“Well, Vicar!” said Mr Blackwood, with genial emphasis, as he welcomed Mr Hutton into his drawing-room. “I am glad to see you one of our party again. Well, Bertram, you are growing a fine, strapping young fellow. I declare you will soon have left your father behind you. I declare that he will, Vicar—I declare that he will.”
Mr Hutton shook hands with his host, gave a covered glance at the Wesleyan minister, observed to Dr Cassell that the evening was dry, and fell into silence; feeling that the initiative due from an ordained Churchman in Dissenting company was at an end.
“Now, Vicar,” said Mr Blackwood loudly, in the tone of one proceeding to the main business, “let me introduce you to Mr Billing; who for the next three years will be amongst us as our minister; and, I hope—am sure, indeed, if he is minded as we are—as our friend. Now, one of the advantages we Wesleyans have over you Church of England people”—Mr Blackwood’s utterance of the last words implied that he did not see himself what especial significance they carried—“is that we have the services—and the friendship—of a different member of our body every three years; instead of being tied to one man all our lives, whether we like him or no. Mr Billing,—Mr Hutton, my brother-in-law—at least, I suppose he is my brother-in-law. I am not well up in these marriage relationships. At any rate our wives are sisters. I can tell you that for a certainty.”
Mr Billing, a wholesome little man of forty, with smooth, red cheeks and twinkling little eyes, excellent both as a man and a Methodist, as his fathers had been before him, but falling short of them in not being excellent as a grocer as well, offered a tentative hand to the member of the body his host referred to with this measure of tact; and underwent increase of humility rather than the opposite process in goodwill, as the latter bent his head with entire remoteness of expression.
“Now, this is what I like to see!” exclaimed Mr Blackwood, who was untroubled by exaggerated keenness of perception. “I like to see people of different sects mingling together, and associating in a friendly way with one another. It is my belief that that is how it was intended to be. I confess that I am a thorough Wesleyan, born and bred, myself; but that does not prevent my being able to see, and be glad of what is good in other sects. What do you say, doctor?”
“Yes—yes, certainly,” said Dr Cassell, in a parenthetical tone, without raising his head.
“Yes, yes, that is the attitude,” said Mr Billing, with a quick and rather indistinct utterance, which gave an idea of hurrying that its want of culture might be missed; “that is the attitude we should strive to get at. I trust—I think we are given grounds for hoping—that the day will come when it is the universal attitude. I think—it is thought, you know—that we are to judge that from the prophets.”
“‘If a man hath all things else, and hath not charity, it profiteth him nothing,’” said Dr Cassell, with deliberate distinctness and a smile.
Mr Billing gave the doctor a glance of some esteem, and laughed, saying, “Yes, exactly.” Mr Blackwood, who was addicted to inattentiveness, made no response: and the Reverend Cleveland followed the latter example; an effort to attain an expression of utter disregard resulting in one of the same degree of disgust.
After a minute’s silence, during which Mr Billing fidgeted amiably, half turning to one and another as though desirous of talk but unprovided with a topic, the door opened to admit the ladies—Mrs Cassell, Mrs Blackwood, and Mrs Hutton; followed by Dolores and the three eldest children of Mr and Mrs Blackwood. Behind came Mrs Merton-Vane, the wife of the agent of the local nobleman—a comely, kindly, foolish matron, whose foremost quality was a persistence in appending her husband’s Christian name by a hyphen to his surname, and regarding his post as agent to a nobleman as establishing his own family as noble. She had chosen to sweep alone into the view of Mr Hutton, whose acceptance of dissenting hospitality was her reason for doing the same.
Mrs Blackwood turned her attention to the introductions to Mr Billing; reserving for him the chief of her cordiality; and looking annoyed by the air assumed towards him by her eldest daughter—a dainty, naughty maiden a little younger than Dolores; who turned away after a careless bow and began to chatter with a favourite’s audacity to the Reverend Cleveland. Herbert, a quiet-mannered youth of seventeen, shook hands, and stood aside talking to Dolores and Bertram. Lettice, a stolid - looking girl with a sweet expression, remained with her eyes fixed on his face, while her mother entered into talk.
“I did so enjoy your sermon on Sunday, Mr Billing, and so did my husband. I was so struck by parts of it, that I came straight home and made some notes of them. You know I sometimes speak myself on these subjects in my humble way; and I found your sermon was so very suggestive.”
“Indeed, indeed, was that so?” said Mr Billing, jumping slightly in his seat, as was his wont when he was nervous or grateful. “I—I am glad, Mrs Blackwood.”
“How ve-ry nice for you to hear Mr Bil-ling!” said Mrs Merton-Vane, who had a trick of pronouncing occasional words with a break in the middle, to the accompaniment of an inclination of her head. “How ve-ry nice!”
