THE WAY OF ALL FLESH

"We know that all things work together for good to them that loveGod. "--ROM. Viii. 28

PREFACE

Samuel Butleter began to write "The Way of All Flesh" about the year1872, and was engaged upon it intermittently until 1884. It istherefore, to a great extent, contemporaneous with "Life and Habit, " andmay be taken as a practical illustration of the theory of heredityembodied in that book. He did not work at it after 1884, but for variousreasons he postponed its publication. He was occupied in other ways, andhe professed himself dissatisfied with it as a whole, and always intendedto rewrite or at any rate to revise it. His death in 1902 prevented himfrom doing this, and on his death-bed he gave me clearly to understandthat he wished it to be published in its present form. I found that theMS. Of the fourth and fifth chapters had disappeared, but by consultingand comparing various notes and sketches, which remained among hispapers, I have been able to supply the missing chapters in a form which Ibelieve does not differ materially from that which he finally adopted. With regard to the chronology of the events recorded, the reader will dowell to bear in mind that the main body of the novel is supposed to havebeen written in the year 1867, and the last chapter added as a postscriptin 1882. 

R. A. STREATFEILD. 

CHAPTER I

When I was a small boy at the beginning of the century I remember an oldman who wore knee-breeches and worsted stockings, and who used to hobbleabout the street of our village with the help of a stick. He must havebeen getting on for eighty in the year 1807, earlier than which date Isuppose I can hardly remember him, for I was born in 1802. A few whitelocks 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 ofPaleham. His name was Pontifex. 

His wife was said to be his master; I have been told she brought him alittle 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 andtoo good-natured to say nay to any woman who wooed him. The pair hadlived not unhappily together, for Mr Pontifex's temper was easy and hesoon learned to bow before his wife's more stormy moods. 

Mr Pontifex was a carpenter by trade; he was also at one time parishclerk; when I remember him, however, he had so far risen in life as to beno longer compelled to work with his own hands. In his earlier days hehad taught himself to draw. I do not say he drew well, but it wassurprising he should draw as well as he did. My father, who took theliving of Paleham about the year 1797, became possessed of a good many ofold Mr Pontifex's drawings, which were always of local subjects, and sounaffectedly painstaking that they might have passed for the work of somegood early master. I remember them as hanging up framed and glazed inthe 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 aroundthe windows. I wonder how they will actually cease and come to an end asdrawings, and into what new phases of being they will then enter. 

Not content with being an artist, Mr Pontifex must needs also be amusician. He built the organ in the church with his own hands, and madea smaller one which he kept in his own house. He could play as much ashe could draw, not very well according to professional standards, butmuch better than could have been expected. I myself showed a taste formusic at an early age, and old Mr Pontifex on finding it out, as he soondid, became partial to me in consequence. 

It may be thought that with so many irons in the fire he could hardly bea very thriving man, but this was not the case. His father had been aday labourer, and he had himself begun life with no other capital thanhis good sense and good constitution; now, however, there was a goodlyshow of timber about his yard, and a look of solid comfort over his wholeestablishment. Towards the close of the eighteenth century and not longbefore my father came to Paleham, he had taken a farm of about ninetyacres, thus making a considerable rise in life. Along with the farmthere went an old-fashioned but comfortable house with a charming gardenand an orchard. The carpenter's business was now carried on in one ofthe outhouses that had once been part of some conventual buildings, theremains of which could be seen in what was called the Abbey Close. Thehouse itself, embosomed in honeysuckles and creeping roses, was anornament to the whole village, nor were its internal arrangements lessexemplary than its outside was ornamental. Report said that Mrs Pontifexstarched the sheets for her best bed, and I can well believe it. 

How well do I remember her parlour half filled with the organ which herhusband had built, and scented with a withered apple or two from the_pyrus japonica_ that grew outside the house; the picture of the prize oxover the chimney-piece, which Mr Pontifex himself had painted; thetransparency of the man coming to show light to a coach upon a snowynight, also by Mr Pontifex; the little old man and little old woman whotold the weather; the china shepherd and shepherdess; the jars offeathery flowering grasses with a peacock's feather or two among them toset them off, and the china bowls full of dead rose leaves dried with baysalt. All has long since vanished and become a memory, faded but stillfragrant 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 beof the arms and face of a milkmaid skimming the cream; or again herstoreroom, where among other treasures she kept the famous lipsalve whichwas one of her especial glories, and of which she would present a shapeyearly to those whom she delighted to honour. She wrote out the recipefor this and gave it to my mother a year or two before she died, but wecould never make it as she did. When we were children she used sometimesto send her respects to my mother, and ask leave for us to come and taketea with her. Right well she used to ply us. As for her temper, wenever met such a delightful old lady in our lives; whatever Mr Pontifexmay have had to put up with, we had no cause for complaint, and then MrPontifex would play to us upon the organ, and we would stand round himopen-mouthed and think him the most wonderfully clever man that ever wasborn, except of course our papa. 

Mrs Pontifex had no sense of humour, at least I can call to mind no signsof this, but her husband had plenty of fun in him, though few would haveguessed it from his appearance. I remember my father once sent me downto his workship to get some glue, and I happened to come when oldPontifex was in the act of scolding his boy. He had got the lad--apudding-headed fellow--by the ear and was saying, "What? Lostagain--smothered o' wit. " (I believe it was the boy who was himselfsupposed to be a wandering soul, and who was thus addressed as lost. )"Now, look here, my lad, " he continued, "some boys are born stupid, andthou art one of them; some achieve stupidity--that's thee again, Jim--thouwast both born stupid and hast greatly increased thy birthright--andsome" (and here came a climax during which the boy's head and ear wereswayed from side to side) "have stupidity thrust upon them, which, if itplease the Lord, shall not be thy case, my lad, for I will thruststupidity from thee, though I have to box thine ears in doing so, " but Idid not see that the old man really did box Jim's ears, or do more thanpretend to frighten him, for the two understood one another perfectlywell. Another time I remember hearing him call the village rat-catcherby saying, "Come hither, thou three-days-and-three-nights, thou, "alluding, as I afterwards learned, to the rat-catcher's periods ofintoxication; but I will tell no more of such trifles. My father's facewould always brighten when old Pontifex's name was mentioned. "I tellyou, 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 dearfather, " I answered, "what did he do? He could draw a little, but couldhe 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 theMarch in _Scipio_ on the other; he was a good carpenter and a bit of awag; he was a good old fellow enough, but why make him out so much ablerthan he was?"

"My boy, " returned my father, "you must not judge by the work, but by thework in connection with the surroundings. Could Giotto or Filippo Lippi, think you, have got a picture into the Exhibition? Would a single one ofthose frescoes we went to see when we were at Padua have the remotestchance of being hung, if it were sent in for exhibition now? Why, theAcademy people would be so outraged that they would not even write topoor Giotto to tell him to come and take his fresco away. Phew!"continued he, waxing warm, "if old Pontifex had had Cromwell's chances hewould have done all that Cromwell did, and have done it better; if he hadhad Giotto's chances he would have done all that Giotto did, and done itno worse; as it was, he was a village carpenter, and I will undertake tosay he never scamped a job in the whole course of his life. "

"But, " said I, "we cannot judge people with so many 'ifs. ' If oldPontifex 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 judgemen not so much by what they do, as by what they make us feel that theyhave 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 inan emergency he has done enough. It is not by what a man has actuallyput upon his canvas, nor yet by the acts which he has set down, so tospeak, upon the canvas of his life that I will judge him, but by what hemakes me feel that he felt and aimed at. If he has made me feel that hefelt those things to be loveable which I hold loveable myself I ask nomore; his grammar may have been imperfect, but still I have understoodhim; he and I are _en rapport_; and I say again, Edward, that oldPontifex was not only an able man, but one of the very ablest men I everknew. "

Against this there was no more to be said, and my sisters eyed me tosilence. Somehow or other my sisters always did eye me to silence when Idiffered from my father. 

"Talk of his successful son, " snorted my father, whom I had fairlyroused. "He is not fit to black his father's boots. He has histhousands of pounds a year, while his father had perhaps three thousandshillings a year towards the end of his life. He _is_ a successful man;but his father, hobbling about Paleham Street in his grey worstedstockings, broad brimmed hat and brown swallow-tailed coat was worth ahundred of George Pontifexes, for all his carriages and horses and theairs he gives himself. "

"But yet, " he added, "George Pontifex is no fool either. " And thisbrings us to the second generation of the Pontifex family with whom weneed concern ourselves. 

CHAPTER II

Old Mr Pontifex had married in the year 1750, but for fifteen years hiswife bore no children. At the end of that time Mrs Pontifex astonishedthe whole village by showing unmistakable signs of a disposition topresent her husband with an heir or heiress. Hers had long ago beenconsidered a hopeless case, and when on consulting the doctor concerningthe 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 inanticipation of her confinement and would have been absolutelyunprepared, if her neighbours had not been better judges of her conditionthan she was, and got things ready without telling her anything about it. Perhaps she feared Nemesis, though assuredly she knew not who or whatNemesis was; perhaps she feared the doctor had made a mistake and sheshould be laughed at; from whatever cause, however, her refusal torecognise the obvious arose, she certainly refused to recognise it, untilone snowy night in January the doctor was sent for with all urgent speedacross 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 indue time christened George, in honour of his then reigning majesty. 

To the best of my belief George Pontifex got the greater part of hisnature from this obstinate old lady, his mother--a mother who though sheloved no one else in the world except her husband (and him only after afashion) was most tenderly attached to the unexpected child of her oldage; nevertheless she showed it little. 

The boy grew up into a sturdy bright-eyed little fellow, with plenty ofintelligence, and perhaps a trifle too great readiness at book learning. Being kindly treated at home, he was as fond of his father and mother asit was in his nature to be of anyone, but he was fond of no one else. Hehad a good healthy sense of _meum_, and as little of _tuum_ as he couldhelp. Brought up much in the open air in one of the best situated andhealthiest villages in England, his little limbs had fair play, and inthose days children's brains were not overtasked as they now are; perhapsit was for this very reason that the boy showed an avidity to learn. Atseven or eight years old he could read, write and sum better than anyother boy of his age in the village. My father was not yet rector ofPaleham, and did not remember George Pontifex's childhood, but I haveheard neighbours tell him that the boy was looked upon as unusually quickand forward. His father and mother were naturally proud of theiroffspring, and his mother was determined that he should one day becomeone of the kings and councillors of the earth. 

It is one thing however to resolve that one's son shall win some oflife's larger prizes, and another to square matters with fortune in thisrespect. George Pontifex might have been brought up as a carpenter andsucceeded in no other way than as succeeding his father as one of theminor magnates of Paleham, and yet have been a more truly successful manthan he actually was--for I take it there is not much more solid successin this world than what fell to the lot of old Mr and Mrs Pontifex; ithappened, however, that about the year 1780, when George was a boy offifteen, a sister of Mrs Pontifex's, who had married a Mr Fairlie, cameto pay a few days' visit at Paleham. Mr Fairlie was a publisher, chieflyof religious works, and had an establishment in Paternoster Row; he hadrisen in life, and his wife had risen with him. No very close relationshad been maintained between the sisters for some years, and I forgetexactly how it came about that Mr and Mrs Fairlie were guests in thequiet but exceedingly comfortable house of their sister and brother-in-law; but for some reason or other the visit was paid, and little Georgesoon succeeded in making his way into his uncle and aunt's good graces. Aquick, intelligent boy with a good address, a sound constitution, andcoming of respectable parents, has a potential value which a practisedbusiness man who has need of many subordinates is little likely tooverlook. Before his visit was over Mr Fairlie proposed to the lad'sfather and mother that he should put him into his own business, at thesame time promising that if the boy did well he should not want some oneto bring him forward. Mrs Pontifex had her son's interest too much atheart to refuse such an offer, so the matter was soon arranged, and abouta fortnight after the Fairlies had left, George was sent up by coach toLondon, where he was met by his uncle and aunt, with whom it was arrangedthat he should live. 

This was George's great start in life. He now wore more fashionableclothes than he had yet been accustomed to, and any little rusticity ofgait or pronunciation which he had brought from Paleham, was so quicklyand completely lost that it was ere long impossible to detect that he hadnot been born and bred among people of what is commonly called education. The boy paid great attention to his work, and more than justified thefavourable opinion which Mr Fairlie had formed concerning him. SometimesMr Fairlie would send him down to Paleham for a few days' holiday, andere long his parents perceived that he had acquired an air and manner oftalking different from any that he had taken with him from Paleham. Theywere proud of him, and soon fell into their proper places, resigning allappearance of a parental control, for which indeed there was no kind ofnecessity. In return, George was always kindly to them, and to the endof his life retained a more affectionate feeling towards his father andmother than I imagine him ever to have felt again for man, woman, orchild. 

George's visits to Paleham were never long, for the distance from Londonwas under fifty miles and there was a direct coach, so that the journeywas easy; there was not time, therefore, for the novelty to wear offeither on the part of the young man or of his parents. George liked thefresh country air and green fields after the darkness to which he hadbeen so long accustomed in Paternoster Row, which then, as now, was anarrow gloomy lane rather than a street. Independently of the pleasureof seeing the familiar faces of the farmers and villagers, he liked alsobeing seen and being congratulated on growing up such a fine-looking andfortunate young fellow, for he was not the youth to hide his light undera bushel. His uncle had had him taught Latin and Greek of an evening; hehad taken kindly to these languages and had rapidly and easily masteredwhat many boys take years in acquiring. I suppose his knowledge gave hima self-confidence which made itself felt whether he intended it or not;at any rate, he soon began to pose as a judge of literature, and fromthis 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 hewas at once more ostentatious and less liberal than his father; while yeta boy he was a thorough little man of the world, and did well rather uponprinciples which he had tested by personal experiment, and recognised asprinciples, than from those profounder convictions which in his fatherwere so instinctive that he could give no account concerning them. 

His father, as I have said, wondered at him and let him alone. His sonhad fairly distanced him, and in an inarticulate way the father knew itperfectly well. After a few years he took to wearing his best clotheswhenever his son came to stay with him, nor would he discard them for hisordinary ones till the young man had returned to London. I believe oldMr Pontifex, along with his pride and affection, felt also a certain fearof his son, as though of something which he could not thoroughlyunderstand, and whose ways, notwithstanding outward agreement, werenevertheless not as his ways. Mrs Pontifex felt nothing of this; to herGeorge 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 asin disposition rather than her husband and his. 

When George was about twenty-five years old his uncle took him intopartnership on very liberal terms. He had little cause to regret thisstep. The young man infused fresh vigour into a concern that was alreadyvigorous, and by the time he was thirty found himself in the receipt ofnot less than 1500 pounds a year as his share of the profits. Two yearslater he married a lady about seven years younger than himself, whobrought him a handsome dowry. She died in 1805, when her youngest childAlethea was born, and her husband did not marry again. 

CHAPTER III

In the early years of the century five little children and a couple ofnurses began to make periodical visits to Paleham. It is needless to saythey were a rising generation of Pontifexes, towards whom the old couple, their grandparents, were as tenderly deferential as they would have beento the children of the Lord Lieutenant of the County. Their names wereEliza, Maria, John, Theobald (who like myself was born in 1802), andAlethea. Mr Pontifex always put the prefix "master" or "miss" before thenames of his grandchildren, except in the case of Alethea, who was hisfavourite. To have resisted his grandchildren would have been asimpossible for him as to have resisted his wife; even old Mrs Pontifexyielded before her son's children, and gave them all manner of licencewhich she would never have allowed even to my sisters and myself, whostood next in her regard. Two regulations only they must attend to; theymust wipe their shoes well on coming into the house, and they must notoverfeed 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 theannual visit of the little Pontifexes to Paleham. We came in for some ofthe prevailing licence; we went to tea with Mrs Pontifex to meet hergrandchildren, and then our young friends were asked to the Rectory tohave tea with us, and we had what we considered great times. I felldesperately in love with Alethea, indeed we all fell in love with eachother, plurality and exchange whether of wives or husbands being openlyand unblushingly advocated in the very presence of our nurses. We werevery merry, but it is so long ago that I have forgotten nearly everythingsave that we _were_ very merry. Almost the only thing that remains withme as a permanent impression was the fact that Theobald one day beat hisnurse 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 belltolling while we were dressing in the back nursery and were told it wasfor old Mrs Pontifex. Our man-servant John told us and added with grimlevity that they were ringing the bell to come and take her away. Shehad had a fit of paralysis which had carried her off quite suddenly. Itwas very shocking, the more so because our nurse assured us that if Godchose we might all have fits of paralysis ourselves that very day and betaken 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 notunder any circumstances be delayed more than a few years longer, and thenthe whole world would be burned, and we ourselves be consigned to aneternity of torture, unless we mended our ways more than we at presentseemed at all likely to do. All this was so alarming that we fell toscreaming and made such a hullabaloo that the nurse was obliged for herown peace to reassure us. Then we wept, but more composedly, as weremembered that there would be no more tea and cakes for us now at oldMrs Pontifex's. 

On the day of the funeral, however, we had a great excitement; old MrPontifex sent round a penny loaf to every inhabitant of the villageaccording to a custom still not uncommon at the beginning of the 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 beforeseen one; moreover, they were presents to us as inhabitants of thevillage, and we were treated as grown up people, for our father andmother and the servants had each one loaf sent them, but only one. Wehad never yet suspected that we were inhabitants at all; finally, thelittle loaves were new, and we were passionately fond of new bread, whichwe were seldom or never allowed to have, as it was supposed not to begood for us. Our affection, therefore, for our old friend had to standagainst the combined attacks of archaeological interest, the rights ofcitizenship and property, the pleasantness to the eye and goodness forfood of the little loaves themselves, and the sense of importance whichwas given us by our having been intimate with someone who had actuallydied. It seemed upon further inquiry that there was little reason toanticipate an early death for anyone of ourselves, and this being so, werather liked the idea of someone else's being put away into thechurchyard; we passed, therefore, in a short time from extreme depressionto a no less extreme exultation; a new heaven and a new earth had beenrevealed to us in our perception of the possibility of benefiting by thedeath of our friends, and I fear that for some time we took an interestin the health of everyone in the village whose position rendered arepetition of the dole in the least likely. 

Those were the days in which all great things seemed far off, and we wereastonished to find that Napoleon Buonaparte was an actually livingperson. We had thought such a great man could only have lived a verylong time ago, and here he was after all almost as it were at our owndoors. This lent colour to the view that the Day of Judgement mightindeed be nearer than we had thought, but nurse said that was all rightnow, and she knew. In those days the snow lay longer and drifted deeperin the lanes than it does now, and the milk was sometimes brought infrozen 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 milkcomes in frozen sometimes in winter, and the children go down to wonderat it, but I never see any frozen milk in London, so I suppose thewinters are warmer than they used to be. 

About one year after his wife's death Mr Pontifex also was gathered tohis fathers. My father saw him the day before he died. The old man hada theory about sunsets, and had had two steps built up against a wall inthe kitchen garden on which he used to stand and watch the sun go downwhenever it was clear. My father came on him in the afternoon, just asthe sun was setting, and saw him with his arms resting on the top of thewall looking towards the sun over a field through which there was a pathon 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 wasfeeling very feeble. Before the next sunset he was gone. 

There was no dole. Some of his grandchildren were brought to the funeraland we remonstrated with them, but did not take much by doing so. JohnPontifex, who was a year older than I was, sneered at penny loaves, andintimated that if I wanted one it must be because my papa and mamma couldnot afford to buy me one, whereon I believe we did something likefighting, and I rather think John Pontifex got the worst of it, but itmay have been the other way. I remember my sister's nurse, for I wasjust outgrowing nurses myself, reported the matter to higher quarters, and we were all of us put to some ignominy, but we had been thoroughlyawakened from our dream, and it was long enough before we could hear thewords "penny loaf" mentioned without our ears tingling with shame. Ifthere had been a dozen doles afterwards we should not have deigned totouch one of them. 

George Pontifex put up a monument to his parents, a plain slab in Palehamchurch, inscribed with the following epitaph:--

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

OF

JOHN PONTIFEX

WHO WAS BORN AUGUST 16TH, 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 IV

In a year or two more came Waterloo and the European peace. Then MrGeorge Pontifex went abroad more than once. I remember seeing atBattersby in after years the diary which he kept on the first of theseoccasions. It is a characteristic document. I felt as I read it thatthe author before starting had made up his mind to admire only what hethought it would be creditable in him to admire, to look at nature andart only through the spectacles that had been handed down to him bygeneration after generation of prigs and impostors. The first glimpse ofMont Blanc threw Mr Pontifex into a conventional ecstasy. "My feelings Icannot express. I gasped, yet hardly dared to breathe, as I viewed forthe first time the monarch of the mountains. I seemed to fancy thegenius seated on his stupendous throne far above his aspiring brethrenand in his solitary might defying the universe. I was so overcome by myfeelings that I was almost bereft of my faculties, and would not forworlds have spoken after my first exclamation till I found some relief ina gush of tears. With pain I tore myself from contemplating for thefirst time 'at distance dimly seen' (though I felt as if I had sent mysoul and eyes after it), this sublime spectacle. " After a nearer view ofthe Alps from above Geneva he walked nine out of the twelve miles of thedescent: "My mind and heart were too full to sit still, and I found somerelief by exhausting my feelings through exercise. " In the course oftime he reached Chamonix and went on a Sunday to the Montanvert to seethe 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 forseven or eight lines. Mr Pontifex's last couplet gave him a lot oftrouble, and nearly every word has been erased and rewritten once atleast. In the visitors' book at the Montanvert, however, he must havebeen obliged to commit himself definitely to one reading or another. Taking the verses all round, I should say that Mr Pontifex was right inconsidering them suitable to the day; I don't like being too hard even onthe Mer de Glace, so will give no opinion as to whether they are suitableto the scene also. 

Mr Pontifex went on to the Great St Bernard and there he wrote some moreverses, this time I am afraid in Latin. He also took good care to beproperly impressed by the Hospice and its situation. "The whole of thismost extraordinary journey seemed like a dream, its conclusionespecially, in gentlemanly society, with every comfort and accommodationamidst the rudest rocks and in the region of perpetual snow. The thoughtthat I was sleeping in a convent and occupied the bed of no less a personthan Napoleon, that I was in the highest inhabited spot in the old worldand 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 writtento me last year by his grandson Ernest, of whom the reader will hear morepresently. The passage runs: "I went up to the Great St Bernard and sawthe dogs. " In due course Mr Pontifex found his way into Italy, where thepictures and other works of art--those, at least, which were fashionableat that time--threw him into genteel paroxysms of admiration. Of theUffizi Gallery at Florence he writes: "I have spent three hours thismorning in the gallery and I have made up my mind that if of all thetreasures I have seen in Italy I were to choose one room it would be theTribune of this gallery. It contains the Venus de' Medici, theExplorator, the Pancratist, the Dancing Faun and a fine Apollo. Thesemore than outweigh the Laocoon and the Belvedere Apollo at Rome. Itcontains, besides, the St John of Raphael and many other _chefs-d'oeuvre_of the greatest masters in the world. " It is interesting to compare MrPontifex's effusions with the rhapsodies of critics in our own times. Notlong ago a much esteemed writer informed the world that he felt "disposedto cry out with delight" before a figure by Michael Angelo. I wonderwhether 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 reputedMichael Angelo which was really by someone else. But I suppose that aprig with more money than brains was much the same sixty or seventy yearsago as he is now. 

Look at Mendelssohn again about this same Tribune on which Mr Pontifexfelt so safe in staking his reputation as a man of taste and culture. Hefeels no less safe and writes, "I then went to the Tribune. This room isso delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, yet itcontains a world of art. I again sought out my favourite arm chair whichstands under the statue of the 'Slave whetting his knife' (L'Arrotino), and taking possession of it I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; forhere at one glance I had the 'Madonna del Cardellino, ' Pope Julius II. , afemale portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family byPerugino; and so close to me that I could have touched it with my handthe Venus de' Medici; beyond, that of Titian . . . The space between isoccupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, aDomenichino, etc. , etc. , all these within the circumference of a smallsemi-circle no larger than one of your own rooms. This is a spot where aman feels his own insignificance and may well learn to be humble. " TheTribune is a slippery place for people like Mendelssohn to study humilityin. They generally take two steps away from it for one they take towardsit. I wonder how many chalks Mendelssohn gave himself for having sat twohours on that chair. I wonder how often he looked at his watch to see ifhis two hours were up. I wonder how often he told himself that he wasquite as big a gun, if the truth were known, as any of the men whoseworks he saw before him, how often he wondered whether any of thevisitors were recognizing him and admiring him for sitting such a longtime in the same chair, and how often he was vexed at seeing them passhim by and take no notice of him. But perhaps if the truth were knownhis two hours was not quite two hours. 

Returning to Mr Pontifex, whether he liked what he believed to be themasterpieces of Greek and Italian art or no he brought back some copiesby Italian artists, which I have no doubt he satisfied himself would bearthe strictest examination with the originals. Two of these copies fellto Theobald's share on the division of his father's furniture, and I haveoften seen them at Battersby on my visits to Theobald and his wife. Theone was a Madonna by Sassoferrato with a blue hood over her head whichthrew it half into shadow. The other was a Magdalen by Carlo Dolci witha very fine head of hair and a marble vase in her hands. When I was ayoung man I used to think these pictures were beautiful, but with eachsuccessive visit to Battersby I got to dislike them more and more and tosee "George Pontifex" written all over both of them. In the end Iventured after a tentative fashion to blow on them a little, but Theobaldand his wife were up in arms at once. They did not like their father andfather-in-law, but there could be no question about his power and generalability, nor about his having been a man of consummate taste both inliterature and art--indeed the diary he kept during his foreign tour wasenough to prove this. With one more short extract I will leave thisdiary and proceed with my story. During his stay in Florence Mr Pontifexwrote: "I have just seen the Grand Duke and his family pass by in twocarriages and six, but little more notice is taken of them than if I, whoam utterly unknown here, were to pass by. " I don't think that he halfbelieved in his being utterly unknown in Florence or anywhere else!

CHAPTER V

Fortune, we are told, is a blind and fickle foster-mother, who showersher gifts at random upon her nurslings. But we do her a grave injusticeif we believe such an accusation. Trace a man's career from his cradleto his grave and mark how Fortune has treated him. You will find thatwhen he is once dead she can for the most part be vindicated from thecharge of any but very superficial fickleness. Her blindness is themerest fable; she can espy her favourites long before they are born. Weare as days and have had our parents for our yesterdays, but through allthe fair weather of a clear parental sky the eye of Fortune can discernthe coming storm, and she laughs as she places her favourites it may bein a London alley or those whom she is resolved to ruin in kings'palaces. Seldom does she relent towards those whom she has suckledunkindly and seldom does she completely fail a favoured nursling. 

Was George Pontifex one of Fortune's favoured nurslings or not? On thewhole 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 whatevershe gave and never thanked her, being firmly convinced that whatever hegot to his own advantage was of his own getting. And so it was, afterFortune had made him able to get it. 

"Nos te, nos facimus, Fortuna, deam, " exclaimed the poet. "It is we whomake thee, Fortune, a goddess"; and so it is, after Fortune has made usable to make her. The poet says nothing as to the making of the "nos. "Perhaps some men are independent of antecedents and surroundings and havean 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 toavoid it. Let it suffice that George Pontifex did not consider himselffortunate, and he who does not consider himself fortunate is unfortunate. 

True, he was rich, universally respected and of an excellent naturalconstitution. If he had eaten and drunk less he would never have known aday's indisposition. Perhaps his main strength lay in the fact thatthough his capacity was a little above the average, it was not too muchso. It is on this rock that so many clever people split. The successfulman will see just so much more than his neighbours as they will be ableto see too when it is shown them, but not enough to puzzle them. It isfar safer to know too little than too much. People will condemn the one, though they will resent being called upon to exert themselves to followthe other. 

The best example of Mr Pontifex's good sense in matters connected withhis business which I can think of at this moment is the revolution whichhe effected in the style of advertising works published by the firm. Whenhe 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 Scripture 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 asfollows:--

 "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, andwhat intelligence is involved in the perception of the unseemliness ofthe old style, when others did not perceive it!

Where then was the weak place in George Pontifex's armour? I suppose inthe fact that he had risen too rapidly. It would almost seem as if atransmitted education of some generations is necessary for the dueenjoyment of great wealth. Adversity, if a man is set down to it bydegrees, is more supportable with equanimity by most people than anygreat prosperity arrived at in a single lifetime. Nevertheless a certainkind of good fortune generally attends self-made men to the last. It istheir children of the first, or first and second, generation who are ingreater danger, for the race can no more repeat its most successfulperformances suddenly and without its ebbings and flowings of successthan the individual can do so, and the more brilliant the success in anyone generation, the greater as a general rule the subsequent exhaustionuntil time has been allowed for recovery. Hence it oftens happens thatthe grandson of a successful man will be more successful than the son--thespirit that actuated the grandfather having lain fallow in the son andbeing refreshed by repose so as to be ready for fresh exertion in thegrandson. A very successful man, moreover, has something of the hybridin him; he is a new animal, arising from the coming together of manyunfamiliar elements and it is well known that the reproduction ofabnormal growths, whether animal or vegetable, is irregular and not to bedepended upon, even when they are not absolutely sterile. 

And certainly Mr Pontifex's success was exceedingly rapid. Only a fewyears after he had become a partner his uncle and aunt both died within afew months of one another. It was then found that they had made himtheir heir. He was thus not only sole partner in the business but foundhimself with a fortune of some 30, 000 pounds into the bargain, and thiswas a large sum in those days. Money came pouring in upon him, and thefaster 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 forhis dear children. 

Yet when a man is very fond of his money it is not easy for him at alltimes to be very fond of his children also. The two are like God andMammon. Lord Macaulay has a passage in which he contrasts the pleasureswhich a man may derive from books with the inconveniences to which he maybe put by his acquaintances. "Plato, " he says, "is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulant. Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dantenever stays too long. No difference of political opinion can alienateCicero. No heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet. " I dare say I mightdiffer from Lord Macaulay in my estimate of some of the writers he hasnamed, but there can be no disputing his main proposition, namely, thatwe 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. GeorgePontifex felt this as regards his children and his money. His money wasnever naughty; his money never made noise or litter, and did not spillthings on the tablecloth at meal times, or leave the door open when itwent out. His dividends did not quarrel among themselves, nor was heunder any uneasiness lest his mortgages should become extravagant onreaching manhood and run him up debts which sooner or later he shouldhave 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 intheir father's mind, that he did not knock his money about as he notinfrequently knocked his children. He never dealt hastily or pettishlywith his money, and that was perhaps why he and it got on so welltogether. 

It must be remembered that at the beginning of the nineteenth century therelations 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 inliterature than the original advertisement of Messrs. Fairlie &Pontifex's "Pious Country Parishioner, " but the type was much toopersistent not to have been drawn from nature closely. The parents inMiss Austen's novels are less like savage wild beasts than those of herpredecessors, but she evidently looks upon them with suspicion, and anuneasy feeling that _le pere de famille est capable de tout_ makes itselfsufficiently apparent throughout the greater part of her writings. Inthe Elizabethan time the relations between parents and children seem onthe whole to have been more kindly. The fathers and the sons are for themost part friends in Shakespeare, nor does the evil appear to havereached its full abomination till a long course of Puritanism hadfamiliarised men's minds with Jewish ideals as those which we shouldendeavour to reproduce in our everyday life. What precedents did notAbraham, Jephthah and Jonadab the son of Rechab offer? How easy was itto quote and follow them in an age when few reasonable men or womendoubted that every syllable of the Old Testament was taken down_verbatim_ from the mouth of God. Moreover, Puritanism restrictednatural pleasures; it substituted the Jeremiad for the Paean, and itforgot that the poor abuses of all times want countenance. 

Mr Pontifex may have been a little sterner with his children than some ofhis neighbours, but not much. He thrashed his boys two or three times aweek and some weeks a good deal oftener, but in those days fathers werealways thrashing their boys. It is easy to have juster views wheneveryone else has them, but fortunately or unfortunately results havenothing whatever to do with the moral guilt or blamelessness of him whobrings them about; they depend solely upon the thing done, whatever itmay happen to be. The moral guilt or blamelessness in like manner hasnothing to do with the result; it turns upon the question whether asufficient number of reasonable people placed as the actor was placedwould have done as the actor has done. At that time it was universallyadmitted that to spare the rod was to spoil the child, and St Paul hadplaced disobedience to parents in very ugly company. If his children didanything which Mr Pontifex disliked they were clearly disobedient totheir father. In this case there was obviously only one course for asensible man to take. It consisted in checking the first signs of self-will while his children were too young to offer serious resistance. Iftheir wills were "well broken" in childhood, to use an expression thenmuch in vogue, they would acquire habits of obedience which they wouldnot 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; butour reflex reflections! Man, forsooth, prides himself on hisconsciousness! We boast that we differ from the winds and waves andfalling stones and plants, which grow they know not why, and from thewandering creatures which go up and down after their prey, as we arepleased to say without the help of reason. We know so well what we aredoing ourselves and why we do it, do we not? I fancy that there is sometruth in the view which is being put forward nowadays, that it is ourless conscious thoughts and our less conscious actions which mainly mouldour lives and the lives of those who spring from us. 

CHAPTER VI

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 moreaccording to a rule of thumb. Dr Arnold had not yet sown that crop ofearnest thinkers which we are now harvesting, and men did not see whythey should not have their own way if no evil consequences to themselvesseemed likely to follow upon their doing so. Then as now, however, theysometimes let themselves in for more evil consequences than they hadbargained for. 

Like other rich men at the beginning of this century he ate and drank agood deal more than was enough to keep him in health. Even his excellentconstitution was not proof against a prolonged course of overfeeding andwhat we should now consider overdrinking. His liver would notunfrequently get out of order, and he would come down to breakfastlooking yellow about the eyes. Then the young people knew that they hadbetter look out. It is not as a general rule the eating of sour grapesthat causes the children's teeth to be set on edge. Well-to-do parentsseldom eat many sour grapes; the danger to the children lies in theparents eating too many sweet ones. 

I grant that at first sight it seems very unjust, that the parents shouldhave the fun and the children be punished for it, but young people shouldremember that for many years they were part and parcel of their parentsand 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 whohave a headache after having been tipsy overnight. The man with aheadache does not pretend to be a different person from the man who gotdrunk, and claim that it is his self of the preceding night and not hisself of this morning who should be punished; no more should offspringcomplain of the headache which it has earned when in the person of itsparents, for the continuation of identity, though not so immediatelyapparent, is just as real in one case as in the other. What is reallyhard 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 andsay to himself that in spite of all his goodness to them his children didnot love him. But who can love any man whose liver is out of order? Howbase, he would exclaim to himself, was such ingratitude! How especiallyhard upon himself, who had been such a model son, and always honoured andobeyed his parents though they had not spent one hundredth part of themoney upon him which he had lavished upon his own children. "It isalways the same story, " he would say to himself, "the more young peoplehave the more they want, and the less thanks one gets; I have made agreat 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 isa matter between God and them. I, at any rate, am guiltless. Why, Imight have married again and become the father of a second and perhapsmore affectionate family, etc. , etc. " He pitied himself for theexpensive education which he was giving his children; he did not see thatthe education cost the children far more than it cost him, inasmuch as itcost them the power of earning their living easily rather than helpedthem towards it, and ensured their being at the mercy of their father foryears after they had come to an age when they should be independent. Apublic school education cuts off a boy's retreat; he can no longer becomea labourer or a mechanic, and these are the only people whose tenure ofindependence is not precarious--with the exception of course of those whoare born inheritors of money or who are placed young in some safe anddeep groove. Mr Pontifex saw nothing of this; all he saw was that he wasspending much more money upon his children than the law would havecompelled him to do, and what more could you have? Might he not haveapprenticed both his sons to greengrocers? Might he not even yet do soto-morrow morning if he were so minded? The possibility of this coursebeing 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 hisboys comparing notes together had sometimes come to the conclusion thatthey wished he would. 

At other times when not quite well he would have them in for the fun ofshaking his will at them. He would in his imagination cut them all outone after another and leave his money to found almshouses, till at lasthe was obliged to put them back, so that he might have the pleasure ofcutting them out again the next time he was in a passion. 

Of course if young people allow their conduct to be in any way influencedby regard to the wills of living persons they are doing very wrong andmust expect to be sufferers in the end, nevertheless the powers of will-dangling and will-shaking are so liable to abuse and are continually madeso great an engine of torture that I would pass a law, if I could, toincapacitate any man from making a will for three months from the date ofeach offence in either of the above respects and let the bench ofmagistrates or judge, before whom he has been convicted, dispose of hisproperty as they shall think right and reasonable if he dies during thetime that his will-making power is suspended. 

Mr Pontifex would have the boys into the dining-room. "My dear John, mydear Theobald, " he would say, "look at me. I began life with nothing butthe clothes with which my father and mother sent me up to London. Myfather gave me ten shillings and my mother five for pocket money and Ithought them munificent. I never asked my father for a shilling in thewhole course of my life, nor took aught from him beyond the small sum heused to allow me monthly till I was in receipt of a salary. I made myown way and I shall expect my sons to do the same. Pray don't take itinto your heads that I am going to wear my life out making money that mysons may spend it for me. If you want money you must make it foryourselves as I did, for I give you my word I will not leave a penny toeither of you unless you show that you deserve it. Young people seemnowadays to expect all kinds of luxuries and indulgences which were neverheard of when I was a boy. Why, my father was a common carpenter, andhere you are both of you at public schools, costing me ever so manyhundreds a year, while I at your age was plodding away behind a desk inmy Uncle Fairlie's counting house. What should I not have done if I hadhad one half of your advantages? You should become dukes or found newempires in undiscovered countries, and even then I doubt whether youwould have done proportionately so much as I have done. No, no, I shallsee you through school and college and then, if you please, you will makeyour own way in the world. "

In this manner he would work himself up into such a state of virtuousindignation that he would sometimes thrash the boys then and there uponsome pretext invented at the moment. 

And yet, as children went, the young Pontifexes were fortunate; therewould be ten families of young people worse off for one better; they ateand drank good wholesome food, slept in comfortable beds, had the bestdoctors to attend them when they were ill and the best education thatcould be had for money. The want of fresh air does not seem much toaffect the happiness of children in a London alley: the greater part ofthem sing and play as though they were on a moor in Scotland. So theabsence of a genial mental atmosphere is not commonly recognised bychildren who have never known it. Young people have a marvellous facultyof either dying or adapting themselves to circumstances. Even if theyare unhappy--very unhappy--it is astonishing how easily they can beprevented from finding it out, or at any rate from attributing it to anyother cause than their own sinfulness. 

To parents who wish to lead a quiet life I would say: Tell your childrenthat they are very naughty--much naughtier than most children. Point tothe young people of some acquaintances as models of perfection andimpress your own children with a deep sense of their own inferiority. Youcarry so many more guns than they do that they cannot fight you. This iscalled moral influence, and it will enable you to bounce them as much asyou please. They think you know and they will not have yet caught youlying often enough to suspect that you are not the unworldly andscrupulously truthful person which you represent yourself to be; nor yetwill they know how great a coward you are, nor how soon you will runaway, if they fight you with persistency and judgement. You keep thedice and throw them both for your children and yourself. Load them then, for you can easily manage to stop your children from examining them. Tellthem how singularly indulgent you are; insist on the incalculable benefityou conferred upon them, firstly in bringing them into the world at all, but more particularly in bringing them into it as your own childrenrather than anyone else's. Say that you have their highest interests atstake whenever you are out of temper and wish to make yourself unpleasantby way of balm to your soul. Harp much upon these highest interests. Feed them spiritually upon such brimstone and treacle as the late Bishopof Winchester's Sunday stories. You hold all the trump cards, or if youdo not you can filch them; if you play them with anything like judgementyou will find yourselves heads of happy, united, God-fearing families, even as did my old friend Mr Pontifex. True, your children will probablyfind out all about it some day, but not until too late to be of muchservice to them or inconvenience to yourself. 

Some satirists have complained of life inasmuch as all the pleasuresbelong to the fore part of it and we must see them dwindle till we areleft, it may be, with the miseries of a decrepit old age. 

To me it seems that youth is like spring, an overpraisedseason--delightful if it happen to be a favoured one, but in practicevery rarely favoured and more remarkable, as a general rule, for bitingeast winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and whatwe lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits. Fontenelle at the age ofninety, being asked what was the happiest time of his life, said he didnot know that he had ever been much happier than he then was, but thatperhaps his best years had been those when he was between fifty-five andseventy-five, and Dr Johnson placed the pleasures of old age far higherthan 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 haveso long found life to be an affair of being rather frightened than hurtthat we have become like the people who live under Vesuvius, and chanceit without much misgiving. 

CHAPTER VII

A few words may suffice for the greater number of the young people towhom I have been alluding in the foregoing chapter. Eliza and Maria, thetwo elder girls, were neither exactly pretty nor exactly plain, and werein all respects model young ladies, but Alethea was exceedingly prettyand of a lively, affectionate disposition, which was in sharp contrastwith those of her brothers and sisters. There was a trace of hergrandfather, not only in her face, but in her love of fun, of which herfather had none, though not without a certain boisterous and rathercoarse quasi-humour which passed for wit with many. 

John grew up to be a good-looking, gentlemanly fellow, with features atrifle too regular and finely chiselled. He dressed himself so nicely, had such good address, and stuck so steadily to his books that he becamea favourite with his masters; he had, however, an instinct for diplomacy, and was less popular with the boys. His father, in spite of the lectureshe 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 manof business, and in whose hands the prospects of his house would not belikely to decline. John knew how to humour his father, and was at acomparatively early age admitted to as much of his confidence as it wasin his nature to bestow on anyone. 

His brother Theobald was no match for him, knew it, and accepted hisfate. He was not so good-looking as his brother, nor was his address sogood; as a child he had been violently passionate; now, however, he wasreserved and shy, and, I should say, indolent in mind and body. He wasless tidy than John, less well able to assert himself, and less skilfulin humouring the caprices of his father. I do not think he could haveloved anyone heartily, but there was no one in his family circle who didnot repress, rather than invite his affection, with the exception of hissister Alethea, and she was too quick and lively for his somewhat morosetemper. He was always the scapegoat, and I have sometimes thought he hadtwo fathers to contend against--his father and his brother John; a thirdand 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 upwith it, but he was constitutionally timid, and the strong hand of hisfather knitted him into the closest outward harmony with his brother andsisters. 

The boys were of use to their father in one respect. I mean that heplayed them off against each other. He kept them but poorly suppliedwith pocket money, and to Theobald would urge that the claims of hiselder brother were naturally paramount, while he insisted to John uponthe fact that he had a numerous family, and would affirm solemnly thathis expenses were so heavy that at his death there would be very littleto divide. He did not care whether they compared notes or no, providedthey did not do so in his presence. Theobald did not complain evenbehind his father's back. I knew him as intimately as anyone was likelyto know him as a child, at school, and again at Cambridge, but he veryrarely mentioned his father's name even while his father was alive, andnever once in my hearing afterwards. At school he was not activelydisliked as his brother was, but he was too dull and deficient in animalspirits to be popular. 

Before he was well out of his frocks it was settled that he was to be aclergyman. It was seemly that Mr Pontifex, the well-known publisher ofreligious 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 Churchdignitaries and might hope that some preferment would be offered to hisson through his influence. The boy's future destiny was kept well beforehis eyes from his earliest childhood and was treated as a matter which hehad already virtually settled by his acquiescence. Nevertheless acertain show of freedom was allowed him. Mr Pontifex would say it wasonly right to give a boy his option, and was much too equitable to grudgehis son whatever benefit he could derive from this. He had the greatesthorror, he would exclaim, of driving any young man into a professionwhich he did not like. Far be it from him to put pressure upon a son ofhis as regards any profession and much less when so sacred a calling asthe ministry was concerned. He would talk in this way when there werevisitors in the house and when his son was in the room. He spoke sowisely and so well that his listening guests considered him a paragon ofright-mindedness. He spoke, too, with such emphasis and his rosy gillsand bald head looked so benevolent that it was difficult not to becarried away by his discourse. I believe two or three heads of familiesin the neighbourhood gave their sons absolute liberty of choice in thematter of their professions--and am not sure that they had not afterwardsconsiderable cause to regret having done so. The visitors, seeingTheobald look shy and wholly unmoved by the exhibition of so muchconsideration for his wishes, would remark to themselves that the boyseemed hardly likely to be equal to his father and would set him down asan unenthusiastic youth, who ought to have more life in him and be moresensible of his advantages than he appeared to be. 

No one believed in the righteousness of the whole transaction more firmlythan the boy himself; a sense of being ill at ease kept him silent, butit was too profound and too much without break for him to become fullyalive to it, and come to an understanding with himself. He feared thedark scowl which would come over his father's face upon the slightestopposition. His father's violent threats, or coarse sneers, would nothave been taken _au serieux_ by a stronger boy, but Theobald was not astrong boy, and rightly or wrongly, gave his father credit for beingquite ready to carry his threats into execution. Opposition had nevergot him anything he wanted yet, nor indeed had yielding, for the matterof that, unless he happened to want exactly what his father wanted forhim. 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 thathardly did the wish remain; there was nothing left save dull acquiescenceas of an ass crouched between two burdens. He may have had anill-defined sense of ideals that were not his actuals; he mightoccasionally dream of himself as a soldier or a sailor far away inforeign lands, or even as a farmer's boy upon the wolds, but there wasnot enough in him for there to be any chance of his turning his dreamsinto 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 unhappyrelations 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 helphim; he was clearly not young himself, nor should I say it was the workof one who 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, after all, carry a harsh sound with them. The general impression itleaves upon the mind of the young is that their wickedness at birth wasbut very imperfectly wiped out at baptism, and that the mere fact ofbeing young at all has something with it that savours more or lessdistinctly of the nature of sin. 

If a new edition of the work is ever required I should like to introducea few words insisting on the duty of seeking all reasonable pleasure andavoiding all pain that can be honourably avoided. I should like to seechildren taught that they should not say they like things which they donot like, merely because certain other people say they like them, and howfoolish it is to say they believe this or that when they understandnothing about it. If it be urged that these additions would make theCatechism too long I would curtail the remarks upon our duty towards ourneighbour and upon the sacraments. In the place of the paragraphbeginning "I desire my Lord God our Heavenly Father" I would--but perhapsI had better return to Theobald, and leave the recasting of the Catechismto abler hands. 

CHAPTER VIII

Mr Pontifex had set his heart on his son's becoming a fellow of a collegebefore he became a clergyman. This would provide for him at once andwould ensure his getting a living if none of his father's ecclesiasticalfriends gave him one. The boy had done just well enough at school torender this possible, so he was sent to one of the smaller colleges atCambridge and was at once set to read with the best private tutors thatcould be found. A system of examination had been adopted a year or sobefore Theobald took his degree which had improved his chances of afellowship, for whatever ability he had was classical rather thanmathematical, and this system gave more encouragement to classicalstudies than had been given hitherto. 

Theobald had the sense to see that he had a chance of independence if heworked hard, and he liked the notion of becoming a fellow. He thereforeapplied himself, and in the end took a degree which made his getting afellowship in all probability a mere question of time. For a while MrPontifex senior was really pleased, and told his son he would present himwith the works of any standard writer whom he might select. The youngman chose the works of Bacon, and Bacon accordingly made his appearancein ten nicely bound volumes. A little inspection, however, showed thatthe copy was a second hand one. 

Now that he had taken his degree the next thing to look forward to wasordination--about which Theobald had thought little hitherto beyondacquiescing in it as something that would come as a matter of course someday. Now, however, it had actually come and was asserting itself as athing which should be only a few months off, and this rather frightenedhim 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 thefollowing correspondence which his son Ernest found among his father'spapers written on gilt-edged paper, in faded ink and tied neatly roundwith a piece of tape, but without any note or comment. I have alterednothing. 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 loop-hole 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 being 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 into 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 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. "Myfather, " he said to himself, "tells me I need not be ordained if I do notlike. I do not like, and therefore I will not be ordained. But what wasthe meaning of the words 'pregnant with serious consequences toyourself'? Did there lurk a threat under these words--though it wasimpossible to lay hold of it or of them? Were they not intended toproduce all the effect of a threat without being actually threatening?"

Theobald knew his father well enough to be little likely to misapprehendhis meaning, but having ventured so far on the path of opposition, andbeing really anxious to get out of being ordained if he could, hedetermined 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. Ithas 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, butit all came perfectly right in the end. Either Theobald's heart failedhim, or he interpreted the outward shove which his father gave him, asthe inward call for which I have no doubt he prayed with greatearnestness--for he was a firm believer in the efficacy of prayer. Andso am I under certain circumstances. Tennyson has said that more thingsare wrought by prayer than this world dreams of, but he has wiselyrefrained from saying whether they are good things or bad things. Itmight perhaps be as well if the world were to dream of, or even becomewide awake to, some of the things that are being wrought by prayer. Butthe question is avowedly difficult. In the end Theobald got hisfellowship by a stroke of luck very soon after taking his degree, and wasordained in the autumn of the same year, 1825. 

CHAPTER IX

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 courseof time had accepted a college living of about 400 pounds a year and ahouse. His private income did not exceed 200 pounds a year. Onresigning his fellowship he married a woman a good deal younger thanhimself who bore him eleven children, nine of whom--two sons and sevendaughters--were living. The two eldest daughters had married fairlywell, but at the time of which I am now writing there were still fiveunmarried, of ages varying between thirty and twenty-two--and the sonswere neither of them yet off their father's hands. It was plain that ifanything 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 have madethem. 

Reader, did you ever have an income at best none too large, which diedwith you all except 200 pounds a year? Did you ever at the same timehave two sons who must be started in life somehow, and five daughtersstill unmarried for whom you would only be too thankful to findhusbands--if you knew how to find them? If morality is that which, onthe 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 flatteryourself that you have led a moral life?

And this, even though your wife has been so good a woman that you havenot grown tired of her, and has not fallen into such ill-health as lowersyour own health in sympathy; and though your family has grown upvigorous, amiable, and blessed with common sense. I know many old menand women who are reputed moral, but who are living with partners whomthey have long ceased to love, or who have ugly disagreeable maidendaughters for whom they have never been able to find husbands--daughterswhom they loathe and by whom they are loathed in secret, or sons whosefolly or extravagance is a perpetual wear and worry to them. Is it moralfor a man to have brought such things upon himself? Someone should dofor morals what that old Pecksniff Bacon has obtained the credit ofhaving done for science. 

But to return to Mr and Mrs Allaby. Mrs Allaby talked about havingmarried two of her daughters as though it had been the easiest thing inthe 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, norindeed, if it had been her doing at all. First there had been a youngman in connection with whom she had tried to practise certain manoeuvreswhich she had rehearsed in imagination over and over again, but which shefound impossible to apply in practice. Then there had been weeks of a_wurra wurra_ of hopes and fears and little stratagems which as often asnot proved injudicious, and then somehow or other in the end, there laythe young man bound and with an arrow through his heart at her daughter'sfeet. It seemed to her to be all a fluke which she could have little orno hope of repeating. She had indeed repeated it once, and might perhapswith good luck repeat it yet once again--but five times over! It wasawful: why she would rather have three confinements than go through thewear and tear of marrying a single daughter. 

Nevertheless it had got to be done, and poor Mrs Allaby never looked at ayoung man without an eye to his being a future son-in-law. Papas andmammas sometimes ask young men whether their intentions are honourabletowards their daughters. I think young men might occasionally ask papasand mammas whether their intentions are honourable before they acceptinvitations to houses where there are still unmarried daughters. 

"I can't afford a curate, my dear, " said Mr Allaby to his wife when thepair were discussing what was next to be done. "It will be better to getsome young man to come and help me for a time upon a Sunday. A guinea aSunday will do this, and we can chop and change till we get someone whosuits. " So it was settled that Mr Allaby's health was not so strong asit had been, and that he stood in need of help in the performance of hisSunday duty. 

Mrs Allaby had a great friend--a certain Mrs Cowey, wife of thecelebrated Professor Cowey. She was what was called a truly spirituallyminded woman, a trifle portly, with an incipient beard, and an extensiveconnection among undergraduates, more especially among those who wereinclined to take part in the great evangelical movement which was then atits height. She gave evening parties once a fortnight at which prayerwas part of the entertainment. She was not only spiritually minded, but, as enthusiastic Mrs Allaby used to exclaim, she was a thorough woman ofthe world at the same time and had such a fund of strong masculine goodsense. She too had daughters, but, as she used to say to Mrs Allaby, shehad been less fortunate than Mrs Allaby herself, for one by one they hadmarried and left her so that her old age would have been desolate indeedif her Professor had not been spared to her. 

Mrs Cowey, of course, knew the run of all the bachelor clergy in theUniversity, and was the very person to assist Mrs Allaby in finding aneligible assistant for her husband, so this last named lady drove overone morning in the November of 1825, by arrangement, to take an earlydinner with Mrs Cowey and spend the afternoon. After dinner the twoladies retired together, and the business of the day began. How theyfenced, how they saw through one another, with what loyalty theypretended not to see through one another, with what gentle dalliance theyprolonged the conversation discussing the spiritual fitness of this orthat deacon, and the other pros and cons connected with him after hisspiritual fitness had been disposed of, all this must be left to theimagination of the reader. Mrs Cowey had been so accustomed to schemingon her own account that she would scheme for anyone rather than notscheme at all. Many mothers turned to her in their hour of need and, provided they were spiritually minded, Mrs Cowey never failed to do herbest for them; if the marriage of a young Bachelor of Arts was not madein Heaven, it was probably made, or at any rate attempted, in Mrs Cowey'sdrawing-room. On the present occasion all the deacons of the Universityin whom there lurked any spark of promise were exhaustively discussed, and the upshot was that our friend Theobald was declared by Mrs Cowey tobe 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 hisfellowship, and even the second son of such a man as Mr Pontifex thepublisher should have something very comfortable. "

"Why yes, my dear, " rejoined Mrs Allaby complacently, "that's what onerather feels. "

CHAPTER X

The interview, like all other good things had to come to an end; the dayswere short, and Mrs Allaby had a six miles' drive to Crampsford. Whenshe 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 seriesof delightful visions he was driving home along with his mistress. 

Professor Cowey had published works through Theobald's father, andTheobald had on this account been taken in tow by Mrs Cowey from thebeginning of his University career. She had had her eye upon him forsome time past, and almost as much felt it her duty to get him off herlist of young men for whom wives had to be provided, as poor Mrs Allabydid to try and get a husband for one of her daughters. She now wrote andasked him to come and see her, in terms that awakened his curiosity. Whenhe came she broached the subject of Mr Allaby's failing health, and afterthe smoothing away of such difficulties as were only Mrs Cowey's due, considering the interest she had taken, it was allowed to come to passthat Theobald should go to Crampsford for six successive Sundays and takethe half of Mr Allaby's duty at half a guinea a Sunday, for Mrs Cowey cutdown the usual stipend mercilessly, and Theobald was not strong enough toresist. 

Ignorant of the plots which were being prepared for his peace of mind andwith no idea beyond that of earning his three guineas, and perhaps ofastonishing the inhabitants of Crampsford by his academic learning, Theobald walked over to the Rectory one Sunday morning early inDecember--a few weeks only after he had been ordained. He had taken agreat deal of pains with his sermon, which was on the subject ofgeology--then coming to the fore as a theological bugbear. He showedthat so far as geology was worth anything at all--and he was too liberalentirely to pooh-pooh it--it confirmed the absolutely historicalcharacter of the Mosaic account of the Creation as given in Genesis. Anyphenomena which at first sight appeared to make against this view wereonly partial phenomena and broke down upon investigation. Nothing couldbe in more excellent taste, and when Theobald adjourned to the rectory, where he was to dine between the services, Mr Allaby complimented himwarmly upon his debut, while the ladies of the family could hardly findwords with which to express their admiration. 

Theobald knew nothing about women. The only women he had been thrown incontact with were his sisters, two of whom were always correcting him, and a few school friends whom these had got their father to ask toElmhurst. These young ladies had either been so shy that they andTheobald had never amalgamated, or they had been supposed to be cleverand had said smart things to him. He did not say smart things himselfand did not want other people to say them. Besides, they talked aboutmusic--and he hated music--or pictures--and he hated pictures--orbooks--and except the classics he hated books. And then sometimes he waswanted to dance with them, and he did not know how to dance, and did notwant to know. 

At Mrs Cowey's parties again he had seen some young ladies and had beenintroduced to them. He had tried to make himself agreeable, but wasalways left with the impression that he had not been successful. Theyoung ladies of Mrs Cowey's set were by no means the most attractive thatmight have been found in the University, and Theobald may be excused fornot losing his heart to the greater number of them, while if for a minuteor two he was thrown in with one of the prettier and more agreeable girlshe was almost immediately cut out by someone less bashful than himself, and sneaked off, feeling as far as the fair sex was concerned, like theimpotent man at the pool of Bethesda. 

What a really nice girl might have done with him I cannot tell, but fatehad thrown none such in his way except his youngest sister Alethea, whomhe might perhaps have liked if she had not been his sister. The resultof his experience was that women had never done him any good and he wasnot accustomed to associate them with any pleasure; if there was a partof Hamlet in connection with them it had been so completely cut out inthe edition of the play in which he was required to act that he had cometo disbelieve in its existence. As for kissing, he had never kissed awoman in his life except his sister--and my own sisters when we were allsmall children together. Over and above these kisses, he had until quitelately been required to imprint a solemn flabby kiss night and morningupon his father's cheek, and this, to the best of my belief, was theextent of Theobald's knowledge in the matter of kissing, at the time ofwhich I am now writing. The result of the foregoing was that he had cometo dislike women, as mysterious beings whose ways were not as his ways, nor their thoughts as his thoughts. 

With these antecedents Theobald naturally felt rather bashful on findinghimself the admired of five strange young ladies. I remember when I wasa boy myself I was once asked to take tea at a girls' school where one ofmy sisters was boarding. I was then about twelve years old. Everythingwent off well during tea-time, for the Lady Principal of theestablishment was present. But there came a time when she went away andI was left alone with the girls. The moment the mistress's back wasturned the head girl, who was about my own age, came up, pointed herfinger at me, made a face and said solemnly, "A na-a-sty bo-o-y!" Allthe girls followed her in rotation making the same gesture and the samereproach upon my being a boy. It gave me a great scare. I believe Icried, and I know it was a long time before I could again face a girlwithout 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-oy. Their papaand mamma were so cordial and they themselves lifted him so deftly overconversational stiles that before dinner was over Theobald thought thefamily to be a really very charming one, and felt as though he were beingappreciated in a way to which he had not hitherto been accustomed. 

With dinner his shyness wore off. He was by no means plain, his academicprestige was very fair. There was nothing about him to lay hold of asunconventional or ridiculous; the impression he created upon the youngladies was quite as favourable as that which they had created uponhimself; 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 astorm which arose upon the question which of them it should be who shouldbecome Mrs Pontifex. "My dears, " said their father, when he saw thatthey did not seem likely to settle the matter among themselves, "Waittill to-morrow, and then play at cards for him. " Having said which heretired to his study, where he took a nightly glass of whisky and a pipeof tobacco. 

CHAPTER XI

The next morning saw Theobald in his rooms coaching a pupil, and the MissAllabys in the eldest Miss Allaby's bedroom playing at cards withTheobald for the stakes. 

The winner was Christina, the second unmarried daughter, then just twenty-seven years old and therefore four years older than Theobald. Theyounger sisters complained that it was throwing a husband away to letChristina try and catch him, for she was so much older that she had nochance; but Christina showed fight in a way not usual with her, for shewas by nature yielding and good tempered. Her mother thought it betterto back her up, so the two dangerous ones were packed off then and thereon visits to friends some way off, and those alone allowed to remain athome whose loyalty could be depended upon. The brothers did not evensuspect what was going on and believed their father's getting assistancewas because he really wanted it. 

The sisters who remained at home kept their words and gave Christina allthe help they could, for over and above their sense of fair play theyreflected that the sooner Theobald was landed, the sooner another deaconmight be sent for who might be won by themselves. So quickly was allmanaged that the two unreliable sisters were actually out of the housebefore Theobald's next visit--which was on the Sunday following hisfirst. 

This time Theobald felt quite at home in the house of his new friends--forso Mrs Allaby insisted that he should call them. She took, she said, such a motherly interest in young men, especially in clergymen. Theobaldbelieved every word she said, as he had believed his father and all hiselders from his youth up. Christina sat next him at dinner and playedher cards no less judiciously than she had played them in her sister'sbedroom. She smiled (and her smile was one of her strong points)whenever he spoke to her; she went through all her little artlessnessesand set forth all her little wares in what she believed to be their mosttaking aspect. Who can blame her? Theobald was not the ideal she haddreamed of when reading Byron upstairs with her sisters, but he was anactual within the bounds of possibility, and after all not a bad actualas actuals went. What else could she do? Run away? She dared not. Marry beneath her and be considered a disgrace to her family? She darednot. Remain at home and become an old maid and be laughed at? Not ifshe could help it. She did the only thing that could reasonably beexpected. She was drowning; Theobald might be only a straw, but shecould catch at him and catch at him she accordingly did. 

