the same result, namely that he
ought to have done something else, or ought not to go on doing as he proposed.
Now, however, there was a new departure, and for the thousandth time he
concluded that he was about to take a course of which his father and mother
would approve and in which they would be interested, so that at last he and they
might get on more sympathetically than heretofore. He therefore wrote a gushing
impulsive letter, which afforded much amusement to myself as I read it, but
which is too long for reproduction. It was saturated with Christina: one passage
ran, »I am now going towards Christ; the greater number of my college friends
are, I fear, going away from him; we must pray for them [that] they may find the
peace that is in Christ even as I have myself found it.« Ernest covered his face
with his hands for shame as he read this extract from the bundle of letters he
had put into my hands. They had been returned to him by his father on his
mother's death - his mother having carefully preserved them.
    »Shall I cut it out?« said I, »I will if you like.«
    »Certainly not,« he answered, »and if good-natured friends have kept more
records of my follies, pick out any plums that may amuse the reader, and let him
have his laugh over them.« But fancy what effect a letter like this - so unled
up to - must have produced at Battersby. Even Christina refrained from ecstasy
over her son's having discovered the power of Christ's word, while Theobald was
frightened out of his wits. It was well his son was not going to have any doubts
or difficulties, and that he would be ordained without making a fuss over it,
but he smelt mischief in this sudden conversion of one who had never yet shown
any inclination towards religion. He hated people who did not know where to
stop. Ernest was always so outré and strange; there was never any knowing what
he would do next, except that it would be something unusual, and silly. If he
was to get the bit between his teeth after he had got ordained and bought his
living, he would play more pranks than ever he, Theobald, had done. The fact,
doubtless, of his being ordained and having bought a living would go a long way
to steady him, and if he married, his wife must see to the rest; this was his
only chance - and to do justice to his sagacity, Theobald in his heart did not
think very highly of it.
    When Ernest came down to Battersby in June, he imprudently tried to open up
a more unreserved communication with his father than was his wont. The first of
Ernest's snipe-like flights on being flushed by Mr. Hawke's sermon was in the
direction of ultra-Evangelicism. Theobald himself had been much more low than
high church. This was the normal development of the country clergyman during the
first years of his clerical life, between, we will say, the years 1825 and 1850;
but he was not prepared for the almost contempt with which Ernest now regarded
the doctrines of baptismal regeneration and priestly absolution (hoity-toity,
indeed, what business had he with such questions?), nor for his desire to find
some means of reconciling Methodism and the church. Theobald hated the Church of
Rome, but he hated dissenters too, for he found them as a general rule
troublesome people to deal with: he always found people who did not agree with
him troublesome to deal with; besides, they set up for knowing as much as he
did; nevertheless if he had been let alone he would have leaned towards them
rather than towards the high church party. The neighbouring clergy, however,
would not let him alone. One by one they had come under the influence, directly
or indirectly, of the Oxford Movement which had begun twenty years earlier. It
was surprising how many practices he now tolerated which in his youth he would
have considered Popish;
    he knew very well therefore which way things were going in church matters,
and saw that as usual Ernest was setting himself the other way. The opportunity
for telling his son that he was a fool was too favourable not to be embraced,
and Theobald was not slow to embrace it.
    Ernest was annoyed and surprised, for had not his father and mother been
wanting him to be more religious all his life? Now that he had become so they
were still not satisfied. He said to himself that a prophet was not without
honour save in his own country; but he had been lately - or rather until lately
- getting into an odious habit of turning proverbs upside down, and it occurred
to him that a country is sometimes not without honour save from its own prophet.
Then he laughed, and for the rest of the day felt more as he used to feel before
he had heard Mr. Hawke's sermon.
    He returned to Cambridge for the Long Vacation of 1858 - none too soon, for
he had to go in for the Voluntary Theological examination, which bishops were
now beginning to insist upon. He imagined all the time he was reading that he
was storing himself with the knowledge that would best fit him for the work he
had taken in hand. In truth, he was cramming for a pass. In due time he did pass
- creditably - and was ordained deacon with half a dozen others of his friends
in the autumn of 1858, he being then just twenty-three years old.
 

                                   Chapter 51

Ernest had been ordained to a curacy in one of the central parts of London. He
hardly knew anything of London yet, but his instincts drew him there. The day
after he was ordained he entered upon his duties - feeling much as his father
had done when he found himself boxed up in the carriage with Christina on the
morning of his marriage. Before the first three days were over, he became aware
that the light of happiness which he had known during his four years at
Cambridge had been extinguished, and was appalled at the irrevocable nature of
the step he now felt that he had taken much too hurriedly.
    The most charitable excuse that I can make for the vagaries which it will
now be my duty to chronicle is that the shock of change consequent upon his
becoming suddenly religious, being ordained and leaving Cambridge, had been too
much for my hero, and for the time thrown him off an equilibrium which was yet
little supported by experience and therefore as a matter of course unstable.
    Everyone has a mass of bad work in him which he will have to work off and
get rid of before he can do better - and indeed, the more lasting a man's
ultimate good work is the more sure he is to pass through a time - and perhaps a
very long one - in which there seems very little hope in him at all. We must all
sow our spiritual wild oats. The fault I feel personally disposed to find with
my godson is not that he had wild oats to sow but that they were such an
exceedingly tame and uninteresting crop. The sense of humour and tendency to
think for himself, of which till a few months previously he had been showing
fair promise, were nipped as though by a late frost, while his earlier habit of
taking everything on trust that was told him by those in authority and following
everything out to the bitter end, no matter how preposterous, returned with
redoubled strength. I suppose this was what might have been expected from anyone
placed as Ernest now was, especially when his antecedents are remembered, but it
surprised and disappointed some of his cooler-headed Cambridge friends who had
begun to think well of his ability. To himself it seemed that religion was
incompatible with half measures, or even with compromise. Circumstances had led
to his being ordained; for the moment he was sorry they had, but he had done it
and must go through with it. He therefore set himself to find out what was
expected of him, and to act accordingly.
    His rector was a moderate high churchman of no very pronounced views - an
elderly man who had had too many curates not to have long since found out that
the connection between rector and curate - like that between employer and
employed in every other walk of life - was a mere matter of business. He had now
two curates of whom Ernest was the junior: the senior curate was named Pryer,
and when this gentleman made advances as he presently did, Ernest in his forlorn
state was delighted to meet them.
    Pryer was about twenty-eight years old. He had been at Eton and at Oxford.
He was tall, and passed generally for good-looking; I only saw him once for
about five minutes and then thought him odious both in manners and appearance.
Perhaps it was because he caught me up in a way I did not like. I had quoted
Shakespeare for lack of something better to fill up a sentence - and had said
that one touch of nature made the whole world kin. »Ah,« said Pryer in a bold
brazen way which displeased me, »but one touch of the unnatural makes it more
kindred still.« And he gave me a look as though he thought me an old bore and
did not care two straws whether I was shocked or no. Naturally enough, after
this I did not like him.
    This, however, is anticipating, for it was not till Ernest had been three or
four months in London that I happened to meet his fellow curate, and I must deal
here rather with the effect he produced upon my godson than upon myself. Besides
being what was generally considered good-looking he was faultless in his get-up,
and altogether the kind of man whom Ernest was sure to be afraid of, and yet be
taken in by. The style of his dress was very high church, and his acquaintances
were exclusively of the extreme high church party; but he kept his views a good
deal in the background in his rector's presence, and that gentleman, though he
looked askance on some of Mr. Pryer's friends, had no such ground of complaint
against him as to make him sever the connection. Mr. Pryer, too, was popular in
the pulpit, and take him all round, it was probable that ten worse curates would
be found for one better. When Pryer called on my hero, as soon as the two were
alone together he eyed him all over with a quick penetrative glance and seemed
not dissatisfied with the result - for I may say here that Ernest had improved
in personal appearance under the more genial treatment he had received at
Cambridge. Pryer, in fact, approved of him sufficiently to treat him civilly,
and Ernest was immediately won by anyone who did this. It was not long before he
discovered that the high church party, and even Rome itself, had more to say for
themselves than he had thought. This was his first snipe-like change of flight.
    Pryer introduced him to several of his friends. They were all of them young
clergymen, and belonging as I have said to the highest of the high church
school, but Ernest was surprised to find how much they resembled other people
when among themselves. This was a shock to him; it was ere long a still greater
one to find that certain thoughts which he had warred against as fatal to his
soul, and which he had imagined he should lose once for all on ordination, were
still as troublesome to him as they had been; he saw also plainly enough that
the young gentlemen who formed the circle of Mr. Pryer's friends were in much
the same unhappy predicament as himself.
    This was deplorable. The only way out of it that Ernest could see was that
he should get married at once. But then he did not know any one whom he wanted
to marry. He did not know any woman, in fact, whom he would not rather die than
marry. It had been one of Theobald's and Christina's main objects to keep him
out of the way of women, and they had so far succeeded that women had become to
him mysterious inscrutable objects that were to be tolerated when it was
impossible to avoid them, but were never to be sought out or encouraged. As for
any man loving - or even being at all fond of - any woman, he supposed it was
so, but he believed the greater number of those who professed such sentiments
were liars. Now, however, it was clear that he had hoped against hope too long,
and the only thing to do was to go and ask the first woman who would listen to
him to come and be married to him as soon as possible.
    He broached this to Pryer, and was surprised to find that this gentleman,
though attentive to such members of his flock as were young and good-looking,
was strongly in favour of the celibacy of the clergy - as indeed were the other
demure young clerics to whom Pryer had introduced Ernest.
 

                                   Chapter 52

»You know my dear Pontifex,« said Pryer to him some few weeks after Ernest had
become acquainted with him, when the two were taking a constitutional one day in
Kensington Gardens - »you know my dear Pontifex, it is all very well to quarrel
with Rome, but Rome has reduced the treatment of the human soul to a science,
while our own church, though so much purer in many respects, has no organised
system either of diagnosis or pathology; I mean, of course, spiritual diagnosis,
and spiritual pathology. Our church does not prescribe remedies upon any settled
system; and what is still worse even when her physicians have according to their
lights ascertained the disease, and pointed out the remedy, she has no
discipline which will ensure its being actually applied. If our patients do not
choose to do as we tell them, we cannot make them. Perhaps really under all the
circumstances this is as well, for we are spiritually mere horse doctors as
compared with the Roman priesthood, nor can we hope to make much headway against
the sin and misery that surround us, till we return in some respects to the
practice of our forefathers and of the greater part of Christendom.«
    Ernest asked in what respects it was that his friend desired a return to the
practice of our forefathers.
    »Why, my dear fellow, can you really be ignorant? It is just this, either
the priest is indeed a spiritual guide, as being able to show people how they
ought to live better than they can find out for themselves, or he is nothing at
all - he has no raison d'être. Either the priest is as much a healer and
director of men's souls as a physician is of their bodies, or what is he? The
history of all ages has shown - and surely you must know this as well as I do -
that as men cannot cure the bodies of their patients if they have not been
properly trained in hospitals under skilled teachers, so neither can souls be
cured of their more hidden ailments without the help of men who are skilled in
soul-craft - or in other words, of priests. What do one half of our formularies
and rubrics mean if not this? How in the name of all that is reasonable can we
find out the exact nature of a spiritual malady unless we have had experience of
other similar cases? How can we get this without express training? At present we
have to begin all experiments for ourselves, without profiting by the organised
experience of our predecessors, inasmuch as that experience is never organised
and co-ordinated at all; in the outset, therefore, each one of us must ruin many
souls which could be saved by knowledge of a few elementary principles.«
    Ernest was very much impressed.
    »As for men curing themselves,« continued Pryer, »they can no more cure
their own souls than they can cure their own bodies, or manage their own law
affairs. In these two last cases they see the folly of meddling with their own
cases clearly enough, and recur to a professional adviser as a matter of course;
surely a man's soul is at once a more difficult and intricate matter to treat,
and at the same time it is more important to him that it should be treated
rightly than that either his body or his money should be so. What are we to
think of the practice of a church which encourages people to rely on
unprofessional advice in matters affecting their eternal welfare, when they
would not think of jeopardising their worldly affairs by such insane conduct?«
    Ernest could see no weak place in this. These ideas had crossed his own mind
vaguely before now, but he had never laid hold of them or set them orderly
before himself. Nor was he quick at detecting false analogies and the misuse of
metaphors; in fact he was a mere child in the hands of his fellow curate.
    »And what,« resumed Pryer, »does all this point to? Firstly to the duty of
confession - the outcry against which is absurd, as an outcry would be against
dissection as part of the training of medical students. Granted these young men
must see and do a great deal we do not ourselves like even to think of, but they
should adopt some other profession unless they are prepared for this; they may
even get inoculated with poison from a dead body and lose their lives, but they
must stand their chance. So if we aspire to be priests in deed as well as in
name, we must familiarise ourselves with the minutest and most repulsive details
of all kinds of sin, so that we may recognise it in all its stages. Some of us
must doubtless perish spiritually in such investigations; we cannot help it; all
science must have its martyrs, and none of these will deserve better of humanity
than those who have fallen in the pursuit of spiritual pathology.«
    Ernest grew more and more interested, but in the meekness of his soul said
nothing.
    »I do not desire this martyrdom for myself,« continued the other, »on the
contrary I will avoid it to the very utmost of my power, but if it be God's will
that I should fall while studying what I believe most calculated to advance His
Glory - then, I say, not my will Oh Lord but thine be done.«
    This was too much even for Ernest. »I heard of an Irishwoman once,« he said
with a smile, »who said she was a martyr to the drink.«
    »And so she was,« rejoined Pryer with warmth; and he went on to show that
this good woman was an experimentalist whose experiment, though disastrous in
its effects upon herself, was pregnant with instruction to other people. She was
thus a true martyr or witness to the frightful consequences of intemperance - to
the saving doubtless of many who but for her martyrdom would have taken to
drinking. She was one of a forlorn hope whose failure to take a certain position
went to the proving it to be unassailable, and therefore to the abandonment of
all attempt to take it; this was almost as great a gain to mankind as the actual
taking of the position would have been.
    »Besides,« he added more hurriedly, »the limits of vice and virtue are
wretchedly ill-defined. Half the vices which the world condemns most loudly have
seeds of good in them and require moderate use rather than total abstinence.«
    Ernest asked timidly for an instance.
    »No, no,« said Pryer. »I will give you no instance, but I will give you a
formula that shall embrace all instances. It is this - that no practise is
entirely vicious which has not been extinguished among the comeliest, most
vigorous, and most cultivated races of mankind in spite of centuries of
endeavour to extirpate it. If a vice in spite of such efforts can still hold its
own among the most polished nations, it must be founded on some immutable truth
or fact in human nature, and must have some compensatory advantage which we
cannot afford altogether to dispense with.«
    »But,« said Ernest timidly, »is not this virtually doing away with all
distinction between right and wrong, and leaving people without any moral guide
whatever?«
    »Not the people,« was the answer; »it must be our care to be guides to
these, for they are and always will be incapable [of] guiding themselves
sufficiently. We should tell them what they must do, and in an ideal state of
things should be able to enforce their doing it; perhaps when we are better
instructed the ideal may come about; nothing will so advance it as greater
knowledge of spiritual pathology on our own parts. For this, three things are
necessary; firstly absolute freedom in experiment for us the clergy; secondly
absolute knowledge of what the laity think and do, and of what thoughts and
actions result in what spiritual conditions, and thirdly a compacter
organisation among ourselves.
    If we are to do any good we must be a closely united body, and must be
sharply divided from the laity. Also we must be free from those ties which a
wife and children involve. I can hardly express the horror with which I am
filled by seeing English priests living in what I can only designate as open
matrimony. It is deplorable. The priest must be absolutely sexless - if not in
practice, yet at any rate in theory, absolutely - and that too by a theory so
universally accepted that none shall venture to dispute it.«
    »But,« said Ernest, »has not the Bible already told people what they ought
and ought not to do, and is it not enough for us to insist on what can be found
here, and let the rest alone?«
    »If you begin with the Bible,« was the rejoinder, »you are three parts gone
on the road to infidelity, and will go the other part before you know where you
are. The Bible is not without its value to us the clergy, but for the laity it
is a stumbling-block which cannot be taken out of their way too soon or too
completely. Of course, I mean, on the supposition that they read it, which
happily they seldom do. If people read the Bible as the ordinary British
churchman or churchwoman reads it, it is harmless enough; but if they read it
with any care - which we should assume they will if we give it them at all - it
is fatal to them.«
    »What do you mean?« said Ernest, more and more astonished, but more and more
feeling that he was at least in the hands of a man who had definite ideas.
    »Your question shows me that you have never read your Bible. A more
unreliable book was never put upon paper; take my advice, and don't read it, not
till you are a few years older, and may do so safely.«
    »But surely you believe the Bible when it tells you of such things as that
Christ died [and] rose from the dead? Surely you believe this?« said Ernest -
quite prepared to be told that Pryer believed nothing of the kind.
    »I do not believe it, I know it.«
    »But how - if the testimony of the Bible fails?«
    »On that of the living voice of the church, which I know to be infallible,
and to be informed of Christ himself.«
 

                                   Chapter 53

The foregoing conversation and others like it made a deep impression upon my
hero. If next day he had taken a walk with Mr. Hawke, and heard what he had to
say on the other side, he would have been just as much struck, and as ready to
fling off what Pryer had told him as he now was to throw aside all he had ever
heard from anyone except Pryer; but there was no Mr. Hawke to hand, so Pryer had
everything his own way.
    Embryo minds, like embryo bodies, pass through a number of strange
metamorphoses before they adopt their final shape. It is no more to be wondered
at that one who is going to turn out a Roman Catholic should have passed through
the stages of being first a Methodist, and then a free thinker, than that a man
should at some former time have been a mere cell, and later on an invertebrate
animal. Ernest however could not be expected to know this. Embryos never do.
Embryos, as I have said already, think with each stage of their development that
they have now reached the only condition which really suits them. This, they
say, must certainly be their last inasmuch as its close will be so great a shock
that nothing can survive it. Every change is a shock; every shock is a pro tanto
death. What we call Death is only a shock great enough to destroy our power to
recognise a past and a present as resembling one another. It is the making us
consider the points of difference between our present and our past greater than
the points of resemblance, so that we can no longer call the former of these two
in any proper sense a continuation of the second, but find it less trouble to
think of it as something that we choose to call new.
    But to let this pass. It was clear that spiritual pathology (I may as well
confess that I do not know myself what pathology means - but Mr. Pryer and
Ernest doubtless did) was the great desideratum of the age. It seemed to Ernest
that he had made this discovery himself and been familiar with it all his life -
that he had never known, in fact, of anything else. He wrote long letters to his
college friends expounding his views as though he had been one of the Apostolic
fathers. As for the Old Testament writers - he had no patience with them. »Do
oblige me,« I find him writing to one friend, »by reading the prophet Zechariah,
and giving me your candid opinion upon him. He is poor stuff - full of Yankee
bounce; it is sickening to live in an age when such balderdash can be gravely
admired whether as poetry or prophecy«; this was because Pryer had set him
against Zechariah - I do not know what Zechariah had done; I should think myself
that Zechariah was a very good prophet; perhaps it was because he was a Bible
writer, and not a very prominent one, that Pryer selected him as one through
whom to disparage the Bible in comparison with the church.
    To his friend Dawson I find him saying a little later on,
 
        »Pryer and I continue our walks, working out each other's thoughts. At
        first he used to do all the thinking, but I think I am pretty well
        abreast with him now, and rather chuckle at seeing that he is already
        beginning to modify some of the views he held most strongly when I first
        knew him.
            Then, I think, he was on the high road to Rome; now, however, he
        seems to be a good deal struck with a suggestion of mine in which you
        too perhaps may be interested. You see we must infuse new life into the
        church somehow; we are not holding our own against either Rome or
        infidelity.« (I may say in passing that I do not believe Ernest had as
        yet ever seen an infidel - not to speak to.) »I proposed, therefore, a
        few days back to Pryer (and he fell in eagerly with the proposal as soon
        as he saw that I had the means of carrying it out) that we should set on
        foot a spiritual movement somewhat analogous to the Young England
        movement of twenty years ago, the aim of which shall be at once to
        outbid Rome on the one hand, and skepticism on the other. For this
        purpose I see nothing better than the foundation of an institution or
        college for placing the nature and treatment of sin on a more scientific
        basis than it rests at present. We want - to borrow a useful term of
        Pryer's - a college of Spiritual Pathology where young men« (I suppose
        Ernest thought he was no longer young by this time) »may study the
        nature and treatment of the sins of the soul as medical students study
        those of the bodies of their patients. Such a college, as you will
        probably admit, will approach both Rome on the one hand, and science on
        the other - Rome, as giving the priesthood more skill, and therefore as
        paving the way for their obtaining greater power, and science, by
        recognising that even free thought has a certain kind of value in
        spiritual enquiries. To this purpose Pryer and I have resolved to devote
        ourselves henceforth heart and soul.
            Of course, my ideas are still unshaped, and all will depend upon the
        men by whom the college is first worked. I am not yet a priest; but
        Pryer is, and if I were to start the college, Pryer might take charge of
        it for a time and I work under him nominally as his subordinate. Pryer
        himself suggested this. Is it not generous of him?
            The worst of it is that we have not enough money; I have, it is
        true, £5000, but we want at least £10,000, so Pryer says, before we can
        start; when we are fairly under weigh I might live at the college and
        draw a salary from the foundation, so that it is all one, or nearly so,
        whether I invest my money in this way, or in buying a living; besides I
        want very little; it is certain that I shall never marry; no clergyman
        should think of this; and an unmarried man can live on next to nothing.
        Still I do not see my way to as much money as I want, and Pryer suggests
        that as we can hardly earn more now we must get it by a judicious series
        of investments. Pryer knows several people who make quite a handsome
        income out of very little or indeed, I may say, nothing at all, by
        buying things at a place they call the Stock Exchange; I don't know much
        about it yet, but Pryer says I should soon learn; he thinks, indeed that
        I have shown rather a talent in this direction; and under proper
        auspices should make a very good man of business; others, of course, and
        not I must decide this; but a man can do anything if he gives his mind
        to it, and though I should not care about having more money for my own
        sake, I care about it very much when I think of the good I could do with
        it, by saving souls from such horrible torture hereafter. Why if the
        thing does, and I really cannot see what is to hinder it, it is hardly
        possible to exaggerate its importance, nor the proportions which it may
        ultimately assume, etc., etc.«
 
Again I asked Ernest whether he minded my printing this. He winced, but said,
»No, not if it helps you to tell your story; but don't you think it is too
long?«
    I said it would make the reader see for himself how things were going in
half the time that it would take me to explain them to him.
    »Very well then, keep it by all means.«
    I continue turning over my file of Ernest's letters and find as follows -
 
        »Thanks for your last: in answer to which I send you a rough copy of a
        letter I sent to the Times a day or two back. They did not insert it,
        but it embodies pretty fully my ideas on the parochial visitation
        question, and Pryer fully approves of the letter. Think it carefully
        over and send it back to me when read, for it is so exactly my present
        creed that I cannot afford to lose it.
            I should very much like to have a viva voce discussion on these
        matters: I can only see for certain that we have suffered a dreadful
        loss in being no longer able to excommunicate. We should excommunicate
        rich and poor alike - and pretty freely too. If this power were restored
        to us we could I think soon put a stop to by far the greater part of the
        sin and misery with which we are surrounded.«
 
These letters were written only a few weeks after Ernest had been ordained, but
they are nothing to others that he wrote a little later on.
    In his eagerness to regenerate the Church of England (and, through this, the
universe) by the means which Pryer had suggested to him, it occurred to him to
try to familiarise himself with the habits and thoughts of the poor by going and
living among them. I think he got this notion from Kingsley's Alton Locke,
which, high churchman though he for the nonce was, he had devoured as he had
devoured Stanley's Life of Arnold, Dickens's novels, and whatever other literary
garbage of the day was most likely to do him harm; at any rate he actually put
his scheme into practice, and took lodgings in a house of which the landlady was
the widow of a cab man, in Ashpit Place - a small street in the neighbourhood of
Drury Lane Theatre.
    This lady occupied the whole ground floor. In the front kitchen there was a
tinker. The back kitchen was let to a bellows-mender. On the first floor came
Ernest, with his two rooms which he furnished comfortably - for one must draw
the line somewhere. The two upper floors were parcelled out among four different
sets of lodgers: there was a tailor named Holt, a drunken fellow who used to
beat his wife at night till her screams woke up the house; above him there was
another tailor with a wife but no children; these people were Wesleyans, given
to drink, but not noisy. The two back rooms were held by single ladies, who it
seemed to Ernest must be respectably connected, for well-dressed gentlemanly
looking young men used to go up and down stairs past Ernest's rooms to call at
any rate on Miss Snow. Ernest had heard her door slam after they had passed. He
thought too that some of them went up to Miss Maitland's; Mrs. Jupp, the
landlady, told Ernest that these were brothers and cousins of Miss Snow's - and
that she was herself looking out for a situation as a governess, but at present
had an engagement as an actress at the Drury Lane Theatre.
    Ernest asked whether Miss Maitland in the top back was also looking out for
a situation, and was told she was wanting engagement as a milliner. He believed
whatever Mrs. Jupp told him.
 

                                   Chapter 54

This move on Ernest's part was variously commented upon by his friends, the
general opinion being that it was just like Pontifex, who was sure to do
something unusual wherever he went, but that on the whole the idea was
commendable. Christina could not restrain herself when on sounding her clerical
neighbours she found them inclined to applaud her son for conduct which they
idealised into something much more self-denying than it really was. She did not
quite like his living in such an unaristocratic neighbourhood; but what he was
doing would probably get into the newspapers, and then great people would take
notice of him; besides it would be very cheap: down among these poor people he
could live for next to nothing, and might put by a great deal of his income; as
for temptations, there could be few or none in such a place as that. This
argument about cheapness was the one with which she most successfully met
Theobald, who grumbled more suo that he had no sympathy with his son's
extravagance and conceit. When Christina pointed out to him that it would be
cheap he replied that there was something in that.
    On Ernest himself the effect was to confirm the good opinion of himself
which had been growing upon him ever since he had begun to read for orders, and
to make him flatter himself that he was among the few who were ready to give up
all for Christ. Ere long he began to conceive of himself as a man with a
mission, and a great future; his lightest and most hastily formed opinions began
to be of momentous importance to him, and he inflicted them, as I have already
shown, on his old friends - week by week becoming more and more entêté with
himself and his own crotchets. I should like well enough to draw a veil over
this part of my hero's career, but cannot do so without marring my story.
    In the spring of 1859 I find him writing -
 
        »I cannot call the visible church Christian till its fruits are
        Christian, that is until the fruits of the members of the Church of
        England are in conformity, or something like conformity, with her
        teaching. I cordially agree with the teaching of the Church of England
        in most respects; but she says one thing and does another, and until
        excommunication - yes, and wholesale excommunication - be resorted to, I
        cannot call her a Christian institution. I should begin with our rector,
        and if I found it necessary to follow him up by excommunicating the
        bishop, I should not flinch even from this.
        
                                   * * * * *
 
The present London rectors are hopeless people to deal with. My own is one of
the best of them, but the moment Pryer and I show signs of wanting to attack an
evil in a way not recognised by routine, or of remedying anything about which no
outcry has been made, we are met with, I cannot think what you mean by all this
disturbance; nobody else among the clergy sees these things, and I have no wish
to be the first to begin turning everything topsy-turvy. And then people call
him a sensible man! I have no patience with them. However we know what we want,
and, as I wrote to Dawson the other day, have a scheme on foot which will I
think fairly meet the requirements of the case. But we want more money, and my
first move towards getting this has not turned out quite so satisfactorily as
Pryer and I had hoped; we shall however, I doubt not, retrieve it shortly.«
 
When Ernest came to London he intended doing a good deal of house to house
visiting, but Pryer had talked him out of this even before he settled down in
his new and strangely chosen apartments. The line he now took was that if people
wanted Christ they must prove their want by taking some little trouble - and the
trouble required of them was that they should come and seek him, Ernest, out;
there he was in the midst of them, ready to teach; if people did not choose to
come to him it was no fault of his.
    »My great business here,« he writes again to Dawson,
 
        »is to observe; I am not doing much in parish work beyond my share of
        the daily services. I have a man's Bible class, and a boy's Bible class;
        a good many young men and boys to whom I give instruction one way or
        another; then there are the Sunday school children, with whom I fill my
        room on a Sunday evening as full as it will hold, and let them sing
        hymns and chaunts. They like this. I do a great deal of reading -
        chiefly of books which Pryer and I think most likely to help; we find
        nothing comparable to the Jesuits. Pryer is a thorough gentleman, and an
        admirable man of business - no less observant of the things of this
        world, in fact, than of the things above; by a brilliant coup he has
        retrieved - or nearly so - a rather serious loss which threatened to
        delay indefinitely the execution of our great scheme. He and I daily
        gather fresh great principles. I believe great things are before me, and
        am strong in the hope of being able by and by to effect much.
            As for you, I bid you Godspeed; be bold but logical; speculative but
        cautious; daringly courageous, but properly circumspect withal, etc.,
        etc.«
 
I think this may do for the present.
 

                                   Chapter 55

I had called on him as a matter of course when he first came to London but had
not seen him. I had been out when he returned my call so that he had been in
town for some weeks before I actually saw him, which I did not very long after
he had taken possession of his new rooms. I liked his face, but except for the
common bond of music, in respect of which our tastes were singularly alike, I
should hardly have known how to get on with him. To do him justice he did not
air any of his schemes to me until I had drawn him out concerning them. I, to
borrow the words of Ernest's landlady Mrs. Jupp, am not a very regular
church-goer (I discovered upon cross-examination that Mrs. Jupp had been to
church once when she was churched for her son Tom some five and twenty years
since, but never either before or afterwards - not even I fear to be married,
for though she called herself Mrs. she wore no wedding ring, and spoke of the
person who should have been Mr. Jupp as my poor dear boy's father, not as my
husband - but to return) - and I was vexed at Ernest's having been ordained. I
was not ordained myself and I did not like my friends to be ordained, nor did I
like having to be on my best behaviour and to look as if butter would not melt
in my mouth, and all for a boy whom I remembered when he knew yesterday and
to-morrow and Tuesday, but not a day of the week more - not even Sunday itself -
and when he said he did not like the kitten because it had pins in its toes.
    I looked at him and thought of his Aunt Alethæa, and how fast the money she
had left him was accumulating; and it was all to go to this young man - who
would use it probably in the very last ways with which Miss Pontifex would have
sympathised. I was annoyed. »She always said,« I thought to myself, »that she
should make a mess of it, but I did not think she would have made as great a
mess of it as this.« Then I thought that perhaps if his aunt had lived he would
not have been like this.
    Ernest behaved quite nicely to me and I own that the fault was mine if the
conversation drew towards dangerous subjects. I was the aggressor, presuming I
suppose upon my age and long acquaintance with him, as giving me a right to make
myself unpleasant in a quiet way.
    Then he came out, and the exasperating part of it was that up to a certain
point he was so very right. Grant him his premises and his conclusions were
sound enough, nor could I, seeing that he was already ordained, join issue with
him about his premises as I should certainly have done if I had had a chance of
doing so before he had taken orders. The result was that I had to beat a retreat
and went away not in the best of humours. I believe the truth was that I liked
Ernest, and was vexed at his being a clergyman, and at a clergyman's having so
much money coming to him.
    I talked a little with Mrs. Jupp on my way out. She and I had reckoned one
another up at first sight, as neither of us very regular church-goers, and the
strings of her tongue had been loosed. She said Ernest would die. He was much
too good for the world and he looked so sad »just like young Watkins of the
Crown over the way who died a month ago, and his poor dear skin was white as
alablaster; least-ways they say he shot himself. They took him from the
Mortimer, I met them just as I was going with my Rose to get a pint o' four ale,
and she had her arm in splints. She told her sister she wanted to go to Perry's
to get some wool, instead o' which it was only a stall to get me a pint o' ale,
bless her heart; there's nobody else would do that much for poor old Jupp, and
it's a horrid lie to say she's gay; not but what I like a gay woman I do: I'd
rather give a gay woman half a crown than stand a modest woman a pot o' beer,
but I don't want to go associating with bad girls for a' that. So they took him
from the Mortimer; they wouldn't let him go home no more; and he done it that
artful you know. His wife was in the country living with her mother, and she
always spoke respectful o' my Rose. Poor dear, I hope his soul is in Heaven.
Well Sir, would you believe it there's that in Mr. Pontifex's face which is just
like young Watkins; he looks that worrited and scrunched up at times, but it's
never for the same reason, for he don't know nothing at all, no more than a
unborn babe, not he don't; why there's not a monkey going about London with an
Italian organ grinder but knows more than Mr. Pontifex do. He don't know - well
I suppose ...«
    Here a child came in on an errand from some neighbour and interrupted her or
I can form no idea where or when she would have ended her discourse. I seized
the opportunity to run away, but not before I had given her five shillings and
made her write down my address, for I was a little frightened by what she said.
I told her if she thought her lodger grew worse she was to come and let me know.
    Weeks went by and I did not see her again; having done as much as I had, I
felt absolved from doing more, and let Ernest alone as thinking that he and I
should only bore one another.
    He had now been ordained a little over four months but these months had not
brought happiness or satisfaction with them. He had lived in a clergyman's house
all his life, and might have been expected perhaps to have known pretty much
what being a clergyman was like, and so he did - a country clergyman; he had
formed an ideal however as regards what a town clergyman could do, and was
trying in a feeble tentative way to realise it, but somehow or other it always
managed to escape him.
    He lived among the poor, but he did not find that he got to know them. The
idea that they would come to him proved to be a mistaken one. He did indeed
visit a few tame pets whom his rector desired him to look after. There was an
old man and his wife who lived next door but one to Ernest himself; then there
was a plumber of the name of Chesterfield; an aged lady of the name of Gover,
blind and bedridden, who munched and munched her feeble old toothless jaws as
Ernest spoke or read to her, but who could do little more; a Mr. Brookes, a rag
and bottle merchant in Birdsey's Rents in the last stage of dropsy, and perhaps
half a dozen or so others. What did it all come to when he did go to see them?
The plumber wanted to be flattered and liked fooling a gentleman into wasting
his time by scratching his ears for him. Mrs. Gover, poor old woman, wanted
money; she was very good and meek, and when Ernest got her a shilling from Lady
Anne Jone's bequest she said it was small but seasonable, and munched and
munched in gratitude. Ernest sometimes gave her a little money himself - but not
as he says now half what he ought to have given.
    What could he do else that would have been of the smallest use to her?
Nothing indeed; but giving occasional half-crowns to Mrs. Gover was not
regenerating the universe, and Ernest wanted nothing short of this. The world
was all out of joint, and instead of feeling it to be a cursed spite that he was
born to set it right, he thought he was just the kind of person that was wanted
for the job, and was eager to set to work - only he did not exactly know how to
begin, for the beginning he had made with Mr. Chesterfield and Mrs. Gover did
not promise great developments.
    Then poor Mr. Brookes - he suffered very much, terribly indeed; he was not
in want of money; he wanted to die and couldn't, just as we sometimes want to go
to sleep and cannot. He had been a serious-minded man and death frightened him
as it must frighten anyone who believes that all his most secret thoughts will
be shortly exposed in public. When I read Ernest the description of how his
father used to visit Mrs. Thompson at Battersby he coloured and said - »That's
just what I used to say to Mr. Brookes.« Ernest felt that his visits, so far
from comforting Mr. Brookes made him fear death more and more, but how could he
help it?
    Even Pryer, who had been curate a couple of years, did not know personally
at the outside more than a couple of hundred people in the parish, and it was
only at the houses of very few of these that he ever visited - but then Pryer
had such a strong objection on principle to house visitations. What a drop in
the sea were those with whom he and Pryer were brought into direct communication
in comparison with those whom he must reach and move if he were to produce much
effect of any kind one way or the other. Why there were between fifteen and
twenty thousand poor in the parish, of whom but the merest fraction ever
attended a place of worship. Some few went to dissenting chapels; a few were
Roman Catholics; by far the greater number however were practically infidels -
if not actively hostile at any rate indifferent to religion, while many were
avowed atheists - admirers of Tom Paine - of whom he now heard for the first
time; but he never met and conversed with any of these.
    Was he really doing all that could be expected of him? It was all very well
to say that he was doing as much as other young clergymen did; that was not the
kind of answer which Jesus Christ was likely to accept; why the Pharisees
themselves in all probability did as much as the other Pharisees did. What he
should do was to go into the highways and byways and compel people to come in.
Was he doing this? Or were not they rather compelling him to keep out - outside
their doors at any rate? He began to have an uneasy feeling as though ere long
unless he kept a sharp lookout, he should drift into being a sham.
    True, all would be changed as soon as he could endow the college for
Spiritual Pathology; matters, however, had not gone too well with »the things
that people bought in the place that was called the Stock Exchange.« In order to
get on faster it had been arranged that Ernest should buy more of these things
than he could pay for, with the idea that in a few weeks or even days they would
be much higher in value, and he could sell them at a tremendous profit, but
unfortunately instead of getting higher they had fallen immediately after Ernest
had bought, and obstinately refused to get up again; so after a few settlements
he had got frightened for he read an article in some newspaper which said they
would go ever so much lower, and contrary to Pryer's advice he insisted on
selling - at a loss of something like £500. He had hardly sold when up went the
shares again, and he saw how foolish he had been, and how wise Pryer was, for if
Pryer's advice had been followed he would have made £500 instead of losing it.
However, live and learn.
    Then Pryer made a mistake. They had bought some shares, and the shares went
up delightfully for about a fortnight. This was a happy time indeed, for by the
end of a fortnight the lost £500 had been recovered and three or four hundred
pounds had been cleared into the bargain. All the feverish anxiety of that
miserable six weeks when the £500 was being lost was now being repaid with
interest. Ernest wanted to sell now and make sure of the profit, but Pryer would
not hear of it; they would go oh! ever so much higher yet, and he showed Ernest
an article in some newspaper which proved that what he said was reasonable, and
they did go up a little - but only a very little, for then they went down, down,
and Ernest saw first his clear profit of three or four hundred pounds go, and
then the £500 loss which he thought he had recovered slipped away by falls of a
half and one at a time, and then he lost £200 more. Then a newspaper said that
these shares were the greatest rubbish that had ever been imposed upon the
English public, and Ernest could stand it no longer so he sold out, again this
time against Pryer's advice, so that when they went up as they shortly did,
Pryer scored over Ernest a second time.
    Ernest was not used to vicissitudes of this kind, and they made him so
anxious as to affect his health. It was arranged therefore that he had better
perhaps know nothing of what was being done. Pryer was a much better man of
business than he was, and would see to it all. This relieved Ernest of a good
deal of trouble, and was better after all for the investments themselves; for,
as Pryer justly said, a man must not have a faint heart if he hopes to succeed
in buying and selling upon the Stock Exchange, and seeing Ernest nervous made
Pryer nervous too - at least he said it did. So the money drifted more and more
into Pryer's hands. As for Pryer himself, he had nothing but his curacy and a
small allowance from his father.
    Some of Ernest's older friends got an inkling from his letters of what he
was doing, and did their utmost to dissuade him, but he was as infatuated as a
young lover of two and twenty. Finding that these friends disapproved, he
dropped away from them, and they, being bored with his egotism and high-flown
ideas, were not sorry to let him do so. Of course he said nothing about his
speculations - indeed he hardly knew that anything done in so good a cause could
be speculation - at Battersby, and when his father urged him to look out for a
next presentation, and even brought one or two promising ones under his notice,
he made objections and excuses, though always promising to do as his father
desired very shortly.
 