“Yes, indeed it was,” said Mrs Blackwood, in her high - pitched, somewhat strained tones. “We all enjoyed it so very much, did we not, Lettice?”
“Yes, indeed we did,” said Lettice. “And I am sure we shall enjoy many others from Mr Billing no less.”
“Well, well, I hope so—with the higher help,” said Mr Billing, dropping his voice at the last words, and making, we will suppose, some transition in their application.
“I was so much struck by the simile at the end of it,” continued Mrs Blackwood. “It is such a beautiful idea—that every good action leaves its light behind—‘a light that shall never be quenched.’ You know there is something of the same idea in Shakespeare; when Portia says that, just as the light shines from a window on the darkness of the night, ‘so shines a good deed in a wicked world.’ You know the passage, Mr Billing?”
“Yes, I believe I have come across it,” said Mr Billing—“that is, I do not think it strikes me as—as being new to me.”
“But I think we may accord Mr Billing the tribute of originality,” said Lettice, whom her family considered intellectual. “His idea and that of Shakespeare are quite different.”
“Yes—I do not think they are the same,” said Mr Billing, turning slightly red, and looking down.
“It is when Portia and her maid are returning from the trial of Antonio,” continued Mrs Blackwood; “and Portia sees the light of her own windows from the road. What a fine play it is, is it not, Mr Billing? I think it is quite one of Shakespeare’s finest.”
“Yes—indeed—do you?” said Mr Billing. “I am not a great reader of Shakespeare myself, I am afraid.”
“It—is—strange,” interposed Dr Cassell, “how extremely little is known of Shakespeare—as a man. I believe that almost the only authentic story about his youth is—that he was on one occasion taken up for poaching.”
“Others abide our question. Thou art free,” quoted the Reverend Cleveland in an undertone; as if, though not caring to join in the talk, he did not grudge it a subdued note of culture.
“That is such a sweet po-em, Mr Hutton,” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “I used to be so fond of poetry when I was a gi-rl. But that is a long while ago now.”
“Well, my darling” said Mr Blackwood to his wife, “suppose we go in to supper, and postpone any further talk till our guests have had some refreshment.”
“Or are having some,” put in Dr Cassell, with a smile.
“Yes, let us, mother,” said Elsa, who enjoyed saying things to draw attention. “You can sit by Mr Billing, and indulge in physical and spiritual sustenance at the same time.”
“What, de-ar?” said Mrs Merton-Vane, with amiable perplexity.
Mrs Blackwood gave her daughter a glance of disapproval, as she led the way into the dining-room. Elsa had been indulged in childhood by parents exulting in her looks and her spirit; but of late had evinced some unfilial independence, and partiality for worldly things; in contrast to Lettice, who had already been converted, and had even given. an account of this process in herself as testimony at a meeting.
“Well, now, Mr Billing” said Mr Blackwood, in one of his pauses in carving; which tended to occur rather frequently; his attention not being easily detained by unevangelistic duties; “I hope that you are of the same mind as my wife and myself upon the Drink question. You will never find wine or spirits upon our table. I hope that you and I are agreed on that subject, at any rate.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr Blackwood,” said Mr Billing; “yes, indeed. It has been a matter of great thankfulness to me, to find how much good work has been done in that direction in this neighbourhood—and done by your agency, if I understand aright. It is my opinion that there would be very little wrong with our old country, if we could get rid of the drink.”
“Hear, hear!” said Mr Blackwood, laying down the carving knife and fork. “That is the sort of thing that it does one good to listen to.”
“Dear Herbert,” said Mrs Blackwood, “do think of what you are doing, and attend to the wants of our guests. Mr Billing has not anything yet.”
“Oh—no—not at all—no; thank you, thank you, Mr Blackwood,” said Mr Billing; jumping in reception of his plate.
“I hope we shall hear you speak on Temperance soon, Mr Billing,” said Lettice.
“Oh, there will not be any need, Mr Billing,” said Elsa. “Father and mother will take all that off your hands. They get quite jealous of anybody else’s speaking on Temperance.
“Elsa, how can you say such things?” said Mrs Blackwood. “Your father and I do our best for the cause we have so much at heart; but if the work should be taken from us by abler hands than ours, we could do nothing but rejoice.”
“Yes, that is it, my darling,” said Mr Blackwood. “You are right, as you always are—as I have found you on every occasion for twenty years.”
“How pret-ty it is to hear him!” said Mrs Merton-Vane, looking round the company.
“Herbert, do not be so absurd, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood.
“Do you—are you—you are a teetotaler too, I suppose, Mr Hutton?” said Mr Billing, nervously, to the Reverend Cleveland; whom, dissenter on principle though he was, he could not but regard as a weighty personality, and a fit object for affable address, and whose open smile at Elsa’s words he had not perceived.