If the course of true love never runs smooth, the course of true match-making sometimes does so. The only ground for complaint in the presentcase was that it was rather slow. Theobald fell into the part assignedto him more easily than Mrs Cowey and Mrs Allaby had dared to hope. Hewas softened by Christina's winning manners: he admired the high moraltone of everything she said; her sweetness towards her sisters and herfather and mother, her readiness to undertake any small burden which noone else seemed willing to undertake, her sprightly manners, all werefascinating to one who, though unused to woman's society, was still ahuman being. He was flattered by her unobtrusive but obviously sincereadmiration for himself; she seemed to see him in a more favourable light, and to understand him better than anyone outside of this charming familyhad ever done. Instead of snubbing him as his father, brother andsisters did, she drew him out, listened attentively to all he chose tosay, and evidently wanted him to say still more. He told a collegefriend that he knew he was in love now; he really was, for he liked MissAllaby's society much better than that of his sisters. 

Over and above the recommendations already enumerated, she had another inthe possession of what was supposed to be a very beautiful contraltovoice. Her voice was certainly contralto, for she could not reach higherthan D in the treble; its only defect was that it did not gocorrespondingly low in the bass: in those days, however, a contraltovoice was understood to include even a soprano if the soprano could notreach soprano notes, and it was not necessary that it should have thequality which we now assign to contralto. What her voice wanted in rangeand power was made up in the feeling with which she sang. She hadtransposed "Angels ever bright and fair" into a lower key, so as to makeit suit her voice, thus proving, as her mamma said, that she had athorough knowledge of the laws of harmony; not only did she do this, butat every pause added an embellishment of arpeggios from one end to theother of the keyboard, on a principle which her governess had taught her;she thus added life and interest to an air which everyone--so shesaid--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 playthe overture to _Atalanta_, arranged by Mazzinghi. Nevertheless, it wassome time before Theobald could bring his courage to the sticking pointof actually proposing. He made it quite clear that he believed himselfto be much smitten, but month after month went by, during which there wasstill so much hope in Theobald that Mr Allaby dared not discover that hewas able to do his duty for himself, and was getting impatient at thenumber of half-guineas he was disbursing--and yet there was no proposal. Christina's mother assured him that she was the best daughter in thewhole world, and would be a priceless treasure to the man who marriedher. Theobald echoed Mrs Allaby's sentiments with warmth, but still, though he visited the Rectory two or three times a week, besides comingover on Sundays--he did not propose. "She is heart-whole yet, dear MrPontifex, " said Mrs Allaby, one day, "at least I believe she is. It isnot 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 wouldfall 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, andthe reader may guess what account of Christina he got from her. MrsCowey tried the jealousy manoeuvre and hinted at a possible rival. Theobald was, or pretended to be, very much alarmed; a little rudimentarypang of jealousy shot across his bosom and he began to believe with pridethat he was not only in love, but desperately in love or he would neverfeel so jealous. Nevertheless, day after day still went by and he didnot propose. 

The Allabys behaved with great judgement. They humoured him till hisretreat was practically cut off, though he still flattered himself thatit was open. One day about six months after Theobald had become analmost daily visitor at the Rectory the conversation happened to turnupon long engagements. "I don't like long engagements, Mr Allaby, doyou?" said Theobald imprudently. "No, " said Mr Allaby in a pointed tone, "nor long courtships, " and he gave Theobald a look which he could notpretend to misunderstand. He went back to Cambridge as fast as he couldgo, and in dread of the conversation with Mr Allaby which he felt to beimpending, composed the following letter which he despatched that sameafternoon by a private messenger to Crampsford. The letter was asfollows:--

 "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 that his public school and University education had beenable to do for Theobald! Nevertheless for his own part he thought hisletter rather a good one, and congratulated himself in particular uponhis cleverness in inventing the story of a previous attachment, behindwhich he intended to shelter himself if Christina should complain of anylack of fervour in his behaviour to her. 

I need not give Christina's answer, which of course was to accept. Muchas Theobald feared old Mr Allaby I do not think he would have wrought uphis courage to the point of actually proposing but for the fact of theengagement being necessarily a long one, during which a dozen thingsmight turn up to break it off. However much he may have disapproved oflong engagements for other people, I doubt whether he had any particularobjection to them in his own case. A pair of lovers are like sunset andsunrise: there are such things every day but we very seldom see them. Theobald posed as the most ardent lover imaginable, but, to use thevulgarism for the moment in fashion, it was all "side. " Christina was inlove, as indeed she had been twenty times already. But then Christinawas impressionable and could not even hear the name "Missolonghi"mentioned without bursting into tears. When Theobald accidentally lefthis sermon case behind him one Sunday, she slept with it in her bosom andwas forlorn when she had as it were to disgorge it on the followingSunday; but I do not think Theobald ever took so much as an oldtoothbrush of Christina's to bed with him. Why, I knew a young man oncewho got hold of his mistress's skates and slept with them for a fortnightand cried when he had to give them up. 

CHAPTER XII

Theobald's engagement was all very well as far as it went, but there wasan old gentleman with a bald head and rosy cheeks in a counting-house inPaternoster Row who must sooner or later be told of what his son had inview, and Theobald's heart fluttered when he asked himself what view thisold 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 andChristina, who helped him to draft the letter, thought to be everythingthat was filial, and expressed himself as anxious to be married with theleast possible delay. He could not help saying this, as Christina was athis shoulder, and he knew it was safe, for his father might be trustednot to help him. He wound up by asking his father to use any influencethat might be at his command to help him to get a living, inasmuch as itmight be years before a college living fell vacant, and he saw no otherchance of being able to marry, for neither he nor his intended had anymoney except Theobald's fellowship, which would, of course, lapse on histaking 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 whowas four years older than himself, afforded a golden opportunity whichthe old gentleman--for so I may now call him, as he was at leastsixty--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 young 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 Ineed not give, but throughout which the same tone prevails, and in all ofwhich there is the more or less obvious shake of the will near the end ofthe letter. Remembering Theobald's general dumbness concerning hisfather for the many years I knew him after his father's death, there wasan eloquence in the preservation of the letters and in their endorsement"Letters from my father, " which seemed to have with it some faint odourof health and nature. 

Theobald did not show his father's letter to Christina, nor, indeed, Ibelieve to anyone. He was by nature secretive, and had been repressedtoo much and too early to be capable of railing or blowing off steamwhere his father was concerned. His sense of wrong was stillinarticulate, felt as a dull dead weight ever present day by day, and ifhe woke at night-time still continually present, but he hardly knew whatit was. I was about the closest friend he had, and I saw but little ofhim, for I could not get on with him for long together. He said I had noreverence; whereas I thought that I had plenty of reverence for whatdeserved to be revered, but that the gods which he deemed golden were inreality made of baser metal. He never, as I have said, complained of hisfather to me, and his only other friends were, like himself, staid andprim, of evangelical tendencies, and deeply imbued with a sense of thesinfulness of any act of insubordination to parents--good young men, infact--and one cannot blow off steam to a good young man. 

When Christina was informed by her lover of his father's opposition, andof the time which must probably elapse before they could be married, sheoffered--with how much sincerity I know not--to set him free from hisengagement; but Theobald declined to be released--"not at least, " as hesaid, "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 inhis own good opinion. Dull as he was, he had no small share of quietself-approbation. He admired himself for his University distinction, forthe purity of his life (I said of him once that if he had only a bettertemper he would be as innocent as a new-laid egg) and for hisunimpeachable integrity in money matters. He did not despair ofadvancement in the Church when he had once got a living, and of course itwas within the bounds of possibility that he might one day become aBishop, and Christina said she felt convinced that this would ultimatelybe 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 thateven though an exalted position in this world were denied to her andTheobald, their virtues should be fully appreciated in the next. Herreligious opinions coincided absolutely with Theobald's own, and many aconversation did she have with him about the glory of God, and thecompleteness with which they would devote themselves to it, as soon asTheobald had got his living and they were married. So certain was she ofthe great results which would then ensue that she wondered at times atthe blindness shown by Providence towards its own truest interests in notkilling off the rectors who stood between Theobald and his living alittle faster. 

In those days people believed with a simple downrightness which I do notobserve among educated men and women now. It had never so much ascrossed Theobald's mind to doubt the literal accuracy of any syllable inthe Bible. He had never seen any book in which this was disputed, normet with anyone who doubted it. True, there was just a little scareabout geology, but there was nothing in it. If it was said that God madethe world in six days, why He did make it in six days, neither in morenor less; if it was said that He put Adam to sleep, took out one of hisribs 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 agarden, as it might be the garden at Crampsford Rectory during the summermonths when it was so pretty, only that it was larger, and had some tamewild animals in it. Then God came up to him, as it might be Mr Allaby orhis father, dexterously took out one of his ribs without waking him, andmiraculously healed the wound so that no trace of the operation remained. Finally, God had taken the rib perhaps into the greenhouse, and hadturned it into just such another young woman as Christina. That was howit was done; there was neither difficulty nor shadow of difficulty aboutthe matter. Could not God do anything He liked, and had He not in Hisown inspired Book told us that He had done this?

This was the average attitude of fairly educated young men and womentowards the Mosaic cosmogony fifty, forty, or even twenty years ago. Thecombating of infidelity, therefore, offered little scope for enterprisingyoung clergymen, nor had the Church awakened to the activity which shehas since displayed among the poor in our large towns. These were thenleft almost without an effort at resistance or co-operation to thelabours of those who had succeeded Wesley. Missionary work indeed inheathen countries was being carried on with some energy, but Theobald didnot feel any call to be a missionary. Christina suggested this to himmore than once, and assured him of the unspeakable happiness it would beto her to be the wife of a missionary, and to share his dangers; she andTheobald might even be martyred; of course they would be martyredsimultaneously, and martyrdom many years hence as regarded from thearbour in the Rectory garden was not painful, it would ensure them aglorious future in the next world, and at any rate posthumous renown inthis--even if they were not miraculously restored to life again--and suchthings had happened ere now in the case of martyrs. Theobald, however, had not been kindled by Christina's enthusiasm, so she fell back upon theChurch of Rome--an enemy more dangerous, if possible, than paganismitself. A combat with Romanism might even yet win for her and Theobaldthe crown of martyrdom. True, the Church of Rome was tolerably quietjust then, but it was the calm before the storm, of this she was assured, with a conviction deeper than she could have attained by any argumentfounded upon mere reason. 

"We, dearest Theobald, " she exclaimed, "will be ever faithful. We willstand firm and support one another even in the hour of death itself. Godin his mercy may spare us from being burnt alive. He may or may not doso. Oh Lord" (and she turned her eyes prayerfully to Heaven), "spare myTheobald, or grant that he may be beheaded. "

"My dearest, " said Theobald gravely, "do not let us agitate ourselvesunduly. If the hour of trial comes we shall be best prepared to meet itby having led a quiet unobtrusive life of self-denial and devotion toGod's glory. Such a life let us pray God that it may please Him toenable us to pray that we may lead. "

"Dearest Theobald, " exclaimed Christina, drying the tears that hadgathered in her eyes, "you are always, always right. Let us beself-denying, pure, upright, truthful in word and deed. " She clasped herhands and looked up to Heaven as she spoke. 

"Dearest, " rejoined her lover, "we have ever hitherto endeavoured to beall of these things; we have not been worldly people; let us watch andpray that we may so continue to the end. "

The moon had risen and the arbour was getting damp, so they adjournedfurther aspirations for a more convenient season. At other timesChristina pictured herself and Theobald as braving the scorn of almostevery human being in the achievement of some mighty task which shouldredound to the honour of her Redeemer. She could face anything for this. But always towards the end of her vision there came a little coronationscene high up in the golden regions of the Heavens, and a diadem was setupon her head by the Son of Man Himself, amid a host of angels andarchangels who looked on with envy and admiration--and here even Theobaldhimself was out of it. If there could be such a thing as the Mammon ofRighteousness Christina would have assuredly made friends with it. Herpapa and mamma were very estimable people and would in the course of timereceive Heavenly Mansions in which they would be exceedingly comfortable;so doubtless would her sisters; so perhaps, even might her brothers; butfor herself she felt that a higher destiny was preparing, which it washer duty never to lose sight of. The first step towards it would be hermarriage with Theobald. In spite, however, of these flights of religiousromanticism, Christina was a good-tempered kindly-natured girl enough, who, if she had married a sensible layman--we will say ahotel-keeper--would have developed into a good landlady and beendeservedly popular with her guests. 

Such was Theobald's engaged life. Many a little present passed betweenthe pair, and many a small surprise did they prepare pleasantly for oneanother. They never quarrelled, and neither of them ever flirted withanyone else. Mrs Allaby and his future sisters-in-law idolised Theobaldin spite of its being impossible to get another deacon to come and beplayed for as long as Theobald was able to help Mr Allaby, which now ofcourse he did free gratis and for nothing; two of the sisters, however, did manage to find husbands before Christina was actually married, and oneach occasion Theobald played the part of decoy elephant. In the endonly two out of the seven daughters remained single. 

After three or four years, old Mr Pontifex became accustomed to his son'sengagement and looked upon it as among the things which had now aprescriptive right to toleration. In the spring of 1831, more than fiveyears after Theobald had first walked over to Crampsford, one of the bestlivings in the gift of the College unexpectedly fell vacant, and was forvarious reasons declined by the two fellows senior to Theobald, who mighteach have been expected to take it. The living was then offered to andof course accepted by Theobald, being in value not less than 500 pounds ayear with a suitable house and garden. Old Mr Pontifex then came downmore handsomely than was expected and settled 10, 000 pounds on his sonand daughter-in-law for life with remainder to such of their issue asthey might appoint. In the month of July, 1831 Theobald and Christinabecame man and wife. 

CHAPTER XIII

A due number of old shoes had been thrown at the carriage in which thehappy pair departed from the Rectory, and it had turned the corner at thebottom of the village. It could then be seen for two or three hundredyards creeping past a fir coppice, and after this was lost to view. 

"John, " said Mr Allaby to his man-servant, "shut the gate;" and he wentindoors with a sigh of relief which seemed to say: "I have done it, and Iam alive. " This was the reaction after a burst of enthusiastic merrimentduring which the old gentleman had run twenty yards after the carriage tofling a slipper at it--which he had duly flung. 

But what were the feelings of Theobald and Christina when the village waspassed and they were rolling quietly by the fir plantation? It is atthis point that even the stoutest heart must fail, unless it beat in thebreast of one who is over head and ears in love. If a young man is in asmall boat on a choppy sea, along with his affianced bride and both aresea-sick, and if the sick swain can forget his own anguish in thehappiness of holding the fair one's head when she is at her worst--thenhe is in love, and his heart will be in no danger of failing him as hepasses his fir plantation. Other people, and unfortunately by far thegreater number of those who get married must be classed among the "otherpeople, " will inevitably go through a quarter or half an hour of greateror less badness as the case may be. Taking numbers into account, Ishould think more mental suffering had been undergone in the streetsleading from St George's, Hanover Square, than in the condemned cells ofNewgate. There is no time at which what the Italians call _la figliadella Morte_ lays her cold hand upon a man more awfully than during thefirst half hour that he is alone with a woman whom he has married butnever genuinely loved. 

Death's daughter did not spare Theobald. He had behaved very wellhitherto. When Christina had offered to let him go, he had stuck to hispost with a magnanimity on which he had plumed himself ever since. Fromthat time forward he had said to himself: "I, at any rate, am the verysoul of honour; I am not, " etc. , etc. True, at the moment of magnanimitythe actual cash payment, so to speak, was still distant; when his fathergave formal consent to his marriage things began to look more serious;when the college living had fallen vacant and been accepted they lookedmore serious still; but when Christina actually named the day, thenTheobald's heart fainted within him. 

The engagement had gone on so long that he had got into a groove, and theprospect of change was disconcerting. Christina and he had got on, hethought to himself, very nicely for a great number of years; why--why--whyshould they not continue to go on as they were doing now for the rest oftheir lives? But there was no more chance of escape for him than for thesheep which is being driven to the butcher's back premises, and like thesheep he felt that there was nothing to be gained by resistance, so hemade none. He behaved, in fact, with decency, and was declared on allhands to be one of the happiest men imaginable. 

Now, however, to change the metaphor, the drop had actually fallen, andthe poor wretch was hanging in mid air along with the creature of hisaffections. This creature was now thirty-three years old, and looked it:she had been weeping, and her eyes and nose were reddish; if "I have doneit and I am alive, " was written on Mr Allaby's face after he had thrownthe shoe, "I have done it, and I do not see how I can possibly live muchlonger" was upon the face of Theobald as he was being driven along by thefir Plantation. This, however, was not apparent at the Rectory. Allthat could be seen there was the bobbing up and down of the postilion'shead, which just over-topped the hedge by the roadside as he rose in hisstirrups, and the black and yellow body of the carriage. 

For some time the pair said nothing: what they must have felt duringtheir first half hour, the reader must guess, for it is beyond my powerto tell him; at the end of that time, however, Theobald had rummaged up aconclusion from some odd corner of his soul to the effect that now he andChristina were married the sooner they fell into their future mutualrelations the better. If people who are in a difficulty will only do thefirst little reasonable thing which they can clearly recognise asreasonable, they will always find the next step more easy both to see andtake. What, then, thought Theobald, was here at this moment the firstand most obvious matter to be considered, and what would be an equitableview of his and Christina's relative positions in respect to it? Clearlytheir first dinner was their first joint entry into the duties andpleasures of married life. No less clearly it was Christina's duty toorder 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 leftCrampsford on the road to Newmarket. He had breakfasted early, but hisusual appetite had failed him. They had left the vicarage at noonwithout staying for the wedding breakfast. Theobald liked an earlydinner; it dawned upon him that he was beginning to be hungry; from thisto the conclusion stated in the preceding paragraph the steps had beeneasy. After a few minutes' further reflection he broached the matter tohis 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 highesttension by the event of the morning. She wanted to escape observation;she was conscious of looking a little older than she quite liked to lookas a bride who had been married that morning; she feared the landlady, the chamber-maid, the waiter--everybody and everything; her heart beat sofast that she could hardly speak, much less go through the ordeal ofordering dinner in a strange hotel with a strange landlady. She beggedand 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 absurdexcuses. He was master now. Had not Christina less than two hours agopromised solemnly to honour and obey him, and was she turning restiveover such a trifle as this? The loving smile departed from his face, andwas succeeded by a scowl which that old Turk, his father, might haveenvied. "Stuff and nonsense, my dearest Christina, " he exclaimed mildly, and stamped his foot upon the floor of the carriage. "It is a wife'sduty to order her husband's dinner; you are my wife, and I shall expectyou 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 ofhis six years of unflagging devotion? Was it for this that whenChristina had offered to let him off, he had stuck to his engagement? Wasthis the outcome of her talks about duty and spiritual mindedness--thatnow upon the very day of her marriage she should fail to see that thefirst step in obedience to God lay in obedience to himself? He woulddrive back to Crampsford; he would complain to Mr and Mrs Allaby; hedidn't mean to have married Christina; he hadn't married her; it was alla hideous dream; he would--But a voice kept ringing in his ears whichsaid: "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 felthow iniquitous were the marriage laws of England. But he would buyMilton's prose works and read his pamphlet on divorce. He might perhapsbe able to get them at Newmarket. 

So the bride sat crying in one corner of the carriage; and the bridegroomsulked in the other, and he feared her as only a bridegroom can fear. 

Presently, however, a feeble voice was heard from the bride's cornersaying:

"Dearest Theobald--dearest Theobald, forgive me; I have been very, verywrong. Please do not be angry with me. I will order the--the--" but theword "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 burstof sobs checked the completion of the word. 

The load on Theobald's heart grew lighter and lighter. Was it possiblethat she might not be going to henpeck him after all? Besides, had shenot 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 andgreen peas, and then we will see if they could let us have a cherry tartand 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 alightedat the inn at Newmarket. 

Bravely did Christina go through her arduous task. Eagerly did shebeseech the landlady, in secret, not to keep her Theobald waiting longerthan was absolutely necessary. 

"If you have any soup ready, you know, Mrs Barber, it might save tenminutes, for we might have it while the fowl was browning. "

See how necessity had nerved her! But in truth she had a splittingheadache, 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 withhim. He had conquered in the first battle, and this gives greatprestige. How easy it had been too! Why had he never treated hissisters in this way? He would do so next time he saw them; he might intime be able to stand up to his brother John, or even his father. Thusdo we build castles in air when flushed with wine and conquest. 

The end of the honeymoon saw Mrs Theobald the most devotedly obsequiouswife in all England. According to the old saying, Theobald had killedthe cat at the beginning. It had been a very little cat, a mere kittenin fact, or he might have been afraid to face it, but such as it had beenhe had challenged it to mortal combat, and had held up its dripping headdefiantly before his wife's face. The rest had been easy. 

Strange that one whom I have described hitherto as so timid and easilyput upon should prove such a Tartar all of a sudden on the day of hismarriage. 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 beenJunior Dean. I never yet knew a man whose sense of his own importancedid not become adequately developed after he had held a residentfellowship for five or six years. True--immediately on arriving within aten mile radius of his father's house, an enchantment fell upon him, sothat his knees waxed weak, his greatness departed, and he again felthimself like an overgrown baby under a perpetual cloud; but then he wasnot often at Elmhurst, and as soon as he left it the spell was taken offagain; once more he became the fellow and tutor of his college, theJunior Dean, the betrothed of Christina, the idol of the Allabywomankind. From all which it may be gathered that if Christina had beena Barbary hen, and had ruffled her feathers in any show of resistanceTheobald would not have ventured to swagger with her, but she was not aBarbary hen, she was only a common hen, and that too with rather asmaller share of personal bravery than hens generally have. 

CHAPTER XIV

Battersby-On-The-Hill was the name of the village of which Theobald wasnow Rector. It contained 400 or 500 inhabitants, scattered over a ratherlarge area, and consisting entirely of farmers and agriculturallabourers. The Rectory was commodious, and placed on the brow of a hillwhich gave it a delightful prospect. There was a fair sprinkling ofneighbours within visiting range, but with one or two exceptions theywere the clergymen and clergymen's families of the surrounding villages. 

By these the Pontifexes were welcomed as great acquisitions to theneighbourhood. Mr Pontifex, they said was so clever; he had been seniorclassic and senior wrangler; a perfect genius in fact, and yet with somuch sound practical common sense as well. As son of such adistinguished man as the great Mr Pontifex the publisher he would comeinto a large property by-and-by. Was there not an elder brother? Yes, but there would be so much that Theobald would probably get somethingvery considerable. Of course they would give dinner parties. And MrsPontifex, what a charming woman she was; she was certainly not exactlypretty perhaps, but then she had such a sweet smile and her manner was sobright and winning. She was so devoted too to her husband and herhusband to her; they really did come up to one's ideas of what loversused to be in days of old; it was rare to meet with such a pair in thesedegenerate times; it was quite beautiful, etc. , etc. Such were thecomments of the neighbours on the new arrivals. 

As for Theobald's own parishioners, the farmers were civil and thelabourers and their wives obsequious. There was a little dissent, thelegacy of a careless predecessor, but as Mrs Theobald said proudly, "Ithink Theobald may be trusted to deal with _that_. " The church was thenan interesting specimen of late Norman, with some early Englishadditions. It was what in these days would be called in a very bad stateof repair, but forty or fifty years ago few churches were in good repair. If there is one feature more characteristic of the present generationthan 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 didnot restore them I know not. They certainly went all wrong afterConstantine'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 hefound scope for useful work in the rebuilding of Battersby church, whichhe carried out at considerable cost, towards which he subscribedliberally himself. He was his own architect, and this saved expense; butarchitecture was not very well understood about the year 1834, whenTheobald commenced operations, and the result is not as satisfactory asit would have been if he had waited a few years longer. 

Every man's work, whether it be literature or music or pictures orarchitecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself, and themore he tries to conceal himself the more clearly will his characterappear in spite of him. I may very likely be condemning myself, all thetime that I am writing this book, for I know that whether I like it or noI am portraying myself more surely than I am portraying any of thecharacters whom I set before the reader. I am sorry that it is so, but Icannot help it--after which sop to Nemesis I will say that Battersbychurch in its amended form has always struck me as a better portrait ofTheobald than any sculptor or painter short of a great master would beable to produce. 

I remember staying with Theobald some six or seven months after he wasmarried, 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 toaccompany his master on his return after having been cured of hisleprosy. I have carried away a more vivid recollection of this and ofthe people, than of Theobald's sermon. Even now I can see the men inblue smock frocks reaching to their heels, and more than one old woman ina scarlet cloak; the row of stolid, dull, vacant plough-boys, ungainly inbuild, uncomely in face, lifeless, apathetic, a race a good deal morelike the pre-revolution French peasant as described by Carlyle than ispleasant to reflect upon--a race now supplanted by a smarter, comelierand more hopeful generation, which has discovered that it too has a rightto as much happiness as it can get, and with clearer ideas about the bestmeans of getting it. 

They shamble in one after another, with steaming breath, for it iswinter, and loud clattering of hob-nailed boots; they beat the snow fromoff them as they enter, and through the opened door I catch a momentaryglimpse of a dreary leaden sky and snow-clad tombstones. Somehow orother I find the strain which Handel has wedded to the words "There theploughman near at hand, " has got into my head and there is no getting itout again. How marvellously old Handel understood these people!

They bob to Theobald as they passed the reading desk ("The peoplehereabouts are truly respectful, " whispered Christina to me, "they knowtheir betters. "), and take their seats in a long row against the wall. The choir clamber up into the gallery with their instruments--avioloncello, a clarinet and a trombone. I see them and soon I hear them, for there is a hymn before the service, a wild strain, a remnant, if Imistake not, of some pre-Reformation litany. I have heard what I believewas its remote musical progenitor in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paoloat 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 wavesare stirring, so that the emigrants gather on deck, and their plaintivepsalm goes forth upon the silver haze of the sky, and on the wildernessof a sea that has sighed till it can sigh no longer. Or it may be heardat some Methodist Camp Meeting upon a Welsh hillside, but in the churchesit is gone for ever. If I were a musician I would take it as the subjectfor the _adagio_ in a Wesleyan symphony. 

Gone now are the clarinet, the violoncello and the trombone, wildminstrelsy as of the doleful creatures in Ezekiel, discordant, butinfinitely pathetic. Gone is that scarebabe stentor, that bellowing bullof Bashan the village blacksmith, gone is the melodious carpenter, gonethe brawny shepherd with the red hair, who roared more lustily than all, until they came to the words, "Shepherds with your flocks abiding, " whenmodesty covered him with confusion, and compelled him to be silent, asthough his own health were being drunk. They were doomed and had apresentiment of evil, even when first I saw them, but they had still alittle lease of choir life remaining, and they roared out

 [wick-ed hands have pierced and nailed him, pierced and nailed him to a tree. ]

but no description can give a proper idea of the effect. When I was lastin Battersby church there was a harmonium played by a sweet-looking girlwith a choir of school children around her, and they chanted thecanticles to the most correct of chants, and they sang Hymns Ancient andModern; the high pews were gone, nay, the very gallery in which the oldchoir had sung was removed as an accursed thing which might remind thepeople of the high places, and Theobald was old, and Christina was lyingunder the yew trees in the churchyard. 

But in the evening later on I saw three very old men come chuckling outof a dissenting chapel, and surely enough they were my old friends theblacksmith, the carpenter and the shepherd. There was a look of contentupon their faces which made me feel certain they had been singing; notdoubtless with the old glory of the violoncello, the clarinet and thetrombone, but still songs of Sion and no new fangled papistry. 

CHAPTER XV

The hymn had engaged my attention; when it was over I had time to takestock of the congregation. They were chiefly farmers--fat, very well-to-do folk, who had come some of them with their wives and children fromoutlying farms two and three miles away; haters of popery and of anythingwhich any one might choose to say was popish; good, sensible fellows whodetested theory of any kind, whose ideal was the maintenance of the_status quo_ with perhaps a loving reminiscence of old war times, and asense of wrong that the weather was not more completely under theircontrol, who desired higher prices and cheaper wages, but otherwise weremost contented when things were changing least; tolerators, if notlovers, of all that was familiar, haters of all that was unfamiliar; theywould have been equally horrified at hearing the Christian religiondoubted, and at seeing it practised. 

"What can there be in common between Theobald and his parishioners?" saidChristina to me, in the course of the evening, when her husband was for afew moments absent. "Of course one must not complain, but I assure youit grieves me to see a man of Theobald's ability thrown away upon such aplace 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 shouldnot then have felt that we were living in such a desert; but I suppose itis for the best, " she added more cheerfully; "and then of course theBishop will come to us whenever he is in the neighbourhood, and if wewere at Gaysbury he might have gone to Lord D's. "

Perhaps I have now said enough to indicate the kind of place in whichTheobald's lines were cast, and the sort of woman he had married. As forhis own habits, I see him trudging through muddy lanes and over longsweeps of plover-haunted pastures to visit a dying cottager's wife. Hetakes her meat and wine from his own table, and that not a little onlybut liberally. According to his lights also, he administers what he ispleased 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 coldsweat all over. "

"Mrs Thompson, " says Theobald gravely, "you must have faith in theprecious blood of your Redeemer; it is He alone who can save you. "

"But are you sure, Sir, " says she, looking wistfully at him, "that Hewill forgive me--for I've not been a very good woman, indeed Ihaven't--and if God would only say 'Yes' outright with His mouth when Iask whether my sins are forgiven me--"

"But they _are_ forgiven you, Mrs Thompson, " says Theobald with somesternness, for the same ground has been gone over a good many timesalready, and he has borne the unhappy woman's misgivings now for a fullquarter of an hour. Then he puts a stop to the conversation by repeatingprayers taken from the "Visitation of the Sick, " and overawes the poorwretch from expressing further anxiety as to her condition. 

"Can't you tell me, Sir, " she exclaims piteously, as she sees that he ispreparing to go away, "can't you tell me that there is no Day ofJudgement, and that there is no such place as Hell? I can do without theHeaven, Sir, but I cannot do with the Hell. " Theobald is much shocked. 

"Mrs Thompson, " he rejoins impressively, "let me implore you to suffer nodoubt concerning these two cornerstones of our religion to cross yourmind at a moment like the present. If there is one thing more certainthan another it is that we shall all appear before the Judgement Seat ofChrist, and that the wicked will be consumed in a lake of everlastingfire. Doubt this, Mrs Thompson, and you are lost. "

The poor woman buries her fevered head in the coverlet in a paroxysm offear which at last finds relief in tears. 

"Mrs Thompson, " says Theobald, with his hand on the door, "composeyourself, be calm; you must please to take my word for it that at the Dayof 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 canfrom the fetid atmosphere of the cottage to the pure air outside. Oh, how thankful he is when the interview is over!

He returns home, conscious that he has done his duty, and administeredthe comforts of religion to a dying sinner. His admiring wife awaits himat the Rectory, and assures him that never yet was clergyman so devotedto the welfare of his flock. He believes her; he has a natural tendencyto believe everything that is told him, and who should know the facts ofthe case better than his wife? Poor fellow! He has done his best, butwhat does a fish's best come to when the fish is out of water? He hasleft meat and wine--that he can do; he will call again and will leavemore meat and wine; day after day he trudges over the same plover-hauntedfields, and listens at the end of his walk to the same agony offorebodings, which day after day he silences, but does not remove, tillat last a merciful weakness renders the sufferer careless of her future, and Theobald is satisfied that her mind is now peacefully at rest inJesus. 

CHAPTER XVI

He does not like this branch of his profession--indeed he hates it--butwill not admit it to himself. The habit of not admitting things tohimself has become a confirmed one with him. Nevertheless there hauntshim an ill defined sense that life would be pleasanter if there were nosick sinners, or if they would at any rate face an eternity of torturewith more indifference. He does not feel that he is in his element. Thefarmers look as if they were in their element. They are full-bodied, healthy and contented; but between him and them there is a great gulffixed. A hard and drawn look begins to settle about the corners of hismouth, so that even if he were not in a black coat and white tie a childmight know him for a parson. 

He knows that he is doing his duty. Every day convinces him of this morefirmly; but then there is not much duty for him to do. He is sadly inwant of occupation. He has no taste for any of those field sports whichwere not considered unbecoming for a clergyman forty years ago. He doesnot ride, nor shoot, nor fish, nor course, nor play cricket. Study, todo him justice, he had never really liked, and what inducement was therefor him to study at Battersby? He reads neither old books nor new ones. He does not interest himself in art or science or politics, but he setshis back up with some promptness if any of them show any developmentunfamiliar to himself. True, he writes his own sermons, but even hiswife 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 thepulpit. After breakfast he retires to his study; he cuts little bits outof the Bible and gums them with exquisite neatness by the side of otherlittle bits; this he calls making a Harmony of the Old and NewTestaments. Alongside the extracts he copies in the very perfection ofhand-writing extracts from Mede (the only man, according to Theobald, whoreally understood the Book of Revelation), Patrick, and other olddivines. He works steadily at this for half an hour every morning duringmany years, and the result is doubtless valuable. After some years havegone by he hears his children their lessons, and the daily oft-repeatedscreams that issue from the study during the lesson hours tell their ownhorrible story over the house. He has also taken to collecting a _hortussiccus_, and through the interest of his father was once mentioned in theSaturday Magazine as having been the first to find a plant, whose name Ihave forgotten, in the neighbourhood of Battersby. This number of theSaturday Magazine has been bound in red morocco, and is kept upon thedrawing-room table. He potters about his garden; if he hears a hencackling he runs and tells Christina, and straightway goes hunting forthe egg. 

When the two Miss Allabys came, as they sometimes did, to stay withChristina, they said the life led by their sister and brother-in-law wasan idyll. Happy indeed was Christina in her choice, for that she had hada choice was a fiction which soon took root among them--and happyTheobald in his Christina. Somehow or other Christina was always alittle shy of cards when her sisters were staying with her, though atother times she enjoyed a game of cribbage or a rubber of whist heartilyenough, but her sisters knew they would never be asked to Battersby againif they were to refer to that little matter, and on the whole it wasworth their while to be asked to Battersby. If Theobald's temper wasrather irritable he did not vent it upon them. 

By nature reserved, if he could have found someone to cook his dinner forhim, he would rather have lived in a desert island than not. In hisheart of hearts he held with Pope that "the greatest nuisance to mankindis man" or words to that effect--only that women, with the exceptionperhaps of Christina, were worse. Yet for all this when visitors calledhe put a better face on it than anyone who was behind the scenes wouldhave expected. 

He was quick too at introducing the names of any literary celebritieswhom he had met at his father's house, and soon established an all-roundreputation which satisfied even Christina herself. 

Who so _integer vitae scelerisque purus_, it was asked, as Mr Pontifex ofBattersby? Who so fit to be consulted if any difficulty about parishmanagement should arise? Who such a happy mixture of the sincereuninquiring Christian and of the man of the world? For so peopleactually 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 on the appointed day, and this is saying agood deal for any man. His constitutional timidity rendered himincapable of an attempt to overreach when there was the remotest chanceof opposition or publicity, and his correct bearing and somewhat sternexpression were a great protection to him against being overreached. Henever talked of money, and invariably changed the subject whenever moneywas introduced. His expression of unutterable horror at all kinds ofmeanness was a sufficient guarantee that he was not mean himself. Besideshe had no business transactions save of the most ordinary butcher's bookand baker's book description. His tastes--if he had any--were, as wehave seen, simple; he had 900 pounds a year and a house; theneighbourhood was cheap, and for some time he had no children to be adrag upon him. Who was not to be envied, and if envied why thenrespected, if Theobald was not enviable?

Yet I imagine that Christina was on the whole happier than her husband. She had not to go and visit sick parishioners, and the management of herhouse and the keeping of her accounts afforded as much occupation as shedesired. Her principal duty was, as she well said, to her husband--tolove him, honour him, and keep him in a good temper. To do her justiceshe fulfilled this duty to the uttermost of her power. It would havebeen better perhaps if she had not so frequently assured her husband thathe was the best and wisest of mankind, for no one in his little worldever dreamed of telling him anything else, and it was not long before heceased to have any doubt upon the matter. As for his temper, which hadbecome very violent at times, she took care to humour it on the slightestsign of an approaching outbreak. She had early found that this was muchthe easiest plan. The thunder was seldom for herself. Long before hermarriage even she had studied his little ways, and knew how to add fuelto the fire as long as the fire seemed to want it, and then to damp itjudiciously down, making as little smoke as possible. 

In money matters she was scrupulousness itself. Theobald made her aquarterly allowance for her dress, pocket money and little charities andpresents. In these last items she was liberal in proportion to herincome; indeed she dressed with great economy and gave away whatever wasover in presents or charity. Oh, what a comfort it was to Theobald toreflect that he had a wife on whom he could rely never to cost him asixpence of unauthorised expenditure! Letting alone her absolutesubmission, the perfect coincidence of her opinion with his own uponevery subject and her constant assurances to him that he was right ineverything which he took it into his head to say or do, what a tower ofstrength to him was her exactness in money matters! As years went by hebecame as fond of his wife as it was in his nature to be of any livingthing, and applauded himself for having stuck to his engagement--a pieceof virtue of which he was now reaping the reward. Even when Christinadid outrun her quarterly stipend by some thirty shillings or a couple ofpounds, it was always made perfectly clear to Theobald how the deficiencyhad arisen--there had been an unusually costly evening dress bought whichwas to last a long time, or somebody's unexpected wedding hadnecessitated a more handsome present than the quarter's balance wouldquite allow: the excess of expenditure was always repaid in the followingquarter or quarters even though it were only 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 regardsmoney. 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 feltthat a remonstrance had become imperative, and took advantage of hissilver wedding day to inform Christina that her indebtedness wascancelled, and at the same time to beg that she would endeavourhenceforth to equalise her expenditure and her income. She burst intotears of love and gratitude, assured him that he was the best and mostgenerous of men, and never during the remainder of her married life wasshe a single shilling behind hand. 

Christina hated change of all sorts no less cordially than her husband. She and Theobald had nearly everything in this world that they could wishfor; why, then, should people desire to introduce all sorts of changes ofwhich no one could foresee the end? Religion, she was deeply convinced, had long since attained its final development, nor could it enter intothe heart of reasonable man to conceive any faith more perfect than wasinculcated by the Church of England. She could imagine no position morehonourable than that of a clergyman's wife unless indeed it were abishop's. Considering his father's influence it was not at allimpossible that Theobald might be a bishop some day--and then--then wouldoccur to her that one little flaw in the practice of the Church ofEngland--a flaw not indeed in its doctrine, but in its policy, which shebelieved on the whole to be a mistaken one in this respect. I mean thefact that a bishop's wife does not take the rank of her husband. 

This had been the doing of Elizabeth, who had been a bad woman, ofexceeding doubtful moral character, and at heart a Papist to the last. Perhaps people ought to have been above mere considerations of worldlydignity, but the world was as it was, and such things carried weight withthem, whether they ought to do so or no. Her influence as plain MrsPontifex, wife, we will say, of the Bishop of Winchester, would no doubtbe considerable. Such a character as hers could not fail to carry weightif she were ever in a sufficiently conspicuous sphere for its influenceto be widely felt; but as Lady Winchester--or the Bishopess--which wouldsound quite nicely--who could doubt that her power for good would beenhanced? And it would be all the nicer because if she had a daughterthe daughter would not be a Bishopess unless indeed she were to marry aBishop too, which would not be likely. 

These were her thoughts upon her good days; at other times she would, todo her justice, have doubts whether she was in all respects asspiritually minded as she ought to be. She must press on, press on, tillevery enemy to her salvation was surmounted and Satan himself lay bruisedunder her feet. It occurred to her on one of these occasions that shemight steal a march over some of her contemporaries if she were to leaveoff eating black puddings, of which whenever they had killed a pig shehad hitherto partaken freely; and if she were also careful that no fowlswere served at her table which had had their necks wrung, but only suchas had had their throats cut and been allowed to bleed. St Paul and theChurch of Jerusalem had insisted upon it as necessary that even Gentileconverts should abstain from things strangled and from blood, and theyhad joined this prohibition with that of a vice about the abominablenature of which there could be no question; it would be well therefore toabstain in future and see whether any noteworthy spiritual result ensued. She did abstain, and was certain that from the day of her resolve she hadfelt stronger, purer in heart, and in all respects more spirituallyminded than she had ever felt hitherto. Theobald did not lay so muchstress on this as she did, but as she settled what he should have atdinner she could take care that he got no strangled fowls; as for blackpuddings, happily, he had seen them made when he was a boy, and had nevergot over his aversion for them. She wished the matter were one of moregeneral observance than it was; this was just a case in which as LadyWinchester she might have been able to do what as plain Mrs Pontifex itwas hopeless even to attempt. 

And thus this worthy couple jogged on from month to month and from yearto year. The reader, if he has passed middle life and has a clericalconnection, will probably remember scores and scores of rectors andrectors' wives who differed in no material respect from Theobald andChristina. Speaking from a recollection and experience extending overnearly eighty years from the time when I was myself a child in thenursery of a vicarage, I should say I had drawn the better rather thanthe worse side of the life of an English country parson of some fiftyyears ago. I admit, however, that there are no such people to be foundnowadays. A more united or, on the whole, happier, couple could not havebeen found in England. One grief only overshadowed the early years oftheir married life: I mean the fact that no living children were born tothem. 

CHAPTER XVII

In the course of time this sorrow was removed. At the beginning of thefifth year of her married life Christina 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 withreal pleasure. His son John's wife had borne daughters only, and he wasseriously uneasy lest there should be a failure in the male line of hisdescendants. The good news, therefore, was doubly welcome, and caused asmuch delight at Elmhurst as dismay in Woburn Square, where the JohnPontifexes were then living. 

Here, indeed, this freak of fortune was felt to be all the more cruel onaccount of the impossibility of resenting it openly; but the delightedgrandfather cared nothing for what the John Pontifexes might feel or notfeel; he had wanted a grandson and he had got a grandson, and this shouldbe enough for everybody; and, now that Mrs Theobald had taken to goodways, she might bring him more grandsons, which would be desirable, forhe 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 innervault where he kept his choicest wines. 

He passed many bins: there was 1803 Port, 1792 Imperial Tokay, 1800Claret, 1812 Sherry, these and many others were passed, but it was notfor them that the head of the Pontifex family had gone down into hisinner cellar. A bin, which had appeared empty until the full light ofthe candle had been brought to bear upon it, was now found to contain asingle pint bottle. This was the object of Mr Pontifex's search. 

Gelstrap had often pondered over this bottle. It had been placed thereby Mr Pontifex himself about a dozen years previously, on his return froma visit to his friend the celebrated traveller Dr Jones--but there was notablet above the bin which might give a clue to the nature of itscontents. On more than one occasion when his master had gone out andleft his keys accidentally behind him, as he sometimes did, Gelstrap hadsubmitted the bottle to all the tests he could venture upon, but it wasso carefully sealed that wisdom remained quite shut out from thatentrance at which he would have welcomed her most gladly--and indeed fromall other entrances, for he could make out nothing at all. 

And now the mystery was to be solved. But alas! it seemed as though thelast chance of securing even a sip of the contents was to be removed forever, for Mr Pontifex took the bottle into his own hands and held it upto the light after carefully examining the seal. He smiled and left thebin with the bottle in his hands. 

Then came a catastrophe. He stumbled over an empty hamper; there was thesound of a fall--a smash of broken glass, and in an instant the cellarfloor was covered with the liquid that had been preserved so carefullyfor so many years. 

With his usual presence of mind Mr Pontifex gasped out a month's warningto Gelstrap. Then he got up, and stamped as Theobald had done whenChristina had wanted not to order his dinner. 

"It's water from the Jordan, " he exclaimed furiously, "which I have beensaving for the baptism of my eldest grandson. Damn you, Gelstrap, howdare you be so infernally careless as to leave that hamper litteringabout the cellar?"

I wonder the water of the sacred stream did not stand upright as an heapupon the cellar floor and rebuke him. Gelstrap told the other servantsafterwards that his master's language had made his backbone curdle. 

The moment, however, that he heard the word "water, " he saw his wayagain, and flew to the pantry. Before his master had well noted hisabsence he returned with a little sponge and a basin, and had begunsopping up the waters of the Jordan as though they had been a commonslop. 

"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 bythe help of a piece of blotting paper and a funnel, under his own eyes. Eventually it was found that half a pint was saved, and this was held tobe sufficient. 

Then he made preparations for a visit to Battersby. He ordered goodlyhampers of the choicest eatables, he selected a goodly hamper of choicedrinkables. I say choice and not choicest, for although in his firstexaltation he had selected some of his very best wine, yet on reflectionhe had felt that there was moderation in all things, and as he wasparting with his best water from the Jordan, he would only send some ofhis second best wine. 

Before he went to Battersby he stayed a day or two in London, which henow seldom did, being over seventy years old, and having practicallyretired from business. The John Pontifexes, who kept a sharp eye on him, discovered to their dismay that he had had an interview with hissolicitors. 

CHAPTER XVIII

For the first time in his life Theobald felt that he had done somethingright, and could look forward to meeting his father without alarm. Theold gentleman, indeed, had written him a most cordial letter, announcinghis intention of standing godfather to the boy--nay, I may as well giveit 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 ready 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 Saltness (for Battersby was only fourteen or fifteen miles from the sea coast); 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 as well off as you may imagine. --Your affectionate father, "G. PONTIFEX. "

A few days afterwards the writer of the above letter made his appearancein a fly which had brought him from Gildenham to Battersby, a distance offourteen 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 roofand elsewhere. Next day the John Pontifexes had to come, and Eliza andMaria, as well as Alethea, who, by her own special request, was godmotherto the boy, for Mr Pontifex had decided that they were to form a happyfamily party; so come they all must, and be happy they all must, or itwould be the worse for them. Next day the author of all this hubbub wasactually christened. Theobald had proposed to call him George after oldMr Pontifex, but strange to say, Mr Pontifex over-ruled him in favour ofthe name Ernest. The word "earnest" was just beginning to come intofashion, and he thought the possession of such a name might, like hishaving been baptised in water from the Jordan, have a permanent effectupon the boy's character, and influence him for good during the morecritical periods of his life. 

I was asked to be his second godfather, and was rejoiced to have anopportunity of meeting Alethea, whom I had not seen for some few years, but with whom I had been in constant correspondence. She and I hadalways been friends from the time we had played together as childrenonwards. When the death of her grandfather and grandmother severed herconnection with Paleham my intimacy with the Pontifexes was kept up by myhaving been at school and college with Theobald, and each time I saw herI admired her more and more as the best, kindest, wittiest, most lovable, and, to my mind, handsomest woman whom I had ever seen. None of thePontifexes were deficient in good looks; they were a well-grown shapelyfamily enough, but Alethea was the flower of the flock even as regardsgood looks, while in respect of all other qualities that make a womanlovable, it seemed as though the stock that had been intended for thethree daughters, and would have been about sufficient for them, had allbeen allotted to herself, her sisters getting none, and she all. 

It is impossible for me to explain how it was that she and I nevermarried. We two knew exceedingly well, and that must suffice for thereader. There was the most perfect sympathy and understanding betweenus; we knew that neither of us would marry anyone else. I had asked herto marry me a dozen times over; having said this much I will say no moreupon a point which is in no way necessary for the development of mystory. For the last few years there had been difficulties in the way ofour meeting, and I had not seen her, though, as I have said, keeping up aclose correspondence with her. Naturally I was overjoyed to meet heragain; she was now just thirty years old, but I thought she lookedhandsomer than ever. 

Her father, of course, was the lion of the party, but seeing that we wereall meek and quite willing to be eaten, he roared to us rather than atus. It was a fine sight to see him tucking his napkin under his rosy oldgills, and letting it fall over his capacious waistcoat while the highlight from the chandelier danced about the bump of benevolence on hisbald old head like a star of Bethlehem. 

The soup was real turtle; the old gentleman was evidently well pleasedand he was beginning to come out. Gelstrap stood behind his master'schair. I sat next Mrs Theobald on her left hand, and was thus justopposite her father-in-law, whom I had every opportunity of observing. 

During the first ten minutes or so, which were taken up with the soup andthe bringing in of the fish, I should probably have thought, if I had notlong since made up my mind about him, what a fine old man he was and howproud his children should be of him; but suddenly as he was helpinghimself to lobster sauce, he flushed crimson, a look of extreme vexationsuffused his face, and he darted two furtive but fiery glances to the twoends of the table, one for Theobald and one for Christina. They, poorsimple souls, of course saw that something was exceedingly wrong, and sodid I, but I couldn't guess what it was till I heard the old man hiss inChristina's ear: "It was not made with a hen lobster. What's the use, "he continued, "of my calling the boy Ernest, and getting him christenedin water from the Jordan, if his own father does not know a cock from ahen lobster?"

This cut me too, for I felt that till that moment I had not so much asknown that there were cocks and hens among lobsters, but had vaguelythought that in the matter of matrimony they were even as the angels inheaven, and grew up almost spontaneously from rocks and sea-weed. 

Before the next course was over Mr Pontifex had recovered his temper, andfrom that time to the end of the evening he was at his best. He told usall about the water from the Jordan; how it had been brought by Dr Jonesalong with some stone jars of water from the Rhine, the Rhone, the Elbeand the Danube, and what trouble he had had with them at the CustomHouses, and how the intention had been to make punch with waters from allthe greatest rivers in Europe; and how he, Mr Pontifex, had saved theJordan water from going into the bowl, etc. , etc. "No, no, no, " hecontinued, "it wouldn't have done at all, you know; very profane idea; sowe each took a pint bottle of it home with us, and the punch was muchbetter without it. I had a narrow escape with mine, though, the otherday; I fell over a hamper in the cellar, when I was getting it up tobring to Battersby, and if I had not taken the greatest care the bottlewould certainly have been broken, but I saved it. " And Gelstrap wasstanding behind his chair all the time!

Nothing more happened to ruffle Mr Pontifex, so we had a delightfulevening, which has often recurred to me while watching the after careerof my godson. 

I called a day or two afterwards and found Mr Pontifex still atBattersby, laid up with one of those attacks of liver and depression towhich he was becoming more and more subject. I stayed to luncheon. Theold gentleman was cross and very difficult; he could eat nothing--had noappetite at all. Christina tried to coax him with a little bit of thefleshy part of a mutton chop. "How in the name of reason can I be askedto eat a mutton chop?" he exclaimed angrily; "you forget, my dearChristina, that you have to deal with a stomach that is totallydisorganised, " and he pushed the plate from him, pouting and frowninglike a naughty old child. Writing as I do by the light of a laterknowledge, I suppose I should have seen nothing in this but the world'sgrowing pains, the disturbance inseparable from transition in humanthings. I suppose in reality not a leaf goes yellow in autumn withoutceasing to care about its sap and making the parent tree veryuncomfortable by long growling and grumbling--but surely nature mightfind some less irritating way of carrying on business if she would giveher 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 twentythousand pounds each wrapped round us in Bank of England notes, and wakeup, as the sphex wasp does, to find that its papa and mamma have not onlyleft ample provision at its elbow, but have been eaten by sparrows someweeks before it began to live consciously on its own account?

About a year and a half afterwards the tables were turned onBattersby--for Mrs John Pontifex was safely delivered of a boy. A yearor so later still, George Pontifex was himself struck down suddenly by afit of paralysis, much as his mother had been, but he did not see theyears of his mother. When his will was opened, it was found that anoriginal bequest of 20, 000 pounds to Theobald himself (over and above thesum that had been settled upon him and Christina at the time of hismarriage) had been cut down to 17, 500 pounds when Mr Pontifex left"something" to Ernest. The "something" proved to be 2500 pounds, whichwas to accumulate in the hands of trustees. The rest of the propertywent to John Pontifex, except that each of the daughters was left withabout 15, 000 pounds over and above 5000 pounds a piece which theyinherited from their mother. 

Theobald's father then had told him the truth but not the whole truth. Nevertheless, what right had Theobald to complain? Certainly it wasrather hard to make him think that he and his were to be gainers, and getthe honour and glory of the bequest, when all the time the money wasvirtually being taken out of Theobald's own pocket. On the other handthe father doubtless argued that he had never told Theobald he was tohave anything at all; he had a full right to do what he liked with hisown money; if Theobald chose to indulge in unwarrantable expectationsthat was no affair of his; as it was he was providing for him liberally;and if he did take 2500 pounds of Theobald's share he was still leavingit to Theobald's son, which, of course, was much the same thing in theend. 

No one can deny that the testator had strict right upon his side;nevertheless the reader will agree with me that Theobald and Christinamight not have considered the christening dinner so great a success ifall the facts had been before them. Mr Pontifex had during his ownlifetime set up a monument in Elmhurst Church to the memory of his wife(a slab with urns and cherubs like illegitimate children of King Georgethe Fourth, and all the rest of it), and had left space for his ownepitaph underneath that of his wife. I do not know whether it waswritten by one of his children, or whether they got some friend to writeit for them. I do not believe that any satire was intended. I believethat it was the intention to convey that nothing short of the Day ofJudgement could give anyone an idea how good a man 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 thatthe 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 ofeither praise or dispraise. The last 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 XIX

This much, however, we may say in the meantime, that having lived to benearly seventy-three years old and died rich he must have been in veryfair harmony with his surroundings. I have heard it said sometimes thatsuch and such a person's life was a lie: but no man's life can be a verybad lie; as long as it continues at all it is at worst nine-tenths of ittrue. 

Mr Pontifex's life not only continued a long time, but was prosperousright up to the end. Is not this enough? Being in this world is it notour most obvious business to make the most of it--to observe what thingsdo _bona fide_ tend to long life and comfort, and to act accordingly? Allanimals, except man, know that the principal business of life is to enjoyit--and they do enjoy it as much as man and other circumstances willallow. He has spent his life best who has enjoyed it most; God will takecare that we do not enjoy it any more than is good for us. If MrPontifex is to be blamed it is for not having eaten and drunk less andthus suffered less from his liver, and lived perhaps a year or twolonger. 

Goodness is naught unless it tends towards old age and sufficiency ofmeans. I speak broadly and _exceptis excipiendis_. So the psalmistsays, "The righteous shall not lack anything that is good. " Either thisis mere poetical license, or it follows that he who lacks anything thatis good is not righteous; there is a presumption also that he who haspassed a long life without lacking anything that is good has himself alsobeen good enough for practical purposes. 

Mr Pontifex never lacked anything he much cared about. True, he mighthave been happier than he was if he had cared about things which he didnot care for, but the gist of this lies in the "if he had cared. " Wehave all sinned and come short of the glory of making ourselves ascomfortable as we easily might have done, but in this particular case MrPontifex did not care, and would not have gained much by getting what hedid not want. 

There is no casting of swine's meat before men worse than that whichwould flatter virtue as though her true origin were not good enough forher, but she must have a lineage, deduced as it were by spiritualheralds, from some stock with which she has nothing to do. Virtue's truelineage is older and more respectable than any that can be invented forher. She springs from man's experience concerning his own well-being--andthis, though not infallible, is still the least fallible thing we have. Asystem which cannot stand without a better foundation than this must havesomething so unstable within itself that it will topple over on whateverpedestal we place it. 

The world has long ago settled that morality and virtue are what bringmen peace at the last. "Be virtuous, " says the copy-book, "and you willbe happy. " Surely if a reputed virtue fails often in this respect it isonly an insidious form of vice, and if a reputed vice brings no veryserious mischief on a man's later years it is not so bad a vice as it issaid to be. Unfortunately though we are all of a mind about the mainopinion that virtue is what tends to happiness, and vice what ends insorrow, we are not so unanimous about details--that is to say as towhether any given course, such, we will say, as smoking, has a tendencyto happiness or the reverse. 

I submit it as the result of my own poor observation, that a good deal ofunkindness and selfishness on the part of parents towards children is notgenerally followed by ill consequences to the parents themselves. Theymay cast a gloom over their children's lives for many years withouthaving to suffer anything that will hurt them. I should say, then, thatit shows no great moral obliquity on the part of parents if withincertain limits they make their children's lives a burden to them. 

Granted that Mr Pontifex's was not a very exalted character, ordinary menare not required to have very exalted characters. It is enough if we areof the same moral and mental stature as the "main" or "mean" part ofmen--that is to say as the average. 

It is involved in the very essence of things that rich men who die oldshall have been mean. The greatest and wisest of mankind will be almostalways found to be the meanest--the ones who have kept the "mean" bestbetween excess either of virtue or vice. They hardly ever have beenprosperous if they have not done this, and, considering how many miscarryaltogether, it is no small feather in a man's cap if he has been no worsethan his neighbours. Homer tells us about some one who made it hisbusiness [Greek text]--always to excel and to stand higher than otherpeople. What an uncompanionable disagreeable person he must have been!Homer's heroes generally came to a bad end, and I doubt not that thisgentleman, whoever he was, did so sooner or later. 

A very high standard, again, involves the possession of rare virtues, andrare virtues are like rare plants or animals, things that have not beenable 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, neitherof which had with it anything of the other. This is not so. There is nouseful virtue which has not some alloy of vice, and hardly any vice, ifany, which carries not with it a little dash of virtue; virtue and viceare like life and death, or mind and matter--things which cannot existwithout being qualified by their opposite. The most absolute lifecontains death, and the corpse is still in many respects living; so alsoit has been said, "If thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is doneamiss, " which shows that even the highest ideal we can conceive will yetadmit so much compromise with vice as shall countenance the poor abusesof the time, if they are not too outrageous. That vice pays homage tovirtue is notorious; we call this hypocrisy; there should be a word foundfor the homage which virtue not unfrequently pays, or at any rate wouldbe wise in paying, to vice. 

I grant that some men will find happiness in having what we all feel tobe 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 ifthey find lofty Quixotism an expensive luxury, whose rewards belong to akingdom that is not of this world. They must not wonder if they cut apoor figure in trying to make the most of both worlds. Disbelieve as wemay the details of the accounts which record the growth of the Christianreligion, yet a great part of Christian teaching will remain as true asthough we accepted the details. We cannot serve God and Mammon; straitis the way and narrow is the gate which leads to what those who live byfaith hold to be best worth having, and there is no way of saying thisbetter than the Bible has done. It is well there should be some whothink thus, as it is well there should be speculators in commerce, whowill often burn their fingers--but it is not well that the majorityshould leave the "mean" and beaten path. 

For most men, and most circumstances, pleasure--tangible materialprosperity in this world--is the safest test of virtue. Progress hasever been through the pleasures rather than through the extreme sharpvirtues, and the most virtuous have leaned to excess rather than toasceticism. To use a commercial metaphor, competition is so keen, andthe margin of profits has been cut down so closely that virtue cannotafford to throw any _bona fide_ chance away, and must base her actionrather on the actual moneying out of conduct than on a flatteringprospectus. She will not therefore neglect--as some do who are prudentand economical enough in other matters--the important factor of ourchance of escaping detection, or at any rate of our dying first. Areasonable virtue will give this chance its due value, neither more norless. 

Pleasure, after all, is a safer guide than either right or duty. Forhard as it is to know what gives us pleasure, right and duty are oftenstill harder to distinguish and, if we go wrong with them, will lead usinto just as sorry a plight as a mistaken opinion concerning pleasure. When men burn their fingers through following after pleasure they findout their mistake and get to see where they have gone wrong more easilythan when they have burnt them through following after a fancied duty, ora fancied idea concerning right virtue. The devil, in fact, when hedresses himself in angel's clothes, can only be detected by experts ofexceptional skill, and so often does he adopt this disguise that it ishardly safe to be seen talking to an angel at all, and prudent peoplewill follow after pleasure as a more homely but more respectable and onthe whole much more trustworthy guide. 

Returning to Mr Pontifex, over and above his having lived long andprosperously, he left numerous offspring, to all of whom he communicatednot only his physical and mental characteristics, with no more than theusual amount of modification, but also no small share of characteristicswhich are less easily transmitted--I mean his pecuniary characteristics. It may be said that he acquired these by sitting still and letting moneyrun, as it were, right up against him, but against how many does notmoney run who do not take it when it does, or who, even if they hold itfor a little while, cannot so incorporate it with themselves that itshall descend through them to their offspring? Mr Pontifex did this. Hekept what he may be said to have made, and money is like a reputation forability--more easily made than kept. 

Take him, then, for all in all, I am not inclined to be so severe uponhim as my father was. Judge him according to any very lofty standard, and he is nowhere. Judge him according to a fair average standard, andthere is not much fault to be found with him. I have said what I havesaid in the foregoing chapter once for all, and shall not break my threadto repeat it. It should go without saying in modification of the verdictwhich the reader may be inclined to pass too hastily, not only upon MrGeorge Pontifex, but also upon Theobald and Christina. And now I willcontinue my story. 