                                   Chapter 56

By and by a subtle, indefinable malaise began to take possession of him. I once
saw a very young foal trying to eat some most objectionable refuse, and unable
to make up its mind whether it was good or no. Clearly it wanted to be told. If
its mother had seen what it was doing she would have set it right in a moment,
and as soon as ever it had been told that what it was eating was filth, the foal
would have recognised it and have never wanted to be told again - but evident
though the matter was, still the foal could not settle the matter whether it
liked what it was trying to eat or no without assistance from without. I suppose
it would have come to do so by and by, but it was taking time and trouble, all
which a single look from its mother would have saved - just as wort will in time
ferment of itself but will ferment much more quickly if a little yeast be added
to it. In the matter of knowing what gives us pleasure we are all like wort, and
if unaided from without can only ferment slowly and toilsomely.
    My unhappy hero about this time was very much like the foal, or rather he
felt much what the foal would have felt if its mother and all the other grown-up
horses in the field had vowed that what it was eating was the most excellent and
nutritious food to be found anywhere. He was so anxious to do what was right,
and so ready to believe that every one knew better than himself, that he never
ventured to admit to himself that he might be all the while on a hopelessly
wrong tack. It did not occur to him that there could be a blunder anywhere -
much less did it do so to try and seek out where the blunder was. Nevertheless
he became daily more full of malaise - and daily - only he knew it not - more
ripe for an explosion should a spark fall upon him.
    One thing, however, did begin to loom out of the general vagueness and to
this he instinctively turned as trying to seize it - I mean, the fact that he
was saving very few souls, whereas there were thousands and thousands being lost
hourly all around him which a little energy such as Mr. Hawke's might save. Day
after day went by and what was he doing? Standing on professional etiquette and
praying that his shares might go up or down as he wanted them, so that they
might give him money enough to enable him to regenerate the universe. But in the
meantime the people were dying. How many souls would not be doomed to endless
ages of the most frightful torments that the mind could think of before he could
bring his spiritual pathology engine to bear upon them? Why might he not stand
and preach as he saw the dissenters doing sometimes in Lincoln's Inn Fields and
other thoroughfares? He could say all that Mr. Hawke had said; Mr. Hawke was a
very poor creature in Ernest's eyes now, for he was a low churchman, but we
should not be above learning from any one, and surely he could affect his
hearers as powerfully as Mr. Hawke had affected himself if he had only the
courage to set to work. The people whom he saw preaching in the squares
sometimes drew large audiences; he could at any rate preach better than they.
    Ernest broached this to Pryer, who treated it as something too outrageous to
be even thought of. Nothing, he said, could more tend to lower the dignity of
the clergy, and bring the church into contempt. His manner was brusque, and even
rude.
    Ernest ventured a little mild dissent. Granted it was not usually done, but
something at any rate must be done, and that quickly. This was how Wesley and
Whitfield had begun that great movement which had kindled religious life in the
minds of hundreds of thousands. This was no time to be standing on dignity. It
was just because Wesley and Whitfield had done what the church would not that
they had won men to follow them whom the church had now lost.
    Pryer eyed Ernest searchingly and after a pause said, »I don't know what to
make of you Pontifex - you are at once so very right and so very wrong. I agree
with you heartily that something should be done, but it must not be done in a
way which experience has shown leads to nothing but fanaticism and dissent. Do
you approve of these Wesleyans? Do you hold your ordination vows so cheaply as
to think that it does not matter whether the services of the church are
performed in her churches, and with all due ceremony or not? If you do - then,
frankly, you had no business to be ordained; if you do not, then remember that
one of the first duties of a young deacon is obedience to authority. Neither the
Catholic Church, nor yet the Church of England allows her clergy to preach in
the streets of cities when there is no lack of churches.«
    Ernest felt the force of this and Pryer saw that he wavered.
    »We are living,« he continued more genially, »in an age of transition, and
in a country which though it has gained much by the Reformation does not
perceive how much it has also lost. You cannot and must not hawk Christ about in
the streets as though you were in a heathen country whose inhabitants had never
heard of him. The people here in London have had ample warning. Every church
they pass is a protest to them against their lives, and a call to them to
repent. Every church bell they hear is a witness against them, every one of
those whom they meet on Sundays going to or coming from church is a warning
voice from God. If these countless influences produce no effect upon them,
neither will the few transient words which they would hear from you. You are
like Dives, and think that if one rose from the dead they would hear him.
Perhaps they might; but then you cannot pretend that even you have risen from
the dead.«
    Though the last few words were spoken laughingly, there was a sub-sneer
about them which made Ernest wince; but he was quite subdued, and so the
conversation ended; it left Ernest, however, not for the first time, consciously
dissatisfied with Pryer, and inclined to set his friend's opinion on one side -
not openly but quietly without telling Pryer anything about it.
 

                                   Chapter 57

He had hardly parted from Pryer before there occurred another incident which
strengthened his discontent. He had fallen as I have shown among a gang of
spiritual thieves, or coiners who passed the basest metal upon him without his
finding it out, so childish and inexperienced was he in the way of anything but
those back eddies of the world - schools and universities. Among the bad
threepenny pieces which had been passed off upon him and which he kept for small
hourly disbursement was a remark that poor people were much nicer than the
richer and better educated. Ernest now said he always travelled third class not
because it was cheaper, but because the people whom he met in third-class
carriages were so much pleasanter and better behaved. As for the young men who
attended Ernest's evening classes they were pronounced to be more intelligent
and better ordered generally than the average run of Oxford and Cambridge men.
Our foolish young friend having heard Pryer talk to this effect, caught all he
said and reproduced it more suo.
    One evening, however, about this time, whom should he see coming along a
small street not far from his own, but, of all people in the world, Towneley,
looking as full of life and good spirits as ever, and if possible even handsomer
than he had been at Cambridge. Much as Ernest liked him he found himself
shrinking from speaking to him, and was endeavouring to pass him without doing
so when Towneley saw him and stopped him at once, being pleased to see an old
Cambridge face. He seemed for the moment a little confused at being seen in such
a neighbourhood, but recovered himself so soon that Ernest hardly noticed it,
and then plunged into a few kindly remarks about old times. Ernest felt that he
quailed as he saw Towneley's eye wander to his white necktie and saw that he was
being reckoned up, and rather disapprovingly reckoned up as a parson. It was the
merest passing shade upon Towneley's face, but Ernest had felt it.
    Towneley said a few words of common form to Ernest about his profession as
being what he thought would be most likely to interest him, and Ernest, still
confused and shy, gave him for lack of something better to say his little
threepenny bit about poor people being so very nice. Towneley took this for what
it was worth and nodded assent, whereon Ernest imprudently went further and
said, »Don't you like poor people very much yourself?«
    Towneley gave his face a comical but good-natured screw, and said quietly
but slowly and decidedly, »No, No, No,« and escaped.
    It was all over with Ernest from that moment. As usual he did not know it,
but he had entered none the less upon another reaction. Towneley had just taken
Ernest's threepenny bit into his hands, looked at it and returned it to him as a
bad one. Why did he see in a moment that it was a bad one now though he had been
unable to see it when he had taken it from Pryer? Of course some poor people
were very nice and always would be so, but as though scales had fallen suddenly
from his eyes, he saw that no one was nicer for being poor, and that between the
upper and lower classes there was a gulf which amounted practically to an
impassable barrier.
    That evening he reflected a good deal. If Towneley was right - and Ernest
felt that the No had applied not to the remark about poor people only, but to
the whole scheme and scope of his own recently adopted ideas, he and Pryer must
surely be on a wrong track; Towneley had not argued with him: he had said one
word only - and that one of the shortest in the language, but Ernest was in a
fit state for inoculation, and the minute particle of virus set about working
immediately.
    Which did he now think was most likely to have taken the juster view of life
and things, and whom would it be best to imitate, Towneleys? or Pryers? His
heart returned answer to itself without a moment's hesitation. The faces of men
of this kind were open and kindly; they looked as if at ease themselves and as
though they would set all who had to do with them at ease as far as might be.
The faces of Pryer and his friends were not like this. Why had he felt tacitly
rebuked as soon as he had met Towneley? Was he not a Christian? Certainly; he
believed in the Church of England as a matter of course. Then how could he be
himself wrong in trying to act up to the faith that he and Towneley held in
common? He was trying to lead a quiet unobtrusive life of self-devotion, whereas
Towneley was not, so far as he could see, trying for anything of the kind - he
was only trying to get on comfortably in the world, and to look, and be, as nice
as possible. And he was nice, and Ernest knew that such men as himself and Pryer
were not nice, and his old dejection came over him.
    Then came an even worse reflection; how if he had fallen among material
thieves as well as spiritual ones? He knew very little of how his money was
going on; he had put it all now into Pryer's hands, and though Pryer gave him
cash to spend whenever he wanted it, he seemed impatient of being questioned as
to what was being done with the principal. It was part of the understanding, he
said, that that was to be left to him, and Ernest had better stick to this or
he, Pryer, would throw up the college of Spiritual Pathology altogether; and so
Ernest was cowed into acquiescence - or cajoled, according to the humour in
which Pryer saw him to be. Ernest thought that further questions would look as
if he doubted Pryer's word, and also that he had gone too far to be able to
recede in decency or honour. This however he felt was riding out to meet trouble
unnecessarily. Pryer had been a little impatient, but he was a gentleman and an
admirable man of business, so his money would doubtless come back to him all
right some day.
    Ernest comforted himself as regards this last source of anxiety, but as
regards the other, he began to feel as though if he was to be saved a good
Samaritan must hurry up from somewhere - he knew not whence.
 

                                   Chapter 58

Next day he felt stronger again. He had been listening to the voice of the evil
one on the night before, and would parley no more with such thoughts. He had
chosen his profession, and his duty was to persevere with it. If he was unhappy
it was probably because he was not giving up all for Christ. Let him see whether
he could not do more than he was doing now, and then perhaps a light would be
shed upon his path.
    It was all very well to have made the discovery that he did not very much
like poor people, but he had got to put up with them, for it was among them that
his work must lie. Such men as Towneley were very kind and considerate, but he
knew well enough it was only on condition that he did not preach to them. He
could manage the poor better, and let Pryer sneer as he liked, he was resolved
to go more among them and try the effect of bringing Christ to them if they
would not come and seek Christ of themselves. He would begin with his own house.
    Who then should he take first? Surely he could not do better than begin with
the tailor who lived immediately over his head. This would be desirable not only
because he was the one who seemed to stand most in need of conversion, but also
because if he were once converted he would no longer beat his wife at two
o'clock in the morning, and the house would be much pleasanter in consequence.
He would therefore go upstairs at once and have a quiet talk with this man.
    Before doing so he thought it would be well if he were [to] draw up
something like a plan of a campaign; he therefore reflected over some pretty
conversations which would do very nicely if Mr. Holt would be kind enough to
make the answers proposed for him in their proper places. But the man was a
great hulking fellow of a savage temper; and Ernest was forced to admit that
unforeseen developments might arise to disconcert him. They say it takes nine
tailors to make a man, but Ernest felt that it would take at least nine Ernests
to make a Mr. Holt. How if as soon as Ernest came in, the tailor were to become
violent and abusive? What could he do? Mr. Holt was in his own lodgings, and had
a right to be undisturbed. A legal right, yes, but had he moral right? Ernest
thought not, considering his mode of life. But put this on one side; if the man
were to be violent what should he do? Paul had fought with wild beasts at
Ephesus - that must indeed have been awful - but perhaps they were not very wild
wild beasts; a rabbit and a canary are wild beasts; but formidable or not as
wild beasts go, they would nevertheless stand no chance against St. Paul, for he
was inspired; the miracle would have been if the wild beasts escaped, not that
St. Paul should have done so; but however all this might be Ernest felt that he
dared not begin to convert Mr. Holt by fighting him. Why, when he had heard Mrs.
Holt screaming »murder,« he had cowered under the bed clothes, and waited
expecting to hear the blood dripping through the ceiling on to his own floor -
his imagination translated every sound into a pat, pat, pat, and once or twice
he thought he had felt it dropping on to his counterpane - but he had never gone
upstairs to try and rescue poor Mrs. Holt. Happily it had proved next morning
that Mrs. Holt was in her usual health.
    Ernest was in despair about hitting on any good way of opening up spiritual
communication with his neighbour when it occurred to him that he had better
perhaps begin by going upstairs and knocking very gently at Mr. Holt's door. He
would then resign himself to the guidance of the Holy Spirit and act as the
occasion, which I suppose was another name for the Holy Spirit, suggested.
Triply armed with this reflection he mounted the stairs quite jauntily, and was
about to knock when he heard Holt's voice inside swearing savagely at his wife.
This made him pause to think whether after all the moment was an auspicious one,
and while he was thus pausing Mr. Holt, who had heard that someone was on the
stairs, opened the door and put his head out. When he saw Ernest he made an
unpleasant not [to] say offensive movement which might or might not have been
directed at Ernest, and looked altogether so ugly that my hero had an
instantaneous and unequivocal revelation from the Holy Spirit to the effect that
he should continue his journey upstairs at once as though he had never intended
arresting it at Mr. Holt's room, and begin by converting Mr. and Mrs. Baxter,
the Methodists in the top floor front. So this was what he did.
    These good people received him with open arms and were quite ready to talk.
He was beginning to convert them from Methodism to the Church of England, when
all at once he found himself embarrassed by discovering that he did not know
what he was to convert them from. He knew the Church of England, or thought he
did, but he knew nothing of Methodism beyond its name. When he found that
according to Mr. Baxter the Wesleyans had a rigorous system of Church discipline
(which worked admirably in practice) it appeared to him that John Wesley had
anticipated the spiritual engine which he and Pryer were a-preparing, and when
he left the room he was aware that he had caught more of a spiritual Tartar than
he had expected. But he must certainly explain to Pryer that the Wesleyans had a
system of church discipline. This was very important.
    Mr. Baxter advised Ernest on no account to meddle with Mr. Holt, and Ernest
was much relieved at the advice. If an opportunity arose of touching the man's
heart, he would take it; he would pat the children on the head when he saw them
on the stairs, and ingratiate himself with them as far as he dared; they were
sturdy youngsters, and Ernest was afraid even of them - for they were ready with
their tongues, and knew much for their ages. Ernest felt it would indeed be
almost better for him that a millstone should be hanged about his neck and he
should be cast into the sea than that he should offend one of the little Holts.
However, he would try and not offend them; perhaps an occasional penny or two
might square them. This was as much as he could do, for he saw that the attempt
to be instant out of season, as well as in season, would, St. Paul's injunction
notwithstanding, end in failure.
    Mrs. Baxter gave a very bad account of Miss Emily Snow who lodged in the
second floor back next to Mr. Holt. Her story was quite different from that of
Mrs. Jupp the landlady. She would doubtless be only too glad to receive Ernest's
ministrations or those of any other gentleman, but she was no governess, she was
in the ballet at the pantomime, and besides this she was a very bad young woman,
and if Mrs. Baxter was landlady would not be allowed to stay in the house a
single hour - not she indeed.
    Miss Maitland in the next room to Mrs. Baxter's own was a quiet and
respectable young woman to all appearance; Mrs. Baxter had never known of any
goings on in that quarter, but, bless you, still waters run deep, and these
girls were all alike, one as bad as the other. She was out at all kinds of hours
and when you knew that you knew all.
    Ernest did not pay much heed to these aspersions of Mrs. Baxter's. Mrs. Jupp
had got round the greater number of his many blind sides, and had warned him not
to believe Mrs. Baxter, whose lip she said was something awful.
    Ernest had heard that women were always jealous of one another, and
certainly these young women were more attractive than Mrs. Baxter was, so
jealousy was probably at the bottom of it. If they were maligned there could be
no objection to his making their acquaintance; if not maligned they had all the
more need of his ministrations. He would reclaim them at once.
    He told Mrs. Jupp of his intention. Mrs. Jupp at first tried to dissuade
him, but seeing him resolute, suggested that she should herself see Miss Snow
first, so as to prepare her and prevent her from being alarmed by his visit. She
was not at home now, but in the course of the next day it should be arranged. In
the meantime he had better try Mr. Shaw the tinker in the front kitchen. Mrs.
Baxter had told Ernest that Mr. Shaw was from the North Country, and an avowed
free thinker; he would probably, she said, rather like a visit but she did not
think Ernest would stand much chance of making a convert of him.
 

                                   Chapter 59

Before going down into the kitchen to convert the tinker Ernest ran hurriedly
over his analysis of Paley's evidences, and put into his pocket a copy of
Archbishop Whateley's Historic Doubts. Then he descended the dark rotten old
stairs and knocked at the tinker's door. Mr. Shaw was very civil; he said he was
rather throng just now, but if Ernest did not mind the sound of hammering he
should be very glad of a talk with him. Our hero, assenting to this, ere long
led the conversation to Whateley's Historic Doubts - a work which as the reader
may know pretends to show that there never was any such person as Napoleon
Bonaparte, and thus satirises the arguments of those who have attacked the
Christian miracles.
    Mr. Shaw said he knew Historic Doubts perfectly well.
    »And what do you think of it?« said Ernest, who regarded the pamphlet as a
masterpiece of wit and cogency.
    »If you really want to know,« said Mr. Shaw with a sly twinkle, »I think
that he who was so willing and able to prove that what was, was not, would be
equally able and willing to make a case for thinking that what was not, was, if
it suited his purpose.« Ernest was very much taken aback. How was it that all
the clever people at Cambridge had never put him up to this simple rejoinder?
The answer is easy: they did not develop it for the same reason that a hen had
never developed webbed feet - that is to say because they did not want to do so
- but this was before the days of Evolution, and Ernest could as yet know
nothing of the great principle that underlies it.
    »You see,« continued Mr. Shaw, »these writers are all paid advocates. They
get their living by writing in a certain way, and the more they write in that
way, the more they are likely to get on. You should not call them dishonest for
this any more than a judge should call a barrister dishonest for earning his
living by defending one in whose innocence he does not seriously believe; but
you should hear the barrister on the other side before you decide upon the
case.«
    This was another facer. Ernest could only stammer that he had endeavoured to
examine these questions as carefully as he could.
    »You think you have,« said Mr. Shaw; »you Oxford and Cambridge gentlemen
think you have examined everything. I have examined very little myself except
the bottoms of old kettles and saucepans, but if you will answer me a few
questions, I will tell you whether or no you have examined much more than I
have.«
    Ernest expressed his readiness to be questioned.
    »Then,« said the tinker, »give me the story of the Resurrection of Jesus
Christ as told in St. John's gospel.«
    I am sorry to say that Ernest mixed up the four accounts in a deplorable
manner; he even made the angel come down and roll away the stone and sit upon
it. He was covered with confusion when the tinker first told him without the
book of some of his many inaccuracies, and then verified his criticisms by
referring to the New Testament itself.
    »Now,« said Mr. Shaw good-naturedly, »I am an old man, and you are a young
one, so perhaps you'll not mind my giving you a piece of advice. I like you, for
I believe you mean well, but you've been real bad brought up, and I don't think
you have ever had so much as a chance yet. You know nothing of our side of the
question and I have just shown you that you do not know much more of your own,
but I think you will make a kind of Carlyle sort of a man some day. Now go
upstairs, and read the accounts of the resurrection, not as wanting to find the
story true but as wanting to find out whether it is true or not. When you can
say the four accounts of the resurrection correctly without mixing them up, and
have got a clear idea of what it is that each writer tells us, then if you feel
inclined to pay me another visit I shall be glad to see you, for I shall know
you have made a good beginning and mean business. Till then, Sir, I must wish
you a very good morning.«
    Ernest retreated abashed. An hour sufficed him to perform the task enjoined
upon him by Mr. Shaw; and at the end of that hour, the »No, No, No,« which still
sounded in his ears as he heard it from Towneley, came ringing up more loudly
still from the very pages of the Bible itself, and in respect of the most
important of all the events which are recorded in it. Surely Ernest's first
day's attempt at more promiscuous visiting, and at carrying out his principles
more thoroughly, had not been unfruitful. But he must go and have a talk with
Pryer. He therefore got his lunch and went to Pryer's lodgings. Pryer not being
at home, he lounged to the British Museum Reading Room, then recently opened,
sent for the Vestiges of Creation, which he had never yet seen, and spent the
rest of the afternoon till closing time in reading it.
    Ernest did not see Pryer on the day of his conversation with Mr. Shaw, but
he did so next morning and found him in a good temper, which of late he had
rarely been. Sometimes, indeed, he had behaved to Ernest in a way which did not
bode well for the harmony with which the college of Spiritual Pathology would
work when it had once been founded. It almost seemed as though he were trying to
get a complete moral ascendency over him, so as to make him a creature of his
own. He did not think it possible that he could go too far, and indeed when I
reflect upon my hero's folly and inexperience, there is much to be said in
excuse of the conclusion which Pryer came to.
    As a matter of fact, however, it was not so. Ernest's faith in Pryer had
been too great to be shaken down all in a moment, but it had been weakened
lately more than once. Ernest had fought hard against allowing himself to see
this, nevertheless any third person who knew the pair would have been able to
see that the connection between the two might end at any moment - for when the
time for one of Ernest's snipe-like changes of flight came he was quick in
making it; the time, however, was not yet quite come, and the intimacy between
the two was apparently all that it had ever been. It was only that horrid money
business (so said Ernest to himself) that caused any unpleasantness between
them, and no doubt Pryer was right, and he, Ernest, much too nervous. However,
that might stand over for the present.
    In like manner, though he had received a shock by reason of his conversation
with Mr. Shaw, and by looking at the Vestiges, he was as yet too much stunned to
realise the change which was coming over him. In each case the momentum of old
habits carried him forward in the old direction. He therefore called on Pryer
and spent an hour and more with him.
    He did not say that he had been visiting among his neighbours; this to Pryer
would have been like a red rag to a bull. He only talked in much his usual vein
about the proposed college, the lamentable want of interest in spiritual things
which was characteristic of modern society, and other kindred matters; he
concluded by saying that for the present he feared Pryer was indeed right and
that nothing could be done.
    »As regards the laity,« said Pryer, »nothing; not until we have a discipline
which we can enforce with pains and penalties. How can a sheep dog work a flock
of sheep unless he can bite occasionally as well as bark? But as regards
ourselves we can do much.«
    Pryer's manner was strange throughout the conversation as though he were
thinking all the time of something else. His eyes wandered curiously over
Ernest, as Ernest had often noticed them wander before; the words were about
church discipline, but somehow or other the discipline part of the story had a
knack of dropping out after having been again and again emphatically declared to
apply to the laity and not to the clergy; once indeed Pryer had pettishly
exclaimed, »Oh bother the college of Spiritual Pathology.« As regards the
clergy, glimpses of a pretty large cloven hoof kept peeping out from under the
saintly robe of Pryer's conversation, to the effect that so long as they were
theoretically perfect, practical peccadilloes - or even peccadaccios, if there
is such a word - were of less importance. He was restless as though wanting to
approach a subject which he did not quite venture to touch upon, and kept
harping (he did this about every third day) on the wretched lack of definition
concerning the limits of vice and virtue, and the way in which half the vices
wanted regulating rather than prohibiting. He dwelt also on the advantages of
complete unreserve, and hinted that there were mysteries into which Ernest had
not yet been initiated but which would enlighten him when he got to know them as
he would be allowed to do when his friends saw that he was strong enough.
    Pryer had often been like this before, but never so nearly, as it seemed to
Ernest, coming to a point - though what the point was he could not fully
understand. His inquietude was communicating itself to Ernest, who would
probably have ere long come to know as much as Pryer could tell him, but the
conversation was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a visitor. We shall
never know how it would have ended, for this was the very last time that Ernest
ever saw Pryer. Perhaps Pryer was going to break to him some bad news about his
speculations.
 

                                   Chapter 60

Ernest now went home and occupied himself till lunch with studying Dean Alford's
notes upon the various Evangelistic records of the resurrection - doing as Mr.
Shaw had told him, and trying to find out not that they were all accurate but
whether they were all accurate or no. He did not care which result he should
arrive at, but he was resolved that he would reach the one or the other. When he
had finished Dean Alford's notes he found them come to this, namely, that no one
yet had succeeded in bringing the four accounts into tolerable harmony with each
other, and that the Dean, seeing no chance of succeeding better than his
predecessors had done, recommended that the whole story should be taken on trust
- and this Ernest was not prepared to do.
    He got his lunch - went out for a long walk and returned to dinner at half
past six. While Mrs. Jupp was getting him his dinner - a steak and a pint of
stout - she told him that Miss Snow would be very happy to see him in about an
hour's time. This disconcerted him, for his mind was too unsettled for him to
wish to convert anyone just then. He reflected a little, and found that in spite
of the sudden shock to his opinions he was being irresistibly drawn to pay the
visit as though nothing had happened. It would not look well for him not to go,
for he was known to be in the house. He ought not to be in too great a hurry to
change his opinions on such a matter as the evidence for Christ's Resurrection
all of a sudden - besides he need not talk to Miss Snow about this subject
to-day - there were other things he might talk about. What other things? Ernest
felt his heart beat fast and fiercely and an inward monitor warned him that he
was thinking of anything rather [than] of Miss Snow's soul.
    What should he do? Fly, fly, fly - it was the only safety. But would Christ
have fled? Even though Christ had not died and risen from the dead there could
be no question that he was the model whose example we were bound to follow.
Christ would not have fled from Miss Snow, he was sure of that, for he went
about more especially with prostitutes and disreputable people. Now, as then, it
was the business of the true Christian to call not the righteous but sinners to
repentance. It would be inconvenient to him to change lodgings and he could not
ask Mrs. Jupp to turn Miss Snow and Miss Maitland out of the house. Where was he
to draw the line? Who would be just good enough to live in the same house with
him, and who just not good enough?
    Besides, where were these poor girls to go? Was he to drive them from house
to house till they had no place to lie in? It was absurd; his duty was clear: he
would go and see Miss Snow at once, and try if he could not induce her to change
her present mode of life; if he found temptation becoming too strong for him he
would fly then - so he went upstairs with his Bible under his arm, and a
consuming fire in his heart.
    He found Miss Snow looking very pretty in a neatly not to say demurely
furnished room. I think she had bought an illuminated text or two and pinned it
up over her fireplace that morning. Ernest was very much pleased with her, and
mechanically placed his Bible upon the table; he had just opened a timid
conversation and was deep in blushes, when a hurried step came bounding up the
stairs as though of one over whom the force of gravity had little power and a
man burst into the room saying, »I'm come before my time.« It was Towneley.
    His jaw dropped as he caught sight of Ernest, »What? you here Pontifex! -
Well upon my word!«
    I cannot describe the hurried explanations that passed quickly between the
three - enough that in less than a minute Ernest, blushing more scarlet than
ever, slunk off Bible and all, deeply humiliated as he contrasted himself and
Towneley. Before he had reached the bottom of the staircase leading to his own
room he heard Towneley's hearty laughter, through Miss Snow's door, and cursed
the hour that he was born.
    Then it flashed upon him that if he could not see Miss Snow he could at any
rate see Miss Maitland. He knew well enough what he wanted now, and as for the
Bible, he pushed it from him to the other end of his table. It fell over on to
the floor and he kicked it into a corner. It was the Bible given him at his
christening by his affectionate godmother and aunt Elizabeth Allaby! True, he
knew very little of Miss Maitland, but ignorant young fools in Ernest's state do
not reflect or reason closely. Mrs. Baxter had said that Miss Maitland and Miss
Snow were birds of a feather, and Mrs. Baxter probably knew better than that old
liar Mrs. Jupp.
 
»Oh opportunity,« says Shakespeare, »thy guilt is great,
'Tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason.
Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get,
Whoever plots the sin, thou plott'st the season;
And in thy shady cell where none may spy him
Sits Sin to seize the souls that wander by him.«
 
If the guilt of opportunity is great, how much greater is the guilt of that
which is believed to be opportunity, but in reality is no opportunity at all? If
the better part of valour is discretion, how much more is not discretion the
better part of vice?
    About ten minutes after we last saw Ernest, a scared insulted girl, flushed
and trembling, was seen hurrying from Mrs. Jupp's house as fast as her agitated
state would let her, and in another ten minutes, two policemen were seen also
coming out of Mrs. Jupp's between whom there shambled rather than walked, our
unhappy friend Ernest - with staring eyes, ghastly pale, and with despair
branded upon every line of his face.
 

                                   Volume III

                                     Part I

                                   Chapter 61

Pryer had done well to warn Ernest against promiscuous house to house
visitation. He had not gone outside Mrs. Jupp's street door, and yet what had
been the result? Mr. Holt had put him in bodily fear; Mr. and Mrs. Baxter had
nearly made a Methodist of him; Mr. Shaw had undermined his faith in the
resurrection; Miss Snow's charms had ruined - or would have done so but for an
accident - his moral character; as for Miss Maitland he had done his best to
ruin hers, and had damaged himself gravely and irretrievably in consequence. The
only lodger who had done him no harm was the bellows-mender - whom he had not
visited.
    Other young clergymen, much greater fools in many respects than he, would
not have got into these scrapes; he seemed to have developed an aptitude for
mischief almost from the day of his having been ordained. He could hardly preach
without making some horrid faux pas. He preached one Sunday morning when the
bishop was at his rector's church, and made his sermon turn upon the question
what kind of little cake it was that the widow of Sarepta had intended making
when Elijah found her gathering a few sticks. He demonstrated that it was a seed
cake. The sermon was really very amusing and more than once he saw a smile pass
over the sea of faces underneath him. The bishop was very angry and gave my hero
a severe reprimand in the vestry after service was over; the only excuse he
could make was that he was preaching ex tempore, had not thought of this
particular point till he was actually in the pulpit, and had then been carried
away with it.
    Another time he preached upon the barren fig tree, and described the hopes
of the owner as he watched the delicate blossom unfold, and give promise of such
beautiful fruit in autumn; next day he received a letter from a botanical member
of his congregation who explained to him that this could hardly have been,
inasmuch as the fig produces its fruit first and blossoms inside the fruit, or
so nearly so that no flower is perceptible to an ordinary observer. This last
however was an accident which might have happened to any one but a scientist or
an inspired writer.
    The only excuse I can make for him is that he was very young - not yet four
and twenty - and that in mind as in body, like most of those who in the end come
to think for themselves, he was a slow grower. By far the greater part,
moreover, of his education had been an attempt not so much to keep him in
blinkers as to gouge his eyes out altogether.
    But to return to my story. It transpired afterwards that Miss Maitland had
had no intention of giving Ernest in charge when she ran out of Mrs. Jupp's
house. She was running away because she was frightened, but almost the first
person whom she ran against had happened to be a policeman of a serious turn of
mind, who wished to gain a reputation for activity; he stopped her, questioned
her, frightened her still more, and it was he, rather than Miss Maitland, who
insisted on giving my hero in charge to himself and another constable.
    Towneley was still in Mrs. Jupp's house when the policemen came. He had
heard a disturbance, and going down to Ernest's room while Miss Maitland was out
of doors, had found him lying, as it were, stunned at the foot of the moral
precipice over which he had that moment fallen. He saw the whole thing at a
glance, but before he could take action, the policemen came in and action became
impossible.
    He asked Ernest who were his friends in London. Ernest at first wanted not
to say, but Towneley soon gave him to understand that he must do as he was bid,
and selected myself from the few whom he had named. »Writes for the stage does
he?« said Towneley, »Does he write comedy?« Ernest thought Towneley meant that I
ought to write tragedy, and said he was afraid I wrote burlesque. »Oh come,
come,« said Towneley, »that will do famously. I will go and see him at once.«
But on second thoughts he determined to stay with Ernest, and go with him to the
police court. So he sent Mrs. Jupp for me. Mrs. Jupp hurried so fast to fetch me
that in spite of the weather's being still cold she was giving out as she
expressed it in streams. The poor old wretch would have taken a cab but she had
no money and did not like to ask Towneley to give her some. I saw that something
very serious had happened, but was not prepared for anything so deplorable as
what Mrs. Jupp actually told me. As for Mrs. Jupp, she said her heart had been
jumping out of its socket and back again ever since.
    I got her into a cab with me, and we went off to the police station. She
talked without ceasing.
    »And if the neighbours do say cruel things about me, I'm sure it ain't no
thanks to him if they're true. You know I'm as fat as a little mold underneath;
I told Mr. Pontifex so a dozen times over if I've told him once, but he never
took a bit o' notice no more than if one had been his sister. Oh it's enough to
make anyone's back bone curdle. Then I thought perhaps my Rose might get on
better with him, so I set her to dust him and clean him as though I were busy,
and gave her such a beautiful clean new pinny, but he never took no notice no
more than he did of me, and she didn't want no compliment neither; no, no, it
wasn't't that, she wouldn't have taken not a shilling from him though he had
offered it, but he didn't seem to know anything at all. I can't make out what
the young men are a-coming to; I wish the horn may blow for me and the worms
take me this very night if it's not enough to make a woman stand before God and
strike the one half on'em silly to see the way they goes on, and many an honest
girl has to go home night after night without so much as a fourpenny bit and
paying three and sixpence a week rent and not a shelf nor cupboard in the place
and a dead wall in front of the window.
    It's not Mr. Pontifex,« she continued, »that's so bad; he's good at heart;
he never say nothing unkind; and then there's his dear eyes - but when I speak
like that to my Rose she calls me an old fool and says I ought to be poleaxed.
It's that Pryer as I can't abide. Oh he! He likes to wound a woman's feelings he
do, and to chuck anything in her face he do; he likes to wind a woman up, and to
wound her down.« (Mrs. Jupp pronounced wound as though it rhymed to sound.)
»It's a gentleman's place to soothe a woman, but he, he'd like to tear her hair
out by handfuls. Why he told me to my face that I was a-getting old; old indeed;
there's not a woman in London knows my age except Mrs. Davis down in the Old
Kent Road, and beyond a haricot vein in one of my legs I'm as young as ever I
was; but never mind, it's only lent, and all the neighbours takes him for at
least forty. Old indeed; there's many a good tune played on an old fiddle. I
hate his nasty insinuendos.«
    Even if I had wanted to stop her I could not have done so. She said a great
deal more than I have given above. I have left out much because I could not
remember it, but still more because it was really impossible for me to print it.
    When we got to the police station I found Towneley and Ernest already there.
The charge was one of assault, but not aggravated by serious violence. Even so,
however, it was lamentable enough, and we both saw that our young friend would
have to pay dearly for his inexperience. We tried to bail him out for the night,
but the inspector would not accept bail so we were forced to leave him.
    Towneley then went back to Mrs. Jupp's to see if he could find Miss
Maitland, and arrange matters with her. She was not there, but he traced her to
the house of her father who lived at Camberwell. The father was furious, and
would not hear of any intercession on Towneley's part. He was a dissenter, and
glad to make the most of any scandal against a clergyman; Towneley therefore had
been obliged to return unsuccessful.
    Next morning Towneley - who regarded Ernest as a drowning man who must be
picked out of the water somehow or other if possible, irrespectively of the way
in which he got into it, called on me, and we put the matter into the hands of
one of the best known attornies of the day. I was greatly pleased with Towneley,
and thought it due to him to tell him what I had told no one else, I mean that
Ernest would come into his aunt's money in a few years' time, and would
therefore then be rich.
    Towneley was doing all he could before this, but I knew that the knowledge I
had imparted to him would make him feel as though Ernest was more one of his own
class, and had therefore a greater claim upon his good offices. As for Ernest
himself his gratitude was deeper than could be expressed in words. I have heard
him say that he can call to mind many moments each one of which might well pass
for the happiest of his life, but that this night stands clearly out as the most
painful that he ever passed; yet so kind and considerate was Towneley that it
was very bearable.
    But with all the best wishes in the world neither Towneley nor I could do
much to help, beyond giving our moral support. Our attorney told us that the
magistrate before whom Ernest would appear was very severe on cases of this
description, and that the fact of his being a clergyman would tell against him.
»Ask for no remand,« he said, »and make no defence. We will call Mr. Pontifex's
rector and you two gentlemen as witnesses for previous good character; these
will be enough; let us then make a profound apology, and beg the magistrate to
deal with the case summarily instead of sending it for trial - if you can get
this, believe me, your young friend will be better out of it than he has any
right to expect.«
 

                                   Chapter 62

This advice besides being obviously sensible would end in saving Ernest both
time and suspense of mind, so we had no hesitation in adopting it. The case was
called on about eleven o'clock, but we got it adjourned till three, so as to
give time for Ernest to set his affairs as straight as he could, and to execute
a power of attorney enabling me to act for him as I should think fit while he
was in prison.
    Then all came out about Pryer and the college of Spiritual Pathology. He had
even greater difficulty in making a clean breast of this than he had had in
telling us about Miss Maitland; but he told us all, and the upshot was that he
had actually handed over to Pryer every halfpenny that he then possessed, with
no other security than Pryer's I.O.U.'s for the amount. Ernest, though still
declining to believe that Pryer could be guilty of dishonourable conduct, was
becoming alive to the folly of what he had been doing; he still made sure,
however, of recovering at any rate the greater part of his property, as soon as
Pryer should have had time to sell. Towneley and I were of a different opinion,
but we did not say what we thought.
    It was dreary work waiting all the morning amid such unfamiliar and
depressing surroundings. I thought how the psalmist had exclaimed with quiet
irony, »One day in thy courts is better than a thousand,« and I thought that I
could utter a very similar sentiment in respect of the courts in which Towneley
and I were now compelled to loiter. At last, about three o'clock the case was
called on, and we went round to the part of the court which is reserved for the
general public, while Ernest was taken into the prisoner's dock. As soon as he
had collected himself sufficiently he recognised the magistrate as the old
gentleman who had spoken to him in the train, on the day he was leaving school,
and saw, or thought he saw, to his great grief, that he too was recognised.
    Mr. Ottery, for this was our attorney's name, took the line he had proposed;
he called no other witnesses than the rector, Towneley, and myself and threw
himself on the mercy of the magistrate. When he had concluded the magistrate
spoke as follows.
    »Ernest Pontifex, yours is one of the most painful cases that I have ever
had to deal with. You have been singularly favoured in your parentage and
education. You have had before you the example of blameless parents, who
doubtless instilled into you from childhood the enormity of the offence which by
your own confession you have committed. You were sent to one of the best public
schools in England. It is not likely that in the healthy atmosphere of such a
school as Roughborough you can have come across contaminating influences; you
were probably, I may say certainly, impressed at school with the heinousness of
any attempt to depart from the strictest chastity until such time as you had
entered into a state of matrimony. At Cambridge you were shielded from impurity
by every obstacle which virtuous and vigilant authorities could devise, and even
had the obstacles been fewer, your parents probably took care that your means
should not admit of your throwing money away upon abandoned characters. At night
proctors patrolled the street and dogged your steps if you tried to go into any
haunt where the presence of vice was suspected. By day the females who were
admitted within the college walls were selected mainly on the score of age and
ugliness. It is hard to see what more can be done for any young man than this.
For the last four or five months you have been a clergyman, and if a single
impure thought had still remained within your mind, ordination should have
removed it; nevertheless not only does it appear that your mind is as impure as
though none of the influences to which I have referred above had been brought to
bear upon it, but it seems as though their only result had been this - that you
have not even the common sense to be able to distinguish between a respectable
girl and a prostitute.
    If I were to take a strict view of my duty I should commit you for trial,
but in consideration of this being your first offence, I shall deal leniently
with you and sentence you to imprisonment with hard labour for six calendar
months.«
    Towneley and I both thought there was a touch of irony in the magistrate's
speech and that he would have given a lighter sentence if he could; but that was
neither here nor there. We obtained leave to see Ernest for a few minutes before
he was removed to Coldbath Fields, where he was to serve his term, and found him
so thankful to have been summarily dealt with that he hardly seemed to care
about the miserable plight in which he was to pass the next six months. When he
came out, he said, he would take what remained of his money, go off to America
or Australia, and never be heard of more.
    Full of this resolve we left him - I to write to Theobald, and also to
instruct my solicitor to get Ernest's money out of Pryer's hands, and Towneley
to see the reporters and keep the case out of the newspapers. He was successful
as regards all the higher-class papers; there was only one journal, and that of
the lowest class, which was incorruptible.
 