“No,” said the Reverend Cleveland without elaboration.
“We cant all feel the same about ev-er-y-thing,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head.
“Ah, well, Mr Billing, we hope to convince the Vicar in time,” said Mr Blackwood.
“We—are told,” interposed Dr Cassell, “to ‘take a little wine for our health’s sake, and for our often infirmities.’”
“Oh, but, doctor,” said Mrs Blackwood, with eager shrillness, “it is definitely proved that the wine in those days had practically no intoxicating power. We cannot accept such different conditions as parallel. I was reading such an admirable little treatise on the question the other day. It put the different arguments so very powerfully. You would be most interested in it, I am sure, doctor. Would he not, Lettice?”
“Yes, he could not fail to be,” said Lettice. “There was so much interesting information in it, besides the treatment of the main question; and that, of course, was exceedingly able.”
“I believe,” said Dr Cassell, “that there are many different views upon the subject.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs Blackwood, gesticulating slightly with her hand; “but all those were discussed and most convincingly refuted. Nothing was glossed over, or passed by without perfectly fair treatment. I really must find the booklet for you, Dr Cassell. Do not forget to remind me, Lettice, dear.”
“Oh, I would not read it, Dr Cassell,” said Elsa. “It is only one of mother’s tracts.”
“Oh, you fun-ny child!” said Mrs Merton-Vane, looking at Mr Hutton.
“But surely,” interposed Mrs Cassell in very gentle tones, breaking off her dialogue with Mrs Hutton, to fulfil the duty of seconding her husband; “it is not for us to put our own interpretation on the words. Surely they should be enough for us as they stand.”
“No, I don’t agree with you there, Mrs Cassell,” said Mr Blackwood loudly; “I don’t agree with you. I remain a staunch upholder of Temperance myself. We Wesleyans don’t shrink from showing our colours for a cause we honestly have at heart; and I shall never shrink from showing mine for Temperance. Ah, yes; there are Wesleyans in every part of the world, showing their colours for what they believe in their hearts to be right.”
“Of course the Wesleyans are the largest religious body in existence,” said Mrs Blackwood, with detached appreciation of her native sect.
“The largest dissenting body,” supplied the Reverend Cleveland in a casual tone, suggesting an opinion that it was not worth while to adopt a decisive attitude in his present environment.
“Ye-es,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head in rather shocked repudiation of the other view.
“The largest dissenting body, dear,” said Mrs Hutton, repeating her husband’s correction to her sister with more distinctness.
“No, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood, her voice becoming a little higher pitched; “it is generally known that no other religious sect can compare with the Wesleyans in point of numbers.”
“Or in point of anything else,” said Mr Blackwood—“in point of anything else, my darling.”
“My dear Caroline, it stands to reason that one of the dissenting sects could not be larger than the whole of the Established Church,” said Mrs Hutton with a little laugh, as though it were hardly needful to state a truth so obvious.
“My dear, it is not a question of its standing to reason,” said Mrs Blackwood. “It is a question of what is definitely known and proved. It is an established fact that the Wesleyan body is twenty times as large as any other body.”
“Oh, my darling, come, come,” said Mr Blackwood. “We all know that the Wesleyans are the largest and the most important body; but twenty times as large as any other is putting it rather strong.”
“My dear Herbert, I do not know why you should contradict me,” said Mrs Blackwood. “I should not speak if I had not my information on dependable authority.”
“Oh, well, if you have it on dependable authority, my love, then that is all right,” said Mr Blackwood, with tenderness.
“What do you think about it, Miss Hutton? I suppose you know all the arguments on both sides by heart,” said Mrs Cassell, with no misgiving on her words as a compliment to Dolores’ studious tastes.
“No; it is a branch of statistics in which I am quite unversed,” said Dolores, smiling.
“Why, de-ar, I thought you knew ever-ything,” said Mrs Merton-Vane.
“Are any of you Wesleyans aware,” said Dr Cassell, his tone not indicating any great respect for the sect he mentioned, “that you owe your existence—your existence as a religious body—to a mere accident?”
“No, doctor; let us hear the story,” said Mr Blackwood, with an easy frankness of falling in with the doctor’s plans.
“When John Wesley was six years old,” said Dr Cassell, “the rectory where his family lived—Wesley senior was a clergyman, you know—was burned to, the ground. Every one in the house had—as it was supposed—been rescued; and the family were watching the gradual—devastation of their abode; when it was discovered that John was missing. He was asleep in an upper room and had been forgotten. After many vain suggestions—of methods of rescue—he was saved by a man’s standing on the shoulders of another, and lifting him from the window. Hardly was the rescue accomplished, when the roof fell in. A moment later the founder of the Wesleyans would have been lying crushed beneath a heap of burning chaos.”