CHAPTER XX

The birth of his son opened Theobald's eyes to a good deal which he hadbut faintly realised hitherto. He had had no idea how great a nuisance ababy was. Babies come into the world so suddenly at the end, and upseteverything so terribly when they do come: why cannot they steal in uponus with less of a shock to the domestic system? His wife, too, did notrecover rapidly from her confinement; she remained an invalid for months;here was another nuisance and an expensive one, which interfered with theamount which Theobald liked to put by out of his income against, as hesaid, a rainy day, or to make provision for his family if he should haveone. Now he was getting a family, so that it became all the morenecessary to put money by, and here was the baby hindering him. Theoristsmay say what they like about a man's children being a continuation of hisown identity, but it will generally be found that those who talk in thisway have no children of their own. Practical family men know better. 

About twelve months after the birth of Ernest there came a second, also aboy, who was christened Joseph, and in less than twelve monthsafterwards, a girl, to whom was given the name of Charlotte. A fewmonths before this girl was born Christina paid a visit to the JohnPontifexes in London, and, knowing her condition, passed a good deal oftime at the Royal Academy exhibition looking at the types of femalebeauty portrayed by the Academicians, for she had made up her mind thatthe child this time was to be a girl. Alethea warned her not to do this, but she persisted, and certainly the child turned out plain, but whetherthe pictures caused this or no I cannot say. 

Theobald had never liked children. He had always got away from them assoon as he could, and so had they from him; oh, why, he was inclined toask himself, could not children be born into the world grown up? IfChristina could have given birth to a few full-grown clergymen inpriest's orders--of moderate views, but inclining rather toEvangelicalism, with comfortable livings and in all respects facsimilesof Theobald himself--why, there might have been more sense in it; or ifpeople could buy ready-made children at a shop of whatever age and sexthey liked, instead of always having to make them at home and to begin atthe beginning with them--that might do better, but as it was he did notlike it. He felt as he had felt when he had been required to come and bemarried to Christina--that he had been going on for a long time quitenicely, and would much rather continue things on their present footing. In the matter of getting married he had been obliged to pretend he likedit; but times were changed, and if he did not like a thing now, he couldfind a hundred unexceptionable ways of making his dislike apparent. 

It might have been better if Theobald in his younger days had kicked moreagainst his father: the fact that he had not done so encouraged him toexpect the most implicit obedience from his own children. He could trusthimself, he said (and so did Christina), to be more lenient than perhapshis father had been to himself; his danger, he said (and so again didChristina), would be rather in the direction of being too indulgent; hemust be on his guard against this, for no duty could be more importantthan that of teaching a child to obey its parents in all things. 

He had read not long since of an Eastern traveller, who, while exploringsomewhere in the more remote parts of Arabia and Asia Minor, had comeupon a remarkably hardy, sober, industrious little Christiancommunity--all of them in the best of health--who had turned out to bethe actual living descendants of Jonadab, the son of Rechab; and two menin European costume, indeed, but speaking English with a broken accent, and by their colour evidently Oriental, had come begging to Battersbysoon afterwards, and represented themselves as belonging to this people;they had said they were collecting funds to promote the conversion oftheir fellow tribesmen to the English branch of the Christian religion. True, they turned out to be impostors, for when he gave them a pound andChristina five shillings from her private purse, they went and got drunkwith it in the next village but one to Battersby; still, this did notinvalidate the story of the Eastern traveller. Then there were theRomans--whose greatness was probably due to the wholesome authorityexercised by the head of a family over all its members. Some Romans hadeven killed their children; this was going too far, but then the Romanswere not Christians, and knew no better. 

The practical outcome of the foregoing was a conviction in Theobald'smind, and if in his, then in Christina's, that it was their duty to begintraining up their children in the way they should go, even from theirearliest infancy. The first signs of self-will must be carefully lookedfor, 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 inhis bosom. 

Before Ernest could well crawl he was taught to kneel; before he couldwell speak he was taught to lisp the Lord's prayer, and the generalconfession. How was it possible that these things could be taught tooearly? If his attention flagged or his memory failed him, here was anill 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 acupboard, or dock him of some of the small pleasures of childhood. Beforehe was three years old he could read and, after a fashion, write. Beforehe was four he was learning Latin, and could do rule of three sums. 

As for the child himself, he was naturally of an even temper, he dotedupon his nurse, on kittens and puppies, and on all things that would dohim the kindness of allowing him to be fond of them. He was fond of hismother, too, but as regards his father, he has told me in later life hecould remember no feeling but fear and shrinking. Christina did notremonstrate with Theobald concerning the severity of the tasks imposedupon their boy, nor yet as to the continual whippings that were foundnecessary at lesson times. Indeed, when during any absence of Theobald'sthe lessons were entrusted to her, she found to her sorrow that it wasthe only thing to do, and she did it no less effectually than Theobaldhimself, nevertheless she was fond of her boy, which Theobald never was, and it was long before she could destroy all affection for herself in themind of her first-born. But she persevered. 

CHAPTER XXI

Strange! for she believed she doted upon him, and certainly she loved himbetter than either of her other children. Her version of the matter wasthat there had never yet been two parents so self-denying and devoted tothe highest welfare of their children as Theobald and herself. ForErnest, a very great future--she was certain of it--was in store. Thismade severity all the more necessary, so that from the first he mighthave been kept pure from every taint of evil. She could not allowherself the scope for castle building which, we read, was indulged in byevery Jewish matron before the appearance of the Messiah, for the Messiahhad now come, but there was to be a millennium shortly, certainly notlater 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 wouldbear her witness that she had never shrunk from the idea of martyrdom forherself and Theobald, nor would she avoid it for her boy, if his life wasrequired of her in her Redeemer's service. Oh, no! If God told her tooffer up her first-born, as He had told Abraham, she would take him up toPigbury Beacon and plunge the--no, that she could not do, but it would beunnecessary--some one else might do that. It was not for nothing thatErnest had been baptised in water from the Jordan. It had not been herdoing, nor yet Theobald's. They had not sought it. When water from thesacred stream was wanted for a sacred infant, the channel had been foundthrough which it was to flow from far Palestine over land and sea to thedoor of the house where the child was lying. Why, it was a miracle! Itwas! It was! She saw it all now. The Jordan had left its bed andflowed into her own house. It was idle to say that this was not amiracle. No miracle was effected without means of some kind; thedifference between the faithful and the unbeliever consisted in the veryfact that the former could see a miracle where the latter could not. TheJews could see no miracle even in the raising of Lazarus and the feedingof the five thousand. The John Pontifexes would see no miracle in thismatter of the water from the Jordan. The essence of a miracle lay not inthe fact that means had been dispensed with, but in the adoption of meansto a great end that had not been available without interference; and noone would suppose that Dr Jones would have brought the water unless hehad been directed. She would tell this to Theobald, and get him to seeit in the . . . And yet perhaps it would be better not. The insight ofwomen upon matters of this sort was deeper and more unerring than that ofmen. It was a woman and not a man who had been filled most completelywith the whole fulness of the Deity. But why had they not treasured upthe water after it was used? It ought never, never to have been thrownaway, but it had been. Perhaps, however, this was for the best too--theymight have been tempted to set too much store by it, and it might havebecome a source of spiritual danger to them--perhaps even of spiritualpride, the very sin of all others which she most abhorred. As for thechannel through which the Jordan had flowed to Battersby, that matterednot 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 grewolder, still he was tainted with the world, till a very few hours, probably, before his death, whereas she and Theobald had given up all forChrist's sake. _They_ were not worldly. At least Theobald was not. Shehad been, but she was sure she had grown in grace since she had left offeating things strangled and blood--this was as the washing in Jordan asagainst Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus. Her boy should nevertouch a strangled fowl nor a black pudding--that, at any rate, she couldsee to. He should have a coral from the neighbourhood of Joppa--therewere coral insects on those coasts, so that the thing could easily bedone with a little energy; she would write to Dr Jones about it, etc. Andso on for hours together day after day for years. Truly, Mrs Theobaldloved her child according to her lights with an exceeding great fondness, but the dreams she had dreamed in sleep were sober realities incomparison 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 hadbegun to teach him. 

"It was painful, " as he said to Christina, but it was the only thing todo and it was done. The child was puny, white and sickly, so they sentcontinually for the doctor who dosed him with calomel and James's powder. All was done in love, anxiety, timidity, stupidity, and impatience. Theywere stupid in little things; and he that is stupid in little will bestupid also in much. 

Presently old Mr Pontifex died, and then came the revelation of thelittle alteration he had made in his will simultaneously with his bequestto Ernest. It was rather hard to bear, especially as there was no way ofconveying a bit of their minds to the testator now that he could nolonger hurt them. As regards the boy himself anyone must see that thebequest would be an unmitigated misfortune to him. To leave him a smallindependence was perhaps the greatest injury which one could inflict upona young man. It would cripple his energies, and deaden his desire foractive employment. Many a youth was led into evil courses by theknowledge that on arriving at majority he would come into a fewthousands. They might surely have been trusted to have their boy'sinterests 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 ofRechab's father--or perhaps it might be simpler under the circumstancesto say Rechab at once--if Rechab, then, had left handsome legacies to hisgrandchildren--why Jonadab might not have found those children so easy todeal with, etc. "My dear, " said Theobald, after having discussed thematter with Christina for the twentieth time, "my dear, the only thing toguide and console us under misfortunes of this kind is to take refuge inpractical work. I will go and pay a visit to Mrs Thompson. "

On those days Mrs Thompson would be told that her sins were all washedwhite, etc. , a little sooner and a little more peremptorily than onothers. 

CHAPTER XXII

I used to stay at Battersby for a day or two sometimes, while my godsonand his brother and sister were children. I hardly know why I went, forTheobald and I grew more and more apart, but one gets into groovessometimes, and the supposed friendship between myself and the Pontifexescontinued to exist, though it was now little more than rudimentary. Mygodson pleased me more than either of the other children, but he had notmuch of the buoyancy of childhood, and was more like a puny, sallowlittle old man than I liked. The young people, however, were very readyto be friendly. 

I remember Ernest and his brother hovered round me on the first day ofone of these visits with their hands full of fading flowers, which theyat length proffered me. On this I did what I suppose was expected: Iinquired if there was a shop near where they could buy sweeties. Theysaid there was, so I felt in my pockets, but only succeeded in findingtwo pence halfpenny in small money. This I gave them, and theyoungsters, aged four and three, toddled off alone. Ere long theyreturned, and Ernest said, "We can't get sweeties for all this money" (Ifelt rebuked, but no rebuke was intended); "we can get sweeties for this"(showing a penny), "and for this" (showing another penny), "but we cannotget them for all this, " and he added the halfpenny to the two pence. Isuppose they had wanted a twopenny cake, or something like that. I wasamused, and left them to solve the difficulty their own way, beinganxious to see what they would do. 

Presently Ernest said, "May we give you back this" (showing thehalfpenny) "and not give you back this and this?" (showing the pence). Iassented, and they gave a sigh of relief and went on their way rejoicing. A few more presents of pence and small toys completed the conquest, andthey began to take me into their confidence. 

They told me a good deal which I am afraid I ought not to have listenedto. They said that if grandpapa had lived longer he would most likelyhave been made a Lord, and that then papa would have been the Honourableand Reverend, but that grandpapa was now in heaven singing beautifulhymns 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 beafraid of dying for he would go straight to heaven, if he would only besorry for having done his lessons so badly and vexed his dear papa, andif he would promise never, never to vex him any more; and that when hegot to heaven grandpapa and grandmamma Allaby would meet him, and hewould be always with them, and they would be very good to him and teachhim to sing ever such beautiful hymns, more beautiful by far than thosewhich he was now so fond of, etc. , etc. ; but he did not wish to die, andwas glad when he got better, for there were no kittens in heaven, and hedid not think there were cowslips to make cowslip tea with. 

Their mother was plainly disappointed in them. "My children are none ofthem geniuses, Mr Overton, " she said to me at breakfast one morning. "They have fair abilities, and, thanks to Theobald's tuition, they areforward for their years, but they have nothing like genius: genius is athing apart from this, is it not?"

Of course I said it was "a thing quite apart from this, " but if mythoughts had been laid bare, they would have appeared as "Give me mycoffee immediately, ma'am, and don't talk nonsense. " I have no idea whatgenius is, but so far as I can form any conception about it, I should sayit was a stupid word which cannot be too soon abandoned to scientific andliterary _claqueurs_. 

I do not know exactly what Christina expected, but I should imagine itwas something like this: "My children ought to be all geniuses, becausethey 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, andif 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 arenot. As for genius--hoity-toity, indeed--why, a genius should turnintellectual summersaults as soon as it is born, and none of my childrenhave yet been able to get into the newspapers. I will not have childrenof mine give themselves airs--it is enough for them that Theobald and Ishould do so. "

She did not know, poor woman, that the true greatness wears an invisiblecloak, under cover of which it goes in and out among men without beingsuspected; if its cloak does not conceal it from itself always, and fromall others for many years, its greatness will ere long shrink to veryordinary dimensions. What, then, it may be asked, is the good of beinggreat? The answer is that you may understand greatness better in others, whether alive or dead, and choose better company from these and enjoy andunderstand that company better when you have chosen it--also that you maybe able to give pleasure to the best people and live in the lives ofthose who are yet unborn. This, one would think, was substantial gainenough for greatness without its wanting to ride rough-shod over us, evenwhen disguised as humility. 

I was there on a Sunday, and observed the rigour with which the youngpeople were taught to observe the Sabbath; they might not cut out things, nor use their paintbox on a Sunday, and this they thought rather hard, because their cousins the John Pontifexes might do these things. Theircousins might play with their toy train on Sunday, but though they hadpromised that they would run none but Sunday trains, all traffic had beenprohibited. One treat only was allowed them--on Sunday evenings theymight choose their own hymns. 

In the course of the evening they came into the drawing-room, and, as anespecial treat, were to sing some of their hymns to me, instead of sayingthem, so that I might hear how nicely they sang. Ernest was to choosethe first hymn, and he chose one about some people who were to come tothe sunset tree. I am no botanist, and do not know what kind of tree asunset tree is, but the words began, "Come, come, come; come to thesunset tree for the day is past and gone. " The tune was rather prettyand had taken Ernest's fancy, for he was unusually fond of music and hada sweet little child's voice which he liked using. 

He was, however, very late in being able to sound a hard it "c" or "k, "and, instead of saying "Come, " he said "Tum tum, tum. "

"Ernest, " said Theobald, from the arm-chair in front of the fire, wherehe was sitting with his hands folded before him, "don't you think itwould be very nice if you were to say 'come' like other people, insteadof '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 isthat they are as much bored with the day as their neighbours, or whetherthey are tired, or whatever the cause may be, clergymen are seldom attheir best on Sunday evening; I had already seen signs that evening thatmy host was cross, and was a little nervous at hearing Ernest say sopromptly "I do say tum, " when his papa had said he did not say it as heshould. 

Theobald noticed the fact that he was being contradicted in a moment. Hegot up from his arm-chair 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 hethought it was, but it was not. 

"Now, Ernest, you are not taking pains: you are not trying as you oughtto do. It is high time you learned to say 'come, ' why, Joey can say'come, ' can't you, Joey?"

"Yeth, I can, " replied Joey, and he said something which was not far off"come. "

"There, Ernest, do you hear that? There's no difficulty about it, norshadow of difficulty. Now, take your own time, think about it, and say'come' after me. "

The boy remained silent a few seconds and then said "tum" again. 

I laughed, but Theobald turned to me impatiently and said, "Please do notlaugh, Overton; it will make the boy think it does not matter, and itmatters a great deal;" then turning to Ernest he said, "Now, Ernest, Iwill give you one more chance, and if you don't say 'come, ' I shall knowthat you are self-willed and naughty. "

He looked very angry, and a shade came over Ernest's face, like thatwhich comes upon the face of a puppy when it is being scolded withoutunderstanding why. The child saw well what was coming now, wasfrightened, and, of course, said "tum" once more. 

"Very well, Ernest, " said his father, catching him angrily by theshoulder. "I have done my best to save you, but if you will have it so, you will, " and he lugged the little wretch, crying by anticipation, outof the room. A few minutes more and we could hear screams coming fromthe dining-room, across the hall which separated the drawing-room fromthe 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 toprayers, " and he rang the bell for them, red-handed as he was. 

CHAPTER XXIII

The man-servant William came and set the chairs for the maids, andpresently they filed in. First Christina's maid, then the cook, then thehousemaid, then William, and then the coachman. I sat opposite them, andwatched their faces as Theobald read a chapter from the Bible. They werenice people, but more absolute vacancy I never saw upon the countenancesof human beings. 

Theobald began by reading a few verses from the Old Testament, accordingto some system of his own. On this occasion the passage came from thefifteenth chapter of Numbers: it had no particular bearing that I couldsee upon anything which was going on just then, but the spirit whichbreathed throughout the whole seemed to me to be so like that of Theobaldhimself, that I could understand better after hearing it, how he came tothink as he thought, and act as he acted. 

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 commandments, 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 spake 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 ribband of blue. 

 "And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye 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 revertedto 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 uptheir abode in the roof of the house under the slates, and had multipliedso that the drawing-room was a good deal frequented by these bees duringthe summer, when the windows were open. The drawing-room paper was of apattern which consisted of bunches of red and white roses, and I sawseveral 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 theone that was nearest the ceiling, then they went down bunch by bunch asthey had ascended, till they were stopped by the back of the sofa; onthis they ascended bunch by bunch to the ceiling again; and so on, and soon till I was tired of watching them. As I thought of the family prayersbeing repeated night and morning, week by week, month by month, and yearby year, I could nor help thinking how like it was to the way in whichthe bees went up the wall and down the wall, bunch by bunch, without eversuspecting that so many of the associated ideas could be present, and yetthe main idea be wanting hopelessly, and for ever. 

When Theobald had finished reading we all knelt down and the Carlo Dolciand the Sassoferrato looked down upon a sea of upturned backs, as weburied our faces in our chairs. I noted that Theobald prayed that wemight be made "truly honest and conscientious" in all our dealings, andsmiled at the introduction of the "truly. " Then my thoughts ran back tothe bees and I reflected that after all it was perhaps as well at anyrate for Theobald that our prayers were seldom marked by any veryencouraging degree of response, for if I had thought there was theslightest chance of my being heard I should have prayed that some onemight ere long treat him as he had treated Ernest. 

Then my thoughts wandered on to those calculations which people makeabout waste of time and how much one can get done if one gives tenminutes a day to it, and I was thinking what improper suggestion I couldmake in connection with this and the time spent on family prayers whichshould at the same time be just tolerable, when I heard Theobaldbeginning "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ" and in a few seconds theceremony 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 littleashamed of the transaction to which I had been a witness, imprudentlyreturned to it, and began to justify it, saying that it cut her to theheart, and that it cut Theobald to the heart and a good deal more, butthat "it was the only thing to be done. "

I received this as coldly as I decently could, and by my silence duringthe 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 shouldlike to take some new-laid eggs back with me, so Theobald took me to thehouse of a labourer in the village who lived a stone's throw from theRectory as being likely to supply me with them. Ernest, for some reasonor other, was allowed to come too. I think the hens had begun to sit, but at any rate eggs were scarce, and the cottager's wife could not findme more than seven or eight, which we proceeded to wrap up in separatepieces of paper so that I might take them to town safely. 

This operation was carried on upon the ground in front of the cottagedoor, and while we were in the midst of it the cottager's little boy, alad much about Ernest's age, trod upon one of the eggs that was wrappedup in paper and broke it. 

"There now, Jack, " said his mother, "see what you've done, you've brokena nice egg and cost me a penny--Here, Emma, " she added, calling herdaughter, "take the child away, there's a dear. "

Emma came at once, and walked off with the youngster, taking him out ofharm's way. 

"Papa, " said Ernest, after we had left the house, "Why didn't Mrs Heatonwhip Jack when he trod on the egg?"

I was spiteful enough to give Theobald a grim smile which said as plainlyas words could have done that I thought Ernest had hit him rather hard. 

Theobald coloured and looked angry. "I dare say, " he said quickly, "thathis 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 thematter dropped, but Theobald did not forget it and my visits to Battersbywere henceforth less frequent. 

On our return to the house we found the postman had arrived and hadbrought a letter appointing Theobald to a rural deanery which had latelyfallen vacant by the death of one of the neighbouring clergy who had heldthe office for many years. The bishop wrote to Theobald most warmly, andassured him that he valued him as among the most hard-working and devotedof his parochial clergy. Christina of course was delighted, and gave meto understand that it was only an instalment of the much higher dignitieswhich 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 inafter years to be bound up together; if I had, I should doubtless havelooked upon him with different eyes and noted much to which I paid noattention at the time. As it was, I was glad to get away from him, for Icould do nothing for him, or chose to say that I could not, and the sightof so much suffering was painful to me. A man should not only have hisown way as far as possible, but he should only consort with things thatare getting their own way so far that they are at any rate comfortable. Unless for short times under exceptional circumstances, he should noteven see things that have been stunted or starved, much less should heeat meat that has been vexed by having been over-driven or underfed, orafflicted with any disease; nor should he touch vegetables that have notbeen well grown. For all these things cross a man; whatever a man comesin contact with in any way forms a cross with him which will leave himbetter or worse, and the better things he is crossed with the more likelyhe is to live long and happily. All things must be crossed a little orthey would cease to live--but holy things, such for example as GiovanniBellini's saints, have been crossed with nothing but what is good of itskind, CHAPTER XXIV

The storm which I have described in the previous chapter was a sample ofthose 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, andthe thunder and lightning were upon the young people before they knewwhere they were. 

"And then, you know, " said Ernest to me, when I asked him not long sinceto give me more of his childish reminiscences for the benefit of mystory, "we used to learn Mrs Barbauld's hymns; they were in prose, andthere was one about the lion which began, 'Come, and I will show you whatis 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 thecattle 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 aboutmy father himself when I got a little older, but they were alwaysdidactic, and said it was naughty of me. 

"One great reason why clergymen's households are generally unhappy isbecause the clergyman is so much at home or close about the house. Thedoctor is out visiting patients half his time: the lawyer and themerchant have offices away from home, but the clergyman has no officialplace of business which shall ensure his being away from home for manyhours together at stated times. Our great days were when my father wentfor a day's shopping to Gildenham. We were some miles from this place, and commissions used to accumulate on my father's list till he would makea day of it and go and do the lot. As soon as his back was turned theair 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 uponus again. The worst of it was that I could never trust Joey andCharlotte; they would go a good way with me and then turn back, or eventhe whole way and then their consciences would compel them to tell papaand mamma. They liked running with the hare up to a certain point, buttheir instinct was towards the hounds. 

"It seems to me, " he continued, "that the family is a survival of theprinciple which is more logically embodied in the compound animal--andthe compound animal is a form of life which has been found incompatiblewith high development. I would do with the family among mankind whatnature has done with the compound animal, and confine it to the lower andless progressive races. Certainly there is no inherent love for thefamily system on the part of nature herself. Poll the forms of life andyou will find it in a ridiculously small minority. The fishes know itnot, and they get along quite nicely. The ants and the bees, who faroutnumber man, sting their fathers to death as a matter of course, andare given to the atrocious mutilation of nine-tenths of the offspringcommitted to their charge, yet where shall we find communities moreuniversally respected? Take the cuckoo again--is there any bird which welike better?"

I saw he was running off from his own reminiscences and tried to bringhim back to them, but it was no use. 

"What a fool, " he said, "a man is to remember anything that happened morethan a week ago unless it was pleasant, or unless he wants to make someuse of it. 

"Sensible people get the greater part of their own dying done duringtheir own lifetime. A man at five and thirty should no more regret nothaving had a happier childhood than he should regret not having been borna prince of the blood. He might be happier if he had been more fortunatein childhood, but, for aught he knows, if he had, something else mighthave happened which might have killed him long ago. If I had to be bornagain I would be born at Battersby of the same father and mother asbefore, and I would not alter anything that has ever happened to me. "

The most amusing incident that I can remember about his childhood wasthat when he was about seven years old he told me he was going to have anatural child. I asked him his reasons for thinking this, and heexplained that papa and mamma had always told him that nobody hadchildren till they were married, and as long as he had believed this ofcourse he had had no idea of having a child, till he was grown up; butnot long since he had been reading Mrs Markham's history of England andhad come upon the words "John of Gaunt had several natural children" hehad therefore asked his governess what a natural child was--were not allchildren natural?

"Oh, my dear, " said she, "a natural child is a child a person has beforehe is married. " On this it seemed to follow logically that if John ofGaunt had had children before he was married, he, Ernest Pontifex, mighthave them also, and he would be obliged to me if I would tell him what hehad better do under the circumstances. 

I enquired how long ago he had made this discovery. He said about afortnight, and he did not know where to look for the child, for it mightcome at any moment. "You know, " he said, "babies come so suddenly; onegoes to bed one night and next morning there is a baby. Why, it mightdie of cold if we are not on the look-out for it. I hope it will be aboy. "

"And you have told your governess about this?"

"Yes, but she puts me off and does not help me: she says it will not comefor many years, and she hopes not then. "

"Are you quite sure that you have not made any mistake in all this?"

"Oh, no; because Mrs Burne, you know, called here a few days ago, and Iwas sent for to be looked at. And mamma held me out at arm's length andsaid, '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 childrenhimself. I did think the gentleman had all the boys and the lady all thegirls; but it can't be like this, or else mamma would not have asked MrsBurne 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 'ofcourse': it seemed as though I was right in thinking that the husband hasall the boys and the wife all the girls; I wish you would explain to meall about it. "

This I could hardly do, so I changed the conversation, after reassuringhim as best I could. 

CHAPTER XXV

Three or four years after the birth of her daughter, Christina had hadone more child. She had never been strong since she married, and had apresentiment that she should not survive this last confinement. Sheaccordingly wrote the following letter, which was to be given, as sheendorsed upon it, to her sons when Ernest was sixteen years old. Itreached him on his mother's death many years later, for it was the babywho died now, and not Christina. It was found among papers which she hadrepeatedly and carefully arranged, with the seal already broken. This, Iam afraid, shows that Christina had read it and thought it too creditableto be destroyed when the occasion that had called it forth had gone by. It is as follows--

 "BATTERSBY, March 15th, 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, 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 for ever 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 almost his 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 is 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 motherswrite letters like this shortly before their confinements, and that fiftyper cent. Keep them afterwards, as Christina did. 

CHAPTER XXVI

The foregoing letter shows how much greater was Christina's anxiety forthe eternal than for the temporal welfare of her sons. One would havethought 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 happyin this world are better and more lovable people than those who are not, and that thus in the event of a Resurrection and Day of Judgement, theywill be the most likely to be deemed worthy of a heavenly mansion. Perhaps a dim unconscious perception of this was the reason why Christinawas so anxious for Theobald's earthly happiness, or was it merely due toa conviction that his eternal welfare was so much a matter of course, that it only remained to secure his earthly happiness? He was to "findhis sons obedient, affectionate, attentive to his wishes, self-denyingand diligent, " a goodly string forsooth of all the virtues mostconvenient to parents; he was never to have to blush for the follies ofthose "who owed him such a debt of gratitude, " and "whose first duty itwas to study his happiness. " How like maternal solicitude is this!Solicitude for the most part lest the offspring should come to havewishes and feelings of its own, which may occasion many 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 weobserve that Christina had a sufficiently keen appreciation of the dutiesof children towards their parents, and felt the task of fulfilling themadequately to be so difficult that she was very doubtful how far Ernestand Joey would succeed in mastering it. It is plain in fact that hersupposed parting glance upon them was one of suspicion. But there was nosuspicion of Theobald; that he should have devoted his life to hischildren--why this was such a mere platitude, as almost to go withoutsaying. 

How, let me ask, was it possible that a child only a little past fiveyears old, trained in such an atmosphere of prayers and hymns and sumsand happy Sunday evenings--to say nothing of daily repeated beatings overthe said prayers and hymns, etc. , about which our authoress is silent--howwas it possible that a lad so trained should grow up in any healthy orvigorous development, even though in her own way his mother wasundoubtedly very fond of him, and sometimes told him stories? Can theeye of any reader fail to detect the coming wrath of God as about todescend upon the head of him who should be nurtured under the shadow ofsuch a letter as the foregoing?

I have often thought that the Church of Rome does wisely in not allowingher priests to marry. Certainly it is a matter of common observation inEngland that the sons of clergymen are frequently unsatisfactory. Theexplanation is very simple, but is so often lost sight of that I mayperhaps be pardoned for giving it here. 

The clergyman is expected to be a kind of human Sunday. Things must notbe done in him which are venial in the week-day classes. He is paid forthis business of leading a stricter life than other people. It is his_raison d'etre_. If his parishioners feel that he does this, theyapprove of him, for they look upon him as their own contribution towardswhat they deem a holy life. This is why the clergyman is so often calleda vicar--he being the person whose vicarious goodness is to stand forthat of those entrusted to his charge. But his home is his castle asmuch as that of any other Englishman, and with him, as with others, unnatural tension in public is followed by exhaustion when tension is nolonger necessary. His children are the most defenceless things he canreach, and it is on them in nine cases out of ten that he will relievehis mind. 

A clergyman, again, can hardly ever allow himself to look facts fairly inthe face. It is his profession to support one side; it is impossible, therefore, for him to make an unbiassed examination of the other. 

We forget that every clergyman with a living or curacy, is as much a paidadvocate as the barrister who is trying to persuade a jury to acquit aprisoner. We should listen to him with the same suspense of judgment, the same full consideration of the arguments of the opposing counsel, asa judge does when he is trying a case. Unless we know these, and canstate them in a way that our opponents would admit to be a fairrepresentation of their views, we have no right to claim that we haveformed an opinion at all. The misfortune is that by the law of the landone side only can be heard. 

Theobald and Christina were no exceptions to the general rule. When theycame to Battersby they had every desire to fulfil the duties of theirposition, and to devote themselves to the honour and glory of God. Butit was Theobald's duty to see the honour and glory of God through theeyes of a Church which had lived three hundred years without findingreason to change a single one of its opinions. 

I should doubt whether he ever got as far as doubting the wisdom of hisChurch upon any single matter. His scent for possible mischief wastolerably keen; so was Christina's, and it is likely that if either ofthem detected in him or herself the first faint symptoms of a want offaith they were nipped no less peremptorily in the bud, than signs ofself-will in Ernest were--and I should imagine more successfully. YetTheobald considered himself, and was generally considered to be, andindeed perhaps was, an exceptionally truthful person; indeed he wasgenerally looked upon as an embodiment of all those virtues which makethe poor respectable and the rich respected. In the course of time heand his wife became persuaded even to unconsciousness, that no one couldeven dwell under their roof without deep cause for thankfulness. Theirchildren, their servants, their parishioners must be fortunate _ipsofacto_ that they were theirs. There was no road to happiness here orhereafter, but the road that they had themselves travelled, no goodpeople who did not think as they did upon every subject, and noreasonable person who had wants the gratification of which would beinconvenient to them--Theobald and Christina. 

This was how it came to pass that their children were white and puny;they were suffering from _home-sickness_. They were starving, throughbeing 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 ofpeople in this world, those who sin, and those who are sinned against; ifa man must belong to either, he had better belong to the first than tothe second. 

CHAPTER XXVII

I will give no more of the details of my hero's earlier years. Enoughthat he struggled through them, and at twelve years old knew every pageof his Latin and Greek Grammars by heart. He had read the greater partof Virgil, Horace and Livy, and I do not know how many Greek plays: hewas proficient in arithmetic, knew the first four books of Euclidthoroughly, and had a fair knowledge of French. It was now time he wentto school, and to school he was accordingly to go, under the famous DrSkinner of Roughborough. 

Theobald had known Dr Skinner slightly at Cambridge. He had been aburning and a shining light in every position he had filled from hisboyhood upwards. He was a very great genius. Everyone knew this; theysaid, indeed, that he was one of the few people to whom the word geniuscould be applied without exaggeration. Had he not taken I don't know howmany University Scholarships in his freshman's year? Had he not beenafterwards Senior Wrangler, First Chancellor's Medallist and I do notknow how many more things besides? And then, he was such a wonderfulspeaker; 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 manygeniuses were weak--was absolutely irreproachable; foremost of all, however, among his many great qualities, and perhaps more remarkable eventhan his genius was what biographers have called "the simple-minded andchild-like earnestness of his character, " an earnestness which might beperceived by the solemnity with which he spoke even about trifles. It ishardly necessary to say he was on the Liberal side in politics. 

His personal appearance was not particularly prepossessing. He was aboutthe middle height, portly, and had a couple of fierce grey eyes, thatflashed fire from beneath a pair of great bushy beetling eyebrows andoverawed all who came near him. It was in respect of his personalappearance, however, that, if he was vulnerable at all, his weak placewas to be found. His hair when he was a young man was red, but after hehad taken his degree he had a brain fever which caused him to have hishead shaved; when he reappeared, he did so wearing a wig, and one whichwas a good deal further off red than his own hair had been. He not onlyhad never discarded his wig, but year by year it had edged itself alittle 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 head-mastership of Roughborough Grammar School had fallen vacant, andhe had been unhesitatingly appointed. The result justified theselection. Dr Skinner's pupils distinguished themselves at whicheverUniversity they went to. He moulded their minds after the model of hisown, and stamped an impression upon them which was indelible in after-life; whatever else a Roughborough man might be, he was sure to makeeveryone feel that he was a God-fearing earnest Christian and a Liberal, if not a Radical, in politics. Some boys, of course, were incapable ofappreciating the beauty and loftiness of Dr Skinner's nature. Some suchboys, alas! there will be in every school; upon them Dr Skinner's handwas very properly a heavy one. His hand was against them, and theirsagainst him during the whole time of the connection between them. Theynot only disliked him, but they hated all that he more especiallyembodied, and throughout their lives disliked all that reminded them ofhim. Such boys, however, were in a minority, the spirit of the placebeing decidedly Skinnerian. 

I once had the honour of playing a game of chess with this great man. Itwas during the Christmas holidays, and I had come down to Roughboroughfor a few days to see Alethea Pontifex (who was then living there) onbusiness. It was very gracious of him to take notice of me, for if I wasa light of literature at all it was of the very lightest kind. 

It is 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 thosetheatres that devoted themselves to extravaganza and burlesque. I hadwritten 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 treatmentof English history during the Reformation period, in the course of whichI had introduced Cranmer, Sir Thomas More, Henry the Eighth, Catherine ofArragon, and Thomas Cromwell (in his youth better known as the _MalleusMonachorum_), and had made them dance a break-down. I had alsodramatised "The Pilgrim's Progress" for a Christmas Pantomime, and madean important scene of Vanity Fair, with Mr Greatheart, Apollyon, Christiana, Mercy, and Hopeful as the principal characters. Theorchestra played music taken from Handel's best known works, but the timewas a good deal altered, and altogether the tunes were not exactly asHandel left them. Mr Greatheart was very stout and he had a red nose; hewore a capacious waistcoat, and a shirt with a huge frill down the middleof the front. Hopeful was up to as much mischief as I could give him; hewore the costume of a young swell of the period, and had a cigar in hismouth which was continually going out. 

Christiana did not wear much of anything: indeed it was said that thedress which the Stage Manager had originally proposed for her had beenconsidered inadequate even by the Lord Chamberlain, but this is not thecase. With all these delinquencies upon my mind it was natural that Ishould feel convinced of sin while playing chess (which I hate) with thegreat Dr Skinner of Roughborough--the historian of Athens and editor ofDemosthenes. Dr Skinner, moreover, was one of those who pride themselveson being able to set people at their ease at once, and I had been sittingon the edge of my chair all the evening. But I have always been veryeasily 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 forsupper, Dr Skinner?" said Mrs Skinner in a silvery voice. 

He made no answer for some time, but at last in a tone of almostsuperhuman solemnity, he said, first, "Nothing, " and then "Nothingwhatever. "

By and by, however, I had a sense come over me as though I were nearerthe consummation of all things than I had ever yet been. The room seemedto grow dark, as an expression came over Dr Skinner's face, which showedthat he was about to speak. The expression gathered force, the room grewdarker and darker. "Stay, " he at length added, and I felt that here atany 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 ofbread 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 wasconcluded, and the universe this time was safe. 

Another ten minutes of solemn silence finished the game. The Doctor rosebriskly from his seat and placed himself at the supper table. "MrsSkinner, " he exclaimed jauntily, "what are those mysterious-lookingobjects 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 ofminced veal nicely browned, some apple tart, and a hunk of bread andcheese. This was the small piece of bread and butter. 

The cloth was now removed and tumblers with teaspoons in them, a lemon ortwo and a jug of boiling water were placed upon the table. Then thegreat man unbent. His face beamed. 

"And what shall it be to drink?" he exclaimed persuasively. "Shall it bebrandy and water? No. It shall be gin and water. Gin is the morewholesome liquor. "

So gin it was, hot and stiff too. 

Who can wonder at him or do anything but pity him? Was he nothead-master of Roughborough School? To whom had he owed money at anytime? Whose ox had he taken, whose ass had he taken, or whom had hedefrauded? What whisper had ever been breathed against his moralcharacter? If he had become rich it was by the most honourable of allmeans--his literary attainments; over and above his great works ofscholarship, his "Meditations upon the Epistle and Character of St Jude"had placed him among the most popular of English theologians; it was soexhaustive that no one who bought it need ever meditate upon the subjectagain--indeed it exhausted all who had anything to do with it. He hadmade 5000 pounds by this work alone, and would very likely make another5000 pounds before he died. A man who had done all this and wanted apiece of bread and butter had a right to announce the fact with some pompand circumstance. Nor should his words be taken without searching forwhat he used to call a "deeper and more hidden meaning. " Those whosearched for this even in his lightest utterances would not be withouttheir reward. They would find that "bread and butter" was Skinnerese foroyster-patties and apple tart, and "gin hot" the true translation ofwater. 

But independently of their money value, his works had made him a lastingname in literature. So probably Gallio was under the impression that hisfame would rest upon the treatises on natural history which we gatherfrom Seneca that he compiled, and which for aught we know may havecontained a complete theory of evolution; but the treatises are all goneand Gallio has become immortal for the very last reason in the world thathe expected, and for the very last reason that would have flattered hisvanity. He has become immortal because he cared nothing about the mostimportant movement with which he was ever brought into connection (I wishpeople who are in search of immortality would lay the lesson to heart andnot make so much noise about important movements), and so, if Dr Skinnerbecomes immortal, it will probably be for some reason very different fromthe one which he so fondly imagined. 

Could it be expected to enter into the head of such a man as this that inreality he was making his money by corrupting youth; that it was his paidprofession to make the worse appear the better reason in the eyes ofthose 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 teachmaterial points of the argument, for the production of which they had aright to rely upon the honour of anyone who made professions ofsincerity; that he was a passionate half-turkey-cock half-gander of a manwhose 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 cribbedwithout acknowledgment, and would have been beneath contempt if so manypeople did not believe them to have been written honestly? Mrs Skinnermight have perhaps kept him a little more in his proper place if she hadthought it worth while to try, but she had enough to attend to in lookingafter her household and seeing that the boys were well fed and, if theywere ill, properly looked after--which she took good care they were. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Ernest had heard awful accounts of Dr Skinner's temper, and of thebullying which the younger boys at Roughborough had to put up with at thehands of the bigger ones. He had now got about as much as he couldstand, and felt as though it must go hard with him if his burdens ofwhatever kind were to be increased. He did not cry on leaving home, butI am afraid he did on being told that he was getting near Roughborough. His father and mother were with him, having posted from home in their owncarriage; Roughborough had as yet no railway, and as it was only someforty miles from Battersby, this was the easiest way of getting there. 

On seeing him cry, his mother felt flattered and caressed him. She saidshe knew he must feel very sad at leaving such a happy home, and goingamong 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 washerself, if he only knew it, much more deserving of pity than he was, forthe parting was more painful to her than it could possibly be to him, etc. , and Ernest, on being told that his tears were for grief at leavinghome, took it all on trust, and did not trouble to investigate the realcause of his tears. As they approached Roughborough he pulled himselftogether, and was fairly calm by the time he reached Dr Skinner's. 

On their arrival they had luncheon with the Doctor and his wife, and thenMrs Skinner took Christina over the bedrooms, and showed her where herdear little boy was to sleep. 

Whatever men may think about the study of man, women do really believethe noblest study for womankind to be woman, and Christina was too muchengrossed with Mrs Skinner to pay much attention to anything else; Idaresay Mrs Skinner, too, was taking pretty accurate stock of Christina. Christina was charmed, as indeed she generally was with any newacquaintance, for she found in them (and so must we all) something of thenature of a cross; as for Mrs Skinner, I imagine she had seen too manyChristinas to find much regeneration in the sample now before her; Ibelieve her private opinion echoed the dictum of a well-known head-masterwho declared that all parents were fools, but more especially mothers;she was, however, all smiles and sweetness, and Christina devoured thesegraciously as tributes paid more particularly to herself, and such as noother mother would have been at all likely to have won. 

In the meantime Theobald and Ernest were with Dr Skinner in hislibrary--the room where new boys were examined and old ones had up forrebuke or chastisement. If the walls of that room could speak, what anamount of blundering and capricious cruelty would they not bear witnessto!

Like all houses, Dr Skinner's had its peculiar smell. In this case theprevailing odour was one of Russia leather, but along with it there was asubordinate savour as of a chemist's shop. This came from a smalllaboratory in one corner of the room--the possession of which, togetherwith the free chattery and smattery use of such words as "carbonate, ""hyposulphite, " "phosphate, " and "affinity, " were enough to convince eventhe most sceptical that Dr Skinner had a profound knowledge of chemistry. 

I may say in passing that Dr Skinner had dabbled in a great many otherthings as well as chemistry. He was a man of many small knowledges, andeach of them dangerous. I remember Alethea Pontifex once said in herwicked way to me, that Dr Skinner put her in mind of the Bourbon princeson their return from exile after the battle of Waterloo, only that he wastheir exact converse; for whereas they had learned nothing and forgottennothing, Dr Skinner had learned everything and forgotten everything. Andthis 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 thewisdom of the dove. 

But to return to Dr Skinner's library; over the chimney-piece there was aBishop's half length portrait of Dr Skinner himself, painted by the elderPickersgill, whose merit Dr Skinner had been among the first to discernand foster. There were no other pictures in the library, but in thedining-room there was a fine collection, which the doctor had gottogether with his usual consummate taste. He added to it largely inlater life, and when it came to the hammer at Christie's, as it did notlong since, it was found to comprise many of the latest and most maturedworks of Solomon Hart, O'Neil, Charles Landseer, and more of our recentAcademicians than I can at the moment remember. There were thus broughttogether and exhibited at one view many works which had attractedattention at the Academy Exhibitions, and as to whose ultimate destinythere had been some curiosity. The prices realised were disappointing tothe executors, but, then, these things are so much a matter of chance. Anunscrupulous writer in a well-known weekly paper had written thecollection down. Moreover there had been one or two large sales a shorttime 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 allkinds were confusedly mixed up with them, --boys' exercises, probably, andexamination papers--but all littering untidily about. The room in factwas as depressing from its slatternliness as from its atmosphere oferudition. Theobald and Ernest as they entered it, stumbled over a largehole in the Turkey carpet, and the dust that rose showed how long it wassince it had been taken up and beaten. This, I should say, was no faultof Mrs Skinner's but was due to the Doctor himself, who declared that ifhis papers were once disturbed it would be the death of him. Near thewindow was a green cage containing a pair of turtle doves, whoseplaintive cooing added to the melancholy of the place. The walls werecovered with book shelves from floor to ceiling, and on every shelf thebooks stood in double rows. It was horrible. Prominent among the mostprominent upon the most prominent shelf were a series of splendidly boundvolumes entitled "Skinner's Works. "

Boys are sadly apt to rush to conclusions, and Ernest believed that DrSkinner knew all the books in this terrible library, and that he, if hewere to be any good, should have to learn them too. His heart faintedwithin him. 

He was told to sit on a chair against the wall and did so, while DrSkinner talked to Theobald upon the topics of the day. He talked aboutthe Hampden Controversy then raging, and discoursed learnedly about"Praemunire"; then he talked about the revolution which had just brokenout in Sicily, and rejoiced that the Pope had refused to allow foreigntroops to pass through his dominions in order to crush it. Dr Skinnerand the other masters took in the Times among them, and Dr Skinner echoedthe _Times_' leaders. In those days there were no penny papers andTheobald only took in the _Spectator_--for he was at that time on theWhig side in politics; besides this he used to receive the_Ecclesiastical Gazette_ once a month, but he saw no other papers, andwas amazed at the ease and fluency with which Dr Skinner ran from subjectto subject. 

The Pope's action in the matter of the Sicilian revolution naturally ledthe Doctor to the reforms which his Holiness had introduced into hisdominions, and he laughed consumedly over the joke which had not longsince appeared in _Punch_, to the effect that Pio "No, No, " should ratherhave been named Pio "Yes, Yes, " because, as the doctor explained, hegranted everything his subjects asked for. Anything like a pun wentstraight to Dr Skinner's heart. 

Then he went on to the matter of these reforms themselves. They openedup a new era in the history of Christendom, and would have such momentousand far-reaching consequences, that they might even lead to areconciliation between the Churches of England and Rome. Dr Skinner hadlately published a pamphlet upon this subject, which had shown greatlearning, and had attacked the Church of Rome in a way which did notpromise much hope of reconciliation. He had grounded his attack upon theletters A. M. D. G. , which he had seen outside a Roman Catholic chapel, andwhich of course stood for _Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem_. Could anything bemore idolatrous?

I am told, by the way, that I must have let my memory play me one of thetricks it often does play me, when I said the Doctor proposed _Ad MariamDei Genetricem_ as the full harmonies, so to speak, which should beconstructed upon the bass A. M. D. G. , for that this is bad Latin, and thatthe doctor really harmonised the letters thus: _Ave Maria Dei Genetrix_. No doubt the doctor did what was right in the matter of Latinity--I haveforgotten the little Latin I ever knew, and am not going to look thematter up, but I believe the doctor said _Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem_, andif so we may be sure that _Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem_, is good enoughLatin at any rate for ecclesiastical purposes. 

The reply of the local priest had not yet appeared, and Dr Skinner wasjubilant, but when the answer appeared, and it was solemnly declared thatA. M. D. G. Stood for nothing more dangerous than _Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam_, it was felt that though this subterfuge would not succeed with anyintelligent Englishman, still it was a pity Dr Skinner had selected thisparticular point for his attack, for he had to leave his enemy inpossession of the field. When people are left in possession of thefield, spectators have an awkward habit of thinking that their adversarydoes not dare to come to the scratch. 

Dr Skinner was telling Theobald all about his pamphlet, and I doubtwhether this gentleman was much more comfortable than Ernest himself. Hewas bored, for in his heart he hated Liberalism, though he was ashamed tosay so, and, as I have said, professed to be on the Whig side. He didnot want to be reconciled to the Church of Rome; he wanted to make allRoman Catholics turn Protestants, and could never understand why theywould 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, thathe had to let him have it all his own way, and this was not what he wasaccustomed to. He was wondering how he could bring it to an end, when adiversion was created by the discovery that Ernest had begun tocry--doubtless through an intense but inarticulate sense of a boredomgreater than he could bear. He was evidently in a highly nervous state, and a good deal upset by the excitement of the morning, Mrs Skinnertherefore, who came in with Christina at this juncture, proposed that heshould spend the afternoon with Mrs Jay, the matron, and not beintroduced to his young companions until the following morning. Hisfather and mother now bade him an affectionate farewell, and the lad washanded over to Mrs Jay. 

O schoolmasters--if any of you read this book--bear in mind when anyparticularly timid drivelling urchin is brought by his papa into yourstudy, and you treat him with the contempt which he deserves, andafterwards make his life a burden to him for years--bear in mind that itis exactly in the disguise of such a boy as this that your futurechronicler will appear. Never see a wretched little heavy-eyed mitesitting on the edge of a chair against your study wall without saying toyourselves, "perhaps this boy is he who, if I am not careful, will oneday tell the world what manner of man I was. " If even two or threeschoolmasters learn this lesson and remember it, the preceding chapterswill not have been written in vain. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Soon after his father and mother had left him Ernest dropped asleep overa book which Mrs Jay had given him, and he did not awake till dusk. Thenhe sat down on a stool in front of the fire, which showed pleasantly inthe late January twilight, and began to muse. He felt weak, feeble, illat ease and unable to see his way out of the innumerable troubles thatwere before him. Perhaps, he said to himself, he might even die, butthis, far from being an end of his troubles, would prove the beginning ofnew ones; for at the best he would only go to Grandpapa Pontifex andGrandmamma Allaby, and though they would perhaps be more easy to get onwith than Papa and Mamma, yet they were undoubtedly not so really good, and were more worldly; moreover they were grown-up people--especiallyGrandpapa Pontifex, who so far as he could understand had been very muchgrown-up, and he did not know why, but there was always something thatkept him from loving any grown-up people very much--except one or two ofthe servants, who had indeed been as nice as anything that he couldimagine. Besides even if he were to die and go to Heaven he supposed heshould 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 manythings which were and were not to come to pass. Times have changed sinceI last showed them to the reader as sitting together silently in acarriage, but except as regards their mutual relations, they have alteredsingularly little. When I was younger I used to think the Prayer Bookwas wrong in requiring us to say the General Confession twice a week fromchildhood to old age, without making provision for our not being quitesuch great sinners at seventy as we had been at seven; granted that weshould go to the wash like table-cloths at least once a week, still Iused to think a day ought to come when we should want rather less rubbingand scrubbing at. Now that I have grown older myself I have seen thatthe Church has estimated probabilities better than I had done. 

The pair said not a word to one another, but watched the fading light andnaked trees, the brown fields with here and there a melancholy cottage bythe road side, and the rain that fell fast upon the carriage windows. Itwas a kind of afternoon on which nice people for the most part like to besnug at home, and Theobald was a little snappish at reflecting how manymiles 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 theroadside objects flit by them, and get greyer and grimmer as the lightfaded. 

Though they spoke not to one another, there was one nearer to each ofthem with whom they could converse freely. "I hope, " said Theobald tohimself, "I hope he'll work--or else that Skinner will make him. I don'tlike Skinner, I never did like him, but he is unquestionably a man ofgenius, and no one turns out so many pupils who succeed at Oxford andCambridge, and that is the best test. I have done my share towardsstarting him well. Skinner said he had been well grounded and was veryforward. I suppose he will presume upon it now and do nothing, for hisnature is an idle one. He is not fond of me, I'm sure he is not. Heought to be after all the trouble I have taken with him, but he isungrateful and selfish. It is an unnatural thing for a boy not to befond 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 ofmy way whenever he sees me coming near him. He will not stay fiveminutes in the same room with me if he can help it. He is deceitful. Hewould 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 upextravagant. I am sure he will grow up extravagant. I should have givenhim more pocket-money if I had not known this--but what is the good ofgiving him pocket-money? It is all gone directly. If he doesn't buysomething with it he gives it away to the first little boy or girl hesees who takes his fancy. He forgets that it's my money he is givingaway. I give him money that he may have money and learn to know itsuses, not that he may go and squander it immediately. I wish he was notso fond of music, it will interfere with his Latin and Greek. I willstop it as much as I can. Why, when he was translating Livy the otherday he slipped out Handel's name in mistake for Hannibal's, and hismother tells me he knows half the tunes in the 'Messiah' by heart. Whatshould a boy of his age know about the 'Messiah'? If I had shown half asmany dangerous tendencies when I was a boy, my father would haveapprenticed 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 himthat if the little Egyptians had been anything like Ernest, the plaguemust have been something very like a blessing in disguise. If theIsraelites were to come to England now he should be greatly tempted notto let them go. 

Mrs Theobald's thoughts ran in a different current. "Lord Lonsford'sgrandson--it's a pity his name is Figgins; however, blood is blood asmuch through the female line as the male, indeed, perhaps even more so ifthe truth were known. I wonder who Mr Figgins was. I think Mrs Skinnersaid he was dead, however, I must find out all about him. It would bedelightful if young Figgins were to ask Ernest home for the holidays. Whoknows but he might meet Lord Lonsford himself, or at any rate some ofLord Lonsford's other descendants?"

Meanwhile the boy himself was still sitting moodily before the fire inMrs Jay's room. "Papa and Mamma, " he was saying to himself, "are muchbetter and cleverer than anyone else, but, I, alas! shall never be eithergood or clever. "

Mrs Pontifex continued--

"Perhaps it would be best to get young Figgins on a visit to ourselvesfirst. That would be charming. Theobald would not like it, for he doesnot like children; I must see how I can manage it, for it would be sonice to have young Figgins--or stay! Ernest shall go and stay withFiggins and meet the future Lord Lonsford, who I should think must beabout Ernest's age, and then if he and Ernest were to become friendsErnest might ask him to Battersby, and he might fall in love withCharlotte. I think we have done _most wisely_ in sending Ernest to DrSkinner's. Dr Skinner's piety is no less remarkable than his genius. Onecan tell these things at a glance, and he must have felt it about me noless strongly than I about him. I think he seemed much struck withTheobald and myself--indeed, Theobald's intellectual power must impressany one, and I was showing, I do believe, to my best advantage. When Ismiled at him and said I left my boy in his hands with the most entireconfidence that he would be as well cared for as if he were at my ownhouse, I am sure he was greatly pleased. I should not think many of themothers who bring him boys can impress him so favourably, or say suchnice things to him as I did. My smile is sweet when I desire to make itso. I never was perhaps exactly pretty, but I was always admitted to befascinating. Dr Skinner is a very handsome man--too good on the whole Ishould say for Mrs Skinner. Theobald says he is not handsome, but menare no judges, and he has such a pleasant bright face. I think my bonnetbecame me. As soon as I get home I will tell Chambers to trim my blueand yellow merino with--" etc. , etc. 

All this time the letter which has been given above was lying inChristina's private little Japanese cabinet, read and re-read andapproved of many times over, not to say, if the truth were known, rewritten more than once, though dated as in the first instance--andthis, too, though Christina was fond enough of a joke in a small way. 

Ernest, still in Mrs Jay's room mused onward. "Grown-up people, " he saidto himself, "when they were ladies and gentlemen, never did naughtythings, but he was always doing them. He had heard that some grown-uppeople were worldly, which of course was wrong, still this was quitedistinct from being naughty, and did not get them punished or scolded. His own Papa and Mamma were not even worldly; they had often explained tohim that they were exceptionally unworldly; he well knew that they hadnever done anything naughty since they had been children, and that evenas children they had been nearly faultless. Oh! how different fromhimself! When should he learn to love his Papa and Mamma as they hadloved theirs? How could he hope ever to grow up to be as good and wiseas 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 bothin themselves and to him. He hated Papa, and did not like Mamma, andthis was what none but a bad and ungrateful boy would do after all thathad been done for him. Besides he did not like Sunday; he did not likeanything that was really good; his tastes were low and such as he wasashamed of. He liked people best if they sometimes swore a little, solong as it was not at him. As for his Catechism and Bible readings hehad 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, aseveryone knew, preached such beautiful sermons for children, he had beenvery glad when it was all over, nor did he believe he could get throughchurch at all if it was not for the voluntary upon the organ and thehymns and chanting. The Catechism was awful. He had never been able tounderstand what it was that he desired of his Lord God and HeavenlyFather, nor had he yet got hold of a single idea in connection with theword Sacrament. His duty towards his neighbour was another bugbear. Itseemed to him that he had duties towards everybody, lying in wait for himupon every side, but that nobody had any duties towards him. Then therewas 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 washopeless, and very awful, for people were continually telling him that hewould have to earn his own living. No doubt, but how--considering howstupid, idle, ignorant, self-indulgent, and physically puny he was? Allgrown-up people were clever, except servants--and even these werecleverer than ever he should be. Oh, why, why, why, could not people beborn 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. 'Whenonly would he leave his position? To whom did he call? Did he get ananswer? Why? How many times did he call upon his father? What happenedto 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 thoughtCasabianca's was the noblest life that perished there; there could be notwo opinions about that; it never occurred to him that the moral of thepoem was that young people cannot begin too soon to exercise discretionin the obedience they pay to their Papa and Mamma. Oh, no! the onlythought in his mind was that he should never, never have been likeCasabianca, and that Casabianca would have despised him so much, if hecould have known him, that he would not have condescended to speak tohim. There was nobody else in the ship worth reckoning at all: it didnot matter how much they were blown up. Mrs Hemans knew them all andthey were a very indifferent lot. Besides Casabianca was so good-lookingand came of such a good family. "

And thus his small mind kept wandering on till he could follow it nolonger, and again went off into a doze. 

CHAPTER XXX

Next morning Theobald and Christina arose feeling a little tired fromtheir journey, but happy in that best of all happiness, the approbationof their consciences. It would be their boy's fault henceforth if hewere not good, and as prosperous as it was at all desirable that heshould 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 ofTheobald and Christina themselves. 

A few days later the parents were gratified at receiving the followingletter 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 hewere inclined to turn over a new leaf. The boys had all come back, theexaminations were over, and the routine of the half year began; Ernestfound that his fears about being kicked about and bullied wereexaggerated. Nobody did anything very dreadful to him. He had to runerrands between certain hours for the elder boys, and to take his turn atgreasing the footballs, and so forth, but there was an excellent spiritin the school as regards bullying. 

Nevertheless, he was far from happy. Dr Skinner was much too like hisfather. True, Ernest was not thrown in with him much yet, but he wasalways there; there was no knowing at what moment he might not put in anappearance, and whenever he did show, it was to storm about something. Hewas like the lion in the Bishop of Oxford's Sunday story--always liableto rush out from behind some bush and devour some one when he was leastexpected. He called Ernest "an audacious reptile" and said he wonderedthe earth did not open and swallow him up because he pronounced Thaliawith a short i. "And this to me, " he thundered, "who never made a falsequantity in my life. " Surely he would have been a much nicer person ifhe had made false quantities in his youth like other people. Ernestcould 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, idolisedhim, or professed to do so in after life. To Ernest it seemed likeliving on 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 usedto wonder how Mr Templer could be so blind, for he supposed Mr Templermust have cribbed when he was at school, and would ask himself whether heshould forget his youth when he got old, as Mr Templer had forgotten his. He used to think he never could possibly forget any part of it. 

Then there was Mrs Jay, who was sometimes very alarming. A few daysafter the half year had commenced, there being some little extra noise inthe hall, she rushed in with her spectacles on her forehead and her capstrings flying, and called the boy whom Ernest had selected as his herothe "rampingest-scampingest-rackety-tackety-tow-row-roaringest boy in thewhole school. " But she used to say things that Ernest liked. If theDoctor went out to dinner, and there were no prayers, she would come inand say, "Young gentlemen, prayers are excused this evening"; and, takeher 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 serieux_. Ernest was one of the latter sort, and found theatmosphere of Roughborough so gusty that he was glad to shrink out ofsight and out of mind whenever he could. He disliked the games worseeven than the squalls of the class-room and hall, for he was stillfeeble, not filling out and attaining his full strength till a much laterage than most boys. This was perhaps due to the closeness with which hisfather had kept him to his books in childhood, but I think in part alsoto a tendency towards lateness in attaining maturity, hereditary in thePontifex family, which was one also of unusual longevity. At thirteen orfourteen he was a mere bag of bones, with upper arms about as thick asthe wrists of other boys of his age; his little chest waspigeon-breasted; he appeared to have no strength or stamina whatever, andfinding he always went to the wall in physical encounters, whetherundertaken in jest or earnest, even with boys shorter than himself, thetimidity natural to childhood increased upon him to an extent that I amafraid amounted to cowardice. This rendered him even less capable thanhe might otherwise have been, for as confidence increases power, so wantof confidence increases impotence. After he had had the breath knockedout of him and been well shinned half a dozen times in scrimmages atfootball--scrimmages in which he had become involved sorely against hiswill--he ceased to see any further fun in football, and shirked thatnoble game in a way that got him into trouble with the elder boys, whowould stand no shirking on the part of the younger ones. 

He was as useless and ill at ease with cricket as with football, nor inspite of all his efforts could he ever throw a ball or a stone. It soonbecame plain, therefore, to everyone that Pontifex was a young muff, amollycoddle, not to be tortured, but still not to be rated highly. Hewas not however, actively unpopular, for it was seen that he was quitesquare _inter pares_, not at all vindictive, easily pleased, perfectlyfree with whatever little money he had, no greater lover of his schoolwork than of the games, and generally more inclinable to moderate vicethan to immoderate virtue. 

These qualities will prevent any boy from sinking very low in the opinionof his schoolfellows; but Ernest thought he had fallen lower than heprobably had, and hated and despised himself for what he, as much asanyone else, believed to be his cowardice. He did not like the boys whomhe thought like himself. His heroes were strong and vigorous, and theless they inclined towards him the more he worshipped them. All thismade him very unhappy, for it never occurred to him that the instinctwhich made him keep out of games for which he was ill adapted, was morereasonable than the reason which would have driven him into them. Nevertheless he followed his instinct for the most part, rather than hisreason. _Sapiens suam si sapientiam norit_. 