                                   Chapter 63

I saw my solicitor at once, but when I tried to write to Theobald, I found it
better to say I would run down and see him. I therefore proposed this, asking
him to meet me at the station, and hinting that I must bring bad news about his
son. I knew he would not get my letter [more than] a couple of hours before I
should see him, and thought the short interval of suspense might break the shock
of what I had to say.
    Never do I remember to have halted more between two opinions than on my
journey to Battersby upon this unhappy errand. When I thought of the little
sallow-faced lad whom I had remembered years before, of the long and savage
cruelty with which he had been treated in childhood - cruelty none the less real
for having been due to ignorance and stupidity rather than to deliberate malice;
of the atmosphere of lying and self-laudatory hallucination in which he had been
brought up; of the readiness the boy had shown to love anything that would be
good enough to let him, and of how affection for his parents, unless I was much
mistaken, had only died in him because it had been killed anew, again and again
and again, each time that it had tried to spring; when I thought of all this I
felt as though, if the matter had rested with me, I would have sentenced
Theobald and Christina to mental suffering even more severe than that which was
about to fall upon them. But on the other hand when I thought of Theobald's own
childhood, of that dreadful old George Pontifex his father, of John and Mrs.
John, and of his two sisters, when again I thought of Christina's long years of
hope deferred that maketh the heart sick, before she was married, of the life
she must have led at Crampsford, and of the surroundings in the midst of which
she and her husband both lived at Battersby I felt as though the wonder was that
misfortunes so persistent had not been followed by even graver retribution.
    Poor people! They had tried to keep their ignorance of the world from
themselves by calling it the pursuit of heavenly things, and then shutting their
eyes to anything that might give them trouble. A son having been born to them
they had shut his eyes also as far as practicable. Who could blame them? They
had chapter and verse for everything they had either done or left undone; there
is no better thumbed precedent than that for being a clergyman and a clergyman's
wife. In what respect had they differed from their neighbours? How did their
households differ from those of any other clergyman of the better sort from one
end of England to the other? Why then should it have been upon them, of all
people in the world, that this tower of Siloam should have fallen?
    Surely it was the tower of Siloam that was naught rather than those who
stood under it; it was the system, rather than the people, that was at fault. If
Theobald and his wife had but known more of the world and of the things that are
therein, they would have done little harm to anyone. Selfish they would have
always been, but not more so than may very well be pardoned, and not more than
other people would be. As it was, the case was hopeless; it would be no use
their even entering into their mothers' wombs and being born again. They must
not only be born again but they must be born again each one of them of a new
father and of a new mother and of a different line of ancestry for many
generations before their minds could become supple enough to learn anew. The
only thing to do with them was to humour them, and to make the best of them till
they died - and be thankful when they did so.
    Theobald got my letter as I had expected, and met me at the station nearest
to Battersby. As I walked back with him towards his own house I broke the news
as gently to him as I could. I pretended that the whole thing was in great
measure a mistake, and that though Ernest no doubt had had intentions which he
ought to have resisted, he had not meant going anything like the length which
Miss Maitland supposed. I said we had felt how much appearances were against him
and had not dared to set up this defence before the magistrate though we had no
doubt about its being the true one.
    Theobald acted with a readier and acuter moral sense than I had given him
credit for.
    »I will have nothing more to do with him,« he exclaimed promptly; »I will
never see his face again; do not let him write either to me or to his mother; we
know of no such person. Tell him you have seen me, and that from this day
forward I shall put him out of my mind as though he had never been born. I have
been a good father to him, and his mother idolised him; selfishness and
ingratitude have been the only return we have had from him; my hope henceforth
must be in my remaining children.«
    I told him how Ernest's fellow curate had got hold of his money, and hinted
that he might very likely be penniless or nearly so on leaving prison. Theobald
did not seem displeased at this, but added soon afterwards -
    »If this proves to be the case, tell him from me that I will give him a
hundred pounds, if he will tell me through you where he will have it paid; but
tell him not to write and thank me; and say that if he attempts to open up
direct communications either with his mother or myself, he shall not have a
penny of the money.«
    Knowing what I knew, and having determined on violating Miss Pontifex's
instructions should the occasion arise, I did not think Ernest would be any the
worse for a complete estrangement from his family, so I acquiesced more readily
in what Theobald had proposed than that gentleman may have expected.
    Thinking it better that I should not see Christina, I left Theobald near
Battersby and walked back to the station. On my way I was pleased to reflect
that Ernest's father was less of a fool than I had taken him to be, and had the
greater hopes therefore that his son's blunders might be due to postnatal rather
than congenital misfortunes. Accidents which happen to a man before he is born,
in the persons of his ancestors, will, if he remembers them at all, leave an
indelible impression on him; they will have moulded his character so that, do
what he will, it is hardly possible for him to escape their consequences. If a
man is to enter into the kingdom of heaven he must do so not only as a little
child but as a little embryo, or rather as a little zoösperm - and not only this
but as one that has come of zoösperms who have entered into the kingdom of
heaven before him for many generations. Accidents which occur for the first time
and belong to the period since a man's last birth are not as a general rule so
permanent in their effects, though of course they may sometimes be so. At any
rate I was not displeased at the view which Ernest's father took of the
situation.
 

                                   Chapter 64

After Ernest had been sentenced he was taken back to the cells, to wait the van
which should take him to Coldbath Fields where he was to serve his term.
    He was still too stunned and dazed by the suddenness with which events had
happened during the last twenty-four hours to be able to realise his position. A
great chasm had opened between his past and future; nevertheless he breathed;
his pulse beat; he could think and speak; it seemed to him that he ought to be
prostrated by the blow that had fallen on him, but he was not prostrated; he had
suffered from many a far smaller lâche far more acutely. It was not until he
thought of the pain his disgrace would inflict on his father and mother that he
felt how readily he would have given up all he had, rather than have fallen into
his present plight. It would break his mother's heart. It must. He knew it would
- and it was he who had done this.
    He had had a headache coming on all the forenoon but as he thought of his
father and mother his pulse quickened and the pain in his head suddenly became
intense: he could hardly walk to the van and he found its motion almost
insupportable. On reaching prison he was too ill to be able to walk without
assistance across the hall, to the corridor or gallery where prisoners are
marshalled on their arrival. The prison warden, seeing at once that he was a
clergyman, did not suppose he was shamming, as he might have done in the case of
an old gaolbird; he therefore sent for the doctor. When this gentleman arrived
Ernest was declared to be suffering from an incipient attack of brain fever, and
was taken away to the infirmary. Here he hovered for the next two months between
life and death, never in full possession of his reason, and often delirious, but
at last, contrary to the expectation of both doctor and nurse he began slowly to
recover.
    It is said that those who have been nearly drowned find the return to
consciousness much more painful than the loss of it had been, and so it was with
my hero. As he lay helpless and feeble it seemed to him a refinement of cruelty
that he had not died once for all during his delirium. He thought he should
still most likely recover only to sink a little later on from shame and sorrow;
nevertheless from day to day he mended, though so slowly that he could hardly
realise it to himself. One afternoon, however, about three weeks after he had
regained consciousness the nurse who tended him, and who had been very kind to
him, made some little rallying sally which amused him; he laughed, and as he did
so she clapped her hands and told him he would be a man again. The spark of hope
was kindled, and again he wished to live. Almost from that moment his thoughts
began to turn less to the horrors of the past, and more to the best way of
meeting the future.
    His worst pain was on behalf of his father and mother, and how he should
again face them. It still seemed to him that the best thing both for him and
them would be that he should sever himself from them completely, take whatever
money he could recover from Pryer, and go to some place at the uttermost parts
of the earth, where he should never meet anyone who had known him at school or
college, but start afresh. Or perhaps he might go to the gold fields in
California or Australia of which such wonderful accounts were then heard; there
he might even make his fortune, and return as an old man many years hence,
unknown to everyone, and if so he would live at Cambridge. As he built these
castles in air the spark of life became a flame, and he longed for health and
for the freedom which, now that so much of his sentence had expired, was not
after all far distant.
 

                                   Chapter 65

Then things began to shape themselves more definitely. Whatever happened he
would be a clergyman no longer. It would have been practically impossible for
him to have found another curacy, even if he had been so minded, but he was not
so minded; he hated the life he had been leading ever since he had begun to read
for orders; he could not argue about it, but simply he loathed it and would have
no more of it. As he dwelt on the prospect of becoming a layman again, however
disgraced, he rejoiced at what had befallen him, and found a blessing in this
very imprisonment which had at first seemed such an unspeakable misfortune.
    Perhaps the shock of so great a change in his surroundings had accelerated
changes in his opinions, just as the cocoons of silkworms, when sent in baskets
by rail, hatch before their time - through the novelty of heat and jolting. But
however this may be, his belief in the stories concerning the death,
resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ - and hence his faith in all the
other Christian miracles - had dropped off him once and forever. The
investigation he had made in consequence of Mr. Shaw's rebuke, hurried though it
was, had left a deep impression upon him; and now that he was well enough to
read, he made the New Testament his chief study - going through it in the spirit
which Mr. Shaw had desired of him, that is to say as one who wished neither to
believe or disbelieve, but cared only about finding out whether he ought to
believe or no. The more he read in this spirit the more the balance seemed to
lie in favour of unbelief, till in the end all further doubt became impossible,
and he saw plainly enough that, whatever else might be true, the story that
Christ had died, come to life again, and been carried from earth through clouds
into the heavens, could not now be accepted by unbiased people.
    It was well he had found it out so soon. In one way or another it was sure
to meet him sooner or later; he would probably have seen it years ago if he had
not been hoodwinked by people who were paid for hoodwinking him. What should he
have done, he asked himself, if he had not made his present discovery till years
later when he was more deeply committed to the life of a clergyman? Should he
have had the courage to face it? Or would he not more probably have evolved some
excellent reason for continuing to think as he had thought hitherto? Should he
have had the courage to break away even from his present curacy?
    He thought not, and knew not whether to be more thankful for having been
shown his error, or for having been caught up and twisted round so that he could
hardly err farther, almost at the very moment of his having discovered it. The
price he had had to pay for this boon was light as compared with the boon
itself. What is too heavy a price to pay for having duty made at once clear and
easy of fulfilment instead of very difficult? He was sorry for his father and
mother and he was sorry for Miss Maitland, but he was no longer sorry for
himself.
    It puzzled him, however, that he should not have known how much he had hated
being a clergyman till now. He knew that he did not particularly like it, but if
anyone had asked him whether he actively hated it, he would have answered no. I
suppose people almost always want something external to themselves to reveal to
them their own likes and dislikes. Our most assured likings have for the most
part been arrived at neither by introspection nor by any process of conscious
reasoning, but by the bounding forth of the heart to welcome the gospel
proclaimed to it by another. We hear some say that such and such a thing is thus
or thus, and in a moment the train that has been laid within us, but whose
presence we knew not, flashes into consciousness and perception.
    But a year ago he had bounded forth to welcome Mr. Hawke's sermon; since
then he had bounded after a college of Spiritual Pathology; now he was in full
cry after rationalism pure and simple; how could he be sure that his present
state of mind would be more lasting than his previous ones? He could not be
certain, but he felt as though he were on firmer ground now than he had ever
been before, and no matter how fleeting his present opinions might prove to be,
he was bound to act according to them till he saw reason to change them. How
impossible, he reflected, it would have been for him to do this if he had
remained surrounded by people like his father and mother, or Pryer and Pryer's
friends, and his rector. He had been observing, reflecting, and assimilating all
these months with no more consciousness of mental growth than a schoolboy has of
growth of body, but should he have been able to admit his growth to himself and
act up to his increased strength if he had remained in constant close connection
with people who assured him solemnly one and all that he was under a
hallucination? The combination against him was greater than his unaided strength
could have broken through, and he felt doubtful how far any shock less severe
than the one from which he was still suffering would have sufficed to free him.
 

                                   Chapter 66

As he lay on his bed day after day slowly recovering he woke up to the fact
which most men arrive at sooner or later, I mean, that very few care two straws
about truth, or have any confidence that it is righter and better to believe
what is true than what is untrue even though belief in the untruth may seem at
first sight most expedient. Yet it is only these few who can be said to believe
anything at all; the rest are simply unbelievers in disguise. Perhaps, after
all, these last are right; they have numbers and prosperity on their side; they
have all which the rationalist appeals to as his tests of right and wrong.
Right, according to him, is what seems right to the majority of sensible
well-to-do people; we know of no safer criterion than this, but what does the
decision thus arrived at involve? Simply this, that a conspiracy of silence
about things whose truth would be immediately apparent to disinterested
enquirers is not only tolerable but righteous on the part of those who profess
to be and take money for being par excellence guardians and teachers of truth.
Ernest saw no logical escape from this conclusion. He saw that belief on the
part of the early Christians in the miraculous nature of Christ's resurrection
was explicable without any supposition of miracle. The explanation lay under the
eyes of any who chose to take a moderate degree of trouble; it had been put
before the world again and again, and there had been no serious attempt to
refute it. How was it that Dean Alford, for example, who had made the New
Testament his specialty, could not or would not see what was so obvious to
Ernest himself? Could it be for any other reason than that he did not want to
see it? And if so was he not a traitor to the cause of truth? Yes; but was he
not also a respectable and successful man? And were not the vast majority of
respectable and successful men - such, for example, as all the bishops and
archbishops, doing exactly as Dean Alford did? And did not this constitute their
action right, no matter though it had been cannibalism or infanticide, or even
habitual untruthfulness of mind?
    Monstrous odious falsehood! Ernest's feeble pulse quickened and his pale
face flushed as this hateful view of life presented itself to him in all its
logical consistency. It was not the fact of most men being liars that shocked
him; that was all right enough, but even momentary doubt whether the few who
were not liars ought not to become liars too - there was no hope left if this
were so; if this were so, let him die, the sooner the better. »Lord,« he
exclaimed inwardly, »I don't believe one word of it, strengthen thou and confirm
my disbelief.« It seemed to him that he could never henceforth see a bishop
going to consecration without saying to himself, »There went Ernest Pontifex but
for the grace of God.« It was no doing of his; he could not boast; if he had
lived in the times of Christ he might himself have been an early Christian, or
even an Apostle for aught he knew, but thankful he might be, and was.
    The conclusion, then, that it might be better to believe error than truth,
should be ordered out of court at once, no matter by how clear a logic it had
been arrived at, but what was the alternative? It was this - that our criterion
of truth - i.e., that it is what commends itself to the great majority of
sensible and successful people - is not infallible. The rule is sound and covers
by far the greater number of cases, but it has its exceptions.
    He asked himself what were they? Ah! that was a difficult matter; there were
so many, and the rules which governed them were sometimes so subtle, that
mistakes always had and always would be made; it was just this that made it
impossible to reduce life to an exact science. There was a rough-and-ready
rule-of-thumb test of truth, and a number of rules as regards exceptions which
could be mastered without much trouble, yet there was a residue of cases in
which decision was difficult - so difficult that a man had better follow his
instinct than attempt to decide them by any process of reasoning.
    Instinct then is the ultimate court of appeal. And what is instinct? It is a
mode of faith in the evidence of things not actually seen. And so my hero
returned almost to the point from which he had started originally, namely that
the just shall live by faith.
    And this is what the just - that is to say reasonable people - do as regards
those daily affairs of life which most concern them. They settle smaller matters
by the exercise of their own deliberation; more important ones, such as the cure
of their own bodies, and those of any whom they may love, the investment of
their money, the extrication of their affairs from any serious mess - these
things they generally entrust to others of whose capacity they know little save
from general report; they act therefore on the strength of faith, not knowledge.
So the English nation entrusts the welfare of its fleet and naval defences to a
First Lord of the Admiralty, who, not being a sailor, can know nothing about
these matters except by acts of faith. There can be no doubt about faith and not
reason being the ultima ratio.
    Even Euclid who has laid himself as little open to the charge of credulity
as any writer who ever lived cannot get beyond this. He has no demonstrable
first premise. He requires postulates and axioms which transcend demonstration,
and without which he can do nothing. His superstructure indeed is demonstration,
but his ground is faith. Nor again can he get further than telling a man that he
is a fool if he persists in differing from him. He says »which is absurd,« and
declines to discuss the matter further. Faith and authority therefore prove to
be as necessary for him as for anyone else. »By faith in what, then,« asked
Ernest of himself, »shall a just man endeavour to live at this present time?« He
answered to himself, »At any rate not by faith in the supernatural element of
the Christian religion.«
    And how should he best persuade his fellow countrymen to leave off believing
in this supernatural element? Looking at the matter from a practical point of
view, he thought the Archbishop of Canterbury afforded the most promising key to
the situation. It lay between him and the Pope. The Pope was perhaps best in
theory, but in practise the Archbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well.
If he could only manage to sprinkle a pinch of salt as it were on the
Archbishop's tail, he might convert the whole Church of England to free thought,
by a coup de main. There must be an amount of cogency which even an Archbishop -
even an Archbishop whose perceptions had never been quickened by imprisonment
for assault - would not be able to withstand. When brought face to face with the
facts as he, Ernest, could arrange them, his Grace would have no resource but to
admit them; being an honourable man he would at once resign his Archbishopric,
and Christianity would become extinct in England within a few months' time. This
at any rate was how things ought to be. But all the time Ernest had no
confidence in the Archbishop's not hopping off just as the pinch was about to
fall on him, and this seemed so unfair that his blood boiled at the thought of
it. If this was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicious
use of bird lime or snare, or throw the salt onto him from an ambuscade.
    To do him justice it was not himself that he greatly cared about. He knew he
had been humbugged, and he knew also that the greater part of the ills which had
afflicted him were due indirectly, in chief measure, to the influence of
Christian teaching; still if the mischief had ended with himself, he should have
thought little about it; but there was his sister, and his brother Joey, and the
hundreds and thousands of young people throughout England whose lives were
yearly blighted through the lies told them by people whose business it was to
know better, but who scamped their work, and shirked difficulties instead of
facing them. It was this which made him think it worth while to be angry, and to
consider whether he could not at least do something towards saving others from
such years of waste and misery as he had had to pass himself. If there was no
truth in the miraculous accounts of Christ's death and resurrection, the whole
of the religion founded upon the historic truth of those events tumbled to the
ground. »Why,« he exclaimed, with all the arrogance of youth, »they put a gipsy
or fortune-teller into prison for getting money out of silly people who think
they have supernatural power; why should they not put a clergyman in prison for
pretending that he can absolve sins, or turn bread and wine into the flesh and
blood of one who died two thousand years ago? What,« he asked himself, »could be
more pure hankey-pankey than that a bishop should lay hands upon a young man and
pretend to convey to him the spiritual power to work this miracle? It was all
very well to talk about toleration; toleration like everything else had its
limits; besides, if it was to include the bishop let it include the
fortune-teller too.«
    He would explain all this to the Archbishop of Canterbury by and by, but as
he could not get hold of him just now, it occurred to him that he might
experimentalise advantageously upon the viler soul of the prison chaplain. It
was only those who took the first and most obvious step in their power who ever
do great things in the end, so one day when Mr. Hawes - for this was the
chaplain's name - was talking with him, Ernest introduced the question of
Christian evidences and tried to raise a discussion upon them. Mr. Hawes had
been very kind to him, but he was more than twice my hero's age, and had long
taken the measure of such objections as Ernest tried to put before him. I do not
suppose he believed in the actual objective truth of the stories about Christ's
resurrection and ascension more than Ernest did, but he knew that this was a
small matter, and that [the] real issue lay much deeper than this.
    Mr. Hawes was a man who had been in authority for many years, and he brushed
Ernest on one side as if he had been a fly. He did it so well that my hero never
ventured to tackle him again, and confined his conversation with him for the
future to such matters as what he had better do when he got out of prison; and
here Mr. Hawes was ever ready to listen to him with sympathy and kindness.
 

                                   Chapter 67

Ernest was now so far convalescent as to be able to sit up the greater part of
the day. He had been three months in prison, and, though not strong enough to
leave the infirmary was beyond all fear of a relapse. He was talking one day
with Mr. Hawes about his future, and again expressed his intention of emigrating
to Australia or New Zealand with the money he should recover from Pryer.
Whenever he spoke of this he noticed that Mr. Hawes looked grave and was silent;
he had thought that perhaps the chaplain wanted him to return to his profession,
and disapproved of his evident anxiety to turn to something else; now, however,
he asked Mr. Hawes point blank why it was that he disapproved of his idea of
emigrating.
    Mr. Hawes endeavoured to evade him, but Ernest was not to be put off; there
was something in Mr. Hawes's manner which suggested that he knew more than
Ernest did, but did not like to say it. This alarmed him so much that he begged
the chaplain not to keep him in suspense; after a little hesitation Mr. Hawes,
thinking him now strong enough to stand it, broke the news as gently as he could
that the whole of Ernest's money had disappeared.
    The day after my return from Battersby I called on my solicitor and was told
that he had written to Pryer, requiring him to refund the monies for which he
had given his I.O.U.'s. Pryer replied that he had given orders to his broker to
close his operations - which unfortunately had resulted so far in heavy loss,
and that the balance should be paid to my solicitor on the following settling
day, then about a week distant. When the time came, we heard nothing from Pryer,
and going to his lodgings found that he had left, with his few effects, on the
very day after he had heard from us, and had not been seen since.
    I had heard from Ernest the name of the broker who had been employed, and
went at once to see him. He told me Pryer had closed all his accounts for cash
on the day that Ernest had been sentenced, and had received two thousand three
hundred and fifteen pounds which was all that remained of Ernest's original five
thousand pounds. With this he had decamped, nor had we enough clue as to his
whereabouts to be able to take any steps to recover the money. There was in fact
nothing to be done but to consider the whole as lost. I may say here that
neither I nor Ernest ever heard of him again nor have any idea what became of
him.
    This placed me in a difficult position. I knew of course that in a few years
Ernest would have many times over as much money as he had lost, but I knew also
that he did not know this and feared that the supposed loss of all he had in the
world might be more than he could stand when coupled with his other misfortunes.
    The prison authorities had found Theobald's address from a letter in
Ernest's pockets, and had communicated with him more than once concerning his
son's illness, but Theobald had not written to me, and I supposed my godson to
be in good health. He would be just twenty-four years old when he left prison,
and, if I followed out his aunt's instructions, would have to battle with
fortune for another four years as well as he could. The question before me was
whether it was right to let him run so much risk, or whether I should not to
some extent transgress my instructions - which there was nothing to prevent my
doing if I thought Miss Pontifex would have wished it - and let him have the
same sum that he would have recovered from Pryer.
    If my godson had been an older man, and more fixed in any definite groove
this is what I should have done, but he was still very young, and more than
commonly unformed for his age. If again I had known of his illness I should not
have dared to lay any heavier burden on his back than he had to bear; but not
being uneasy about his health, I thought a few years of roughing it and of
experience concerning the importance of not playing tricks with money would do
him no harm. So I concluded to keep a sharp eye upon him as soon as he came out
of prison, and to let him splash about in deep water as best he could till I saw
whether he was able to swim, or was about to sink. In the first case I would let
him go on swimming till he was nearly eight and twenty, when I would prepare him
gradually for the good fortune that awaited him; in the second I would hurry up
to the rescue. So I wrote to say that Pryer had absconded, and that he could
have £100 from his father when he came out of prison; I then waited to see what
effect these tidings would have, not expecting to receive an answer for three
months, for I had been told on enquiry that no letter could be received by a
prisoner till after he had been three months in gaol. I also wrote to Theobald
and told him of Pryer's disappearance.
    As a matter of fact when my letter arrived, the governour of the gaol read
it, and, in a case of such importance, would have relaxed the rules if Ernest's
state had allowed it; his illness prevented this, and the governour left it to
the chaplain and the doctor to break the news to him when they thought him
strong enough to bear it - which was now the case. In the meantime I received a
formal official document saying that my letter had been received and would be
communicated to the prisoner in due course; I believe it was simply through
mistake on the part of a clerk that I was not informed of Ernest's illness, but
I heard nothing of it till I saw him by his own desire, a few days after the
chaplain had broken to him the substance of what I had written.
    Ernest was terribly shocked when he heard of the loss of his money, but his
ignorance of the world prevented him from seeing the full extent of the
mischief. He had never been in serious want of money yet and did not know what
it meant. In reality money losses are the most hard to bear of any by those who
are old enough to comprehend them.
    A man can stand being told that he must submit to a severe surgical
operation, or that he has some disease which will shortly kill him, or that he
will be a cripple, or blind, for the rest of his life; dreadful as such tidings
must be, we do not find that they unnerve the greater number of mankind; most
men, indeed, go coolly enough even to be hanged; but the strongest quail before
financial ruin, and the better men they are the more complete as a general rule
is their prostration. Suicide is a common consequence of money losses; it is
rarely sought as a means of escape from bodily suffering. If we feel that we
have a competence at our backs, so that we can die warm and quietly in our bed
with no need to worry about expense, we live our life out to the dregs, no
matter how excruciating our torments. Job probably felt the loss of his flocks
and herds more than that of his wife and family - for he could enjoy his flocks
and herds without his family, but not his family - not for long - if he had lost
all his money.
    Loss of money indeed is not only the worst pain in itself but it is the
parent of all others. Let a man have been brought up to a moderate competence,
and have no specialty; then let his money be suddenly taken from him, and how
long is health likely to survive the change in all his little ways which loss of
money will entail? How long again is the esteem and sympathy of friends likely
to survive ruin? People may be very sorry for us, but their attitude towards us
hitherto has been based upon the supposition that we were situated thus or thus
in money matters; when this breaks down there must be a restatement of the
social problem so far as we are concerned; we have been obtaining esteem under
false pretenses. Granted, then, that the three most serious losses which a man
can suffer are those affecting money, health, and reputation, loss of money is
far the worst; then comes ill health, and then loss of reputation; but loss of
reputation is a bad third, for if a man keeps health and money unimpaired, it
will be generally found that his loss of reputation is due to breaches of
parvenues conventions only, and not to violations of those older, better
established canons whose authority is unquestionable; in this case a man may
grow a new reputation as easily as a lobster grows a new claw, or if he have
health and money may thrive in great peace of mind without any reputation at
all. The only chance for a man who has lost his money is that he shall still be
young enough to stand uprooting and transplanting without more than temporary
derangement, and this I believed my godson still to be.
    By the prison rules he might receive and send a letter after he had been in
gaol three months, and might also receive one visit from a friend; when he
received my letter he at once asked me to come and see him - which of course I
did. I found him very much changed, and still so feeble that the exertion of
coming from the infirmary to the cell in which I was allowed to see him, and the
agitation of seeing me were too much for him. At first he quite broke down, and
I was so pained at the state in which I found him that I was on the point of
breaking my instructions then and there; I contented myself however for the
time, with assuring him that I would help him as soon as he came out of prison,
and that when he had made up his mind what he would do, he was to come to me for
what money might be necessary, if he could not get it from his father. To make
it easier for him I told him that his aunt on her deathbed had desired me to do
something of this sort should emergency arise, so that he would only be taking
what his aunt had left him.
    »Then,« said he, »I will not take the £100 from my father, and I will never
see him or my mother again.«
    I said, »Take the £100, Ernest, and as much more as you can get, and then do
not see them again if you do not like.«
    This Ernest would not do. If he took money from them he could not cut them,
and he wanted to cut them. Of course I knew that he ought to take the money from
them and cut them too, but I was not going to say so, for Ernest was still much
too crude to understand this. The money question however was a detail; I thought
my godson would get on a great deal better if he would only have the firmness to
do as he proposed as regards breaking completely with his father and mother, and
said so.
    »Then don't you like them?« said he with a look of surprise.
    »Like them!« said I, »I think they're horrid.«
    »Oh that's the kindest thing of all you have done for me,« he exclaimed; »I
thought all - all middle-aged people liked my father and mother.«
    He had been about to call me old, but I was only fifty-seven and was not
going to have this so I made a face when I saw him hesitating, which drove him
into middle-aged.
    »If you like it,« said I, »I will say all your family are horrid except
yourself and your Aunt Alethæa. The greater part of every family is always
odious; if there are one or two good ones in a very large family it is as much
as can be expected.«
    »Thank you,« he replied gratefully. »I think I can now stand almost
anything; I will come and see you as soon as I come out of gaol. Good bye.« For
the warder had told us that the time allowed for our interview was at an end.
 

                                   Chapter 68

As soon as Ernest found that he had no money to look to upon leaving prison, he
saw that his dreams about emigrating and farming must come to an end, for he
knew that he was incapable of working at the plough or with the axe for long
together himself, and now it seemed he should have no money to pay any one else
for doing so. It was this that resolved him to part finally once for all with
his parents. If he had been going abroad he could have kept up relations with
them, for they would have been too far off to interfere with him.
    He knew his father and mother would object to being cut; they would wish to
appear kind, and forgiving; they would also dislike having no further power to
plague him; but he knew also very well that so long as he and they ran in
harness together, they would be always pulling one way and he another. He wanted
to drop the gentleman and go down into the ranks, beginning on the lowest rung
of the ladder where none would know of his disgrace or mind it if they did know;
his father and mother on the other hand would wish him to clutch on to the fag
end of gentility - at a starvation salary, and with no prospect of advancement.
Ernest had seen enough in Ashpit Place to know that a tailor if he did not drink
and attended to his business, could earn more money than a clerk or a curate,
while much less expense by way of show was required of him. The tailor also had
more liberty and a better chance of rising. Ernest resolved at once as he had
fallen so far, to fall still lower - promptly, gracefully, and with the idea of
rising again, rather than cling to the skirts of a respectability which would
permit him to exist on sufferance only, and make him pay an utterly extortionate
price for an article which he could do better without.
    He arrived at this result more quickly than he might otherwise have done
through remembering something he had once heard his aunt say about kissing the
soil. This had impressed him and stuck by him perhaps by reason of its brevity;
when later on he came to know the story of Hercules and Antæus, he found it one
of the very few ancient fables which had a hold over him - his chiefest debt to
classical literature. His aunt had wanted him to learn carpentering, as a means
of kissing the soil should his Hercules ever throw him. It was too late for this
now - or he thought it was - but the mode of carrying out his aunt's idea was a
detail; there were a hundred ways of kissing the soil besides becoming a
carpenter.
    He had told me this during our interview and I had encouraged him to the
utmost of my power. He showed so much more good sense than I had given him
credit for that I became comparatively easy about him, and determined to let him
play his own game, being always however ready to hand in case things went too
far wrong. It was not simply because he disliked his father and mother that he
wanted to have no more to do with them; if it had been only this he would have
put up with them; but a warning voice told him distinctly enough that if he was
clean cut away from them he might still have a chance of success, whereas if
they had anything whatever to do with him, or even knew of his address, they
would hamper him and in the end ruin him. Absolute independence he believed to
be his only chance of very life itself.
    Over and above this - if this were not enough - Ernest had a faith in his
own destiny such as most young men, I suppose, feel, but the grounds of which
were not apparent to any one but himself. Rightly or wrongly, in a quiet way, he
believed he possessed a strength which if he were only free to use it in his own
way might do great things some day. He did not know when, nor where, nor how,
his opportunity was to come, but he never doubted that it would come in spite of
all that had happened, and above all else he cherished the hope that he might
know how to seize it if it came, for whatever it was it would be something that
no one else could do so well as he could. People said there were no dragons and
giants for adventurous men to fight with nowadays; it was beginning to dawn upon
him that there were just as many now as at any past time.
    Monstrous as such a faith may seem in one who was qualifying himself for a
high mission by a term of imprisonment, he could no more help it than he could
help breathing: it was innate in him, and it was even more with a view to this
than for other reasons that he wished to sever the connection between himself
and his parents; for he knew that if ever the day came in which it should appear
that before him too there was a race set in which it might be an honour to have
run among the foremost, his father and mother would be the first to let him and
hinder him in running it. They had been the first to say that he ought to run
such a race; they would also be the first to trip him up if he took them at
their word, and then afterwards upbraid him for not having won. Achievement of
any kind would be impossible for him unless he was free from those who would be
forever dragging him back into the conventional. The conventional had been tried
already and had been found wanting.
    He had an opportunity now, if he chose to take it, of escaping once for all
from those who at once tormented him and would hold him earthward should a
chance of soaring open before him; he should never have had it but for his
imprisonment; but for this, the force of habit and routine would have been too
strong for him; he should hardly have had it if he had not lost all his money;
the gap would not have been so wide but that he might have been inclined to
throw a plank across it. He rejoiced now, therefore, over his loss of money as
well as over his imprisonment, which had made it more easy for him to follow his
truest and most lasting interests.
    At times he wavered: when he thought of how his mother, who in her way as he
thought had loved him, would weep, and think sadly over him - or how perhaps she
might even fall ill and die, and how the blame would rest with him; at these
times his resolution was near breaking; but when he found I applauded his
design, the voice within which bade him see his father's and mother's faces no
more grew louder and more persistent. If he could not cut himself adrift from
those who he knew would hamper him, when so small an effort was wanted, his
dream of a destiny was idle; what was the prospect of a hundred pounds from his
father in comparison with jeopardy to this? He still felt deeply the pain his
disgrace had inflicted upon his father and mother, but he was getting stronger,
and reflected that as he had run his chance with them for parents, so they must
run theirs with him for a son.
    He had nearly settled down to this conclusion when he received a letter from
his father which made his decision final. If the prison rules had been
interpreted strictly he would not have been allowed to have this letter for
another three months, as he had already heard from me, but the governour took a
lenient view and considered the letter from me to be a business communication
hardly coming under the category of a letter from friends. Theobald's letter
therefore was given to his son. It ran as follows -
 
        »My Dear Ernest, My object in writing is not to upbraid you with the
        disgrace and shame you have inflicted upon your mother and myself - to
        say nothing of your brother Joey and your sister. Suffer of course we
        must, but we know on whom to look in our affliction, and are filled with
        anxiety rather on your behalf than our own. Your mother is wonderful.
        She is pretty well in health and desires me to send you her love.
            Have you considered your prospects on leaving prison? I understand
        from Mr. Overton that you have lost the legacy which your grandfather
        left you, together with all the interest that accrued during your
        minority - in a course of speculation upon the Stock Exchange! If you
        have indeed been guilty of such appalling folly it is difficult to see
        what you can turn your hand to, and I suppose you will try and find a
        clerkship in an office. Your salary will doubtless be low at first, but
        you have made your bed and must not complain if you have to lie upon it.
        If you take pains to please your employers they will not be backward in
        promoting you.
            When I first heard from Mr. Overton of the unspeakable calamity
        which had befallen your mother and myself, I had resolved not to see you
        again. I am unwilling however to have recourse to a measure which would
        deprive you of your last connecting link with respectable people. Your
        mother and I will see you as soon as you come out of prison; not at
        Battersby - we do not wish you to come down there at present - but at
        some place, probably in London; you need not shrink from seeing us; we
        shall not reproach you. We will then decide about your future.
            At present our impression is that you will find a fairer start
        probably in Australia or New Zealand than here, and I am prepared to
        find you £75 or even if necessary so far as £100 to pay your passage
        money. Once in the colony you must be dependent upon your own exertions.
            May Heaven prosper them and you, and restore you to us years hence a
        respected member of society. Your affectionate father,
                                                                   T. Pontifex.«
 
Then there was a postscript in Christina's handwriting -
 
        »My darling, darling boy, pray with me daily and hourly that we may yet
        again become a happy united God-fearing family as we were before this
        horrible pain fell upon us. Your sorrowing but ever-loving mother,
                                                                           C.P.«
 
This letter did not produce the effect on Ernest that it would have done before
his imprisonment began. His father and mother thought they should take him up as
they had left him off; they forgot the rapidity with which development follows
misfortune if the sufferer is young and of a sound temperament. Ernest made no
reply to his father's letter, but his desire for a total break developed into
something like a passion. »There are orphanages,« he exclaimed to himself, »for
children who have lost their parents - oh why, why, why, are there no harbours
of refuge for grown men who have not yet lost them?« - and he brooded over the
bliss of Melchisedec who had been born an orphan - without father, without
mother, and without descent.
 