“Well, doctor, I never heard that before—I never heard that,” said Mr Blackwood loudly.
“No-o,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head with full corroboration of the novelty.
“I think, doctor,” said Mrs Blackwood, “that we should say that we owe the existence of our sect to a special intervention of a higher power than ours, rather than to ‘a mere accident.’”
“Yes, yes, I think so, indeed,” said Mr Billing, slightly shaking his head, and looking at the floor.
“The father of the Wesleys,” continued Dr Cassell, “is said to have viewed the—conflagration of his home with perfect calm; observing: ‘God has given me all my eight children; I am rich enough.’”
“Ah, indeed!” said Mr Billing.
“Just fancy, if he had been burnt there wouldn’t have been any Wesleyans,” said Elsa, laughing.
“Elsa, if you must talk so foolishly, you had better not talk at all,” said Mrs Blackwood.
“But, mother, it is so amusing to think of you and father without the chance of being Wesleyans,” said Elsa, with further laughter, and a knowledge of the direction of Bertram’s eyes.
“This escape in childhood made a deep impression upon John Wesley,” said Dr Cassell; continuing as if no break had occurred, though with no bitterness to Elsa; and at once attracting Mrs Cassell’s gaze. “He always regarded it as a proof of his being destined—for some especial religious mission. Later in life he inscribed under a portrait of himself the following words—‘Is not this a brand plucked from the burning?’”
“Oh, I wish my hus-band was here,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, showing appreciation.
“Did he indeed—indeed?” said Mr Billing.
“Well, Mr Billing, you have a sample of the doctor’s powers of instruction” said Mr Blackwood. “I can tell you he is one by himself on that matter. There’s not a subject under the sun, which he can’t talk about, and give you any amount of information about, at a moment’s notice. Anecdotes, facts, bits of science—it all comes as grist to his mill; I can tell you that it does.”
“You—er—you have been a great reader?” said Mr Billing, fidgeting slightly as he addressed the doctor.
“Yes—well—yes, I think I may say I have been a reader,” said Dr Cassell, making a frank effort against a smile. “From my boyhood my tastes have tended in the direction of books rather than of anything else. I am interested in a great many subjects. I do not think there is one that engrosses me to the exclusion of others; though of course medical matters have absorbed me a great deal. I think I may say that I am not like the man who was so lost in mathematics, that he forgot his own name and the date of his birth.”
“I am su-re you are not,” said Mrs Merton-Vane.
“So am I,” said Mrs Hutton, allowing her eyes to meet her husband’s.
“It is strange to think,” said Lettice, with rather conscious modesty, “that, had there been no Divine intervention to prevent the death of Wesley in childhood, there would have been such a gap in the evangelization of the world. One is apt to forget, in religious matters as in others, how large a train of events may be attached to a single incident.”
“That is just the same as I said, Letty, only put into stilted words,” said Elsa.
“You’re quite right, you’re quite right, Letty, my darling,” said Mr Blackwood.
“Yes, it is so in all things,” said Mrs Blackwood, in tones of a quality to attract attention. “Suppose Shakespeare, or Browning, or Milton had never been born, or had died in childhood! Think of the immense difference in the world of thought! We hardly realise, when we are being inspired by their finest passages, how trivial an accident might have torn them from us.”
“Mother, you never read Shakespeare, or Browning, or Milton,” said Elsa. “And if you did, you would not know which were the finest passages.”
“My dear Elsa, think what you are saying before you speak. You know quite well that Milton has always been my favourite poet. I was reading some of ‘Paradise Lost’ only the other day—the part about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and comparing it with the corresponding parts of Genesis. How very magnificent some of the passages are, are they not, Mr Billing? The language is so good, and the rhythm is always so accurate. As I was saying to Lettice, Milton’s poetry carries so many lessons in it.”
“Yes, yes, a great man—Milton,” said Mr Billing. “A sincere Christian, in addition to all that brought him worldly fame.”
“I really think,” continued Mrs Blackwood, “that if I were asked to give the palm to any one poet, I should give it to Milton. His poetry is so suggestive. In every line there is something that transports you at once to the classic days of ancient Greece and Rome. I always feel so much better informed after reading him. I do not think any other poet quite comes up to him in that.”
“My dear, you may take the credit to yourself of your view of the vocation of poetry,” said Mrs Hutton. “It is entirely your own.”
“Oh, you do not follow me, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood, in a careless tone, but continuing quickly. “Dolores, you understand what I mean, I am sure. I expect you know Milton nearly by heart, do you not? I knew a great deal when I was your age, I know; and his classical allusions must be so very illuminating to you, with your knowledge of the classical languages and mythology.”
“Yes, Dolores is the one for classics,” said the Reverend Cleveland. “She is better read in them already than many a lad of her age.”