CHAPTER XXXI

With the masters Ernest was ere long in absolute disgrace. He had moreliberty now than he had known heretofore. The heavy hand and watchfuleye of Theobald were no longer about his path and about his bed andspying out all his ways; and punishment by way of copying out lines ofVirgil was a very different thing from the savage beatings of his father. The copying out in fact was often less trouble than the lesson. Latinand Greek had nothing in them which commended them to his instinct aslikely to bring him peace even at the last; still less did they hold outany hope of doing so within some more reasonable time. The deadnessinherent in these defunct languages themselves had never beenartificially counteracted by a system of _bona fide_ rewards forapplication. There had been any amount of punishments for want ofapplication, but no good comfortable bribes had baited the hook which wasto allure him to his good. 

Indeed, the more pleasant side of learning to do this or that had alwaysbeen treated as something with which Ernest had no concern. We had nobusiness 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 pleasurebut duty, and pleasure had in it something more or less sinful in itsvery essence. If we were doing anything we liked, we, or at any rate he, Ernest, should apologise and think he was being very mercifully dealtwith, if not at once told to go and do something else. With what he didnot like, however, it was different; the more he disliked a thing thegreater the presumption that it was right. It never occurred to him thatthe 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 whodisputed its being so. I have said more than once that he believed inhis own depravity; never was there a little mortal more ready to acceptwithout cavil whatever he was told by those who were in authority overhim: he thought, at least, that he believed it, for as yet he knewnothing of that other Ernest that dwelt within him, and was so muchstronger and more real than the Ernest of which he was conscious. Thedumb Ernest persuaded with inarticulate feelings too swift and sure to betranslated into such debateable things as words, but practically insistedas 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, Latin and Greek are great humbug; the more people know of them 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; therefore 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 by 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 hewas receiving; what consternation too there would have been at Battersby;but the matter did not end here, for this same wicked inner self gave himbad advice about his pocket money, the choice of his companions and onthe whole Ernest was attentive and obedient to its behests, more so thanTheobald had been. The consequence was that he learned little, his mindgrowing more slowly and his body rather faster than heretofore: and whenby and by his inner self urged him in directions where he met obstaclesbeyond his strength to combat, he took--though with passionatecompunctions of conscience--the nearest course to the one from which hewas debarred which circumstances would allow. 

It may be guessed that Ernest was not the chosen friend of the moresedate and well-conducted youths then studying at Roughborough. Some ofthe less desirable boys used to go to public-houses and drink more beerthan was good for them; Ernest's inner self can hardly have told him toally himself to these young gentlemen, but he did so at an early age, andwas sometimes made pitiably sick by an amount of beer which would haveproduced no effect upon a stronger boy. Ernest's inner self must haveinterposed at this point and told him that there was not much fun inthis, for he dropped the habit ere it had taken firm hold of him, andnever resumed it; but he contracted another at the disgracefully earlyage of between thirteen and fourteen which he did not relinquish, thoughto the present day his conscious self keeps dinging it into him that theless he smokes the better. 

And so matters went on till my hero was nearly fourteen years old. If bythat time he was not actually a young blackguard, he belonged to adebateable class between the sub-reputable and the upper disreputable, with perhaps rather more leaning to the latter except so far as vices ofmeanness were concerned, from which he was fairly free. I gather thispartly from what Ernest has told me, and partly from his school billswhich I remember Theobald showed me with much complaining. There was aninstitution at Roughborough called the monthly merit money; the maximumsum which a boy of Ernest's age could get was four shillings andsixpence; several boys got four shillings and few less than sixpence, butErnest never got more than half-a-crown and seldom more than eighteenpence; 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, buttoo little to put him among the good ones. 

CHAPTER XXXII

I must now return to Miss Alethea Pontifex, of whom I have said perhapstoo little hitherto, considering how great her influence upon my hero'sdestiny proved to be. 

On the death of her father, which happened when she was about thirty-twoyears old, she parted company with her sisters, between whom and herselfthere had been little sympathy, and came up to London. She wasdetermined, so she said, to make the rest of her life as happy as shecould, and she had clearer ideas about the best way of setting to work todo this than women, or indeed men, generally have. 

Her fortune consisted, as I have said, of 5000 pounds, which had come toher by her mother's marriage settlements, and 15, 000 pounds left her byher father, over both which sums she had now absolute control. Thesebrought her in about 900 pounds a year, and the money being invested innone but the soundest securities, she had no anxiety about her income. She meant to be rich, so she formed a scheme of expenditure whichinvolved an annual outlay of about 500 pounds, and determined to put therest by. "If I do this, " she said laughingly, "I shall probably justsucceed in living comfortably within my income. " In accordance with thisscheme she took unfurnished apartments in a house in Gower Street, ofwhich the lower floors were let out as offices. John Pontifex tried toget her to take a house to herself, but Alethea told him to mind his ownbusiness so plainly that he had to beat a retreat. She had never likedhim, and from that time dropped him almost entirely. 

Without going much into society she yet became acquainted with most ofthe men and women who had attained a position in the literary, artisticand scientific worlds, and it was singular how highly her opinion wasvalued in spite of her never having attempted in any way to distinguishherself. She could have written if she had chosen, but she enjoyedseeing others write and encouraging them better than taking a more activepart herself. Perhaps literary people liked her all the better becauseshe did not write. 

I, as she very well knew, had always been devoted to her, and she mighthave had a score of other admirers if she had liked, but she haddiscouraged them all, and railed at matrimony as women seldom do unlessthey have a comfortable income of their own. She by no means, however, railed at man as she railed at matrimony, and though living after afashion in which even the most censorious could find nothing to complainof, as far as she properly could she defended those of her own sex whomthe world condemned most severely. 

In religion she was, I should think, as nearly a freethinker as anyonecould be whose mind seldom turned upon the subject. She went to church, but disliked equally those who aired either religion or irreligion. Iremember once hearing her press a late well-known philosopher to write anovel instead of pursuing his attacks upon religion. The philosopher didnot much like this, and dilated upon the importance of showing people thefolly of much that they pretended to believe. She smiled and saiddemurely, "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 note in her prayer-book which gaveaccount of the walk to Emmaus with the two disciples, and how Christ hadsaid to them "O fools and slow of heart to believe ALL that the prophetshave spoken"--the "all" being printed in small capitals. 

Though scarcely on terms with her brother John, she had kept up closerrelations with Theobald and his family, and had paid a few days' visit toBattersby once in every two years or so. Alethea had always tried tolike Theobald and join forces with him as much as she could (for they twowere the hares of the family, the rest being all hounds), but it was nouse. I believe her chief reason for maintaining relations with herbrother was that she might keep an eye on his children and give them alift if they proved nice. 

When Miss Pontifex had come down to Battersby in old times the childrenhad not been beaten, and their lessons had been made lighter. She easilysaw that they were overworked and unhappy, but she could hardly guess howall-reaching was the regime under which they lived. She knew she couldnot interfere effectually then, and wisely forbore to make too manyenquiries. Her time, if ever it was to come, would be when the childrenwere no longer living under the same roof as their parents. It ended inher making up her mind to have nothing to do with either Joey orCharlotte, but to see so much of Ernest as should enable her to form anopinion about his disposition and abilities. 

He had now been a year and a half at Roughborough and was nearly fourteenyears old, so that his character had begun to shape. His aunt had notseen him for some little time and, thinking that if she was to exploithim she could do so now perhaps better than at any other time, sheresolved to go down to Roughborough on some pretext which should be goodenough for Theobald, and to take stock of her nephew under circumstancesin which she could get him for some few hours to herself. Accordingly inAugust 1849, when Ernest was just entering on his fourth half year a cabdrove up to Dr Skinner's door with Miss Pontifex, who asked and obtainedleave for Ernest to come and dine with her at the Swan Hotel. She hadwritten to Ernest to say she was coming and he was of course on the look-out for her. He had not seen her for so long that he was rather shy atfirst, but her good nature soon set him at his ease. She was so stronglybiassed in favour of anything young that her heart warmed towards him atonce, 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 shehad got him off the school premises; and Ernest felt at once that shecontrasted favourably even with his aunts the Misses Allaby, who were sovery sweet and good. The Misses Allaby were very poor; sixpence was tothem what five shillings was to Alethea. What chance had they againstone who, if she had a mind, could put by out of her income twice as muchas they, poor women, could spend?

The boy had plenty of prattle in him when he was not snubbed, and Aletheaencouraged him to chatter about whatever came uppermost. He was alwaysready to trust anyone who was kind to him; it took many years to make himreasonably wary in this respect--if indeed, as I sometimes doubt, he everwill be as wary as he ought to be--and in a short time he had quitedissociated his aunt from his papa and mamma and the rest, with whom hisinstinct told him he should be on his guard. Little did he know howgreat, as far as he was concerned, were the issues that depended upon hisbehaviour. If he had known, he would perhaps have played his part lesssuccessfully. 

His aunt drew from him more details of his home and school life than hispapa and mamma would have approved of, but he had no idea that he wasbeing pumped. She got out of him all about the happy Sunday evenings, and how he and Joey and Charlotte quarrelled sometimes, but she took noside and treated everything as though it were a matter of course. Likeall the boys, he could mimic Dr Skinner, and when warmed with dinner, andtwo glasses of sherry which made him nearly tipsy, he favoured his auntwith 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 broughtout this piece of swagger, for whatever else he was Dr Skinner was areality to Master Ernest, before which, indeed, he sank into his boots inno time. Alethea smiled and said, "I must not say anything to that, mustI?" Ernest said, "I suppose not, " and was checked. By-and-by he venteda number of small second-hand priggishnesses which he had caught upbelieving them to be the correct thing, and made it plain that even atthat early age Ernest believed in Ernest with a belief which was amusingfrom its absurdity. His aunt judged him charitably as she was sure todo; she knew very well where the priggishness came from, and seeing thatthe string of his tongue had been loosened sufficiently gave him no moresherry. 

It was after dinner, however, that he completed the conquest of his aunt. She then discovered that, like herself, he was passionately fond ofmusic, and that, too, of the highest class. He knew, and hummed orwhistled to her all sorts of pieces out of the works of the greatmasters, which a boy of his age could hardly be expected to know, and itwas evident that this was purely instinctive, inasmuch as music receivedno kind of encouragement at Roughborough. There was no boy in the schoolas fond of music as he was. He picked up his knowledge, he said, fromthe organist of St Michael's Church who used to practise sometimes on aweek-day afternoon. Ernest had heard the organ booming away as he waspassing outside the church and had sneaked inside and up into the organloft. In the course of time the organist became accustomed to him as afamiliar visitant, and the pair became friends. 

It was this which decided Alethea that the boy was worth taking painswith. "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 asovereign in his pocket (and he had only hoped to get five shillings) shefelt as though she had had a good deal more than her money's worth forher money. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

Next day Miss Pontifex returned to town, with her thoughts full of hernephew and how she could best be of use to him. 

It appeared to her that to do him any real service she must devoteherself almost entirely to him; she must in fact give up living inLondon, at any rate for a long time, and live at Roughborough where shecould see him continually. This was a serious undertaking; she had livedin London for the last twelve years, and naturally disliked the prospectof a small country town such as Roughborough. Was it a prudent thing toattempt so much? Must not people take their chances in this world? Cananyone do much for anyone else unless by making a will in his favour anddying then and there? Should not each look after his own happiness, andwill not the world be best carried on if everyone minds his own businessand leaves other people to mind theirs? Life is not a donkey race inwhich everyone is to ride his neighbour's donkey and the last is to win, and the psalmist long since formulated a common experience when hedeclared that no man may deliver his brother nor make agreement unto Godfor him, for it cost more to redeem their souls, so that he must let thatalone 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 forchildren, and her desire to find someone among the younger branches ofher own family to whom she could become warmly attached, and whom shecould attach warmly to herself. 

Over and above this she wanted someone to leave her money to; she was notgoing to leave it to people about whom she knew very little, merelybecause they happened to be sons and daughters of brothers and sisterswhom she had never liked. She knew the power and value of moneyexceedingly well, and how many lovable people suffer and die yearly forthe want of it; she was little likely to leave it without being satisfiedthat her legatees were square, lovable, and more or less hard up. Shewanted those to have it who would be most likely to use it genially andsensibly, and whom it would thus be likely to make most happy; if shecould find one such among her nephews and nieces, so much the better; itwas worth taking a great deal of pains to see whether she could or couldnot; but if she failed, she must find an heir who was not related to herby blood. 

"Of course, " she had said to me, more than once, "I shall make a mess ofit. I shall choose some nice-looking, well-dressed screw, withgentlemanly manners which will take me in, and he will go and paintAcademy pictures, or write for the _Times_, or do something just ashorrid 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 fewthings that troubled her. I believe she would have left most of hermoney to me if I had not stopped her. My father left me abundantly welloff, and my mode of life has been always simple, so that I have neverknown uneasiness about money; moreover I was especially anxious thatthere should be no occasion given for ill-natured talk; she knew well, therefore, that her leaving her money to me would be of all things themost likely to weaken the ties that existed between us, provided that Iwas aware of it, but I did not mind her talking about whom she shouldmake her heir, so long as it was well understood that I was not to be theperson. 

Ernest had satisfied her as having enough in him to tempt her strongly totake him up, but it was not till after many days' reflection that shegravitated towards actually doing so, with all the break in her dailyways 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 tobroach the subject, I had guessed how things were going to end. 

It was now arranged she should take a house at Roughborough, and go andlive there for a couple of years. As a compromise, however, to meet someof my objections, it was also arranged that she should keep her rooms inGower Street, and come to town for a week once in each month; of course, also, she would leave Roughborough for the greater part of the holidays. After two years, the thing was to come to an end, unless it proved agreat success. She should by that time, at any rate, have made up hermind what the boy's character was, and would then act as circumstancesmight determine. 

The pretext she put forward ostensibly was that her doctor said she oughtto be 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, andits easy access to and from London--for by this time the railway hadreached it. She was anxious not to give her brother and sister any rightto complain, if on seeing more of her nephew she found she could not geton with him, and she was also anxious not to raise false hopes of anykind in the boy's own mind. 

Having settled how everything was to be, she wrote to Theobald and saidshe meant to take a house in Roughborough from the Michaelmas thenapproaching, and mentioned, as though casually, that one of theattractions of the place would be that her nephew was at school there andshe should hope to see more of him than she had done hitherto. 

Theobald and Christina knew how dearly Alethea loved London, and thoughtit very odd that she should want to go and live at Roughborough, but theydid 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 hadguessed this, they would have been so jealous that I half believe theywould have asked her to go and live somewhere else. Alethea however, wastwo or three years younger than Theobald; she was still some years shortof fifty, and might very well live to eighty-five or ninety; her money, therefore, was not worth taking much trouble about, and her brother andsister-in-law had dismissed it, so to speak, from their minds with costs, assuming, however, that if anything did happen to her while they werestill alive, the money would, as a matter of course, come to them. 

The prospect of Alethea seeing much of Ernest was a serious matter. Christina smelt mischief from afar, as indeed she often did. Alethea wasworldly--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 andChristina's thoughts were taken up with anxiety for the boy's welfare. Alethea had thought this handsome enough, but Christina had wantedsomething better and stronger. "How can she know how much we think ofour darling?" she had exclaimed, when Theobald showed her his sister'sletter. "I think, my dear, Alethea would understand these things betterif she had children of her own. " The least that would have satisfiedChristina was to have been told that there never yet had been any parentscomparable to Theobald and herself. She did not feel easy that analliance of some kind would not grow up between aunt and nephew, andneither she nor Theobald wanted Ernest to have any allies. Joey andCharlotte were quite as many allies as were good for him. After all, however, if Alethea chose to go and live at Roughborough, they could notwell stop her, and must make the best of it. 

In a few weeks' time Alethea did choose to go and live at Roughborough. Ahouse was found with a field and a nice little garden which suited hervery well. "At any rate, " she said to herself, "I will have fresh eggsand flowers. " She even considered the question of keeping a cow, but inthe end decided not to do so. She furnished her house throughout anew, taking nothing whatever from her establishment in Gower Street, and byMichaelmas--for the house was empty when she took it--she was settledcomfortably, and had begun to make herself at home. 

One of Miss Pontifex's first moves was to ask a dozen of the smartest andmost gentlemanly boys to breakfast with her. From her seat in church shecould see the faces of the upper-form boys, and soon made up her mindwhich of them it would be best to cultivate. Miss Pontifex, sittingopposite the boys in church, and reckoning them up with her keen eyesfrom under her veil by all a woman's criteria, came to a truer conclusionabout the greater number of those she scrutinized than even Dr Skinnerhad done. She fell in love with one boy from seeing him put on hisgloves. 

Miss Pontifex, as I have said, got hold of some of these youngstersthrough Ernest, and fed them well. No boy can resist being fed well by agood-natured and still handsome woman. Boys are very like nice dogs inthis respect--give them a bone and they will like you at once. Aletheaemployed every other little artifice which she thought likely to wintheir allegiance to herself, and through this their countenance for hernephew. She found the football club in a slight money difficulty and atonce gave half a sovereign towards its removal. The boys had no chanceagainst her, she shot them down one after another as easily as thoughthey 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 ofthem. "How much nicer they are, " she said, "and how much more they knowthan those who profess to teach them!"

I believe it has been lately maintained that it is the young and fair whoare the truly old and truly experienced, inasmuch as it is they who alonehave 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, andwhen this has for some reason failed or been misapplied, the charm isbroken. When we say that we are getting old, we should say rather thatwe are getting new or young, and are suffering from inexperience; tryingto do things which we have never done before, and failing worse andworse, 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 easilydealt with. He and Mrs Skinner called, as a matter of course, as soon asMiss Pontifex was settled. She fooled him to the top of his bent, andobtained the promise of a MS. Copy of one of his minor poems (for DrSkinner had the reputation of being quite one of our most facile andelegant minor poets) on the occasion of his first visit. The othermasters and masters' wives were not forgotten. Alethea laid herself outto please, as indeed she did wherever she went, and if any woman laysherself out to do this, she generally succeeds. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

Miss Pontifex soon found out that Ernest did not like games, but she sawalso that he could hardly be expected to like them. He was perfectlywell shaped but unusually devoid of physical strength. He got a fairshare of this in after life, but it came much later with him than withother boys, and at the time of which I am writing he was a mere littleskeleton. He wanted something to develop his arms and chest withoutknocking him about as much as the school games did. To supply this wantby some means which should add also to his pleasure was Alethea's firstanxiety. Rowing would have answered every purpose, but unfortunatelythere was no river at Roughborough. 

Whatever it was to be, it must be something which he should like as muchas other boys liked cricket or football, and he must think the wish forit to have come originally from himself; it was not very easy to findanything that would do, but ere long it occurred to her that she mightenlist his love of music on her side, and asked him one day when he wasspending a half-holiday at her house whether he would like her to buy anorgan for him to play on. Of course, the boy said yes; then she told himabout her grandfather and the organs he had built. It had never enteredinto his head that he could make one, but when he gathered from what hisaunt had said that this was not out of the question, he rose as eagerlyto the bait as she could have desired, and wanted to begin learning tosaw and plane so that he might make the wooden pipes at once. 

Miss Pontifex did not see how she could have hit upon anything moresuitable, and she liked the idea that he would incidentally get aknowledge of carpentering, for she was impressed, perhaps foolishly, withthe wisdom of the German custom which gives every boy a handicraft ofsome sort. 

Writing to me on this matter, she said "Professions are all very well forthose who have connection and interest as well as capital, but otherwisethey are white elephants. How many men do not you and I know who havetalent, assiduity, excellent good sense, straightforwardness, everyquality in fact which should command success, and who yet go on from yearto 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 bornwith interest, or who marry in order to get it? Ernest's father andmother have no interest, and if they had they would not use it. Isuppose they will make him a clergyman, or try to do so--perhaps it isthe best thing to do with him, for he could buy a living with the moneyhis grandfather left him, but there is no knowing what the boy will thinkof it when the time comes, and for aught we know he may insist on goingto the backwoods of America, as so many other young men are doing now. " . . . But, anyway, he would like making an organ, and this could do him noharm, so the sooner he began the better. 

Alethea thought it would save trouble in the end if she told her brotherand sister-in-law of this scheme. "I do not suppose, " she wrote, "thatDr Skinner will approve very cordially of my attempt to introduce organ-building into the _curriculum_ of Roughborough, but I will see what I cando with him, for I have set my heart on owning an organ built by Ernest'sown hands, which he may play on as much as he likes while it remains inmy house and which I will lend him permanently as soon as he gets one ofhis own, but which is to be my property for the present, inasmuch as Imean to pay for it. " This was put in to make it plain to Theobald andChristina that they should not be out of pocket in the matter. 

If Alethea had been as poor as the Misses Allaby, the reader may guesswhat 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 didnot like Ernest's getting more and more into his aunt's good books, stillit was perhaps better that he should do so than that she should be drivenback upon the John Pontifexes. The only thing, said Theobald, which madehim hesitate, was that the boy might be thrown with low associates lateron if he were to be encouraged in his taste for music--a taste whichTheobald had always disliked. He had observed with regret that Ernesthad ere now shown rather a hankering after low company, and he might makeacquaintance with those who would corrupt his innocence. Christinashuddered at this, but when they had aired their scruples sufficientlythey felt (and when people begin to "feel, " they are invariably going totake what they believe to be the more worldly course) that to opposeAlethea's proposal would be injuring their son's prospects more than wasright, so they consented, but not too graciously. 

After a time, however, Christina got used to the idea, and thenconsiderations occurred to her which made her throw herself into it withcharacteristic ardour. If Miss Pontifex had been a railway stock shemight have been said to have been buoyant in the Battersby market forsome few days; buoyant for long together she could never be, still for atime there really was an upward movement. Christina's mind wandered tothe organ itself; she seemed to have made it with her own hands; therewould be no other in England to compare with it for combined sweetnessand power. She already heard the famous Dr Walmisley of Cambridgemistaking it for a Father Smith. It would come, no doubt, in reality toBattersby Church, which wanted an organ, for it must be all nonsenseabout Alethea's wishing to keep it, and Ernest would not have a house ofhis own for ever so many years, and they could never have it at theRectory. Oh, no! Battersby Church was the only proper place for it. 

Of course, they would have a grand opening, and the Bishop would comedown, and perhaps young Figgins might be on a visit to them--she must askErnest if young Figgins had yet left Roughborough--he might even persuadehis grandfather Lord Lonsford to be present. Lord Lonsford and theBishop and everyone else would then compliment her, and Dr Wesley or DrWalmisley, who should preside (it did not much matter which), would sayto her, "My dear Mrs Pontifex, I never yet played upon so remarkable aninstrument. " Then she would give him one of her very sweetest smiles andsay she feared he was flattering her, on which he would rejoin with somepleasant little trifle about remarkable men (the remarkable man being forthe moment Ernest) having invariably had remarkable women for theirmothers--and so on and so on. The advantage of doing one's praising foroneself is that one can lay it on so thick and exactly in the rightplaces. 

Theobald wrote Ernest a short and surly letter _a propos_ of his aunt'sintentions in this matter. 

"I will not commit myself, " he said, "to an opinion whether anything willcome of it; this will depend entirely upon your own exertions; you havehad singular advantages hitherto, and your kind aunt is showing everydesire to befriend you, but you must give greater proof of stability andsteadiness of character than you have given yet if this organ matter isnot 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 doesnot distract your attention from your Latin and Greek"--("They aren'tmine, " thought Ernest, "and never have been")--"and secondly, that youbring no smell of glue or shavings into the house here, if you make anypart of the organ during your holidays. "

Ernest was still too young to know how unpleasant a letter he wasreceiving. He believed the innuendoes contained in it to be perfectlyjust. He knew he was sadly deficient in perseverance. He liked somethings for a little while, and then found he did not like them anymore--and this was as bad as anything well could be. His father's lettergave 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 atany rate was something to which he could apply himself steadily withoutgrowing tired of it. 

It was settled that the organ was not to be begun before the Christmasholidays were over, and that till then Ernest should do a little plaincarpentering, so as to get to know how to use his tools. Miss Pontifexhad a carpenter's bench set up in an outhouse upon her own premises, andmade terms with the most respectable carpenter in Roughborough, by whichone of his men was to come for a couple of hours twice a week and setErnest on the right way; then she discovered she wanted this or thatsimple piece of work done, and gave the boy a commission to do it, payinghim handsomely as well as finding him in tools and materials. She nevergave him a syllable of good advice, or talked to him about everything'sdepending upon his own exertions, but she kissed him often, and wouldcome into the workshop and act the part of one who took an interest inwhat 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 andhammering, proved exactly what his aunt had wanted to find--somethingthat should exercise, but not too much, and at the same time amuse him;when Ernest's sallow face was flushed with his work, and his eyes weresparkling with pleasure, he looked quite a different boy from the one hisaunt had taken in hand only a few months earlier. His inner self nevertold him that this was humbug, as it did about Latin and Greek. Makingstools and drawers was worth living for, and after Christmas there loomedthe organ, which was scarcely ever absent from his mind. 

His aunt let him invite his friends, encouraging him to bring those whomher quick sense told her were the most desirable. She smartened him upalso in his personal appearance, always without preaching to him. Indeedshe worked wonders during the short time that was allowed her, and if herlife had been spared I cannot think that my hero would have come underthe shadow of that cloud which cast so heavy a gloom over his youngermanhood; but unfortunately for him his gleam of sunshine was too hot andtoo brilliant to last, and he had many a storm yet to weather, before hebecame fairly happy. For the present, however, he was supremely so, andhis aunt was happy and grateful for his happiness, the improvement shesaw in him, and his unrepressed affection for herself. She became fonderof him from day to day in spite of his many faults and almost incrediblefoolishnesses. It was perhaps on account of these very things that shesaw 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 ofparents, and to find in him a son rather than a nephew. But still shemade no will. 

CHAPTER XXXV

All went well for the first part of the following half year. MissPontifex spent the greater part of her holidays in London, and I also sawher at Roughborough, where I spent a few days, staying at the "Swan. " Iheard all about my godson in whom, however, I took less interest than Isaid I did. I took more interest in the stage at that time than inanything else, and as for Ernest, I found him a nuisance for engrossingso much of his aunt's attention, and taking her so much from London. Theorgan was begun, and made fair progress during the first two months ofthe half year. Ernest was happier than he had ever been before, and wasstruggling upwards. The best boys took more notice of him for his aunt'ssake, 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 theeffect of such surroundings as the boy had had at Battersby. Much as hefeared and disliked his father (though he still knew not how much thiswas), he had caught much from him; if Theobald had been kinder Ernestwould have modelled himself upon him entirely, and ere long wouldprobably have become as thorough a little prig as could have easily beenfound. 

Fortunately his temper had come to him from his mother, who, when notfrightened, and when there was nothing on the horizon which might crossthe slightest whim of her husband, was an amiable, good-natured woman. Ifit was not such an awful thing to say of anyone, I should say that shemeant well. 

Ernest had also inherited his mother's love of building castles in theair, and--so I suppose it must be called--her vanity. He was very fondof showing off, and, provided he could attract attention, cared littlefrom whom it came, nor what it was for. He caught up, parrot-like, whatever jargon he heard from his elders, which he thought was thecorrect thing, and aired it in season and out of season, as though itwere his own. 

Miss Pontifex was old enough and wise enough to know that this is the wayin which even the greatest men as a general rule begin to develop, andwas more pleased with his receptiveness and reproductiveness than alarmedat the things he caught and reproduced. 

She saw that he was much attached to herself, and trusted to this ratherthan to anything else. She saw also that his conceit was not veryprofound, and that his fits of self-abasement were as extreme as hisexaltation had been. His impulsiveness and sanguine trustfulness inanyone who smiled pleasantly at him, or indeed was not absolutely unkindto him, made her more anxious about him than any other point in hischaracter; she saw clearly that he would have to find himself rudelyundeceived many a time and oft, before he would learn to distinguishfriend from foe within reasonable time. It was her perception of thiswhich led her to take the action which she was so soon called upon totake. 

Her health was for the most part excellent, and she had never had aserious illness in her life. One morning, however, soon after Easter1850, she awoke feeling seriously unwell. For some little time there hadbeen a talk of fever in the neighbourhood, but in those days theprecautions that ought to be taken against the spread of infection werenot so well understood as now, and nobody did anything. In a day or twoit became plain that Miss Pontifex had got an attack of typhoid fever andwas dangerously ill. On this she sent off a messenger to town, anddesired him not to return without her lawyer and myself. 

We arrived on the afternoon of the day on which we had been summoned, andfound her still free from delirium: indeed, the cheery way in which shereceived us made it difficult to think she could be in danger. She atonce explained her wishes, which had reference, as I expected, to hernephew, and repeated the substance of what I have already referred to asher main source of uneasiness concerning him. Then she begged me by ourlong and close intimacy, by the suddenness of the danger that had fallenon her and her powerlessness to avert it, to undertake what she said shewell knew, if she died, would be an unpleasant and invidious trust. 

She wanted to leave the bulk of her money ostensibly to me, but inreality to her nephew, so that I should hold it in trust for him till hewas twenty-eight years old, but neither he nor anyone else, except herlawyer and myself, was to know anything about it. She would leave 5000pounds in other legacies, and 15, 000 pounds to Ernest--which by the timehe was twenty-eight would have accumulated to, say, 30, 000 pounds. "Sellout the debentures, " she said, "where the money now is--and put it intoMidland Ordinary. "

"Let him make his mistakes, " she said, "upon the money his grandfatherleft him. I am no prophet, but even I can see that it will take that boymany years to see things as his neighbours see them. He will get no helpfrom his father and mother, who would never forgive him for his good luckif I left him the money outright; I daresay I am wrong, but I think hewill have to lose the greater part or all of what he has, before he willknow how to keep what he will get from me. "

Supposing he went bankrupt before he was twenty-eight years old, themoney was to be mine absolutely, but she could trust me, she said, tohand it over to Ernest in due time. 

"If, " she continued, "I am mistaken, the worst that can happen is that hewill come into a larger sum at twenty-eight instead of a smaller sum at, say, twenty-three, for I would never trust him with it earlier, and--ifhe knows nothing about it he will not be unhappy for the want of it. "

She begged me to take 2000 pounds in return for the trouble I should havein taking charge of the boy's estate, and as a sign of the testatrix'shope that I would now and again look after him while he was still young. The remaining 3000 pounds I was to pay in legacies and annuities tofriends and servants. 

In vain both her lawyer and myself remonstrated with her on the unusualand hazardous nature of this arrangement. We told her that sensiblepeople will not take a more sanguine view concerning human nature thanthe Courts of Chancery do. We said, in fact, everything that anyone elsewould say. She admitted everything, but urged that her time was short, that nothing would induce her to leave her money to her nephew in theusual way. "It is an unusually foolish will, " she said, "but he is anunusually foolish boy;" and she smiled quite merrily at her little sally. Like all the rest of her family, she was very stubborn when her mind wasmade up. So the thing was done as she wished it. 

No provision was made for either my death or Ernest's--Miss Pontifex hadsettled it that we were neither of us going to die, and was too ill to gointo details; she was so anxious, moreover, to sign her will while stillable to do so that we had practically no alternative but to do as shetold us. If she recovered we could see things put on a more satisfactoryfooting, and further discussion would evidently impair her chances ofrecovery; it seemed then only too likely that it was a case of this willor no will at all. 

When the will was signed I wrote a letter in duplicate, saying that Iheld all Miss Pontifex had left me in trust for Ernest except as regards5000 pounds, but that he was not to come into the bequest, and was toknow 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 moneywas to be mine absolutely. At the foot of each letter Miss Pontifexwrote, "The above was my understanding when I made my will, " and thensigned her name. The solicitor and his clerk witnessed; I kept one copymyself and handed the other to Miss Pontifex's solicitor. 

When all this had been done she became more easy in her mind. She talkedprincipally about her nephew. "Don't scold him, " she said, "if he isvolatile, and continually takes things up only to throw them down again. How can he find out his strength or weakness otherwise? A man'sprofession, " she said, and here she gave one of her wicked little laughs, "is not like his wife, which he must take once for all, for better forworse, without proof beforehand. Let him go here and there, and learnhis truest liking by finding out what, after all, he catches himselfturning to most habitually--then let him stick to this; but I daresayErnest will be forty or five and forty before he settles down. Then allhis previous infidelities will work together to him for good if he is theboy 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 worthdoing unless, take it all round, it has come pretty easily. Theobald andChristina would give him a pinch of salt and tell him to put it on thetails of the seven deadly virtues;"--here she laughed again in her oldmanner at once so mocking and so sweet--"I think if he likes pancakes hehad perhaps better eat them on Shrove Tuesday, but this is enough. " Thesewere the last coherent words she spoke. From that time she grewcontinually worse, and was never free from delirium till her death--whichtook place less than a fortnight afterwards, to the inexpressible griefof those who knew and loved her. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

Letters had been written to Miss Pontifex's brothers and sisters, and oneand all came post-haste to Roughborough. Before they arrived the poorlady was already delirious, and for the sake of her own peace at the lastI am half glad she never recovered consciousness. 

I had known these people all their lives, as none can know each other butthose who have played together as children; I knew how they had all ofthem--perhaps Theobald least, but all of them more or less--made her lifea burden to her until the death of her father had made her her ownmistress, and I was displeased at their coming one after the other toRoughborough, and inquiring whether their sister had recoveredconsciousness sufficiently to be able to see them. It was known that shehad 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 andinquisitiveness, with which they regarded me. They would all, exceptTheobald, I believe have cut me downright if they had not believed me toknow something they wanted to know themselves, and might have some chanceof learning from me--for it was plain I had been in some way concernedwith the making of their sister's will. None of them suspected what theostensible nature of this would be, but I think they feared Miss Pontifexwas about to leave money for public uses. John said to me in hisblandest manner that he fancied he remembered to have heard his sistersay that she thought of leaving money to found a college for the reliefof dramatic authors in distress; to this I made no rejoinder, and I haveno doubt his suspicions were deepened. 

When the end came, I got Miss Pontifex's solicitor to write and tell herbrothers and sisters how she had left her money: they were notunnaturally furious, and went each to his or her separate home withoutattending the funeral, and without paying any attention to myself. Thiswas perhaps the kindest thing they could have done by me, for theirbehaviour made me so angry that I became almost reconciled to Alethea'swill out of pleasure at the anger it had aroused. But for this I shouldhave felt the will keenly, as having been placed by it in the positionwhich of all others I had been most anxious to avoid, and as havingsaddled me with a very heavy responsibility. Still it was impossible forme to escape, and I could only let things take their course. 

Miss Pontifex had expressed a wish to be buried at Paleham; in the courseof the next few days I therefore took the body thither. I had not beento Paleham since the death of my father some six years earlier. I hadoften wished to go there, but had shrunk from doing so though my sisterhad been two or three times. I could not bear to see the house which hadbeen my home for so many years of my life in the hands of strangers; toring ceremoniously at a bell which I had never yet pulled except as a boyin jest; to feel that I had nothing to do with a garden in which I had inchildhood gathered so many a nosegay, and which had seemed my own formany years after I had reached man's estate; to see the rooms bereft ofevery familiar feature, and made so unfamiliar in spite of theirfamiliarity. Had there been any sufficient reason, I should have takenthese things as a matter of course, and should no doubt have found themmuch worse in anticipation than in reality, but as there had been nospecial reason why I should go to Paleham I had hitherto avoided doingso. Now, however, my going was a necessity, and I confess I never feltmore subdued than I did on arriving there with the dead playmate of mychildhood. 

I found the village more changed than I had expected. The railway hadcome there, and a brand new yellow brick station was on the site of oldMr and Mrs Pontifex's cottage. Nothing but the carpenter's shop was nowstanding. I saw many faces I knew, but even in six years they seemed tohave grown wonderfully older. Some of the very old were dead, and theold were getting very old in their stead. I felt like the changeling inthe fairy story who came back after a seven years' sleep. Everyoneseemed glad to see me, though I had never given them particular cause tobe so, and everyone who remembered old Mr and Mrs Pontifex spoke warmlyof them and were pleased at their granddaughter's wishing to be laid nearthem. Entering the churchyard and standing in the twilight of a gustycloudy evening on the spot close beside old Mrs Pontifex's grave which Ihad chosen for Alethea's, I thought of the many times that she, who wouldlie there henceforth, and I, who must surely lie one day in some suchanother place though when and where I knew not, had romped over this veryspot as childish lovers together. Next morning I followed her to thegrave, and in due course set up a plain upright slab to her memory aslike as might be to those over the graves of her grandmother andgrandfather. I gave the dates and places of her birth and death, butadded nothing except that this stone was set up by one who had known andloved her. Knowing how fond she had been of music I had been halfinclined at one time to inscribe a few bars of music, if I could find anywhich seemed suitable to her character, but I knew how much she wouldhave disliked anything singular in connection with her tombstone and didnot do it. 

Before, however, I had come to this conclusion, I had thought that Ernestmight be able to help me to the right thing, and had written to him uponthe subject. The following is the answer 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:--

 [Music score]

 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 Alethea I shall keep it for myself. --Your affectionate Godson, ERNEST PONTIFEX. "

Was this the little lad who could get sweeties for two-pence but not fortwo-pence-halfpenny? Dear, dear me, I thought to myself, how these babesand sucklings do give us the go-by surely. Choosing his own epitaph atfifteen as for a man who "had been very sorry for things, " and such astrain 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 doubthe was, --but so are a great many other young people of Ernest's age. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

If Theobald and Christina had not been too well pleased when MissPontifex first took Ernest in hand, they were still less so when theconnection between the two was interrupted so prematurely. They saidthey had made sure from what their sister had said that she was going tomake Ernest her heir. I do not think she had given them so much as ahint to this effect. Theobald indeed gave Ernest to understand that shehad done so in a letter which will be given shortly, but if Theobaldwanted to make himself disagreeable, a trifle light as air wouldforthwith assume in his imagination whatever form was most convenient tohim. I do not think they had even made up their minds what Alethea wasto 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 Ernestwould be made heir over their own heads without their having at any ratea life interest in the bequest, they would have soon thrown obstacles inthe way of further intimacy between aunt and nephew. 

This, however, did not bar their right to feeling aggrieved now thatneither they nor Ernest had taken anything at all, and they could professdisappointment on their boy's behalf which they would have been too proudto admit upon their own. In fact, it was only amiable of them to bedisappointed under these circumstances. 

Christina said that the will was simply fraudulent, and was convincedthat 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 fullcourt 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 nottrust myself to describe the reverie to which this last idea gave rise. Ibelieve in the end Theobald died, and the Lord Chancellor (who had becomea widower a few weeks earlier) made her an offer, which, however, shefirmly but not ungratefully declined; she should ever, she said, continueto think of him as a friend--at this point the cook came in, saying thebutcher had called, and what would she please to order. 

I think Theobald must have had an idea that there was something behindthe bequest to me, but he said nothing about it to Christina. He wasangry and felt wronged, because he could not get at Alethea to give her apiece 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 injuryof this sort, and then shirk facing those whom they have injured; let ushope that, at any rate, they and I may meet in Heaven. " But of this hewas doubtful, for when people had done so great a wrong as this, it washardly to be supposed that they would go to Heaven at all--and as for hismeeting them in another place, the idea never so much as entered hismind. 

One so angry and, of late, so little used to contradiction might betrusted, however, to avenge himself upon someone, and Theobald had longsince developed the organ, by means of which he might vent spleen withleast risk and greatest satisfaction to himself. This organ, it may beguessed, was nothing else than Ernest; to Ernest therefore he proceededto unburden himself, not personally, but by letter. 

"You ought to know, " he wrote, "that your Aunt Alethea had given yourmother and me to understand that it was her wish to make you her heir--inthe event, of course, of your conducting yourself in such a manner as togive her confidence in you; as a matter of fact, however, she has leftyou nothing, and the whole of her property has gone to your godfather, MrOverton. Your mother and I are willing to hope that if she had livedlonger you would yet have succeeded in winning her good opinion, but itis too late to think of this now. 

"The carpentering and organ-building must at once be discontinued. Inever believed in the project, and have seen no reason to alter myoriginal opinion. I am not sorry for your own sake, that it is to be atan 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 believeyou know, a small inheritance, which is yours legally under yourgrandfather's will. This bequest was made inadvertently, and, I believe, entirely through a misunderstanding on the lawyer's part. The bequestwas probably intended not to take effect till after the death of yourmother and myself; nevertheless, as the will is actually worded, it willnow be at your command if you live to be twenty-one years old. Fromthis, 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 ofyour education and maintenance from birth to your coming of age; I shallnot in all likelihood insist on this right to the full, if you conductyourself properly, but a considerable sum should certainly be deducted, there will therefore remain very little--say 1000 pounds or 2000 poundsat the outside, as what will be actually yours--but the strictest accountshall be rendered you in due time. 

"This, let me warn you most seriously, is all that you must expect fromme (even Ernest saw that it was not from Theobald at all) at any ratetill after my death, which for aught any of us know may be yet many yearsdistant. It is not a large sum, but it is sufficient if supplemented bysteadiness and earnestness of purpose. Your mother and I gave you thename Ernest, hoping that it would remind you continually of--" but Ireally cannot copy more of this effusion. It was all the same old will-shaking game and came practically to this, that Ernest was no good, andthat if he went on as he was going on now, he would probably have to goabout the streets begging without any shoes or stockings soon after hehad left school, or at any rate, college; and that he, Theobald, andChristina were almost too good for this world altogether. 

After he had written this Theobald felt quite good-natured, and sent tothe Mrs Thompson of the moment even more soup and wine than her usual notilliberal allowance. 

Ernest was deeply, passionately upset by his father's letter; to thinkthat even his dear aunt, the one person of his relations whom he reallyloved, 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 MissPontifex, while thinking only of his welfare, had omitted to make suchsmall present mention of him as would have made his father's innuendoesstingless; and her illness being infectious, she had not seen him afterits nature was known. I myself did not know of Theobald's letter, northink enough about my godson to guess what might easily be his state. Itwas not till many years afterwards that I found Theobald's letter in thepocket of an old portfolio which Ernest had used at school, and in whichother old letters and school documents were collected which I have usedin this book. He had forgotten that he had it, but told me when he sawit that he remembered it as the first thing that made him begin to riseagainst his father in a rebellion which he recognised as righteous, though he dared not openly avow it. Not the least serious thing was thatit would, he feared, be his duty to give up the legacy his grandfatherhad left him; for if it was his only through a mistake, how could he keepit?

During the rest of the half year Ernest was listless and unhappy. He wasvery fond of some of his schoolfellows, but afraid of those whom hebelieved to be better than himself, and prone to idealise everyone intobeing his superior except those who were obviously a good deal beneathhim. He held himself much too cheap, and because he was without thatphysical strength and vigour which he so much coveted, and also becausehe knew he shirked his lessons, he believed that he was without anythingwhich could deserve the name of a good quality; he was naturally bad, andone of those for whom there was no place for repentance, though he soughtit even with tears. So he shrank out of sight of those whom in hisboyish way he idolised, never for a moment suspecting that he might havecapacities to the full as high as theirs though of a different kind, andfell in more with those who were reputed of the baser sort, with whom hecould at any rate be upon equal terms. Before the end of the half yearhe had dropped from the estate to which he had been raised during hisaunt's stay at Roughborough, and his old dejection, varied, however, withbursts of conceit rivalling those of his mother, resumed its sway overhim. "Pontifex, " said Dr Skinner, who had fallen upon him in hall oneday like a moral landslip, before he had time to escape, "do you neverlaugh? Do you always look so preternaturally grave?" The doctor had notmeant to be unkind, but the boy turned crimson, and escaped. 

There was one place only where he was happy, and that was in the oldchurch of St Michael, when his friend the organist was practising. Aboutthis time cheap editions of the great oratorios began to appear, andErnest got them all as soon as they were published; he would sometimessell a school-book to a second-hand dealer, and buy a number or two ofthe "Messiah, " or the "Creation, " or "Elijah, " with the proceeds. Thiswas simply cheating his papa and mamma, but Ernest was falling lowagain--or thought he was--and he wanted the music much, and the Sallust, or whatever it was, little. Sometimes the organist would go home, leaving his keys with Ernest, so that he could play by himself and lockup the organ and the church in time to get back for calling over. Atother times, while his friend was playing, he would wander round thechurch, looking at the monuments and the old stained glass windows, enchanted as regards both ears and eyes, at once. Once the old rectorgot hold of him as he was watching a new window being put in, which therector had bought in Germany--the work, it was supposed, of Albert Durer. He questioned Ernest, and finding that he was fond of music, he said inhis old trembling voice (for he was over eighty), "Then you should haveknown Dr Burney who wrote the history of music. I knew him exceedinglywell when I was a young man. " That made Ernest's heart beat, for he knewthat Dr Burney, when a boy at school at Chester, used to break boundsthat he might watch Handel smoking his pipe in the Exchange coffeehouse--and now he was in the presence of one who, if he had not seenHandel himself, had at least seen those who had seen him. 

These were oases in his desert, but, as a general rule, the boy lookedthin and pale, and as though he had a secret which depressed him, whichno doubt he had, but for which I cannot blame him. He rose, in spite ofhimself, higher in the school, but fell ever into deeper and deeperdisgrace with the masters, and did not gain in the opinion of those boysabout whom he was persuaded that they could assuredly never know what itwas to have a secret weighing upon their minds. This was what Ernestfelt so keenly; he did not much care about the boys who liked him, andidolised some who kept him as far as possible at a distance, but this ispretty 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, Ernestbrought back a document in his portmanteau, which Theobald stigmatised as"infamous and outrageous. " I need hardly say I am alluding to his schoolbill. 

This document was always a source of anxiety to Ernest, for it was goneinto with scrupulous care, and he was a good deal cross-examined aboutit. He would sometimes "write in" for articles necessary for hiseducation, such as a portfolio, or a dictionary, and sell the same, as Ihave explained, in order to eke out his pocket money, probably to buyeither music or tobacco. These frauds were sometimes, as Ernest thought, in imminent danger of being discovered, and it was a load off his breastwhen the cross-examination was safely over. This time Theobald had madea great fuss about the extras, but had grudgingly passed them; it wasanother 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 as follows:

 REPORT OF THE CONDUCT AND PROGRESS OF ERNEST PONTIFEX. UPPER FIFTH FORM, HALF YEAR ENDING MIDSUMMER 1851

 Classics--Idle, listless and unimproving. Mathematics " " " Divinity " " " Conduct in house. --Orderly. General Conduct--Not satisfactory, on account of his great unpunctuality and inattention to duties. Monthly merit money 1s. 6d. 6d. 0d. 6d. Total 2s. 6d. Number of merit marks 2 0 1 1 0 Total 4 Number of penal marks 26 20 25 30 25 Total 126 Number of extra penals 9 6 10 12 11 Total 48 I recommend that his pocket money be made to depend upon his merit money. S. SKINNER, Head-master. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Ernest was thus in disgrace from the beginning of the holidays, but anincident soon occurred which led him into delinquencies compared withwhich all his previous sins were venial. 

Among the servants at the Rectory was a remarkably pretty girl namedEllen. She came from Devonshire, and was the daughter of a fisherman whohad been drowned when she was a child. Her mother set up a small shop inthe village where her husband had lived, and just managed to make aliving. Ellen remained with her till she was fourteen, when she firstwent out to service. Four years later, when she was about eighteen, butso well grown that she might have passed for twenty, she had beenstrongly 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 perfectionof health and good temper, indeed there was a serene expression upon herface which captivated almost all who saw her; she looked as if mattershad always gone well with her and were always going to do so, and as ifno conceivable combination of circumstances could put her for longtogether out of temper either with herself or with anyone else. Hercomplexion was clear, but high; her eyes were grey and beautifullyshaped; her lips were full and restful, with something of an EgyptianSphinx-like character about them. When I learned that she came fromDevonshire I fancied I saw a strain of far away Egyptian blood in her, for I had heard, though I know not what foundation there was for thestory, that the Egyptians made settlements on the coast of Devonshire andCornwall long before the Romans conquered Britain. Her hair was a richbrown, and her figure--of about the middle height--perfect, but erring ifat all on the side of robustness. Altogether she was one of those girlsabout whom one is inclined to wonder how they can remain unmarried a weekor a day longer. 

Her face (as indeed faces generally are, though I grant they liesometimes) was a fair index to her disposition. She was good natureitself, and everyone in the house, not excluding I believe even Theobaldhimself after a fashion, was fond of her. As for Christina she took thevery warmest interest in her, and used to have her into the dining-roomtwice a week, and prepare her for confirmation (for by some accident shehad never been confirmed) by explaining to her the geography of Palestineand the routes taken by St Paul on his various journeys in Asia Minor. 

When Bishop Treadwell did actually come down to Battersby and hold aconfirmation there (Christina had her wish, he slept at Battersby, andshe had a grand dinner party for him, and called him "My lord" severaltimes), he was so much struck with her pretty face and modest demeanourwhen he laid his hands upon her that he asked Christina about her. Whenshe replied that Ellen was one of her own servants, the bishop seemed, soshe thought or chose to think, quite pleased that so pretty a girl shouldhave found so exceptionally good a situation. 

Ernest used to get up early during the holidays so that he might play thepiano before breakfast without disturbing his papa and mamma--or rather, perhaps, without being disturbed by them. Ellen would generally be theresweeping the drawing-room floor and dusting while he was playing, and theboy, who was ready to make friends with most people, soon became veryfond of her. He was not as a general rule sensitive to the charms of thefair sex, indeed he had hardly been thrown in with any women except hisAunts Allaby, and his Aunt Alethea, his mother, his sister Charlotte andMrs Jay; sometimes also he had had to take off his hat to the MissSkinners, 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 fastfriends. 

Perhaps it was well that Ernest was not at home for very long together, but as yet his affection though hearty was quite Platonic. He was notonly innocent, but deplorably--I might even say guiltily--innocent. Hispreference was based upon the fact that Ellen never scolded him, but wasalways smiling and good tempered; besides she used to like to hear himplay, and this gave him additional zest in playing. The morning accessto the piano was indeed the one distinct advantage which the holidays hadin 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 lookingpale and ill. All her good spirits had left her, the roses had fled fromher cheek, and she seemed on the point of going into a decline. She saidshe was unhappy about her mother, whose health was failing, and wasafraid she was herself not long for this world. Christina, of course, noticed the change. "I have often remarked, " she said, "that those veryfresh-coloured, healthy-looking girls are the first to break up. I havegiven her calomel and James's powders repeatedly, and though she does notlike it, I think I must show her to Dr Martin when he next comes here. "

"Very well, my dear, " said Theobald, and so next time Dr Martin cameEllen was sent for. Dr Martin soon discovered what would probably havebeen apparent to Christina herself if she had been able to conceive ofsuch an ailment in connection with a servant who lived under the sameroof as Theobald and herself--the purity of whose married life shouldhave preserved all unmarried people who came near them from any taint ofmischief. 

When it was discovered that in three or four months more Ellen wouldbecome a mother, Christina's natural good nature would have prompted herto deal as leniently with the case as she could, if she had not beenpanic-stricken lest any mercy on her and Theobald's part should beconstrued into toleration, however partial, of so great a sin; hereon shedashed off into the conviction that the only thing to do was to pay Ellenher wages, and pack her off on the instant bag and baggage out of thehouse which purity had more especially and particularly singled out forits abiding city. When she thought of the fearful contamination whichEllen's continued presence even for a week would occasion, she could nothesitate. 

Then came the question--horrid thought!--as to who was the partner ofEllen's guilt? Was it, could it be, her own son, her darling Ernest?Ernest was getting a big boy now. She could excuse any young woman fortaking a fancy to him; as for himself, why she was sure he was behind noyoung man of his age in appreciation of the charms of a nice-lookingyoung woman. So long as he was innocent she did not mind this, but oh, if he were guilty!

She could not bear to think of it, and yet it would be mere cowardice notto look such a matter in the face--her hope was in the Lord, and she wasready to bear cheerfully and make the best of any suffering He mightthink fit to lay upon her. That the baby must be either a boy orgirl--this much, at any rate, was clear. No less clear was it that thechild, 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 ofshame--oh! no--and such a child as this would be . . . She was off in oneof her reveries at once. 

The child was in the act of being consecrated Archbishop of Canterburywhen Theobald came in from a visit in the parish, and was told of theshocking discovery. 

Christina said nothing about Ernest, and I believe was more than halfangry when the blame was laid upon other shoulders. She was easilyconsoled, however, and fell back on the double reflection, firstly, thather son was pure, and secondly, that she was quite sure he would not havebeen so had it not been for his religious convictions which had held himback--as, of course, it was only to be expected they would. 

Theobald agreed that no time must be lost in paying Ellen her wages andpacking her off. So this was done, and less than two hours after DrMartin had entered the house Ellen was sitting beside John the coachman, with her face muffled up so that it could not be seen, weeping bitterlyas she was being driven to the station. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

Ernest had been out all the morning, but came in to the yard of theRectory from the spinney behind the house just as Ellen's things werebeing put into the carriage. He thought it was Ellen whom he then sawget into the carriage, but as her face had been hidden by herhandkerchief he had not been able to see plainly who it was, anddismissed the idea as improbable. 

He went to the back-kitchen window, at which the cook was standingpeeling the potatoes for dinner, and found her crying bitterly. Ernestwas much distressed, for he liked the cook, and, of course, wanted toknow what all the matter was, who it was that had just gone off in thepony carriage, and why? The cook told him it was Ellen, but said that noearthly power should make it cross her lips why it was she was goingaway; when, however, Ernest took her _au pied de la lettre_ and asked nofurther questions, she told him all about it after extorting the mostsolemn promises of secrecy. 

It took Ernest some minutes to arrive at the facts of the case, but whenhe understood them he leaned 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 allhis father and mother could have done much otherwise than they actuallydid. They might perhaps have been less precipitate, and tried to keepthe matter a little more quiet, but this would not have been easy, norwould it have mended things very materially. The bitter fact remainsthat if a girl does certain things she must do them at her peril, nomatter how young and pretty she is nor to what temptation she hassuccumbed. This is the way of the world, and as yet there has been nohelp found for it. 

Ernest could only see what he gathered from the cook, namely, that hisfavourite, Ellen, was being turned adrift with a matter of three poundsin her pocket, to go she knew not where, and to do she knew not what, andthat she had said she should hang or drown herself, which the boyimplicitly believed she would. 

With greater promptitude than he had shown yet, he reckoned up his moneyand found he had two shillings and threepence at his command; there washis knife which might sell for a shilling, and there was the silver watchhis Aunt Alethea had given him shortly before she died. The carriage hadbeen gone now a full quarter of an hour, and it must have got somedistance ahead, but he would do his best to catch it up, and there wereshort 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 he could seethe carriage, looking very small, on a bit of road which showed perhaps amile and a half in front of him. 

One of the most popular amusements at Roughborough was an institutioncalled "the hounds"--more commonly known elsewhere as "hare and hounds, "but in this case the hare was a couple of boys who were called foxes, andboys are so particular about correctness of nomenclature where theirsports are concerned that I dare not say they played "hare and hounds";these were "the hounds, " and that was all. Ernest's want of muscularstrength did not tell against him here; there was no jostling up againstboys who, though neither older nor taller than he, were yet more robustlybuilt; if it came to mere endurance he was as good as any one else, sowhen his carpentering was stopped he had naturally taken to "the hounds"as his favourite amusement. His lungs thus exercised had becomedeveloped, and as a run of six or seven miles across country was not morethan he was used to, he did not despair by the help of the short cuts ofovertaking the carriage, or at the worst of catching Ellen at the stationbefore the train left. So he ran and ran and ran till his first wind wasgone 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 withall his efforts and the help of the short cuts he did not catch up thecarriage, and would probably not have done so had not John happened toturn his head and seen him running and making signs for the carriage tostop a quarter of a mile off. He was now about five miles from home, andwas nearly done up. 

He was crimson with his exertion; covered with dust, and with histrousers and coat sleeves a trifle short for him he cut a poor figureenough as he thrust on Ellen his watch, his knife, and the little moneyhe had. The one thing he implored of her was not to do those dreadfulthings which she threatened--for his sake if for no other reason. 

Ellen at first would not hear of taking anything from him, but thecoachman, who was from the north country, sided with Ernest. "Take it, my lass, " he said kindly, "take what thou canst get whiles thou canst getit; as for Master Ernest here--he has run well after thee; therefore lethim give thee what he is minded. "

Ellen did what she was told, and the two parted with many tears, thegirl's last words being that she should never forget him, and that theyshould meet again hereafter, she was sure they should, and then she wouldrepay 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 onits 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 morestrongly before him, and he saw that he had got himself into one mess--orrather into half-a-dozen messes--the more. 

In the first place he should be late for dinner, and this was one of theoffences on which Theobald had no mercy. Also he should have to saywhere he had been, and there was a danger of being found out if he didnot speak the truth. Not only this, but sooner or later it must come outthat he was no longer possessed of the beautiful watch which his dearaunt had given him--and what, pray, had he done with it, or how had helost it? The reader will know very well what he ought to have done. Heshould have gone straight home, and if questioned should have said, "Ihave been running after the carriage to catch our housemaid Ellen, whom Iam very fond of; I have given her my watch, my knife and all my pocketmoney, so that I have now no pocket money at all and shall probably askyou for some more sooner than I otherwise might have done, and you willalso have to buy me a new watch and a knife. " But then fancy theconsternation which such an announcement would have occasioned! Fancythe scowl and flashing eyes of the infuriated Theobald! "Youunprincipled young scoundrel, " he would exclaim, "do you mean to vilifyyour own parents by implying that they have dealt harshly by one whoseprofligacy has disgraced their house?"

Or he might take it with one of those sallies of sarcastic calm, of whichhe believed himself to be a master. 

"Very well, Ernest, very well: I shall say nothing; you can pleaseyourself; you are not yet twenty-one, but pray act as if you were yourown master; your poor aunt doubtless gave you the watch that you mightfling it away upon the first improper character you came across; I thinkI 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 peopleon whom you would lavish it if it were yours. "

Then his mother would burst into tears and implore him to repent and seekthe things belonging to his peace while there was yet time, by falling onhis knees to Theobald and assuring him of his unfailing love for him asthe kindest and tenderest father in the universe. Ernest could do allthis just as well as they could, and now, as he lay on the grass, speeches, some one or other of which was as certain to come as the sun toset, kept running in his head till they confuted the idea of telling thetruth by reducing it to an absurdity. Truth might be heroic, but it wasnot within the range of practical domestic politics. 

Having settled 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 thathe 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 smallestamount of lying go the longest way--who husbands it too carefully towaste it where it can be dispensed with. The simplest course would be tosay that he had lost the watch, and was late for dinner because he hadbeen looking for it. He had been out for a long walk--he chose the lineacross the fields that he had actually taken--and the weather being veryhot, he had taken off his coat and waistcoat; in carrying them over hisarm his watch, his money, and his knife had dropped out of them. He hadgot nearly home when he found out his loss, and had run back as fast ashe could, looking along the line he had followed, till at last he hadgiven it up; seeing the carriage coming back from the station, he had letit pick him up and bring him home. 

This covered everything, the running and all; for his face still showedthat he must have been running hard; the only question was whether he hadbeen seen about the Rectory by any but the servants for a couple of hoursor so before Ellen had gone, and this he was happy to believe was not thecase; for he had been out except during his few minutes' interview withthe cook. His father had been out in the parish; his mother hadcertainly not come across him, and his brother and sister had also beenout with the governess. He knew he could depend upon the cook and theother servants--the coachman would see to this; on the whole, therefore, both he and the coachman thought the story as proposed by Ernest wouldabout meet the requirements of the case. 

CHAPTER XL

When Ernest got home and sneaked in through the back door, he heard hisfather's voice in its angriest tones, inquiring whether Master Ernest hadalready returned. He felt as Jack must have felt in the story of Jackand the Bean Stalk, when from the oven in which he was hidden he heardthe 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 thandiscretion, he took the bull by the horns, and announced himself at onceas having just come in after having met with a terrible misfortune. Little by little he told his story, and though Theobald stormed somewhatat his "incredible folly and carelessness, " he got off better than heexpected. Theobald and Christina had indeed at first been inclined toconnect his absence from dinner with Ellen's dismissal, but on finding itclear, as Theobald said--everything was always clear with Theobald--thatErnest had not been in the house all the morning, and could thereforehave known nothing of what had happened, he was acquitted on this accountfor once in a way, without a stain upon his character. Perhaps Theobaldwas in a good temper; he may have seen from the paper that morning thathis 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 grievedat the loss of his watch, Theobald actually prescribed a glass of wineafter his dinner, which, strange to say, did not choke him, but made himsee things more cheerfully than was usual with him. 

That night when he said his prayers, he inserted a few paragraphs to theeffect that he might not be discovered, and that things might go wellwith Ellen, but he was anxious and ill at ease. His guilty consciencepointed out to him a score of weak places in his story, through any oneof which detection might even yet easily enter. Next day and for manydays afterwards he fled when no man was pursuing, and trembled each timehe heard his father's voice calling for him. He had already so manycauses of anxiety that he could stand little more, and in spite of allhis endeavours to look cheerful, even his mother could see that somethingwas preying upon his mind. Then the idea returned to her that, afterall, her son might not be innocent in the Ellen matter--and this was sointeresting 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 dayin her kindest manner; "come and sit down by me, and we will have alittle quiet confidential talk together, will we not?"