                                   Chapter 69

When I think over all that Ernest told me about his prison meditations and the
conclusions he was drawn to, it occurs to me that in reality he was wanting to
do the very last thing which it would have entered into his head to think of
wanting. I mean that he was trying to give up father and mother for Christ's
sake. He would have said he was giving them up because he thought they hindered
him in the pursuit of his truest and most lasting happiness. Granted, but what
is this if it is not Christ? What is Christ if he is not this? He who takes the
highest and most self-respecting view of his own welfare which it is in his
power to conceive, and adheres to it in spite of conventionality, is a Christian
whether he knows it and calls himself one, or whether he does not. A rose is not
the less a rose because it does not know its own name.
    What if circumstances had made his duty more easy for him than it would be
to most men? That was his luck, as much as it is other people's luck to have
other duties made easy for them by accident of birth; surely if people are born
rich or handsome they have a right to their good fortune. Some, I know, will say
that one man has no right to be born with a better constitution than another;
others again will say that luck is the only righteous object of human
veneration. Both I daresay can make out a very good case, but whichever may be
right surely Ernest had as much right to the good luck of finding a duty made
easier, as he had had to the bad fortune of falling into the scrape which had
got him into prison. A man is not to be sneered at for having a trump card in
his hand; he is only to be sneered at if he plays his trump card badly.
    Indeed I question whether it is ever much harder for anyone to give up
father and mother for Christ's sake than it was for Ernest. The relations
between the parties will have almost always been severely strained before it
comes to this. I doubt whether anyone was ever yet required to give up those to
whom he was tenderly attached for a mere matter of conscience: he will have
ceased to be tenderly attached to them long before he is called upon to break
with them; for differences of opinion concerning any matter of vital importance
spring from differences of constitution, and these will already have led to so
much other disagreement that the giving up when it comes is like giving up an
aching but very loose and hollow tooth. It is the loss of those whom we are not
required to give up for Christ's sake which is really painful to us. Then there
is a wrench in earnest. Happily, no matter how light the task that is demanded
from us, it is enough if we do it; we reap our reward as much as though it were
a Herculean labour.
    But to return. The conclusion Ernest came to was that he would be a tailor.
He talked the matter over with the chaplain, who told him there was no reason
why he should not be able to earn his six or seven shillings a day by the time
he came out of prison, if he chose to learn the trade during the remainder of
his term - now not quite three months; the doctor said he was strong enough for
this, and that it was about the only thing he was as yet fit for; so he left the
infirmary sooner than he would otherwise have done and entered the tailor's
shop, overjoyed at the thoughts of seeing his way again, and confident of rising
some day if he could only get a firm foothold to start from.
    Everyone whom he had to do with saw that he did not belong to what are
called the criminal classes, and finding him eager to learn and to save trouble,
he was always kindly, and almost respectfully treated. He did not find the work
irksome; it was far more pleasant than making Latin and Greek verses at
Roughborough; he felt that he would rather be here in prison than at
Roughborough again - yes, or even at Cambridge itself. The only trouble he was
ever in danger of getting into was through exchanging words or looks with the
more decent-looking of his fellow prisoners. This was forbidden, but he never
missed a chance of breaking the rules in this respect.
    A man of his ability who was at the same time anxious to learn would of
course make very rapid progress, and before he left prison the warder said he
was as good a tailor with his three-months' apprenticeship as many a man was
with twelve. Ernest had never before been so much praised by any of his
teachers. Each day as he grew stronger in health and more accustomed to his
surroundings he saw some fresh advantage in his position - an advantage which he
had not aimed at, but which had come almost in spite of himself, and he
marvelled at his own good fortune, which had ordered things so greatly better
for him than he could have ordered them for himself.
    His having lived six months in Ashpit Place was a case in point. Things were
possible to him which to others like him would be impossible. If such a man as
Towneley were told he must live henceforth in a house like those in Ashpit
Place, it would be more than he could stand. He could not have stood it himself
if he had gone to live there of compulsion through want of money. It was only
because he had felt himself able to run away at any minute that he had not
wanted to do so; now, however, he had become familiar with life in Ashpit Place;
he no longer minded it, and could live gladly in lower parts of London than that
so long as he could pay his way. It was from no prudence or forethought that he
had served this apprenticeship to life among the poor; he had been trying in a
feeble way to be thorough in his work; he had not been thorough; the whole thing
had been a fiasco; but he had made a little puny effort in the direction of
being genuine, and, behold, in his hour of need it had been returned to him with
a reward far richer than he had deserved. He could not have faced becoming one
of the very poor unless he had had such a bridge to conduct him over to them as
he had found unwittingly in Ashpit Place. True, there had been drawbacks in the
particular house he had chosen, but he need not live in a house where there was
a Mr. Holt, and he should no longer be tied to the profession which he so much
hated; if there were neither screams nor scripture readings he could be happy in
a garret at three shillings a week, such as Miss Maitland lived in.
    As he thought further he remembered that all things work together for good
to them that love God; was it possible, he asked himself, that he too however
imperfectly had been trying to love him? He dared not answer yes, but he would
try hard that it should be so. Then there came into his mind that noble air of
Handel's, »Great God who yet but darkly known,« and he felt it as he had never
felt it before. He had lost his faith in Christianity, but his faith in
something - he knew not what - but that there was a something as yet but darkly
known which made right right, and wrong wrong - his faith in this grew stronger
and stronger daily.
    Again there crossed his mind thoughts of the power which he felt to be in
him, and of how and where it was to find its vent. The same instinct which had
led him to live among the poor because it was the nearest thing to him which he
could lay hold of with any clearness came to his assistance here too. He thought
of the Australian gold, and how those that lived among it had never seen it
though it abounded all around them; »There is gold everywhere,« he exclaimed
inwardly, »to those who look for it«; might not his opportunity be close upon
him if he looked carefully enough at his immediate surroundings? What was his
position? He had lost all. Could he not turn his having lost all into an
opportunity? Might he not, if he too sought the strength of the Lord find, like
St. Paul, that it was perfected in weakness?
    He had nothing more to lose; money, friends, character, all were gone, for a
very long time if not forever; but there was something else also that had taken
its flight along with these - I mean the fear of that which man could do unto
him. Cantabit vacuus. Who could hurt him more than he had been hurt already? Let
him but be able to earn his bread, and he knew of nothing which he dared not
venture if it would make the world a happier place for those who were young and
loveable. Herein he found so much comfort that he almost wished he had lost his
reputation even more completely - for he saw that it was like a man's life which
may be found of them that lose it, and lost of them which would find it. He
should not have had the courage to give up all for Christ's sake, but now Christ
had mercifully taken all; and lo! it seemed as though all were found.
    As the days went slowly by he came to see that the extremes of Christianity
and the denial of Christianity after all met as much as any other extremes do;
it was a fight about names, not things; practically the Church of Rome, the
Church of England, and the freethinker have the same ideal standard and meet in
the gentleman; for he is the most perfect saint who is the most perfect
gentleman. Then he saw also that it matters little what profession, whether of
religion or irreligion, a man may make, provided only he follows it out with
charitable inconsistency, and without insisting on it to the bitter end. It is
in the uncompromisingness with which dogma is held, and not in the dogma or want
of dogma that the danger lies. This was the crowning point of the edifice; when
he had got here, he no longer wished to molest even the Pope. The Archbishop of
Canterbury might have hopped about all round him and even picked crumbs out of
his hand without running risk of getting a sly sprinkle of salt. That wary
prelate himself might perhaps have been of a different opinion, but the robins
and thrushes that hop about our lawns are not more needlessly distrustful of the
hand that throws them out crumbs of bread in winter, than the Archbishop would
have been of my hero.
    Perhaps he was helped to arrive at the foregoing conclusions by an event
which almost thrust inconsistency upon him. A few days after he had left the
infirmary the chaplain came to his cell, and told him that the prisoner who
played the organ in chapel had just finished his sentence and was leaving the
prison; he therefore offered the post to Ernest, who he already knew played the
organ. Ernest was at first in doubt whether it would be right for him to assist
at religious services more than he was actually compelled to do, but the
pleasure of playing the organ, and the privileges which the post involved made
him see excellent reasons for not riding consistency to death. Having then once
introduced any element of inconsistency into his system, he was far too
consistent not to be inconsistent consistently and he lapsed ere long into an
amiable indifferentism which to outward appearance differed but little from the
indifferentism from which Mr. Hawke had aroused him.
    By becoming organist he was saved from the treadmill, for which the doctor
had said he was unfit as yet, but which he would probably have been put to in
due course as soon as he was stronger. He might have escaped the tailor's shop
altogether and done only the comparatively light work of attending to the
chaplain's rooms if he had liked, but he wanted to learn as much tailoring as he
could, and did not therefore take advantage of this offer; he was allowed,
however, two hours a day in the afternoon for practise. From that moment his
prison life ceased to be monotonous, and the remaining two months of his
sentence slipped by almost as rapidly as they would have done if he had been
free. What with music, books, learning his trade, and conversation with the
chaplain - who was just the kindly sensible person that Ernest wanted in order
to steady him a little - the days went by so pleasantly that when the time came
for him to leave prison, he did so, or thought he did so, not without regret.
 

                                   Chapter 70

In coming to the conclusion that he would sever the connection between himself
and his family once for all Ernest had reckoned without his family. Theobald
wanted to be rid of his son, it is true, in so far as he wished him to be no
nearer at any rate than the antipodes; but he had no idea of entirely breaking
with him. He knew his son well enough to have a pretty shrewd idea that this was
what Ernest would wish himself, and perhaps as much for this reason as for any
other he was determined to keep up the connection, provided it did not involve
his coming to Battersby - nor any recurring outlay.
    When the time approached for him to leave prison, his father and mother
consulted as to what course they should adopt.
    »We must never leave him to himself,« said Theobald impressively. »We can
neither of us wish that.«
    »Oh no! no! dearest Theobald,« exclaimed Christina. »Whoever else deserts
him, and however distant he may be from us, he must still feel that he has
parents whose hearts beat with affection for him no matter how cruelly he has
pained them.«
    »He has been his own worst enemy,« said Theobald. »He has never loved us as
we deserved, and now he will be withheld by false shame from wishing to see us.
He will avoid us if he can.«
    »Then we must go to him ourselves,« said Christina. »Whether he likes it or
not we must be at his side to support him as he enters again upon the world.«
    »If we do not want him to give us the slip, we must catch him as he leaves
prison.«
    »We will, we will, our faces shall be the first to gladden his eyes, as he
comes out, and our voices the first to exhort him to return to the paths of
virtue.«
    »I think,« said Theobald, »if he sees us in the street he will turn round,
and run away from us. He is intensely selfish.«
    »Then we must get leave to go inside the prison, and see him before he gets
outside.«
    After a good deal of discussion this was the plan they decided on adopting,
and having so decided, Theobald wrote to the governour of the gaol asking
whether he could be admitted inside the gaol to receive Ernest when his sentence
had expired. He received answer in the affirmative, and the pair left Battersby
the day before Ernest was to come out of prison.
    He had not reckoned on this, and was rather surprised on being told a few
minutes before nine that he was to go into the receiving room before he left the
prison, as there were visitors waiting to see him. His heart fell, for he
guessed who they might be, but he screwed up his courage, and hastened to the
receiving room. There, sure enough, standing at the end of the table nearest the
door were the two people whom he regarded as the most dangerous enemies whom he
had in all the world - his father and mother.
    He could not fly, but he knew that if he wavered he was lost.
    His mother was crying, but she sprang forward to meet him, and clasped him
in her arms. »Oh my boy, my boy,« she sobbed, and she could say no more.
    Ernest was as white as a sheet. His heart beat so that he could hardly
breathe. He let his mother embrace him, and then withdrawing himself, stood
silently before her with the tears falling from his eyes.
    At first he could not speak. For a minute or so the silence on all sides was
complete - then gathering strength he said in a low voice:
    »Mother« (it was the first time he had called her anything but Mamma) - »we
must part.« On this, turning to the warder he said: »I believe I am free to
leave the prison if I wish to do so. You cannot compel me to remain here longer.
Please take me to the gates.«
    Theobald stepped forward. »Ernest, you must not, shall not leave us in this
way -«
    »Do not speak to me,« said Ernest, his eyes flashing with a fire that was
unwonted in them. Another warder then came up, and took Theobald aside, while
the first conducted Ernest to the gates.
    »Tell them,« said Ernest, »from me, that they must think of me as one dead,
for I am dead to them. Say that my greatest pain is the thought of the disgrace
I have inflicted upon them, and that above all things else I will study to avoid
paining them hereafter; but say also, that if they write to me I will return
their letters unopened, and that if they come and see me, I will protect myself
in whatever way I can.«
    By this time he was at the prison gate, and in another moment was at
liberty. After he had got a few steps out he turned his face to the prison wall,
leant against it for support, and wept as though his heart would break.
 

                                   Chapter 71

Giving up father and mother for Christ's sake was not such an easy matter after
all. If a man has been possessed by devils for long enough they will rend him as
they leave him, however imperatively they may have been cast out. Ernest did not
stay long where he was, for he feared each moment that his father and mother
would come out. He pulled himself together and turned into the labyrinth of
small streets which opened out in front of him.
    He had crossed his Rubicon - not perhaps very heroically or dramatically,
but then it is only in dramas that people act dramatically; at any rate by hook
or by crook he had scrambled over, and was out upon the other side. Already he
thought of much which he would gladly have said, and blamed his want of presence
of mind, but after all it mattered very little. Inclined though he was to make
very great allowances for his father and mother, he was indignant at their
having thrust themselves upon him without warning, at a moment when the
excitement of leaving prison was already as much as he was fit for. It was a
mean advantage to have taken over him, but he was glad they had taken it, for it
made him realise more fully than ever that his one chance lay in separating
himself completely from them.
    The morning was grey, and the first signs of winter fog were beginning to
show themselves, for it was now the 30th of September. Ernest wore the clothes
in which he had entered prison, and was therefore dressed as a clergyman. No one
to look at him would have seen any difference between his present appearance and
his appearance six months previously; indeed as he walked slowly through the
dingy crowded lane called Eyre Street Hill (which he well knew, for he had had
clerical friends in that neighbourhood), the months he had passed in prison
seemed to drop out of his life, and so powerfully did association carry him
away, that finding himself in his old dress and in his old surroundings, he felt
dragged back into his old self - as though his six months of prison life had
been a dream from which he was now waking to take things up as he had left them.
This was the effect of unchanged surroundings upon the unchanged part of him.
But there was a changed part, and the effect of unchanged surroundings upon this
was to make everything seem almost as strange as though he had never had any
life but his prison one, and was now born into a new world.
    All our lives long, every day and every hour, we are engaged in the process
of accommodating our changed and unchanged selves to changed and unchanged
surroundings: living, in fact, is nothing else than this process of
accommodation; when we fail in it a little we are stupid, when flagrantly we are
mad, when we give up the attempt altogether we die, when we suspend it
temporarily we sleep. In quiet eventless lives the changes internal and external
are so small that there is little or no strain in the process of fusion and
accommodation; in other lives there is great strain, but there is also great
fusing and accommodating power; in others great strain with little accommodating
power. A life will be successful or not according as the power of accommodation
is equal to or unequal to the strain of fusing and adjusting internal and
external changes.
    The trouble is that in the end we shall be driven to admit the unity of the
universe so completely as to be compelled to deny that there is either an
external or an internal, but must see everything both as external and internal
at one and the same time, subject and object - external and internal - being
unified as much as everything else. This will knock our whole system over, but
then every system has got to be knocked over by something.
    Much the best way out of this difficulty is to go in for separation between
internal and external - subject and object - when we find this convenient, and
unity between the same when we find unity convenient. This is illogical, but
extremes are alone logical, and they are always absurd, the mean is alone
practicable and it is always illogical. It is faith and not logic which is the
supreme arbiter. They say all roads lead to Rome, and all philosophies that I
have ever seen lead ultimately either to some gross absurdity, or else to the
conclusion already more than once insisted on in these volumes, that the just
shall live by faith - that is to say that sensible people will get through life
by rule of thumb as they may interpret it most conveniently without asking too
many questions for conscience sake. Take any fact, and reason upon it to the
bitter end, and it will ere long lead to this, as the only refuge from some
palpable folly.
    But to return to my story. When Ernest got to the top of the street and
looked back, he saw the grimy sullen walls of his prison filling up the end of
it. He paused for a minute or two. »There,« he said to himself, »I was hemmed in
by bolts which I could see and touch; here I am barred by others which are none
less real - poverty and ignorance of the world. It was no part of my business to
try to break the material bolts of iron and escape from prison, but now that I
am free I must surely seek to do so.«
    He had read somewhere of a prisoner who had made his escape by cutting up
his bedstead with an iron spoon. He admired and marvelled at that mind but could
not even try to imitate him; in the presence of immaterial barriers however he
was not so easily daunted, and felt as though even if the bed were iron and the
spoon a wooden one, he could find some means of making the wood cut the iron
sooner or later.
    He turned his back upon Eyre Street Hill and walked down Leather Lane into
Holborn. Each step he took, each face or object that he knew, helped at once to
link him on to the life he had led before his imprisonment, and at the same time
to make him feel how completely that imprisonment had cut his life into two
parts, the one of which could bear no resemblance to the other.
    He passed down Fetter Lane into Fleet Street and so to the Temple to which I
had just returned from my summer holiday. It was about half past nine, and I was
getting my breakfast when I heard a timid knock at the door, and opened it to
find Ernest.
 

                                   Chapter 72

I had begun to like him on the night Towneley had sent for me, and on the
following day I thought he had shaped well. I had liked him also during our
interview in prison, and wanted to see more of him so that I might make up my
mind about him. I had lived long enough to know that some men who do great
things in the end are not very wise when they are young; knowing that he would
leave prison on the 30th I had expected him, and, as I had a spare bedroom,
pressed him to stay with me till he could make up his mind what he would do.
    Being so much older I anticipated no trouble in getting my own way, but he
would not hear of it. The utmost he would assent to was that he should be my
guest till he could find a room for himself, which he would set about doing at
once.
    He was still much agitated, but grew better as he ate a breakfast, not of
prison fare, and in a comfortable room. It pleased me to see the delight he took
in all about him: the fireplace with a fire in it, the easy chairs, the Times,
my cat, the red geraniums in my window, to say nothing of coffee, bread and
butter, sausages, marmalade, etc. Everything was pregnant with the most
exquisite pleasure to him. The plane trees were full of leaf still; he kept
rising from the breakfast table to admire them; never till now, he said, had he
known what the enjoyment of these things really was. He ate, looked, laughed and
cried by turns, with an emotion which I can neither forget nor describe.
    He told me how his father and mother had lain in wait for him, as he was
about to leave prison. I was furious, and applauded him heartily for what he had
done. He was very grateful to me for this. Other people, he said, would tell him
he ought to think of his father and mother rather than of himself, and it was
such a comfort to find someone who saw things as he saw them himself. Even if I
had differed from him I should not have said so, but I was of his own opinion,
and was almost as much obliged to him for seeing things as I saw them, as he to
me for doing the same kind office by himself. Cordially as I disliked Theobald
and Christina I was in such a hopeless minority in the opinion I had formed
concerning them that it was pleasant to find someone who agreed with me.
    Then there came an awful moment for both of us.
    A knock, as of a visitor and not a postman, was heard at my door.
    »Goodness gracious,« I exclaimed, »why didn't we sport the oak? Perhaps it
is your father - but surely he would hardly come at this time of day. Go at once
into my bedroom.«
    I went to the door and sure enough there were both Theobald and Christina. I
could not refuse to let them in, and was obliged to listen to their version of
the story, which agreed substantially with Ernest's. Christina cried bitterly -
Theobald stormed. After about ten minutes during which I assured them that I had
not the faintest conception where their son was, I dismissed them both. I saw
they looked suspiciously upon the manifest signs that someone was breakfasting
with me, and parted from me more or less defiantly on speculation, but I got rid
of them, and poor Ernest came out again looking white, frightened, and upset. He
had heard voices, but no more, and did not feel sure that the enemy might not be
gaining me over. We sported the oak now, and before long he began to recover.
    After breakfast we discussed the situation. I had taken away his wardrobe
and books from Mrs. Jupp's, but had left his furniture, pictures, and piano,
giving Mrs. Jupp the use of these so that she might let her room furnished in
lieu of charge for taking care of the furniture. As soon as Ernest heard that
his wardrobe was at hand he got out a suit of clothes he had had before he had
been ordained, and put it on at once, much, as I thought, to the improving of
his personal appearance.
    Then we went into the subject of his finances. He had had ten pounds from
Pryer only a day or two before he was apprehended, of which between seven and
eight were in his purse when he entered the prison. This money was restored to
him on leaving. He had always paid cash for whatever he bought so that there was
nothing to be deducted for debts. Besides this, he had his clothes, books and
furniture. He could as I have said have had £100 from his father if he chose to
emigrate, but this both Ernest and I (for he brought me round to his opinion)
agreed it would be better to decline. This was all he knew of as belonging to
him.
    He said he proposed at once taking an unfurnished top back attic in as quiet
a house as he could find, say at three or four shillings a week, and looking out
for work as a tailor. I did not think it much mattered what he began with, for I
felt pretty sure he would ere long find his way to something that suited him if
he could get a start with anything at all. The difficulty was how to get him
started. It was not enough that he should be able to cut out and make clothes -
that he should have the organs so to speak of a tailor; he must be put into a
tailor's shop, and guided for a little while by someone who knew how and where
to help him.
    The rest of the day he spent in looking for a room, which he soon found, and
in familiarising himself with liberty. In the evening I took him to the Olympic
where Robson was then acting in a burlesque on Macbeth - Mrs. Keeley if I
remember rightly taking the part of Lady Macbeth. In the scene before the murder
Macbeth had said he could not kill Duncan when he saw his boots upon the
landing. Lady Macbeth put a stop to her husband's hesitation by whipping him up
under her arm and carrying him off the stage kicking and screaming. Ernest
laughed till he cried. »What rot,« he exclaimed involuntarily, »Shakespeare is
after this.« I remembered his essay on the Greek tragedians, and was more épris
with him than ever.
    Next day he set about looking for employment, and I did not see him till
about five o'clock when he came and said that he had had no success. The same
thing happened the next day and the day after that. Wherever he went he was
invariably refused, and often ordered point blank out of the shop; I could see
by the expression on his face, though he said nothing, that he was getting
frightened, and began to think I should have to come to the rescue. He said he
had made a great many enquiries and had always been told the same story - that
it was easy to keep on in an old line, but very hard to strike out into a new
one.
    He talked to the fishmonger in Leather Lane where he went to buy a bloater
for this tea - casually as though from curiosity and without any interested
motive. »Sell,« said the master of the shop, »why, nobody wouldn't believe what
can be sold by penn'orths and twopenn'orths if you go the right way to work.
Look at whelks for instance: last Saturday night me and my little Emma here, we
sold seven pounds' worth of whelks between eight and half past eleven o'clock -
and almost all in penn'orths and twopenn'orths - a few halfpenn'orths but not
many. It was the steam that did it. We kept a-boiling of 'em hot and hot, and
whenever the steam came strong up from the cellar on to the pavement, the people
bought, but whenever the steam went down they left off buying; so we boiled them
over and over again till they was all sold. That's just where it is; if you know
your business you can sell, if you don't you'll soon make a mess of it. Why but
for the steam I should not have sold ten shillings worth of whelks all the night
through.«
    This and many another yarn of kindred substance which he heard from other
people determined Ernest more than ever to stake on tailoring as the one trade
about which he knew anything at all; nevertheless here were three or four days
gone by and employment seemed as far off as ever.
    I now did what I ought to have done before, that is to say, I called on my
own tailor whom I had dealt with for over a quarter of a century, and asked his
advice. He declared Ernest's plan to be hopeless. »If,« said Mr. Larkins, for
this was my tailor's name, »he had begun at fourteen it might have done, but no
man of twenty-four could stand being turned to work into a workshop full of
tailors; he would not get on with the men nor the men with him; you could not
expect him to be hail fellow well met with them, and you could not expect his
fellow workmen to like him if he was not. A man must have sunk low through drink
or natural taste for low company before he could get on with those who have had
such a different training from his own.«
    Mr. Larkins said a great deal more and wound up by taking me to see the
place where his men worked. »This is a paradise,« he said, »compared to most
workshops. What gentleman could stand this air, think you, for a fortnight?«
    I was glad enough to get out of the hot, foetid atmosphere in five minutes,
and saw that there was no brick of Ernest's prison to be loosened by going and
working among tailors in a workshop.
    Mr. Larkins wound up by saying that even if my protégé were a much better
workman than he probably was, no master would give him employment for fear of
creating a bother among the men.
    I left feeling that I ought to have thought of all this myself, and was more
than ever perplexed as to whether I had not better let my young friend have a
few thousand pounds and send him out to the colonies, when on my return home at
about five o'clock I found him waiting for me, radiant, and declaring that he
had found all he wanted.
 

                                   Chapter 73

It seems he had been patrolling the streets for the last three or four nights -
I suppose in search of something to do - at any rate knowing better what he
wanted to get than how to get it. Nevertheless what he wanted was in reality so
easily to be found that it took a highly educated scholar like himself to be
unable to find it. But however this may be, he had been scared, and now saw
lions where there were none, and was shocked and frightened; and night after
night his courage had failed him, and he had returned to his lodgings in
Laystall Street without [accomplishing] his errand. He had not taken me into his
confidence upon this matter and I had not enquired what he did with himself in
the evenings.
    At last he had concluded that however painful it might be to him he would
call on Mrs. Jupp, who he thought would be able to help him if anyone could. He
had been walking moodily from seven till about nine, and now resolved to go
straight to Ashpit Place and make a mother confessor of Mrs. Jupp without more
delay.
    Of all tasks that could be performed by mortal woman, there was none which
Mrs. Jupp would have liked better than the one Ernest was thinking of imposing
upon her; nor do I know that in his scared and broken-down state he could have
done much better than he now proposed. Mrs. Jupp would have made it very easy
for him to open his grief to her; indeed she would have coaxed it all out of him
before he knew where he was; but the fates were against Mrs. Jupp, and the
meeting between my hero and his former landlady was postponed sine die, for his
determination had hardly been formed and he had not gone more than a hundred
yards in the direction of Mrs. Jupp's house when a woman accosted him.
    He was turning from her, as he had turned from so many others, when she
started back with a movement that aroused his curiosity. He had hardly seen her
face, but being determined to catch sight of it, followed her as she hurried
away, and passed her; then turning round he saw that she was none other than
Ellen, the housemaid who had been dismissed by his mother eight years
previously.
    He ought to have assigned Ellen's unwillingness to see him to its true
cause, but a guilty conscience made him think she had heard of his disgrace and
was turning away from him in contempt. Brave as had been his resolutions about
facing the world, this was more than he was prepared for; »What? you too shun
me, Ellen,« he exclaimed.
    The girl was crying bitterly, and did not understand him. »Oh Master
Ernest,« she sobbed, »let me go; you are too good for the likes of me to speak
to now.«
    »Why Ellen,« said he, »what nonsense you talk - you haven't been in prison
have you?«
    »Oh no, no, no, not so bad as that,« she exclaimed passionately.
    »Well I have, then,« said Ernest with a forced laugh, »I came out three or
four days ago after six months with hard labour.«
    Ellen did not believe him, but she looked at him with a »Lor'! Master
Ernest,« and dried her eyes at once. The ice was broken between them, for as a
matter of fact Ellen had been in prison several times, and though she did not
believe Ernest, his merely saying he had been in prison made her feel more at
ease with him. For her there were two classes of people - those who had been in
prison and those who had not. The first she looked upon as fellow creatures and
more or less Christians, the second with few exceptions she regarded with
suspicion, not wholly unmingled with contempt.
    Then Ernest told her what had happened to him during the last six months,
and by and by she believed him.
    »Master Ernest,« said she, after they had talked for a quarter of an hour or
so, »there's a place over the way where they sell tripe and onions. I know you
was always very fond of tripe and onions, let's go over and have some, and we
can talk better there.«
    So the pair crossed the street and entered the tripe shop; Ernest ordered
supper.
    »And how is your pore dear mamma, and your dear papa, Master Ernest,« said
Ellen, who had now recovered herself so as to be at home with my hero.
    »Oh dear, dear me,« she said, »I did love your pa; he was a good gentleman
he was; and your ma too; it would do anyone good to live with her I'm sure.«
    Ernest was surprised and hardly knew what to say. He had expected to find
Ellen indignant at the way she had been turned so suddenly upon the world, and
inclined to lay much of her fallen state at his father and mother's door. It was
not so. Her only recollection of Battersby was as of a place where she had had
plenty to eat and drink, not too much hard work, and where she had not been
scolded. When she heard that Ernest had quarrelled with his father and mother,
she assumed as a matter of course that the fault must lie entirely with Ernest.
    »Oh your pore, pore ma!« said Ellen. »She was always so very fond of you
Master Ernest: you was always her favourite; I can't abear to think of anything
between you and her. To think now of the way she used to have me into the
dining-room and teach me my catechism, surprising, that she did. Oh Master
Ernest, you really must go and make it all up with her; indeed you must.«
    Ernest felt rueful, but he had resisted so valiantly already that the devil
might have spared himself the trouble of trying to get at him through Ellen in
the matter of his father and mother. He changed the subject, and the pair warmed
to one another as they had their tripe and pots of beer. Of all people in the
world perhaps Ellen was the one to whom Ernest could have spoken most freely at
this juncture. He told her what he thought he could have told to no one else.
    »You know, Ellen,« he concluded, »I had learnt as a boy things that I ought
not to have learnt, and had never had a chance of that which would have set me
straight.«
    »Gentlefolks is always like that,« said Ellen musingly.
    »I believe you are right, but I am no longer a gentleman, Ellen, and don't
see why I should be like that any longer, my dear. I want you to help me to be
like something else as soon as possible.«
    »Lor' Master Ernest, whatever can you be meaning?«
    The pair soon afterwards left the eating house and walked up Fetter Lane
together.
 

                                   Chapter 74

Ellen had had hard times since she had left Battersby, but they had left little
trace upon her. Ernest saw only the fresh-looking smiling face, the dimpled
cheek, the clear blue eyes, and lovely sphinx-like lips which he had remembered
as a boy. At nineteen she had looked older than she was, now she looked much
younger, indeed she looked hardly older than when Ernest had last seen her, and
it would have taken a man of much greater experience than he possessed to
suspect how completely she had fallen from her first estate. It never occurred
to him that the poor condition of her wardrobe was due to her passion for ardent
spirits, and that first and last she had served five or six times as much time
in gaol as he had. He ascribed the poverty of her attire to the attempts to keep
herself respectable, which Ellen during supper had more than once alluded to. He
had been charmed with the way in which she had declared that a pint of beer
would make her tipsy, and had only allowed herself to be forced into drinking
the whole after a good deal of remonstrance. To him she appeared a very angel
dropped from the sky - and all the more easy to get on with for being a fallen
one.
    As he walked up Fetter Lane with her towards Laystall Street, he thought of
the wonderful goodness of God towards him, in throwing in his way the very
person of all others whom he was most glad to see, and whom in spite of her
living so near him he might have never fallen in with but for a happy accident.
    When people get it into their heads that they are being specially favoured
by the Almighty, they had better as a general rule mind their p's and q's, and
when they think they see the devil's drift with more especial clearness, let
them remember that he has had much more experience than they have, and is
probably meditating mischief.
    Already during supper the thought that in Ellen at last he had found a woman
whom he could love well enough to wish to live with and marry had flitted across
his mind, and the more they had chatted the more reasons kept suggesting
themselves for thinking that what might be folly in ordinary cases would not be
folly in his.
    He must marry someone. That was already settled. He could not marry a lady.
That was absurd. He must marry a poor woman. Yes, but a fallen one? Was he not
fallen himself? Ellen would fall no more. He had only to look at her to be sure
of this. He could not live with her in sin - not for more than the shortest time
that could elapse before their marriage; he no longer believed in the
supernatural element of Christianity, but the Christian morality at any rate was
indisputable. Besides, they might have children, and a stigma would rest upon
them. Whom had he to consult but himself now? His father and mother never need
know, and even if they did, they should be thankful to see him married to any
woman who would make him happy as Ellen would. As for not being able to afford
marriage: how did poor people do? Did not a good wife rather help matters than
not? Where one could live two could do so, and if Ellen was three or four years
older than he was - well, what was that?
    Have you, oh gentle reader, ever loved at first sight? When you fell in love
at first sight, how long, let me ask you, did it take you to become ready to
fling every other consideration to the winds except that of obtaining possession
of the loved one? Or rather, how long would it have taken you if you had no
father or mother, nothing to lose in the way of money, position, friends,
professional advancement, or what not, and if the object of your affections was
as free from all these impedimenta as you were yourself?
    If you were a young John Stuart Mill, perhaps it would have taken you some
time, but suppose your nature was Quixotic, impulsive, altruistic, guileless;
suppose you were a hungry man, starving for something to love and lean upon, for
one whose burdens you might bear, and who might help you to bear yours. Suppose
you were down on your luck, still stunned with a horrible shock, and this bright
vista of a happy future flashed suddenly before you - how long under these
circumstances do you think you would reflect before you would decide on
embracing what chance had thrown in your way?
    It did not take my hero long, for before he got past the ham and beef shop
near the top of Fetter Lane, he had told Ellen that she must come home with him,
and live with him till they could get married, which they should do upon the
first day that the law allowed.
    I think the devil must have chuckled and made tolerably sure of his game
this time.
 

                                   Chapter 75

Ernest told Ellen of his difficulty about finding employment.
    »But what do you think of going into a shop for, my dear,« said Ellen. »Why
don't you take a little shop yourself?«
    Ernest asked how much this would cost. Ellen told him that he might take a
house in some small street, say near the Elephant and Castle, for 17s. or 18s. a
week, and let off the two top floors for ten shillings, keeping the back parlour
and shop for themselves - if he could get five or six pounds to buy some
second-hand clothes with to stock the shop, they could mend them and clean them,
and she could look after the women's clothes while he did the men's. Then he
could mend and make, if he could get the orders.
    They could soon make a business of £2 a week in this way; she had a friend
who began like that and had now moved to a better shop, where she would make £5
or £6 a week at least - and she, Ellen, had done the greater part both of the
buying and selling herself.
    Here was a new light indeed. It was as though he had got his £5000 back
again all of a sudden, and perhaps ever so much more later on into the bargain.
Ellen seemed more than ever to be his good genius.
    She went out and got a few rashers of bacon for his and her breakfast. She
cooked them much more nicely than he had been able to do and laid breakfast for
him and made coffee, and some nice brown toast. Ernest had been his own cook and
housemaid for the last few days, and had not given himself satisfaction. Here he
suddenly found himself with someone to wait on him again. Not only had Ellen
pointed out to him how he could earn a living - when no one except herself had
known how to advise him - but here she was so pretty and smiling, looking after
even his comforts, and restoring him practically in all the respects that he
much cared about to the position which he had lost - or rather putting him in
one that he already liked much better. No wonder he was radiant when he came to
explain his plans to me.
    He had some difficulty in telling all that had happened. He hesitated,
blushed, hummed and hawed. Misgivings began to cross his mind when he found
himself obliged to tell his story to someone else. He felt inclined to slur
things over, but I wanted to get at the facts, so I helped him over the bad
places, and questioned him till I had got out pretty nearly the whole story as I
have given it above.
    I hope I did not show it, but I was very angry. I had begun to like Ernest;
I don't know why, but I never yet heard that any young man to whom I had become
attached was going to be married without hating his intended instinctively,
though I had never seen her; I have observed that most bachelors feel the same
thing though we are generally at some pains to hide the fact. Perhaps it is
because we know we ought to have got married ourselves. Ordinarily we say we are
delighted - in the present case I was not obliged to do this, and hardly made an
effort to conceal my vexation. That a young man of much promise, who was heir
also to what was now a handsome fortune, should fling himself away upon such a
person as Ellen was quite too provoking, and the more so because of the
unexpectedness of the whole affair.
    I begged him not to marry Ellen yet - not at least until he had known her
for a longer time. He would not hear of it; he had given his word, and even if
he had not given it, he should go and give it at once. I had hitherto found him
upon most matters singularly docile and easy to manage, but on this point I
could do nothing with him. His recent victory over his father and mother had
increased his strength, and I was nowhere. I would have told him of his true
position, but I knew very well that this would only make him more bent on having
his own way - for with so much money why should he not please himself? I said
nothing, therefore, on this head - and yet all that I could urge went for very
little to one who believed himself now to be an artisan and nothing more.
    Really from his own standpoint there was nothing very outrageous in what he
was doing. He had known and been very fond of Ellen years before. He knew her to
come of respectable people and to have borne a good character and been
universally liked at Battersby. She was then a quick, smart, hard-working girl -
and a very pretty one. When at last they met again she was on her best behaviour
- in fact, she was modesty and demurity itself - what wonder then that his
imagination should fail to realise the changes that eight years had worked? He
knew too much against himself, and was too bankrupt in love to be squeamish; if
Ellen had been only what he thought her, and if his prospects had been in
reality no better than he believed they were, I do not know that there was
anything much more imprudent in what Ernest proposed than there is in half the
marriages that take place every day.
    There was nothing for it however but to make the best of the inevitable, so
I wished my young friend good fortune, and told him he could have whatever money
he wanted to start his shop with, if what he had in hand was not sufficient. He
thanked me, asked me to be kind enough to let him do all my mending and
repairing, and to get him any other like orders that I could, and left me to my
own reflections.
 