“How nice to be so clev-er, de-ar!” said Mrs Merton-Vane.
“I suppose you and your father are great companions, Miss Hutton?” said Mr Billing, looking with heightened interest at Dolores, and reflecting that she looked just the sort of lady to be the erudite associate of a gentleman.
“Oh, I am away from home a great deal,” said Dolores, sparing her stepmother. “When I am at Millfield, my brother and I are a great deal together.”
“Oh, my dear, you and your father have always been such great friends,” said Mrs Blackwood, not neglecting the opportunity for sisterly revenge. “You have so much in common—so many tastes, and so many memories. I always think he seems quite lost when you are away.”
“He must seem rather seldom at disposal then,” said Dolores, smiling—not unconscious of Mrs Blackwood’s motive. “I am only at home for a third of the year. But I think it is only a matter of seeming. He has become quite used to my being away.”
“Cleveland is so very absent-minded,” said Mrs Hutton, with a little laugh. “Last summer he told me to ask Dolores for a book nearly a week after she had returned to school. He actually did not know whether she was in the house or not.”
“Clev-er people are always a little for-get-ful now and then,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head towards Dolores in sympathetic explanation.
“Well, my darling, if we have all finished, suppose we go into the drawing-room,” said Mr Blackwood, loudly addressing his wife. “Open the door, Herbert, my son. Well, Vicar, as Mr Billing here is a non-smoker, and the doctor and I are the same, as we need not tell you, perhaps you will become one yourself for this evening, and join the ladies with us at once. I never believe in trying to do without the ladies, do you, Mr Billing? We owe most of what is good in ourselves and everything else to them, you know. What do you say, my love? You agree with me, I am sure.”
Mr Blackwood linked his arm in his wife’s and led the way from the room. His guests followed; with Mrs Hutton at their head, and brought up by the Reverend Cleveland; who mutely repudiated Mr Billing’s surrender of precedence, with an air that seemed to say that personally he found it no gratification to be prominent in this company. In the drawing - room Mrs Blackwood entered at once into talk with Dr Cassell.
“Dr Cassell, I was reading a pamphlet the other day which you would have been so interested in. It was about the Roman Catholics; and it treated the question in the main almost exactly as you do; but with some minor differences, which I really am not sure I do not incline to myself—they were put so very convincingly. I should so like you to read it. It was called ‘Roman Catholicism—its Spread and Significance.’”
Dr Cassell leant forward in his chair, and held up one hand.
“It is a subject—Mrs Blackwood—upon which I hardly require to read further treatises. I know it—only too well—under both the heads to which you allude—to which the title of the little work you mention, alluded. I do not think further reading could add to my comprehension of it.”
“Ah, Mr Billing, the doctor is the man to consult, if you want to know anything about the Roman Catholics,” said Mr Blackwood. “He is an authority upon them, I can tell you. He has studied the question, and no mistake, has the doctor.”
“You consider the spread of Roman Catholicism a serious thing?” said Mr Billing, addressing Dr Cassell.
Dr Cassell leant forward, and again raised his hand.
“You ask me, Mr Billing—whether I consider—the spread of Roman Catholicism—a serious thing. My answer is—that I consider it a hopeless thing, a damnable thing, a thing that is sucking the very life-blood of our religion.” Dr Cassell held himself for a further moment in his didactic posture, and then leaned back in his chair.
“But do you not think,” said Mr Billing, “that the spread of agnosticism and atheism—I fear we must recognise that they are both spreading—is even more serious—more significant of vital danger to the faith?”
“I do not,” said Dr Cassell, implying a not uncomplacent knowledge that his view was peculiar. “I have met—in the course of my medical experience—as I could not have failed to do—examples of all the three forms of—er—perverted religious conviction; and I am of the opinion—that the Roman Catholic is more—obstinately tenacious of error, and pernicious in influence, than either the atheist or the agnostic. Both the latter are—as a rule more or less amenable to argument, and more or less straightforward and aboveboard in their tactics. But the Catholic—” Dr Cassell broke off and shook his head.
“You have had dealings with them?” said the Reverend Cleveland, his tone accepting this as a matter of course, and therefore implying collapse of the doctor’s position if he should be mistaken.