The boy went mechanically to the sofa. Whenever his mother wanted whatshe called a confidential talk with him she always selected the sofa asthe most suitable ground on which to open her campaign. All mothers dothis; the sofa is to them what the dining-room is to fathers. In thepresent case the sofa was particularly well adapted for a strategicpurpose, being an old-fashioned one with a high back, mattress, bolstersand cushions. Once safely penned into one of its deep corners, it waslike a dentist's chair, not too easy to get out of again. Here she couldget at him better to pull him about, if this should seem desirable, or ifshe thought fit to cry she could bury her head in the sofa cushion andabandon herself to an agony of grief which seldom failed of its effect. None of her favourite manoeuvres were so easily adopted in her usualseat, the arm-chair on the right hand side of the fireplace, and so welldid her son know from his mother's tone that this was going to be a sofaconversation that he took his place like a lamb as soon as she began tospeak and before she could reach the sofa herself. 

"My dearest boy, " began his mother, taking hold of his hand and placingit within her own, "promise me never to be afraid either of your dearpapa or of me; promise me this, my dear, as you love me, promise it tome, " and she kissed him again and again and stroked his hair. But withher other hand she still kept hold of his; she had got him and she meantto 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 asyour papa and I do; no one who watches so carefully over your interestsor who is so anxious to enter into all your little joys and troubles aswe are; but my dearest boy, it grieves me to think sometimes that youhave not that perfect love for and confidence in us which you ought tohave. You know, my darling, that it would be as much our pleasure as ourduty to watch over the development of your moral and spiritual nature, but alas! you will not let us see your moral and spiritual nature. Attimes we are almost inclined to doubt whether you have a moral andspiritual nature at all. Of your inner life, my dear, we know nothingbeyond such scraps as we can glean in spite of you, from little thingswhich 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 well how careful he ought to be, and yet, do what he could, fromtime 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 thepleasure of touching as it were the eyes at the end of the snail's hornsin order to enjoy seeing the snail draw them in again--but she knew thatwhen she had got him well down into the sofa, and held his hand, she hadthe enemy almost absolutely at her mercy, and could do pretty much whatshe liked. 

"Papa does not feel, " she continued, "that you love him with that fulnessand unreserve which would prompt you to have no concealment from him, andto tell him everything freely and fearlessly as your most loving earthlyfriend next only to your Heavenly Father. Perfect love, as we know, casteth out fear: your father loves you perfectly, my darling, but hedoes not feel as though you loved him perfectly in return. If you fearhim it is because you do not love him as he deserves, and I know itsometimes cuts him to the very heart to think that he has earned from youa deeper and more willing sympathy than you display towards him. Oh, Ernest, Ernest, do not grieve one who is so good and noble-hearted byconduct which I can call by no other name than ingratitude. "

Ernest could never stand being spoken to in this way by his mother: forhe still believed that she loved him, and that he was fond of her and hada friend in her--up to a certain point. But his mother was beginning tocome to the end of her tether; she had played the domestic confidencetrick upon him times without number already. Over and over again had shewheedled from him all she wanted to know, and afterwards got him into themost horrible scrape by telling the whole to Theobald. Ernest hadremonstrated more than once upon these occasions, and had pointed out tohis mother how disastrous to him his confidences had been, but Christinahad always joined issue with him and showed him in the clearest possiblemanner that in each case she had been right, and that he could notreasonably complain. Generally it was her conscience that forbade her tobe silent, and against this there was no appeal, for we are all bound tofollow the dictates of our conscience. Ernest used to have to recite ahymn about conscience. It was to the effect that if you did not payattention to its voice it would soon leave off speaking. "My mamma'sconscience has not left off speaking, " said Ernest to one of his chums atRoughborough; "it's always jabbering. "

When a boy has once spoken so disrespectfully as this about his mother'sconscience it is practically all over between him and her. Ernestthrough sheer force of habit, of the sofa, and of the return of theassociated ideas, was still so moved by the siren's voice as to yearn tosail towards her, and fling himself into her arms, but it would not do;there were other associated ideas that returned also, and the mangledbones of too many murdered confessions were lying whitening round theskirts of his mother's dress, to allow him by any possibility to trusther further. So he hung his head and looked sheepish, but kept his owncounsel. 

"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 unburdenyourself to me: but oh, Ernest, tell me at least this much; is therenothing that you repent of, nothing which makes you unhappy in connectionwith that miserable girl Ellen?"

Ernest's heart failed him. "I am a dead boy now, " he said to himself. Hehad not the faintest conception what his mother was driving at, andthought she suspected about the watch; but he held his ground. 

I do not believe he was much more of a coward than his neighbours, onlyhe did not know that all sensible people are cowards when they are offtheir beat, or when they think they are going to be roughly handled. Ibelieve, that if the truth were known, it would be found that even thevaliant St Michael himself tried hard to shirk his famous combat with thedragon; he pretended not to see all sorts of misconduct on the dragon'spart; shut his eyes to the eating up of I do not know how many hundredsof men, women and children whom he had promised to protect; allowedhimself to be publicly insulted a dozen times over without resenting it;and in the end when even an angel could stand it no longer heshilly-shallied and temporised an unconscionable time before he would fixthe day and hour for the encounter. As for the actual combat it was muchsuch another _wurra-wurra_ as Mrs Allaby had had with the young man whohad 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 veryseriously hurt after all. 

"I do not know what you mean, mamma, " exclaimed Ernest anxiously and moreor less hurriedly. His mother construed his manner into indignation atbeing suspected, and being rather frightened herself she turned tail andscuttled off as fast as her tongue could carry her. 

"Oh!" she said, "I see by your tone that you are innocent! Oh! oh! how Ithank my heavenly Father for this; may He for His dear Son's sake keepyou always pure. Your father, my dear"--(here she spoke hurriedly butgave him a searching look) "was as pure as a spotless angel when he cameto me. Like him, always be self-denying, truly truthful both in word anddeed, never forgetful whose son and grandson you are, nor of the name wegave you, of the sacred stream in whose waters your sins were washed outof you through the blood and blessing of Christ, " etc. 

But Ernest cut this--I will not say short--but a great deal shorter thanit would have been if Christina had had her say out, by extricatinghimself from his mamma's embrace and showing a clean pair of heels. Ashe got near the purlieus of the kitchen (where he was more at ease) heheard his father calling for his mother, and again his guilty consciencerose against him. "He has found all out now, " it cried, "and he is goingto 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 offinto a coppice or spinney behind the Rectory paddock, and consoledhimself with a pipe of tobacco. Here in the wood with the summer sunstreaming through the trees and a book and his pipe the boy forgot hiscares and had an interval of that rest without which I verily believe hislife would have been insupportable. 

Of course, Ernest was made to look for his lost property, and a rewardwas offered for it, but it seemed he had wandered a good deal off thepath, thinking to find a lark's nest, more than once, and looking for awatch and purse on Battersby piewipes was very like looking for a needlein a bundle of hay: besides it might have been found and taken by sometramp, or by a magpie of which there were many in the neighbourhood, sothat after a week or ten days the search was discontinued, and theunpleasant 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 thewatch; this should be made easy for him, for it should be deducted fromhis pocket money in half-yearly instalments extending over two, or evenit might be three years. In Ernest's own interests, then, as well asthose of his father and mother, it would be well that the watch shouldcost 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 uponhis plate as a surprise just before the holidays were over. Theobaldwould have to go to the county town in a few days, and could then findsome second-hand watch which would answer sufficiently well. In thecourse of time, therefore, Theobald went, furnished with a long list ofhousehold commissions, among which was the purchase of a watch forErnest. 

Those, as I have said, were always happy times, when Theobald was awayfor a whole day certain; the boy was beginning to feel easy in his mindas though God had heard his prayers, and he was not going to be foundout. 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 helived was never more likely to breed a storm than after such an intervalof brilliant calm, and when Theobald returned Ernest had only to look inhis face to see that a hurricane was approaching. 

Christina saw that something had gone very wrong, and was quitefrightened lest Theobald should have heard of some serious money loss; hedid not, however, at once unbosom himself, but rang the bell and said tothe servant, "Tell Master Ernest I wish to speak to him in the dining-room. "

CHAPTER XLI

Long before Ernest reached the dining-room his ill-divining soul had toldhim that his sin had found him out. What head of a family ever sends forany 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 awayfor a few minutes unexpectedly upon some parish business--and he was leftin the same kind of suspense as people are in after they have beenushered into their dentist's ante-room. 

Of all the rooms in the house he hated the dining-room worst. It washere 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 wasused in polishing the furniture, and neither I nor Ernest can even nowcome within range of the smell of this kind of varnish without our heartsfailing us. 

Over the chimney-piece there was a veritable old master, one of the feworiginal pictures which Mr George Pontifex had brought from Italy. Itwas supposed to be a Salvator Rosa, and had been bought as a greatbargain. The subject was Elijah or Elisha (whichever it was) being fedby 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 wasthe prophet in question in the lower left-hand corner looking longinglyup towards them. When Ernest was a very small boy it had been a constantmatter of regret to him that the food which the ravens carried neveractually reached the prophet; he did not understand the limitation of thepainter's art, and wanted the meat and the prophet to be brought intodirect contact. One day, with the help of some steps which had been leftin the room, he had clambered up to the picture and with a piece of breadand butter traced a greasy line right across it from the ravens toElisha's mouth, after which he had felt more comfortable. 

Ernest's mind was drifting back to this youthful escapade when he heardhis 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 alittle matter which I should like you to explain to me, as I have nodoubt you very easily can. " Thump, thump, thump, went Ernest's heartagainst his ribs; but his father's manner was so much nicer than usualthat he began to think it might be after all only another false alarm. 

"It had occurred to your mother and myself that we should like to set youup 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 lookout for a second-hand one which should answer every purpose so long asyou're at school. "

Theobald spoke as if watches had half-a-dozen purposes besidestime-keeping, but he could hardly open his mouth without using one orother of his tags, and "answering every purpose" was one of them. 

Ernest was breaking out into the usual expressions of gratitude, whenTheobald continued, "You are interrupting me, " and Ernest's heart thumpedagain. 

"You are interrupting me, Ernest. I have not yet done. " Ernest wasinstantly dumb. 

"I passed several shops with second-hand watches for sale, but I saw noneof a description and price which pleased me, till at last I was shown onewhich had, so the shopman said, been left with him recently for sale, andwhich I at once recognised as the one which had been given you by yourAunt Alethea. Even if I had failed to recognise it, as perhaps I mighthave done, I should have identified it directly it reached my hands, inasmuch as it had 'E. P. , a present from A. P. ' engraved upon theinside. I need say no more to show that this was the very watch whichyou 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 wordshad been uttered slowly, but here he suddenly quickened and flung off themask as he added the words, "or some such cock and bull story, which yourmother and I were too truthful to disbelieve. You can guess what must beour feelings now. "

Ernest felt that this last home-thrust was just. In his less anxiousmoments he had thought his papa and mamma "green" for the readiness withwhich they believed him, but he could not deny that their credulity was aproof of their habitual truthfulness of mind. In common justice he mustown that it was very dreadful for two such truthful people to have a sonas untruthful as he knew himself to be. 

"Believing that a son of your mother and myself would be incapable offalsehood I at once assumed that some tramp had picked the watch up andwas now trying to dispose of it. "

This to the best of my belief was not accurate. Theobald's firstassumption 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 mindhad at once conceived the idea of a tramp. 

"You may imagine how shocked I was when I discovered that the watch hadbeen brought for sale by that miserable woman Ellen"--here Ernest's hearthardened a little, and he felt as near an approach to an instinct to turnas one so defenceless could be expected to feel; his father quicklyperceived this and continued, "who was turned out of this house incircumstances which I will not pollute your ears by more particularlydescribing. 

"I put aside the horrid conviction which was beginning to dawn upon me, and assumed that in the interval between her dismissal and her leavingthis house, she had added theft to her other sin, and having found yourwatch in your bedroom had purloined it. It even occurred to me that youmight have missed your watch after the woman was gone, and, suspectingwho had taken it, had run after the carriage in order to recover it; butwhen I told the shopman of my suspicions he assured me that the personwho left it with him had declared most solemnly that it had been givenher by her master's son, whose property it was, and who had a perfectright to dispose of it. 

"He told me further that, thinking the circumstances in which the watchwas offered for sale somewhat suspicious, he had insisted upon thewoman's telling him the whole story of how she came by it, before hewould consent to buy it of her. 

"He said that at first--as women of that stamp invariably do--she triedprevarication, but on being threatened that she should at once be giveninto custody if she did not tell the whole truth, she described the wayin which you had run after the carriage, till as she said you were blackin the face, and insisted on giving her all your pocket money, your knifeand your watch. She added that my coachman John--whom I shall instantlydischarge--was witness to the whole transaction. Now, Ernest, be pleasedto 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 manhis own size, or to stop him midway in the story with a remonstranceagainst being kicked when he was down. The boy was too much shocked andshaken to be inventive; he could only drift and stammer out that the talewas true. 

"So I feared, " said Theobald, "and now, Ernest, be good enough to ringthe bell. "

When the bell had been answered, Theobald desired that John should besent for, and when John came Theobald calculated the wages due to him anddesired him at once to leave the house. 

John's manner was quiet and respectful. He took his dismissal as amatter of course, for Theobald had hinted enough to make him understandwhy he was being discharged, but when he saw Ernest sitting pale and awe-struck on the edge of his chair against the dining-room wall, a suddenthought seemed to strike him, and turning to Theobald he said in a broadnorthern accent which I will not attempt to reproduce:

"Look here, master, I can guess what all this is about--now before I goesI want to have a word with you. "

"Ernest, " said Theobald, "leave the room. "

"No, Master Ernest, you shan't, " said John, planting himself against thedoor. "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 abad master to me, but I do say that if you bear hardly on Master Ernesthere I have those in the village as 'll hear on't and let me know; and ifI do hear on't I'll come back and break every bone in your skin, sothere!"

John's breath came and went quickly, as though he would have been wellenough pleased to begin the bone-breaking business at once. Theobaldturned of an ashen colour--not, as he explained afterwards, at the idlethreats of a detected and angry ruffian, but at such atrocious insolencefrom one of his own servants. 

"I shall leave Master Ernest, John, " he rejoined proudly, "to thereproaches of his own conscience. " ("Thank God and thank John, " thoughtErnest. ) "As for yourself, I admit that you have been an excellentservant until this unfortunate business came on, and I shall have muchpleasure in giving you a character if you want one. Have you anythingmore to say?"

"No more nor what I have said, " said John sullenly, "but what I've said Imeans and I'll stick to--character or no character. "

"Oh, you need not be afraid about your character, John, " said Theobaldkindly, "and as it is getting late, there can be no occasion for you toleave the house before to-morrow 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 allexcept that Theobald should have been subjected to such insolence fromone of his own servants through the misconduct of his son. Theobald wasthe bravest man in the whole world, and could easily have collared thewretch and turned him out of the room, but how far more dignified, howfar nobler had been his reply! How it would tell in a novel or upon thestage, for though the stage as a whole was immoral, yet there weredoubtless some plays which were improving spectacles. She could fancythe whole house hushed with excitement at hearing John's menace, andhardly breathing by reason of their interest and expectation of thecoming answer. Then the actor--probably the great and good MrMacready--would say, "I shall leave Master Ernest, John, to thereproaches of his own conscience. " Oh, it was sublime! What a roar ofapplause must follow! Then she should enter herself, and fling her armsabout her husband's neck, and call him her lion-hearted husband. Whenthe curtain dropped, it would be buzzed about the house that the scenejust witnessed had been drawn from real life, and had actually occurredin the household of the Rev. Theobald Pontifex, who had married a MissAllaby, etc. , etc. 

As regards Ernest the suspicions which had already crossed her mind weredeepened, but she thought it better to leave the matter where it was. Atpresent she was in a very strong position. Ernest's official purity wasfirmly established, but at the same time he had shown himself sosusceptible that she was able to fuse two contradictory impressionsconcerning him into a single idea, and consider him as a kind of Josephand Don Juan in one. This was what she had wanted all along, but hervanity being gratified by the possession of such a son, there was an endof it; the son himself was naught. 

No doubt if John had not interfered, Ernest would have had to expiate hisoffence with ache, penury and imprisonment. As it was the boy was "toconsider himself" as undergoing these punishments, and as suffering pangsof unavailing remorse inflicted on him by his conscience into thebargain; but beyond the fact that Theobald kept him more closely to hisholiday task, and the continued coldness of his parents, no ostensiblepunishment was meted out to him. Ernest, however, tells me that he looksback upon this as the time when he began to know that he had a cordialand active dislike for both his parents, which I suppose means that hewas now beginning to be aware that he was reaching man's estate. 

CHAPTER XLII

About a week before he went back to school his father again sent for himinto 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 thoughtit better to pay a few shillings rather than dispute the ownership of thewatch, seeing that Ernest had undoubtedly given it to Ellen--from hispocket money, in payments which should extend over two half years. Hewould therefore have to go back to Roughborough this half year with onlyfive shillings' pocket money. If he wanted more he must earn more meritmoney. 

Ernest was not so careful about money as a pattern boy should be. He didnot say to himself, "Now I have got a sovereign which must last mefifteen weeks, therefore I may spend exactly one shilling and fourpencein each week"--and spend exactly one and fourpence in each weekaccordingly. He ran through his money at about the same rate as otherboys did, being pretty well cleaned out a few days after he had got backto school. When he had no more money, he got a little into debt, andwhen as far in debt as he could see his way to repaying, he went withoutluxuries. Immediately he got any money he would pay his debts; if therewas any over he would spend it; if there was not--and there seldom was--hewould begin to go on tick again. 

His finance was always based upon the supposition that he should go backto school with 1 pound in his pocket--of which he owed say a matter offifteen shillings. There would be five shillings for sundry schoolsubscriptions--but when these were paid the weekly allowance of sixpencegiven to each boy in hall, his merit money (which this half he wasresolved should come to a good sum) and renewed credit, would carry himthrough 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 wasdetermined "to learn the truth at once, and _this time_ without days anddays of falsehood" before he reached it. The melancholy fact was notlong in coming out, namely, that the wretched Ernest added debt to thevices of idleness, falsehood and possibly--for it was notimpossible--immorality. 

How had he come to get into debt? Did the other boys do so? Ernestreluctantly admitted that they did. 

With what shops did they get into debt?

This was asking too much, Ernest said he didn't know!

"Oh, Ernest, Ernest, " exclaimed his mother, who was in the room, "do notso soon a second time presume upon the forbearance of thetenderest-hearted father in the world. Give time for one stab to healbefore you wound him with another. "

This was all very fine, but what was Ernest to do? How could he get theschool shop-keepers into trouble by owning that they let some of the boysgo on tick with them? There was Mrs Cross, a good old soul, who used tosell hot rolls and butter for breakfast, or eggs and toast, or it mightbe the quarter of a fowl with bread sauce and mashed potatoes for whichshe would charge 6d. If she made a farthing out of the sixpence it wasas much as she did. When the boys would come trooping into her shopafter "the hounds" how often had not Ernest heard her say to her servantgirls, "Now then, you wanches, git some cheers. " All the boys were fondof 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 amgoing to put a stop to this nonsense once for all. Either take me fullyinto your confidence, as a son should take a father, and trust me to dealwith this matter as a clergyman and a man of the world--or understanddistinctly that I shall take the whole story to Dr Skinner, who, Iimagine, will take much sterner measures than I should. "

"Oh, Ernest, Ernest, " sobbed Christina, "be wise in time, and trust thosewho have already shown you that they know but too well how to beforbearing. "

No genuine hero of romance should have hesitated for a moment. Nothingshould have cajoled or frightened him into telling tales out of school. Ernest thought of his ideal boys: they, he well knew, would have lettheir tongues be cut out of them before information could have been wrungfrom any word of theirs. But Ernest was not an ideal boy, and he was notstrong enough for his surroundings; I doubt how far any boy couldwithstand the moral pressure which was brought to bear upon him; at anyrate he could not do so, and after a little more writhing he yieldedhimself a passive prey to the enemy. He consoled himself with thereflection that his papa had not played the confidence trick on him quiteas often as his mamma had, and that probably it was better he should tellhis father, than that his father should insist on Dr Skinner's making aninquiry. His papa's conscience "jabbered" a good deal, but not as muchas his mamma's. The little fool forgot that he had not given his fatheras 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 MrsJones, and this at the "Swan and Bottle" public house, to say nothing ofanother shilling or sixpence or two in other quarters. Nevertheless, Theobald and Christina were not satiated, but rather the more theydiscovered the greater grew their appetite for discovery; it was theirobvious duty to find out everything, for though they might rescue theirown darling from this hotbed of iniquity without getting to know morethan they knew at present, were there not other papas and mammas withdarlings 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 thumbscrewswere instantly applied, and Ernest, demoralised as he already was, recanted and submitted himself to the powers that were. He told only alittle less than he knew or thought he knew. He was examined, re-examined, cross-examined, sent to the retirement of his own bedroomand cross-examined again; the smoking in Mrs Jones' kitchen all came out;which boys smoked and which did not; which boys owed money and, roughly, how much and where; which boys swore and used bad language. Theobald wasresolved that this time Ernest should, as he called it, take him into hisconfidence without reserve, so the school list which went with DrSkinner's half-yearly bills was brought out, and the most secretcharacter 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, andyet Theobald had on the preceding Sunday preached a less feeble sermonthan he commonly preached, upon the horrors of the Inquisition. Nomatter how awful was the depravity revealed to them, the pair neverflinched, but probed and probed, till they were on the point of reachingsubjects more delicate than they had yet touched upon. Here Ernest'sunconscious self took the matter up and made a resistance to which hisconscious self was unequal, by tumbling him off his chair in a fit offainting. 

Dr Martin was sent for and pronounced the boy to be seriously unwell; atthe same time he prescribed absolute rest and absence from nervousexcitement. So the anxious parents were unwillingly compelled to becontent with what they had got already--being frightened into leading hima quiet life for the short remainder of the holidays. They were notidle, but Satan can find as much mischief for busy hands as for idleones, so he sent a little job in the direction of Battersby whichTheobald and Christina undertook immediately. It would be a pity, theyreasoned, that Ernest should leave Roughborough, now that he had beenthere three years; it would be difficult to find another school for him, and to explain why he had left Roughborough. Besides, Dr Skinner andTheobald were supposed to be old friends, and it would be unpleasant tooffend him; these were all valid reasons for not removing the boy. Theproper thing to do, then, would be to warn Dr Skinner confidentially ofthe state of his school, and to furnish him with a school list annotatedwith the remarks extracted from Ernest, which should be appended to thename 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 atabular form, which assumed the following shape--only that of course Ihave changed the names. One cross in each square was to indicateoccasional offence; two stood for frequent, and three for habitualdelinquency. 

 Smoking Drinking beer Swearing Notes at the "Swan and Obscene and Bottle. " Language. Smith O O XX Will smoke next halfBrown XXX O XJones X XX XXXRobinson XX XX X

And thus through the whole school. 

Of course, in justice to Ernest, Dr Skinner would be bound over tosecrecy before a word was said to him, but, Ernest being thus protected, he could not be furnished with the facts too completely. 

CHAPTER XLIII

So important did Theobald consider this matter that he made a specialjourney to Roughborough before the half year began. It was a relief tohave him out of the house, but though 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 ofthe most serious laches of his life--one which he can never think ofwithout shame and indignation. He says he ought to have run away fromhome. But what good could he have done if he had? He would have beencaught, brought back and examined two days later instead of two daysearlier. A boy of barely sixteen cannot stand against the moral pressureof a father and mother who have always oppressed him any more than he cancope physically with a powerful full-grown man. True, he may allowhimself to be killed rather than yield, but this is being so morbidlyheroic as to come close round again to cowardice; for it is little elsethan suicide, which is universally condemned as cowardly. 

On the re-assembling of the school it became apparent that something hadgone wrong. Dr Skinner called the boys together, and with much pompexcommunicated Mrs Cross and Mrs Jones, by declaring their shops to beout of bounds. The street in which the "Swan and Bottle" stood was alsoforbidden. The vices of drinking and smoking, therefore, were clearlyaimed at, and before prayers Dr Skinner spoke a few impressive wordsabout the abominable sin of using bad language. Ernest's feelings can beimagined. 

Next day at the hour when the daily punishments were read out, thoughthere had not yet been time for him to have offended, Ernest Pontifex wasdeclared to have incurred every punishment which the school provided forevil-doers. He was placed on the idle list for the whole half year, andon perpetual detentions; his bounds were curtailed; he was to attendjunior callings-over; in fact he was so hemmed in with punishments uponever side that it was hardly possible for him to go outside the schoolgates. This unparalleled list of punishments inflicted on the first dayof the half year, and intended to last till the ensuing Christmasholidays, was not connected with any specified offence. It required nogreat penetration therefore, on the part of the boys to connect Ernestwith the putting Mrs Cross's 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 potatoes upondeferred payment. The head boys assembled in conclave to consider whatsteps should be taken, but hardly had they done so before Ernest knockedtimidly at the head-room door and took the bull by the horns byexplaining the facts as far as he could bring himself to do so. He madea clean breast of everything except about the school list and the remarkshe had made about each boy's character. This infamy was more than hecould own to, and he kept his counsel concerning it. Fortunately he wassafe in doing so, for Dr Skinner, pedant and more than pedant though hewas, had still just sense enough to turn on Theobald in the matter of theschool list. Whether he resented being told that he did not know thecharacters of his own boys, or whether he dreaded a scandal about theschool I know not, but when Theobald had handed him the list, over whichhe had expended so much pains, Dr Skinner had cut him uncommonly short, and had 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 wasadmitted that the offence, heinous though it was, had been committedunder extenuating circumstances; the frankness with which the culprit hadconfessed all, his evidently unfeigned remorse, and the fury with whichDr Skinner was pursuing him tended to bring about a reaction in hisfavour, as though he had been more sinned against than sinning. 

As the half year wore on his spirits gradually revived, and when attackedby one of his fits of self-abasement he was in some degree consoled byhaving found out that even his father and mother, whom he had supposed soimmaculate, were no better than they should be. About the fifth ofNovember it was a school custom to meet on a certain common not far fromRoughborough and burn somebody in effigy, this being the compromisearrived at in the matter of fireworks and Guy Fawkes festivities. Thisyear it was decided that Pontifex's governor should be the victim, andErnest though a good deal exercised in mind as to what he ought to do, inthe end saw no sufficient reason for holding aloof from proceedingswhich, as he justly remarked, could not do his father any harm. 

It so happened that the bishop had held a confirmation at the school onthe fifth of November. Dr Skinner had not quite liked the selection ofthis day, but the bishop was pressed by many engagements, and had beencompelled to make the arrangement as it then stood. Ernest was amongthose who had to be confirmed, and was deeply impressed with the solemnimportance of the ceremony. When he felt the huge old bishop drawingdown upon him as he knelt in chapel he could hardly breathe, and when theapparition paused before him and laid its hands upon his head he wasfrightened almost out of his wits. He felt that he had arrived at one ofthe great turning points of his life, and that the Ernest of the futurecould resemble only very faintly the Ernest of the past. 

This happened at about noon, but by the one o'clock dinner-hour theeffect of the confirmation had worn off, and he saw no reason why heshould forego his annual amusement with the bonfire; so he went with theothers and was very valiant till the image was actually produced and wasabout to be burnt; then he felt a little frightened. It was a poor thingenough, made of paper, calico and straw, but they had christened it TheRev. Theobald Pontifex, and he had a revulsion of feeling as he saw itbeing carried towards the bonfire. Still he held his ground, and in afew minutes when all was over felt none the worse for having assisted ata ceremony which, after all, was prompted by a boyish love of mischiefrather than by rancour. 

I should say that Ernest had written to his father, and told him of theunprecedented way in which he was being treated; he even ventured tosuggest that Theobald should interfere for his protection and remindedhim how the story had been got out of him, but Theobald had had enough ofDr Skinner for the present; the burning of the school list had been arebuff which did not encourage him to meddle a second time in theinternal economics of Roughborough. He therefore replied that he musteither remove Ernest from Roughborough altogether, which would for manyreasons be undesirable, or trust to the discretion of the head master asregards the treatment he might think best for any of his pupils. Ernestsaid no more; he still felt that it was so discreditable to him to haveallowed any confession to be wrung from him, that he could not press thepromised amnesty for himself. 

It was during the "Mother Cross row, " as it was long styled among theboys, that a remarkable phenomenon was witnessed at Roughborough. I meanthat of the head boys under certain conditions doing errands for theirjuniors. The head boys had no bounds and could go to Mrs Cross'swhenever they liked; they actually, therefore, made themselvesgo-betweens, and would get anything from either Mrs Cross's or MrsJones's for any boy, no matter how low in the school, between the hoursof a quarter to nine and nine in the morning, and a quarter to six andsix in the afternoon. By degrees, however, the boys grew bolder, and theshops, though not openly declared in bounds again, were tacitly allowedto be so. 

CHAPTER XLIV

I may spare the reader more details about my hero's school days. Herose, always in spite of himself, into the Doctor's form, and for thelast two years or so of his time was among the praepostors, though henever rose into the upper half of them. He did little, and I think theDoctor 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 ornot, pretty much as he liked. His tacit, unconscious obstinacy had intime effected more even than a few bold sallies in the first instancewould have done. To the end of his career his position _inter pares_ waswhat it had been at the beginning, namely, among the upper part of theless reputable class--whether of seniors or juniors--rather than amongthe lower part of the more respectable. 

Only once in the whole course of his school life did he get praise fromDr Skinner for any exercise, and this he has treasured as the bestexample of guarded approval which he has ever seen. He had had to writea copy of Alcaics on "The dogs of the monks of St Bernard, " and when theexercise was returned to him he found the Doctor had written on it: "Inthis copy of Alcaics--which is still excessively bad--I fancy that I candiscern some faint symptoms of improvement. " Ernest says that if theexercise was any better than usual it must have been by a fluke, for heis sure that he always liked dogs, especially St Bernard dogs, far toomuch to take any pleasure in writing Alcaics about them. 

"As I look back upon it, " he said to me but the other day, with a heartylaugh, "I respect myself more for having never once got the best mark foran 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 gladSkinner could never get any moral influence over me; I am glad I was idleat school, and I am glad my father overtasked me as a boy--otherwise, likely enough I should have acquiesced in the swindle, and might havewritten as good a copy of Alcaics about the dogs of the monks of StBernard as my neighbours, and yet I don't know, for I remember there wasanother boy, who sent in a Latin copy of some sort, but for his ownpleasure he wrote the following--

 The dogs of the monks of St Bernard go To pick little children out of the snow, And around their necks is the cordial gin Tied with a little bit of bob-bin. 

I should like to have written that, and I did try, but I couldn't. Ididn'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 hisyouth in Ernest's manner, and said something to this effect. 

"Oh, no, " he replied, still laughing, "no more than St Anthony felttowards the devils who had tempted him, when he met some of them casuallya hundred or a couple of hundred years afterwards. Of course he knewthey were devils, but that was all right enough; there must be devils. StAnthony probably liked these devils better than most others, and for oldacquaintance sake showed them as much indulgence as was compatible withdecorum. 

"Besides, you know, " he added, "St Anthony tempted the devils quite asmuch as they tempted him; for his peculiar sanctity was a greatertemptation to tempt him than they could stand. Strictly speaking, it wasthe devils who were the more to be pitied, for they were led up by StAnthony to be tempted and fell, whereas St Anthony did not fall. Ibelieve I was a disagreeable and unintelligible boy, and if ever I meetSkinner there is no one whom I would shake hands with, or do a good turnto more readily. "

At home things went on rather better; the Ellen and Mother Cross rowssank slowly down upon the horizon, and even at home he had quieter timesnow that he had become a praepostor. Nevertheless the watchful eye andprotecting hand were still ever over him to guard his comings in and hisgoings 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 cheerfuland contented--and at times actually being so--wore often an anxious, jaded look when he thought none were looking, which told of an almostincessant conflict within?

Doubtless Theobald saw these looks and knew how to interpret them, but itwas his profession to know how to shut his eyes to things that wereinconvenient--no clergyman could keep his benefice for a month if hecould not do this; besides he had allowed himself for so many years tosay things he ought not to have said, and not to say the things he oughtto have said, that he was little likely to see anything that he thoughtit 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 hasmade none, to bring his conscience under something like reasonablecontrol, 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 havejust written. "Why it is the whole duty of a father, but it is themystery-making which is the worst evil. If people would dare to speak toone another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in theworld a hundred years hence. "

To return, however, to Roughborough. On the day of his leaving, when hewas sent for into the library to be shaken hands with, he was surprisedto feel that, though assuredly glad to leave, he did not do so with anyespecial grudge against the Doctor rankling in his breast. He had cometo the end of it all, and was still alive, nor, take it all round, moreseriously amiss than other people. Dr Skinner received him graciously, and was even frolicsome after his own heavy fashion. Young people arealmost always placable, and Ernest felt as he went away that another suchinterview would not only have wiped off all old scores, but have broughthim round into the ranks of the Doctor's admirers and supporters--amongwhom it is only fair to say that the greater number of the more promisingboys were found. 

Just before saying good-bye the Doctor actually took down a volume fromthose shelves which had seemed so awful six years previously, and gave itto him after having written his name in it, and the words [Greek text], which I believe means "with all kind wishes from the donor. " The bookwas one written in Latin by a German--Schomann: "De comitiisAtheniensibus"--not exactly light and cheerful reading, but Ernest feltit was high time he got to understand the Athenian constitution andmanner of voting; he had got them up a great many times already, but hadforgotten them as fast as he had learned them; now, however, that theDoctor 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; heknew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself they nosooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again, he had such adreadful memory; whereas, if anyone played him a piece of music and toldhim where it came from, he never forgot that, though he made no effort toretain 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'schurch and went to have a farewell practice upon the organ, which hecould now play fairly well. He walked up and down the aisle for a whilein a meditative mood, and then, settling down to the organ, played "Theyloathed to drink of the river" about six times over, after which he feltmore composed and happier; then, tearing himself away from the instrumenthe loved so well, he hurried to the station. 

As the train drew out he looked down from a high embankment on to thelittle house his aunt had taken, and where it might be said she had diedthrough her desire to do him a kindness. There were the two well-knownbow windows, out of which he had often stepped to run across the lawninto the workshop. He reproached himself with the little gratitude hehad shown towards this kind lady--the only one of his relations whom hehad ever felt as though he could have taken into his confidence. Dearlyas he loved her memory, he was glad she had not known the scrapes he hadgot into since she died; perhaps she might not have forgiven them--andhow awful that would have been! But then, if she had lived, perhaps manyof his ills would have been spared him. As he mused thus he grew sadagain. Where, where, he asked himself, was it all to end? Was it to bealways 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 layingburdens on him greater than he could bear--or was he, too, some day oranother to come to feel that he was fairly well and happy?

There was a gray mist across the sun, so that the eye could bear itslight, and Ernest, while musing as above, was looking right into themiddle of the sun himself, as into the face of one whom he knew and wasfond of. At first his face was grave, but kindly, as of a tired man whofeels that a long task is over; but in a few seconds the more humorousside of his misfortunes presented itself to him, and he smiled halfreproachfully, half merrily, as thinking how little all that had happenedto him really mattered, and how small were his hardships as compared withthose of most people. Still looking into the eye of the sun and smilingdreamily, he thought how he had helped to burn his father in effigy, andhis look grew merrier, till at last he broke out into a laugh. Exactlyat this moment the light veil of cloud parted from the sun, and he wasbrought to _terra firma_ by the breaking forth of the sunshine. On thishe became aware that he was being watched attentively by afellow-traveller opposite to him, an elderly gentleman with a large headand iron-grey hair. 

"My young friend, " said he, good-naturedly, "you really must not carry onconversations with people in the sun, while you are in a public railwaycarriage. "

The old gentleman said not another word, but unfolded his _Times_ andbegan to read it. As for Ernest, he blushed crimson. The pair did notspeak during the rest of the time they were in the carriage, but theyeyed each other from time to time, so that the face of each was impressedon the recollection of the other. 

CHAPTER XLV

Some people say that their school days were the happiest of their lives. They may be right, but I always look with suspicion upon those whom Ihear saying this. It is hard enough to know whether one is happy orunhappy now, and still harder to compare the relative happiness orunhappiness of different times of one's life; the utmost that can be saidis that we are fairly happy so long as we are not distinctly aware ofbeing miserable. As I was talking with Ernest one day not so long sinceabout this, he said he was so happy now that he was sure he had neverbeen happier, and did not wish to be so, but that Cambridge was the firstplace where he had ever been consciously and continuously happy. 

How can any boy fail to feel an ecstasy of pleasure on first findinghimself in rooms which he knows for the next few years are to be hiscastle? Here he will not be compelled to turn out of the mostcomfortable place as soon as he has ensconced himself in it because papaor mamma happens 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 sharethe room with him, or to interfere with his doing as he likes init--smoking included. Why, if such a room looked out both back and fronton to a blank dead wall it would still be a paradise, how much more thenwhen the view is of some quiet grassy court or cloister or garden, asfrom 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 hadentered Ernest--was able to obtain from the present tutor a certainpreference in the choice of rooms; Ernest's, therefore, were verypleasant ones, looking out upon the grassy court that is bounded by theFellows' gardens. 

Theobald accompanied him to Cambridge, and was at his best while doingso. He liked the jaunt, and even he was not without a certain feeling ofpride in having a full-blown son at the University. Some of thereflected rays of this splendour were allowed to fall upon Ernesthimself. Theobald said he was "willing to hope"--this was one of histags--that his son would turn over a new leaf now that he had leftschool, and for his own part he was "only too ready"--this was anothertag--to let bygones be bygones. 

Ernest, not yet having his name on the books, was able to dine with hisfather at the Fellows' table of one of the other colleges on theinvitation of an old friend of Theobald's; he there made acquaintancewith sundry of the good things of this life, the very names of which werenew to him, and felt as he ate them that he was now indeed receiving aliberal education. When at length the time came for him to go toEmmanuel, where he was to sleep in his new rooms, his father came withhim to the gates and saw him safe into college; a few minutes more and hefound himself alone in a room for which he had a latch-key. 

From this time he dated many days which, if not quite unclouded, wereupon the whole very happy ones. I need not however describe them, as thelife of a quiet steady-going undergraduate has been told in a score ofnovels better than I can tell it. Some of Ernest's schoolfellows came upto Cambridge at the same time as himself, and with these he continued onfriendly terms during the whole of his college career. Otherschoolfellows were only a year or two his seniors; these called on him, and he thus made a sufficiently favourable _entree_ into college life. Astraightforwardness of character that was stamped upon his face, a loveof humour, and a temper which was more easily appeased than ruffled madeup for some awkwardness and want of _savoir faire_. He soon became a notunpopular member of the best set of his year, and though neither capableof becoming, nor aspiring to become, a leader, was admitted by theleaders as among their nearer hangers-on. 

Of ambition he had at that time not one particle; greatness, or indeedsuperiority of any kind, seemed so far off and incomprehensible to himthat the idea of connecting it with himself never crossed his mind. Ifhe could escape the notice of all those with whom he did not feel himself_en rapport_, he conceived that he had triumphed sufficiently. He didnot care about taking a good degree, except that it must be good enoughto keep his father and mother quiet. He did not dream of being able toget a fellowship; if he had, he would have tried hard to do so, for hebecame so fond of Cambridge that he could not bear the thought of havingto leave it; the briefness indeed of the season during which his presenthappiness was to last was almost the only thing that now seriouslytroubled him. 

Having less to attend to in the matter of growing, and having got hishead 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, likethat of all very young men who are good for anything, was to do as thosein authority told him. The intention at Battersby was (for Dr Skinnerhad said that Ernest could never get a fellowship) that he should take asufficiently good degree to be able to get a tutorship or mastership insome school preparatory to taking orders. When he was twenty-one yearsold his money was to come into his own hands, and the best thing he coulddo with it would be to buy the next presentation to a living, the rectorof which was now old, and live on his mastership or tutorship till theliving fell in. He could buy a very good living for the sum which hisgrandfather's legacy now amounted to, for Theobald had never had anyserious intention of making deductions for his son's maintenance andeducation, and the money had accumulated till it was now about fivethousand pounds; he had only talked about making deductions in order tostimulate the boy to exertion as far as possible, by making him thinkthat this was his only chance of escaping starvation--or perhaps frompure love of teasing. 

When Ernest had a living of 600 or 700 pounds a year with a house, andnot too many parishioners--why, he might add to his income by takingpupils, or even keeping a school, and then, say at thirty, he mightmarry. It was not easy for Theobald to hit on any much more sensibleplan. He could not get Ernest into business, for he had no businessconnections--besides he did not know what business meant; he had nointerest, again, at the Bar; medicine was a profession which subjectedits students to ordeals and temptations which these fond parents shrankfrom on behalf of their boy; he would be thrown among companions andfamiliarised with details which might sully him, and though he mightstand, it was "only too possible" that he would fall. Besides, ordination was the road which Theobald knew and understood, and indeedthe only road about which he knew anything at all, so not unnaturally itwas the one he chose for Ernest. 

The foregoing had been instilled into my hero from earliest boyhood, muchas it had been instilled into Theobald himself, and with the sameresult--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. Asfor 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 acollege scholarship, of no great value, but still a scholarship, in hisfreshman's term. It is hardly necessary to say that Theobald stuck tothe whole of this money, believing the pocket-money he allowed Ernest tobe sufficient for him, and knowing how dangerous it was for young men tohave money at command. I do not suppose it even occurred to him to tryand remember what he had felt when his father took a like course inregard to himself. 

Ernest's position in this respect was much what it had been at schoolexcept that things were on a larger scale. His tutor's and cook's billswere paid for him; his father sent him his wine; over and above this hehad 50 pounds a year with which to keep himself in clothes and all otherexpenses; 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 atschool--he spent what he could, soon after he received his money; he thenincurred a few modest liabilities, and then lived penuriously till nextterm, when he would immediately pay his debts, and start new ones to muchthe same extent as those which he had just got rid of. When he came intohis 5000 pounds and became independent of his father, 15 or 20 poundsserved 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 hefound the consequences unpleasant, and soon learned how to keep withinsafe limits. He attended chapel as often as he was compelled to do so;he communicated two or three times a year, because his tutor told him heought to; in fact he set himself to live soberly and cleanly, as Iimagine all his instincts prompted him to do, and when he fell--as whothat is born of woman can help sometimes doing?--it was not till after asharp tussle with a temptation that was more than his flesh and bloodcould stand; then he was very penitent and would go a fairly long whilewithout sinning again; and this was how it had always been with him sincehe had arrived at years of indiscretion. 

Even to the end of his career at Cambridge he was not aware that he hadit in him to do anything, but others had begun to see that he was notwanting 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 beingtaken in, but it pleased him to have been able to take them in, and hetried to do so still further; he was therefore a good deal on the look-out for cants that he could catch and apply in season, and might havedone himself some mischief thus if he had not been ready to throw overany 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, dartingseveral times in various directions before he settled down to a steadystraight flight, but when he had once got into this he would keep to it. 

CHAPTER XLVI

When he was in his third year a magazine was founded at Cambridge, thecontributions to which were exclusively by undergraduates. Ernest sentin an essay upon the Greek Drama, which he has declined to let mereproduce here without his being allowed to re-edit it. I have thereforebeen unable to give it in its original form, but when pruned of itsredundancies (and this is all that has been done to it) it runs asfollows--

 "I shall not attempt within the limits at my disposal to make a _resume_ 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 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 home too well 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 rodomontade, 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 amongst 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 fightwith the editor as to whether or no it should be allowed to stand. Ernesthimself was frightened at it, but he had once heard someone say that thePsalms 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 twoopinions on the subject. So he caught up the remark and reproduced it ashis own, concluding that these psalms had probably never been written byDavid at all, but had got in among the others by mistake. 

The essay, perhaps on account of the passage about the Psalms, createdquite a sensation, and on the whole was well received. Ernest's friendspraised it more highly than it deserved, and he was himself very proud ofit, but he dared not show it at Battersby. He knew also that he was nowat the end of his tether; this was his one idea (I feel sure he hadcaught more than half of it from other people), and now he had notanother thing left to write about. He found himself cursed with a smallreputation which seemed to him much bigger than it was, and aconsciousness that he could never keep it up. Before many days were overhe felt his unfortunate essay to be a white elephant to him, which hemust feed by hurrying into all sorts of frantic attempts to cap histriumph, 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 thatthe development of this would in its turn suggest still further ones. Hedid not yet know that the very worst way of getting hold of ideas is togo hunting expressly after them. The way to get them is to studysomething of which one is fond, and to note down whatever crosses one'smind in reference to it, either during study or relaxation, in a littlenote-book kept always in the waistcoat pocket. Ernest has come to knowall about this now, but it took him a long time to find it out, for thisis 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 whoseminds they arise, must be begotten by parents not very unlike themselves, the most original still differing but slightly from the parents that havegiven rise to them. Life is like a fugue, everything must grow out ofthe subject and there must be nothing new. Nor, again, did he see howhard it is to say where one idea ends and another begins, nor yet howclosely this is paralleled in the difficulty of saying where a lifebegins or ends, or an action or indeed anything, there being an unity inspite of infinite multitude, and an infinite multitude in spite of unity. He thought that ideas came into clever people's heads by a kind ofspontaneous germination, without parentage in the thoughts of others orthe course of observation; for as yet he believed in genius, of which hewell knew that he had none, if it was the fine frenzied thing he thoughtit was. 

Not very long before this he had come of age, and Theobald had handed himover his money, which amounted now to 5000 pounds; it was invested tobring in 5 pounds per cent and gave him therefore an income of 250 poundsa year. He did not, however, realise the fact (he could realise nothingso foreign to his experience) that he was independent of his father tilla long time afterwards; nor did Theobald make any difference in hismanner towards him. So strong was the hold which habit and associationheld over both father and son, that the one considered he had as good aright as ever to dictate, and the other that he had as little right asever to gainsay. 

During his last year at Cambridge he overworked himself through this veryblind deference to his father's wishes, for there was no reason why heshould take more than a poll degree except that his father laid suchstress upon his taking honours. He became so ill, indeed, that it wasdoubtful how far he would be able to go in for his degree at all; but hemanaged to do so, and when the list came out was found to be placedhigher than either he or anyone else expected, being among the firstthree or four senior optimes, and a few weeks later, in the lower half ofthe second class of the Classical Tripos. Ill as he was when he gothome, Theobald made him go over all the examination papers with him, andin 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 hehad got, that while at home he spent several hours a day in continuinghis classical and mathematical studies as though he had not yet taken hisdegree. 

CHAPTER XLVII

Ernest returned to Cambridge for the May term of 1858, on the plea ofreading for ordination, with which he was now face to face, and muchnearer than he liked. Up to this time, though not religiously inclined, he had never doubted the truth of anything that had been told him aboutChristianity. He had never seen anyone who doubted, nor read anythingthat raised a suspicion in his mind as to the historical character of themiracles recorded in the Old and New Testaments. 

It must be remembered that the year 1858 was the last of a term duringwhich the peace of the Church of England was singularly unbroken. Between1844, when "Vestiges of Creation" appeared, and 1859, when "Essays andReviews" marked the commencement of that storm which raged until manyyears afterwards, there was not a single book published in England thatcaused serious commotion within the bosom of the Church. PerhapsBuckle's "History of Civilisation" and Mill's "Liberty" were the mostalarming, but they neither of them reached the substratum of the readingpublic, and Ernest and his friends were ignorant of their very existence. The Evangelical movement, with the exception to which I shall revertpresently, had become almost a matter of ancient history. Tractarianismhad subsided into a tenth day's wonder; it was at work, but it was notnoisy. The "Vestiges" were forgotten before Ernest went up to Cambridge;the Catholic aggression scare had lost its terrors; Ritualism was stillunknown by the general provincial public, and the Gorham and Hampdencontroversies were defunct some years since; Dissent was not spreading;the Crimean war was the one engrossing subject, to be followed by theIndian Mutiny and the Franco-Austrian war. These great events turnedmen's minds from speculative subjects, and there was no enemy to thefaith which could arouse even a languid interest. At no time probablysince the beginning of the century could an ordinary observer havedetected less sign of coming disturbance than at that of which I amwriting. 

I need hardly say that the calm was only on the surface. Older men, whoknew more than undergraduates were likely to do, must have seen that thewave of scepticism which had already broken over Germany was settingtowards our own shores, nor was it long, indeed, before it reached them. Ernest had hardly been ordained before three works in quick successionarrested the attention even of those who paid least heed to theologicalcontroversy. I mean "Essays and Reviews, " Charles Darwin's "Origin ofSpecies, " and Bishop Colenso's "Criticisms on the Pentateuch. "

This, however, is a digression; I must revert to the one phase ofspiritual activity which had any life in it during the time Ernest was atCambridge, that is to say, to the remains of the Evangelical awakening ofmore than a generation earlier, which was connected with the name ofSimeon. 

There were still a good many Simeonites, or as they were more brieflycalled "Sims, " in Ernest's time. Every college contained some of them, but their headquarters were at Caius, whither they were attracted by MrClayton who was at that time senior tutor, and among the sizars of StJohn'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 dependentupon sizarships and scholarships for the means of taking their degrees. To many, even at St John's, the existence and whereabouts of thelabyrinth in which the sizars chiefly lived was unknown; some men inErnest's time, who had rooms in the first court, had never found theirway through the sinuous passage which led to it. 

In the labyrinth there dwelt men of all ages, from mere lads togrey-haired old men who had entered late in life. They were rarely seenexcept in hall or chapel or at lecture, where their manners of feeding, praying and studying, were considered alike objectionable; no one knewwhence they came, whither they went, nor what they did, for they nevershowed at cricket or the boats; they were a gloomy, seedy-looking_conferie_, who had as little to glory in in clothes and manners as inthe flesh itself. 

Ernest and his friends used to consider themselves marvels of economy forgetting on with so little money, but the greater number of dwellers inthe labyrinth would have considered one-half of their expenditure to bean exceeding measure of affluence, and so doubtless any domestic tyrannywhich had been experienced by Ernest was a small thing to what theaverage Johnian sizar had had to put up with. 

A few would at once emerge on its being found after their firstexamination that they were likely to be ornaments to the college; thesewould win valuable scholarships that enabled them to live in some degreeof comfort, and would amalgamate with the more studious of those who werein a better social position, but even these, with few exceptions, werelong in shaking off the uncouthness they brought with them to theUniversity, nor would their origin cease to be easily recognisable tillthey had become dons and tutors. I have seen some of these men attainhigh position in the world of politics or science, and yet still retain alook of labyrinth and Johnian sizarship. 

Unprepossessing then, in feature, gait and manners, unkempt andill-dressed beyond what can be easily described, these poor fellowsformed a class apart, whose thoughts and ways were not as the thoughtsand ways of Ernest and his friends, and it was among them that Simeonismchiefly 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 avery loud call to the ministry, and were ready to pinch themselves foryears so as to prepare for it by the necessary theological courses. Tomost of them the fact of becoming clergymen would be the _entree_ into asocial position from which they were at present kept out by barriers theywell knew to be impassable; ordination, therefore, opened fields forambition which made it the central point in their thoughts, rather thanas with Ernest, something which he supposed would have to be done someday, but about which, as about dying, he hoped there was no need totrouble himself as yet. 

By way of preparing themselves more completely they would have meetingsin one another's rooms for tea and prayer and other spiritual exercises. Placing themselves under the guidance of a few well-known tutors theywould teach in Sunday Schools, and be instant, in season and out ofseason, in imparting spiritual instruction to all whom they couldpersuade to listen to them. 

But the soil of the more prosperous undergraduates was not suitable forthe seed they tried to sow. The small pieties with which they lardedtheir discourse, if chance threw them into the company of one whom theyconsidered worldly, caused nothing but aversion in the minds of those forwhom they were intended. When they distributed tracts, dropping them bynight into good men's letter boxes while they were asleep, their tractsgot burnt, or met with even worse contumely; they were themselves alsotreated with the ridicule which they reflected proudly had been the lotof true followers of Christ in all ages. Often at their prayer meetingswas the passage of St Paul referred to in which he bids his Corinthianconverts note concerning themselves that they were for the most partneither well-bred nor intellectual people. They reflected with pridethat they too had nothing to be proud of in these respects, and like StPaul, 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 theSimeonites and to see some of them, who were pointed out to him as theypassed through the courts. They had a repellent attraction for him; hedisliked them, but he could not bring himself to leave them alone. Onone occasion he had gone so far as to parody one of the tracts they hadsent round in the night, and to get a copy dropped into each of theleading Simeonites' boxes. The subject he had taken was "PersonalCleanliness. " Cleanliness, he said, was next to godliness; he wished toknow on which side it was to stand, and concluded by exhorting Simeonitesto a freer use of the tub. I cannot commend my hero's humour in thismatter; his tract was not brilliant, but I mention the fact as showingthat at this time he was something of a Saul and took pleasure inpersecuting the elect, not, as I have said, that he had any hankeringafter scepticism, but because, like the farmers in his father's village, though he would not stand seeing the Christian religion made light of, hewas not going to see it taken seriously. Ernest's friends thought hisdislike 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 froman unconscious sympathy with them, which, as in St Paul's case, in theend drew him into the ranks of those whom he had most despised and hated. 

CHAPTER XLVIII

Once, recently, when he was down at home after taking his degree, hismother had had a short conversation with him about his becoming aclergyman, set on thereto by Theobald, who shrank from the subjecthimself. This time it was during a turn taken in the garden, and not onthe sofa--which was reserved for supreme occasions. 

"You know, my dearest boy, " she said to him, "that papa" (she alwayscalled Theobald "papa" when talking to Ernest) "is so anxious you shouldnot go into the Church blindly, and without fully realising thedifficulties of a clergyman's position. He has considered all of themhimself, and has been shown how small they are, when they are facedboldly, but he wishes you, too, to feel them as strongly and completelyas possible before committing yourself to irrevocable vows, so that youmay never, never have to regret the step you will have taken. "

This was the first time Ernest had heard that there were anydifficulties, and he not unnaturally enquired in a vague way after theirnature. 

"That, my dear boy, " rejoined Christina, "is a question which I am notfitted to enter upon either by nature or education. I might easilyunsettle your mind without being able to settle it again. Oh, no! Suchquestions are far better avoided by women, and, I should have thought, bymen, but papa wished me to speak to you upon the subject, so that theremight be no mistake hereafter, and I have done so. Now, therefore, youknow all. "

The conversation ended here, so far as this subject was concerned, andErnest thought he did know all. His mother would not have told him heknew all--not about a matter of that sort--unless he actually did knowit; well, it did not come to very much; he supposed there were somedifficulties, but his father, who at any rate was an excellent scholarand a learned man, was probably quite right here, and he need not troublehimself more about them. So little impression did the conversation makeon him, that it was not till long afterwards that, happening to rememberit, he saw what a piece of sleight of hand had been practised upon him. Theobald and Christina, however, were satisfied that they had done theirduty by opening their son's eyes to the difficulties of assenting to alla clergyman must assent to. This was enough; it was a matter forrejoicing that, though they had been put so fully and candidly beforehim, he did not find them serious. It was not in vain that they hadprayed for so many years to be made "_truly_ honest and conscientious. "

"And now, my dear, " resumed Christina, after having disposed of all thedifficulties that might stand in the way of Ernest's becoming aclergyman, "there is another matter on which I should like to have a talkwith you. It is about your sister Charlotte. You know how clever sheis, and what a dear, kind sister she has been and always will be toyourself and Joey. I wish, my dearest Ernest, that I saw more chance ofher finding a suitable husband than I do at Battersby, and I sometimesthink 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 saidnothing. 

"You know, my dear, a brother can do so much for his sister if he layshimself out to do it. A mother can do very little--indeed, it is hardlya mother's place to seek out young men; it is a brother's place to find asuitable partner for his sister; all that I can do is to try to makeBattersby as attractive as possible to any of your friends whom you mayinvite. And in that, " she added, with a little toss of her head, "I donot think I have been deficient hitherto. "

Ernest said he had already at different times asked several of hisfriends. 

"Yes, my dear, but you must admit that they were none of them exactly thekind 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 shouldhave yourself chosen any of these as your intimate friends. "

Ernest winced again. 

"You never brought down Figgins when you were at Roughborough; now Ishould have thought Figgins would have been just the kind of boy whom youmight have asked to come and see us. "

Figgins had been gone through times out of number already. Ernest hadhardly known him, and Figgins, being nearly three years older thanErnest, 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 speakof Towneley as having rowed with you in a boat at Cambridge. I wish, mydear, you would cultivate your acquaintance with Towneley, and ask him topay us a visit. The name has an aristocratic sound, and I think I haveheard 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 ofany who were at all intimate with her son; the more she heard, the moreshe wanted to know; there was no gorging her to satiety; she was like aravenous 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 hungryas before. And she always went to Ernest for her meals rather than toJoey, for Joey was either more stupid or more impenetrable--at any rateshe could pump Ernest much the better of the two. 

From time to time an actual live boy had been thrown to her, either bybeing caught and brought to Battersby, or by being asked to meet her ifat any time she came to Roughborough. She had generally made herselfagreeable, or fairly agreeable, as long as the boy was present, but assoon as she got Ernest to herself again she changed her note. Intowhatever form she might throw her criticisms it came always in the end tothis, that his friend was no good, that Ernest was not much better, andthat he should have brought her someone else, for this one would not doat all. 

The more intimate the boy had been or was supposed to be with Ernest themore he was declared to be naught, till in the end he had hit upon theplan of saying, concerning any boy whom he particularly liked, that hewas not one of his especial chums, and that indeed he hardly knew why hehad asked him; but he found he only fell on Scylla in trying to avoidCharybdis, for though the boy was declared to be more successful it wasErnest 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'swith whom he had either now quarrelled, or who had long since proved tobe a mere comet and no fixed star at all. How Ernest wished he had nevermentioned So-and-so's name, and vowed to himself that he would never talkabout his friends in future, but in a few hours he would forget and wouldprattle away as imprudently as ever; then his mother would pouncenoiselessly on his remarks as a barn-owl pounces upon a mouse, and wouldbring them up in a pellet six months afterwards when they were no longerin harmony with their surroundings. 

Then there was Theobald. If a boy or college friend had been invited toBattersby, Theobald would lay himself out at first to be agreeable. Hecould do this well enough when he liked, and as regards the outside worldhe generally did like. His clerical neighbours, and indeed all hisneighbours, respected him yearly more and more, and would have givenErnest sufficient cause to regret his imprudence if he had dared to hintthat he had anything, however little, to complain of. Theobald's mindworked in this way: "Now, I know Ernest has told this boy what adisagreeable person I am, and I will just show him that I am notdisagreeable at all, but a good old fellow, a jolly old boy, in fact aregular 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 bedelighted with him, and side with him against Ernest. Of course ifErnest had got the boy to come to Battersby he wanted him to enjoy hisvisit, and was therefore pleased that Theobald should behave so well, butat the same time he stood so much in need of moral support that it waspainful to him to see one of his own familiar friends go over to theenemy's camp. For no matter how well we may know a thing--how clearly wemay see a certain patch of colour, for example, as red, it shakes us andknocks us about to find another see it, or be more than half inclined tosee it, as green. 

Theobald had generally begun to get a little impatient before the end ofthe visit, but the impression formed during the earlier part was the onewhich the visitor had carried away with him. Theobald never discussedany of the boys with Ernest. It was Christina who did this. Theobaldlet them come, because Christina in a quiet, persistent way insisted onit; when they did come he behaved, as I have said, civilly, but he didnot like it, whereas Christina did like it very much; she would have hadhalf Roughborough and half Cambridge to come and stay at Battersby if shecould have managed it, and if it would not have cost so much money: sheliked their coming, so that she might make a new acquaintance, and sheliked tearing them to pieces and flinging the bits over Ernest as soon asshe had had enough of them. 

The worst of it was that she had so often proved to be right. Boys andyoung men are violent in their affections, but they are seldom veryconstant; it is not till they get older that they really know the kind offriend they want; in their earlier essays young men are simply learningto 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 inhis own estimation, and he was beginning almost to think that his motherwas a better judge of character than he was; but I think it may beassumed with some certainty that if Ernest had brought her a real youngswan she would have declared it to be the ugliest and worst goose of allthat she had yet seen. 

At first he had not suspected that his friends were wanted with a view toCharlotte; it was understood that Charlotte and they might perhaps take afancy for one another; and that would be so very nice, would it not? Buthe did not see that there was any deliberate malice in the arrangement. Now, however, that he had awoke to what it all meant, he was lessinclined to bring any friend of his to Battersby. It seemed to his sillyyoung mind almost dishonest to ask your friend to come and see you whenall you really meant was "Please, marry my sister. " It was like tryingto obtain money under false pretences. If he had been fond of Charlotteit might have been another matter, but he thought her one of the mostdisagreeable young women in the whole circle of his acquaintance. 