                                   Chapter 76

I was even more angry when he was gone than I had been while he was with me. His
frank boyish face had beamed with a happiness that had rarely visited it. Except
at Cambridge he had hardly known what happiness meant, and even there his life
had been clouded as of a man from whom wisdom at the greatest of its entrances
was quite shut out. I had seen enough of the world and of him to have observed
this, but it was impossible, or I thought it had been impossible for me to have
helped him.
    Whether I ought to have even tried to help him or not, I do not know, but I
am sure that the young of all animals often do want help upon matters about
which anyone would say a priori that there should be no difficulty. One would
think that a young seal would want no teaching how to swim, nor yet a bird to
fly, but in practise a young seal drowns if put out of its depth before its
parents have taught it to swim; and so again even the young hawk must be taught
to fly before it can do so. I grant that the tendency of the times is to
exaggerate the good which teaching can do, but in trying to teach too much in
most matters we have neglected others in respect of which a little sensible
teaching would do no harm.
    I know it is the fashion to say that young people must find out these things
for themselves; and so they probably would if they had fair play to the extent
of not having obstacles put in their way. But they seldom have fair play; as a
general rule they meet with foul play and foul play from those who live by
selling them stones made into a great variety of shapes and sizes so as to form
a colourable imitation of bread. Some are lucky enough to meet with few
obstacles, some are plucky enough to override them, but in the greater number of
cases, if people are saved at all, they are saved so as by fire.
    But to continue my story. While Ernest was with me, Ellen was looking out
for a shop, on the south side of the Thames in the neighbourhood of the Elephant
and Castle, which was then almost a new, and very rising one. By one o'clock she
had found several from which a selection was to be made, and before night the
pair had made their choice.
    Ernest brought Ellen to me; I did not want to see her, but could not well
refuse. He had laid out a few of his shillings upon her wardrobe, so that she
was neatly dressed, and indeed she looked so pretty and so good that I could
hardly be surprised at Ernest's infatuation when the other circumstances of the
case were taken into consideration. Of course we hated one another instinctively
from the first moment we set eyes on one another, but we each told Ernest that
we had been most favourably impressed.
    Then I was taken to see the shop. An empty house is like a stray dog, or a
body from which the life has departed. Decay sets in at once in every part of
it, and what mould and wind and weather would spare street boys commonly
destroy. Ernest's shop in its untenanted state was a dirty unsavoury place
enough. The house was not old but it had been run up by a jerry builder and its
constitution had no stamina whatever. It was only by being kept warm and quiet
that it would remain in health for many months together. Now it had been empty
for some weeks, and the cats had got in by night, while the boys had broken the
windows by day. The parlour floor was covered with stones and dirt, and in the
area was a dead dog which had been killed in the street and been thrown down
into the first unprotected place that could be found. There was a strong smell
throughout the house, but whether it was bugs, or rats, or cats, or drains, or a
compound of all four, I could not determine. The sashes did not fit, the flimsy
doors hung badly; the skirting was gone in several places and there were not a
few holes in the floor; the locks were loose, the paper was torn and dirty; the
stairs were weak, and one felt the treads give as one went up them.
    Over and above these drawbacks the house had an ill name by reason of the
fact that the wife of the last occupier had hanged herself in it not very many
weeks previously. She had set down a bloater before the fire for her husband's
tea and had made him a round of toast; she then left the room as though about to
return to it shortly, but instead of doing so, she went into the back kitchen
and hanged herself without a word. It was this which had kept the house empty so
long in spite of its excellent position as a corner shop. If the owner had done
it up as soon as the last tenant left - which he did immediately after the
inquest - people would have got over the tragedy that had been enacted in it,
but the combination of bad condition and bad fame had hindered many from taking
it who, like Ellen, could see that it had great business capabilities. Almost
anything would have sold there, but it happened also that there was no
second-hand clothes shop in close neighbourhood so that everything combined in
its favour, except its filthy state and its reputation.
    When I saw it, I thought I would rather die than live in such an awful place
- but then I had been living in the Temple for the last five and twenty years.
Ernest was lodging in Laystall Street, and had just come out of prison; before
this he had lived in Ashpit Place so that this house had no terrors for him
provided he could get it done up. The difficulty was that the landlord was hard
to move in this respect. It ended in my finding the money to do everything that
was wanted, and taking a lease of the house for five years at the same rental as
that paid by the last occupier. I then sublet it to Ernest, of course taking
care that it was put much more efficiently into repair than his landlord was at
all likely to have put it.
    A week later I called and found everything so completely transformed that I
should hardly have recognised the house. All ceilings had been whitewashed, all
rooms papered, broken glass hacked out and reinstated, defective wood-work
renewed, all sashes, cupboards and doors had been painted. The drains had been
thoroughly overhauled, everything in fact that could be done had been done, and
the rooms now looked as cheerful as they had been forbidding when I had last
seen them. The people who had done the repairs were supposed to have cleaned the
house down before leaving, but Ellen had given it another scrub from top to
bottom herself after they were gone, and it was as clean as a new pin. I almost
felt as though I could have lived in it myself, and as for Ernest he was in the
seventh heaven. He said it was all my doing and Ellen's.
    There was already a counter in the shop and a few fittings, so that nothing
now remained but to get some stock and set it out for sale. Ernest said he could
not begin better than by selling his clerical wardrobe, and his books, for
though the shop was intended especially for the sale of second-hand clothes, yet
Ellen said there was no reason why they should not sell a few books too; so a
beginning was made by selling the books he had had at school and college at
about a shilling a volume, taking them all round, and I have heard him say that
he learned more that proved of practical use to him through sticking his books
on a bench in front of his shop and selling them than he had done from all the
years of study which he had bestowed upon their contents.
    For the enquiries that were made of him whether he had such and such a book
taught him what he could sell and what he could not; how much he could get for
this and how much for that. Having made ever such a little beginning with books,
he took to attending book sales as well [as] clothes sales and ere long this
branch of his business became no less important than the tailoring, and would I
have no doubt have been the one which in the end he would have settled down to
exclusively, if he had been called upon to remain a tradesman; but this is
anticipating.
    I made a contribution and a stipulation. Ernest wanted to sink the gentleman
completely, until such time as he could work his way up again. If he had been
left to himself he would have lived with Ellen in the shop back parlour and
kitchen and have let out both the upper floors according to his original
programme. I did not want him however to cut himself adrift from music, letters,
and polite life, and knew that unless he had some kind of den into which he
could retire, he would ere long become the tradesman and nothing else. I
therefore insisted on taking the first floor front and back myself, and
furnishing them with the things which had been left at Mrs. Jupp's. I bought
these things of him for a small sum and had them moved into his present abode.
    I went to Mrs. Jupp's to arrange all this, as Ernest did not like going to
Ashpit Place. I had half expected to find the furniture sold and Mrs. Jupp gone,
but it was not so; with all her faults the poor old woman was perfectly honest.
    I told her that Pryer had taken all Ernest's money and run away with it. She
hated Pryer. »I never knew anyone,« she exclaimed, »as white-livered in the face
as that Pryer; he hasn't got an upright vein in his whole body.«
    »There's nothing upright about him, Mrs. Jupp,« said I.
    »Not where it's a man's duty to be upright,« said she. »Why all that time
when he used to come breakfasting with Mr. Pontifex morning after morning, it
took me to a perfect shadow the way he carried on. There was no doing anything
to please him right. First I used to get them eggs and bacon, and he didn't like
that; and then I got them a bit of fish, and he didn't like that, or else it was
too dear, and you know fish is dearer than ever; and then I got him a bit of
German, and he said it rose on him; then I tried sausages, and he said they hit
him in the eye worse even than German; oh how I used to wander my room and fret
about it inwardly and cry for hours, and all about them paltry breakfasts - and
it wasn't't Mr. Pontifex; he'd like anything that anyone chose to give him.
    And so the piano's to go,« she continued. »What beautiful tunes Mr. Pontifex
did play upon it to be sure; or else there was one I liked better than any I
ever heard. I was in the room when he played it once, and [when I] said, Oh Mr.
Pontifex, that's the kind of woman I am, he said, No Mrs. Jupp, that it isn't,
for this tune is old but no one can say you are old. But bless you he meant
nothing by it - it was only his mucky flattery.«
    Like myself she was vexed at his getting married. She didn't like his being
married and she didn't like his not being married - but anyhow it was Ellen's
fault, not his, and she hoped he would be happy. »But after all,« she concluded,
»it ain't you, and it ain't me, and it ain't him, and it ain't her. It's what
you must call the fortunes of matterimony, for there ain't no other word for
it.«
    In the course of the afternoon the furniture arrived at Ernest's new abode.
In the first floor we placed the piano, table, pictures, bookshelves, a couple
of armchairs and all the little household gods which he had brought from
Cambridge. The back room was furnished exactly as his bedroom at Ashpit Place
had been - new things being got for the bridal apartment downstairs. These two
first-floor rooms I insisted on retaining as my own, but Ernest was to use them
whenever he pleased; he was never to sublet even the bedroom, but was to keep it
for himself in case his wife should be ill at any time, or in case he might be
ill himself.
    In less than a fortnight from the time of his leaving prison all these
arrangements had been completed, and Ernest felt that he had again linked
himself on to the life which he had led before his imprisonment - with a few
important differences, however, which were greatly to his advantage. He was no
longer a clergyman; he was about to marry a woman to whom he was much attached,
and he had parted company forever with his father and mother.
    True, he had lost all his money, his reputation, and his position as a
gentleman; he had, in fact, had to burn his house down in order to get his roast
sucking pig; but if asked whether he would rather be as he was now, or as he was
on the day before his arrest, he would not have had a moment's hesitation in
preferring his present to his past. If his present could only have been
purchased at the expense of all that he had gone through, it was still worth
purchasing at the price, and he would go through it all again if necessary. The
loss of the money was the worst, but Ellen said she was sure they would get on,
and she knew all about it. As for the loss of reputation - considering that he
had Ellen and me left, it did not come to much.
    I saw the house on the afternoon of the day on which all was finished, and
there remained nothing but to buy some stock and begin selling. When I was gone,
after he had had his tea, he stole up to his castle - the first floor front. He
lit his pipe and sat down to the piano. He played Handel for an hour or so, and
then set himself to the table to read and write. He took all his sermons and all
the theological works he had begun to compose during the time he had been a
clergyman and put them in the fire; as he saw them consume he felt as though he
had got rid of another incubus. Then he took up some of the little pieces he had
begun to write during the latter part of his undergraduate life at Cambridge,
and began to cut them about and rewrite them. As he worked quietly at these till
he heard the clock strike ten and it was time to go to bed, he felt that he was
now not only happy but supremely happy.
 

                                    Part II

                                   Chapter 77

Next Day Ellen took him to Debenham's auction rooms, and they surveyed the lots
of clothes which were hung up all round the auction room to be viewed. Ellen had
had sufficient experience to know about how much each lot ought to fetch; she
overhauled lot after lot, and valued it; in a very short time Ernest himself
began to have a pretty fair idea what each lot should go for, and before the
morning was over valued a dozen lots running at prices about which Ellen said he
would not hurt if he could get them for that.
    So far from disliking this work or finding it tedious, he liked it very
much; indeed he would have liked anything which did not overtax his physical
strength, and which held out a prospect of bringing him in money. Ellen would
not let him buy anything on the occasion of this sale; she said he had better
see one sale first and watch how prices actually went, so at twelve o'clock when
the sale began, he saw the lots sold which he and Ellen had marked, and by the
time the sale was over he knew enough to be able to bid with safety whenever he
should actually want to buy. Knowledge of this sort is very easily acquired by
anyone who is in bonâ fide want of it.
    But Ellen did not want him to buy at auctions - not much at least at
present. Private dealing, she said was best. If I, for example, had any cast-off
clothes, he was to buy them off my laundress, and get a connection with other
laundresses to whom he might give a trifle more than they got at present for
whatever their masters might give them, and yet make a good profit. If gentlemen
sold their things he was to try and get them to sell to him. He flinched at
nothing; perhaps he would have flinched if he had had any idea how outré his
proceedings were, but the very ignorance of the world which had ruined him up
till now, by a happy irony began to work its own cure. If some malignant fairy
had meant to curse him in this respect she had overdone her malice, for his
excess of ignorance enabled him to do what he could never have done if he had
known the world better. He did not know he was doing anything strange. He only
knew that he had no money and must provide for himself, a wife, and a possible
family. More than this, he wanted to have some leisure in an evening so that he
might read and write, and keep up his music. If anyone would show him how he
could do better than he was doing he should be much obliged to him, but to
himself it seemed that he was doing sufficiently well; for at the end of the
first week the pair found they had made a clear profit of £3. In a few weeks
this had increased to £4 and by the New Year they had made a profit of £5 in one
week.
    Ernest had by this time been married some two months, for he had stuck to
his original plan of marrying Ellen on the first day he could legally do so.
This date was a little delayed by the change of abode from Laystall Street to
Blackfriars, but on the first day that it could be done it was done. He had
never had more than £250 a year even in the times of his affluence, so that a
profit of £5 a week, if it could be maintained steadily, would place him where
he was as far as income went; and though he should have to feed two mouths
instead of one, yet his expenses in other ways were so much curtailed by his
changed social position that, take it all round, his income was practically what
it had been a twelvemonth before. The next thing to do was to increase it and
put by money.
    Prosperity depends as we all know in great measure upon energy and good
sense, but it also depends not a little upon pure luck - that is to say upon
connections which are in such a tangle that it is more easy to say that they do
not exist than to try and trace them. A neighbourhood may have an excellent
reputation as being likely to be a rising one, and yet may become suddenly
eclipsed by another which no one would have thought so promising. A fever
hospital may divert the stream of business, or a new station attract it; so
little, indeed, can be certainly known that it is better not to try to know more
than is in everybody's mouth and to leave the rest to chance.
    Luck, which certainly had not been too kind to my hero hitherto, now seemed
to have taken him under her protection. The neighbourhood prospered and he with
it. It seemed as though he no sooner bought a thing and put it into his shop,
than it sold with a profit of from 30 to 50 per cent. He learned bookkeeping and
watched his accounts carefully, following up any success immediately; he began
to buy other things besides clothes - such as books, music, odds and ends of
furniture, etc. Whether it was luck, or business aptitude, or energy, or the
politeness with which he treated all his customers, I cannot say - but to the
surprise of no one more than of himself he went ahead faster than he had
anticipated even in his wildest dreams, and by Easter was established in a
strong position as the owner of a business which was bringing him in between
four and five hundred a year, and which he understood how to extend.
 

                                   Chapter 78

Ellen and he got on capitally; all the better perhaps because the disparity
between them was so great that neither did Ellen want to be elevated, nor did
Ernest want to elevate her. He was very fond of her, and very kind to her; they
had interests which they could serve in common; they had antecedents with a good
part of which each was familiar; they had each of them excellent tempers, and
this was enough. Ellen did not seem jealous at Ernest's preferring to sit the
greater part of his time after the day's work was done in the first floor front,
where I occasionally visited him. She might have come and sat with him if she
had liked, but somehow or other she generally found enough to occupy her down
below. She had the tact also to encourage him to go out of an evening whenever
he had a mind, without in the least caring that he should take her too - and
this suited Ernest very well. He was, I should say, much happier in his married
life than people generally are.
    At first it had been very painful to him to meet any of his old friends, as
he sometimes accidentally did, but this soon passed; either they cut him, or he
cut them; it was not nice being cut for the first time or two, but after that it
became rather pleasant than not, and when he began to see that he was going
ahead, he cared very little what people might say about his antecedents. The
ordeal is a painful one, but if a man's moral and intellectual constitution [is]
naturally sound, there is nothing which will give him so much strength of
character as having been well cut.
    It was easy for him to keep his expenditure down, for his tastes were not
luxurious. He liked theatres, outings into the country on a Sunday, and tobacco,
but did not care for much else - except writing and music. As for the usual run
of concerts he hated them. He worshipped Handel; he liked Offenbach and the airs
that went about the streets, but he cared for nothing between these two
extremes. Music, therefore, cost him little. As for theatres, I got him and
Ellen as many orders as they liked, so these cost them nothing. The Sunday
outings were a small item; for a shilling or two he could get a return ticket to
some place far enough out of town to give him a good walk, and a thorough change
for the day. Ellen went with him the first few times, but she said she found it
too much for her; there were a few of her old friends whom she should sometimes
like to see, and they and he, she said, would not hit it off perhaps too well,
so it would be better for him to go alone. This seemed so sensible, and suited
Ernest so exactly that he readily fell into it, nor did he suspect dangers which
were apparent enough to me when I heard of what she had said upon the matter. I
said nothing, however, and for a time all continued to go well.
    As I have said, one of his chief pleasures was in writing. If a man carries
with him a little sketch book and is continually jotting down sketches, he has
the artistic instinct; a hundred things may hinder his due development, but the
instinct is there. The literary instinct may be known by a man's keeping a small
note book in his waistcoat pocket, into which he jots down anything that strikes
him, or any good thing that he hears said, or a reference to any passage which
he thinks will come in useful to him. Ernest had such a note book always with
him. Even when he was at Cambridge he had begun the practise without anyone's
having suggested it to him. These notes he copied out from time to time into a
book, which as they accumulated, he was driven into indexing, approximately, as
he went along. When I found out this, I knew that he had the literary instinct,
and when I saw his notes I began to hope great things of him.
    For a long time I was disappointed. He was kept back by the nature of the
subjects which he chose - which were generally metaphysical. In vain I tried to
get him away from these to matters which had a greater interest for the general
public. When I begged him to try his hand at some pretty, graceful, little story
which should be full of whatever people knew and liked best, he would
immediately set to work upon a treatise to show the grounds on which all belief
rested.
    »You are stirring mud,« said I, »or poking at a sleeping dog. You are trying
to make people resume consciousness about things, which, with sensible men, have
already passed into the unconscious stage. The men whom you would disturb are in
front of you, and not, as you fancy, behind you; it is you who are the lagger,
not they.«
    He could not see it. He said he was engaged on an essay upon the famous quod
semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus of St. Vincent de Lerins. This was the more
provoking because he showed himself able to do better things if he had liked.
    I was then at work upon my burlesque »The Impatient Griselda,« and was
sometimes at my wit's end for a piece of business or a situation; he gave me
many suggestions, all of which were marked with excellent good sense.
Nevertheless I could not prevail with him to put philosophy on one side, and was
obliged to leave him to himself.
    For a long time, as I have said, his choice of subjects continued to be such
as I could not approve. He was continually studying scientific and metaphysical
writers, in the hope of either finding or making for himself a philosophe's
stone in the shape of a system which should go on all fours under all
circumstances, instead of being liable to be upset at every touch and turn, as
every system yet promulgated has turned out to be.
    He kept to the pursuit of this Will-o'-the-wisp so long that I gave up hope,
and set him down as another fly that had been caught, as it were, by a piece of
paper daubed over with some sticky stuff that had not even the merit of being
sweet, but to my surprise he at last declared that he was satisfied, and had
found what he wanted.
    I supposed that he had only hit upon some new »Lo here!« when, to my relief,
he told me that he had concluded that no system which should go perfectly upon
all fours was possible, inasmuch as no one could get behind Bishop Berkeley, and
therefore no absolutely incontrovertible first premise could ever be laid.
Having found this he was just as well pleased as if he had found the most
perfect system imaginable. All he wanted, he said, was to know which way it was
to be - that is to say whether a system was possible or not, and if possible,
then what the system was to be. Having found out that no system based on
absolute certainty was possible, he was contented.
    I had only a very vague idea who Bishop Berkeley was, but was thankful to
him for having defended us from an incontrovertible first premise. I am afraid I
said a few words implying that after a great deal of trouble he had arrived at
the conclusion which sensible people reach without bothering their brains so
much.
    He said, »Yes, but I was not born sensible. A child of ordinary powers
learns to walk at a year or two old without knowing much about it; failing
ordinary powers he had better learn laboriously than never learn at all. I am
sorry I was not stronger, but to do as I did was my only chance.«
    He looked so meek that I was vexed with myself for having said what I had,
more especially when I remembered his bringing-up, which had doubtless done much
to impair his power of taking a common-sense view of things.
    He continued - »I see it all now. The people like Towneley are the only ones
who know anything that is worth knowing, and like that of course I can never be.
But to make Towneleys possible there must be hewers of wood and drawers of water
- men in fact through whom conscious knowledge must pass before it can reach
those who can apply it gracefully and instinctively like the Towneleys can. I am
a hewer of wood, but if I accept the position frankly, and do not set up to be a
Towneley, it does not matter.«
    He still therefore stuck to science instead of turning to literature proper
as I hoped he would have done, but he confined himself henceforth to enquiries
on specific subjects concerning which an increase of our knowledge - as he said
- was possible. Having in fact, after infinite vexation of spirit, arrived at a
conclusion which cut at the roots of all knowledge, he settled contentedly down
to the pursuit of knowledge, and has pursued it ever since in spite of
occasional excursions into the regions of literature proper.
    But this is anticipating, and may perhaps also convey a wrong impression,
for from the outset he did occasionally turn his attention to work which must be
more properly called literary than either scientific or metaphysical.
 

                                   Chapter 79

About six months after he had set up his shop his prosperity had reached its
climax. It seemed even then as though he were likely to go ahead no less fast
than heretofore, and I doubt not that he would have done so, if success or
non-success had depended upon himself alone. Unfortunately he was not the only
person to be reckoned with.
    One morning he had gone out to attend some sales, leaving his wife perfectly
well, as usual in good spirits, and looking very pretty. When he came back he
found her sitting on a chair in the back parlour, with her hair over her face,
sobbing and crying as though her heart would break. She said she had been
frightened in the morning by a man who had pretended to be a customer, and had
threatened her unless she gave him some things, and she had had to give them to
him in order to save herself from violence; she had been in hysterics ever since
the man had gone. This was her story, but her speech was so incoherent that it
was not easy to make out what she said. Ernest knew she was with child, and
thinking this might have something to do with the matter, would have sent for a
doctor if Ellen had not begged him not to do so.
    Anyone who had had experience of drunken people would have seen at a glance
what the matter was, but my hero knew nothing about them - nothing, that is to
say, about the drunkenness of the habitual drunkard, which shows itself very
differently from that of one who gets drunk only once in a way. The idea that
his wife could drink had never even crossed his mind; indeed, she always made a
fuss about taking more than a very little beer, and never touched spirits. He
did not know much more about hysterics than he did about drunkenness, but he had
always heard that women who were about to become mothers were liable to be
easily upset, and were often rather flighty, so he was not greatly surprised,
and thought he had settled the matter by registering the discovery that being
about to become a father has its troublesome, as well as its pleasant side.
    The great change in Ellen's life consequent upon her meeting Ernest and
getting married had for a time actually sobered her by shaking her out of her
old ways. Drunkenness is so much a matter of habit, and habit so much a matter
of surroundings, that if you completely change the surroundings, you will
sometimes get rid of the drunkenness altogether. Ellen had intended remaining
always sober henceforward, and never having had so long a steady fit before,
believed she was now cured. So she perhaps would have been, if she had seen none
of her old acquaintances. When however her new life was beginning to lose its
newness and when her old acquaintances came to see her, her present surroundings
became more like her past, and on this she herself began to get like her past
too. At first she got only a little tipsy, and struggled against a relapse; but
it was no use; she soon lost the heart to fight, and now her object was not to
try and keep sober, but to get gin without her husband's finding it out.
    So the hysterics continued, and she managed to make her husband still think
that they were due to her being about to become a mother. The worse her attacks
were, the more devoted he became in his attention to her. At last he insisted
that a doctor should see her. The doctor of course took in a situation at a
glance, but said nothing to Ernest except in such a guarded way that he did not
understand the hints that were thrown out to him. He was much too downright and
matter-of-fact to be quick at taking hints of this sort. He hoped that as soon
as his wife's confinement was over she would regain her health, and had no
thought save how to spare her as far as possible till that happy time should
come.
    In the mornings she was generally better, as long that is to say as Ernest
remained at home; but he had to go out buying, and on his return would generally
find that she had had another attack as soon as he had left the house. At times
she would laugh and cry for half an hour together, at others she would lie in a
semi-comatose state upon the bed, and when he came back he would find that the
shop had been neglected and all the work of the household left undone. Still he
took it for granted that this was all part of the usual course when women were
going to become mothers, and when Ellen's share of the work settled down more
and more upon his own shoulders he did it all and drudged away without a murmur.
Nevertheless he began to feel in a vague way more as he had felt in Ashpit
Place, at Roughborough, or at Battersby, and to lose the buoyancy of spirits
which had made another man of him during his first six months of his married
life.
    It was not only that he had to do so much household work, for even the
cooking, cleaning up slops, bed-making, and fire-lighting ere long devolved upon
him, but his business no longer prospered. He could buy as hitherto, but Ellen
seemed unable to sell as she had sold at first. The fact was that she sold as
well as ever, but kept back part of the proceeds in order to buy gin, and she
did this more and more till even the unsuspecting Ernest ought to have seen that
she was not telling the truth. When she sold better - that is to say when she
did not think it safe to keep back more than a certain amount - she got money
out of him on the plea that she had a longing for this or that, and that it
would perhaps irreparably damage the baby if her longing was denied her. All
seemed right, reasonable, and unavoidable; nevertheless Ernest saw that until
the confinement was over he was likely to have a hard time of it. All however
would then come right again.
 

                                   Chapter 80

In the month of September 1860 a girl was born, and Ernest was proud and happy.
The birth of the child, and a rather alarming talk which the doctor had given to
Ellen sobered her for a few weeks, and it really seemed as though his hopes were
about to be fulfilled. The expenses of his wife's confinement were heavy and he
was obliged to trench upon his savings, but he had no doubt about soon recouping
this now that Ellen was herself again; for a time indeed his business did revive
a little; nevertheless it seemed as though the interruption of his prosperity
had in some way broken the spell of good luck which had attended him in the
outset; he was still, however, sanguine, and worked night and day with a will,
but there was no more music, or reading, or writing now. His Sunday outings were
put a stop to, and but for the first floor's being let to myself, he would have
lost his citadel there too; but he seldom used it, for Ellen had to wait more
and more upon the baby, and, as a consequence, Ernest had to wait more and more
upon Ellen.
    One afternoon about a couple of months after the baby had been born, and
just as my unhappy hero was beginning to feel more hopeful and therefore better
able to bear his burdens, he returned from a sale, and found Ellen in the same
hysterical condition that he had found her in [in] the spring. She said she was
again with child and Ernest still believed her.
    All the troubles of the preceding six months began again then and there, and
grew worse and worse continually. Money did not come in quickly, for Ellen
cheated him by keeping it back and dealing improperly with the goods he bought.
When it did come in she got it out of him as before on pretexts which it seemed
inhuman to enquire into. It was always the same story.
    By and by a new feature began to show itself. Ernest had inherited his
father's punctuality and exactness as regards money: he liked to know the worst
of what he had to pay at once; he hated having expenses sprung upon him which if
not forseen might and ought to have been so, but now bills began to be brought
to him for things ordered by Ellen without his knowledge, or for which he had
already given her the money. This was awful, and even Ernest turned. When he
remonstrated with her, not for having bought the things, but for having said
nothing to him about the money's being owing, Ellen had met him with hysteria
and there had been a scene. She had now pretty well forgotten the hard times she
had known when she had been on her own resources and reproached him downright
with having married her - on that moment the scales fell from Ernest's eyes as
they had fallen when Towneley had said, »No, no, no.« He said nothing, but he
woke up once for all to the fact that he had made a mistake in marrying. A touch
had again come which had revealed him to himself.
    He went upstairs to the disused citadel, flung himself into the armchair and
covered his face with his hands.
    He still did not know that his wife drank, but he could no longer trust her,
and his dream of happiness was over. He had been saved from the church - so as
by fire, but still saved - but what could now save him from his marriage? He had
made the same mistake that he had made in wedding himself to the church, but
with a hundred times worse results. He had learnt nothing by experience: he was
an Esau - one of those wretches whose hearts the Lord had hardened, who having
ears heard not, having eyes saw not, and who should find no place for repentance
though they sought it even with tears.
    Yet had he not on the whole tried to find out what the ways of God were, and
to follow them in singleness of heart? To a certain extent yes; but he had not
been thorough; he had not given up all for God. He knew that very well; he had
done little as compared with what he might and ought to have done - but still if
he was being punished for this, God was a hard taskmaster, and one, too, who was
continually pouncing out upon his unhappy creatures from ambuscades. In marrying
Ellen he had meant to avoid a life of sin, and take the course he believed to be
moral and right. With his antecedents and surroundings it was the most natural
thing in the world for him to have done - yet in what a frightful position had
not his morality landed him? Could any amount of immorality have placed him in a
much worse one? What was morality worth if it was not that which on the whole
brought a man peace at the last, and could anyone have reasonable certainty that
marriage would do this? It seemed to him that in his attempt to be moral he had
been following a devil which had disguised itself as an angel of light. But if
so, what ground was there on which a man might rest the sole of his foot and
tread in reasonable safety?
    He was still too young to reach the answer, »On common sense« - an answer
which he would have felt to be unworthy of anyone who had an ideal standard.
    However this might be, it was plain he had now done for himself. It had been
thus with him all his life. If there had come at any time a gleam of hope and
sunshine, it was to be obscured immediately - why, prison was happier than this.
There, at any rate, he had had no money anxieties, and these were beginning to
weigh upon him now with all their horrors. He was happier even now than he had
been at Battersby or at Roughborough, and he would not now go back, even if he
could, to his Cambridge life, but for all that the outlook was so gloomy, in
fact so hopeless, that he felt as if he could have only too gladly gone to sleep
and died in his armchair once for all.
    As he was musing thus and looking upon the wreck of his hopes - for he saw
well enough that as long as he was linked to Ellen he should never rise as he
had dreamed of doing - he heard a noise below, and presently a neighbour ran
upstairs and entered his room hurriedly.
    »Good gracious, Mr. Pontifex« - she exclaimed - »for goodness' sake come
down quickly and help - Mrs. Pontifex is took with the horrors - and she's
orkard.«
    The unhappy man came down as he was bid and found his wife mad with delirium
tremens.
 

                                   Chapter 81

He knew all now. The neighbours thought he must have known that his wife drank
all along, but Ellen had been so artful, and he so simple that, as I have said,
he had had no suspicion. »Why,« said the woman who had summoned him, »she'll
drink anything she can stand up and pay her money for.« Ernest could hardly
believe his ears, but when the doctor had seen his wife and she had become more
quiet, he went over to the public house hard by and made enquiries, the result
of which rendered further doubt impossible. The publican took the opportunity to
present my hero with a bill of several pounds for bottles of spirits supplied to
his wife, and what with his wife's confinement and the way business had fallen
off, he had not the money to pay with - for the sum exceeded the remnant of his
savings.
    He came to me - not for money, but to tell me his miserable story. I had
seen for some time that there was something wrong, and had suspected pretty
shrewdly what the matter was, but of course I said nothing. Ernest and I had
been growing apart for some time. I was vexed at his having married and he knew
I was vexed though I did my best to hide it.
    A man's friendships are like his will invalidated by marriage - but they are
also no less invalidated by the marriage of his friends. The rift in friendship
which invariably makes its appearance on the marriage of either of the parties
to it was fast widening as it no less invariably does into the great gulf which
is fixed between the married and the unmarried, and I was beginning to leave my
protégé to a fate with which I had neither right nor power to meddle. In fact I
had begun to feel him rather a burden; I did not so much mind this when I could
be of use but I grudged it when I could be of none. He had made his bed and he
must lie upon it. Ernest had felt all this and seldom came near me, till now one
evening in the late months in 1860 he called on me and with a very woebegone
face told me his troubles.
    As soon as I found that he no longer liked his wife I forgave him at once,
and was as much interested in him as ever. There is nothing an old bachelor
likes better than to find a young married man who wishes he had not got married
- especially when the case is such an extreme one that he need not pretend to
hope that matters will come all right again, or encourage his young friend to
make the best of it.
    I was myself in favour of a separation, and said I would make Ellen an
allowance myself - of course intending that it should come out of Ernest's
money; but he would not hear of this. He had married Ellen, he said, and he must
try and reform her. He hated it, but he must try, and finding him as usual very
obstinate, I was obliged to acquiesce, though with little confidence in the
result. I was vexed at seeing him waste himself upon such a barren task, and
again began to feel him burdensome. I am afraid I showed this, for he again
avoided me for some time, and indeed for many months I hardly saw him at all.
    Ellen remained very ill for some days, and then gradually recovered. Ernest
hardly left her till she was out of danger. When she had recovered he got the
doctor to tell her that if she had such another attack she would certainly die;
this so frightened her that she took the pledge.
    Then he became more hopeful again. When she was sober she was just what she
was during the first days of her married life, and so quick was he to forget
pain, that after a few days he was as fond of her as ever. But Ellen could not
forgive him for knowing what he did. She knew that he was on the watch to shield
her from temptation, and though he did his best to make her think that he had no
further uneasiness about her, she found the burden of her union with
respectability grow more and more heavy upon her, and looked back more and more
longingly upon the lawless freedom of the life she had led before she met her
husband.
    I will dwell no longer on this part of my story. During the spring months of
1861 she kept straight - she had had her fling of dissipation, and this,
together with the impression made upon her by her having taken the pledge, tamed
her for a while. The shop went fairly well - and enabled Ernest to make the two
ends meet. [In] the spring and summer of 1861 he even put by a little money
again. In the autumn his wife was confined of a boy - a very fine one, so
everyone said. She soon recovered, and Ernest was beginning to breathe freely,
and be almost sanguine when, without a word of warning, the storm broke again.
He returned one afternoon about two years after his marriage, and found his wife
lying upon the floor insensible.
    From this time he became hopeless, and began to go visibly down hill. He had
been knocked about too much and the luck had gone too long against him. The wear
and tear of the last three years had told on him, and though not actually ill he
was overworked, below par, and unfit for further burden. He struggled for a
while to prevent himself from finding this out, but facts were too strong for
him. Again he called on me and told me what had happened.
    I was glad the crisis had come; I was sorry for Ellen, but a complete
separation from her was the only chance for [her] husband. Even after this last
outbreak he was unwilling to consent to this, and talked nonsense about dying at
his post till I got tired of him. Each time I saw him the old gloom had settled
more and more deeply upon his face, and I had about made up my mind to put an
end to the situation by a coup de main, such as bribing Ellen to run away with
somebody else, or something of that kind, when matters settled themselves as
usual in a way which I had not anticipated.
 

                                   Chapter 82

The winter had been a trying one. Ernest had only paid his way by selling his
piano. With this he seemed to cut away the last link that connected him with his
earlier life, and to sink once for all into the small shopkeeper. It seemed to
him that however low he might sink his pain could not last much longer, for he
should simply die if it did.
    He hated Ellen now, and the pair lived in open want of harmony with each
other. If it were not for his children, he would have left her and gone to
America, but he could not leave the children with Ellen, and as for taking them
with him he did not know how to do it, nor what to do with them when he had got
them to America. If he had not lost energy, he would probably in the end have
taken the children and gone off, but his nerve was shaken, so day by day went by
and nothing was done.
    He had only got a few shillings in the world now, except the value of his
stock which was very little; he could get perhaps £3 or £4 for what music, few
pictures, and pieces of furniture still belonged to him. He thought of trying to
live by his pen, but his writing had dropped off long ago; he no longer had an
idea in his head. Look which way he could he saw no hope: the end, if it had not
actually come, was within easy distance and he was almost face to face with
actual want. When he saw people going about poorly clad, or even without shoes
and stockings, he wondered whether within a few months' time he too should not
have to go about in this way. The remorseless, resistless hand of fate had
caught him in its grip and was dragging him down, down, down. Still he staggered
on, going his daily rounds buying second-hand clothes, and spending his evenings
in cleaning and mending them.
    One morning as he was returning from a house at the West End where he had
bought some clothes from one of the servants he was struck by a small crowd
which had gathered round a space that had been railed off on the grass near one
of the paths in the Green Park.
    It was a lovely soft spring morning at the end of March, and unusually
balmly for the time of year; even Ernest's melancholy was relieved for a while
by the look of spring that pervaded both earth and sky; but it soon returned,
and smiling sadly he said to himself, »It may bring hope to others, but for me
there can be no hope henceforth.«
    As these words were in his mind he joined the small crowd who were gathered
round the railings and saw that they were looking at three sheep with very small
lambs only a day or two old which had been penned off from the others that
ranged the park, for shelter and protection.
    They were very pretty, and Londoners so seldom get a chance of seeing lambs
that it was no wonder everyone stopped to look at them. Ernest observed that no
one seemed fonder of them than a great lubberly butcher boy who leaned up
against the railings with a tray of meat upon his shoulder. He was looking at
this boy and smiling at the grotesqueness of his admiration, when he became
aware that he was being watched intently by a man in coachman's livery who had
also stopped to admire the lambs, and was leaning against the opposite side of
the enclosure. Ernest knew him in a moment as John, his father's old coachman at
Battersby, and went up to him at once.
    »Why, Master Ernest,« said he with his strong Northern accent, »I was
thinking of you only this very morning,« and the pair shook hands heartily. John
was in an excellent place at the West End. He had done very well, he said, ever
since he had left Battersby, except for the first year or two, and that he said,
with a screw of the face, had well nigh broke him.
    Ernest asked how this was.
    »Why you see,« said John, »I was always main fond of that lass Ellen whom
you remember running after, Master Ernest, and giving your watch to. I expect
you haven't forgotten that day have you?« And here he laughed. »I don't know as
I be the father of the child she carried away with her from Battersby, but I
very easily may have been. Anyhow, after I had left your papa's place a few days
I wrote to Ellen to an address we had agreed upon and told her I would do what I
ought to do, and so I did, for I married her within a month afterwards - Why
Lord love the man, whatever is the matter with him?« - for as he had spoken the
few last words of his story, Ernest had turned white as a sheet, and was leaning
against the railings.
    »John,« said my hero, gasping for breath - »are you sure of what you say -
are you quite sure you - you really married her?«
    »Of course I am,« said John, »I married her before the registrar at
Letchbury on the 15th of August 1851.«
    »Give me your arm,« said Ernest, »take me into Piccadilly, put me into a
cab, and come with me at once, if you can spare time, to Mr. Overton's at the
Temple.«
 

                                   Chapter 83

I do not think Ernest himself was much more pleased at finding that he had never
en married than I was. To him, however, the shock of pleasure was positively
numbing in its intensity. As he felt his burden removed, he reeled for the
unaccustomed lightness of his movements; his position was so shattered that his
identity seemed to have been shattered also; he was as one waking up from a
horrible nightmare to find himself safe and sound in bed but who can hardly even
yet believe that the room is not full of armed men who are about to spring upon
him.
    »And it is I,« he said, »who not an hour ago complained that I was without
hope. It is I, who for weeks have been railing at fortune, and saying that
though she smiled on others she never smiled on me. Why, never was any one half
so fortunate as I am.«
    »Yes,« said I, »you have been inoculated for marriage, and have recovered.«
    »And yet,« he said, »I was very fond of her till she took to drinking.«
    »Perhaps; but is it not Tennyson who has said:
 
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have lost at all?«
 
»You are an incarnate bachelor,« was the rejoinder.
    Then we had a long talk with John, to whom I gave a £5 note upon the spot.
He said Ellen had used to drink at Battersby; the cook had taught her; he had
known it, but was so fond of her that he had chanced it and married her to save
her from the streets and in the hope of being able to keep her straight. She had
done with him just as she had done with Ernest - made him an excellent wife as
long as she kept sober, but a very bad one afterwards.
    »There isn't,« said John, »a sweeter-tempered, more handy, prettier girl
than she was in all England, nor one as knows better what a man likes, and how
to make him happy, if you can keep her from drink; but you can't keep her; she's
that artful she'll get it under your very eyes, without you knowing it. If she
can't get any more of your things to pawn, or sell, she'll steal her
neighbour's. That's how she got into trouble first when I was with her. During
the six months she was in prison I should have felt happy if I had not known she
would come out again. And then she did come out, and before she had been free a
fortnight, she began shop-lifting and going on the loose again - and all to get
money to drink with. So seeing I could do nothing with her and that she was just
a-killing of me, I left her, and come up to London, and went into service again
- nor did I know what had become of her till you and Mr. Ernest here told me. I
hope you'll neither of you say you've seen me.«
    We assured him we would keep his counsel, and then he left us - with many
protestations of affection towards Ernest to whom he had been always much
attached.
    We talked the situation over, and concluded first to get the children away
and then to come to terms with Ellen concerning their future custody; as for
herself I proposed that we should make her an allowance, say of a pound a week
to be paid so long as she gave no trouble. Ernest not seeing where the pound a
week was to come from, I eased his mind by saying I would pay it myself. Before
the day was two hours older we had got the children - about whom Ellen had
always appeared to be indifferent - and had confided them to the care of my
laundress, a good motherly sort of woman who took to them, and to whom they took
at once.
    Then came the odious task of getting rid of their unhappy mother. Ernest's
heart smote him at the notion of the shock the break-up would be to her. He was
always thinking that people had a claim upon him for some inestimable service
they had rendered him, or some irreparable mischief done to them by himself; the
case was however so clear that Ernest's scruples did not offer serious
resistance.
    I did not see why he should have the pain of another interview with his
wife, so I got Mr. Ottery to manage the whole business. It turned out that we
need not have harrowed ourselves so much about the agony of mind which Ellen
would suffer on becoming an outcast again. Ernest saw Mrs. Richards, the
neighbour who had called him down on the night when he had first discovered his
wife's drunkenness, and got from her some details of Ellen's opinions upon the
matter. She did not seem in the least conscience-stricken; she said, »Thank
goodness, at last!«; and, although aware that her marriage was not a valid one,
evidently regarded this as a mere detail which it would not be worth anybody's
while to go into more particularly. As regards his breaking with her she said it
was a good job both for him and for her.
    »This life,« she continued, »don't suit me. Hernest is too good for me; he
wants a woman as shall be a bit better than me, and I want a man as shall be a
bit worse than him. We should have got on all very well if we had not lived
together as married folks, but I've been used to have a little place of my own,
however small, for a-many years, and I don't want Hernest, or any other man,
always hanging about it. Besides he is too steady; his being in prison doesn't't
seem to have done him a bit of good - he's just as grave as those as 'ave never
been in prison at all, and he never swears nor cusses come what may; it makes me
afraid of him, and therefore I drink the worse. What us poor girls wants is not
to be jumped up all of a sudden and made honest women of; this is too much for
us and throws us off our perch; what we wants is a regular friend or two, who'll
just keep us from starving, and force us to be good for a bit together now and
again. That's about as much as we can stand. He may 'ave the children; he can do
better for them than I can; and as for his money, he may give it or keep it as
he likes; he's never done me any harm, and I shall let him alone, but hif he
means me to 'ave it, I suppose I'd better 'ave it« - and have it she did.
    »And I,« thought Ernest to himself again when the arrangement was concluded,
»am the man who thought himself unlucky!«
    I may as well say here all that need be said further about Ellen. For the
next three years she used to call regularly at Mr. Ottery's every Monday morning
for her pound. She was always neatly dressed and looked so quiet and pretty that
no one would have suspected her antecedents. At first she wanted sometimes to
anticipate, but on not being allowed after three or four attempts - on each of
which occasions she told a most pitiful story - she gave it up and took her
money regularly without a word. Once she came with a bad black eye, which a boy
had throwed a stone and hit her by mistake, but on the whole she looked pretty
much the same at the end of the three years as she had done at the beginning.
Then she explained that she was going to be married again. Mr. Ottery saw her on
this, and pointed out to her that she would very likely be again committing
bigamy by doing so. »You may call it what you like,« she replied, »but I am
going off to America with Bill the butcher's man, and we hope Mr. Pontifex won't
be too hard on us and stop the allowance.« Ernest was little likely to do this,
so the pair went in peace. I believe it was Bill who had blacked her eyes for
her, and she liked him all the better for it.
    From one or two little things I have been able to gather that the couple got
on very well together and that in Bill she has found a partner better suited to
her than either John or Ernest. On his birthday Ernest generally receives an
envelope with an American postmark which contains a bookmarker with a flaunting
text upon it, or a moral kettleholder, or some other similar small token of
recognition, but no letter. Of the children she has taken no notice.
 