“I will tell you,” said Dr Cassell, relapsing into his anecdotal tone, “of an experience I had with one. I was called in to attend a patient—a Catholic—in his last illness; and I found him in a state of great depression about the state he was about to enter; burdened with notions of purgatory, praying to the Virgin, and so forth.” The doctor paused to allow this grave evidence to be grasped. “I endeavoured—to bring the light or the true faith to his darkened mind; but—with little success—owing to its prejudiced and—generally unhappy condition. As I was leaving the room, I happened to pause for a moment, holding the door ajar; and I fancied as I stood there—that I heard a faint noise”—the speaker gesticulated slightly with his hand and his tone became mystical—“as of somebody moving quickly away from the door-mat. When I opened the door, I came upon a priest—ostensibly coming across the passage. I shall never forget the appearance of the man, as he came towards me, with a sort of leering smile on his lips—his long, black, gown-sort-of-thing hanging about him, and a crucifix suspended from his neck. I stopped him—I placed myself dead in front of him—and I remember now how his eye quailed beneath mine. ‘So,’ I said, ‘you have added to your list of deadly sins—the sins that have clouded deathbeds and damned souls. Go,’ I said, ‘and dare to contradict a word of mine to that dying man, as you will answer for it at the judgment.’ Would you believe it, the fellow never even answered me! He calmly walked by me, and into the sick-room; though, mark you, he did not once raise his eyes to mine. The next day—no, wait a minute”—the doctor checked with a motion of his hand any exclamations on the point of breaking forth—“I received a message—purporting to be written by the patient—though I knew he was too weak to handle a pen—informing me that my services would not be again required. This message I ignored; happening to regard the future of a soul—as of greater importance than the will of a priest. I was not allowed—to set my foot over the threshold. Orders had been given that I should not be admitted; and my only course was to leave the priest to his work—doubtless he wished to get the man’s money bequeathed to his cause. The money I have no doubt was gained— the soul of the man—” The doctor broke off, and just perceptibly shook his head.
Mr Blackwood twisted his moustache, and observed without altering his easy posture in his chair, “Ah! Ah!—an awful thing—the power of these priests—an awful thing—there’s no doubt of that.” Mr Billing dropped his eyes to the ground, and nodded once or twice, muttering, “Yes, yes—yes, yes,” as though he could well believe what he heard, but looked upon the subject as hardly a matter for words. Mr Hutton raised his eyes and met his wife’s, and perceiving an unsteadiness about her lips, dropped them and assumed an equivocal expression; and in a moment addressed the doctor.
“Well, but, Dr Cassell, you could hardly expect the priest to feel grateful to you, especially as you worded what you had to say as you did. I daresay he was an honest fellow, doing his best for what he thought to be right, as you were.”
“I once knew a Roman Catholic priest, and he was a de-ar man,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, with a vague sense of supporting Mr Hutton.
“It was not my object to make him grateful. My object was to bring him to a sense of the abominable wickedness of his course. It was the last thing I expected of him—that he should be grateful!” said Dr Cassell, ending with a grim little laugh.
“Well, on what ground do you find fault with him then?” said the Reverend Cleveland. “I hardly follow you.”
“I think I may retort,” said Dr Cassell, frankly militant, “that I do not follow you. I should not myself describe a man, whose habit it is to listen at doors, as ‘an honest fellow.’”
“Oh, but,” said Mr Hutton, with casual surprise at ignorance of a widespread truth, “the Catholic priests are considered justified in going to any length for the sake of their cause. A breach of morality committed in furtherance or their faith is righteous in their eyes. They would regard it as service for their religion.”
“I think that nothing could show more clearly than that—the superiority—of our religion—the religion of the majority of us here,” said Dr Cassell, with the quiver in his voice of temper kept when loss of it is to be expected, and a glance at the cross on the breast of Mr Hutton. “It is given to us to know, that it is not lawful to do evil—that good may come.”
“Oh, come, Vicar,” interposed Mr Blackwood in loud tones; “the doctor is right—as right as it is possible for a man to be. This spread of the Roman Catholics is an awful thing—an out-and-out awful thing—there’s no denying that. Of course there may be good people amongst them, mistaken through no fault of their own; we all admit that. But we can’t have you talking as if priests and people of that sort ought to be allowed to do their worst without any check. We can’t have that.”
The Reverend Cleveland just glanced at his host, and then looked out of the window with disengaged contemplativeness, tapping his fingertips together.
“Now, Mr Billing” suddenly observed Mr Blackwood, changing the topic with frankly exclusive regard to his own inclination, “I was glad to hear—from some one or other—that you were a Liberal. Now, if there is anything that makes me feel thoroughly rubbed up the wrong way, it is all this Toryism and Conservatism, and all those other “isms,” that really mean utter selfishness, and disregard of all classes but one’s own. If there is anything that makes me feel drawn towards a man, it is when I hear that he is a genuine Liberal. A grand word that—Liberal.”
“Well, I think I may claim to be genuine; I do not regard myself as a spurious article,” said Mr Billing, a sense of his effort at humour prompting him the next moment to turn a little red, glance at Mr Hutton, and look at his hands.
“Well, I am glad to hear it,” said Mr Blackwood. “You and I must have some walks and talks together.”