She was supposed to be very clever. All young ladies are either verypretty or very clever or very sweet; they may take their choice as towhich category they will go in for, but go in for one of the three theymust. It was hopeless to try and pass Charlotte off as either pretty orsweet. So she became clever as the only remaining alternative. Ernestnever knew what particular branch of study it was in which she showed hertalent, for she could neither play nor sing nor draw, but so astute arewomen that his mother and Charlotte really did persuade him into thinkingthat she, Charlotte, had something more akin to true genius than anyother member of the family. Not one, however, of all the friends whomErnest had been inveigled into trying to inveigle had shown the leastsign of being so far struck with Charlotte's commanding powers, as towish to make them his own, and this may have had something to do with therapidity and completeness with which Christina had dismissed them oneafter another and had wanted a new one. 

And now she wanted Towneley. Ernest had seen this coming and had triedto avoid it, for he knew how impossible it was for him to ask Towneley, even if he had wished to do so. 

Towneley belonged to one of the most exclusive sets in Cambridge, and wasperhaps the most popular man among the whole number of undergraduates. Hewas big and very handsome--as it seemed to Ernest the handsomest man whomhe ever had seen or ever could see, for it was impossible to imagine amore lively and agreeable countenance. He was good at cricket andboating, very good-natured, singularly free from conceit, not clever butvery sensible, and, lastly, his father and mother had been drowned by theoverturning of a boat when he was only two years old and had left him astheir only child and heir to one of the finest estates in the South ofEngland. Fortune every now and then does things handsomely by a man allround; Towneley was one of those to whom she had taken a fancy, and theuniversal verdict in this case was that she had chosen wisely. 

Ernest had seen Towneley as every one else in the University (except, ofcourse, dons) had seen him, for he was a man of mark, and being verysusceptible he had liked Towneley even more than most people did, but atthe same time it never so much as entered his head that he should come toknow him. He liked looking at him if he got a chance, and was very muchashamed of himself for doing so, but there the matter ended. 

By a strange accident, however, during Ernest's last year, when the namesof the crews for the scratch fours were drawn he had found himselfcoxswain of a crew, among whom was none other than his especial heroTowneley; the three others were ordinary mortals, but they could rowfairly well, and the crew on the whole was rather a good one. 

Ernest was frightened out of his wits. When, however, the two met, hefound Towneley no less remarkable for his entire want of anything like"side, " and for his power of setting those whom he came across at theirease, than he was for outward accomplishments; the only difference hefound between Towneley and other people was that he was so very mucheasier to get on with. Of course Ernest worshipped him more and more. 

The scratch fours being ended the connection between the two came to anend, but Towneley never passed Ernest thenceforward without a nod and afew good-natured words. In an evil moment he had mentioned Towneley'sname at Battersby, and now what was the result? Here was his motherplaguing him to ask Towneley to come down to Battersby and marryCharlotte. Why, if he had thought there was the remotest chance ofTowneley's marrying Charlotte he would have gone down on his knees to himand told him what an odious young woman she was, and implored him to savehimself while there was yet time. 

But Ernest had not prayed to be made "truly honest and conscientious" foras many years as Christina had. He tried to conceal what he felt andthought as well as he could, and led the conversation back to thedifficulties which a clergyman might feel to stand in the way of hisbeing ordained--not because he had any misgivings, but as a diversion. His mother, however, thought she had settled all that, and he got no moreout of her. Soon afterwards he found the means of escaping, and was notslow to avail himself of them. 

CHAPTER XLIX

On his return to Cambridge in the May term of 1858, Ernest and a fewother friends who were also intended for orders came to the conclusionthat they must now take a more serious view of their position. Theytherefore attended chapel more regularly than hitherto, and held eveningmeetings of a somewhat furtive character, at which they would study theNew Testament. They even began to commit the Epistles of St Paul tomemory in the original Greek. They got up Beveridge on the Thirty-nineArticles, and Pearson on the Creed; in their hours of recreation theyread 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 handedthemselves over to the guidance of Dean Alford's notes on the GreekTestament, which made Ernest better understand what was meant by"difficulties, " but also made him feel how shallow and impotent were theconclusions arrived at by German neologians, with whose works, beinginnocent of German, he was not otherwise acquainted. Some of the friendswho joined him in these pursuits were Johnians, and the meetings wereoften held within the walls of St John's. 

I do not know how tidings of these furtive gatherings had reached theSimeonites, but they must have come round to them in some way, for theyhad not been continued many weeks before a circular was sent to each ofthe young men who attended them, informing them that the Rev. GideonHawke, a well-known London Evangelical preacher, whose sermons were thenmuch talked of, was about to visit his young friend Badcock of St 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 onlywas he ugly, dirty, ill-dressed, bumptious, and in every wayobjectionable, but he was deformed and waddled when he walked so that hehad won a nick-name which I can only reproduce by calling it "Here's myback, and there's my back, " because the lower parts of his backemphasised themselves demonstratively as though about to fly off indifferent directions like the two extreme notes in the chord of theaugmented sixth, with every step he took. It may be guessed, therefore, that the receipt of the circular had for a moment an almost paralysingeffect on those to whom it was addressed, owing to the astonishment whichit occasioned them. It certainly was a daring surprise, but like so manydeformed people, Badcock was forward and hard to check; he was a pushingfellow to whom the present was just the opportunity he wanted forcarrying war into the enemy's quarters. 

Ernest and his friends consulted. Moved by the feeling that as they werenow preparing to be clergymen they ought not to stand so stiffly onsocial dignity as heretofore, and also perhaps by the desire to have agood 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 theywent with some confusion and self-abasement to the rooms of this man, onwhom they had looked down hitherto as from an immeasurable height, andwith whom nothing would have made them believe a few weeks earlier thatthey could ever come to be on speaking terms. 

Mr Hawke was a very different-looking person from Badcock. He wasremarkably handsome, or rather would have been but for the thinness ofhis lips, and a look of too great firmness and inflexibility. Hisfeatures were a good deal like those of Leonardo da Vinci; moreover hewas kempt, looked in vigorous health, and was of a ruddy countenance. Hewas extremely courteous in his manner, and paid a good deal of attentionto Badcock, of whom he seemed to think highly. Altogether our youngfriends were taken aback, and inclined to think smaller beer ofthemselves and larger of Badcock than was agreeable to the old Adam whowas still alive within them. A few well-known "Sims" from St John's andother colleges were present, but not enough to swamp the Ernest set, asfor the sake of brevity, I will call them. 

After a preliminary conversation in which there was nothing to offend, the business of the evening began by Mr Hawke's standing up at one end ofthe 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 theLord's Prayer and a few others after Mr Hawke, who delivered themremarkably well. Then, when all had sat down, Mr Hawke addressed them, speaking without notes and taking for his text the words, "Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?" Whether owing to Mr Hawke's manner, which wasimpressive, or to his well-known reputation for ability, or whether fromthe fact that each one of the Ernest set knew that he had been more orless a persecutor of the "Sims" and yet felt instinctively that the"Sims" were after all much more like the early Christians than he washimself--at any rate the text, familiar though it was, went home to theconsciences of Ernest and his friends as it had never yet done. If MrHawke had stopped here he would have almost said enough; as he scannedthe faces turned towards him, and saw the impression he had made, he wasperhaps minded to bring his sermon to an end before beginning it, but ifso, he reconsidered himself and proceeded as follows. I give the sermonin full, for it is a typical one, and will explain a state of mind whichin another generation or two will seem to stand sadly in need ofexplanation. 

"My young friends, " said Mr Hawke, "I am persuaded there is not one ofyou here who doubts the existence of a Personal God. If there were, itis to him assuredly that I should first address myself. Should I bemistaken in my belief that all here assembled accept the existence of aGod who is present amongst us though we see him not, and whose eye isupon our most secret thoughts, let me implore the doubter to confer withme in private before we part; I will then put before him considerationsthrough which God has been mercifully pleased to reveal himself to me, sofar as man can understand him, and which I have found bring peace to theminds of others who have doubted. 

"I assume also that there is none who doubts but that this God, afterwhose likeness we have been made, did in the course of time have pityupon man's blindness, and assume our nature, taking flesh and coming downand dwelling among us as a man indistinguishable physically fromourselves. He who made the sun, moon and stars, the world and all thattherein is, came down from Heaven in the person of his Son, with theexpress 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, andwas seen to walk upon the waves, but at the end of his appointed time hedied, as was foredetermined, upon the cross, and was buried by a fewfaithful friends. Those, however, who had put him to death set a jealouswatch over his tomb. 

"There is no one, I feel sure, in this room who doubts any part of theforegoing, but if there is, let me again pray him to confer with me inprivate, and I doubt not that by the blessing of God his doubts willcease. 

"The next day but one after our Lord was buried, the tomb being stilljealously guarded by enemies, an angel was seen descending from Heavenwith glittering raiment and a countenance that shone like fire. Thisglorious being rolled away the stone from the grave, and our Lord himselfcame forth, risen from the dead. 

"My young friends, this is no fanciful story like those of the ancientdeities, but a matter of plain history as certain as that you and I arenow here together. If there is one fact better vouched for than anotherin 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 thedead, our Lord was seen by many hundreds of men and women to rise amid ahost of angels into the air upon a heavenward journey till the cloudscovered him and concealed him from the sight of men. 

"It may be said that the truth of these statements has been denied, butwhat, 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 littleground they made during the supineness of the last century? Is there oneof your fathers or mothers or friends who does not see through them? Isthere a single teacher or preacher in this great University who has notexamined what these men had to say, and found it naught? Did you evermeet one of them, or do you find any of their books securing therespectful attention of those competent to judge concerning them? Ithink not; and I think also you know as well as I do why it is that theyhave sunk back into the abyss from which they for a time emerged: it isbecause after the most careful and patient examination by the ablest andmost judicial minds of many countries, their arguments were found sountenable that they themselves renounced them. They fled from the fieldrouted, dismayed, and suing for peace; nor have they again come to thefront in any civilised country. 

"You know these things. Why, then, do I insist upon them? My dear youngfriends, your own consciousness will have made the answer to each one ofyou already; it is because, though you know so well that these things didverily and indeed happen, you know also that you have not realised themto 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 todie, or if not to die--for there are not wanting signs which make me hopethat the Lord may come again, while some of us now present are alive--yetto be changed; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raisedincorruptible, for this corruption must put on incorruption, and thismortal put on immortality, and the saying shall be brought to pass thatis written, 'Death is swallowed up in victory. '

"Do you, or do you not believe that you will one day stand before theJudgement Seat of Christ? Do you, or do you not believe that you willhave to give an account for every idle word that you have ever spoken? Doyou, or do you not believe that you are called to live, not according tothe will of man, but according to the will of that Christ who came downfrom Heaven out of love for you, who suffered and died for you, who callsyou to him, and yearns towards you that you may take heed even in thisyour day--but who, if you heed not, will also one day judge you, and withwhom there is no variableness nor shadow of turning?

"My dear young friends, strait is the gate, and narrow is the way whichleadeth to Eternal Life, and few there be that find it. Few, few, few, for he who will not give up ALL for Christ's sake, has given up nothing. 

"If you would live in the friendship of this world, if indeed you are notprepared to give up everything you most fondly cherish, should the Lordrequire it of you, then, I say, put the idea of Christ deliberately onone side at once. Spit upon him, buffet him, crucify him anew, doanything you like so long as you secure the friendship of this worldwhile it is still in your power to do so; the pleasures of this brieflife may not be worth paying for by the torments of eternity, but theyare something while they last. If, on the other hand, you would live inthe friendship of God, and be among the number of those for whom Christhas not died in vain; if, in a word, you value your eternal welfare, thengive up the friendship of this world; of a surety you must make yourchoice between God and Mammon, for you cannot serve both. 

"I put these considerations before you, if so homely a term may bepardoned, as a plain matter of business. There is nothing low orunworthy in this, as some lately have pretended, for all nature shows usthat there is nothing more acceptable to God than an enlightened view ofour own self-interest; never let anyone delude you here; it is a simplequestion of fact; did certain things happen or did they not? If they didhappen, is it reasonable to suppose that you will make yourselves andothers more happy by one course of conduct or by another?

"And now let me ask you what answer you have made to this questionhitherto? Whose friendship have you chosen? If, knowing what you know, you have not yet begun to act according to the immensity of the knowledgethat is in you, then he who builds his house and lays up his treasure onthe edge of a crater of molten lava is a sane, sensible person incomparison with yourselves. I say this as no figure of speech or bugbearwith which to frighten you, but as an unvarnished unexaggerated statementwhich 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--nowfrom 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 Christwho is to be found of all who seek him, and from that fearful wrath ofGod which lieth in wait for those who know not the things belonging totheir peace. For the Son of Man cometh as a thief in the night, andthere is not one of us can tell but what this day his soul may berequired of him. If there is even one here who has heeded me, "--and helet his eye fall for an instant upon almost all his hearers, butespecially on the Ernest set--"I shall know that it was not for nothingthat I felt the call of the Lord, and heard as I thought a voice by nightthat bade me come hither quickly, for there was a chosen vessel who hadneed of me. "

Here Mr Hawke ended rather abruptly; his earnest manner, strikingcountenance and excellent delivery had produced an effect greater thanthe actual words I have given can convey to the reader; the virtue lay inthe man more than in what he said; as for the last few mysterious wordsabout his having heard a voice by night, their effect was magical; therewas not one who did not look down to the ground, nor who in his heart didnot half believe that he was the chosen vessel on whose especial behalfGod had sent Mr Hawke to Cambridge. Even if this were not so, each oneof them felt that he was now for the first time in the actual presence ofone who had had a direct communication from the Almighty, and they werethus suddenly brought a hundredfold nearer to the New Testament miracles. They were amazed, not to say scared, and as though by tacit consent theygathered together, thanked Mr Hawke for his sermon, said good-night in ahumble deferential manner to Badcock and the other Simeonites, and leftthe room together. They had heard nothing but what they had been hearingall their lives; how was it, then, that they were so dumbfoundered 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 greaterdirectness with which each felt himself addressed, through the sermonbeing delivered in a room, and partly to the logical consistency, freedomfrom exaggeration, and profound air of conviction with which Mr Hawke hadspoken. His simplicity and obvious earnestness had impressed them evenbefore he had alluded to his special mission, but this clenchedeverything, and the words "Lord, is it I?" were upon the hearts of eachas they walked pensively home through moonlit courts and cloisters. 

I do not know what passed among the Simeonites after the Ernest set hadleft them, but they would have been more than mortal if they had not beena good deal elated with the results of the evening. Why, one of Ernest'sfriends was in the University eleven, and he had actually been inBadcock's rooms and had slunk off on saying good-night as meekly as anyof them. It was no small thing to have scored a success like this. 

CHAPTER L

Ernest felt now that the turning point of his life had come. He wouldgive up all for Christ--even his tobacco. 

So he gathered together his pipes and pouches, and locked them up in hisportmanteau under his bed where they should be out of sight, and as muchout of mind as possible. He did not burn them, because someone mightcome 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 hardon other people. 

After breakfast he left his rooms to call on a man named Dawson, who hadbeen one of Mr Hawke's hearers on the preceding evening, and who wasreading for ordination at the forthcoming Ember Weeks, now only fourmonths distant. This man had been always of a rather serious turn ofmind--a little too much so for Ernest's taste; but times had changed, andDawson's undoubted sincerity seemed to render him a fitting counsellorfor Ernest at the present time. As he was going through the first courtof John's on his way to Dawson's rooms, he met Badcock, and greeted himwith some deference. His advance was received with one of those ecstaticgleams which shone occasionally upon the face of Badcock, and which, ifErnest had known more, would have reminded him of Robespierre. As itwas, he saw it and unconsciously recognised the unrest andself-seekingness of the man, but could not yet formulate them; hedisliked Badcock more than ever, but as he was going to profit by thespiritual benefits which he had put in his way, he was bound to be civilto him, and civil he therefore was. 

Badcock told him that Mr Hawke had returned to town immediately hisdiscourse was over, but that before doing so he had enquired particularlywho Ernest and two or three others were. I believe each one of Ernest'sfriends was given to understand that he had been more or lessparticularly enquired after. Ernest's vanity--for he was his mother'sson--was tickled at this; the idea again presented itself to him that hemight be the one for whose benefit Mr Hawke had been sent. There wassomething, too, in Badcock's manner which conveyed the idea that he couldsay more if he chose, but had been enjoined to silence. 

On reaching Dawson's rooms, he found his friend in raptures over thediscourse of the preceding evening. Hardly less delighted was he withthe effect it had produced on Ernest. He had always known, he said, thatErnest would come round; he had been sure of it, but he had hardlyexpected the conversion to be so sudden. Ernest said no more had he, butnow that he saw his duty so clearly he would get ordained as soon aspossible, and take a curacy, even though the doing so would make him haveto go down from Cambridge earlier, which would be a great grief to him. Dawson applauded this determination, and it was arranged that as Ernestwas still more or less of a weak brother, Dawson should take him, so tospeak, in spiritual tow for a while, and strengthen and confirm hisfaith. 

An offensive and defensive alliance therefore was struck up between thispair (who were in reality singularly ill assorted), and Ernest set towork to master the books on which the Bishop would examine him. Othersgradually joined them till they formed a small set or church (for theseare the same things), and the effect of Mr Hawke's sermon instead ofwearing off in a few days, as might have been expected, became more andmore marked, so much so that it was necessary for Ernest's friends tohold him back rather than urge him on, for he seemed likely to develop--asindeed he did for a time--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 usethem. All day long on the day after Mr Hawke's sermon he let them lie inhis portmanteau bravely; but this was not very difficult, as he had forsome time given up smoking till after hall. After hall this day he didnot smoke till chapel time, and then went to chapel in self-defence. Whenhe returned he determined to look at the matter from a common sense pointof view. On this he saw that, provided tobacco did not injure hishealth--and he really could not see that it did--it stood much on thesame footing as tea or coffee. 

Tobacco had nowhere been forbidden in the Bible, but then it had not yetbeen discovered, and had probably only escaped proscription for thisreason. We can conceive of St Paul or even our Lord Himself as drinkinga cup of tea, but we cannot imagine either of them as smoking a cigaretteor a churchwarden. Ernest could not deny this, and admitted that Paulwould almost certainly have condemned tobacco in good round terms if hehad known of its existence. Was it not then taking rather a meanadvantage of the Apostle to stand on his not having actually forbiddenit? On the other hand, it was possible that God knew Paul would haveforbidden smoking, and had purposely arranged the discovery of tobaccofor a period at which Paul should be no longer living. This might seemrather hard on Paul, considering all he had done for Christianity, but itwould 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 portmanteau and brought out his pipes and tobaccoagain. There should be moderation he felt in all things, even in virtue;so for that night he smoked immoderately. It was a pity, however, thathe had bragged to Dawson about giving up smoking. The pipes had betterbe kept in a cupboard for a week or two, till in other and easierrespects Ernest should have proved his steadfastness. Then they mightsteal out again little by little--and so they did. 

Ernest now wrote home a letter couched in a vein different from hisordinary ones. His letters were usually all common form and padding, foras I have already explained, if he wrote about anything that reallyinterested him, his mother always wanted to know more and more aboutit--every fresh answer being as the lopping off of a hydra's head andgiving birth to half a dozen or more new questions--but in the end itcame invariably to the same result, namely, that he ought to have donesomething else, or ought not to go on doing as he proposed. Now, however, there was a new departure, and for the thousandth time heconcluded that he was about to take a course of which his father andmother would approve, and in which they would be interested, so that atlast he and they might get on more sympathetically than heretofore. Hetherefore wrote a gushing impulsive letter, which afforded much amusementto myself as I read it, but which is too long for reproduction. Onepassage ran: "I am now going towards Christ; the greater number of mycollege friends are, I fear, going away from Him; we must pray for themthat they may find the peace that is in Christ even as I have myselffound it. " Ernest covered his face with his hands for shame as he readthis extract from the bundle of letters he had put into my hands--theyhad been returned to him by his father on his mother's death, his motherhaving 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 morerecords of my follies, pick out any plums that may amuse the reader, andlet him have his laugh over them. " But fancy what effect a letter likethis--so unled up to--must have produced at Battersby! Even Christinarefrained from ecstasy over her son's having discovered the power ofChrist's word, while Theobald was frightened out of his wits. It waswell his son was not going to have any doubts or difficulties, and thathe would be ordained without making a fuss over it, but he smelt mischiefin this sudden conversion of one who had never yet shown any inclinationtowards religion. He hated people who did not know where to stop. Ernestwas always so _outre_ and strange; there was never any knowing what hewould do next, except that it would be something unusual and silly. Ifhe was to get the bit between his teeth after he had got ordained andbought his living, he would play more pranks than ever he, Theobald, haddone. The fact, doubtless, of his being ordained and having bought aliving would go a long way to steady him, and if he married, his wifemust see to the rest; this was his only chance and, to do justice to hissagacity, Theobald in his heart did not think very highly of it. 

When Ernest came down to Battersby in June, he imprudently tried to openup a more unreserved communication with his father than was his wont. Thefirst of Ernest's snipe-like flights on being flushed by Mr Hawke'ssermon was in the direction of ultra-evangelicalism. Theobald himselfhad been much more Low than High Church. This was the normal developmentof the country clergyman during the first years of his clerical life, between, we will say, the years 1825 to 1850; but he was not prepared forthe almost contempt with which Ernest now regarded the doctrines ofbaptismal regeneration and priestly absolution (Hoity toity, indeed, whatbusiness had he with such questions?), nor for his desire to find somemeans of reconciling Methodism and the Church. Theobald hated the Churchof Rome, but he hated dissenters too, for he found them as a general ruletroublesome people to deal with; he always found people who did not agreewith him troublesome to deal with: besides, they set up for knowing asmuch as he did; nevertheless if he had been let alone he would haveleaned towards them rather than towards the High Church party. Theneighbouring clergy, however, would not let him alone. One by one theyhad come under the influence, directly or indirectly, of the Oxfordmovement which had begun twenty years earlier. It was surprising howmany practices he now tolerated which in his youth he would haveconsidered Popish; he knew very well therefore which way things weregoing in Church matters, and saw that as usual Ernest was setting himselfthe other way. The opportunity for telling his son that he was a foolwas too favourable not to be embraced, and Theobald was not slow toembrace it. Ernest was annoyed and surprised, for had not his father andmother been wanting him to be more religious all his life? Now that hehad become so they were still not satisfied. He said to himself that aprophet was not without honour save in his own country, but he had beenlately--or rather until lately--getting into an odious habit of turningproverbs upside down, and it occurred to him that a country is sometimesnot without honour save for its own prophet. Then he laughed, and forthe rest of the day felt more as he used to feel before he had heard MrHawke'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, whichbishops were now beginning to insist upon. He imagined all the time hewas reading that he was storing himself with the knowledge that wouldbest fit him for the work he had taken in hand. In truth, he wascramming for a pass. In due time he did pass--creditably, and wasordained Deacon with half-a-dozen others of his friends in the autumn of1858. He was then just twenty-three years old. 

CHAPTER LI

Ernest had been ordained to a curacy in one of the central parts ofLondon. He hardly knew anything of London yet, but his instincts drewhim thither. The day after he was ordained he entered upon hisduties--feeling much as his father had done when he found himself boxedup in the carriage with Christina on the morning of his marriage. Beforethe first three days were over, he became aware that the light of thehappiness which he had known during his four years at Cambridge had beenextinguished, and he was appalled by the irrevocable nature of the stepwhich he now felt that he had taken much too hurriedly. 

The most charitable excuse that I can make for the vagaries which it willnow be my duty to chronicle is that the shock of change consequent uponhis becoming suddenly religious, being ordained and leaving Cambridge, had been too much for my hero, and had for the time thrown him off anequilibrium which was yet little supported by experience, and thereforeas a matter of course unstable. 

Everyone has a mass of bad work in him which he will have to work off andget rid of before he can do better--and indeed, the more lasting a man'sultimate good work is, the more sure he is to pass through a time, andperhaps a very long one, in which there seems very little hope for him atall. We must all sow our spiritual wild oats. The fault I feelpersonally disposed to find with my godson is not that he had wild oatsto sow, but that they were such an exceedingly tame and uninterestingcrop. The sense of humour and tendency to think for himself, of whichtill a few months previously he had been showing fair promise, werenipped as though by a late frost, while his earlier habit of taking ontrust everything that was told him by those in authority, and followingeverything out to the bitter end, no matter how preposterous, returnedwith redoubled strength. I suppose this was what might have beenexpected from anyone placed as Ernest now was, especially when hisantecedents are remembered, but it surprised and disappointed some of hiscooler-headed Cambridge friends who had begun to think well of hisability. To himself it seemed that religion was incompatible with halfmeasures, or even with compromise. Circumstances had led to his beingordained; for the moment he was sorry they had, but he had done it andmust go through with it. He therefore set himself to find out what wasexpected of him, and to act accordingly. 

His rector was a moderate High Churchman of no very pronounced views--anelderly man who had had too many curates not to have long since found outthat the connection between rector and curate, like that between employerand 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 curatewas named Pryer, and when this gentleman made advances, as he presentlydid, Ernest in his forlorn state was delighted to meet them. 

Pryer was about twenty-eight years old. He had been at Eton and atOxford. He was tall, and passed generally for good-looking; I only sawhim once for about five minutes, and then thought him odious both inmanners and appearance. Perhaps it was because he caught me up in a wayI did not like. I had quoted Shakespeare for lack of something better tofill up a sentence--and had said that one touch of nature made the wholeworld 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 gaveme a look as though he thought me an old bore and did not care two strawswhether I was shocked or not. Naturally enough, after this I did notlike him. 

This, however, is anticipating, for it was not till Ernest had been threeor four months in London that I happened to meet his fellow-curate, and Imust deal here rather with the effect he produced upon my godson thanupon myself. Besides being what was generally considered good-looking, he was faultless in his get-up, and altogether the kind of man whomErnest was sure to be afraid of and yet be taken in by. The style of hisdress was very High Church, and his acquaintances were exclusively of theextreme High Church party, but he kept his views a good deal in thebackground in his rector's presence, and that gentleman, though he lookedaskance on some of Pryer's friends, had no such ground of complaintagainst him as to make him sever the connection. Pryer, too, was popularin the pulpit, and, take him all round, it was probable that many worsecurates would be found for one better. When Pryer called on my hero, assoon as the two were alone together, he eyed him all over with a quickpenetrating glance and seemed not dissatisfied with the result--for Imust say here that Ernest had improved in personal appearance under themore genial treatment he had received at Cambridge. Pryer, in fact, approved of him sufficiently to treat him civilly, and Ernest wasimmediately won by anyone who did this. It was not long before hediscovered that the High Church party, and even Rome itself, had more tosay for themselves than he had thought. This was his first snipe-likechange of flight. 

Pryer introduced him to several of his friends. They were all of themyoung clergymen, belonging as I have said to the highest of the HighChurch school, but Ernest was surprised to find how much they resembledother people when among themselves. This was a shock to him; it was erelong a still greater one to find that certain thoughts which he hadwarred against as fatal to his soul, and which he had imagined he shouldlose once for all on ordination, were still as troublesome to him as theyhad been; he also saw plainly enough that the young gentlemen who formedthe circle of Pryer's friends were in much the same unhappy predicamentas himself. 

This was deplorable. The only way out of it that Ernest could see wasthat he should get married at once. But then he did not know any onewhom he wanted to marry. He did not know any woman, in fact, whom hewould not rather die than marry. It had been one of Theobald's andChristina's main objects to keep him out of the way of women, and theyhad so far succeeded that women had become to him mysterious, inscrutableobjects to be tolerated when it was impossible to avoid them, but neverto be sought out or encouraged. As for any man loving, or even being atall fond of any woman, he supposed it was so, but he believed the greaternumber of those who professed such sentiments were liars. Now, however, it was clear that he had hoped against hope too long, and that the onlything to do was to go and ask the first woman who would listen to him tocome 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 andgood-looking, was strongly in favour of the celibacy of the clergy, asindeed were the other demure young clerics to whom Pryer had introducedErnest. 

CHAPTER LII

"You know, my dear Pontifex, " said Pryer to him, some few weeks afterErnest had become acquainted with him, when the two were taking aconstitutional one day in Kensington Gardens, "You know, my dearPontifex, it is all very well to quarrel with Rome, but Rome has reducedthe treatment of the human soul to a science, while our own Church, though so much purer in many respects, has no organised system either ofdiagnosis or pathology--I mean, of course, spiritual diagnosis andspiritual pathology. Our Church does not prescribe remedies upon anysettled system, and, what is still worse, even when her physicians haveaccording to their lights ascertained the disease and pointed out theremedy, she has no discipline which will ensure its being actuallyapplied. If our patients do not choose to do as we tell them, we cannotmake them. Perhaps really under all the circumstances this is as well, for we are spiritually mere horse doctors as compared with the Romanpriesthood, nor can we hope to make much headway against the sin andmisery that surround us, till we return in some respects to the practiceof our forefathers and of the greater part of Christendom. "

Ernest asked in what respects it was that his friend desired a return tothe 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 showpeople how they ought to live better than they can find out forthemselves, or he is nothing at all--he has no _raison d'etre_. If thepriest is not as much a healer and director of men's souls as a physicianis of their bodies, what is he? The history of all ages has shown--andsurely you must know this as well as I do--that as men cannot cure thebodies of their patients if they have not been properly trained inhospitals under skilled teachers, so neither can souls be cured of theirmore hidden ailments without the help of men who are skilled insoul-craft--or in other words, of priests. What do one half of ourformularies and rubrics mean if not this? How in the name of all that isreasonable can we find out the exact nature of a spiritual malady, unlesswe have had experience of other similar cases? How can we get thiswithout express training? At present we have to begin all experimentsfor ourselves, without profiting by the organised experience of ourpredecessors, inasmuch as that experience is never organised andco-ordinated at all. At the outset, therefore, each one of us must ruinmany souls which could be saved by knowledge of a few elementaryprinciples. "

Ernest was very much impressed. 

"As for men curing themselves, " continued Pryer, "they can no more curetheir own souls than they can cure their own bodies, or manage their ownlaw affairs. In these two last cases they see the folly of meddling withtheir own cases clearly enough, and go to a professional adviser as amatter of course; surely a man's soul is at once a more difficult andintricate matter to treat, and at the same time it is more important tohim that it should be treated rightly than that either his body or hismoney should be so. What are we to think of the practice of a Churchwhich encourages people to rely on unprofessional advice in mattersaffecting their eternal welfare, when they would not think ofjeopardising their worldly affairs by such insane conduct?"

Ernest could see no weak place in this. These ideas had crossed his ownmind vaguely before now, but he had never laid hold of them or set themin an orderly manner before himself. Nor was he quick at detecting falseanalogies and the misuse of metaphors; in fact he was a mere child in thehands of his fellow curate. 

"And what, " resumed Pryer, "does all this point to? Firstly, to the dutyof confession--the outcry against which is absurd as an outcry would beagainst dissection as part of the training of medical students. Grantedthese young men must see and do a great deal we do not ourselves likeeven to think of, but they should adopt some other profession unless theyare prepared for this; they may even get inoculated with poison from adead body and lose their lives, but they must stand their chance. So ifwe aspire to be priests in deed as well as name, we must familiariseourselves with the minutest and most repulsive details of all kinds ofsin, so that we may recognise it in all its stages. Some of us mustdoubtlessly perish spiritually in such investigations. We cannot helpit; all science must have its martyrs, and none of these will deservebetter of humanity than those who have fallen in the pursuit of spiritualpathology. "

Ernest grew more and more interested, but in the meekness of his soulsaid nothing. 

"I do not desire this martyrdom for myself, " continued the other, "on thecontrary I will avoid it to the very utmost of my power, but if it beGod's will that I should fall while studying what I believe mostcalculated to advance his glory--then, I say, not my will, oh Lord, butthine be done. "

This was too much even for Ernest. "I heard of an Irish-woman once, " hesaid, 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 thatthis good woman was an experimentalist whose experiment, thoughdisastrous in its effects upon herself, was pregnant with instruction toother people. She was thus a true martyr or witness to the frightfulconsequences of intemperance, to the saving, doubtless, of many who butfor her martyrdom would have taken to drinking. She was one of a forlornhope whose failure to take a certain position went to the proving it tobe impregnable and therefore to the abandonment of all attempt to takeit. This was almost as great a gain to mankind as the actual taking ofthe position would have been. 

"Besides, " he added more hurriedly, "the limits of vice and virtue arewretchedly ill-defined. Half the vices which the world condemns mostloudly have seeds of good in them and require moderate use rather thantotal abstinence. "

Ernest asked timidly for an instance. 

"No, no, " said Pryer, "I will give you no instance, but I will give you aformula that shall embrace all instances. It is this, that no practiceis entirely vicious which has not been extinguished among the comeliest, most vigorous, and most cultivated races of mankind in spite of centuriesof endeavour to extirpate it. If a vice in spite of such efforts canstill hold its own among the most polished nations, it must be founded onsome immutable truth or fact in human nature, and must have somecompensatory advantage which we cannot afford altogether to dispensewith. "

"But, " said Ernest timidly, "is not this virtually doing away with alldistinction between right and wrong, and leaving people without any moralguide whatever?"

"Not the people, " was the answer: "it must be our care to be guides tothese, for they are and always will be incapable of guiding themselvessufficiently. We should tell them what they must do, and in an idealstate of things should be able to enforce their doing it: perhaps when weare better instructed the ideal state may come about; nothing will soadvance it as greater knowledge of spiritual pathology on our own part. For this, three things are necessary; firstly, absolute freedom inexperiment for us the clergy; secondly, absolute knowledge of what thelaity think and do, and of what thoughts and actions result in whatspiritual conditions; and thirdly, a compacter organisation amongourselves. 

"If we are to do any good we must be a closely united body, and must besharply divided from the laity. Also we must be free from those tieswhich a wife and children involve. I can hardly express the horror withwhich I am filled by seeing English priests living in what I can onlydesignate as 'open matrimony. ' It is deplorable. The priest must beabsolutely sexless--if not in practice, yet at any rate in theory, absolutely--and that too, by a theory so universally accepted that noneshall venture to dispute it. "

"But, " said Ernest, "has not the Bible already told people what theyought and ought not to do, and is it not enough for us to insist on whatcan be found here, and let the rest alone?"

"If you begin with the Bible, " was the rejoinder, "you are three partsgone on the road to infidelity, and will go the other part before youknow 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 oftheir way too soon or too completely. Of course, I mean on thesupposition that they read it, which, happily, they seldom do. If peopleread 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 shouldassume 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 andmore feeling that he was at least in the hands of a man who had definiteideas. 

"Your question shows me that you have never read your Bible. A moreunreliable book was never put upon paper. Take my advice and don't readit, 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 asthat Christ died and rose from the dead? Surely you believe this?" saidErnest, quite prepared to be told that Pryer believed nothing of thekind. 

"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 infallibleand to be informed of Christ himself. "

CHAPTER LIII

The foregoing conversation and others like it made a deep impression uponmy hero. If next day he had taken a walk with Mr Hawke, and heard whathe 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 throwaside all he had ever heard from anyone except Pryer; but there was no MrHawke at hand, so Pryer had everything his own way. 

Embryo minds, like embryo bodies, pass through a number of strangemetamorphoses before they adopt their final shape. It is no more to bewondered at that one who is going to turn out a Roman Catholic, shouldhave passed through the stages of being first a Methodist, and then afree thinker, than that a man should at some former time have been a merecell, and later on an invertebrate animal. Ernest, however, could not beexpected to know this; embryos never do. Embryos think with each stageof their development that they have now reached the only condition whichreally suits them. This, they say, must certainly be their last, inasmuch as its close will be so great a shock that nothing can surviveit. Every change is a shock; every shock is a _pro tanto_ death. Whatwe call death is only a shock great enough to destroy our power torecognise a past and a present as resembling one another. It is themaking us consider the points of difference between our present and ourpast greater than the points of resemblance, so that we can no longercall the former of these two in any proper sense a continuation of thesecond, but find it less trouble to think of it as something that wechoose to call new. 

But, to let this pass, it was clear that spiritual pathology (I confessthat I do not know myself what spiritual pathology means--but Pryer andErnest doubtless did) was the great desideratum of the age. It seemed toErnest that he had made this discovery himself and been familiar with itall his life, that he had never known, in fact, of anything else. Hewrote long letters to his college friends expounding his views as thoughhe had been one of the Apostolic fathers. As for the Old Testamentwriters, he had no patience with them. "Do oblige me, " I find himwriting to one friend, "by reading the prophet Zechariah, and giving meyour 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 gravelyadmired whether as poetry or prophecy. " This was because Pryer had sethim against Zechariah. I do not know what Zechariah had done; I shouldthink myself that Zechariah was a very good prophet; perhaps it wasbecause he was a Bible writer, and not a very prominent one, that Pryerselected him as one through whom to disparage the Bible in comparisonwith the Church. 

To his friend Dawson I find him saying a little later on: "Pryer and Icontinue our walks, working out each other's thoughts. At first he usedto do all the thinking, but I think I am pretty well abreast of him now, and rather chuckle at seeing that he is already beginning to modify someof 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 tobe 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 theChurch somehow; we are not holding our own against either Rome orinfidelity. " (I may say in passing that I do not believe Ernest had asyet ever seen an infidel--not to speak to. ) "I proposed, therefore, afew days back to Pryer--and he fell in eagerly with the proposal as soonas he saw that I had the means of carrying it out--that we should set onfoot a spiritual movement somewhat analogous to the Young Englandmovement of twenty years ago, the aim of which shall be at once to outbidRome on the one hand, and scepticism on the other. For this purpose Isee nothing better than the foundation of an institution or college forplacing the nature and treatment of sin on a more scientific basis thanit rests at present. We want--to borrow a useful term of Pryer's--aCollege of Spiritual Pathology where young men" (I suppose Ernest thoughthe was no longer young by this time) "may study the nature and treatmentof the sins of the soul as medical students study those of the bodies oftheir patients. Such a college, as you will probably admit, willapproach both Rome on the one hand, and science on the other--Rome, asgiving the priesthood more skill, and therefore as paving the way fortheir obtaining greater power, and science, by recognising that even freethought has a certain kind of value in spiritual enquiries. To thispurpose Pryer and I have resolved to devote ourselves henceforth heartand soul. 

"Of course, my ideas are still unshaped, and all will depend upon the menby whom the college is first worked. I am not yet a priest, but Pryeris, and if I were to start the College, Pryer might take charge of it fora time and I work under him nominally as his subordinate. Pryer himselfsuggested this. Is it not generous of him?

"The worst of it is that we have not enough money; I have, it is true, 5000 pounds, but we want at least 10, 000 pounds, so Pryer says, before wecan start; when we are fairly under weigh I might live at the college anddraw 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 Iwant very little; it is certain that I shall never marry; no clergymanshould 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 suggeststhat as we can hardly earn more now we must get it by a judicious seriesof investments. Pryer knows several people who make quite a handsomeincome out of very little or, indeed, I may say, nothing at all, bybuying things at a place they call the Stock Exchange; I don't know muchabout it yet, but Pryer says I should soon learn; he thinks, indeed, thatI have shown rather a talent in this direction, and under proper auspicesshould 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, Icare about it very much when I think of the good I could do with it bysaving souls from such horrible torture hereafter. Why, if the thingsucceeds, and I really cannot see what is to hinder it, it is hardlypossible to exaggerate its importance, nor the proportions which it mayultimately assume, " etc. , etc. 

Again I asked Ernest whether he minded my printing this. He winced, butsaid "No, not if it helps you to tell your story: but don't you think itis too long?"

I said it would let the reader see for himself how things were going inhalf 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 beenordained, but they are nothing to others that he wrote a little later on. 

In his eagerness to regenerate the Church of England (and through thisthe universe) by the means which Pryer had suggested to him, it occurredto him to try to familiarise himself with the habits and thoughts of thepoor by going and living among them. I think he got this notion fromKingsley's "Alton Locke, " which, High Churchman though he for the noncewas, he had devoured as he had devoured Stanley's Life of Arnold, Dickens's novels, and whatever other literary garbage of the day was mostlikely to do him harm; at any rate he actually put his scheme intopractice, and took lodgings in Ashpit Place, a small street in theneighbourhood of Drury Lane Theatre, in a house of which the landlady wasthe widow of a cabman. 

This lady occupied the whole ground floor. In the front kitchen therewas a tinker. The back kitchen was let to a bellows-mender. On thefirst floor came Ernest, with his two rooms which he furnishedcomfortably, for one must draw the line somewhere. The two upper floorswere parcelled out among four different sets of lodgers: there was atailor named Holt, a drunken fellow who used to beat his wife at nighttill her screams woke the house; above him there was another tailor witha wife but no children; these people were Wesleyans, given to drink butnot noisy. The two back rooms were held by single ladies, who it seemedto Ernest must be respectably connected, for well-dressed gentlemanly-looking young men used to go up and down stairs past Ernest's rooms tocall at any rate on Miss Snow--Ernest had heard her door slam after theyhad passed. He thought, too, that some of them went up to MissMaitland's. Mrs Jupp, the landlady, told Ernest that these were brothersand cousins of Miss Snow's, and that she was herself looking out for asituation as a governess, but at present had an engagement as an actressat the Drury Lane Theatre. Ernest asked whether Miss Maitland in the topback was also looking out for a situation, and was told she was wantingan engagement as a milliner. He believed whatever Mrs Jupp told him. 

CHAPTER LIV

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 todo something unusual wherever he went, but that on the whole the idea wascommendable. Christina could not restrain herself when on sounding herclerical neighbours she found them inclined to applaud her son forconduct which they idealised into something much more self-denying thanit really was. She did not quite like his living in such anunaristocratic neighbourhood; but what he was doing would probably getinto the newspapers, and then great people would take notice of him. Besides, it would be very cheap; down among these poor people he couldlive for next to nothing, and might put by a great deal of his income. Asfor temptations, there could be few or none in such a place as that. Thisargument about cheapness was the one with which she most successfully metTheobald, who grumbled more _suo_ that he had no sympathy with his son'sextravagance and conceit. When Christina pointed out to him that itwould be cheap he replied that there was something in that. 

On Ernest himself the effect was to confirm the good opinion of himselfwhich had been growing upon him ever since he had begun to read fororders, and to make him flatter himself that he was among the few whowere ready to give up _all_ for Christ. Ere long he began to conceive ofhimself as a man with a mission and a great future. His lightest andmost hastily formed opinions began to be of momentous importance to him, and he inflicted them, as I have already shown, on his old friends, weekby week becoming more and more _entete_ with himself and his owncrotchets. I should like well enough to draw a veil over this part of myhero'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 ofhouse-to-house visiting, but Pryer had talked him out of this even beforehe settled down in his new and strangely-chosen apartments. The line henow took was that if people wanted Christ, they must prove their want bytaking some little trouble, and the trouble required of them was thatthey should come and seek him, Ernest, out; there he was in the midst ofthem ready to teach; if people did not choose to come to him it was nofault of his. 

"My great business here, " he writes again to Dawson, "is to observe. Iam not doing much in parish work beyond my share of the daily services. Ihave a man's Bible Class, and a boy's Bible Class, and a good many youngmen and boys to whom I give instruction one way or another; then thereare the Sunday School children, with whom I fill my room on a Sundayevening as full as it will hold, and let them sing hymns and chants. Theylike this. I do a great deal of reading--chiefly of books which Pryerand I think most likely to help; we find nothing comparable to theJesuits. Pryer is a thorough gentleman, and an admirable man ofbusiness--no less observant of the things of this world, in fact, than ofthe things above; by a brilliant coup he has retrieved, or nearly so, arather serious loss which threatened to delay indefinitely the executionof our great scheme. He and I daily gather fresh principles. I believegreat things are before me, and am strong in the hope of being able byand by to effect much. 

"As for you I bid you God speed. Be bold but logical, speculative butcautious, daringly courageous, but properly circumspect withal, " etc. , etc. 

I think this may do for the present. 

CHAPTER LV

I had called on Ernest as a matter of course when he first came toLondon, 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 ofwhich our tastes were singularly alike, I should hardly have known how toget on with him. To do him justice he did not air any of his schemes tome until I had drawn him out concerning them. I, to borrow the words ofErnest's landlady, Mrs Jupp, "am not a very regular church-goer"--Idiscovered upon cross-examination that Mrs Jupp had been to church oncewhen 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 spokeof the person who should have been Mr Jupp as "my poor dear boy'sfather, " not as "my husband. " But to return. I was vexed at Ernest'shaving been ordained. I was not ordained myself and I did not like myfriends to be ordained, nor did I like having to be on my best behaviourand to look as if butter would not melt in my mouth, and all for a boywhom I remembered when he knew yesterday and to-morrow and Tuesday, butnot a day of the week more--not even Sunday itself--and when he said hedid not like the kitten because it had pins in its toes. 

I looked at him and thought of his aunt Alethea, and how fast the moneyshe had left him was accumulating; and it was all to go to this youngman, who would use it probably in the very last ways with which MissPontifex would have sympathised. I was annoyed. "She always said, " Ithought to myself, "that she should make a mess of it, but I did notthink she would have made as great a mess of it as this. " Then I thoughtthat 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 ifthe conversation drew towards dangerous subjects. I was the aggressor, presuming I suppose upon my age and long acquaintance with him, as givingme a right to make myself unpleasant in a quiet way. 

Then he came out, and the exasperating part of it was that up to acertain point he was so very right. Grant him his premises and hisconclusions were sound enough, nor could I, seeing that he was alreadyordained, join issue with him about his premises as I should certainlyhave 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 bestof humours. I believe the truth was that I liked Ernest, and was vexedat his being a clergyman, and at a clergyman having so much money comingto him. 

I talked a little with Mrs Jupp on my way out. She and I had reckonedone another up at first sight as being neither of us "very regular church-goers, " and the strings of her tongue had been loosened. She said Ernestwould die. He was much too good for the world and he looked so sad "justlike young Watkins of the 'Crown' over the way who died a month ago, andhis poor dear skin was white as alablaster; least-ways they say he shothisself. They took him from the Mortimer, I met them just as I was goingwith 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, insteado' 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 ahorrid lie to say she is gay; not but what I like a gay woman, I do: I'drather 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 all that. Sothey 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 livingwith 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'sthat in Mr Pontifex's face which is just like young Watkins; he looksthat worrited and scrunched up at times, but it's never for the samereason, for he don't know nothing at all, no more than a unborn babe, nohe don't; why there's not a monkey going about London with an Italianorgan grinder but knows more than Mr Pontifex do. He don't know--well Isuppose--"

Here a child came in on an errand from some neighbour and interruptedher, or I can form no idea where or when she would have ended herdiscourse. I seized the opportunity to run away, but not before I hadgiven her five shillings and made her write down my address, for I was alittle frightened by what she said. I told her if she thought her lodgergrew 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 heand I should only bore one another. 

He had now been ordained a little over four months, but these months hadnot brought happiness or satisfaction with them. He had lived in aclergyman's house all his life, and might have been expected perhaps tohave known pretty much what being a clergyman was like, and so he did--acountry clergyman; he had formed an ideal, however, as regards what atown clergyman could do, and was trying in a feeble tentative way torealise 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 didindeed 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 Ernesthimself; then there was a plumber of the name of Chesterfield; an agedlady of the name of Gover, blind and bed-ridden, who munched and munchedher feeble old toothless jaws as Ernest spoke or read to her, but whocould do little more; a Mr Brookes, a rag and bottle merchant inBirdsey's Rents in the last stage of dropsy, and perhaps half a dozen orso others. What did it all come to, when he did go to see them? Theplumber wanted to be flattered, and liked fooling a gentleman intowasting his time by scratching his ears for him. Mrs Gover, poor oldwoman, wanted money; she was very good and meek, and when Ernest got hera shilling from Lady Anne Jones's bequest, she said it was "small butseasonable, " and munched and munched in gratitude. Ernest sometimes gaveher a little money himself, but not, as he says now, half what he oughtto 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 notregenerating the universe, and Ernest wanted nothing short of this. Theworld was all out of joint, and instead of feeling it to be a cursedspite that he was born to set it right, he thought he was just the kindof person that was wanted for the job, and was eager to set to work, onlyhe did not exactly know how to begin, for the beginning he had made withMr Chesterfield and Mrs Gover did not promise great developments. 

Then poor Mr Brookes--he suffered very much, terribly indeed; he was notin want of money; he wanted to die and couldn't, just as we sometimeswant to go to sleep and cannot. He had been a serious-minded man, anddeath frightened him as it must frighten anyone who believes that all hismost secret thoughts will be shortly exposed in public. When I readErnest the description of how his father used to visit Mrs Thompson atBattersby, he coloured and said--"that's just what I used to say to MrBrookes. " Ernest felt that his visits, so far from comforting MrBrookes, 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 knowpersonally more than a couple of hundred people in the parish at theoutside, and it was only at the houses of very few of these that he evervisited, but then Pryer had such a strong objection on principle to housevisitations. What a drop in the sea were those with whom he and Pryerwere brought into direct communication in comparison with those whom hemust reach and move if he were to produce much effect of any kind, oneway or the other. Why there were between fifteen and twenty thousandpoor in the parish, of whom but the merest fraction ever attended a placeof worship. Some few went to dissenting chapels, a few were RomanCatholics; by far the greater number, however, were practically infidels, if not actively hostile, at any rate indifferent to religion, while manywere avowed Atheists--admirers of Tom Paine, of whom he now heard for thefirst time; but he never met and conversed with any of these. 

Was he really doing everything that could be expected of him? It was allvery 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 otherPharisees 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 theyrather compelling him to keep out--outside their doors at any rate? Hebegan to have an uneasy feeling as though ere long, unless he kept asharp look out, he should drift into being a sham. 

True, all would be changed as soon as he could endow the College forSpiritual Pathology; matters, however, had not gone too well with "thethings that people bought in the place that was called the StockExchange. " In order to get on faster, it had been arranged that Ernestshould buy more of these things than he could pay for, with the idea thatin a few weeks, or even days, they would be much higher in value, and hecould sell them at a tremendous profit; but, unfortunately, instead ofgetting higher, they had fallen immediately after Ernest had bought, andobstinately refused to get up again; so, after a few settlements, he hadgot frightened, for he read an article in some newspaper, which said theywould go ever so much lower, and, contrary to Pryer's advice, he insistedon selling--at a loss of something like 500 pounds. He had hardly soldwhen up went the shares again, and he saw how foolish he had been, andhow wise Pryer was, for if Pryer's advice had been followed, he wouldhave made 500 pounds, instead of losing it. However, he told himself hemust live and learn. 

Then Pryer made a mistake. They had bought some shares, and the shareswent up delightfully for about a fortnight. This was a happy timeindeed, for by the end of a fortnight, the lost 500 pounds had beenrecovered, and three or four hundred pounds had been cleared into thebargain. All the feverish anxiety of that miserable six weeks, when the500 pounds was being lost, was now being repaid with interest. Ernestwanted to sell and make sure of the profit, but Pryer would not hear ofit; they would go ever so much higher yet, and he showed Ernest anarticle 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 wentdown, down, and Ernest saw first his clear profit of three or fourhundred pounds go, and then the 500 pounds loss, which he thought he hadrecovered, slipped away by falls of a half and one at a time, and then helost 200 pounds more. Then a newspaper said that these shares were thegreatest rubbish that had ever been imposed upon the English public, andErnest could stand it no longer, so he sold out, again this time againstPryer's advice, so that when they went up, as they shortly did, Pryerscored off Ernest a second time. 

Ernest was not used to vicissitudes of this kind, and they made him soanxious that his health was affected. It was arranged therefore that hehad better know nothing of what was being done. Pryer was a much betterman of business than he was, and would see to it all. This relievedErnest of a good deal of trouble, and was better after all for theinvestments themselves; for, as Pryer justly said, a man must not have afaint heart if he hopes to succeed in buying and selling upon the StockExchange, and seeing Ernest nervous made Pryer nervous too--at least, hesaid it did. So the money drifted more and more into Pryer's hands. Asfor Pryer himself, he had nothing but his curacy and a small allowancefrom his father. 

Some of Ernest's old friends got an inkling from his letters of what hewas doing, and did their utmost to dissuade him, but he was as infatuatedas a young lover of two and twenty. Finding that these friendsdisapproved, he dropped away from them, and they, being bored with hisegotism and high-flown ideas, were not sorry to let him do so. Ofcourse, he said nothing about his speculations--indeed, he hardly knewthat anything done in so good a cause could be called speculation. AtBattersby, when his father urged him to look out for a next presentation, and even brought one or two promising ones under his notice, he madeobjections and excuses, though always promising to do as his fatherdesired very shortly. 

CHAPTER LVI

By and by a subtle, indefinable _malaise_ began to take possession ofhim. I once saw a very young foal trying to eat some most objectionablerefuse, and unable to make up its mind whether it was good or no. Clearlyit wanted to be told. If its mother had seen what it was doing she wouldhave set it right in a moment, and as soon as ever it had been told thatwhat it was eating was filth, the foal would have recognised it and neverhave wanted to be told again; but the foal could not settle the matterfor itself, or make up its mind whether it liked what it was trying toeat or no, without assistance from without. I suppose it would have cometo do so by and by, but it was wasting time and trouble, which a singlelook from its mother would have saved, just as wort will in time fermentof itself, but will ferment much more quickly if a little yeast be addedto it. In the matter of knowing what gives us pleasure we are all likewort, 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 hefelt much what the foal would have felt if its mother and all the othergrown-up horses in the field had vowed that what it was eating was themost excellent and nutritious food to be found anywhere. He was soanxious to do what was right, and so ready to believe that every one knewbetter than himself, that he never ventured to admit to himself that hemight be all the while on a hopelessly wrong tack. It did not occur tohim that there might be a blunder anywhere, much less did it occur to himto try and find out where the blunder was. Nevertheless he became dailymore full of _malaise_, and daily, only he knew it not, more ripe for anexplosion should a spark fall upon him. 

One thing, however, did begin to loom out of the general vagueness, andto this he instinctively turned as trying to seize it--I mean, the factthat he was saving very few souls, whereas there were thousands andthousands being lost hourly all around him which a little energy such asMr Hawke's might save. Day after day went by, and what was he doing?Standing on professional _etiquette_, and praying that his shares mightgo up and down as he wanted them, so that they might give him moneyenough to enable him to regenerate the universe. But in the meantime thepeople were dying. How many souls would not be doomed to endless ages ofthe most frightful torments that the mind could think of, before he couldbring his spiritual pathology engine to bear upon them? Why might he notstand and preach as he saw the Dissenters doing sometimes in Lincoln'sInn Fields and other thoroughfares? He could say all that Mr Hawke hadsaid. Mr Hawke was a very poor creature in Ernest's eyes now, for he wasa Low Churchman, but we should not be above learning from any one, andsurely he could affect his hearers as powerfully as Mr Hawke had affectedhim if he only had the courage to set to work. The people whom he sawpreaching in the squares sometimes drew large audiences. He could at anyrate preach better than they. 

Ernest broached this to Pryer, who treated it as something too outrageousto be even thought of. Nothing, he said, could more tend to lower thedignity of the clergy and bring the Church into contempt. His manner wasbrusque, and even rude. 

Ernest ventured a little mild dissent; he admitted it was not usual, butsomething at any rate must be done, and that quickly. This was howWesley and Whitfield had begun that great movement which had kindledreligious life in the minds of hundreds of thousands. This was no timeto be standing on dignity. It was just because Wesley and Whitfield haddone what the Church would not that they had won men to follow them whomthe Church had now lost. 

Pryer eyed Ernest searchingly, and after a pause said, "I don't know whatto make of you, Pontifex; you are at once so very right and so verywrong. I agree with you heartily that something should be done, but itmust not be done in a way which experience has shown leads to nothing butfanaticism and dissent. Do you approve of these Wesleyans? Do you holdyour ordination vows so cheaply as to think that it does not matterwhether the services of the Church are performed in her churches and withall due ceremony or not? If you do--then, frankly, you had no businessto be ordained; if you do not, then remember that one of the first dutiesof a young deacon is obedience to authority. Neither the CatholicChurch, nor yet the Church of England allows her clergy to preach in thestreets of cities where 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 nothawk Christ about in the streets as though you were in a heathen countrywhose inhabitants had never heard of him. The people here in London havehad ample warning. Every church they pass is a protest to them againsttheir lives, and a call to them to repent. Every church-bell they hearis a witness against them, everyone of those whom they meet on Sundaysgoing to or coming from church is a warning voice from God. If thesecountless influences produce no effect upon them, neither will the fewtransient words which they would hear from you. You are like Dives, andthink that if one rose from the dead they would hear him. Perhaps theymight; but then you cannot pretend that you have risen from the dead. "

Though the last few words were spoken laughingly, there was a sub-sneerabout them which made Ernest wince; but he was quite subdued, and so theconversation ended. It left Ernest, however, not for the first time, consciously dissatisfied with Pryer, and inclined to set his friend'sopinion on one side--not openly, but quietly, and without telling Pryeranything about it. 

CHAPTER LVII

He had hardly parted from Pryer before there occurred another incidentwhich strengthened his discontent. He had fallen, as I have shown, amonga gang of spiritual thieves or coiners, who passed the basest metal uponhim without his finding it out, so childish and inexperienced was he inthe ways of anything but those back eddies of the world, schools anduniversities. Among the bad threepenny pieces which had been passed offupon him, and which he kept for small hourly disbursement, was a remarkthat poor people were much nicer than the richer and better educated. Ernest now said that he always travelled third class not because it wascheaper, but because the people whom he met in third class carriages wereso much pleasanter and better behaved. As for the young men who attendedErnest's evening classes, they were pronounced to be more intelligent andbetter ordered generally than the average run of Oxford and Cambridgemen. Our foolish young friend having heard Pryer talk to this effect, caught up all he said and reproduced it _more suo_. 

One evening, however, about this time, whom should he see coming along asmall street not far from his own but, of all persons in the world, Towneley, looking as full of life and good spirits as ever, and ifpossible even handsomer than he had been at Cambridge. Much as Ernestliked him he found himself shrinking from speaking to him, and wasendeavouring to pass him without doing so when Towneley saw him andstopped him at once, being pleased to see an old Cambridge face. Heseemed for the moment a little confused at being seen in such aneighbourhood, but recovered himself so soon that Ernest hardly noticedit, and then plunged into a few kindly remarks about old times. Ernestfelt that he quailed as he saw Towneley's eye wander to his white necktieand saw that he was being reckoned up, and rather disapprovingly reckonedup, 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 professionas being what he thought would be most likely to interest him, andErnest, still confused and shy, gave him for lack of something better tosay his little threepenny-bit about poor people being so very nice. Towneley took this for what it was worth and nodded assent, whereonErnest imprudently went further and said "Don't you like poor people verymuch yourself?"

Towneley gave his face a comical but good-natured screw, and saidquietly, but slowly and decidedly, "No, no, no, " and escaped. 

It was all over with Ernest from that moment. As usual he did not knowit, but he had entered none the less upon another reaction. Towneley hadjust taken Ernest's threepenny-bit into his hands, looked at it andreturned it to him as a bad one. Why did he see in a moment that it wasa bad one now, though he had been unable to see it when he had taken itfrom Pryer? Of course some poor people were very nice, and always wouldbe so, but as though scales had fallen suddenly from his eyes he saw thatno one was nicer for being poor, and that between the upper and lowerclasses there was a gulf which amounted practically to an impassablebarrier. 

That evening he reflected a good deal. If Towneley was right, and Ernestfelt 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, heand Pryer must surely be on a wrong track. Towneley had not argued withhim; he had said one word only, and that one of the shortest in thelanguage, but Ernest was in a fit state for inoculation, and the minuteparticle of virus set about working immediately. 

Which did he now think was most likely to have taken the juster view oflife and things, and whom would it be best to imitate, Towneley or Pryer?His heart returned answer to itself without a moment's hesitation. Thefaces of men like Towneley were open and kindly; they looked as if atease themselves, and as though they would set all who had to do with themat ease as far as might be. The faces of Pryer and his friends were notlike this. Why had he felt tacitly rebuked as soon as he had metTowneley? Was he not a Christian? Certainly; he believed in the Churchof England as a matter of course. Then how could he be himself wrong intrying to act up to the faith that he and Towneley held in common? Hewas trying to lead a quiet, unobtrusive life of self-devotion, whereasTowneley was not, so far as he could see, trying to do anything of thekind; he was only trying to get on comfortably in the world, and to lookand be as nice as possible. And he was nice, and Ernest knew that suchmen as himself and Pryer were not nice, and his old dejection came overhim. 