                                   Chapter 84

Ernest was now well turned twenty-six years old, and in little more than another
year and a half would come into possession of his money. I saw no reason for
letting him have it earlier than the date fixed by Miss Pontifex herself; at the
same time I did not like his continuing the shop at Blackfriars after the
present crisis. It was not till now that I fully understood how much he had
suffered, nor how nearly his supposed wife's habits had brought him to actual
want.
    I had indeed noted the old wan worn look settling upon his face, but was
either too indolent, or too hopeless of being able to sustain a protracted and
successful warfare with Ellen to extend the sympathy and make the enquiries
which I suppose I ought to have made. And yet I hardly know what I could have
done, for nothing short of his finding out what he had would have detached him
from his wife, and nothing could do him much good as long as he continued to
live with her.
    After all I suppose I was right; I suppose things did turn out all the
better in the end for having been left to settle themselves - at any rate
whether they did or did not, the whole thing was in too great a muddle for me to
venture to tackle it, so long as Ellen was upon the scene; now, however, that
she was removed all my interest in my godson revived, and I turned over many
times in my mind what I had better do with him.
    It was now three and a half years since he had come up to London and begun
to live, so to speak, upon his own account. Of these years six months had been
spent as a clergyman, six months in gaol, and for two and a half years he had
been acquiring twofold experience in the ways of business and of marriage. He
had failed I may say in everything that he had undertaken, even as a prisoner;
yet his defeats had been always as it seemed to me something so like victories
that I was satisfied of his being worth all the pains I could bestow upon him;
my only fear was lest I should meddle with him when it might be better for him
to be let alone.
    On the whole I concluded that a three and a half years' apprenticeship to a
rough life was enough; the shop had done much for him; it had kept him going
after a fashion, when he was in great need; it had thrown him upon his own
resources, and taught him to see profitable openings all around him where a few
months before he would have seen nothing but insuperable difficulties; it had
enlarged his sympathies by making him understand the lower classes, and not
confining his view of life to that taken by gentlemen only. When he went about
the streets, and saw the books outside the second-hand bookstalls, the
bric-a-brac in the curiosity shops, and the infinite commercial activity which
is omnipresent around us, he understood it, and sympathised with it as he could
never have done if [he] had not kept a shop himself.
    He has often told me that when he used to travel on a railway that
overlooked populous suburbs, and looked down upon street after street of dingy
houses, he used to wonder what kind of people lived in them, what they did and
felt, and how far it was like what he did and felt himself. Now, he said, he
knew all about it. I am not very familiar with the writer of the Odyssey (who,
by the way, I suspect strongly of having been a clergyman) but he assuredly hit
the right nail on the head when he epitomised his typical wise man as knowing
the ways and farings of many men. What culture is comparable to this? What a
lie, what a sickly debilitating debauch, did not Ernest's school and university
career now seem to him, in comparison with his life in prison and as a tailor in
Blackfriars. I have heard him say he would have gone through all he had suffered
if it were only for the deeper insight it gave him into the spirit of the
Grecian and the Surrey pantomimes. What confidence again in his own power to
swim if thrown into deep water had not he won through his experiences during the
last three years.
    But as I have said, I thought my godson had now seen as much of the
undercurrents of life as was likely to be of use to him, and that it was time he
began to live in a style more suitable to his prospects. His aunt had wished him
to kiss the soil, and he had kissed it with a vengeance; but I did not like the
notion of his coming suddenly from the position of a small shopkeeper to that of
a man with an income of between three and four thousand a year. Too sudden a
jump from bad fortune to good is just as dangerous as one from good to bad.
Besides, poverty is very wearing; it is a quasi-embryonic condition, through
which a man had better pass if he is to hold his later developments securely,
but like measles or scarlet fever he had better have it mildly, and get it over
early.
    No man is safe from losing every penny he has in the world, unless he has
had his facer. How often do I not hear middle-aged women and quiet family men
say that they have no speculative tendency; they never had touched, and never
would touch, any but the very soundest best-reputed investments, and as for
unlimited liability, oh dear! dear! and they throw up their hands and eyes.
    Whenever a person is heard to talk thus he may be recognised as the easy
prey of the first adventurer who comes across him; he will commonly, indeed,
wind up his discourse by saying that in spite of all his natural caution, and
his well knowing how foolish speculation is, yet there are some investments
which are called speculative but in reality are not so, and he will pull out of
his pocket the prospectus of a Cornish gold mine. It is only on having actually
lost money that one realises what an awful thing the loss of it is, and finds
out [how] easily it is lost by those who venture out of the middle of the most
beaten path. Ernest had had his facer as he had had his attack of poverty -
young, and sufficiently badly for a sensible man to be little likely to forget
it. I can fancy few pieces of good fortune greater than this as happening to any
man - provided, of course, that he is not damaged irretrievably.
    So strongly do I feel on this subject that if I had my way I would have a
speculation master attached to every school. The boys should be encouraged to
read the Money Market Review, the Railway News, and all the best financial
papers, and should establish a stock exchange amongst themselves in which pence
should stand as pounds. Then let them see how this making haste to get rich
moneys out in actual practise. There might be a prize awarded by the headmaster
to the most prudent dealer, and boys who lost their money time after time should
be dismissed. Of course if any boy proved to have a genius for speculation and
made money - well and good - let him speculate by all means.
    If universities were not the worst teachers in the world I should like to
see professorships of speculation established at Oxford and Cambridge. When I
reflect, however, that the only things worth doing which Oxford and Cambridge
can do well are cricket, rowing, and games of all kinds - of which there is no
professorship, and cooking - of which again there is no professorship - I fear
that the establishment of a professorial chair would end in teaching young men
neither how to speculate, nor how not to speculate, but would simply turn them
out as bad speculators.
    I heard of one case in which a father actually carried my idea into
practise. He wanted his son to learn how little confidence was to be placed in
glowing prospectusses and flaming articles, and found him five hundred pounds
which he was to invest according to his lights. The father expected he would
lose the money, but it did not turn out so in practise, for the boy took so much
pains and played so cautiously that the money kept growing and growing till the
father took it away again, increment and all - as he was pleased to say, in
self-defence.
    I had made my own mistakes with money about the year 1846, when everyone
else was making them. For a few years I had been so scared, and had suffered so
severely, that when (owing to the good advice of the broker who had advised my
father and grandfather before me) I came out in the end a winner and not a
loser, I played no more pranks, but kept henceforward as nearly in the middle of
the middle rut as I could. I tried in fact to keep my money rather than to make
more of it. I had done with Ernest's money as with my own - that is to say I had
let it alone, after investing it in Midland ordinary stock according to Miss
Pontifex's instructions. No amount of trouble would have been likely to have
increased my godson's estate one half so much as it had increased without my
taking any trouble at all.
    Midland stock at the end of August 1850, when I sold out Miss Pontifex's
debentures, stood at £32 per £100. I invested the whole of Ernest's £15,000 at
this price, and did not change the investment till a few months before the time
of which I have been writing lately - that is to say until September 1861. I
then sold at £129 per share and invested in London and North Western ordinary
stock, which I was advised was more likely to rise than Midlands now were. I
bought the London and North Western stock at £93 per £100, and my godson now in
1882 still holds it.
    The original £15,000 had increased in eleven years to over £60,000; the
accumulated interest, which of course I had reinvested, had come to about
£10,000 more, so that Ernest was then worth over £70,000. At present he is worth
nearly double this sum - and all as the result of leaving well alone.
    I have seen a good deal written of late years about what is called the
unearned increment of land. I sometimes think that the gentlemen who write about
this must have had much the same experience that I have, and be anxious to
divert the attention of radical politicians from stocks to land; for surely they
must know that the increment of railway stocks is sometimes quite as great and
quite as rapid as that of land; nor do I see why it is earned any more than an
increase in the value of land is. Nevertheless they will write about
land-owners, rather than railway shareholders. I am well enough content both for
Ernest's sake and mine.
    Large as his property now was, it ought to be increased still further during
the year and a half that remained of his minority, so that on coming of age he
ought to have an income of at least £3500 a year.
    I wished him to understand bookkeeping by double entry. I had myself, as a
young man, been compelled to master this not very difficult art; having acquired
it, I have become enamoured of it, and consider it the most necessary branch of
any young man's education after reading and writing. I was determined,
therefore, that Ernest should master it, and proposed that he should become my
steward, bookkeeper, and the manager of my hoardings - for so I called the sum
which my ledger showed to have accumulated from £15,000 to £70,000. I told him I
was going to begin to spend the income as soon as it had mounted up to £80,000.
    A few days after Ernest's discovery that he was still a bachelor, while he
was still at the very beginning of the honeymoon, as it were, of his renewed
unmarried life - I broached my scheme, desired him to give up his shop, and
offered him £300 a year for managing (so far indeed as it required any managing)
his own property. This £300 a year, I need hardly say, I made him charge to the
estate.
    If anything had been wanting to complete his happiness it was this. Here,
within three or four days he found himself freed from one of the most hideous
hopeless liaisons imaginable, and at the same time raised from a life of almost
squalor to the enjoyment of what would to him be a handsome income.
    »A pound a week,« he thought, »for Ellen, and the rest for myself.«
    »No,« said I, »we will charge Ellen's pound a week to the estate also. You
must have a clear £300 for yourself.«
    I fixed upon this sum, because it was the one which Mr. Disraeli gave
Coningsby when Coningsby was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes. Mr. Disraeli
evidently thought three hundred a year the smallest sum on which Coningsby could
be expected to live, and make the two ends meet; with this, however, he thought
his hero could manage to get along for a year or two. In 1862, of which I am now
writing, prices had risen, though not so much as they have since done; on the
other hand Ernest had had less expensive antecedents than Coningsby, so on the
whole I thought £300 a year would be about the right thing for him.
 

                                    Part III

                                   Chapter 85

The question now arose what was to be done with the children. I explained to
Ernest that their expenses must be charged to the estate, and showed him how
small a hole all the various items I proposed to charge would make in the income
at my disposal. He was beginning to make difficulties when I quieted him by
pointing out that the money had all come to me from his aunt, over his own head,
and reminded him there had been an understanding between me and her that I
should do much as I was doing, if occasion should arise.
    He wanted his children to be brought up in the fresh pure air, and among
other children who were happy and contented, but - being still ignorant of the
fortune that awaited him - he insisted that they should pass their earlier years
among the poor rather [than] the rich. I remonstrated, but he was very decided
about it, and when I reflected that they were illegitimate I was not sure but
that what Ernest proposed might be as well for everyone in the end. They were
still so young that it did not much matter where they were, so long as they were
with kindly decent people, and in a healthy neighbourhood.
    »I shall be just as unkind to my children,« he said, »as my grandfather was
to my father, or my father to me. If they did not succeed in making their
children love them, neither shall I. I say to myself that I should like to do
so, but so did they. I can make sure that they shall not know how much they
would have hated me if they had had much to do with me, but this is all I can
do. If I must ruin their prospects, let me do so at a reasonable time before
they are old enough to feel it.«
    He mused a little, and added with a laugh -
    »A man first quarrels with his father about three-quarters of a year before
he is born. It is then he insists on setting up a separate establishment. When
this has been once agreed to, the more complete the separation forever after the
better for both.« Then more seriously, »I want to put the children where they
will be well and happy, and where they will not be betrayed into the misery of
false expectations.«
    In the end he remembered that on his Sunday walks he had more than once seen
a couple who lived on the waterside a few miles below Gravesend, just where the
sea was beginning, and who he thought would do. They had a family of their own
fast coming on and the children seemed to thrive; both father and mother indeed
were comfortable well-grown folks, in whose hands young people would be likely
to have as fair a chance of coming to a good development as in those of any whom
he knew.
    We went down to see this couple, and as I thought no less well of them than
Ernest did, we offered them a pound a week to take the children and bring them
up as though they were their own. They jumped at the offer, and in another day
or two we brought the children down and left them, feeling that we had done as
well as we could by them, at any rate for the present. Then Ernest sent his
small stock of goods to Debenham's, gave up the house he had taken two and a
half years previously, and returned to civilisation.
    I had expected that he would now rapidly recover, and was disappointed to
see him get as I thought decidedly worse. Indeed before long I thought him
looking so ill that I insisted on his going with me to consult one of the most
eminent doctors in London. This gentleman said there was no acute disease but
that my young friend was suffering from nervous prostration - the result of long
and severe mental suffering, for which there was no remedy except time,
prosperity, and rest. He said that Ernest must have broken down later on, but
that he might have gone on for some months yet. It was the suddenness of the
relief from tension which had knocked him over now.
    »Cross him,« said the doctor, »at once. Crossing is the great medical
discovery of the age. Shake him out of himself by shaking something else into
him.«
    I had not told him that money was no object to us and I think he had
reckoned us up as not over rich. He continued -
    »Seeing is a mode of touching, touching is a mode of feeding, feeding is a
mode of assimilation, assimilation is a mode of re-creation and reproduction,
and this is crossing - shaking yourself into something else and something else
into you.«
    He spoke laughingly, but it was plain he was serious. He continued -
    »People are always coming to me who want crossing - or change if you prefer
it - and who I know have not money enough to let them get away from London. This
has set me thinking how I can best cross them even if they cannot leave home,
and I have made a list of cheap London amusements which I recommend to my
patients; none of them cost more than a few shillings or take more than half a
day or a day.«
    I explained that there was no occasion to consider money in this case.
    »I am glad of it,« he said, still laughing. »The homoeopathists use aurum as
a medicine, but they do not give it in large doses enough; if you can dose your
friend with this pretty freely, you will soon bring him round. However, Mr.
Pontifex is not well enough to stand so great a change as going abroad yet -
from what you tell me I should think he had had as much change lately as is good
for him. If he were to go abroad now he would probably be taken seriously ill
within a week. We must wait till he has recovered tone a little more. I will
begin by ringing my London changes on him.«
    He thought a little and then said -
    »I have found the Zoological Gardens of service to many of my patients. I
should prescribe for Mr. Pontifex a course of the larger mammals. Don't let him
think he is taking them medicinally, but let him go to their house twice a week
for a fortnight and stay with the hippopotamus, the rhinoceros, and the
elephants, till they begin to bore him. I find these beasts do my patients more
good than any others. The monkeys are not a wide enough cross; they do not
stimulate sufficiently. The larger carnivora are unsympathetic. The reptiles are
worse [than] useless, and the marsupials are not much better; birds again,
except parrots, are not very useful; he may look at them now and again, but with
the elephants and the pig tribe generally he should mix just now as freely as
possible.
    Then, you know, to prevent monotony I should send him say to morning service
at the Abbey before he goes. He need not stay longer than the Te Deum. I don't
know why, but Jubilates are seldom satisfactory. Just let him look in at the
Abbey, and sit quietly in Poets' Corner till the main part of the music is over.
Let him do this two or three times, not more, before he goes to the Zoo. Then
next day send him down to Gravesend by boat. By all means let him go to the
theatres in the evenings - and then let him come to me again in a fortnight.«
    Had the doctor been less eminent in his profession I should have doubted
whether he was in earnest, but I knew him to be a man of business who would
neither waste his own time nor that of his patients. As soon as we were out of
the house we took a cab to Regent's Park and spent a couple of hours in
sauntering round the different houses. Perhaps it was on account of what the
doctor had told me, but I certainly became aware of a feeling I had never
experienced before - I mean that I was receiving an influx of new life, or
deriving new ways of looking at life - which is the same thing - by the process.
I found the doctor quite right in his estimate of the larger mammals as the ones
which on the whole were most beneficial, and observed that Ernest, who had heard
nothing of what the doctor had said to me, lingered instinctively in front of
them - as for the elephants - especially the baby elephant - he seemed to be
drinking in large draughts of their lives to the re-creation and regeneration of
his own.
    We dined in the gardens, and I noticed with pleasure that Ernest's appetite
was already improved. Since this time, whenever I have been a little out of
sorts myself I have at once gone up to Regent's Park, and have invariably been
benefited. I mention this here in the hope that some one or other of my readers
may find the hint a useful one.
    At the end of his fortnight my hero was much better - more so even than our
friend the doctor had expected. »Now,« he said, »Mr. Pontifex may go abroad, and
the sooner the better. Let him stay a couple of months.«
    This was the first Ernest had heard about his going abroad - and he talked
about my not being able to spare him for so long. I soon made this all right.
    »It is now the beginning of April,« said I. »Go down to Marseilles at once,
and take steamer to Nice. Then saunter down the Riviera to Genoa - from Genoa go
to Florence, Rome and Naples and come home by way of Venice and the Italian
lakes.«
    »And will you come too?« said he eagerly.
    I said I did not care if I did, so we began to make our arrangements next
morning, and completed them within a very few days.
 

                                   Chapter 86

We left by the night mail, crossing from Dover. The night was soft and there was
a bright moon upon the sea. »Don't you love the smell of grease about the engine
of a channel steamer? Isn't there a lot of hope in it?« said Ernest to me, for
he had been to Normandy one summer as a boy with his father and mother and the
smell carried him back to days before those in which he had begun to bruise
himself against the great outside world. »I always think one of the best parts
of going abroad is the first thud of the piston and the first guggling of the
water when the paddle begins to strike it.«
    It was very dreamy getting out at Calais and trudging about with luggage in
a foreign town at an hour when we were generally both of us in bed and fast
asleep, but we settled down to sleep as soon as we got into the railway carriage
and dozed till we had passed Amiens. Then waking when the first signs of morning
crispness were beginning to show themselves, I saw that Ernest was already
devouring every object we passed with quick sympathetic curiousness. There was
not a peasant in a blouse driving his cart betimes along the road to market, not
a signalman's wife in her husband's hat and coat waving a green flag, not a
shepherd taking out his sheep to the dewy pastures, not a bank of opening
cowslips as we passed through the railway cuttings, but he was drinking it all
in with an enjoyment too deep for words. The name of the engine that drew us was
Mozart and Ernest liked this too.
    We reached Paris by six and had just time to get across the town and take a
morning express train to Marseilles, but before noon my young friend was tired
out and had resigned himself to a series of sleeps which were seldom intermitted
for more than an hour or so together. He fought against this for a time, but in
the end consoled himself by saying it was so nice to have so much pleasure that
he could afford to throw a lot of it away. Having found a theory on which to
justify himself he slept in peace.
    At Marseilles we rested, and there the excitement of the change proved as I
had half feared it would too much for my godson's still enfeebled state. For a
few days he was really ill, but after this he righted.
    For my own part I reckon being ill as one of the great pleasures of life
provided one is not too ill and is not obliged to work till one is better. I
remember being ill once in a foreign hotel myself and how much I enjoyed it. To
lie there careless of everything, quiet and warm, and with no weight upon the
mind; to hear the clinking of the plates in the far-off kitchen as the scullion
rinsed them and put them by; to watch the soft shadows come and go upon the
ceiling as the sun came out or went behind a cloud; to listen to the pleasant
murmuring of the fountain in the court below, and the shaking of the bells on
the horses' collars and the clink of their hoofs upon the ground as the flies
plagued them; not only to be a lotus-eater but to know that it was one's duty to
be a lotus-eater - »Oh,« I thought to myself, »if I could only now, having so
forgotten care, drop off to sleep forever, would not this be a better piece of
fortune than any I can ever hope for?«
    Of course it would, but we would not take it though it were offered us. No
matter what evil may befall us we will mostly abide by it and see it out.
    I could see that Ernest felt much as I had felt myself. He said little, but
noted everything. Once only did he frighten me. He called me to his bedside just
as it was getting dusk and said in a grave quiet manner that he should like to
speak to me.
    »I have been thinking,« he said, »that I may perhaps never recover from this
illness, and in case I do not I should like you to know that there is only one
thing which weighs upon me - I refer,« he continued after a slight pause, »to my
conduct towards my father and mother. I have been much too good to them. I
treated them much too considerately« - on which he broke into a smile which
assured me that there was nothing seriously amiss with him.
    On the walls of his bedroom were a series of French Revolution prints
representing events in the life of Lycurgus. There was »Grandeur d'âme de
Lycurgue,« and »Lycurgue consulte l'oracle,« and then there was »Calciope à la
cour.« Under this was written in French and Spanish, »Modèle de grâce et de
beauté, la jeune Calciope non moins sage que belle avait mérité l'estime et
l'attachement du vertueux Lycurgue. Vivement épris de tant de charmes,
l'illustre philosophe la conduisait dans le temple de Junon, où ils s'unirent
par un serment sacré. Après cette auguste cérémonie, Lycurgue s'empressa de
conduire sa jeune épouse au palais de son frère Polydecte, Roi de Lacédémon.
Seigneur, lui dit-il, la vertueuse Calciope vient de recevoir mes voeux aux
pieds des autels, j'ose vous prier d'approuver cette union. Le Roi témoigna
d'abord quelque surprise, mais l'estime qu'il avait pour son frère lui inspira
une réponse pleine de bienveillance. Il s'approcha aussitôt de Calciope qu'il
embrassa tendrement, combla ensuite Lycurgue de prévenances et parut très
satisfait.«
    
                                                           Historie de Lycurgue.
He called my attention to this and then said somewhat timidly that he would
rather have married Ellen than Calciope. I saw he was hardening and made no
hesitation about proposing that in another day or two we should proceed upon our
journey.
I will not weary the reader by taking him with us over beaten ground. I took him
to Siena, Cortona, Orvieto, Perugia, and many more such towns, and then after a
fortnight passed between Rome and Naples, we went to the Venetian provinces and
visited all those wondrous towns that lie between the southern slopes of the
Alps and the northern ones of the Apennines, coming back at last by the S.
Gothard. I doubt whether he had enjoyed the trip more [than] I did myself, but
it was not till we were on the point of returning that Ernest had recovered
strength enough to be called fairly well, and it was not for many months that he
so completely lost all sense of the wounds which the last four years or so had
inflicted on him as to feel as though there were a scar and a scar only
remaining.
They say that when people have lost an arm or a foot they feel pains in it now
and again for a long while after they have lost it. One pain which he had almost
forgotten came upon him on his return to England, I mean the sting of his having
been imprisoned. As long as he was only a small shopkeeper his imprisonment
mattered nothing; nobody knew of it, and if they had known they would not have
cared; now, however, though he was returning to his old position he was
returning to it disgraced, and the pain from which he had been saved in the
first instance by surroundings so new that he had hardly recognised his own
identity in the middle of them, came on him now as from a wound inflicted
yesterday.
He thought of the high resolves which he had made in prison, about using his
disgrace as a vantage ground of strength rather than trying to make people
forget it. »That was all very well for then,« he thought to himself, »when the
grapes were beyond my reach, but now it is different.« Besides, who but a prig
would set himself high aims or make high resolves at all?
Some of his old friends, on learning that he had got rid of his supposed wife
and was now comfortably off again, wanted to renew their acquaintance; he was
grateful to them and sometimes tried to meet their advances half way, but it did
not do, and ere long he shrank back into himself, pretending not to know them.
An infernal demon of honesty haunted him which made him say to himself, »These
men know a great deal, but do not know all - if they did they would cut me - and
therefore I have no right to their acquaintance.«
He thought that everyone except himself must be sans peur et sans reproche; of
course they must be; for if they had not been, would they not have been bound to
put all who had anything to do with them upon their guard against themselves?
Well - he could not do this, and he would not have people's acquaintance under
false pretences, so he gave up even hankering after rehabilitation, and fell
back upon his old tastes for music and literature.
Of course he has long since found out how silly all this was - how silly I mean
in theory, for in practice it worked better than it ought to have done, by
keeping him free from liaisons which would have tied his tongue and made him see
success elsewhere than where he came in time to see it. He did what he did
instinctively and for no other reason than because it was most natural to him;
so far as he thought at all he thought wrong, but what he did was right.
I said something of this kind to him once not so very long ago and told him he
had always aimed high. »I never aimed at all,« he replied a little indignantly,
»and you may be sure I should have aimed low enough if I had thought I had got
the chance.«
I suppose after all that no one whose mind was not, to put it mildly, abnormal,
ever yet aimed very high out of pure malice aforethought. I once saw a fly light
on a cup of hot coffee on which the milk had formed a thin skin; he perceived
his extreme danger, and I noted with what ample strides and almost super-muscan
effort he struck across the treacherous surface and made for the edge of the cup
- for the ground was not solid enough to let him raise himself from it by his
wings. As I watched him I fancied that so supreme a moment of difficulty and
danger might leave him with an increase of moral and physical power which might
even descend in some measure to his offspring. But surely he would not have got
the increased moral power if he could have helped it, and he will not knowingly
alight upon another cup of hot coffee. The more I see the more sure I am that it
does not matter why people do the right thing so long only as they do it, nor
why they may have done the wrong if they have done it. The result depends upon
the thing done and the motive goes for nothing.
I have read somewhere, but cannot remember where, that in some country district
there was once a great scarcity of food, during which the poor suffered acutely;
many, indeed, actually died of starvation, and all were hard put to it. In one
village, however, there was a poor widow with a family of small children, who
though she had small visible means of subsistence still looked well-fed and
comfortable, as also did all her little ones. »How,« everyone asked, »did they
manage to live?« It was plain they had a secret - and it was equally plain that
it could be no good one; for there came a hurried hunted look over the poor
woman's face if anyone alluded to the way in which she and hers throve when
others starved; the family moreover were sometimes seen out at unusual hours of
the night, and evidently brought things home, which could hardly have been
honestly come by. They knew they were under suspicion, and being hitherto of
excellent name, it made them very unhappy, for it must be confessed that they
believed what they did to be uncanny if not absolutely wicked; nevertheless, in
spite of this they throve, and kept their strength when all their neighbours
were pinched.
At length matters came to a head and the clergyman of the parish
cross-questioned the poor woman so closely that with many tears and bitter sense
of degradation she confessed the truth: she and her children went into the
hedges and gathered snails - which they made into a broth and ate - could she
ever be forgiven? Was there any hope of salvation for her either in this world
or the next after such unnatural conduct?
So again I have heard of an old dowager countess whose money was all in Consols;
she had had many sons, and in her anxiety to give the younger ones a good start
wanted a larger income than Consols would give her. She consulted her solicitor
and was advised to sell her Consols and invest in the London and North Western
Railway, then at about 85. This was to her what eating snails was to the poor
widow whose story I have told above. With shame and grief as of one doing an
unclean thing - but her boys must have their start - she did as she was advised.
Then for a long while, she could [not] sleep at night and was haunted by a
presage of disaster. Yet what happened? She started her boys, and in a few years
found her capital doubled into the bargain - on which she sold out and went back
again to Consols and died in the full blessedness of fund-holding.
She thought indeed that she was doing a wrong and dangerous thing, but this had
absolutely nothing to do with it. Suppose she had invested in the full
confidence of a recommendation by some eminent London banker, whose advice was
bad, and so had lost all her money, and suppose she had done this with a light
heart and with no conviction of sin - would her innocence of evil purpose, and
the excellence of her motive have stood her in any stead? Not they.
But to return to my story. Towneley gave my hero most trouble. Towneley, as I
have said, knew that Ernest would have money soon, but Ernest did not of course
know that he knew it. Towneley was rich himself, and was married now; Ernest
would be rich soon, had bonâ fide intended to be married already, and would
doubtless marry a lawful wife later on. Such a man was worth taking pains with,
and when Towneley one day met Ernest in the street, and Ernest tried to avoid
him, Towneley would not have it, but with his usual quick good nature read his
thoughts, caught him morally speaking by the scruff of his neck, and turned him
laughingly inside out, telling him he would have no such nonsense.
Towneley was just as much Ernest's idol now as he had ever been, and my hero,
who was very easily touched, felt more gratefully and warmly than ever towards
him, but there was an unconscious something which was stronger than Towneley,
and which made my hero determine to break with him more determinedly perhaps
than with any other living person; he thanked him in a low hurried voice and
pressed his hand, while tears came into his eyes in spite of all his efforts to
repress them. »If we meet again,« he said, »do not look at me, but if hereafter
you hear of my writing things you do not like, think of me as charitably as you
can,« and so they parted.
»Towneley is a good fellow,« said I, rather gravely, »and you should not have
cut him.«
»Towneley,« he answered, »is not only a good fellow, but he is without exception
the very best man I ever saw in my life - except,« he did me the compliment to
say, »yourself. Towneley is my notion of everything which I should most like to
be - but there is no real solidarity between us. I should be in perpetual fear
of losing his good opinion if I said things he did not like; and I mean to say a
great many things,« he continued more merrily, »which Towneley will not like.«
A man as I have said already can give up father and mother for Christ's sake
tolerably easily for the most part - but it is not so easy giving up people like
Towneley.
 

                                   Chapter 87

So he fell away from all old friends except myself and three or four old
intimates of my own, who were as sure to take to him as he to them, and who like
myself enjoyed getting hold of a young fresh mind. Ernest attended to the
keeping of my account books whenever there was anything which could possibly be
attended to - which there seldom was - and spent the greater part of the rest of
his time in adding to the many notes and tentative essays which had already
accumulated in his portfolios. Anyone who was used to writing could see at a
glance that literature was his natural development, and I was pleased at seeing
him settle down to it so spontaneously. I was less pleased however to observe
that he would still occupy himself with none but the most serious - I had almost
said solemn subjects - just as he never cared about any but the most serious
kind of music.
    I said to him one day that the very slender reward which God had attached to
the pursuit of serious enquiry was a sufficient proof that he disapproved of it
- or at any rate that he did not set much store by it nor wish to encourage it.
    He said, »Oh don't talk about rewards. Look at Milton, who only got £5 for
the Paradise Lost.«
    »And a great deal too much money,« rejoined I promptly. »I would have given
him twice as much myself not to have written it at all.«
    Ernest was a little shocked. »At any rate,« he said laughingly, »I don't
write poetry.«
    This was a cut at me, for my burlesques were of course written in rhyme. So
I dropped the matter.
    After a time he took it into his head to reopen the question of his getting
£300 a year for doing, as he said, absolutely nothing, and said he would try and
find some employment which should bring him in enough to live upon.
    I laughed at this but let him alone. He tried, and tried very hard for a
long while, but I need hardly say was unsuccessful. The older I grow the more
convinced I become of the folly and credulity of the public; but at the same
time the harder do I see it is to impose oneself upon that folly and credulity.
    He tried editor after editor with article after article; sometimes an editor
listened to him and told him to leave his articles; he almost invariably however
had them returned to him in the end with a polite note saying that they were not
suited for the particular paper to which he had sent them. And yet many of these
very articles appeared in his later works, and no one complained of them - not
at least on the score of bad literary workmanship. »I see,« he said to me one
day, »that demand is very imperious, and supply must be very suppliant.«
    Once indeed the editor of an important monthly magazine accepted an article
from him, and he thought he had now got a footing in the literary world. The
article was to appear in the next issue but one, and he was to receive proof
from the printers in about ten days or a fortnight; but week after week passed,
and there came no proof; month after month went by and there was still no room
for Ernest's article; at length after about six months the editor one morning
told him that he had filled every number of his review for the next ten months,
but that his article should then definitely appear. On this he insisted on
having his MS. returned to him.
    Sometimes his articles were actually published and he found the editor had
edited them according to his own fancy - putting in jokes which he thought were
funny, or cutting out the very passage which Ernest had considered the point of
the whole thing, and then, though the articles appeared, when it came to paying
for them it was another matter and he never saw his money. »Editors,« he said to
me one day about this time, »are like the people who bought and sold in the book
of Revelation - there is not one but has the mark of the beast upon him.«
    At last after months of disappointment and many a tedious hour wasted in
dingy ante-rooms (and of all ante-rooms those of editors appear to me to be the
dreariest) he got a bonâ fide offer of employment from one of our first-class
weekly papers - through an introduction I was able to get for him from one who
had powerful influence with the paper in question. The editor sent him a dozen
long books upon varied and difficult subjects, and told him to review them in a
single article within a week. In one book there was an editorial note to the
effect that the writer was to be condemned. Ernest particularly admired the book
he was desired to condemn, and feeling how hopeless it was for him to do
anything like justice to the books submitted to him, returned them to the
editor.
    At last one paper did actually take a dozen or so of articles from him and
gave him cash down a couple of guineas apiece for them - but having done this it
expired within a fortnight after the last of Ernest's articles had appeared. It
certainly looked very much as if the other editors knew their business in
declining to have anything to do with my unlucky godson.
    I was not sorry that he failed with periodical literature, for writing for
reviews or newspapers is bad training for one who may aspire to write works of
more permanent interest. A young writer should have more time for reflection
than he can get as a contributor to the daily or even weekly press. Ernest
himself however was chagrined at finding how unmarketable he was. »Why,« he said
to me, »if I was a well-bred horse, or sheep, or a pure-bred pigeon or lop-eared
rabbit I should be more saleable. If I was even a cathedral in a colonial town
people would give me something, but as it is they do not want me« - and now that
he was well and rested he wanted to set up a shop again, but this of course I
would not hear of.
    »What care I,« said he to me one day, »about being what they call a
gentleman?« And his manner was almost fierce.
    »What has being a gentleman ever done for me except make me less able to
prey and more easy to be preyed upon? It has changed the manner of my being
swindled, that is all. But for your kindness to me I should be penniless. Thank
heaven I have placed my children where I have.«
    I begged him to keep quiet a little longer and not talk about taking a shop.
    »Will being a gentleman,« he said, »bring me money at the last, and will
anything bring me as much peace at the last as money will? They say that those
who have riches enter hardly into the kingdom of Heaven. By Jove they do; they
are like Struldbrugs; they live and live and live and are happy for many a long
year after they would have entered into the kingdom of Heaven if they had been
poor. I want to live long and to raise my children, if I see they would be
happier for the raising; that is what I want, and it is not what I am doing now
[that] will help me. Being a gentleman is a luxury which I cannot afford -
therefore I do not want it. Let me go back to my shop again, and do things for
people which they want done and will pay me for doing for them. They know what
they want and what is good for them better than I can tell them.«
    It was hard to deny the soundness of this, and if he had been dependent only
on the £300 a year which he was getting from me I should have advised him to
open his shop again next morning. As it was I temporised and raised obstacles,
and quieted him from time to time as best I could.
    Of course he read Mr. Darwin's books as fast as they came out and adopted
evolution as an article of faith. »It seems to me,« he said once, »that I am
like one of those caterpillars which if they have been interrupted in making
their hammock must begin again from the beginning. So long as I went back a long
way down in the social scale I got on all right, and should have made money but
for Ellen; when I try to take up the work at a higher stage I fail completely.«
I do not know whether the analogy holds good or not but I am sure Ernest's
instinct was right in telling him that after a heavy fall he had better begin
life again at a very low stage - and as I have just said, I would have let him
go back to his shop if I had not known what I did.
    As the time fixed upon by his aunt drew nearer I prepared him more and more
for what was coming, and at last on his twenty-eighth birthday I was able to
tell him all and to show him the letter I had written to his aunt upon her
deathbed acknowledging that I was to hold the money in trust for him.
    His birthday happened that year (1863) to be on a Sunday, but on the
following day I transferred his shares into his own name, and presented him with
the account books which he had been keeping for the last year and a half.
    In spite of all that I had done to prepare him it was a long while before I
could get him actually to believe that the money was his own. He said little -
no more did I, for I am not sure that I did not feel as much moved at having
brought my long trusteeship to a satisfactory conclusion as Ernest did at
finding himself owner of more than £70,000. When he did speak it was to jerk out
a sentence or two of reflection at a time - »If I was rendering this moment in
music,« he said, »I should allow myself free use of the augmented sixth.« A
little later I remember his saying with a laugh that had something of a family
likeness to his aunt's, »It is not the pleasure it causes me which I enjoy so,
it is the pain it will cause to all my friends except yourself and Towneley.«
    I said, »You cannot tell your father and mother - it would drive them mad.«
    »No, No, No,« said he, »it would be too cruel - it would be like Isaac
offering up Abraham and no thicket with a ram in it near at hand. Besides why
should I? We have cut each other this four years.«
 