Mr Billing jumped, and looked towards Dr Cassell—feeling in the warmth of his emotions a desire to soothe that wounded gentleman and draw him again into converse.
“You are a Liberal too, I suppose, Dr Cassell?”
“No,” said Dr Cassell, pausing after this word, as though hardly able again to evince a generous loquaciousness; and then leaning towards Mr Billing, and speaking in hesitating, narrative tones, “I do not regard myself as belonging to any particular—political party. I have never been able to find—justification in the Bible—for a man’s giving of his time and interest to political matters; and I withhold mine. It seems to me that religion is so much the greatest thing in life, that energy bestowed upon other things is energy wasted.”
“But I meant on which side do you vote?” said Mr Billing, choosing what he supposed the most direct way of ridding himself of perplexity.
“I do not vote,” said Dr Cassell, pregnantly.
Mr Billing, not being a member of the doctors’ circle at Millfield, looked a little bewildered and glanced round the company.
“Ah, Mr Billing, now that is a subject upon which the doctor and I do not agree,” said Mr Blackwood loudly, coming to the help of his guest with the assignment of the local leaders of thought to their sides. “The doctor, you know, believes in that theory, that the world will go on getting worse and worse, and all that sort of thing, until at last it reaches the stage when the elect are caught up in the air,”—there was no suggestion of a flippant attitude towards Dr Cassell’s convictions in Mr Blackwood’s tone, rather the dropping that belongs to sacred reference—“and the world with every one else is left to the dealings of the Devil, and that sort of thing—you know those views, of course; and so he does not think it worth while to try and make things better—”
“I do not think it of any avail” broke in Dr Cassell, leaning forward.
“Well, it is all the same in practice, doctor,” said Mr Blackwood. “And it is practice we have to think of. Now, Mr Billing, what I believe is, that little by little the whole world will be evangelized, and that the gospel will be preached in every corner of it, as we are told in the Bible. That is what I believe; and that is what I think we ought to believe. I have no sympathy with this living for oneself, and not thinking of one’s duty to one’s fellow-creatures myself. I think—”
“If I had sympathy with that course, I do not think I should give all my spare time to—preaching the gospel to—and otherwise working for the good of—my fellow - creatures,” said Dr Cassell; just glancing at Mr Blackwood to make this rather bitterly-voiced observation; and then turning to Mr Billing, as though unable to refrain longer from putting his case for himself. “I regard it as impossible—I think I may say know it is impossible, from scriptural sources—to materially benefit the world—in its spiritual aspect—or to arrest its ultimate downfall; beyond endeavouring to—increase the number of the elect by evangelistic work. I think the true Christian should stand apart from the world.”
“Ruskin’s view—with religion in the place of letters and the arts,” said Mr Hutton, in a very low and somewhat caustic tone.
“Well,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, with a mingling of sadness and bitterness, “I am a Conservative myself, and so is my hus-band. Our fam-i-lies have been Conservative from the earliest times. Of course, we both come of such very old fam-i-lies. Lord Loftus was saying to me only yesterday, ‘My dear Mrs Merton-Vane, if every one held the opinions of your husband, the world would be a different place.’ That is what he said, Mr Hut-ton.”
“But—er—how do you suggest, Dr Cassell,” said Mr Billing, “that the necessary work in other matters, the work needful for the welfare of the nation, should be carried on, if no—er—righteous person must take part in it? Should we not all do our duty in the political system of our country, that the existing scheme may answer as well as possible? What of the practical results if everybody stood aside?”
Dr Cassell leaned forward, looking somewhat ruffled. He had so long interpreted a conversation as a didactic utterance by himself, that argument on equal terms struck him as deliberate baiting. “I base,” he said, in a tone at once huffy and impressive, “all my actions and all—my opinions—as far as in me lies—upon scriptural grounds. The Bible—and nothing but the Bible—is my authority for them. I am answerable to no man for them.”
Poor Mr Billing fidgeted, and looked as if he would like to apologise, if he could call to mind a definite ground for apology; and was much relieved by an appeal from his hostess.
“Mr Billing, I really cannot agree with Dr Cassell in his view that Christians should stand apart from the world. It seems to me that they ought to mingle in the world, and do their best to lift it to a higher plane, and hasten the day when the gospel shall be known amongst all nations. You know all really great men have felt in that way. Socrates and Dr Johnson, and so many people like that, found their greatest pleasure in mingling with men. You know, Socrates would have saved his life if he had consented to go away from Athens—the city he loved. I think that standing apart from the world is the very last thing for a Christian.”
Mr Billing looked his appreciation and uncertainty how to express it; and Dr Cassell, after a moment’s pause, leaned forward with a clearing brow.
“Do you know the reply—Mrs Blackwood—that Dr Johnson made, on being asked to take a walk in the country?”