Then came an even worse reflection; how if he had fallen among materialthieves as well as spiritual ones? He knew very little of how his moneywas going on; he had put it all now into Pryer's hands, and though Pryergave him cash to spend whenever he wanted it, he seemed impatient ofbeing questioned as to what was being done with the principal. It waspart of the understanding, he said, that that was to be left to him, andErnest had better stick to this, or he, Pryer, would throw up the Collegeof Spiritual Pathology altogether; and so Ernest was cowed intoacquiescence, or cajoled, according to the humour in which Pryer saw himto be. Ernest thought that further questions would look as if he doubtedPryer's word, and also that he had gone too far to be able to recede indecency or honour. This, however, he felt was riding out to meet troubleunnecessarily. Pryer had been a little impatient, but he was a gentlemanand an admirable man of business, so his money would doubtless come backto him all right some day. 

Ernest comforted himself as regards this last source of anxiety, but asregards the other, he began to feel as though, if he was to be saved, agood Samaritan must hurry up from somewhere--he knew not whence. 

CHAPTER LVIII

Next day he felt stronger again. He had been listening to the voice ofthe evil one on the night before, and would parley no more with suchthoughts. He had chosen his profession, and his duty was to perseverewith it. If he was unhappy it was probably because he was not giving upall for Christ. Let him see whether he could not do more than he wasdoing now, and then perhaps a light would be shed upon his path. 

It was all very well to have made the discovery that he didn't very muchlike poor people, but he had got to put up with them, for it was amongthem that his work must lie. Such men as Towneley were very kind andconsiderate, but he knew well enough it was only on condition that he didnot preach to them. He could manage the poor better, and, let Pryersneer as he liked, he was resolved to go more among them, and try theeffect of bringing Christ to them if they would not come and seek Christof themselves. He would begin with his own house. 

Who then should he take first? Surely he could not do better than beginwith the tailor who lived immediately over his head. This would bedesirable, not only because he was the one who seemed to stand most inneed of conversion, but also because, if he were once converted, he wouldno longer beat his wife at two o'clock in the morning, and the housewould be much pleasanter in consequence. He would therefore go upstairsat once, and have a quiet talk with this man. 

Before doing so, he thought it would be well if he were to draw upsomething like a plan of a campaign; he therefore reflected over somepretty conversations which would do very nicely if Mr Holt would be kindenough to make the answers proposed for him in their proper places. Butthe man was a great hulking fellow, of a savage temper, and Ernest wasforced to admit that unforeseen developments might arise to disconcerthim. They say it takes nine tailors to make a man, but Ernest felt thatit would take at least nine Ernests to make a Mr Holt. How if, as soonas Ernest came in, the tailor were to become violent and abusive? Whatcould he do? Mr Holt was in his own lodgings, and had a right to beundisturbed. A legal right, yes, but had he a moral right? Ernestthought not, considering his mode of life. But put this on one side; ifthe man were to be violent, what should he do? Paul had fought with wildbeasts at Ephesus--that must indeed have been awful--but perhaps theywere not very wild wild beasts; a rabbit and a canary are wild beasts;but, formidable or not as wild beasts go, they would, nevertheless standno chance against St Paul, for he was inspired; the miracle would havebeen 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 toconvert Mr Holt by fighting him. Why, when he had heard Mrs Holtscreaming "murder, " he had cowered under the bed clothes and waited, expecting to hear the blood dripping through the ceiling on to his ownfloor. His imagination translated every sound into a pat, pat, pat, andonce 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. Happilyit had proved next morning that Mrs Holt was in her usual health. 

Ernest was in despair about hitting on any good way of opening upspiritual communication with his neighbour, when it occurred to him thathe had better perhaps begin by going upstairs, and knocking very gentlyat Mr Holt's door. He would then resign himself to the guidance of theHoly Spirit, and act as the occasion, which, I suppose, was another namefor the Holy Spirit, suggested. Triply armed with this reflection, hemounted the stairs quite jauntily, and was about to knock when he heardHolt's voice inside swearing savagely at his wife. This made him pauseto think whether after all the moment was an auspicious one, and while hewas 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 anunpleasant, not to say offensive movement, which might or might not havebeen directed at Ernest and looked altogether so ugly that my hero had aninstantaneous and unequivocal revelation from the Holy Spirit to theeffect that he should continue his journey upstairs at once, as though hehad never intended arresting it at Mr Holt's room, and begin byconverting Mr and Mrs Baxter, the Methodists in the top floor front. Sothis was what he did. 

These good people received him with open arms, and were quite ready totalk. He was beginning to convert them from Methodism to the Church ofEngland, when all at once he found himself embarrassed by discoveringthat he did not know what he was to convert them from. He knew theChurch of England, or thought he did, but he knew nothing of Methodismbeyond its name. When he found that, according to Mr Baxter, theWesleyans had a vigorous system of Church discipline (which workedadmirably in practice) it appeared to him that John Wesley hadanticipated the spiritual engine which he and Pryer were preparing, andwhen he left the room he was aware that he had caught more of a spiritualTartar than he had expected. But he must certainly explain to Pryer thatthe Wesleyans had a system of Church discipline. This was veryimportant. 

Mr Baxter advised Ernest on no account to meddle with Mr Holt, and Ernestwas much relieved at the advice. If an opportunity arose of touching theman's heart, he would take it; he would pat the children on the head whenhe saw them on the stairs, and ingratiate himself with them as far as hedared; 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 that it would indeed be almost better for him that amillstone should be hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, thanthat he should offend one of the little Holts. However, he would try notto 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 beinstant out of season, as well as in season, would, St Paul's injunctionnotwithstanding, end in failure. 

Mrs Baxter gave a very bad account of Miss Emily Snow, who lodged in thesecond floor back next to Mr Holt. Her story was quite different fromthat of Mrs Jupp the landlady. She would doubtless be only too glad toreceive Ernest's ministrations or those of any other gentleman, but shewas no governess, she was in the ballet at Drury Lane, and besides this, she was a very bad young woman, and if Mrs Baxter was landlady would notbe 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 andrespectable young woman to all appearance; Mrs Baxter had never known ofany goings on in that quarter, but, bless you, still waters run deep, andthese girls were all alike, one as bad as the other. She was out at allkinds of hours, and when you knew that you knew all. 

Ernest did not pay much heed to these aspersions of Mrs Baxter's. MrsJupp had got round the greater number of his many blind sides, and hadwarned him not to believe Mrs Baxter, whose lip she said was somethingawful. 

Ernest had heard that women were always jealous of one another, andcertainly these young women were more attractive than Mrs Baxter was, sojealousy was probably at the bottom of it. If they were maligned therecould be no objection to his making their acquaintance; if not malignedthey had all the more need of his ministrations. He would reclaim themat once. 

He told Mrs Jupp of his intention. Mrs Jupp at first tried to dissuadehim, but seeing him resolute, suggested that she should herself see MissSnow first, so as to prepare her and prevent her from being alarmed byhis 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, thetinker, in the front kitchen. Mrs Baxter had told Ernest that Mr Shawwas from the North Country, and an avowed freethinker; he would probably, she said, rather like a visit, but she did not think Ernest would standmuch chance of making a convert of him. 

CHAPTER LIX

Before going down into the kitchen to convert the tinker Ernest ranhurriedly over his analysis of Paley's evidences, and put into his pocketa copy of Archbishop Whateley's "Historic Doubts. " Then he descended thedark rotten old stairs and knocked at the tinker's door. Mr Shaw wasvery civil; he said he was rather throng just now, but if Ernest did notmind 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 showthat there never was any such person as Napoleon Buonaparte, and thussatirises the arguments of those who have attacked the Christianmiracles. 

Mr Shaw said he knew "Historic Doubts" very well. 

"And what you think of it?" said Ernest, who regarded the pamphlet as amasterpiece of wit and cogency. 

"If you really want to know, " said Mr Shaw, with a sly twinkle, "I thinkthat he who was so willing and able to prove that what was was not, wouldbe equally able and willing to make a case for thinking that what was notwas, if it suited his purpose. " Ernest was very much taken aback. Howwas it that all the clever people of Cambridge had never put him up tothis simple rejoinder? The answer is easy: they did not develop it forthe same reason that a hen had never developed webbed feet--that is tosay, because they did not want to do so; but this was before the days ofEvolution, and Ernest could not as yet know anything of the greatprinciple that underlies it. 

"You see, " continued Mr Shaw, "these writers all get their living bywriting in a certain way, and the more they write in that way, the morethey are likely to get on. You should not call them dishonest for thisany more than a judge should call a barrister dishonest for earning hisliving by defending one in whose innocence he does not seriously believe;but you should hear the barrister on the other side before you decideupon the case. "

This was another facer. Ernest could only stammer that he hadendeavoured to examine these questions as carefully as he could. 

"You think you have, " said Mr Shaw; "you Oxford and Cambridge gentlementhink you have examined everything. I have examined very little myselfexcept the bottoms of old kettles and saucepans, but if you will answerme a few questions, I will tell you whether or no you have examined muchmore than I have. "

Ernest expressed his readiness to be questioned. 

"Then, " said the tinker, "give me the story of the Resurrection of JesusChrist as told in St John's gospel. "

I am sorry to say that Ernest mixed up the four accounts in a deplorablemanner; he even made the angel come down and roll away the stone and situpon it. He was covered with confusion when the tinker first told himwithout the book of some of his many inaccuracies, and then verified hiscriticisms by referring to the New Testament itself. 

"Now, " said Mr Shaw good naturedly, "I am an old man and you are a youngone, so perhaps you'll not mind my giving you a piece of advice. I likeyou, 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 knownothing of our side of the question, and I have just shown you that youdo not know much more of your own, but I think you will make a kind ofCarlyle sort of a man some day. Now go upstairs and read the accounts ofthe Resurrection correctly without mixing them up, and have a clear ideaof what it is that each writer tells us, then if you feel inclined to payme another visit I shall be glad to see you, for I shall know you havemade a good beginning and mean business. Till then, Sir, I must wish youa very good morning. "

Ernest retreated abashed. An hour sufficed him to perform the taskenjoined 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, cameringing up more loudly still from the very pages of the Bible itself, andin respect of the most important of all the events which are recorded init. Surely Ernest's first day's attempt at more promiscuous visiting, and at carrying out his principles more thoroughly, had not beenunfruitful. But he must go and have a talk with Pryer. He therefore gothis lunch and went to Pryer's lodgings. Pryer not being at home, helounged to the British Museum Reading Room, then recently opened, sentfor the "Vestiges of Creation, " which he had never yet seen, and spentthe rest of the afternoon in reading it. 

Ernest did not see Pryer on the day of his conversation with Mr Shaw, buthe did so next morning and found him in a good temper, which of late hehad rarely been. Sometimes, indeed, he had behaved to Ernest in a waywhich did not bode well for the harmony with which the College ofSpiritual Pathology would work when it had once been founded. It almostseemed as though he were trying to get a complete moral ascendency overhim, 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 Ireflect upon my hero's folly and inexperience, there is much to be saidin excuse for the conclusion which Pryer came to. 

As a matter of fact, however, it was not so. Ernest's faith in Pryer hadbeen too great to be shaken down all in a moment, but it had beenweakened lately more than once. Ernest had fought hard against allowinghimself to see this, nevertheless any third person who knew the pairwould have been able to see that the connection between the two might endat any moment, for when the time for one of Ernest's snipe-like changesof flight came, he was quick in making it; the time, however, was not yetcome, and the intimacy between the two was apparently all that it hadever been. It was only that horrid money business (so said Ernest tohimself) that caused any unpleasantness between them, and no doubt Pryerwas right, and he, Ernest, much too nervous. However, that might standover for the present. 

In like manner, though he had received a shock by reason of hisconversation with Mr Shaw, and by looking at the "Vestiges, " he was asyet too much stunned to realise the change which was coming over him. Ineach case the momentum of old habits carried him forward in the olddirection. He therefore called on Pryer, and spent an hour and more withhim. 

He did not say that he had been visiting among his neighbours; this toPryer would have been like a red rag to a bull. He only talked in muchhis usual vein about the proposed College, the lamentable want ofinterest in spiritual things which was characteristic of modern society, and other kindred matters; he concluded by saying that for the present hefeared Pryer was indeed right, and that nothing could be done. 

"As regards the laity, " said Pryer, "nothing; not until we have adiscipline which we can enforce with pains and penalties. How can asheep dog work a flock of sheep unless he can bite occasionally as wellas bark? But as regards ourselves we can do much. "

Pryer's manner was strange throughout the conversation, as though he werethinking all the time of something else. His eyes wandered curiouslyover Ernest, as Ernest had often noticed them wander before: the wordswere about Church discipline, but somehow or other the discipline part ofthe story had a knack of dropping out after having been again and againemphatically declared to apply to the laity and not to the clergy: onceindeed Pryer had pettishly exclaimed: "Oh, bother the College ofSpiritual Pathology. " As regards the clergy, glimpses of a pretty largecloven hoof kept peeping out from under the saintly robe of Pryer'sconversation, to the effect, that so long as they were theoreticallyperfect, practical peccadilloes--or even peccadaccios, if there is such aword, were of less importance. He was restless, as though wanting toapproach a subject which he did not quite venture to touch upon, and keptharping (he did this about every third day) on the wretched lack ofdefinition concerning the limits of vice and virtue, and the way in whichhalf the vices wanted regulating rather than prohibiting. He dwelt alsoon the advantages of complete unreserve, and hinted that there weremysteries into which Ernest had not yet been initiated, but which wouldenlighten him when he got to know them, as he would be allowed to do whenhis friends saw that he was strong enough. 

Pryer had often been like this before, but never so nearly, as it seemedto Ernest, coming to a point--though what the point was he could notfully understand. His inquietude was communicating itself to Ernest, whowould probably ere long have come to know as much as Pryer could tellhim, but the conversation was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of avisitor. We shall never know how it would have ended, for this was thevery last time that Ernest ever saw Pryer. Perhaps Pryer was going tobreak to him some bad news about his speculations. 

CHAPTER LX

Ernest now went home and occupied himself till luncheon with studyingDean Alford's notes upon the various Evangelistic records of theResurrection, doing as Mr Shaw had told him, and trying to find out notthat they were all accurate, but whether they were all accurate or no. Hedid not care which result he should arrive at, but he was resolved thathe would reach one or the other. When he had finished Dean Alford'snotes he found them come to this, namely, that no one yet had succeededin bringing the four accounts into tolerable harmony with each other, andthat the Dean, seeing no chance of succeeding better than hispredecessors had done, recommended that the whole story should be takenon trust--and this Ernest was not prepared to do. 

He got his luncheon, went out for a long walk, and returned to dinner athalf past six. While Mrs Jupp was getting him his dinner--a steak and apint of stout--she told him that Miss Snow would be very happy to see himin about an hour's time. This disconcerted him, for his mind was toounsettled for him to wish to convert anyone just then. He reflected alittle, and found that, in spite of the sudden shock to his opinions, hewas being irresistibly drawn to pay the visit as though nothing hadhappened. It would not look well for him not to go, for he was known tobe in the house. He ought not to be in too great a hurry to change hisopinions on such a matter as the evidence for Christ's Resurrection allof 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 monitorwarned him that he was thinking of anything rather than of Miss Snow'ssoul. 

What should he do? Fly, fly, fly--it was the only safety. But wouldChrist have fled? Even though Christ had not died and risen from thedead there could be no question that He was the model whose example wewere bound to follow. Christ would not have fled from Miss Snow; he wassure of that, for He went about more especially with prostitutes anddisreputable people. Now, as then, it was the business of the trueChristian to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance. It wouldbe inconvenient to him to change his lodgings, and he could not ask MrsJupp to turn Miss Snow and Miss Maitland out of the house. Where was heto draw the line? Who would be just good enough to live in the samehouse with him, and who just not good enough?

Besides, where were these poor girls to go? Was he to drive them fromhouse to house till they had no place to lie in? It was absurd; his dutywas clear: he would go and see Miss Snow at once, and try if he could notinduce her to change her present mode of life; if he found temptationbecoming too strong for him he would fly then--so he went upstairs withhis 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, andpinned it up over her fireplace that morning. Ernest was very muchpleased with her, and mechanically placed his Bible upon the table. Hehad just opened a timid conversation and was deep in blushes, when ahurried step came bounding up the stairs as though of one over whom theforce of gravity had little power, and a man burst into the room saying, "I'm come before my time. " It was Towneley. 

His face dropped as he caught sight of Ernest. "What, you here, Pontifex! Well, upon my word!"

I cannot describe the hurried explanations that passed quickly betweenthe three--enough that in less than a minute Ernest, blushing morescarlet than ever, slunk off, Bible and all, deeply humiliated as hecontrasted himself and Towneley. Before he had reached the bottom of thestaircase leading to his own room he heard Towneley's hearty laughthrough 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 atany rate see Miss Maitland. He knew well enough what he wanted now, andas for the Bible, he pushed it from him to the other end of his table. Itfell over on to the floor, and he kicked it into a corner. It was theBible given him at his christening by his affectionate aunt, ElizabethAllaby. True, he knew very little of Miss Maitland, but ignorant youngfools in Ernest's state do not reflect or reason closely. Mrs Baxter hadsaid that Miss Maitland and Miss Snow were birds of a feather, and MrsBaxter probably knew better than that old liar, Mrs Jupp. Shakespearesays:

 O Opportunity, 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 'point'st the season; 'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason; 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 ofthat which is believed to be opportunity, but in reality is noopportunity at all. If the better part of valour is discretion, how muchmore 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 asher agitated state would let her, and in another ten minutes twopolicemen were seen also coming out of Mrs Jupp's, between whom thereshambled rather than walked our unhappy friend Ernest, with staring eyes, ghastly pale, and with despair branded upon every line of his face. 

CHAPTER LXI

Pryer had done well to warn Ernest against promiscuous house to housevisitation. He had not gone outside Mrs Jupp's street door, and yet whathad been the result?

Mr Holt had put him in bodily fear; Mr and Mrs Baxter had nearly made aMethodist of him; Mr Shaw had undermined his faith in the Resurrection;Miss Snow's charms had ruined--or would have done so but for anaccident--his moral character. As for Miss Maitland, he had done hisbest to ruin hers, and had damaged himself gravely and irretrievably inconsequence. 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, wouldnot have got into these scrapes. He seemed to have developed an aptitudefor mischief almost from the day of his having been ordained. He couldhardly preach without making some horrid _faux pas_. He preached oneSunday morning when the Bishop was at his Rector's church, and made hissermon turn upon the question what kind of little cake it was that thewidow of Zarephath had intended making when Elijah found her gathering afew sticks. He demonstrated that it was a seed cake. The sermon wasreally very amusing, and more than once he saw a smile pass over the seaof faces underneath him. The Bishop was very angry, and gave my hero asevere reprimand in the vestry after service was over; the only excuse hecould make was that he was preaching _ex tempore_, had not thought ofthis particular point till he was actually in the pulpit, and had thenbeen carried away by it. 

Another time he preached upon the barren fig-tree, and described thehopes of the owner as he watched the delicate blossom unfold, and givepromise of such beautiful fruit in autumn. Next day he received a letterfrom a botanical member of his congregation who explained to him thatthis could hardly have been, inasmuch as the fig produces its fruit firstand blossoms inside the fruit, or so nearly so that no flower isperceptible to an ordinary observer. This last, however, was an accidentwhich might have happened to any one but a scientist or an inspiredwriter. 

The only excuse I can make for him is that he was very young--not yetfour and twenty--and that in mind as in body, like most of those who inthe end come to think for themselves, he was a slow grower. By far thegreater part, moreover, of his education had been an attempt, not so muchto keep him in blinkers as to gouge his eyes out altogether. 

But to return to my story. It transpired afterwards that Miss Maitlandhad had no intention of giving Ernest in charge when she ran out of MrsJupp's house. She was running away because she was frightened, butalmost the first person whom she ran against had happened to be apoliceman of a serious turn of mind, who wished to gain a reputation foractivity. He stopped her, questioned her, frightened her still more, andit was he rather than Miss Maitland, who insisted on giving my hero incharge to himself and another constable. 

Towneley was still in Mrs Jupp's house when the policeman came. He hadheard a disturbance, and going down to Ernest's room while Miss Maitlandwas out of doors, had found him lying, as it were, stunned at the foot ofthe moral precipice over which he had that moment fallen. He saw thewhole thing at a glance, but before he could take action, the policemencame in and action became impossible. 

He asked Ernest who were his friends in London. Ernest at first wantednot to say, but Towneley soon gave him to understand that he must do ashe was bid, and selected myself from the few whom he had named. "Writesfor the stage, does he?" said Towneley. "Does he write comedy?" Ernestthought Towneley meant that I ought to write tragedy, and said he wasafraid I wrote burlesque. "Oh, come, come, " said Towneley, "that will dofamously. I will go and see him at once. " But on second thoughts hedetermined to stay with Ernest and go with him to the police court. Sohe sent Mrs Jupp for me. Mrs Jupp hurried so fast to fetch me, that inspite of the weather's being still cold she was "giving out, " as sheexpressed 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. Isaw that something very serious had happened, but was not prepared foranything so deplorable as what Mrs Jupp actually told me. As for MrsJupp, she said her heart had been jumping out of its socket and backagain ever since. 

I got her into a cab with me, and we went off to the police station. Shetalked without ceasing. 

"And if the neighbours do say cruel things about me, I'm sure it ain't nothanks to _him_ if they're true. Mr Pontifex never took a bit o' noticeof me no more than if I had been his sister. Oh, it's enough to makeanyone's back bone curdle. Then I thought perhaps my Rose might get onbetter with him, so I set her to dust him and clean him as though I werebusy, and gave her such a beautiful clean new pinny, but he never took nonotice of her no more than he did of me, and she didn't want nocompliment neither, 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. Ican't make out what the young men are a-coming to; I wish the horn mayblow for me and the worms take me this very night, if it's not enough tomake a woman stand before God and strike the one half on 'em silly to seethe way they goes on, and many an honest girl has to go home night afternight without so much as a fourpenny bit and paying three and sixpence aweek rent, and not a shelf nor cupboard in the place and a dead wall infront of the window. 

"It's not Mr Pontifex, " she continued, "that's so bad, he's good atheart. He never says nothing unkind. And then there's his dear eyes--butwhen I speak about that to my Rose she calls me an old fool and says Iought to be poleaxed. It's that Pryer as I can't abide. Oh he! Helikes to wound a woman's feelings he do, and to chuck anything in herface, he do--he likes to wind a woman up and to wound her down. " (MrsJupp pronounced "wound" as though it rhymed to "sound. ") "It's agentleman's place to soothe a woman, but he, he'd like to tear her hairout 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 Davisdown in the Old Kent Road, and beyond a haricot vein in one of my legsI'm as young as ever I was. Old indeed! There's many a good tune playedon an old fiddle. I hate his nasty insinuendos. "

Even if I had wanted to stop her, I could not have done so. She said agreat deal more than I have given above. I have left out much because Icould not remember it, but still more because it was really impossiblefor me to print it. 

When we got to the police station I found Towneley and Ernest alreadythere. The charge was one of assault, but not aggravated by seriousviolence. Even so, however, it was lamentable enough, and we both sawthat our young friend would have to pay dearly for his inexperience. Wetried to bail him out for the night, but the Inspector would not acceptbail, so we were forced to leave him. 

Towneley then went back to Mrs Jupp's to see if he could find MissMaitland and arrange matters with her. She was not there, but he tracedher to the house of her father, who lived at Camberwell. The father wasfurious and would not hear of any intercession on Towneley's part. Hewas a Dissenter, and glad to make the most of any scandal against aclergyman; Towneley, therefore, was obliged to return unsuccessful. 

Next morning, Towneley--who regarded Ernest as a drowning man, who mustbe picked out of the water somehow or other if possible, irrespective ofthe way in which he got into it--called on me, and we put the matter intothe hands of one of the best known attorneys of the day. I was greatlypleased with Towneley, and thought it due to him to tell him what I hadtold no one else. I mean that Ernest would come into his aunt's money ina few years' time, and would therefore then be rich. 

Towneley was doing all he could before this, but I knew that theknowledge I had imparted to him would make him feel as though Ernest wasmore one of his own class, and had therefore a greater claim upon hisgood offices. As for Ernest himself, his gratitude was greater thancould be expressed in words. I have heard him say that he can call tomind many moments, each one of which might well pass for the happiest ofhis life, but that this night stands clearly out as the most painful thathe ever passed, yet so kind and considerate was Towneley that it wasquite bearable. 

But with all the best wishes in the world neither Towneley nor I could domuch to help beyond giving our moral support. Our attorney told us thatthe magistrate before whom Ernest would appear was very severe on casesof this description, and that the fact of his being a clergyman wouldtell against him. "Ask for no remand, " he said, "and make no defence. Wewill call Mr Pontifex's rector and you two gentlemen as witnesses forprevious good character. These will be enough. Let us then make aprofound apology and beg the magistrate to deal with the case summarilyinstead of sending it for trial. If you can get this, believe me, youryoung friend will be better out of it than he has any right to expect. "

CHAPTER LXII

This advice, besides being obviously sensible, would end in saving Ernestboth 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 tillthree, so as to give time for Ernest to set his affairs as straight as hecould, and to execute a power of attorney enabling me to act for him as Ishould think fit while he was in prison. 

Then all came out about Pryer and the College of Spiritual Pathology. Ernest had even greater difficulty in making a clean breast of this thanhe had had in telling us about Miss Maitland, but he told us all, and theupshot was that he had actually handed over to Pryer every halfpenny thathe then possessed with no other security than Pryer's I. O. U. 's for theamount. Ernest, though still declining to believe that Pryer could beguilty of dishonourable conduct, was becoming alive to the folly of whathe had been doing; he still made sure, however, of recovering, at anyrate, the greater part of his property as soon as Pryer should have hadtime to sell. Towneley and I were of a different opinion, but we did notsay what we thought. 

It was dreary work waiting all the morning amid such unfamiliar anddepressing surroundings. I thought how the Psalmist had exclaimed withquiet irony, "One day in thy courts is better than a thousand, " and Ithought that I could utter a very similar sentiment in respect of theCourts in which Towneley and I were compelled to loiter. At last, aboutthree o'clock the case was called on, and we went round to the part ofthe court which is reserved for the general public, while Ernest wastaken into the prisoner's dock. As soon as he had collected himselfsufficiently he recognised the magistrate as the old gentleman who hadspoken to him in the train on the day he was leaving school, and saw, orthought he saw, to his great grief, that he too was recognised. 

Mr Ottery, for this was our attorney's name, took the line he hadproposed. He called no other witnesses than the rector, Towneley andmyself, and threw himself on the mercy of the magistrate. When he hadconcluded, the magistrate spoke as follows: "Ernest Pontifex, yours isone of the most painful cases that I have ever had to deal with. Youhave been singularly favoured in your parentage and education. You havehad before you the example of blameless parents, who doubtless instilledinto you from childhood the enormity of the offence which by your ownconfession you have committed. You were sent to one of the best publicschools in England. It is not likely that in the healthy atmosphere ofsuch a school as Roughborough you can have come across contaminatinginfluences; you were probably, I may say certainly, impressed at schoolwith the heinousness of any attempt to depart from the strictest chastityuntil such time as you had entered into a state of matrimony. AtCambridge you were shielded from impurity by every obstacle whichvirtuous and vigilant authorities could devise, and even had theobstacles been fewer, your parents probably took care that your meansshould not admit of your throwing money away upon abandoned characters. At night proctors patrolled the street and dogged your steps if you triedto go into any haunt where the presence of vice was suspected. By daythe females who were admitted within the college walls were selectedmainly on the score of age and ugliness. It is hard to see what more canbe done for any young man than this. For the last four or five monthsyou have been a clergyman, and if a single impure thought had stillremained within your mind, ordination should have removed it:nevertheless, not only does it appear that your mind is as impure asthough none of the influences to which I have referred had been broughtto bear upon it, but it seems as though their only result had beenthis--that you have not even the common sense to be able to distinguishbetween a respectable girl and a prostitute. 

"If I were to take a strict view of my duty I should commit you fortrial, but in consideration of this being your first offence, I shalldeal leniently with you and sentence you to imprisonment with hard labourfor six calendar months. "

Towneley and I both thought there was a touch of irony in themagistrate's speech, and that he could have given a lighter sentence ifhe would, but that was neither here nor there. We obtained leave to seeErnest for a few minutes before he was removed to Coldbath Fields, wherehe was to serve his term, and found him so thankful to have beensummarily dealt with that he hardly seemed to care about the miserableplight in which he was to pass the next six months. When he came out, hesaid, he would take what remained of his money, go off to America orAustralia and never be heard of more. 

We left him full of this resolve, I, to write to Theobald, and also toinstruct my solicitor to get Ernest's money out of Pryer's hands, andTowneley to see the reporters and keep the case out of the newspapers. Hewas successful as regards all the higher-class papers. There was onlyone journal, and that of the lowest class, which was incorruptible. 

CHAPTER LXIII

I saw my solicitor at once, but when I tried to write to Theobald, Ifound it better to say I would run down and see him. I thereforeproposed this, asking him to meet me at the station, and hinting that Imust bring bad news about his son. I knew he would not get my lettermore than a couple of hours before I should see him, and thought theshort 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 myjourney to Battersby upon this unhappy errand. When I thought of thelittle sallow-faced lad whom I had remembered years before, of the longand savage cruelty with which he had been treated in childhood--crueltynone the less real for having been due to ignorance and stupidity ratherthan to deliberate malice; of the atmosphere of lying and self-laudatoryhallucination in which he had been brought up; of the readiness the boyhad shown to love anything that would be good enough to let him, and ofhow affection for his parents, unless I am much mistaken, had only diedin him because it had been killed anew, again and again and again, eachtime that it had tried to spring. When I thought of all this I felt asthough, if the matter had rested with me, I would have sentenced Theobaldand Christina to mental suffering even more severe than that which wasabout to fall upon them. But on the other hand, when I thought ofTheobald's own childhood, of that dreadful old George Pontifex hisfather, of John and Mrs John, and of his two sisters, when again Ithought of Christina's long years of hope deferred that maketh the heartsick, before she was married, of the life she must have led atCrampsford, and of the surroundings in the midst of which she and herhusband both lived at Battersby, I felt as though the wonder was thatmisfortunes so persistent had not been followed by even graverretribution. 

Poor people! They had tried to keep their ignorance of the world fromthemselves by calling it the pursuit of heavenly things, and thenshutting their eyes to anything that might give them trouble. A sonhaving been born to them they had shut his eyes also as far as waspracticable. Who could blame them? They had chapter and verse foreverything they had either done or left undone; there is no betterthumbed precedent than that for being a clergyman and a clergyman's wife. In what respect had they differed from their neighbours? How did theirhousehold differ from that of any other clergyman of the better sort fromone 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 had fallen?

Surely it was the tower of Siloam that was naught rather than those whostood under it; it was the system rather than the people that was atfault. If Theobald and his wife had but known more of the world and ofthe 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 wellbe pardoned, and not more than other people would be. As it was, thecase was hopeless; it would be no use their even entering into theirmothers' wombs and being born again. They must not only be born againbut they must be born again each one of them of a new father and of a newmother and of a different line of ancestry for many generations beforetheir minds could become supple enough to learn anew. The only thing todo with them was to humour them and make the best of them till theydied--and be thankful when they did so. 

Theobald got my letter as I had expected, and met me at the stationnearest to Battersby. As I walked back with him towards his own house Ibroke the news to him as gently as I could. I pretended that the wholething was in great measure a mistake, and that though Ernest no doubt hadhad intentions which he ought to have resisted, he had not meant goinganything like the length which Miss Maitland supposed. I said we hadfelt how much appearances were against him, and had not dared to set upthis defence before the magistrate, though we had no doubt about itsbeing the true one. 

Theobald acted with a readier and acuter moral sense than I had given himcredit for. 

"I will have nothing more to do with him, " he exclaimed promptly, "I willnever see his face again; do not let him write either to me or to hismother; we know of no such person. Tell him you have seen me, and thatfrom this day forward I shall put him out of my mind as though he hadnever been born. I have been a good father to him, and his motheridolised him; selfishness and ingratitude have been the only return wehave ever had from him; my hope henceforth must be in my remainingchildren. "

I told him how Ernest's fellow curate had got hold of his money, andhinted that he might very likely be penniless, or nearly so, on leavingprison. Theobald did not seem displeased at this, but added soonafterwards: "If this proves to be the case, tell him from me that I willgive him a hundred pounds if he will tell me through you when he willhave it paid, but tell him not to write and thank me, and say that if heattempts to open up direct communication either with his mother ormyself, he shall not have a penny of the money. "

Knowing what I knew, and having determined on violating Miss Pontifex'sinstructions should the occasion arise, I did not think Ernest would beany the worse for a complete estrangement from his family, so Iacquiesced more readily in what Theobald had proposed than that gentlemanmay have expected. 

Thinking it better that I should not see Christina, I left Theobald nearBattersby and walked back to the station. On my way I was pleased toreflect that Ernest's father was less of a fool than I had taken him tobe, and had the greater hopes, therefore, that his son's blunders mightbe due to postnatal, rather than congenital misfortunes. Accidents whichhappen 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; theywill have moulded his character so that, do what he will, it is hardlypossible for him to escape their consequences. If a man is to enter intothe Kingdom of Heaven, he must do so, not only as a little child, but asa little embryo, or rather as a little zoosperm--and not only this, butas one that has come of zoosperms which have entered into the Kingdom ofHeaven before him for many generations. Accidents which occur for thefirst 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 theymay sometimes be so. At any rate, I was not displeased at the view whichErnest's father took of the situation. 

CHAPTER LXIV

After Ernest had been sentenced, he was taken back to the cells to waitfor the van which should take him to Coldbath Fields, where he was toserve his term. 

He was still too stunned and dazed by the suddenness with which eventshad happened during the last twenty-four hours to be able to realise hisposition. A great chasm had opened between his past and future;nevertheless he breathed, his pulse beat, he could think and speak. Itseemed to him that he ought to be prostrated by the blow that had fallenon him, but he was not prostrated; he had suffered from many smallerlaches far more acutely. It was not until he thought of the pain hisdisgrace would inflict on his father and mother that he felt how readilyhe would have given up all he had, rather than have fallen into hispresent plight. It would break his mother's heart. It must, he knew itwould--and it was he who had done this. 

He had had a headache coming on all the forenoon, but as he thought ofhis father and mother, his pulse quickened, and the pain in his headsuddenly became intense. He could hardly walk to the van, and he foundits motion insupportable. On reaching the prison he was too ill to walkwithout assistance across the hall to the corridor or gallery whereprisoners are marshalled on their arrival. The prison warder, seeing atonce that he was a clergyman, did not suppose he was shamming, as hemight have done in the case of an old gaol-bird; he therefore sent forthe doctor. When this gentleman arrived, Ernest was declared to besuffering from an incipient attack of brain fever, and was taken away tothe infirmary. Here he hovered for the next two months between life anddeath, never in full possession of his reason and often delirious, but atlast, contrary to the expectation of both doctor and nurse, he beganslowly to recover. 

It is said that those who have been nearly drowned, find the return toconsciousness much more painful than the loss of it had been, and so itwas with my hero. As he lay helpless and feeble, it seemed to him arefinement of cruelty that he had not died once for all during hisdelirium. He thought he should still most likely recover only to sink alittle later on from shame and sorrow; nevertheless from day to day hemended, though so slowly that he could hardly realise it to himself. Oneafternoon, however, about three weeks after he had regainedconsciousness, the nurse who tended him, and who had been very kind tohim, made some little rallying sally which amused him; he laughed, and ashe 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 fromthat 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 shouldagain face them. It still seemed to him that the best thing both for himand them would be that he should sever himself from them completely, takewhatever money he could recover from Pryer, and go to some place in theuttermost parts of the earth, where he should never meet anyone who hadknown him at school or college, and start afresh. Or perhaps he might goto the gold fields in California or Australia, of which such wonderfulaccounts were then heard; there he might even make his fortune, andreturn as an old man many years hence, unknown to everyone, and if so, hewould live at Cambridge. As he built these castles in the air, the sparkof life became a flame, and he longed for health, and for the freedomwhich, now that so much of his sentence had expired, was not after allvery far distant. 

Then things began to shape themselves more definitely. Whatever happenedhe would be a clergyman no longer. It would have been practicallyimpossible for him to have found another curacy, even if he had been sominded, but he was not so minded. He hated the life he had been leadingever 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 onthe prospect of becoming a layman again, however disgraced, he rejoicedat what had befallen him, and found a blessing in this very imprisonmentwhich had at first seemed such an unspeakable misfortune. 

Perhaps the shock of so great a change in his surroundings hadaccelerated changes in his opinions, just as the cocoons of silkworms, when sent in baskets by rail, hatch before their time through the noveltyof heat and jolting. But however this may be, his belief in the storiesconcerning the Death, Resurrection and Ascension of Jesus Christ, andhence his faith in all the other Christian miracles, had dropped off himonce and for ever. The investigation he had made in consequence of MrShaw's rebuke, hurried though it was, had left a deep impression uponhim, and now he was well enough to read he made the New Testament hischief study, going through it in the spirit which Mr Shaw had desired ofhim, that is to say as one who wished neither to believe nor disbelieve, but cared only about finding out whether he ought to believe or no. Themore he read in this spirit the more the balance seemed to lie in favourof unbelief, till, in the end, all further doubt became impossible, andhe saw plainly enough that, whatever else might be true, the story thatChrist had died, come to life again, and been carried from earth throughclouds into the heavens could not now be accepted by unbiassed people. Itwas well he had found it out so soon. In one way or another it was sureto meet him sooner or later. He would probably have seen it years ago ifhe 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 hispresent discovery till years later when he was more deeply committed tothe life of a clergyman? Should he have had the courage to face it, orwould he not more probably have evolved some excellent reason forcontinuing to think as he had thought hitherto? Should he have had thecourage to break away even from his present curacy?

He thought not, and knew not whether to be more thankful for having beenshown his error or for having been caught up and twisted round so that hecould hardly err farther, almost at the very moment of his havingdiscovered it. The price he had had to pay for this boon was light ascompared with the boon itself. What is too heavy a price to pay forhaving duty made at once clear and easy of fulfilment instead of verydifficult? He was sorry for his father and mother, and he was sorry forMiss Maitland, but he was no longer sorry for himself. 

It puzzled him, however, that he should not have known how much he hadhated being a clergyman till now. He knew that he did not particularlylike it, but if anyone had asked him whether he actually hated it, hewould have answered no. I suppose people almost always want somethingexternal to themselves, to reveal to them their own likes and dislikes. Our most assured likings have for the most part been arrived at neitherby introspection nor by any process of conscious reasoning, but by thebounding forth of the heart to welcome the gospel proclaimed to it byanother. 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 whosepresence we knew not, flashes into consciousness and perception. 

Only a year ago he had bounded forth to welcome Mr Hawke's sermon; sincethen he had bounded after a College of Spiritual Pathology; now he was infull cry after rationalism pure and simple; how could he be sure that hispresent state of mind would be more lasting than his previous ones? Hecould not be certain, but he felt as though he were now on firmer groundthan he had ever been before, and no matter how fleeting his presentopinions might prove to be, he could not but act according to them tillhe saw reason to change them. How impossible, he reflected, it wouldhave been for him to do this, if he had remained surrounded by peoplelike his father and mother, or Pryer and Pryer's friends, and his rector. He had been observing, reflecting, and assimilating all these months withno more consciousness of mental growth than a school-boy has of growth ofbody, but should he have been able to admit his growth to himself, and toact up to his increased strength if he had remained in constant closeconnection with people who assured him solemnly that he was under ahallucination? The combination against him was greater than his unaidedstrength could have broken through, and he felt doubtful how far anyshock less severe than the one from which he was suffering would havesufficed to free him. 

CHAPTER LXV

As he lay on his bed day after day slowly recovering he woke up to thefact which most men arrive at sooner or later, I mean that very few caretwo straws about truth, or have any confidence that it is righter andbetter to believe what is true than what is untrue, even though belief inthe untruth may seem at first sight most expedient. Yet it is only thesefew who can be said to believe anything at all; the rest are simplyunbelievers in disguise. Perhaps, after all, these last are right. Theyhave numbers and prosperity on their side. They have all which therationalist appeals to as his tests of right and wrong. Right, accordingto him, is what seems right to the majority of sensible, well-to-dopeople; we know of no safer criterion than this, but what does thedecision thus arrived at involve? Simply this, that a conspiracy ofsilence about things whose truth would be immediately apparent todisinterested enquirers is not only tolerable but righteous on the partof 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 onthe part of the early Christians in the miraculous nature of Christ'sResurrection was explicable, without any supposition of miracle. Theexplanation lay under the eyes of anyone who chose to take a moderatedegree of trouble; it had been put before the world again and again, andthere had been no serious attempt to refute it. How was it that DeanAlford for example who had made the New Testament his speciality, couldnot or would not see what was so obvious to Ernest himself? Could it befor any other reason than that he did not want to see it, and if so washe not a traitor to the cause of truth? Yes, but was he not also arespectable and successful man, and were not the vast majority ofrespectable and successful men, such for example, as all the bishops andarchbishops, doing exactly as Dean Alford did, and did not this maketheir action right, no matter though it had been cannibalism orinfanticide, or even habitual untruthfulness of mind?

Monstrous, odious falsehood! Ernest's feeble pulse quickened and hispale face flushed as this hateful view of life presented itself to him inall its logical consistency. It was not the fact of most men being liarsthat shocked him--that was all right enough; but even the momentary doubtwhether the few who were not liars ought not to become liars too. Therewas no hope left if this were so; if this were so, let him die, thesooner the better. "Lord, " he exclaimed inwardly, "I don't believe oneword of it. Strengthen Thou and confirm my disbelief. " It seemed to himthat he could never henceforth see a bishop going to consecration withoutsaying to himself: "There, but for the grace of God, went ErnestPontifex. " It was no doing of his. He could not boast; if he had livedin the time of Christ he might himself have been an early Christian, oreven an Apostle for aught he knew. On the whole he felt that he had muchto be thankful for. 

The conclusion, then, that it might be better to believe error than truthshould be ordered out of court at once, no matter by how clear a logic ithad been arrived at; but what was the alternative? It was this, that ourcriterion of truth--i. E. That truth is what commends itself to the greatmajority of sensible and successful people--is not infallible. The ruleis sound, and covers by far the greater number of cases, but it has itsexceptions. 

He asked himself, what were they? Ah! that was a difficult matter; therewere 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 thatmade it impossible to reduce life to an exact science. There was a roughand ready rule-of-thumb test of truth, and a number of rules as regardsexceptions which could be mastered without much trouble, yet there was aresidue of cases in which decision was difficult--so difficult that a manhad better follow his instinct than attempt to decide them by any processof reasoning. 

Instinct then is the ultimate court of appeal. And what is instinct? Itis a mode of faith in the evidence of things not actually seen. And somy hero returned almost to the point from which he had startedoriginally, namely that the just shall live by faith. 

And this is what the just--that is to say reasonable people--do asregards those daily affairs of life which most concern them. They settlesmaller matters by the exercise of their own deliberation. Moreimportant ones, such as the cure of their own bodies and the bodies ofthose whom they love, the investment of their money, the extrication oftheir affairs from any serious mess--these things they generally entrustto others of whose capacity they know little save from general report;they act therefore on the strength of faith, not of knowledge. So theEnglish nation entrusts the welfare of its fleet and naval defences to aFirst Lord of the Admiralty, who, not being a sailor can know nothingabout these matters except by acts of faith. There can be no doubt aboutfaith and not reason being the _ultima ratio_. 

Even Euclid, who has laid himself as little open to the charge ofcredulity as any writer who ever lived, cannot get beyond this. He hasno demonstrable first premise. He requires postulates and axioms whichtranscend demonstration, and without which he can do nothing. Hissuperstructure indeed is demonstration, but his ground is faith. Noragain can he get further than telling a man he is a fool if he persistsin differing from him. He says "which is absurd, " and declines todiscuss the matter further. Faith and authority, therefore, prove to beas necessary for him as for anyone else. "By faith in what, then, " askedErnest of himself, "shall a just man endeavour to live at this presenttime?" He answered to himself, "At any rate not by faith in thesupernatural element of the Christian religion. "

And how should he best persuade his fellow-countrymen to leave offbelieving in this supernatural element? Looking at the matter from apractical point of view he thought the Archbishop of Canterbury affordedthe most promising key to the situation. It lay between him and thePope. The Pope was perhaps best in theory, but in practice theArchbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well. If he could onlymanage 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 _coupde main_. There must be an amount of cogency which even an Archbishop--anArchbishop whose perceptions had never been quickened by imprisonment forassault--would not be able to withstand. When brought face to face withthe facts, as he, Ernest, could arrange them; his Grace would have noresource but to admit them; being an honourable man he would at onceresign his Archbishopric, and Christianity would become extinct inEngland within a few months' time. This, at any rate, was how thingsought to be. But all the time Ernest had no confidence in theArchbishop'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. Ifthis was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicioususe of bird-lime or a snare, or throw the salt on his tail from anambuscade. 

To do him justice it was not himself that he greatly cared about. Heknew he had been humbugged, and he knew also that the greater part of theills which had afflicted him were due, indirectly, in chief measure tothe influence of Christian teaching; still, if the mischief had endedwith himself, he should have thought little about it, but there was hissister, and his brother Joey, and the hundreds and thousands of youngpeople throughout England whose lives were being blighted through thelies told them by people whose business it was to know better, but whoscamped their work and shirked difficulties instead of facing them. Itwas this which made him think it worth while to be angry, and to considerwhether he could not at least do something towards saving others fromsuch years of waste and misery as he had had to pass himself. If therewas no truth in the miraculous accounts of Christ's Death andResurrection, the whole of the religion founded upon the historic truthof those events tumbled to the ground. "My, " he exclaimed, with all thearrogance of youth, "they put a gipsy or fortune-teller into prison forgetting money out of silly people who think they have supernatural power;why should they not put a clergyman in prison for pretending that he canabsolve sins, or turn bread and wine into the flesh and blood of One whodied two thousand years ago? What, " he asked himself, "could be morepure 'hanky-panky' than that a bishop should lay his hands upon a youngman and pretend to convey to him the spiritual power to work thismiracle? It was all very well to talk about toleration; toleration, likeeverything else, had its limits; besides, if it was to include the bishoplet it include the fortune-teller too. " He would explain all this to theArchbishop of Canterbury by and by, but as he could not get hold of himjust now, it occurred to him that he might experimentalise advantageouslyupon the viler soul of the prison chaplain. It was only those who tookthe first and most obvious step in their power who ever did great thingsin the end, so one day, when Mr Hughes--for this was the chaplain'sname--was talking with him, Ernest introduced the question of Christianevidences, and tried to raise a discussion upon them. Mr Hughes had beenvery kind to him, but he was more than twice my hero's age, and had longtaken the measure of such objections as Ernest tried to put before him. Ido not suppose he believed in the actual objective truth of the storiesabout Christ's Resurrection and Ascension any more than Ernest did, buthe knew that this was a small matter, and that the real issue lay muchdeeper than this. 

Mr Hughes was a man who had been in authority for many years, and hebrushed Ernest on one side as if he had been a fly. He did it so wellthat my hero never ventured to tackle him again, and confined hisconversation with him for the future to such matters as what he hadbetter do when he got out of prison; and here Mr Hughes was ever ready tolisten to him with sympathy and kindness. 

CHAPTER LXVI

Ernest was now so far convalescent as to be able to sit up for thegreater part of the day. He had been three months in prison, and, thoughnot strong enough to leave the infirmary, was beyond all fear of arelapse. He was talking one day with Mr Hughes about his future, andagain expressed his intention of emigrating to Australia or New Zealandwith the money he should recover from Pryer. Whenever he spoke of thishe noticed that Mr Hughes looked grave and was silent: he had thoughtthat perhaps the chaplain wanted him to return to his profession, anddisapproved of his evident anxiety to turn to something else; now, however, he asked Mr Hughes point blank why it was that he disapproved ofhis idea of emigrating. 

Mr Hughes endeavoured to evade him, but Ernest was not to be put off. There was something in the chaplain's manner which suggested that he knewmore than Ernest did, but did not like to say it. This alarmed him somuch that he begged him not to keep him in suspense; after a littlehesitation Mr Hughes, thinking him now strong enough to stand it, brokethe news as gently as he could that the whole of Ernest's money haddisappeared. 

The day after my return from Battersby I called on my solicitor, and wastold that he had written to Pryer, requiring him to refund the monies forwhich he had given his I. O. U. 's. Pryer replied that he had given ordersto his broker to close his operations, which unfortunately had resultedso far in heavy loss, and that the balance should be paid to my solicitoron the following settling day, then about a week distant. When the timecame, we heard nothing from Pryer, and going to his lodgings found thathe had left with his few effects on the very day after he had heard fromus, and had not been seen since. 

I had heard from Ernest the name of the broker who had been employed, andwent at once to see him. He told me Pryer had closed all his accountsfor cash on the day that Ernest had been sentenced, and had received 2315pounds, which was all that remained of Ernest's original 5000 pounds. With this he had decamped, nor had we enough clue as to his whereaboutsto be able to take any steps to recover the money. There was in factnothing to be done but to consider the whole as lost. I may say herethat neither I nor Ernest ever heard of Pryer again, nor have any ideawhat became of him. 

This placed me in a difficult position. I knew, of course, that in a fewyears Ernest would have many times over as much money as he had lost, butI knew also that he did not know this, and feared that the supposed lossof all he had in the world might be more than he could stand when coupledwith his other misfortunes. 

The prison authorities had found Theobald's address from a letter inErnest's pocket, and had communicated with him more than once concerninghis son's illness, but Theobald had not written to me, and I supposed mygodson to be in good health. He would be just twenty-four years old whenhe left prison, and if I followed out his aunt's instructions, would haveto battle with fortune for another four years as well as he could. Thequestion 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--whichthere was nothing to prevent my doing if I thought Miss Pontifex wouldhave wished it--and let him have the same sum that he would haverecovered from Pryer. 

If my godson had been an older man, and more fixed in any definitegroove, this is what I should have done, but he was still very young, andmore than commonly unformed for his age. If, again, I had known of hisillness I should not have dared to lay any heavier burden on his backthan he had to bear already; but not being uneasy about his health, Ithought a few years of roughing it and of experience concerning theimportance of not playing tricks with money would do him no harm. So Idecided 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 sawwhether he was able to swim, or was about to sink. In the first case Iwould let him go on swimming till he was nearly eight-and-twenty, when Iwould prepare him gradually for the good fortune that awaited him; in thesecond I would hurry up to the rescue. So I wrote to say that Pryer hadabsconded, and that he could have 100 pounds from his father when he cameout of prison. I then waited to see what effect these tidings wouldhave, not expecting to receive an answer for three months, for I had beentold on enquiry that no letter could be received by a prisoner till afterhe had been three months in gaol. I also wrote to Theobald and told himof Pryer's disappearance. 

As a matter of fact, when my letter arrived the governor of the gaol readit, and in a case of such importance would have relaxed the rules ifErnest's state had allowed it; his illness prevented this, and thegovernor left it to the chaplain and the doctor to break the news to himwhen they thought him strong enough to bear it, which was now the case. In the meantime I received a formal official document saying that myletter had been received and would be communicated to the prisoner in duecourse; I believe it was simply through a mistake on the part of a clerkthat I was not informed of Ernest's illness, but I heard nothing of ittill I saw him by his own desire a few days after the chaplin had brokento him the substance of what I had written. 

Ernest was terribly shocked when he heard of the loss of his money, buthis ignorance of the world prevented him from seeing the full extent ofthe mischief. He had never been in serious want of money yet, and didnot know what it meant. In reality, money losses are the hardest to bearof any by those who are old enough to comprehend them. 

A man can stand being told that he must submit to a severe surgicaloperation, or that he has some disease which will shortly kill him, orthat he will be a cripple or blind for the rest of his life; dreadful assuch tidings must be, we do not find that they unnerve the greater numberof mankind; most men, indeed, go coolly enough even to be hanged, but thestrongest quail before financial ruin, and the better men they are, themore complete, as a general rule, is their prostration. Suicide is acommon consequence of money losses; it is rarely sought as a means ofescape from bodily suffering. If we feel that we have a competence atour backs, so that we can die warm and quietly in our beds, with no needto worry about expense, we live our lives out to the dregs, no matter howexcruciating our torments. Job probably felt the loss of his flocks andherds more than that of his wife and family, for he could enjoy hisflocks and herds without his family, but not his family--not for long--ifhe had lost all his money. Loss of money indeed is not only the worstpain in itself, but it is the parent of all others. Let a man have beenbrought up to a moderate competence, and have no specially; then let hismoney be suddenly taken from him, and how long is his health likely tosurvive the change in all his little ways which loss of money willentail? How long again is the esteem and sympathy of friends likely tosurvive ruin? People may be very sorry for us, but their attitudetowards us hitherto has been based upon the supposition that we weresituated thus or thus in money matters; when this breaks down there mustbe a restatement of the social problem so far as we are concerned; wehave been obtaining esteem under false pretences. Granted, then, thatthe three most serious losses which a man can suffer are those affectingmoney, health and reputation. Loss of money is far the worst, then comesill-health, and then loss of reputation; loss of reputation is a badthird, for, if a man keeps health and money unimpaired, it will begenerally found that his loss of reputation is due to breaches of parvenuconventions only, and not to violations of those older, betterestablished canons whose authority is unquestionable. In this case a manmay grow a new reputation as easily as a lobster grows a new claw, or, ifhe have health and money, may thrive in great peace of mind without anyreputation at all. The only chance for a man who has lost his money isthat he shall still be young enough to stand uprooting and transplantingwithout more than temporary derangement, and this I believed my godsonstill to be. 

By the prison rules he might receive and send a letter after he had beenin 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 sofeeble, that the exertion of coming from the infirmary to the cell inwhich I was allowed to see him, and the agitation of seeing me were toomuch for him. At first he quite broke down, and I was so pained at thestate in which I found him, that I was on the point of breaking myinstructions 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 cometo me for what money might be necessary, if he could not get it from hisfather. To make it easier for him I told him that his aunt, on her death-bed, had desired me to do something of this sort should an emergencyarise, so that he would only be taking what his aunt had left him. 

"Then, " said he, "I will not take the 100 pounds from my father, and Iwill never see him or my mother again. "

I said: "Take the 100 pounds, 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 cutthem, and he wanted to cut them. I thought my godson would get on agreat deal better if he would only have the firmness to do as heproposed, as regards breaking completely with his father and mother, andsaid 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 notgoing to have this, so I made a face when I saw him hesitating, whichdrove him into "middle-aged. "

"If you like it, " said I, "I will say all your family are horrid exceptyourself and your aunt Alethea. The greater part of every family isalways 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 almostanything. 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 interviewwas at an end. 

CHAPTER LXVII

As soon as Ernest found that he had no money to look to upon leavingprison he saw that his dreams about emigrating and farming must come toan end, for he knew that he was incapable of working at the plough orwith the axe for long together himself. And now it seemed he should haveno money to pay any one else for doing so. It was this that resolved himto part once and for all with his parents. If he had been going abroadhe could have kept up relations with them, for they would have been toofar off to interfere with him. 

He knew his father and mother would object to being cut; they would wishto appear kind and forgiving; they would also dislike having no furtherpower to plague him; but he knew also very well that so long as he andthey ran in harness together they would be always pulling one way and heanother. He wanted to drop the gentleman and go down into the ranks, beginning on the lowest rung of the ladder, where no one would know ofhis disgrace or mind it if he did know; his father and mother on theother hand would wish him to clutch on to the fag-end of gentility at astarvation salary and with no prospect of advancement. Ernest had seenenough in Ashpit Place to know that a tailor, if he did not drink andattended 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 tailoralso had more liberty, and a better chance of rising. Ernest resolved atonce, as he had fallen so far, to fall still lower--promptly, gracefullyand with the idea of rising again, rather than cling to the skirts of arespectability which would permit him to exist on sufferance only, andmake him pay an utterly extortionate price for an article which he coulddo better without. 

He arrived at this result more quickly than he might otherwise have donethrough remembering something he had once heard his aunt say about"kissing the soil. " This had impressed him and stuck by him perhaps byreason of its brevity; when later on he came to know the story ofHercules and Antaeus, he found it one of the very few ancient fableswhich had a hold over him--his chiefest debt to classical literature. Hisaunt had wanted him to learn carpentering, as a means of kissing the soilshould his Hercules ever throw him. It was too late for this now--or hethought it was--but the mode of carrying out his aunt's idea was adetail; there were a hundred ways of kissing the soil besides becoming acarpenter. 

He had told me this during our interview, and I had encouraged him to theutmost of my power. He showed so much more good sense than I had givenhim credit for that I became comparatively easy about him, and determinedto let him play his own game, being always, however, ready to hand incase things went too far wrong. It was not simply because he dislikedhis father and mother that he wanted to have no more to do with them; ifit had been only this he would have put up with them; but a warning voicewithin told him distinctly enough that if he was clean cut away from themhe might still have a chance of success, whereas if they had anythingwhatever to do with him, or even knew where he was, they would hamper himand in the end ruin him. Absolute independence he believed to be hisonly chance of very life itself. 

Over and above this--if this were not enough--Ernest had a faith in hisown destiny such as most young men, I suppose, feel, but the grounds ofwhich were not apparent to any one but himself. Rightly or wrongly, in aquiet way he believed he possessed a strength which, if he were only freeto use it in his own way, might do great things some day. He did notknow when, nor where, nor how his opportunity was to come, but he neverdoubted that it would come in spite of all that had happened, and aboveall else he cherished the hope that he might know how to seize it if itcame, for whatever it was it would be something that no one else could doso well as he could. People said there were no dragons and giants foradventurous men to fight with nowadays; it was beginning to dawn upon himthat there were just as many now as at any past time. 

Monstrous as such a faith may seem in one who was qualifying himself fora high mission by a term of imprisonment, he could no more help it thanhe could help breathing; it was innate in him, and it was even more witha view to this than for other reasons that he wished to sever theconnection between himself and his parents; for he knew that if ever theday came in which it should appear that before him too there was a raceset in which it might be an honour to have run among the foremost, hisfather and mother would be the first to let him and hinder him in runningit. 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 theirword, and then afterwards upbraid him for not having won. Achievement ofany kind would be impossible for him unless he was free from those whowould be for ever dragging him back into the conventional. Theconventional had been tried already and had been found wanting. 

He had an opportunity now, if he chose to take it, of escaping once forall from those who at once tormented him and would hold him earthwardshould a chance of soaring open before him. He should never have had itbut for his imprisonment; but for this the force of habit and routinewould have been too strong for him; he should hardly have had it if hehad not lost all his money; the gap would not have been so wide but thathe 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, whichhad made it more easy for him to follow his truest and most lastinginterests. 

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 howperhaps she might even fall ill and die, and how the blame would restwith him. At these times his resolution was near breaking, but when hefound I applauded his design, the voice within, which bade him see hisfather's and mother's faces no more, grew louder and more persistent. Ifhe 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; whatwas the prospect of a hundred pounds from his father in comparison withjeopardy to this? He still felt deeply the pain his disgrace hadinflicted upon his father and mother, but he was getting stronger, andreflected that as he had run his chance with them for parents, so theymust run theirs with him for a son. 

He had nearly settled down to this conclusion when he received a letterfrom his father which made his decision final. If the prison rules hadbeen interpreted strictly, he would not have been allowed to have thisletter for another three months, as he had already heard from me, but thegovernor took a lenient view, and considered the letter from me to be abusiness communication hardly coming under the category of a letter fromfriends. Theobald's letter therefore was given to his son. It ran asfollows:--

 "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 to 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 the 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 to 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 here at present--but somewhere else, 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 pounds 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 writing. 

 "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 donebefore his imprisonment began. His father and mother thought they couldtake him up as they had left him off. They forgot the rapidity withwhich development follows misfortune, if the sufferer is young and of asound temperament. Ernest made no reply to his father's letter, but hisdesire for a total break developed into something like a passion. "Thereare orphanages, " he exclaimed to himself, "for children who have losttheir parents--oh! why, why, why, are there no harbours of refuge forgrown men who have not yet lost them?" And he brooded over the bliss ofMelchisedek who had been born an orphan, without father, without mother, and without descent. 

CHAPTER LXVIII

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 hewas wanting to do the very last thing which it would have entered intohis head to think of wanting. I mean that he was trying to give upfather and mother for Christ's sake. He would have said he was givingthem up because he thought they hindered him in the pursuit of his truestand most lasting happiness. Granted, but what is this if it is notChrist? What is Christ if He is not this? He who takes the highest andmost self-respecting view of his own welfare which it is in his power toconceive, and adheres to it in spite of conventionality, is a Christianwhether he knows it and calls himself one, or whether he does not. Arose 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 wouldbe to most men? That was his luck, as much as it is other people's luckto have other duties made easy for them by accident of birth. Surely ifpeople 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 betterconstitution than another; others again will say that luck is the onlyrighteous object of human veneration. Both, I daresay, can make out avery good case, but whichever may be right surely Ernest had as muchright to the good luck of finding a duty made easier as he had had to thebad fortune of falling into the scrape which had got him into prison. Aman is not to be sneered at for having a trump card in his hand; he isonly to be sneered at if he plays his trump card badly. 