                                   Chapter 88

It almost seemed as though our casual mention of Theobald and Christina had in
some way excited them from a dormant to an active state. During the years that
had elapsed since they last appeared upon the scene, they had remained at
Battersby and had concentrated their affection upon their other children.
    It had been a bitter pill to Theobald to lose his power of plaguing his
first-born; if the truth were known I believe he had felt this more acutely than
any disgrace which might have been shed upon him by Ernest's imprisonment. He
had made one or two attempts to reopen negociations through me, but I never said
anything about them to Ernest, for I knew it would upset him. I wrote, however,
to Theobald that I had found his son inexorable, and recommended him for the
present, at any rate, to desist from returning to the subject. This I thought
would be at once what Ernest would like best and Theobald least.
    A few days, however, after Ernest had come into his property, I received a
letter from Theobald enclosing one for Ernest which I could not withhold.
    The letter ran -
 
        »To my son Ernest, Although you have more than once rejected my
        overtures I appeal yet again to your better nature. Your mother who has
        long been ailing is, I believe, near her end; she is unable to keep
        anything on her stomach, and Mr. Martin holds out but little hopes of
        her recovery. She has expressed a wish to see you and says she knows you
        will not refuse to come to her - which considering her condition I am
        unwilling to suppose you will.
            I remit you a post office order for your fare, and will pay your
        return journey.
            If you want clothes to come in, order what you consider suitable,
        and desire that the bill be sent me; I will pay it immediately - to an
        amount not exceeding eight or nine pounds, and if you will let me know
        what train you will come by I will send the carriage to meet you.
            Believe me your affectionate father,
                                                                   T. Pontifex.«
 
Of course there could be no hesitation on Ernest's part. He could afford to
smile now at his father's offering to pay for his clothes, and his sending him a
post office order for the exact price of a second-class ticket, and he was of
course shocked at learning the state his mother was said to be in, and touched
at her desire to see him. He telegraphed that he would come down at once. I saw
him a little before he started and was pleased to see how well his tailor had
done by him. Towneley himself could not have been appointed more becomingly: his
portmanteau, his railway wrapper, everything he had about him, was in keeping. I
thought he had grown much better looking now than he had been at two or three
and twenty; his year and a half of peace had effaced all the ill effects of his
previous suffering, and now that he had become actually rich there was an air of
insouciance and general good humour upon his face, as of a man with whom
everything was going perfectly right, which would have made a much plainer man
good looking. I was proud of him and delighted with him and, »I am sure,« I said
to myself, »that whatever else he may do, he will never marry again.«
    The journey was a painful one. As he drew near to the station and caught
sight of each familiar feature, so strong was the force of association that he
felt as though his coming into his aunt's money had been a dream, and he were
again returning to his father's house as he had returned to it from Cambridge
for the Vacations. Do what he could the old dull weight of home-sickness began
to oppress him; his heart beat fast as he thought of his approaching meeting
with his father and mother - »and I shall have,« he said to himself, »to kiss my
sister Charlotte.«
    Would his father meet him at the station? Would he greet him as though
nothing had happened, or would he be cold, and distant? How, again, would he
take the news of his son's good fortune? As the train drew up to the platform
Ernest's eye ran hurriedly over the few people who were in the station. His
father's well-known form was not among them, but on the other side [of] the
palings which divided the station yard from the platform he saw the pony
carriage, looking as he thought rather shabby, and recognised his father's
coachman. In a few minutes more he was in the carriage driving towards
Battersby. He could not help smiling as he saw the coachman give a look of
surprise at finding him so much changed in personal appearance. The coachman was
the more surprised because when Ernest had last been at home he had been dressed
as a clergyman, and now he was not only a layman, but a layman who was got up
regardless of expense. The change was so great that it was not till Ernest
actually spoke to him that the coachman knew him.
    »How are my father and mother?« he asked hurriedly as he got into the
carriage. »The Master's well, Sir,« was the answer, »but the Missis is very
sadly.« The horse knew that he was going home, and pulled hard at the reins. The
weather was cold and raw - the very ideal of a November day; in one part of the
road the floods were out and near here they had to pass through a number of
horsemen and dogs, for the hounds had met that morning near Battersby. Ernest
saw several people whom he knew, but they either, as is most likely, did not
recognise him, or did not know of his good luck. When Battersby church tower
drew near, and he saw the rectory on the top of the hill, its chimnies just
showing above the leafless trees with which it was surrounded, he threw himself
back in the carriage, and covered his face with his hands.
    It came to an end as even the worst quarters of an hour do, and in a few
minutes more he was on the steps in front of his father's house. His father,
hearing the carriage arrive, came a little way down the steps to meet him. Like
the coachman he saw at a glance that Ernest was appointed as though money were
abundant with him, and that he was looking robust and full of health and vigour.
    This was not what he had bargained for. He wanted Ernest to return, but he
was to return as any respectable well-regulated prodigal ought to return -
abject, broken-hearted, asking forgiveness from the tenderest and most
long-suffering father in the whole world; if he should have shoes and stockings
and whole clothes at all, it should be only because absolute rags and tatters
had been graciously dispensed with, whereas here he was swaggering in grey
Ulster and blue and white necktie, and looking better than Theobald had ever
seen him in his life. It was unprincipled. Was it for this that he had been
generous enough to offer to provide Ernest with decent clothes in which to come
and visit his mother's deathbed? Could any advantage be meaner than the one
which Ernest had taken? Well, he would not go a penny beyond the eight or nine
pounds which he had promised. It was fortunate he had given a limit. Why he,
Theobald, had never been able to afford such a portmanteau in his life. He was
still using an old one which his father had turned over to him when he went up
to Cambridge. Besides he had said clothes, not a portmanteau, etc., etc.
    Ernest saw what was passing through his father's mind and felt that he ought
to have prepared him in some way for what he now saw, but he had sent his
telegram so immediately on receiving his father's letter, and had followed it so
promptly that it would not have easy to do so even if he had thought of it. He
put out his hand and said laughingly, »Oh it's all paid for - I am afraid you do
not know that Mr. Overton has handed over to me Aunt Alethæa's money.«
    Theobald flushed scarlet. »But why,« he said, and these were the first words
that actually crossed his lips - »if the money was not his to keep did he not
hand it over to my brother John and me?« He stammered a good deal and looked
sheepish, but he got the words out.
    »Because my dear father,« said Ernest still laughing, »my aunt left it to
him in trust for me, not in trust either for you nor for my Uncle John - and it
has accumulated till it is now over £70,000 - but tell me how is my mother?«
    »No, Ernest,« said Theobald excitedly, »the matter cannot rest here, I must
know that this is all open and above board.«
    This had the true Theobald ring and instantly brought back the whole train
of ideas which in Ernest's mind were connected with his father. The surroundings
were the old familiar ones, but the surrounded was changed almost beyond power
of recognition. He turned sharply on Theobald in a moment. I will not repeat the
words he used for they came out before he had time to consider them, and they
might strike some of my readers as disrespectful; there were not many of them
but they were effectual. Theobald said nothing but turned almost of an ashen
colour; he never again spoke to his son in such a way as to make it necessary
for him to repeat what he had said on this occasion.
    Ernest quickly recovered his temper and again asked after his mother.
Theobald was glad enough to take this opening now, and replied at once in the
tone he would have assumed towards one he most particularly desired to
conciliate that she was getting rapidly worse in spite of all he had been able
to do for her, and concluded by saying she had been the comfort and mainstay of
his life for more than thirty years, but that he could not wish it prolonged.
    The pair then went upstairs to Christina's room, the one in which Ernest had
been born. His father went before him and prepared her for her son's approach.
The poor woman raised herself in bed as he came towards her, and weeping as she
flung her arms around him, cried, »Oh I knew he would come, I knew, I knew he
would come.«
    Ernest broke down and wept as he had not done for years.
    »Oh my boy, my boy,« she said as soon as she could recover her voice. »Have
you never really been near us for all these years? Ah - you do not know how we
have loved you and mourned over you - papa just as much as I have. You know he
shows his feelings less, but I can never tell you how very very deeply he has
felt for you: sometimes at night I have thought I have heard footsteps in the
garden, and have got quietly out of bed lest I should wake him, and gone to the
window to look out, but there has been only dark or the greyness of the morning
- and I have gone crying back to bed again. Still I think you have been near us
though you were too proud to let us know - and now at last I have you in my arms
once more, my dearest, dearest boy.«
    How cruel, how infamously unfeeling Ernest thought he had been.
    »Mother,« he said, »forgive me - the fault was mine, I ought not to have
been so hard; I was wrong, very wrong.« The poor blubbering fellow meant what he
said, and his heart yearned to his mother as he had never thought that it could
yearn again. »But have you never,« she continued, »come, although it was in the
dark and we did not know it - oh let me think that you have not been so cruel as
we have thought you - tell me that you came, if only to comfort me and make me
happier.«
    Ernest was ready. »I had no money to come with, mother, till just lately.«
    This was an excuse Christina could understand and make allowance for. »Oh
then you would have come, and I will take the will for the deed - and now that I
have you safe again say that you will never never leave me - not till - not till
- oh my boy have they told you I am dying?« She wept bitterly, and buried her
head in her pillow.
 

                                   Chapter 89

Joey and Charlotte were in the room. Joey was now ordained, and was curate to
Theobald; he and Ernest had never been sympathetic and Ernest saw at a glance
that there was no chance of a rapprochement between them. He was a little
startled at seeing Joey dressed as a clergyman, and looking so like what he had
looked himself a few years earlier, for there was a good deal of family likeness
between the pair - but Joey's face was cold and was illumined with no spark of
Bohemianism - he was a clergyman and was going to do as other clergymen did -
neither better nor worse. He greeted Ernest rather de haut en bas - that is to
say he began by trying to do so, but the affair tailed off unsatisfactorily.
    His sister presented her cheek to him to be kissed. How he hated it; he had
been dreading it for the last three hours. She too was distant and reproachful
in her manner, as such a superior person was sure to be. She had a grievance
against him inasmuch as she was still unmarried. She laid the blame of this at
Ernest's door: it was his misconduct, she maintained in secret, which had
prevented young men from making offers to her, and she ran him up a heavy bill
for consequential damages. She and Joey had from the first developed an instinct
for hunting with the hounds, and now these two had fairly identified themselves
with the older generation - that is to say as against Ernest. On this head there
was an offensive and defensive alliance between them; as between themselves,
however, there was a subdued but internecine warfare.
    This at least was what Ernest gathered, partly from his recollections of the
parties concerned, and partly from his observation of their little ways during
the first half hour after his arrival, while they were all together in his
mother's bedroom - for as yet of course they did not know that he had money. He
could see that they eyed him from time to time with a surprise not unmixed with
indignation, and knew very well what they were thinking.
    Christina saw the change which had come over him - how much firmer and more
vigorous both in mind and body he seemed than when she had last seen him. She
saw too how well he was dressed and like the others, in spite of the return of
all her old affection for her firstborn, was a little alarmed about Theobald's
pocket, which she supposed would have to be mulcted for all this magnificence.
Perceiving this, Ernest relieved her mind and told her all about his aunt's
bequest, and how I had husbanded it, in the presence of his brother and sister -
who, however, pretended not to notice, or at any rate to notice as a matter in
which they could hardly be expected to take an interest.
    His mother kicked a little at first against the money's having gone to him
as she said »over his papa's head.« »Why my dear,« she said with a deprecating
tone, »this is more than ever your papa has had,« but Ernest calmed her by
suggesting that if Miss Pontifex had known how large the sum would become, she
would have left the greater part of it to Theobald. This compromise was accepted
by Christina who forthwith, ill as she was, entered with ardour into the new
position and taking it [as] a fresh point of departure began spending Ernest's
money for him.
    I may say in passing that Christina was right in saying that Theobald had
never had so much money as his son was now possessed of. In the first place he
had not had a fourteen years' minority with no outgoings to prevent the
accumulation of the money, and in the second, he like myself and almost everyone
else had suffered somewhat in the 1846 times - not enough to cripple him or even
seriously hurt him, but enough to give him a scare and make him stick to
debentures for the rest of his life. These had risen in value since he had
bought but they had not had anything like the rise which Midlands had had during
the preceding fifteen years. It was the fact of his son's being the richer man
of the two, and of his being rich so young, which rankled with Theobald even
more than the fact of his having money at all. If he had had to wait till he was
sixty or sixty-five, and become broken down from long failure in the meantime,
why then perhaps he might have been allowed to have whatever sum should suffice
to keep him out of the workhouse and pay his deathbed expenses, but that he
should come in to £70,000 at eight and twenty, and have no wife and only two
children - it was intolerable. Christina was too ill and in too great a hurry to
spend the money to care much about such details as the foregoing - and she was
naturally much more good-natured than Theobald.
    »This piece of good fortune« - she saw it at a glance - »quite wiped out the
disgrace of his having been imprisoned. There should be no more nonsense about
that - the whole thing was a mistake, an unfortunate mistake, true, but the less
said about it now the better. Of course Ernest would come back and live at
Battersby until he was married, and he would pay his father handsomely for board
and lodging. In fact it would be only right that Theobald should make a profit,
nor would Ernest himself wish it to be other than a handsome one; this was far
the best and simplest arrangement; and he could take his sister out more than
Theobald or Joey cared to do, and would also doubtless entertain very handsomely
at Battersby.
    Of course he would buy Joey a living, and make large presents yearly to his
sister - was there anything else? Oh yes - he would become a county magnate now;
a man with nearly £4000 a year should certainly become a county magnate - he
might even go into Parliament. He had very fair abilities - nothing indeed
approaching such genius as Dr. Skinner's, nor even as Theobald's, still he was
not deficient, and if he got into Parliament - so young too - there was nothing
to hinder his being Prime Minister before he died, and if so, of course, he
would become a peer. Oh why did he not set about it all at once, so that she
might live to see people call her son my lord - Lord Battersby she thought would
do very nicely, and if she was well enough to sit he must certainly have her
portrait painted at full length for one end of his large dining-hall. It should
be exhibited at the Royal Academy: Portrait of Lord Battersby's Mother, she said
to herself, and her heart fluttered with all its wonted vivacity. If she could
not sit, happily she had been photographed not so very long ago, and the
portrait had been as successful as any photograph could be of a face which
depended so entirely upon its expression as her own. Perhaps the painter could
take the portrait sufficiently from this. It was better after all that Ernest
had given up the church - how far more wisely God arranged matters for us than
ever we can do for ourselves - she saw it all now - it was Joey who would become
Archbishop of Canterbury, and let Ernest remain a layman and become Prime
Minister - etc., etc., etc.,« till her daughter told her it was time for her to
take her medicine.
    I suppose this rêverie - which is a mere fragment of what actually ran
through Christina's brain - occupied about a minute and a half, but it, or the
presence of her son, seemed to revive her spirits wonderfully. Ill - dying
indeed - and suffering as she was, she brightened up so as to laugh once or
twice quite merrily during the course of the afternoon. Next day Mr. Curwen said
she was so much better that he almost began to have hopes of her recovery again.
Theobald, whenever this was touched upon as possible, would shake his head and
say, »We can't wish it prolonged,« and then Charlotte caught him unawares and
said, »You know, dear Ernest, that these ups and downs of talk are terribly
agitating to papa; he could stand whatever comes, but it is quite too wearing to
him to think half a dozen different things backwards and forwards and up and
down in the same twenty-four hours, and it would be kinder of you not to do it -
I mean not to say anything to him even though Mr. Martin does hold out hopes.«
    Charlotte had meant to imply that it was Ernest who was at the bottom of all
the inconvenience felt by Theobald, herself, Joey and everyone else, and she had
actually got words out which should convey this; true she had not dared to stick
to them and turned them off, but she had made them hers at any rate for one
brief moment, and this was better than nothing. Ernest noticed throughout his
mother's illness that Charlotte found immediate occasion to make herself
disagreeable to him whenever either doctor or nurse pronounced her mother to be
a little better. When she wrote to Crampsford to desire the prayers of the
congregation (she was sure her mother would wish it and that the Crampsford
people would be pleased at her remembrance of them) she was sending another
letter on some quite different subject at the same time and put the two letters
in their wrong envelopes; Ernest was asked to take these letters to the village
post office, and imprudently did so; when the error came to be discovered
Christina happened to have rallied a little. Charlotte flew at Ernest
immediately and laid all the blame of the blunder upon his shoulders.
    Except that Joey and Charlotte were more fully developed, the house and its
inmates, organic and inorganic, were little changed since Ernest had last seen
them. The furniture and the ornaments on the chimney-piece were just as they had
been ever since he could remember anything at all. In the drawing-room on either
side [of] the fireplace there hung the Carlo Dolci and the Sassoferrato as in
old time; there was the water colour of a scene on the Lago Maggiore copied by
Charlotte from an original lent her by her drawing master and finished under his
direction. This was the picture of which one of the servants had said that it
must be good, for Mr. Pontifex had given ten shillings for the frame. The paper
on the walls was unchanged; the roses were still waiting for the bees, and the
whole family still prayed night and morning to be made truly honest and
conscientious.
    One picture only was removed - a photograph of himself which had hung under
one of his father and between those of his brother and sister. Ernest noticed
this at prayer time while his father was reading about Noah's ark and how they
daubed it with slime - which as it happened had been Ernest's favourite text
when he was a boy. Next morning, however, the photograph had found its way back
again, a litle dusty and with a bit of the gilding chipped off from one corner
of the frame, but there sure enough it was; I suppose they put it back when they
found how rich he had become.
    In the dining-room the ravens were still trying to feed Elijah over the
fireplace; what a crowd of reminiscences did not this picture bring back;
looking out of [the] window there were the flower beds in the front garden
exactly as they had been, and Ernest found himself looking hard against the blue
door at the bottom of the garden to see if there was snow falling, as he had
been used to look when he was a child doing lessons with his father.
    After their early dinner, when Joey and Ernest and their father were left
alone, Theobald rose and stood in the middle of the hearthrug under the Elijah
picture and began to whistle in his old absent way. He had two tunes only, one
was »In My Cottage Near a Wood,« and the other was the Easter hymn; he had been
trying to whistle them all his life, but had never succeeded; he whistled them
as a clever bullfinch might whistle them - he had got them but he had not got
them right; he would be a semitone out in every third note as though reverting
to some remote musical progenitor, who had known none but the Lydian or the
Phrygian or the Hypo-Dorian or the Mixo-Lydian mode or whatever would enable him
to go most wrong while still keeping the tune near enough to be recognised.
Theobald stood before the middle of the fire and whistled his two tunes softly
in his own old way till Ernest left the room; the unchangedness of the external
and changedness of the internal he felt were likely to throw him completely off
his balance.
    He strolled out of doors into the sodden spinney behind the house, and
solaced himself with a pipe. Ere long he found himself at the door of the
cottage of his father's coachman who had married an old lady's maid of his
mother's to whom Ernest had been always much attached - as she also to him, for
she had known him ever since he had been five or six years old. Her name was
Susan. He sat down in the rocking-chair before her fire, and Susan went on
ironing at the table in front of the window, and a smell of hot flannel pervaded
the kitchen.
    Susan had been retained too securely by Christina to be likely to side with
Ernest all in a moment. He knew this very well, and did not call on her for the
sake of support, moral or otherwise. He had called because he liked her, and
also because he knew that he should gather much in a chat with her that he
should not be able to arrive at in any other way.
    »Oh Master Ernest,« said Susan, »why did you not come back when your poor
papa and mamma wanted you? I'm sure your ma has said to me a hundred times over
if she has said it once that all should be exactly as it had been before.«
    Ernest smiled to himself. It was no use explaining to Susan why he smiled,
so he said nothing.
    »For the first day or two I thought she never would get over it; she said it
was a judgement upon her, and went on about things as she had said and done many
years ago before your pa knew her, and I don't know what she didn't say or
wouldn't have said only I stopped her; she seemed out of her mind like, and said
that none of the neighbours would ever speak to her again, but the next day Mrs.
Bushby (her that was Miss Cowey, you know) called, and your ma always was so
fond of her, and it seemed to do her a power o' good, for the next day she went
through all her dresses and we settled how she should have them altered; and
then all the neighbours called for miles and miles round and your ma came in
here and said she had been going through the waters of misery and the Lord had
turned them to a well.«
    »Oh yes, Susan,« said she, »be sure it is so. Whom the Lord loveth he
chasteneth, Susan -« and here she began to cry again. »As for him,« she went on,
»he has made his bed and he must lie on it; when he comes out of prison his pa
will know what is best to be done, and Master Ernest may be thankful that he has
a pa so good and so longsuffering.«
    »Then when you would not see them, that was a cruel blow to your ma. Your pa
did not say anything, you know your pa never does say very much unless he's
downright waxy for the time; but your ma took on dreadful for a few days and I
never saw the master look so black; but, bless you, it all went off in a few
days, and I don't know that there's been much difference in either of them since
then, not till your ma was took ill.«
    On the night of his arrival he had behaved well at family prayers, as also
on the following morning. His father read about David's dying injunctions to
Solomon in the matter of Shimei, but he did not mind it. In the course of the
day however his corns had been trodden so many times that he was in a
misbehaving humour, on this the second night after his arrival. He knelt next
Charlotte, and said the responses perfunctorily - not so perfunctorily that she
should know for certain that he was doing it maliciously, but so perfunctorily
as to make her uncertain whether he might be malicious or not, and when he had
to pray to be made truly honest and conscientious he emphasised the truly. I do
not know whether Charlotte noticed anything, but she knelt at some distance from
him during the rest of his stay. He assures me that this was the only spiteful
thing he did during the whole time he was at Battersby.
    When he went up to his bedroom, in which to do them justice they had given
him a fire, he noticed what indeed he had noticed as soon as he was shown into
it on his arrival - that there was an illuminated card framed and glazed over
his bed with the words, »Be the day weary or be the day long, at last it ringeth
to even-song.« He wondered to himself how such people could leave such a card in
a room in which their visitors would have to spend the last hours of their
evening, but he let it alone. »There's not enough difference between weary and
long to warrant an or,« he said, »but I suppose it's all right.« I believe
Christina had bought it at a bazaar in aid of the restoration of a neighbouring
church, and having been bought it had got to be used - besides, the sentiment
was so touching and the illumination was really lovely. Anyhow, no irony could
be more complete than leaving it in my hero's bedroom, though assuredly no irony
had been intended - but then the undesigned coincidences of Nature are so often
more effective than any art.
    On the third day after Ernest's arrival Christina relapsed again, and for
the last two days she had been in no pain and had slept a good deal; her son's
presence still seemed to cheer her and she often said how thankful she was to be
surrounded on her deathbed by a family so happy, so God-fearing, so united; but
now she began to wander, and being more sensible of the approach of death seemed
also more alarmed at the thoughts of the day of judgement.
    She ventured more than once or twice to return to the subject of her sins
and implored Theobald to make quite sure that they were forgiven her. She hinted
that she considered his professional reputation was at stake; it would never do
for his own wife to fail in securing at any rate a pass. This was touching
Theobald on a tender spot; he winced and rejoined with an impatient toss of the
head, »But Christina, they are forgiven you«; and then he entrenched himself in
a firm but dignified manner behind the Lord's prayer. When he rose he left the
room, but called Ernest out to say that he could not wish it prolonged.
    Joey was no more use in quieting his mother's anxiety than Theobald had been
- indeed he was only Theobald and water; at last Ernest who had not liked
interfering took the matter in hand, and sitting beside her, let her pour out
her grief to him without let or hindrance.
    She said she knew she had not given up all for Christ's sake; it was this
that weighed upon her. She had given up much, and had always tried to give up
more year by year, still she knew very well that she had not been so spiritually
minded as she ought to have been. If she had, she should probably have been
favoured with some direct vision or communication; whereas, though God had
vouchsafed such direct and visible angelic visits to one of her dear children,
yet she had had none such herself - nor even had Theobald.
    She was talking rather to herself than to Ernest as she said these words,
but they made him open his ears. He was interested to know whether the angel had
appeared to Joey or to Charlotte. He asked his mother, but she seemed surprised,
as though she expected him to know all about it - then as if she remembered, she
checked herself, and said, »Ah yes - you know nothing of all this, and perhaps
it is as well.« Ernest could not of course press the subject, so he never found
out which of his near relations it was who had had direct communication with an
immortal. The others never said anything to him about it, though whether this
was because they were ashamed, or because they feared he would not believe the
story and thus increase his own damnation, he could not determine.
    Ernest has often thought about this since. He tried to get the facts out of
Susan, who he was sure would know, but Charlotte had been beforehand with him.
»No, Master Ernest,« said Susan when he began to question her, »your ma has sent
a message to me by Miss Charlotte as I am not to say nothing at all about it,
and I never will.« Of course no further questioning was possible. It had more
than once occurred to Ernest that Charlotte did not in reality believe more than
he did himself, and this incident went far to strengthen his surmises to this
effect, but he wavered when he remembered how she had misdirected the letter
asking for the prayers of the congregation. »I suppose,« he said to himself
gloomily, »she does believe in it after all.«
    Then Christina returned to the subject of her own want of
spiritual-mindedness - she even harped upon the old grievance of her having
eaten black puddings - true, she had given them up years ago - but for how many
years had she not persevered in eating them after she had had misgivings about
their having been forbidden. Then there was something that weighed on her mind
that had taken place before her marriage, and she should like -
    Ernest interrupted - »My dear mother,« he said, »you are ill and your mind
is unstrung; others can now judge better about you than you can; I assure you
that to me you seem to have been the most devotedly unselfish wife and mother
that ever lived. Even if you have not literally given up all for Christ's sake,
you have done so practically as far as was in your power, and more than this is
not required of anyone. I believe you will not only be a saint, but a very
distinguished one.«
    At these words Christina brightened. »You give me hope, you give me hope,«
she cried, and dried her eyes. She made him assure her over and over again that
this was his solemn conviction; she did not care about being a distinguished
saint now; she would be quite content to be among the meanest who actually got
into Heaven, provided she could make sure of escaping that awful Hell. The fear
of this evidently was omnipresent with her, and in spite of all Ernest could say
he did not quite dispel it. She was rather ungrateful, I must confess, for after
more than an hour's consolation from Ernest she prayed for him that he might
have every blessing in this world inasmuch as she always feared that he was the
only one of her children whom she should never meet in Heaven; but she was then
wandering, and was hardly aware of his presence; her mind in fact was reverting
to states in which it had been before her illness.
    On Sunday Ernest went to church as a matter of course, and noted that the
ever-receding tide of evangelicism had ebbed many a stage lower, even during the
few years of his absence. His father used to walk to the church through the
rectory garden, and across a small intervening field. He had been used to walk
in a tall hat, his Master's gown, and wearing a pair of Geneva bands. Ernest
noticed that the bands were worn no longer, and lo! greater marvel still,
Theobald did not preach in his Master's gown, but in a surplice. The whole
character of the service was changed; you could not say it was high even now,
for high-church Theobald could never under any circumstances become, but the old
easy-going slovenliness, if I may say so, was gone forever. The orchestral
accompaniments to the hymns had disappeared while my hero was yet a boy, but
there had been no chaunting for some years after the harmonium had been
introduced. While Ernest was at Cambridge, Charlotte and Christina had prevailed
on Theobald to allow the canticles to be sung; and sung they were to
old-fashioned double chaunts by Lord Mornington and Dr. Dupuis and others.
Theobald did not like it, but he did it, or allowed it to be done.
    Then Christina said, »My dear, do you know, I really think« (Christina
always really thought) »that the people liked the chaunting very much, and that
it will be a means of bringing many, many to church who have staid away
hitherto. I was talking about it to Mrs. Goodhew and to old Miss Wright but
yesterday, and they quite agreed with me, but they all said that we ought to
chaunt the Glory be to the Father at the end of each of the psalms instead of
saying it.« Theobald looked black - he felt the waters of chaunting rising
higher and higher upon him inch by inch, but he felt also - he knew not why, but
he felt it - that he had better yield than fight. So he ordered the Glory be to
the Father to be chaunted in future; but he did not like it.
    »Really mamma dear,« said Charlotte, when the battle was won, »you should
not call it the Glory be to the Father - you should say Gloria.«
    »Of course, my dear,« said Christina; and she said »Gloria« forever after.
Then she thought what a wonderfully clever girl Charlotte was, and how she ought
to marry no one lower than a bishop.
    By and by when Theobald went away for an unusually long holiday one summer,
he could find no one but a rather high-church clergyman to take his duty. This
gentleman was a man of weight in the neighbourhood, having considerable private
means, but without preferment. In the summer he would often help his brother
clergymen, and it was through his being willing to take the duty at Battersby
for a few Sundays that Theobald had been able to get away for so long. On his
return, however, he found that the whole psalms were being chaunted as well as
the Glorias. The influential clergyman, Christina, and Charlotte took the bull
by the horns as soon as Theobald returned and laughed it all off; and the
clergyman laughed and bounced, and Christina laughed and coaxed, and Charlotte
uttered unexceptionable sentiments, and the thing was done now, and couldn't be
undone, and it was no use grieving over spilt milk; so henceforth the psalms
were to be chaunted but Theobald grisled over it in his heart, and he did not
like it.
    During this very same absence what had Mrs. Goodhew and old Miss Wright
taken to doing but turning towards the East while repeating the belief? Theobald
disliked this even worse than chaunting. When he said something about it in a
timid way at dinner after service, Charlotte said, »Really papa dear, you must
take to calling it the creed and not the belief«; and Theobald winced
impatiently and snorted meek defiance, but the spirit of her aunts, Jane and
Eliza, was strong in Charlotte, and the thing was too small to fight about and
he turned it off with a laugh. »As for Charlotte,« thought Christina, »I believe
she knows everything.« So Mrs. Goodhew and old Miss Wright continued to turn to
the East during the time the creed was said, and by and by others followed their
example, and ere long the few who had stood out yielded and turned eastward too;
and then Theobald made as though he had thought it all very right and proper
from the first, but like it he did not. By and by Charlotte tried to make him
say »Alleluia« instead of »Hallelujah,« but this was going too far, and Theobald
turned, and she got frightened and ran away.
    And they changed the double chaunts for single ones, and altered psalm by
psalm, and in the middle of psalms, just where a cursory reader would see no
reason why they should do so; they changed from major to minor, and from minor
back to major; and then they got »Hymns Ancient and Modern,« and as I have said
they robbed him of his beloved bands, and they made him preach in a surplice,
and he must have celebration of the Holy Communion once a month instead of only
five times in the year as heretofore, and he struggled in vain against the
unseen influence which he felt to be working ever in season and out of season
against all that he had been accustomed to consider most distinctive of his
party. Where it was, or what it was, he knew not, nor exactly what it would do
next, but he knew exceedingly well that go where he would it was undermining
him; that it was too persistent for him; that Christina and Charlotte liked it a
great deal better than he did - and that it could end in nothing but Rome.
Easter decorations indeed! Christmas decorations - in reason - were proper
enough, but Easter decorations - well - it might last his time.
    This was the course things have taken in the Church of England during the
last forty years. The set has been steadily in one direction. A few men who knew
what they wanted made catspaws of the Christinas and the Charlottes, and the
Christinas and the Charlottes made catspaws of the Mrs. Goodhews and the old
Miss Wrights, and the Mrs. Goodhews and old Miss Wrights told the Mr. Goodhews
and the young Miss Wrights what they should do, and when the Mr. Goodhews and
the young Miss Wrights did it the little Goodhews and the rest of the spiritual
flock did as they did, and the Theobalds went for nothing; step by step, day by
day, year by year, parish by parish, diocese by diocese, this was how it was
done. And yet the Church of England looks with no friendly eyes upon the theory
of evolution, or descent with modification.
    My hero thought over these things and remembered many a ruse on the part of
Christina and Charlotte, and many a detail of the struggle which I cannot
further interrupt my story to refer to, and he remembered his father's favourite
retort that it could only end in Rome. When he was a boy he had firmly believed
this, but he smiled now as he thought of another alternative clear enough to
himself, but so horrible that it had not even occurred to Theobald - I mean the
toppling over of the whole system.
    At that time he welcomed the hope that the absurdities and unrealities of
the church would end in her downfall. Since then he has come to think very
differently - not as believing in the cow jumping over the moon more than he
used to, or more, probably, than nine-tenths of the clergy themselves - who know
as well as he does that their outward and visible symbols are out of date - but
because he knows the baffling complexity of the problem when it comes to
deciding what is actually to be done. Also, now that he has seen them more
closely, he knows better the nature of those wolves in sheep's clothing, who are
thirsting for the blood of their victim, and exulting so clamorously over its
anticipated early fall into their clutches. The spirit behind the church is true
though her letter - true once - is now true no longer. The spirit behind the
Huxleys and Tyndalls is as lying as its letter. The Theobalds, who do what they
do because it seems to be the correct thing, but who in their hearts neither
like it nor believe in it, are in reality the least dangerous of all classes to
the peace and liberties of mankind. The man to fear is he who goes at things
with the cocksureness of pushing vulgarity and self-conceit. These are not vices
which can be justly laid to the charge of the English clergy.
    Many of the farmers came up to Ernest when service was over and shook hands
with him. He found everyone knew of his having come into a fortune. The fact was
that Theobald had immediately told two or three of the greatest gossips in the
village and the story was not long in spreading. »It simplified matters,« he had
said to himself, »a good deal.« Ernest was civil to Mrs. Goodhew for her
husband's sake, but he gave Miss Wright the cut direct, for he knew that she was
only Charlotte in disguise.
    A week passed slowly away. Two or three times the family took the Sacrament
together round Christina's deathbed. Theobald's impatience became more and more
transparent daily, but fortunately Christina (who even though well would have
been ever ready to shut her eyes to it) became weaker and less coherent in mind
also, so that she hardly if at all perceived it. After Ernest had been in the
house about a week his mother fell into a comatose state which lasted a couple
of days and in the end went away so peacefully that it was like the blending of
sea and sky in mid-ocean upon a soft hazy day when none can say where the earth
ends and the heavens begin.
    Indeed she died to the realities of life with less pain than she had waked
from many of its illusions. »She has been the comfort and mainstay of my life,«
said Theobald as soon as all was over, »for more than thirty years, but one
couldn't wish it prolonged« - and he buried his face in his handkerchief to
conceal his want of emotion.
    Ernest came back to town the day after his mother's death and returned to
the funeral accompanied by myself. He wanted me to see his father, in order to
prevent any possible misapprehension about Miss Pontifex's intentions - and I
was such an old friend of the family that my presence at Christina's funeral
would surprise [no one.] With all her faults I had always rather liked
Christina. She would have chopped Ernest or anyone up into little pieces of
mincemeat to gratify the slightest wish of her husband, but she would not have
chopped him up for any one else, and so long as he did not cross her she was
very fond of him. By nature she was of an even temper, more willing to be
pleased than ruffled, very ready to do a good-natured action provided it did not
cost her much exertion, nor involve expense to Theobald. Her own little purse
did not matter; any one might have as much of that as he or she could get after
she had reserved what was absolutely necessary for her dress. I could not hear
of her end as Ernest described it to me without feeling very compassionate
towards her, indeed her own son could hardly have felt more so; I at once
therefore consented to go down to the funeral; perhaps I was also influenced by
a desire to see Charlotte and Joey, in whom I felt interested on hearing what my
godson had told me.
    I found Theobald looking remarkably well. Everyone said he was bearing it so
beautifully. He did indeed once or twice shake his head and say that his wife
had been the comfort and mainstay of his life for over thirty years, but there
the matter ended. I stayed over the next day, which was Sunday, and took my
departure on the following morning after having told Theobald all that his son
asked me to tell him. Theobald asked me to help him with Christina's epitaph.
    »I would say,« said he, »as little as possible; eulogies of the departed are
in most cases both unnecessary and untrue. Christina's epitaph shall contain
nothing which shall be either the one or the other. I should give her name, the
dates of her birth and death, and of course say she was my wife, and then I
think I should wind up with a simple text - her favourite one, for example, none
indeed could be more appropriate - Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall
see God.«
    I said I thought this would be very nice, and it was settled. So Ernest was
sent to give the order to Mr. Prosser the stonemason in the nearest town - who
said it came from the beetitudes.
 

                                   Chapter 90

On our way to town Ernest broached his plans for spending the next year or two.
I wanted him to try and get more into society again, but he brushed this aside
at once as the very last thing he had a fancy for. For society indeed of all
sorts - except of course that of a few intimate friends - he had an
unconquerable aversion. »I always did hate those people,« he said, »and they
always have hated and always will hate me. I am an Ishmael by instinct as much
as by accident of circumstances, but if I keep out of society I shall be less
vulnerable than Ishmaels generally are. The moment a man goes into society, he
becomes vulnerable all round.«
    I was sorry to hear him talk in this way; for whatever strength a man may
have he should surely be able to make more of it if he act in concert than
alone. I said this.
    »I don't care,« he answered, »whether I make the most of my strength or not;
I don't know whether I have any strength, but if I have I dare say it will find
some way of exerting itself. I will live as I like living, not as other people
would like me to live; thanks to my aunt and you, I can afford the luxury of a
quiet unobtrusive life of self-indulgence,« said he laughing, »and I mean to
have it.«
    »You know I like writing,« he added, after a pause of some minutes, »I have
been a scribbler for years. If I am to come to the fore at all it must be by
writing.«
    I had already long since come to that conclusion myself.
    »Well,« he continued, »there are a lot of things that want saying which no
one dares to say - a lot of shams which want attacking, and yet no one attacks
them. It seems to me that I can say things which not another man in England
except myself will venture to say, and yet which are crying to be said.«
    I said, »But who will listen? If you say things which nobody else would dare
to say is not this much the same as saying what everyone except yourself knows
to be better left unsaid just now?«
    »Perhaps,« said he, »but I don't know it; I am bursting with these things,
and it is my fate to say them.«
    I knew there would be no stopping him, so I gave in - and asked what
question he felt a special desire to burn his fingers with in the first
instance.
    »Marriage,« he rejoined promptly, »and the power of disposing of his
property after a man is dead. The question of Christianity is virtually settled
- or if not settled there is no lack of those engaged in settling it - the
question of the day now is marriage and the family system.«
    »That,« said I drily, »is a hornet's nest indeed.«
    »Yes,« said he no less drily, »but hornet's nests are exactly what I happen
to like. Before, however, I begin to poke at this particular one, I propose to
travel for a few years, with the especial object of finding out what nations now
existing are the best, comeliest and most loveable, and also what nations have
been so in times past. I want to find out how these people live, and have lived,
and what their customs are.
    I have very vague notions upon the subject as yet, but the general
impression I have formed is that - putting ourselves on one side - the most
vigorous and amiable of known nations are the modern Italians, the old Greeks
and Romans, and the South Sea Islanders. I believe that these nice peoples have
not as a general rule been purists, but I want to see those of them who can yet
be seen; they are the practical authorities on the question, What is best for
man? - and I should like to see them and find out what they do. Let us settle
the facts first and fight about the moral tendencies afterwards.«
    »In fact,« said I laughing, »you mean to have high old times.«
    »Neither higher nor lower,« was the answer, »than those people whom I can
find to have been the best in all ages. But let us change the subject.«
    He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a letter. »My father,« he
said, »gave me this letter this morning - with the seal already broken.«
    He passed it over to me, and I found it to be the one which Christina had
written before the birth of her last child, and which I have given in an earlier
chapter.
    »And you do not find this letter,« said I, »affect the conclusion which you
have just told me you have come to concerning your present plans?«
    He smiled, and answered, »No. But if you do what you have sometimes talked
about, and turn the adventures of my unworthy self into a novel, mind you print
this letter.«
    »Why so?« said I, feeling as though such a letter as this should have been
held sacred from the public gaze.
    »Because my mother would have wished it published; if she had known you were
writing about me and had this letter in your possession, she would above all
things have desired that you should publish it. Therefore publish it if you
write at all.«
    This is why I have done so.
 