“No, doctor, no; let us hear it,” said Mr Blackwood in an easy tone.
“His reply was,” said Dr Cassell, “‘Sir, when you have seen one green field, you have seen all green fields. Sir, I like to look upon men. Let us walk down Cheapside.’”
“How very interesting,” said Mr Blackwood, “and how like Dr Johnson! I think he would have been such an interesting man to know, do not you, Mr Billing? Boswell’s ‘Life of Johnson’ is such an illuminating biography—the best biography I have read, I think; and I have always been so fond of biography as a form of literature. Do you not admire it, Mr Billing?”
Mr Billing’s honesty was spared by the announcement that the vicarage trap was at the door. The Reverend Cleveland rose without pause, and stood with his eyes on the floor, frankly awaiting his wife’s movement for departure. When this was made, he shook hands in silence with his fellow-guests, showing Mrs Cassell and Mrs Merton-Vane some courtliness, and Dr Cassell and Mr Billing some coldness. He then observed to Mrs Blackwood, “We have to thank you for an exceedingly pleasant evening”; and took up his stand near the door, in waiting for the ladies of his family to precede him from the room. Mrs Blackwood escorted her sister and Dolores upstairs; leaving Dr Cassell to enlightenment of Mr Billing, whose attitude did not henceforth waver from the gratefully receptive; and a sisterly talk enlivened the assumption of wrappings.
“So Cleveland and Bertram are going to walk on, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood.
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Hutton. “They leave the trap to us feminine creatures. It does not hold more than two.”
“When we lived at Hallington,” said Mrs Blackwood, “we had a trap that only had room for one besides the man; and when Herbert and I went out, he used to wait to put me into it before he started himself. He used to say he felt so worried, when he thought of me clambering into it alone in the dark.”
“Oh, that was such a dangerous trap,” said Mrs Hutton. “It really was hardly safe.”
“Oh, no, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood; “it could not have been safer; it was only Herbert’s nervousness about me.”
“Ah, those were your early married days,” said Mrs Hutton, adjusting her hood before the glass.
“Oh, but Herbert has not altered in the least since then,” said Mrs Blackwood, her voice becoming a little higher pitched. “He fidgets so about me, that sometimes in company he makes me feel quite foolish.”
Mrs Hutton pulled out her strings without sign of accepting this statement; and Mrs Blackwood felt urged to its elaboration.
“I always think it is such a wrong theory that husbands are different after they are married. I think that as they begin, so they go on. You see Herbert worries about me just as much as ever; and Cleveland never has been anxious about you, has he? He does not let things like that disturb him.”
“My dear Carrie, it is rather absurd to talk about Herbert’s being worried,” said Mrs Hutton. “I do not remember seeing him worried in his life.”
“Oh, you do not understand him, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood. “He does not show his feelings on the surface. I often think what a sad thing it would have been for him, if he had married some one who did not believe in anything that was not under her eyes. I am so thankful that we were brought together.”
“Thankfulness on that point is a needless self-exaction, dear,” said Mrs Hutton. “As you were cousins, special providential arrangements to bring you together were not required.”
“My dear, our grandparents were second cousins,” said Mrs Blackwood. “People connected in that degree very often never meet. I always feel that Herbert and I were given to each other.”
“I remember you so well when you were engaged,” said Mrs Hutton, with a little laugh.
“I remember it too,” said Mrs Blackwood; “and how I used to pity you, for having no chance of getting married, though you were the elder sister. Girls are so amusing in the way they look at things.”
“I never can understand how women can marry boys,” said Mrs Hutton, surveying her reflection in the mirror.
“My dear, when a woman marries as young as I did, she naturally marries a young man,” said Mrs Blackwood. “Of course a man is getting on in years when he has one life behind him.”
“I meant I could not understand a woman’s accepting a man younger than herself,” said Mrs Hutton; “as though she would secure a husband at any cost.”
“My dear Sophia, Herbert is only a few months younger than I am. He was asking the other day which of us was the elder. The difference is so small, that he never remembers which way it is.”
“Is it really so small as that?” said Mrs Hutton. “It hardly seems possible, does it? Well, we must be going down, dear. Our menfolk must be nearly home. We have had such a pleasant evening. It has been quite a break for Dolores after her term’s work.”
In the drawing-room Dr Cassell was found seated on the edge of his chair, and leaning towards Mr Billing, with hand upraised; his wife’s eyes fastened on his face, and the Blackwood family listening in the background—that is to say, Lettice listening; Elsa exposing his mannerisms with silent mimicry; and Mr Blackwood twirling his moustache as an effort against sleepiness. Dolores and her stepmother drove to the parsonage in silence; and parted on the threshold for the night, the latter to win the Reverend Cleveland to some difficult mirth, by her sallies at the expense of her kindred.