                                   Chapter 91

Within a month Ernest carried his intention into effect, and having made all the
arrangements necessary for his children's welfare left England before Christmas.
    I heard from him now and again and learnt that he was visiting almost all
parts of the world, but only staying in those places where he found the
inhabitants unusually good looking and agreeable. He said he had filled an
immense quantity of note books, and I have no doubt he had. At last in the
spring of 1867 he returned, luggage stained with the variations of each hotel
advertisement 'twixt here and Japan. He looked very brown and strong and so
well-favoured that it almost seemed as if he must have caught some good looks
from the people among whom he had been living. He came back to his old rooms in
the Temple and settled down as easily as if he had never been away a day.
    One of the first things we did was to go and see the children; we took the
train to Gravesend and walked thence for a few miles along the riverside till we
came to the solitary house where the good people lived with whom Ernest had
placed them. It was a lovely April morning, but with a fresh air blowing from
off the sea; the tide was high and the river was alive with shipping coming up
with wind and tide. Seagulls wheeled around us overhead, seaweed clung
everywhere to the banks which the advancing tide had not yet covered -
everything was of the sea - sea-ey, and the fine bracing air which blew over the
water made me feel more hungry than I had done for many a day - I did not see
how children could live in a better physical atmosphere than this, and applauded
the selection which Ernest had made on behalf of his youngsters.
    While we were still a quarter of a mile off, we heard shouts and children's
laughter, and could see a lot of boys and girls romping together and running
after one another. We could not distinguish our own two, but when we got near
they were soon made out, for the other children were blue-eyed, flaxen-pated
little folks, whereas ours were dark and straight-haired.
    We had written and said we were coming, but had desired that nothing should
be said to the children, so these paid no more attention to us than they would
have done to any other stranger who happened to visit a spot so unfrequented -
except by sea-faring folk, which we plainly were not. The interest however in us
was much quickened when it was discovered that we had got our pockets full of
oranges and sweeties - to an extent greater than it had entered into their small
imaginations to conceive as possible. At first we had great difficulty in making
them come near us. They were like a lot of wild young colts - very inquisitive,
but very coy, and not to be cajoled easily. The children were nine in all -
seven, five boys and two girls, belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Rollings - and two to
Ernest. I never saw a finer lot of children than the young Rollings - the boys
were hardy, robust, fearless little fellows with eyes as clear as hawks; the
elder girl was exquisitely pretty, but the younger one was a mere baby. I felt
as I looked at them that if I had had children of my own I could have wished no
better home for them, nor no better companions.
    Georgie and Alice, Ernest's two children, were evidently quite as one family
with the others, and called Mr. and Mrs. Rollings uncle and aunt. They had been
so young when they were placed under Mr. and Mrs. Rollings's care that they had
been looked upon in the light of new babies who had been born into the family.
They knew nothing about Mr. and Mrs. Rollings being paid so much a week to look
after them. Ernest asked them all what they wanted to be. They had only one
idea; one and all, Georgie among the rest, wanted to be bargemen. Young ducks
could hardly have a more evident hankering after the water.
    »And what do you want, Alice?« said Ernest.
    »Oh,« she said, »I'm going to marry Jack here, and be a bargeman's wife.«
    Jack was the eldest boy, now nearly twelve, a sturdy little fellow, the
image of what Mr. Rollings must have been at his age. As we looked at him - so
straight and well-grown and well done all round, I could see it was in Ernest's
mind as much as in mine that she could hardly do much better.
    »Come here Jack, my boy,« said Ernest, »here's a shilling for you.« The boy
blushed and could hardly be got to come, in spite of our previous blandishments
- he had had pennies given him before but shillings never. His father caught him
good-naturedly by the ear and lugged him to us.
    »He's a good boy Jack is,« said Ernest to Mr. Rollings, »I'm sure of that.«
    »Yes,« said Mr. Rollings, »he's a weary good boy, only that I can't get him
to learn his reading and writing. He don't like going to school, that's the only
complaint I have against him. I don't know wot's the matter with all my
children, and yours Mr. Pontifex is just as bad, but they none of 'em likes book
learning, though they learn anything else fast enough. Why as for Jack here,
he's almost as good a bargeman as I am,« and he looked fondly and patronisingly
towards his offspring.
    »I think,« said Ernest to Mr. Rollings, »if he wants to marry Alice when he
gets older he had better do so and he shall have as many barges as he likes. In
the meantime Mr. Rollings - say in what way money can be of use to you, and
whatever you can make useful to you is at your disposal.«
    I need hardly say that Ernest made matters easy for this good couple; one
stipulation however he insisted on, namely there was to be no more smuggling -
and that the young people were to be kept out of this - for a little bird had
told Ernest that smuggling in a quiet way was one of the resources of the
Rollings family. Mr. Rollings was not sorry to assent to this and I believe it
is now many years since the coast guard people have suspected any of the
Rollings as offenders against the revenue law.
    »Why should I take them from where they are,« said Ernest to me in the train
as we went home, »to send them to schools where they will not be one half so
happy - and where their illegitimacy will very likely be a worry to them?
Georgie wants to be a bargeman - let him begin as one - the sooner the better;
he may as well begin with this as with anything else; then if he shows
developments I can be on the lookout to encourage them and make things easy for
him; while if he shows no desire to go ahead, what on earth is the good of
trying to shove him forward?«
    Ernest I believe went on with a homily upon education generally, and upon
the way in which young people should go through the embryonic stages with their
money as much as with their limbs, beginning life in a much lower social
position than that in which their parents were, and a lot more, which he has
since published - but I was getting on in years and the walk and the bracing air
had made me sleepy, so ere we had got past Greenhithe Station on our return
journey I had sunk into a refreshing sleep.
 

                                   Chapter 92

Ernest being about two and thirty years old and having had his fling for the
last three or four years, now settled down in London, and began to write
steadily. Up to this time he had given abundant promise, but had produced
nothing - nor indeed did he come before the public for another three or four
years yet.
    He lived as I have said very quietly, seeing hardly anyone but myself and
the three or four old friends with whom I had been intimate for years. We and
Ernest formed our little set and outside of this my godson was hardly known at
all.
    His main expense was travelling which he indulged in at frequent intervals
but for short times only. Do what he would he could not get through more than
about fifteen hundred a year; the rest of his income he gave away if he happened
to find a case where he thought money would be well bestowed - or put by until
some opportunity arose of getting rid of it with advantage.
    I knew he was writing, but we had had so many little differences of opinion
upon this head that by a tacit understanding the subject was seldom referred to
between us, and I did not know that he was actually publishing till one day he
brought me a book and told me that it was his own. I opened it and found it to
be a series of semi-theological, semi-social essays purporting to have been
written by six or seven different people and viewing the same class of subjects
from different standpoints.
    People had not yet forgotten the famous Essays and Reviews, and Ernest had
wickedly given [a] few touches to at least two of the essays which suggested
vaguely that they had been written by a bishop. The Essays were all of them in
support of the Church of England, and appeared both by implied internal
suggestion, and their primâ facie purport to be the work of some half dozen men
of experience and high position who had determined to face the difficult
questions of the day no less boldly from within the bosom of the church than the
church's enemies had faced them from without her pale.
    There was an essay on the External Evidences of the Resurrection; another on
the marriage laws of the most eminent nations of the world in times past and
present; another was devoted to a consideration of the many questions which must
be reopened and reconsidered on their merits if the teaching of the Church of
England were to cease to carry moral authority with it; another dealt with the
more purely social subject of middle-class destitution; another with the
authenticity or rather the unauthenticity of the fourth gospel; another was
headed »Irrational Rationalism,« and there were two or three more.
    They were all written vigorously and fearlessly as though by people used to
authority; all granted that the church professed to enjoin belief in much which
no one could accept who had been accustomed to weigh evidence, but it was
contended that so much valuable truth had got so closely mixed up with these
mistakes that the mistakes had better not be meddled with. To lay great stress
on these was like cavilling at the Queen's right to reign on the ground that
William the Conqueror was illegitimate.
    One article maintained that though it would be inconvenient to change the
words of our prayer book and articles, it would not be inconvenient to change in
a quiet way the meanings which we put upon those words. This it was argued was
what was actually done in the case of law; this had been the law's mode of
growth and adaptation, and had in all ages been found a righteous and convenient
method of effecting change. It was suggested that the church should adopt it.
    In another essay it was boldly denied that the church rested upon reason. It
was proved incontestably that its ultimate foundation was and ought to be faith,
there being indeed no other ultimate foundation than this for any of men's
beliefs. If so, the writer claimed that the church could not be upset by reason.
It was founded like everything else on initial assumptions - that is to say on
faith, and if it was to be upset must be upset by faith - by the faith of those
who in their lives appeared more graceful, more loveable, better bred, in fact,
and better able to overcome difficulties. Any sect which showed its superiority
in these respects might carry all before it, but none other would make much
headway for long together. Christianity was true in so far as it had fostered
beauty, and it had fostered much beauty. It was false in so far as it fostered
ugliness, and it had fostered ugliness. It was therefore not a little true and
not a little false; on the whole one might go farther and fare worse; the wisest
course would be to live with it and make the best and not the worst of it. The
writer urged that we become persecutors as a matter of course as soon as we
begin to feel very strongly upon any subject; we ought not therefore to do this;
we ought not to feel very strongly even upon that institution which was dearer
to the writer than any other - the Church of England; we should be churchmen,
but somewhat lukewarm churchmen, inasmuch as those who care very much about
either religion or irreligion are seldom observed to be very well bred or
agreeable people. The church herself should approach as nearly to that of
Laodicoea as was compatible with her continuing to be a church at all, and each
individual member should only be hot in striving to be as lukewarm as possible.
    The book rang with the courage alike of conviction and of an entire absence
of conviction; it appeared to be the work of men who had a rule-of-thumb way of
steering between subservism on the one hand and credulity on the other; who cut
Gordian knots as a matter of course when it suited their convenience; who shrank
from no conclusion in theory, nor from any want of logic in practice so long as
they were illogical of malice prepense, and for what they held to be sufficient
reason. The conclusions were conservative, quietistic, comforting. The arguments
by which they were reached were taken from the most advanced writers of the day.
All that these people contended for was granted them, but the fruits of victory
were for the most part handed over to those already in possession.
    Perhaps the passage which attracted most attention in the book was one from
the essay on the various marriage systems of the world. It ran -
    »If people require us to construct,« exclaimed the writer,
 
        »we set good breeding as the cornerstone of our edifice. We would have
        it ever-present consciously or unconsciously in the minds of all as the
        central faith in which they should live and move and have their being -
        as the touchstone of all things whereby they may be known as good or
        evil according as they make for good breeding or against it.
            That a man should have been bred well and breed others well; that
        his figure, head, hands, feet, voice, manner and clothes should carry
        conviction upon this point, so that no one can look at him without
        seeing that he has come of good stock and is likely to throw good stock
        himself, this is the desiderandum. And the same with a woman. The
        greatest number of these well-bred men and women and the greatest
        happiness of these well-bred men and women, this is the highest good;
        towards this all government, all social conventions, all art, literature
        and science should directly or indirectly tend. Holy men and holy women
        are those who keep this unconsciously in view at all times, whether of
        work or pastime.«
 
If Ernest had published this work in his own name I should think it would have
fallen still-born from the press - but the form he had chosen was calculated at
that time to arouse curiosity, and as I have said he had wickedly dropped a few
hints which the reviewers did not think anyone would have been impudent enough
to do if he were not a bishop, or at any rate very high in authority. A
well-known judge was spoken of as being another of the writers, and the idea
spread ere long that six or seven of the leading bishops and judges had laid
their heads together to produce a volume which should at once outbid Essays and
Reviews and counteract the influence of that then still famous work.
    Reviewers are men of like passions with ourselves, and with them as with
everyone else omne ignotum pro magnifico. The book was really an able one and
abounded with humour, just satire, and good sense. It struck a new note, and the
speculation which for some time was rife concerning its authorship made many
turn to it who would never have looked at it otherwise. One of the most gushing
weeklies had a fit over it, and declared it to be the finest thing that had been
done since the Provincial Letters of Pascal. Once a month or so that weekly
always found some picture which was the finest that had been done since the old
masters, or some satire that was the finest that had appeared since Swift or
some something which was incomparably the finest that had appeared since
something else. If Ernest had put his name to the book and the writer had known
that it was by a nobody - he would doubtless have written in a very different
strain. Reviewers like to think that for aught they know they are patting a duke
or even a prince of the blood upon the back, and lay it on thick till they find
they have been only praising Brown, Jones or Robinson. Then they are
disappointed, and as a general rule will pay Brown, Jones or Robinson out.
    Ernest was not so much up to the ropes of the literary world as I was, and I
am afraid his head was a little turned when he woke up one morning to find
himself famous. He was Christina's son and perhaps would not have been able to
do what he had if he was not capable of occasional undue elation. Ere long
however he found out all about it and settled quietly down to write a series of
books in which he insisted on saying things which no one else would say even if
they could, or could even if they would.
    He has got himself a bad literary character. I said to him laughingly one
day that he was like the man in the last century of whom it was said that
nothing but such a character could keep down such parts.
    He laughed and said he would rather be like that than like a modern writer
or two whom he could name, and whose parts were so poor that they could be kept
up by nothing but by such a character.
    I remember soon after one of these books was published I happened to meet
Mrs. Jupp, to whom by the way Ernest made a small weekly allowance. It was at
Ernest's chambers, and for some reason we were left alone for a few minutes. I
said to her, »Mr. Pontifex has written another book, Mrs. Jupp.«
    »Lor' now,« said she, »has he really? Dear gentleman! Is it about love?« And
the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep's eye glance at me from under her aged
eyelids. I forget what there was in my reply which provoked it - probably
nothing - but she went rattling on at full speed to the effect that Bell had
given her a ticket for the opera - »So of course,« she said, »I went. I didn't
understand one word of it for it was all in French, but I saw their legs. Oh
dear oh dear - I'm afraid I shan't be here much longer, and when dear Mr.
Pontifex sees me in my coffin he'll say, Poor old Jupp - she'll never talk broad
any more, but bless you I'm not so old as all that and I'm taking lessons in
dancing.«
    At this moment Ernest came in and the conversation was changed. Mrs. Jupp
asked if he was still going on writing more books now that this one was done.
»Of course I am,« he answered, »I'm always writing books - here is the
manuscript of my next«; and he showed her a heap of paper.
    »Well now,« she exclaimed, »dear, dear me, and is that manuscript? I've
often heard talk about manuscripts, but I never thought I should live to see
some myself. Well! well! So that is really manuscript?«
    There were a few geraniums in the window and they did not look well - Ernest
asked Mrs. Jupp if she understood flowers - »I understand the language of
flowers,« she said with one of her most bewitching leers - and on this we sent
her off till she should choose to honour us with another visit, which she knows
she is privileged from time to time to do, for Ernest likes her.
 

                                   Chapter 93

And now I must bring my story to a close.
    The preceding chapter was written soon after the events it records - that is
to say in the spring of 1867. By that time my story had been written up to this
point, but it has been altered here and there from time to time occasionally. It
is now the autumn of 1882, and if I am to say more I should do so quickly for I
am eighty years old, and though well in health cannot conceal from myself that I
am no longer young. Ernest himself is forty-seven - though he hardly looks it.
    He is richer than ever for he never married and his London and North Western
shares have nearly doubled themselves. Through sheer inability to spend his
income he has been obliged to hoard in self-defence. He still lives in the
Temple in the same rooms I took for him when he gave up his shop, for no one has
been able to induce him to take a house. His house he says is wherever there is
a good hotel. When he is in town he likes to work and to be quiet. When out of
town he feels that he has left little behind him that can go wrong, and he would
not like to be tied to a single locality. »I know no exception,« he says, »to
the rule that it is cheaper to buy the milk than to keep a cow.«
    When I say that he never married, I mean that he never set up house, for I
have often thought that he is married privately and has a separate establishment
on a small scale which I know nothing about. I think this because Mrs. Jupp once
picked the following letter out of his waste-paper basket, and brought it to me.
Of course I ought not to publish it, but he will forgive me. The letter runs -
 
        »Dear Pa, I hope you don't mind me not putting the date but I don't know
        it I never do. We can't play football in our own field I mean the first
        15 can't because our cricket was rather bad last year and so they are
        levelling it the one we have now is a beastly one but it dosent matter
        for football if it is not quite smooth.
            Thank you so much for your nice letter you sent I got my hamper
        quite all right it was just what I wanted the cake was awfully good so
        was the jam and the plums were jolly. I liked all the things awfully I
        am rather out of tin now as I have spent it all and my pocket money is
        all stopped for loosing different things so I rather should if you don't
        mind send me some. Fanny says that old sow Miss Elton is no better this
        term I think she must be an awful cow. I am not doing so well this term
        in my form I am rather low this week. Dawson I find out is an awful fool
        and I don't care for MacGregor so much this term. I am writing this
        letter before tea it will be tea soon. I have had no spanks I have got
        into no especiall rows this term. We have to get up stinking early we
        have to be down by 7 bell rings at 6.30 they go round open the door of
        every dormitory and wire in with the bell. It makes a beastly shindy -
        Good bye now,
                                                                           Ted.«
 
As I have mentioned Mrs. Jupp I may as well say here the little [that] remains
to be said about her. She is a very old woman now, but no one now living, as she
says triumphantly, can say how old, for the woman in the Old Kent Road is dead
and presumably has carried her secret to the grave. Old however though she is,
she is still wonderfully young both in body and mind. She lives in her old
house, and finds it hard work to make the two ends meet, but I do not know that
she minds this very much, and it has prevented her from getting more to drink
than would be good for her. It is no use trying to do anything for her beyond
paying her allowance weekly and absolutely refusing to let her anticipate it.
She pawns her flatiron every Saturday for 4d. and takes it out every Monday
morning for 41/2 when she gets her allowance, and has done this for the last ten
years as regularly as the week comes round. As long as she does not let the
flatiron actually go we know that she can still worry out her financial problems
in her own hugger-mugger way and had better be left to do so. If the flatiron
were to go beyond redemption, we should know that it was time to interfere. I do
not know why, but there is something about her which always reminds me of a
woman who was as unlike her as one person can be to another - I mean of Ernest's
mother.
    The last time I had a long gossip with her was about two years ago when she
came to me instead of to Ernest - she said she had seen a cab drive up just as
she was going to enter the staircase and had seen Mr. Pontifex's pa put his
Beelzebub old head out of the window, so she had come on to me, for she hadn't
greased her sides for no curtsey, not for the likes of him. She professed to be
very much down on her luck. Her lodgers did use her so dreadful, going away
without paying and leaving not so much as a stick behind, but to-day she was as
pleased as a penny carrot. She had had such a lovely dinner - a cushion of ham
and such green peas. She had had a good cry over it, but then she was so silly,
she was.
    »And there's that Bell,« she continued, without, that I was able to detect,
any even appearance of connection - »it's enough to give anyone the hump to see
him now that he's taken to chapel-going, and his mother's prepared to meet Jesus
and all that to me, and now she ain't a-going to die, and drinks half a bottle
of champagne a day. And then Grigg, him as preaches, you know, asked Bell if I
really was too gay, not but what when I was young I'd snap my fingers at any fly
by night in Holborn, and if I was togged out and had my teeth I'd do it now. I
lost my poor dear Watkins, but of course that couldn't be helped, and then I
lost my dear Rose. Silly faggot to go and ride on a cart and catch the
bronchitics. I never thought when I kissed my dear Rose in Pullen's Passage and
she gave me the chop that I should never see her again, and her gentleman friend
was fond of her too, though he was a married man. I daresay she's gone to bits
by now. If she could rise and see me with my bad finger, she would cry, and I
should say, Never mind ducky, I'm all right. Oh dear, it's coming on to rain. I
do hate a wet Saturday night - poor women with their nice white stockings and
their living to get, etc., etc.«
    And yet age does not wither this godless old sinner, as people would say it
ought to do. Whatever life she has led, it has agreed with her very
sufficiently. At times she gives us to understand that she is still much
solicited; at others she takes quite a different line. She has not allowed even
Joe King so much as to put his lips to hers this ten years - she would rather
have a mutton chop any day. »But ah! you should have seen me when I was sweet
seventeen. I was the very moral of my poor dear mother, and she was a pretty
woman though I say it that shouldn't. She had such a splendid mouth of teeth. It
was a sin to bury her in her teeth.«
    I only know of one thing at which she professes to be shocked. It is that
her son Tom and his wife Topsy are teaching the baby to swear. »Oh it's too
dreadful awful,« she exclaimed, »I don't know the meaning of the word but I tell
him he's a drunken sot.« I believe the old woman in reality rather likes it.
    »But surely Mrs. Jupp,« said I, »Tom's wife used not to be Topsy. You used
to speak of her as Pheeb.«
    »Ah yes,« she answered, »but Pheeb behaved bad, and it's Topsy now.«
    I know nothing about the young people whose existence I gather from the
letter brought me by Mrs. Jupp. The whole thing is very likely a mare's nest.
    His daughter (by Ellen) married more than a year ago the boy who had been
her playmate. Ernest gave them all they said they wanted and a good deal more.
They have already presented him with a grandson, and I doubt not will do so with
many more. Ernest's son though only twenty-one is owner of a fine steamer which
his father has bought for him. He began when about thirteen going with old
Rollings and Jack in the barge from Rochester to the upper Thames with bricks;
then his father bought him and Jack barges of their own, and then he bought them
both ships, and then steamers. I do not exactly know how people make money by
having a steamer, but he does whatever is usual, and from all I can gather makes
it pay him extremely well. He is a good deal like his father, in the face, but
without a spark - so far as I have been able to observe - of any literary
ability; he has a fair sense of humour and abundance of common sense, but his
instinct is clearly a practical one - I am not sure that he does not put me in
mind almost more of what Theobald would have been if he had been a sailor, than
of Ernest.
    Ernest used to go down to Battersby and stay with Theobald for a few days
twice a year until his death, and the pair continued on excellent terms, in
spite of what the neighbouring clergy call the atrocious books which Mr. Ernest
Pontifex has written. Perhaps the harmony, or rather absence of discord which
subsisted between the pair was due to the fact that Theobald had never looked
into the inside of one of his son's works, and Ernest, of course, never alluded
to them in his father's presence. The pair, as I have said, got on excellently,
but it was doubtless as well that Ernest's visits were short and not too
frequent. Once Theobald wanted Ernest to bring his children, but Ernest knew
they would not like it, so this was not done.
    Sometimes Theobald came up to town on small business and paid a visit to
Ernest's chambers; he generally brought with him a couple of lettuces, or a
cabbage, or half a dozen turnips done up in a piece of brown paper, and told
Ernest that he knew fresh vegetables were rather hard to get in London, and he
had brought him some. Ernest had often explained to him that the vegetables were
of no use to him, and that he had rather he would not bring them, but Theobald
persisted, I believe through sheer love of doing something which his son did not
like, but which was too small to take notice of.
    He lived until about twelve months ago, when he was found dead in his bed on
the morning after having written the following letter to his son -
 
        »Dear Ernest, I've nothing particular to write about, but your letter
        has been lying for some days in the limbo of unanswered letters, to wit
        my pocket, and it's time it was answered.
            I keep wonderfully well and am able to walk my five or six miles
        with comfort, but at my age there's no knowing how long it will last and
        time flies quickly. I have been busy potting plants all the morning, but
        this afternoon it is wet.
            What is this horrid government going to do with Ireland? I don't
        exactly wish they'd blow up Mr. Gladstone, but if a mad bull would chivy
        him there and he would never come back, and never come back any more, I
        should not be sorry. Lord Hartington is not exactly the man I should
        like to set in his place, but he would be immeasurably better than
        Gladstone.
            I miss your sister Charlotte more than I can express. She kept my
        household accounts and I could pour out to her all my little worries,
        and now that Joey is married too I don't know what I should do if one or
        other of them did not come sometimes and take care of me. My only
        comfort is that Charlotte will make her husband happy, and that he is as
        nearly worthy of her as a husband can well be - Believe me your
        affectionate father,
                                                             Theobald Pontifex.«
 
I may say in passing that though Theobald speaks of Charlotte's marriage as
though it were recent, it had really taken place some six years previously, she
being then about thirty-eight years old, and her husband about seven years
younger.
    There was no doubt that Theobald passed peacefully away during his sleep.
Can a man who dies thus be said to have died at all? He has presented the
phenomena of death to other people, but in respect of himself he has not only
not died, but has not even thought that he was going to die. This is not more
than half dying, but then neither was his life more than a half living. He
presented so many of the phenomena of living that I suppose on the whole it
would be less trouble to think of him as having been alive than as never having
been born at all, but this is only possible because association does not stick
to the strict letter of its bond.
    This however was not the general verdict concerning him, and the general
verdict is often the truest.
    Ernest was overwhelmed with expressions of condolence, and respect for his
father's memory. »He never,« said Mr. Martin the old doctor who brought Ernest
into the world, »spoke an ill word against anyone. He was not only liked, he was
beloved by all who had anything to do with him.«
    »A more perfectly just and righteously dealing man,« said the family
solicitor, »I have never had anything to do with - nor one more punctual in the
discharge of every business obligation. We shall miss him sadly.« The bishop
wrote to Joey in the very warmest terms. The poor were in consternation; »The
well's never missed,« said one old woman, »till it's dry,« and she had said what
everyone else felt. Ernest knew that the general regret was unaffected as for a
loss which could not be easily repaired. He felt that there were only three
people in the world who joined insincerely in the tribute of applause, and these
were the very three who could least show their want of sympathy - I mean Joey,
Charlotte, and himself. He felt bitter against himself for being of a mind with
either Joey or Charlotte upon any subject and thankful that he must conceal his
being so as far as possible. He felt bitter not because of anything his father
had done to him - these grievances were too old to be remembered now - but
because he would never allow him to feel towards him as he was always trying to
feel. As long as communication was confined to the merest commonplaces all went
well, but if these were departed from ever such a little he invariably felt that
his father's instincts showed themselves in immediate opposition to his own.
When he was attacked his father laid whatever stress was possible on everything
which his opponents said. If he met with any check his father was clearly
pleased. What the old doctor had said about Theobald's speaking ill of no man
was perfectly true as regards others than himself, but he knew very well that no
one had injured his reputation in a quiet way, so far as he dared to do, more
than his own father. This is a very common case and a very natural one. It often
happens that if the son is right, the father is wrong, and the father is not
going to have this if he can help it.
    It was very hard however to say what was the true root of the mischief in
the present case. It was not Ernest's having been imprisoned - Theobald forgot
all about that much sooner than nine fathers out of ten would have done. Partly,
no doubt, it was due to incompatibility of temperament, but I believe the main
ground of complaint lay in the fact that he had become so independent and so
rich while still very young, and that thus the old gentleman had been robbed of
his power to tease and scratch in the way which he felt he was entitled to do.
The love of teasing in a small way when he felt safe in doing so had remained
part of his nature from the days when he told his nurse that he would keep her
on purpose to torment her. I suppose it is so with all of us. At any rate I am
sure that most fathers, especially if they are clergymen, are like Theobald.
    He did not in reality, I am convinced, like Joey or Charlotte one whit
better than he liked Ernest. He did not like any one, nor anything - if he liked
any one at all it was his butler - who looked after him when he was not well,
and took great care of him and believed him to be the best and ablest man in the
whole world. Whether the faithful and attached servant continued to think this
after Theobald's will was opened and it was found what kind of legacy had been
left him I know not. Of his children the baby who had died at a day old was the
only one whom he held to have treated him quite filially. As for Christina he
hardly even pretended to miss her and never mentioned her name; but this was
taken as a proof that he felt her loss too keenly to be able ever to speak of
her. It may have been so, but I do not think it.
    Theobald's effects were sold by auction, and among them the harmonies of the
Old and New Testament which he had compiled during many years with such
exquisite neatness, and a huge collection of MS. sermons - being all in fact
that he had ever written. These and the harmony fetched nine pence a barrow
load. I was surprised to hear that Joey had not given the three or four
shillings which would have bought the whole lot, but Ernest tells me that Joey
was far fiercer in his dislike of his father than ever he had been himself, and
wished to get rid of everything that reminded him of him.
    It has already appeared that both Joey and Charlotte are married. Joey has a
family, but he and Ernest very rarely have any intercourse. Of course Ernest
took nothing under his father's will; this had long been understood, so that
both brother and sister were well provided for.
    Charlotte is as clever as ever and sometimes asks Ernest to come and stay
with her and her husband near Dover, I suppose because she knows that the
invitation will not be agreeable to him. There is a de haut en bas tone in all
her letters; it is rather hard to lay one's finger upon it but Ernest never gets
a letter from her without feeling that he is being written to by one who has had
direct communication with an angel. »What an awful creature,« he once said to
me, »that angel must have been, if it had anything to do with making Charlotte
what she is.«
    »Could you like,« she wrote to him not long ago, »the thoughts of a little
sea change here? The top of the cliffs would be beautiful soon with heather: the
heath must be out already, and the heather I should think begun, to judge by the
state of the hill at --, and heather or no heather the cliffs are always
beautiful, and if you come your room shall be cosy so that you may have a
resting corner to yourself. Nineteen and sixpence is the price of a return
ticket which covers a month. Would you decide just as you would yourself like,
only if you come we would hope to try and make it cosy for you; but you must not
feel it a burden on your mind if you feel disinclined to come in this
direction.«
    »When I have a bad nightmare,« said Ernest to me laughing as he showed me
this letter, »I dream that I have got to go and stay with Charlotte.«
    Her letters are supposed to be unusually well written, and I believe it is
said among the family that Charlotte has far more real literary power than
Ernest has. Sometimes we think that she is writing at him as much as to say,
»There now - don't you think you are the only one of us who can write; read
this! And if you want a telling bit of descriptive writing for your next book,
you can make what use of it you like.« I daresay she writes very well but she
has fallen under the dominion of the words hope, think, seem, try, bright, and
little, and can hardly write a page without introducing all these words and some
of them more than once. This has the effect of making her style monotonous.
    Ernest is as fond of music as ever, perhaps more so, and of late years has
added musical composition to the other irons in his fire. He finds it still a
little difficult and is in constant trouble through getting into the key of C
sharp after beginning in the key of C and being unable to get back again.
    »Getting into the key of C sharp,« he said, »is like an unprotected female
travelling on the Metropolitan Railway and finding herself at Shepherd's Bush
without quite knowing where she wants to go to. How ever is she [to] get safe
back to Clapham Junction? And Clapham Junction won't quite do either, for
Clapham Junction is like the diminished seventh - susceptible of enharmonic
change, and you can resolve it into all the possible termini of music.«
    Talking of music reminds me of a little passage that took place between
Ernest and Miss Skinner, Dr. Skinner's eldest daughter, not so very long ago.
Dr. Skinner had long left Roughborough, and had become Dean of one of our
Midland counties cathedrals - a position which exactly suited him. Finding
himself once in Dr. Skinner's neighbourhood Ernest called, for old acquaintance
sake, and was hospitably entertained at lunch.
    Thirty years had whitened the Doctor's bushy eyebrows - his hair they could
not whiten. I believe that but for that wig he would have been made a bishop.
    His voice and manner were unchanged, and when Ernest, remarking upon a plan
of Rome which hung in the hall, spoke inadvertently of the Quir-i-nal, he
replied with all his wonted pomp, »Yes - the Quir-i-nal - or as I myself prefer
to call it, the Quir-i-nal.« After this triumph he inhaled a long breath through
the corners of his mouth and flung it back again into the face of heaven, as in
his finest form during his headmastership. At lunch he did indeed once say,
»next to impossible to think of anything else,« but he immediately corrected
himself and substituted the words, »next to impossible to entertain irrelevant
ideas.« After which he seemed to feel a good deal more comfortable. Ernest saw
the familiar volumes of Dr. Skinner's works upon the bookshelves in the Deanery
dining-room but he saw no copy of »Rome or the Bible? Which?«
    »And are you still as fond of music as ever, Mr. Pontifex?« said Miss
Skinner to Ernest during the course of lunch.
    »Of some kinds of music, yes, Miss Skinner, but you know I never did like
modern music.«
    »Isn't that rather dreadful? - Don't you think you rather -« she was going
to have added, »ought to?« but she left it unsaid, feeling doubtless that she
had sufficiently conveyed her meaning.
    »I would like modern music if I could; I have been trying all my life to
like it, but I succeed less and less the older I grow.«
    »And pray where do you consider modern music to begin?«
    »With Sebastian Bach.«
    »And don't you like Beethoven?«
    »No. I used to think I did, when I was younger, but I know now that I never
really liked him.«
    »Ah! how can you say so? You cannot understand him, you never could say this
if you understood him. For me a simple chord of Beethoven is enough. This is
happiness.«
    Ernest was amused at her strong family likeness to her father - a likeness
which had grown upon her as she had become older and which extended even to
voice and manner of speaking. He remembered how he had heard me describe the
game of chess I had played with the Doctor in days gone by, and with his mind's
ear seemed to hear Miss Skinner saying, as though it were an epitaph -
 
                                     »Stay:
                              I may presently take
                          A simple chord of Beethoven,
                             Or a small semiquaver,
                From one of Mendelssohn's songs without words.«
 
After luncheon when Ernest was left alone for half an hour or so with the Dean
he plied him so well with compliments that the old gentleman was pleased and
flattered beyond his wont. He rose and bowed. »These expressions,« he said, »
voce suâ, are very valuable to me.« »They are but a small part, Sir,« rejoined
Ernest, »of what any one of your old pupils must feel towards you,« and the pair
danced as it were a minuet at the end of the dining-room table in front of the
old bay window that looked upon the smooth shaven lawn. On this Ernest departed;
but a few days afterwards the Doctor wrote him a letter and told him that his
critics were sklhroi kai antitypoi, and at the same time anekplhktoi. Ernest
remembered sklhroi, and knew that the other words were something of like nature,
so it was all right. A month or two afterwards, and Dr. Skinner was gathered to
his fathers.
    »He was an old fool, Ernest,« said I, »and you should not relent towards
him.«
    »I could not help it,« he replied, »he was so old that it was almost like
playing with a child.«
    Sometimes, like all whose minds are active, he overworks himself, and then
occasionally he has fierce and reproachful encounters with Dr. Skinner or
Theobald in his sleep - but beyond this neither of these two worthies can now
molest him further.
    To myself he has been a son and more than a son; at times I am half afraid -
as for example when I talk to him seriously about his books - that I may have
been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have I trust he has forgiven
me. His books are the only bone of contention between us. I want him to write
like other people, and not offend so many of his readers; he says he can no more
change his manner of writing than the colour of his hair and that he must write
as he does or not at all.
    With the public generally he is not a favourite. He is admitted to have
talent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer impractical kind, and no
matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest. His first book,
for reasons which I have already explained, was a success, but none of his
others have been more than creditable failures. He is one of those unfortunate
men each one of whose books is sneered at by literary critics as soon as it
comes out, but becomes excellent reading as soon as it has been followed by a
later work which may in its turn be condemned.
    He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life. I have told him over and
over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thing I can say
to him which makes him angry with me.
    »What can it matter to me,« he says, »whether people read my books or not?
It may matter to them - but I have too much money to want more, and if the books
have any stuff in them it will work by and by. I do not know nor greatly care
whether they are good or not. What opinion can any sane man form about his own
work? Some people must write stupid books just as there must be junior ops and
third class poll men. Why should I complain of being among the mediocrities? If
a man is not absolutely below mediocrity let him be thankful - besides, the
books will have to stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the
better.«
    I spoke to his publisher about him not long since. »Mr. Pontifex,« he said,
»is a homo unius libri, but it doesn't't do to tell him so.«
    I could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith in Ernest's
literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failure was all the more
hopeless for the fact of his having once made a coup. »He is in a very solitary
position, Mr. Overton,« continued the publisher; »he has formed no alliances,
and has made enemies not only of the religious world but of the literary and
scientific brotherhood as well. This will not do nowadays. If a man wishes to
get on he must belong to a set, and Mr. Pontifex belongs to no set - not even to
a club.«
    I replied, »Mr. Pontifex is like Othello, but with a difference - he hates
not wisely but too well. He would dislike the literary and scientific swells if
he were to come to know them, and they him; there is no natural solidarity
between him and them, and if he were brought into contact with them his last
state would be worse than his first. His instinct tells him this, so he keeps
clear of them, and attacks them whenever he thinks they deserve it - in the
hope, perhaps, that a younger generation will listen to him more willingly than
the present.«
    »Can anything,« said the publisher, »be conceived more impracticable and
imprudent?«
    To all this Ernest replies with one word only - »Wait.«
    Such is my friend's latest development. He would not, it is true, run much
chance at present of trying to found a college of Spiritual Pathology, but I
must leave the reader to determine whether there is not a strong family likeness
between the Ernest of the college of Spiritual Pathology and the Ernest who will
insist on addressing the next generation rather than his own. He says he trusts
that there is not, and takes the sacrament duly once a year as a sop to Nemesis
lest he should again feel strongly upon any subject. It rather fatigues him, but
»no man's opinions,« he sometimes says, »can be worth holding unless he knows
how to deny them easily and gracefully upon occasion in the cause of charity.«
In politics he is a Conservative as far as his vote and interest are concerned.
In all other respects he is an advanced Radical. His father and grandfather
could probably no more understand my hero's state of mind than they could
understand Chinese, but those who know him intimately do not know that they wish
him greatly different from what he actually is.
 
Feb. 7. 1883
&amp; July 28. 1883
Ap. 28. 1884