Indeed, I question whether it is ever much harder for anyone to give upfather and mother for Christ's sake than it was for Ernest. Therelations between the parties will have almost always been severelystrained before it comes to this. I doubt whether anyone was ever yetrequired to give up those to whom he was tenderly attached for a merematter of conscience: he will have ceased to be tenderly attached to themlong before he is called upon to break with them; for differences ofopinion concerning any matter of vital importance spring from differencesof constitution, and these will already have led to so much otherdisagreement that the "giving up" when it comes, is like giving up anaching but very loose and hollow tooth. It is the loss of those whom weare not required to give up for Christ's sake which is really painful tous. Then there is a wrench in earnest. Happily, no matter how light thetask that is demanded from us, it is enough if we do it; we reap ourreward, much as though it were a Herculean labour. 

But to return, the conclusion Ernest came to was that he would be atailor. He talked the matter over with the chaplain, who told him therewas no reason why he should not be able to earn his six or sevenshillings a day by the time he came out of prison, if he chose to learnthe trade during the remainder of his term--not quite three months; thedoctor said he was strong enough for this, and that it was about the onlything he was as yet fit for; so he left the infirmary sooner than hewould otherwise have done and entered the tailor's shop, overjoyed at thethoughts of seeing his way again, and confident of rising some day if hecould only get a firm foothold to start from. 

Everyone whom he had to do with saw that he did not belong to what arecalled the criminal classes, and finding him eager to learn and to savetrouble always treated him kindly and almost respectfully. He did notfind the work irksome: it was far more pleasant than making Latin andGreek verses at Roughborough; he felt that he would rather be here inprison than at Roughborough again--yes, or even at Cambridge itself. Theonly trouble he was ever in danger of getting into was through exchangingwords or looks with the more decent-looking of his fellow-prisoners. Thiswas forbidden, but he never missed a chance of breaking the rules in thisrespect. 

Any man of his ability who was at the same time anxious to learn would ofcourse make rapid progress, and before he left prison the warder said hewas as good a tailor with his three months' apprenticeship as many a manwas with twelve. Ernest had never before been so much praised by any ofhis teachers. Each day as he grew stronger in health and more accustomedto his surroundings he saw some fresh advantage in his position, anadvantage which he had not aimed at, but which had come almost in spiteof himself, and he marvelled at his own good fortune, which had orderedthings so greatly better for him than he could have ordered them forhimself. 

His having lived six months in Ashpit Place was a case in point. Thingswere possible to him which to others like him would be impossible. Ifsuch a man as Towneley were told he must live henceforth in a house likethose in Ashpit Place it would be more than he could stand. Ernest couldnot have stood it himself if he had gone to live there of compulsionthrough want of money. It was only because he had felt himself able torun away at any minute that he had not wanted to do so; now, however, that he had become familiar with life in Ashpit Place he no longer mindedit, and could live gladly in lower parts of London than that so long ashe could pay his way. It was from no prudence or forethought that he hadserved this apprenticeship to life among the poor. He had been trying ina feeble way to be thorough in his work: he had not been thorough, thewhole thing had been a _fiasco_; but he had made a little puny effort inthe direction of being genuine, and behold, in his hour of need it hadbeen returned to him with a reward far richer than he had deserved. Hecould not have faced becoming one of the very poor unless he had had sucha bridge to conduct him over to them as he had found unwittingly inAshpit Place. True, there had been drawbacks in the particular house hehad chosen, but he need not live in a house where there was a Mr Holt andhe should no longer be tied to the profession which he so much hated; ifthere were neither screams nor scripture readings he could be happy in agarret at three shillings a week, such as Miss Maitland lived in. 

As he thought further he remembered that all things work together forgood to them that love God; was it possible, he asked himself, that hetoo, however imperfectly, had been trying to love him? He dared notanswer Yes, but he would try hard that it should be so. Then there cameinto his mind that noble air of Handel's: "Great God, who yet but darklyknown, " and he felt it as he had never felt it before. He had lost hisfaith in Christianity, but his faith in something--he knew not what, butthat there was a something as yet but darkly known which made right rightand 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 inhim, and of how and where it was to find its vent. The same instinctwhich had led him to live among the poor because it was the nearest thingto him which he could lay hold of with any clearness came to hisassistance here too. He thought of the Australian gold and how those wholived among it had never seen it though it abounded all around them:"There is gold everywhere, " he exclaimed inwardly, "to those who look forit. " Might not his opportunity be close upon him if he looked carefullyenough at his immediate surroundings? What was his position? He hadlost 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 StPaul, that it was perfected in weakness?

He had nothing more to lose; money, friends, character, all were gone fora very long time if not for ever; but there was something else also thathad taken its flight along with these. I mean the fear of that which mancould do unto him. _Cantabil vacuus_. Who could hurt him more than hehad been hurt already? Let him but be able to earn his bread, and heknew of nothing which he dared not venture if it would make the world ahappier place for those who were young and loveable. Herein he found somuch comfort that he almost wished he had lost his reputation even morecompletely--for he saw that it was like a man's life which may be foundof them that lose it and lost of them that would find it. He should nothave had the courage to give up all for Christ's sake, but now Christ hadmercifully taken all, and lo! it seemed as though all were found. 

As the days went slowly by he came to see that Christianity and thedenial of Christianity after all met as much as any other extremes do; itwas a fight about names--not about things; practically the Church ofRome, the Church of England, and the freethinker have the same idealstandard and meet in the gentleman; for he is the most perfect saint whois the most perfect gentleman. Then he saw also that it matters littlewhat profession, whether of religion or irreligion, a man may make, provided only he follows it out with charitable inconsistency, andwithout insisting on it to the bitter end. It is in theuncompromisingness with which dogma is held and not in the dogma or wantof dogma that the danger lies. This was the crowning point of theedifice; when he had got here he no longer wished to molest even thePope. The Archbishop of Canterbury might have hopped about all round himand even picked crumbs out of his hand without running risk of getting asly sprinkle of salt. That wary prelate himself might perhaps have beenof a different opinion, but the robins and thrushes that hop about ourlawns are not more needlessly distrustful of the hand that throws themout crumbs of bread in winter, than the Archbishop would have been of myhero. 

Perhaps he was helped to arrive at the foregoing conclusion by an eventwhich almost thrust inconsistency upon him. A few days after he had leftthe infirmary the chaplain came to his cell and told him that theprisoner who played the organ in chapel had just finished his sentenceand was leaving the prison; he therefore offered the post to Ernest, whohe already knew played the organ. Ernest was at first in doubt whetherit would be right for him to assist at religious services more than hewas actually compelled to do, but the pleasure of playing the organ, andthe privileges which the post involved, made him see excellent reasonsfor not riding consistency to death. Having, then, once introduced anelement of inconsistency into his system, he was far too consistent notto be inconsistent consistently, and he lapsed ere long into an amiableindifferentism which to outward appearance differed but little from theindifferentism from which Mr Hawke had aroused him. 

By becoming organist he was saved from the treadmill, for which thedoctor had said he was unfit as yet, but which he would probably havebeen put to in due course as soon as he was stronger. He might haveescaped the tailor's shop altogether and done only the comparativelylight work of attending to the chaplain's rooms if he had liked, but hewanted to learn as much tailoring as he could, and did not therefore takeadvantage of this offer; he was allowed, however, two hours a day in theafternoon for practice. From that moment his prison life ceased to bemonotonous, and the remaining two months of his sentence slipped byalmost as rapidly as they would have done if he had been free. What withmusic, books, learning his trade, and conversation with the chaplain, whowas just the kindly, sensible person that Ernest wanted in order tosteady him a little, the days went by so pleasantly that when the timecame for him to leave prison, he did so, or thought he did so, notwithout regret. 

CHAPTER LXIX

In coming to the conclusion that he would sever the connection betweenhimself and his family once for all Ernest had reckoned without hisfamily. Theobald wanted to be rid of his son, it is true, in so far ashe wished him to be no nearer at any rate than the Antipodes; but he hadno idea of entirely breaking with him. He knew his son well enough tohave 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 tokeep up the connection, provided it did not involve Ernest's coming toBattersby nor any recurring outlay. 

When the time approached for him to leave prison, his father and motherconsulted as to what course they should adopt. 

"We must never leave him to himself, " said Theobald impressively; "we canneither of us wish that. "

"Oh, no! no! dearest Theobald, " exclaimed Christina. "Whoever elsedeserts him, and however distant he may be from us, he must still feelthat he has parents whose hearts beat with affection for him no matterhow cruelly he has pained them. "

"He has been his own worst enemy, " said Theobald. "He has never loved usas we deserved, and now he will be withheld by false shame from wishingto see us. He will avoid us if he can. "

"Then we must go to him ourselves, " said Christina, "whether he likes itor not we must be at his side to support him as he enters again upon theworld. "

"If we do not want him to give us the slip we must catch him as he leavesprison. "

"We will, we will; our faces shall be the first to gladden his eyes as hecomes out, and our voices the first to exhort him to return to the pathsof virtue. "

"I think, " said Theobald, "if he sees us in the street he will turn roundand run away from us. He is intensely selfish. "

"Then we must get leave to go inside the prison, and see him before hegets outside. "

After a good deal of discussion this was the plan they decided onadopting, and having so decided, Theobald wrote to the governor of thegaol asking whether he could be admitted inside the gaol to receiveErnest when his sentence had expired. He received answer in theaffirmative, and the pair left Battersby the day before Ernest was tocome out of prison. 

Ernest had not reckoned on this, and was rather surprised on being told afew minutes before nine that he was to go into the receiving room beforehe left the prison as there were visitors waiting to see him. His heartfell, for he guessed who they were, but he screwed up his courage andhastened to the receiving room. There, sure enough, standing at the endof the table nearest the door were the two people whom he regarded as themost dangerous enemies 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 himin her arms. "Oh, my boy, my boy, " she sobbed, and she could say nomore. 

Ernest was as white as a sheet. His heart beat so that he could hardlybreathe. He let his mother embrace him, and then withdrawing himselfstood 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 sideswas 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 amfree to leave the prison if I wish to do so. You cannot compel me toremain here longer. Please take me to the gates. "

Theobald stepped forward. "Ernest, you must not, shall not, leave us inthis way. "

"Do not speak to me, " said Ernest, his eyes flashing with a fire that wasunwonted 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 onedead, for I am dead to them. Say that my greatest pain is the thought ofthe disgrace I have inflicted upon them, and that above all things else Iwill study to avoid paining them hereafter; but say also that if theywrite to me I will return their letters unopened, and that if they comeand 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 atliberty. After he had got a few steps out he turned his face to theprison wall, leant against it for support, and wept as though his heartwould break. 

Giving up father and mother for Christ's sake was not such an easy matterafter all. If a man has been possessed by devils for long enough theywill rend him as they leave him, however imperatively they may have beencast out. Ernest did not stay long where he was, for he feared eachmoment that his father and mother would come out. He pulled himselftogether and turned into the labyrinth of small streets which opened outin 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 otherside. Already he thought of much which he would gladly have said, andblamed his want of presence of mind; but, after all, it mattered verylittle. Inclined though he was to make very great allowances for hisfather and mother, he was indignant at their having thrust themselvesupon him without warning at a moment when the excitement of leavingprison was already as much as he was fit for. It was a mean advantage tohave taken over him, but he was glad they had taken it, for it made himrealise more fully than ever that his one chance lay in separatinghimself completely from them. 

The morning was grey, and the first signs of winter fog were beginning toshow themselves, for it was now the 30th of September. Ernest wore theclothes in which he had entered prison, and was therefore dressed as aclergyman. No one who looked at him would have seen any differencebetween his present appearance and his appearance six months previously;indeed, as he walked slowly through the dingy crowded lane called EyreStreet Hill (which he well knew, for he had clerical friends in thatneighbourhood), the months he had passed in prison seemed to drop out ofhis life, and so powerfully did association carry him away that, findinghimself in his old dress and in his old surroundings, he felt draggedback into his old self--as though his six months of prison life had beena dream from which he was now waking to take things up as he had leftthem. This was the effect of unchanged surroundings upon the unchangedpart of him. But there was a changed part, and the effect of unchangedsurroundings upon this was to make everything seem almost as strange asthough he had never had any life but his prison one, and was now borninto a new world. 

All our lives long, every day and every hour, we are engaged in theprocess of accommodating our changed and unchanged selves to changed andunchanged surroundings; living, in fact, in nothing else than thisprocess of accommodation; when we fail in it a little we are stupid, whenwe fail flagrantly we are mad, when we suspend it temporarily we sleep, when we give up the attempt altogether we die. In quiet, uneventfullives the changes internal and external are so small that there is littleor no strain in the process of fusion and accommodation; in other livesthere is great strain, but there is also great fusing and accommodatingpower; in others great strain with little accommodating power. A lifewill be successful or not according as the power of accommodation isequal to or unequal to the strain of fusing and adjusting internal andexternal changes. 

The trouble is that in the end we shall be driven to admit the unity ofthe universe so completely as to be compelled to deny that there iseither an external or an internal, but must see everything both asexternal and internal at one and the same time, subject andobject--external and internal--being unified as much as everything else. This will knock our whole system over, but then every system has got tobe knocked over by something. 

Much the best way out of this difficulty is to go in for separationbetween internal and external--subject and object--when we find thisconvenient, and unity between the same when we find unity convenient. This is illogical, but extremes are alone logical, and they are alwaysabsurd, the mean is alone practicable and it is always illogical. It isfaith and not logic which is the supreme arbiter. They say all roadslead to Rome, and all philosophies that I have ever seen lead ultimatelyeither to some gross absurdity, or else to the conclusion already morethan once insisted on in these pages, that the just shall live by faith, that is to say that sensible people will get through life by rule ofthumb as they may interpret it most conveniently without asking too manyquestions for conscience sake. Take any fact, and reason upon it to thebitter end, and it will ere long lead to this as the only refuge fromsome palpable folly. 

But to return to my story. When Ernest got to the top of the street andlooked back, he saw the grimy, sullen walls of his prison filling up theend 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 barredby others which are none the less real--poverty and ignorance of theworld. It was no part of my business to try to break the material boltsof iron and escape from prison, but now that I am free I must surely seekto break these others. "

He had read somewhere of a prisoner who had made his escape by cutting uphis bedstead with an iron spoon. He admired and marvelled at the man'smind, but could not even try to imitate him; in the presence ofimmaterial barriers, however, he was not so easily daunted, and felt asthough, even if the bed were iron and the spoon a wooden one, he couldfind some means of making the wood cut the iron sooner or later. 

He turned his back upon Eyre Street Hill and walked down Leather Laneinto 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 hisimprisonment, and at the same time to make him feel how completely thatimprisonment had cut his life into two parts, the one of which could bearno resemblance to the other. 

He passed down Fetter Lane into Fleet Street and so to the Temple, towhich I had just returned from my summer holiday. It was about half pastnine, and I was having my breakfast, when I heard a timid knock at thedoor and opened it to find Ernest. 

CHAPTER LXX

I had begun to like him on the night Towneley had sent for me, and on thefollowing day I thought he had shaped well. I had liked him also duringour interview in prison, and wanted to see more of him, so that I mightmake up my mind about him. I had lived long enough to know that some menwho 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 makeup his mind what he would do. 

Being so much older than he was, I anticipated no trouble in getting myown way, but he would not hear of it. The utmost he would assent to wasthat he should be my guest till he could find a room for himself, whichhe would set about doing at once. 

He was still much agitated, but grew better as he ate a breakfast, not ofprison fare and in a comfortable room. It pleased me to see the delighthe took in all about him; the fireplace with a fire in it; the easychairs, the _Times_, my cat, the red geraniums in the window, to saynothing of coffee, bread and butter, sausages, marmalade, etc. Everythingwas pregnant with the most exquisite pleasure to him. The plane treeswere full of leaf still; he kept rising from the breakfast table toadmire them; never till now, he said, had he known what the enjoyment ofthese 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 wasabout to leave prison. I was furious, and applauded him heartily forwhat he had done. He was very grateful to me for this. Other people, hesaid, would tell him he ought to think of his father and mother ratherthan of himself, and it was such a comfort to find someone who saw thingsas he saw them himself. Even if I had differed from him I should nothave said so, but I was of his opinion, and was almost as much obliged tohim for seeing things as I saw them, as he to me for doing the same kindoffice by himself. Cordially as I disliked Theobald and Christina, I wasin such a hopeless minority in the opinion I had formed concerning themthat 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? Perhapsit 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 andChristina. I could not refuse to let them in and was obliged to listento 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 wheretheir son was, I dismissed them both. I saw they looked suspiciouslyupon the manifest signs that someone was breakfasting with me, and partedfrom me more or less defiantly, but I got rid of them, and poor Ernestcame out again, looking white, frightened and upset. He had heardvoices, but no more, and did not feel sure that the enemy might not begaining over me. We sported the oak now, and before long he began torecover. 

After breakfast, we discussed the situation. I had taken away hiswardrobe and books from Mrs Jupp's, but had left his furniture, picturesand piano, giving Mrs Jupp the use of these, so that she might let herroom furnished, in lieu of charge for taking care of the furniture. Assoon as Ernest heard that his wardrobe was at hand, he got out a suit ofclothes he had had before he had been ordained, and put it on at once, much, as I thought, to the improvement of his personal appearance. 

Then we went into the subject of his finances. He had had ten poundsfrom Pryer only a day or two before he was apprehended, of which betweenseven and eight were in his purse when he entered the prison. This moneywas restored to him on leaving. He had always paid cash for whatever hebought, so that there was nothing to be deducted for debts. Besidesthis, he had his clothes, books and furniture. He could, as I have said, have had 100 pounds from his father if he had chosen to emigrate, butthis both Ernest and I (for he brought me round to his opinion) agreed itwould 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 asquiet 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 matteredwhat he began with, for I felt pretty sure he would ere long find his wayto something that suited him, if he could get a start with anything atall. The difficulty was how to get him started. It was not enough thathe should be able to cut out and make clothes--that he should have theorgans, so to speak, of a tailor; he must be put into a tailor's shop andguided 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 tothe Olympic, where Robson was then acting in a burlesque on Macbeth, MrsKeeley, if I remember rightly, taking the part of Lady Macbeth. In thescene before the murder, Macbeth had said he could not kill Duncan whenhe saw his boots upon the landing. Lady Macbeth put a stop to herhusband's hesitation by whipping him up under her arm, and carrying himoff the stage, kicking and screaming. Ernest laughed till he cried. "What rot Shakespeare is after this, " he exclaimed, involuntarily. Iremembered his essay on the Greek tragedians, and was more I _epris_ withhim than ever. 

Next day he set about looking for employment, and I did not see him tillabout five o'clock, when he came and said that he had had no success. Thesame thing happened the next day and the day after that. Wherever hewent he was invariably refused and often ordered point blank out of theshop; I could see by the expression of his face, though he said nothing, that he was getting frightened, and began to think I should have to cometo the rescue. He said he had made a great many enquiries and had alwaysbeen told the same story. He found that it was easy to keep on in an oldline, but very hard to strike out into a new one. 

He talked to the fishmonger in Leather Lane, where he went to buy abloater for his tea, casually as though from curiosity and without anyinterested motive. "Sell, " said the master of the shop, "Why nobodywouldn't believe what can be sold by penn'orths and twopenn'orths if yougo the right way to work. Look at whelks, for instance. Last Saturdaynight me and my little Emma here, we sold 7 pounds worth of whelksbetween eight and half past eleven o'clock--and almost all in penn'orthsand twopenn'orths--a few, hap'orths, but not many. It was the steam thatdid it. We kept a-boiling of 'em hot and hot, and whenever the steamcame strong up from the cellar on to the pavement, the people bought, butwhenever the steam went down they left off buying; so we boiled them overand over again till they was all sold. That's just where it is; if youknow your business you can sell, if you don't you'll soon make a mess ofit. Why, but for the steam, I should not have sold 10s. Worth of whelksall the night through. "

This, and many another yarn of kindred substance which he heard fromother people determined Ernest more than ever to stake on tailoring asthe one trade about which he knew anything at all, nevertheless, herewere 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 onmy own tailor whom I had dealt with for over a quarter of a century andasked his advice. He declared Ernest's plan to be hopeless. "If, " saidMr Larkins, for this was my tailor's name, "he had begun at fourteen, itmight have done, but no man of twenty-four could stand being turned towork 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, wellmet' with them, and you could not expect his fellow-workmen to like himif he was not. A man must have sunk low through drink or natural tastefor low company, before he could get on with those who have had such adifferent training from his own. "

Mr Larkins said a great deal more and wound up by taking me to see theplace where his own men worked. "This is a paradise, " he said, "comparedto most workshops. What gentleman could stand this air, think you, for afortnight?"

I was glad enough to get out of the hot, fetid atmosphere in fiveminutes, and saw that there was no brick of Ernest's prison to beloosened by going and working among tailors in a workshop. 

Mr Larkins wound up by saying that even if my _protege_ were a muchbetter 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 wasmore than ever perplexed as to whether I had not better let my youngfriend 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 LXXI

It seems he had been patrolling the streets for the last three or fournights--I suppose in search of something to do--at any rate knowingbetter what he wanted to get than how to get it. Nevertheless, what hewanted was in reality so easily to be found that it took a highlyeducated scholar like himself to be unable to find it. But, however thismay be, he had been scared, and now saw lions where there were none, andwas shocked and frightened, and night after night his courage had failedhim and he had returned to his lodgings in Laystall Street withoutaccomplishing his errand. He had not taken me into his confidence uponthis matter, and I had not enquired what he did with himself in theevenings. At last he had concluded that, however painful it might be tohim, he would call on Mrs Jupp, who he thought would be able to help himif anyone could. He had been walking moodily from seven till about nine, and now resolved to go straight to Ashpit Place and make a motherconfessor of Mrs Jupp without more delay. 

Of all tasks that could be performed by mortal woman there was none whichMrs Jupp would have liked better than the one Ernest was thinking ofimposing upon her; nor do I know that in his scared and broken-down statehe could have done much better than he now proposed. Miss Jupp wouldhave made it very easy for him to open his grief to her; indeed, shewould have coaxed it all out of him before he knew where he was; but thefates were against Mrs Jupp, and the meeting between my hero and hisformer landlady was postponed _sine die_, for his determination hadhardly been formed and he had not gone more than a hundred yards in thedirection of Mrs Jupp's house, when a woman accosted him. 

He was turning from her, as he had turned from so many others, when shestarted back with a movement that aroused his curiosity. He had hardlyseen her face, but being determined to catch sight of it, followed her asshe hurried away, and passed her; then turning round he saw that she wasnone other than Ellen, the housemaid who had been dismissed by his mothereight years previously. 

He ought to have assigned Ellen's unwillingness to see him to its truecause, but a guilty conscience made him think she had heard of hisdisgrace and was turning away from him in contempt. Brave as had beenhis resolutions about facing the world, this was more than he wasprepared for; "What! you too shun me, Ellen?" he exclaimed. 

The girl was crying bitterly and did not understand him. "Oh, MasterErnest, " she sobbed, "let me go; you are too good for the likes of me tospeak to now. "

"Why, Ellen, " said he, "what nonsense you talk; you haven't been inprison, have you?"

"Oh, no, no, no, not so bad as that, " she exclaimed passionately. 

"Well, I have, " said Ernest, with a forced laugh, "I came out three orfour days ago after six months with hard labour. "

Ellen did not believe him, but she looked at him with a "Lor'! MasterErnest, " 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, andthough she did not believe Ernest, his merely saying he had been inprison made her feel more at ease with him. For her there were twoclasses of people, those who had been in prison and those who had not. The first she looked upon as fellow-creatures and more or lessChristians, 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 houror so, "There's a place over the way where they sell tripe and onions. Iknow you was always very fond of tripe and onions, let's go over and havesome, and we can talk better there. "

So the pair crossed the street and entered the tripe shop; Ernest orderedsupper. 

"And how is your pore dear mamma, and your dear papa, Master Ernest, "said Ellen, who had now recovered herself and was quite at home with myhero. "Oh, dear, dear me, " she said, "I did love your pa; he was a goodgentleman, he was, and your ma too; it would do anyone good to live withher, I'm sure. "

Ernest was surprised and hardly knew what to say. He had expected tofind Ellen indignant at the way she had been treated, and inclined to laythe blame of her having fallen to her present state at his father's andmother's door. It was not so. Her only recollection of Battersby was asof a place where she had had plenty to eat and drink, not too much hardwork, and where she had not been scolded. When she heard that Ernest hadquarrelled with his father and mother she assumed as a matter of coursethat the fault must lie entirely with Ernest. 

"Oh, your pore, pore ma!" said Ellen. "She was always so very fond ofyou, Master Ernest: you was always her favourite; I can't abear to thinkof anything between you and her. To think now of the way she used tohave me into the dining-room and teach me my catechism, that she did! Oh, Master Ernest, you really must go and make it all up with her; indeed youmust. "

Ernest felt rueful, but he had resisted so valiantly already that thedevil might have saved himself the trouble of trying to get at himthrough Ellen in the matter of his father and mother. He changed thesubject, and the pair warmed to one another as they had their tripe andpots of beer. Of all people in the world Ellen was perhaps the one towhom Ernest could have spoken most freely at this juncture. He told herwhat he thought he could have told to no one else. 

"You know, Ellen, " he concluded, "I had learnt as a boy things that Iought not to have learnt, and had never had a chance of that which wouldhave 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 Idon't see why I should be 'like that' any longer, my dear. I want you tohelp 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 Lanetogether. 

Ellen had had hard times since she had left Battersby, but they had leftlittle trace upon her. 

Ernest saw only the fresh-looking smiling face, the dimpled cheek, theclear blue eyes and lovely sphinx-like lips which he had remembered as aboy. At nineteen she had looked older than she was, now she looked muchyounger; indeed she looked hardly older than when Ernest had last seenher, and it would have taken a man of much greater experience than hepossessed to suspect how completely she had fallen from her first estate. It never occurred to him that the poor condition of her wardrobe was dueto her passion for ardent spirits, and that first and last she had servedfive or six times as much time in gaol as he had. He ascribed thepoverty of her attire to the attempts to keep herself respectable, whichEllen during supper had more than once alluded to. He had been charmedwith the way in which she had declared that a pint of beer would make hertipsy, and had only allowed herself to be forced into drinking the wholeafter a good deal of remonstrance. To him she appeared a very angeldropped from the sky, and all the more easy to get on with for being afallen one. 

As he walked up Fetter Lane with her towards Laystall Street, he thoughtof the wonderful goodness of God towards him in throwing in his way thevery person of all others whom he was most glad to see, and whom, of allothers, in spite of her living so near him, he might have never fallen inwith but for a happy accident. 

When people get it into their heads that they are being speciallyfavoured by the Almighty, they had better as a general rule mind theirp's and q's, and when they think they see the devil's drift with morespecial clearness, let them remember that he has had much more experiencethan they have, and is probably meditating mischief. 

Already during supper the thought that in Ellen at last he had found awoman whom he could love well enough to wish to live with and marry hadflitted across his mind, and the more they had chatted the more reasonskept suggesting themselves for thinking that what might be folly inordinary cases would not be folly in his. 

He must marry someone; that was already settled. He could not marry alady; that was absurd. He must marry a poor woman. Yes, but a fallenone? Was he not fallen himself? Ellen would fall no more. He had onlyto 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 theirmarriage; he no longer believed in the supernatural element ofChristianity, 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 needknow, and even if they did, they should be thankful to see him married toany woman who would make him happy as Ellen would. As for not being ableto afford marriage, how did poor people do? Did not a good wife ratherhelp matters than not? Where one could live two could do so, and ifEllen was three or four years older than he was--well, what was that?

Have you, gentle reader, ever loved at first sight? When you fell inlove at first sight, how long, let me ask, did it take you to becomeready to fling every other consideration to the winds except that ofobtaining possession of the loved one? Or rather, how long would it havetaken you if you had had no father or mother, nothing to lose in the wayof money, position, friends, professional advancement, or what not, andif 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 yousome time, but suppose your nature was Quixotic, impulsive, altruistic, guileless; suppose you were a hungry man starving for something to loveand lean upon, for one whose burdens you might bear, and who might helpyou to bear yours. Suppose you were down on your luck, still stunned bya horrible shock, and this bright vista of a happy future floatedsuddenly before you, how long under these circumstances do you think youwould reflect before you would decide on embracing what chance had thrownin your way?

It did not take my hero long, for before he got past the ham and beefshop near the top of Fetter Lane, he had told Ellen that she must comehome with him and live with him till they could get married, which theywould do upon the first day that the law allowed. 

I think the devil must have chuckled and made tolerably sure of his gamethis time. 

CHAPTER LXXII

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 not take a little shop yourself?"

Ernest asked how much this would cost. Ellen told him that he might takea house in some small street, say near the "Elephant and Castle, " for17s. Or 18s. A week, and let off the two top floors for 10s. , keeping theback parlour and shop for themselves. If he could raise five or sixpounds to buy some second-hand clothes to stock the shop with, they couldmend them and clean them, and she could look after the women's clotheswhile he did the men's. Then he could mend and make, if he could get theorders. 

They could soon make a business of 2 pounds a week in this way; she had afriend who began like that and had now moved to a better shop, where shemade 5 or 6 pounds a week at least--and she, Ellen, had done the greaterpart of the buying and selling herself. 

Here was a new light indeed. It was as though he had got his 5000 poundsback again all of a sudden, and perhaps ever so much more later on intothe 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 laidbreakfast for him and made coffee, and some nice brown toast. Ernest hadbeen his own cook and housemaid for the last few days and had not givenhimself satisfaction. Here he suddenly found himself with someone towait on him again. Not only had Ellen pointed out to him how he couldearn a living when no one except himself had known how to advise him, buthere she was so pretty and smiling, looking after even his comforts, andrestoring him practically in all respects that he much cared about to theposition which he had lost--or rather putting him in one that he alreadyliked much better. No wonder he was radiant when he came to explain hisplans 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 hefound himself obliged to tell his story to someone else. He feltinclined to slur things over, but I wanted to get at the facts, so Ihelped him over the bad places, and questioned him till I had got outpretty 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 likeErnest. I don't know why, but I never have heard that any young man towhom I had become attached was going to get married without hating hisintended instinctively, though I had never seen her; I have observed thatmost bachelors feel the same thing, though we are generally at some painsto hide the fact. Perhaps it is because we know we ought to have gotmarried ourselves. Ordinarily we say we are delighted--in the presentcase I did not feel obliged to do this, though I made an effort toconceal my vexation. That a young man of much promise who was heir alsoto what was now a handsome fortune, should fling himself away upon such aperson as Ellen was quite too provoking, and the more so because of theunexpectedness of the whole affair. 

I begged him not to marry Ellen yet--not at least until he had known herfor a longer time. He would not hear of it; he had given his word, andif he had not given it he should go and give it at once. I had hithertofound him upon most matters singularly docile and easy to manage, but onthis point I could do nothing with him. His recent victory over hisfather and mother had increased his strength, and I was nowhere. I wouldhave told him of his true position, but I knew very well that this wouldonly make him more bent on having his own way--for with so much money whyshould he not please himself? I said nothing, therefore, on this head, and yet all that I could urge went for very little with one who believedhimself to be an artisan or nothing. 

Really from his own standpoint there was nothing very outrageous in whathe was doing. He had known and been very fond of Ellen years before. Heknew her to come of respectable people, and to have borne a goodcharacter, and to have been universally liked at Battersby. She was thena quick, smart, hard-working girl--and a very pretty one. When at lastthey met again she was on her best behaviour, in fact, she was modestyand demureness itself. What wonder, then, that his imagination shouldfail to realise the changes that eight years must have worked? He knewtoo 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 beenin reality no better than he believed they were, I do not know that thereis anything much more imprudent in what Ernest proposed than there is inhalf the marriages that take place every day. 

There was nothing for it, however, but to make the best of theinevitable, so I wished my young friend good fortune, and told him hecould have whatever money he wanted to start his shop with, if what hehad in hand was not sufficient. He thanked me, asked me to be kindenough to let him do all my mending and repairing, and to get him anyother like orders that I could, and left me to my own reflections. 

I was even more angry when he was gone than I had been while he was withme. His frank, boyish face had beamed with a happiness that had rarelyvisited it. Except at Cambridge he had hardly known what happinessmeant, and even there his life had been clouded as of a man for whomwisdom at the greatest of its entrances was quite shut out. I had seenenough of the world and of him to have observed this, but it wasimpossible, or I thought it had been impossible, for me to have helpedhim. 

Whether I ought to have tried to help him or not I do not know, but I amsure that the young of all animals often do want help upon matters aboutwhich anyone would say _a priori_ that there should be no difficulty. Onewould think that a young seal would want no teaching how to swim, nor yeta bird to fly, but in practice a young seal drowns if put out of itsdepth before its parents have taught it to swim; and so again, even theyoung hawk must be taught to fly before it can do so. 

I grant that the tendency of the times is to exaggerate the good whichteaching can do, but in trying to teach too much, in most matters, wehave neglected others in respect of which a little sensible teachingwould do no harm. 

I know it is the fashion to say that young people must find out thingsfor themselves, and so they probably would if they had fair play to theextent of not having obstacles put in their way. But they seldom havefair play; as a general rule they meet with foul play, and foul play fromthose who live by selling them stones made into a great variety of shapesand sizes so as to form a tolerable imitation of bread. 

Some are lucky enough to meet with few obstacles, some are plucky enoughto over-ride them, but in the greater number of cases, if people aresaved at all they are saved so as by fire. 

While Ernest was with me Ellen was looking out for a shop on the southside of the Thames near the "Elephant and Castle, " which was then almosta new and a very rising neighbourhood. By one o'clock she had foundseveral from which a selection was to be made, and before night the pairhad made their choice. 

Ernest brought Ellen to me. I did not want to see her, but could notwell refuse. He had laid out a few of his shillings upon her wardrobe, so that she was neatly dressed, and, indeed, she looked very pretty andso good that I could hardly be surprised at Ernest's infatuation when theother circumstances of the case were taken into consideration. Of coursewe hated one another instinctively from the first moment we set eyes onone another, but we each told Ernest that we had been most favourablyimpressed. 

Then I was taken to see the shop. An empty house is like a stray dog ora body from which life has departed. Decay sets in at once in every partof it, and what mould and wind and weather would spare, street boyscommonly destroy. Ernest's shop in its untenanted state was a dirtyunsavoury place enough. The house was not old, but it had been run up bya jerry-builder and its constitution had no stamina whatever. It wasonly by being kept warm and quiet that it would remain in health for manymonths together. Now it had been empty for some weeks and the cats hadgot in by night, while the boys had broken the windows by day. Theparlour floor was covered with stones and dirt, and in the area was adead dog which had been killed in the street and been thrown down intothe first unprotected place that could be found. There was a strongsmell throughout the house, but whether it was bugs, or rats, or cats, ordrains, or a compound of all four, I could not determine. The sashes didnot fit, the flimsy doors hung badly; the skirting was gone in severalplaces, and there were not a few holes in the floor; the locks wereloose, and paper was torn and dirty; the stairs were weak and one feltthe treads give as one went up them. 

Over and above these drawbacks the house had an ill name, by reason ofthe fact that the wife of the last occupant had hanged herself in it notvery many weeks previously. She had set down a bloater before the firefor her husband's tea, and had made him a round of toast. She then leftthe room as though about to return to it shortly, but instead of doing soshe went into the back kitchen and hanged herself without a word. It wasthis which had kept the house empty so long in spite of its excellentposition as a corner shop. The last tenant had left immediately afterthe inquest, and if the owner had had it done up then people would havegot over the tragedy that had been enacted in it, but the combination ofbad condition and bad fame had hindered many from taking it, who likeEllen, could see that it had great business capabilities. Almostanything would have sold there, but it happened also that there was nosecond-hand clothes shop in close proximity so that everything combinedin its favour, except its filthy state and its reputation. 

When I saw it, I thought I would rather die than live in such an awfulplace--but then I had been living in the Temple for the last five andtwenty years. Ernest was lodging in Laystall Street and had just comeout of prison; before this he had lived in Ashpit Place so that thishouse had no terrors for him provided he could get it done up. Thedifficulty was that the landlord was hard to move in this respect. Itended in my finding the money to do everything that was wanted, andtaking a lease of the house for five years at the same rental as thatpaid by the last occupant. I then sublet it to Ernest, of course takingcare that it was put more efficiently into repair than his landlord wasat all likely to have put it. 

A week later I called and found everything so completely transformed thatI should hardly have recognised the house. All the ceilings had beenwhitewashed, all the rooms papered, the broken glass hacked out andreinstated, the defective wood-work renewed, all the sashes, cupboardsand doors had been painted. The drains had been thoroughly overhauled, everything in fact, that could be done had been done, and the rooms nowlooked 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 thehouse down before leaving, but Ellen had given it another scrub from topto 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 forErnest, he was in the seventh heaven. He said it was all my doing andEllen's. 

There was already a counter in the shop and a few fittings, so thatnothing now remained but to get some stock and set them out for sale. Ernest said he could not begin better than by selling his clericalwardrobe and his books, for though the shop was intended especially forthe sale of second-hand clothes, yet Ellen said there was no reason whythey should not sell a few books too; so a beginning was to be made byselling the books he had had at school and college at about one shillinga volume, taking them all round, and I have heard him say that he learnedmore that proved of practical use to him through stocking his books on abench in front of his shop and selling them, than he had done from allthe years of study which he had bestowed upon their contents. 

For the enquiries that were made of him whether he had such and such abook taught him what he could sell and what he could not; how much hecould get for this, and how much for that. Having made ever such alittle beginning with books, he took to attending book sales as well asclothes sales, and ere long this branch of his business became no lessimportant than the tailoring, and would, I have no doubt, have been theone which he would have settled down to exclusively, if he had beencalled upon to remain a tradesman; but this is anticipating. 

I made a contribution and a stipulation. Ernest wanted to sink thegentleman 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 shopback parlour and kitchen, and have let out both the upper floorsaccording to his original programme. I did not want him, however, to cuthimself adrift from music, letters and polite life, and feared thatunless he had some kind of den into which he could retire he would erelong become the tradesman and nothing else. I therefore insisted ontaking the first floor front and back myself, and furnishing them withthe things which had been left at Mrs Jupp's. I bought these things ofhim 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 toAshpit Place. I had half expected to find the furniture sold and MrsJupp gone, but it was not so; with all her faults the poor old woman wasperfectly 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-liveredin the face as that Pryer; he hasn't got an upright vein in his wholebody. Why, all that time when he used to come breakfasting with MrPontifex morning after morning, it took me to a perfect shadow the way hecarried on. There was no doing anything to please him right. First Iused to get them eggs and bacon, and he didn't like that; and then I gothim a bit of fish, and he didn't like that, or else it was too dear, andyou 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 hithim in the eye worse even than German; oh! how I used to wander my roomand fret about it inwardly and cry for hours, and all about them paltrybreakfasts--and it wasn't Mr Pontifex; he'd like anything that anyonechose to give him. 

"And so the piano's to go, " she continued. "What beautiful tunes MrPontifex did play upon it, to be sure; and there was one I liked betterthan any I ever heard. I was in the room when he played it once and whenI said, 'Oh, Mr Pontifex, that's the kind of woman I am, ' he said, 'No, Mrs Jupp, it isn't, for this tune is old, but no one can say you areold. ' But, bless you, he meant nothing by it, it was only his muckyflattery. "

Like myself, she was vexed at his getting married. She didn't like hisbeing married, and she didn't like his not being married--but, anyhow, itwas Ellen's fault, not his, and she hoped he would be happy. "But afterall, " she concluded, "it ain't you and it ain't me, and it ain't him andit ain't her. It's what you must call the fortunes of matterimony, forthere ain't no other word for it. "

In the course of the afternoon the furniture arrived at Ernest's newabode. In the first floor we placed the piano, table, pictures, bookshelves, a couple of arm-chairs, and all the little household godswhich he had brought from Cambridge. The back room was furnished exactlyas his bedroom at Ashpit Place had been--new things being got for thebridal apartment downstairs. These two first-floor rooms I insisted onretaining as my own, but Ernest was to use them whenever he pleased; hewas never to sublet even the bedroom, but was to keep it for himself incase his wife should be ill at any time, or in case he might be illhimself. 

In less than a fortnight from the time of his leaving prison all thesearrangements had been completed, and Ernest felt that he had again linkedhimself on to the life which he had led before his imprisonment--with afew important differences, however, which were greatly to his advantage. He was no longer a clergyman; he was about to marry a woman to whom hewas much attached, and he had parted company for ever with his father andmother. 

True, he had lost all his money, his reputation, and his position as agentleman; he had, in fact, had to burn his house down in order to gethis roast sucking pig; but if asked whether he would rather be as he wasnow or as he was on the day before his arrest, he would not have had amoment's hesitation in preferring his present to his past. If hispresent could only have been purchased at the expense of all that he hadgone through, it was still worth purchasing at the price, and he would gothrough 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. WhenI was gone, after he had had his tea, he stole up to his castle--thefirst floor front. He lit his pipe and sat down to the piano. He playedHandel for an hour or so, and then set himself to the table to read andwrite. He took all his sermons and all the theological works he hadbegun to compose during the time he had been a clergyman and put them inthe fire; as he saw them consume he felt as though he had got rid ofanother incubus. Then he took up some of the little pieces he had begunto write during the latter part of his undergraduate life at Cambridge, and began to cut them about and re-write them. As he worked quietly atthese till he heard the clock strike ten and it was time to go to bed, hefelt that he was now not only happy but supremely happy. 

Next day Ellen took him to Debenham's auction rooms, and they surveyedthe lots of clothes which were hung up all round the auction room to beviewed. Ellen had had sufficient experience to know about how much eachlot ought to fetch; she overhauled lot after lot, and valued it; in avery short time Ernest himself began to have a pretty fair idea what eachlot should go for, and before the morning was over valued a dozen lotsrunning at prices about which Ellen said he would not hurt if he couldget them for that. 

So far from disliking this work or finding it tedious, he liked it verymuch, indeed he would have liked anything which did not overtax hisphysical strength, and which held out a prospect of bringing him inmoney. Ellen would not let him buy anything on the occasion of thissale; she said he had better see one sale first and watch how pricesactually went. So at twelve o'clock when the sale began, he saw the lotssold which he and Ellen had marked, and by the time the sale was over heknew enough to be able to bid with safety whenever he should actuallywant to buy. Knowledge of this sort is very easily acquired by anyonewho is in _bona fide_ want of it. 

But Ellen did not want him to buy at auctions--not much at least atpresent. Private dealing, she said, was best. If I, for example, hadany cast-off clothes, he was to buy them from my laundress, and get aconnection with other laundresses, to whom he might give a trifle morethan they got at present for whatever clothes their masters might givethem, and yet make a good profit. If gentlemen sold their things, he wasto try and get them to sell to him. He flinched at nothing; perhaps hewould have flinched if he had had any idea how _outre_ his proceedingswere, but the very ignorance of the world which had ruined him up tillnow, by a happy irony began to work its own cure. If some malignantfairy had meant to curse him in this respect, she had overdone hermalice. He did not know he was doing anything strange. He only knewthat he had no money, and must provide for himself, a wife, and apossible family. More than this, he wanted to have some leisure in anevening, so that he might read and write and keep up his music. Ifanyone would show him how he could do better than he was doing, he shouldbe much obliged to them, but to himself it seemed that he was doingsufficiently well; for at the end of the first week the pair found theyhad made a clear profit of 3 pounds. In a few weeks this had increasedto 4 pounds, and by the New Year they had made a profit of 5 pounds inone week. 

Ernest had by this time been married some two months, for he had stuck tohis original plan of marrying Ellen on the first day he could legally doso. This date was a little delayed by the change of abode from LaystallStreet to Blackfriars, but on the first day that it could be done it wasdone. He had never had more than 250 pounds a year, even in the times ofhis affluence, so that a profit of 5 pounds a week, if it could bemaintained steadily, would place him where he had been as far as incomewent, and, though he should have to feed two mouths instead of one, yethis expenses in other ways were so much curtailed by his changed socialposition, that, take it all round, his income was practically what it hadbeen a twelvemonth before. The next thing to do was to increase it, andput by money. 

Prosperity depends, as we all know, in great measure upon energy and goodsense, 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 saythat they do not exist, than to try to trace them. A neighbourhood mayhave an excellent reputation as being likely to be a rising one, and yetmay become suddenly eclipsed by another, which no one would have thoughtso promising. A fever hospital may divert the stream of business, or anew station attract it; so little, indeed, can be certainly known, thatit is better not to try to know more than is in everybody's mouth, and toleave the rest to chance. 

Luck, which certainly had not been too kind to my hero hitherto, nowseemed to have taken him under her protection. The neighbourhoodprospered, and he with it. It seemed as though he no sooner bought athing and put it into his shop, than it sold with a profit of from thirtyto fifty per cent. He learned book-keeping, and watched his accountscarefully, following up any success immediately; he began to buy otherthings besides clothes--such as books, music, odds and ends of furniture, etc. Whether it was luck or business aptitude, or energy, or thepoliteness with which he treated all his customers, I cannot say--but tothe surprise of no one more than himself, he went ahead faster than hehad anticipated, even in his wildest dreams, and by Easter wasestablished in a strong position as the owner of a business which wasbringing him in between four and five hundred a year, and which heunderstood how to extend. 

CHAPTER LXXIII

Ellen and he got on capitally, all the better, perhaps, because thedisparity between them was so great, that neither did Ellen want to beelevated, 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 incommon; they had antecedents with a good part of which each was familiar;they had each of them excellent tempers, and this was enough. Ellen didnot seem jealous at Ernest's preferring to sit the greater part of histime after the day's work was done in the first floor front where Ioccasionally visited him. She might have come and sat with him if shehad liked, but, somehow or other, she generally found enough to occupyher down below. She had the tact also to encourage him to go out of anevening whenever he had a mind, without in the least caring that heshould take her too--and this suited Ernest very well. He was, I shouldsay, 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 cuthim, 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 tosee that he was going ahead, he cared very little what people might sayabout his antecedents. The ordeal is a painful one, but if a man's moraland intellectual constitution are naturally sound, there is nothing whichwill 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 notluxurious. He liked theatres, outings into the country on a Sunday, andtobacco, but he did not care for much else, except writing and music. Asfor the usual run of concerts, he hated them. He worshipped Handel; heliked Offenbach, and the airs that went about the streets, but he caredfor nothing between these two extremes. Music, therefore, cost himlittle. As for theatres, I got him and Ellen as many orders as theyliked, 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 farenough out of town to give him a good walk and a thorough change for theday. Ellen went with him the first few times, but she said she found ittoo much for her, there were a few of her old friends whom she shouldsometimes like to see, and they and he, she said, would not hit it offperhaps too well, so it would be better for him to go alone. This seemedso 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 heardhow she had treated the matter. I kept silence, however, and for a timeall continued to go well. As I have said, one of his chief pleasures wasin writing. If a man carries with him a little sketch book and iscontinually jotting down sketches, he has the artistic instinct; ahundred 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-bookin his waistcoat pocket, into which he jots down anything that strikeshim, or any good thing that he hears said, or a reference to any passagewhich he thinks will come in useful to him. Ernest had such a note-bookalways with him. Even when he was at Cambridge he had begun the practicewithout anyone's having suggested it to him. These notes he copied outfrom time to time into a book, which as they accumulated, he was driveninto indexing approximately, as he went along. When I found out this, Iknew that he had the literary instinct, and when I saw his notes I beganto hope great things of him. 

For a long time I was disappointed. He was kept back by the nature ofthe subjects he chose--which were generally metaphysical. In vain Itried to get him away from these to matters which had a greater interestfor the general public. When I begged him to try his hand at somepretty, graceful, little story which should be full of whatever peopleknew and liked best, he would immediately set to work upon a treatise toshow the grounds on which all belief rested. 

"You are stirring mud, " said I, "or poking at a sleeping dog. You aretrying to make people resume consciousness about things, which, withsensible men, have already passed into the unconscious stage. The menwhom you would disturb are in front of you, and not, as you fancy, behindyou; 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. Thiswas the more provoking because he showed himself able to do better thingsif he had liked. 

I was then at work upon my burlesque "The Impatient Griselda, " and wassometimes at my wits' end for a piece of business or a situation; he gaveme many suggestions, all of which were marked by 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 besuch as I could not approve. He was continually studying scientific andmetaphysical writers, in the hope of either finding or making for himselfa philosopher's stone in the shape of a system which should go on allfours under all circumstances, instead of being liable to be upset atevery touch and turn, as every system yet promulgated has turned out tobe. 

He kept to the pursuit of this will-o'-the-wisp so long that I gave uphope, 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 eventhe merit of being sweet, but to my surprise he at last declared that hewas satisfied, and had found what he wanted. 

I supposed that he had only hit upon some new "Lo, here!" when to myrelief, he told me that he had concluded that no system which should goperfectly upon all fours was possible, inasmuch as no one could getbehind Bishop Berkeley, and therefore no absolutely incontrovertiblefirst premise could ever be laid. Having found this he was just as wellpleased as if he had found the most perfect system imaginable. All hewanted he said, was to know which way it was to be--that is to saywhether a system was possible or not, and if possible then what thesystem was to be. Having found out that no system based on absolutecertainty was possible he was contented. 

I had only a very vague idea who Bishop Berkeley was, but was thankful tohim for having defended us from an incontrovertible first premise. I amafraid I said a few words implying that after a great deal of trouble hehad arrived at the conclusion which sensible people reach withoutbothering their brains so much. 

He said: "Yes, but I was not born sensible. A child of ordinary powerslearns to walk at a year or two old without knowing much about it;failing ordinary powers he had better learn laboriously than never learnat all. I am sorry I was not stronger, but to do as I did was my onlychance. "

He looked so meek that I was vexed with myself for having said what Ihad, more especially when I remembered his bringing-up, which haddoubtless done much to impair his power of taking a common-sense view ofthings. He continued--

"I see it all now. The people like Towneley are the only ones who knowanything 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 drawersof water--men in fact through whom conscious knowledge must pass beforeit can reach those who can apply it gracefully and instinctively as theTowneleys can. I am a hewer of wood, but if I accept the positionfrankly and do not set up to be a Towneley, it does not matter. "

He still, therefore, stuck to science instead of turning to literatureproper as I hoped he would have done, but he confined himself henceforthto enquiries on specific subjects concerning which an increase of ourknowledge--as he said--was possible. Having in fact, after infinitevexation of spirit, arrived at a conclusion which cut at the roots of allknowledge, he settled contentedly down to the pursuit of knowledge, andhas pursued it ever since in spite of occasional excursions into theregions 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 whichmust be more properly called literary than either scientific ormetaphysical. 

CHAPTER LXXIV

About six months after he had set up his shop his prosperity had reachedits climax. It seemed even then as though he were likely to go ahead noless fast than heretofore, and I doubt not that he would have done so, ifsuccess or non-success had depended upon himself alone. Unfortunately hewas not the only person to be reckoned with. 

One morning he had gone out to attend some sales, leaving his wifeperfectly well, as usual in good spirits, and looking very pretty. Whenhe came back he found her sitting on a chair in the back parlour, withher hair over her face, sobbing and crying as though her heart wouldbreak. She said she had been frightened in the morning by a man who hadpretended to be a customer, and had threatened her unless she gave himsome things, and she had had to give them to him in order to save herselffrom 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 easyto make out what she said. Ernest knew she was with child, and thinkingthis might have something to do with the matter, would have sent for adoctor if Ellen had not begged him not to do so. 

Anyone who had had experience of drunken people would have seen at aglance what the matter was, but my hero knew nothing about them--nothing, that is to say, about the drunkenness of the habitual drunkard, whichshows itself very differently from that of one who gets drunk only oncein a way. The idea that his wife could drink had never even crossed hismind, indeed she always made a fuss about taking more than a very littlebeer, and never touched spirits. He did not know much more abouthysterics than he did about drunkenness, but he had always heard thatwomen who were about to become mothers were liable to be easily upset andwere often rather flighty, so he was not greatly surprised, and thoughthe had settled the matter by registering the discovery that being aboutto become a father has its troublesome as well as its pleasant side. 

The great change in Ellen's life consequent upon her meeting Ernest andgetting married had for a time actually sobered her by shaking her out ofher old ways. Drunkenness is so much a matter of habit, and habit somuch a matter of surroundings, that if you completely change thesurroundings you will sometimes get rid of the drunkenness altogether. Ellen had intended remaining always sober henceforward, and never havinghad so long a steady fit before, believed she was now cured. So sheperhaps would have been if she had seen none of her old acquaintances. When, however, her new life was beginning to lose its newness, and whenher old acquaintances came to see her, her present surroundings becamemore like her past, and on this she herself began to get like her pasttoo. At first she only got a little tipsy and struggled against arelapse; but it was no use, she soon lost the heart to fight, and now herobject was not to try and keep sober, but to get gin without herhusband's finding it out. 

So the hysterics continued, and she managed to make her husband stillthink that they were due to her being about to become a mother. Theworse her attacks were, the more devoted he became in his attention toher. At last he insisted that a doctor should see her. The doctor ofcourse took in the situation at a glance, but said nothing to Ernestexcept in such a guarded way that he did not understand the hints thatwere thrown out to him. He was much too downright and matter of fact tobe quick at taking hints of this sort. He hoped that as soon as hiswife's confinement was over she would regain her health and had nothought save how to spare her as far as possible till that happy timeshould come. 

In the mornings she was generally better, as long that is to say asErnest remained at home; but he had to go out buying, and on his returnwould generally find that she had had another attack as soon as he hadleft the house. At times she would laugh and cry for half an hourtogether, 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 andall the work of the household left undone. Still he took it for grantedthat this was all part of the usual course when women were going tobecome mothers, and when Ellen's share of the work settled down more andmore upon his own shoulders he did it all and drudged away without amurmur. Nevertheless, he began to feel in a vague way more as he hadfelt in Ashpit Place, at Roughborough, or at Battersby, and to lose thebuoyancy of spirits which had made another man of him during the firstsix months of his married life. 

It was not only that he had to do so much household work, for even thecooking, cleaning up slops, bed-making and fire-lighting ere longdevolved upon him, but his business no longer prospered. He could buy ashitherto, but Ellen seemed unable to sell as she had sold at first. Thefact was that she sold as well as ever, but kept back part of theproceeds in order to buy gin, and she did this more and more till eventhe unsuspecting Ernest ought to have seen that she was not telling thetruth. When she sold better--that is to say when she did not think itsafe to keep back more than a certain amount, she got money out of him onthe plea that she had a longing for this or that, and that it wouldperhaps irreparably damage the baby if her longing was denied her. Allseemed right, reasonable, and unavoidable, nevertheless Ernest saw thatuntil the confinement was over he was likely to have a hard time of it. All however would then come right again. 

CHAPTER LXXV

In the month of September 1860 a girl was born, and Ernest was proud andhappy. The birth of the child, and a rather alarming talk which thedoctor had given to Ellen sobered her for a few weeks, and it reallyseemed as though his hopes were about to be fulfilled. The expenses ofhis wife's confinement were heavy, and he was obliged to trench upon hissavings, but he had no doubt about soon recouping this now that Ellen washerself again; for a time indeed his business did revive a little, nevertheless it seemed as though the interruption to his prosperity hadin some way broken the spell of good luck which had attended him in theoutset; he was still sanguine, however, and worked night and day with awill, but there was no more music, or reading, or writing now. HisSunday outings were put a stop to, and but for the first floor being letto myself, he would have lost his citadel there too, but he seldom usedit, for Ellen had to wait more and more upon the baby, and, as aconsequence, Ernest had to wait more and more upon Ellen. 

One afternoon, about a couple of months after the baby had been born, andjust as my unhappy hero was beginning to feel more hopeful and thereforebetter able to bear his burdens, he returned from a sale, and found Ellenin 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, forEllen cheated him by keeping it back, and dealing improperly with thegoods he bought. When it did come in she got it out of him as before onpretexts which it seemed inhuman to inquire into. It was always the samestory. By and by a new feature began to show itself. Ernest hadinherited his father's punctuality and exactness as regards money; heliked to know the worst of what he had to pay at once; he hated havingexpenses sprung upon him which if not foreseen might and ought to havebeen so, but now bills began to be brought to him for things ordered byEllen without his knowledge, or for which he had already given her themoney. This was awful, and even Ernest turned. When he remonstratedwith her--not for having bought the things, but for having said nothingto him about the moneys being owing--Ellen met him with hysteria andthere was a scene. She had now pretty well forgotten the hard times shehad known when she had been on her own resources and reproached himdownright with having married her--on that moment the scales fell fromErnest's eyes as they had fallen when Towneley had said, "No, no, no. " Hesaid nothing, but he woke up once for all to the fact that he had made amistake in marrying. A touch had again come which had revealed him tohimself. 

He went upstairs to the disused citadel, flung himself into thearm-chair, and covered his face with his hands. 

He still did not know that his wife drank, but he could no longer trusther, and his dream of happiness was over. He had been saved from theChurch--so as by fire, but still saved--but what could now save him fromhis marriage? He had made the same mistake that he had made in weddinghimself to the Church, but with a hundred times worse results. He hadlearnt nothing by experience: he was an Esau--one of those wretches whosehearts the Lord had hardened, who, having ears, heard not, having eyessaw not, and who should find no place for repentance though they soughtit 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; buthe had not been thorough; he had not given up all for God. He knew thatvery well he had done little as compared with what he might and ought tohave done, but still if he was being punished for this, God was a hardtaskmaster, and one, too, who was continually pouncing out upon hisunhappy creatures from ambuscades. In marrying Ellen he had meant toavoid a life of sin, and to take the course he believed to be moral andright. With his antecedents and surroundings it was the most naturalthing in the world for him to have done, yet in what a frightful positionhad not his morality landed him. Could any amount of immorality haveplaced him in a much worse one? What was morality worth if it was notthat which on the whole brought a man peace at the last, and could anyonehave reasonable certainty that marriage would do this? It seemed to himthat in his attempt to be moral he had been following a devil which haddisguised itself as an angel of light. But if so, what ground was thereon which a man might rest the sole of his foot and tread in reasonablesafety?

He was still too young to reach the answer, "On common sense"--an answerwhich he would have felt to be unworthy of anyone who had an idealstandard. 

However this might be, it was plain that he had now done for himself. Ithad been thus with him all his life. If there had come at any time agleam of sunshine and hope, it was to be obscured immediately--why, prison was happier than this! There, at any rate, he had had no moneyanxieties, and these were beginning to weigh upon him now with all theirhorrors. He was happier even now than he had been at Battersby or atRoughborough, and he would not now go back, even if he could, to hisCambridge life, but for all that the outlook was so gloomy, in fact sohopeless, that he felt as if he could have only too gladly gone to sleepand died in his arm-chair once for all. 

As he was musing thus and looking upon the wreck of his hopes--for he sawwell enough that as long as he was linked to Ellen he should never riseas he had dreamed of doing--he heard a noise below, and presently aneighbour ran upstairs and entered his room hurriedly--

"Good gracious, Mr Pontifex, " she exclaimed, "for goodness' sake comedown quickly and help. O Mrs Pontifex is took with the horrors--andshe's orkard. "

The unhappy man came down as he was bid and found his wife mad with_delirium tremens_. 

He knew all now. The neighbours thought he must have known that his wifedrank all along, but Ellen had been so artful, and he so simple, that, asI have said, he had had no suspicion. "Why, " said the woman who hadsummoned him, "she'll drink anything she can stand up and pay her moneyfor. " Ernest could hardly believe his ears, but when the doctor had seenhis wife and she had become more quiet, he went over to the public househard by and made enquiries, the result of which rendered further doubtimpossible. The publican took the opportunity to present my hero with abill of several pounds for bottles of spirits supplied to his wife, andwhat with his wife's confinement and the way business had fallen off, hehad not the money to pay with, for the sum exceeded the remnant of hissavings. 

He came to me--not for money, but to tell me his miserable story. I hadseen for some time that there was something wrong, and had suspectedpretty shrewdly what the matter was, but of course I said nothing. Ernestand I had been growing apart for some time. I was vexed at his havingmarried, 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 theyare also no less invalidated by the marriage of his friends. The rift infriendship which invariably makes its appearance on the marriage ofeither of the parties to it was fast widening, as it no less invariablydoes, into the great gulf which is fixed between the married and theunmarried, and I was beginning to leave my _protege_ to a fate with whichI had neither right nor power to meddle. In fact I had begun to feel himrather a burden; I did not so much mind this when I could be of use, butI grudged it when I could be of none. He had made his bed and he mustlie upon it. Ernest had felt all this and had seldom come near me tillnow, one evening late in 1860, he called on me, and with a very woebegoneface told me his troubles. 

As soon as I found that he no longer liked his wife I forgave him atonce, and was as much interested in him as ever. There is nothing an oldbachelor likes better than to find a young married man who wishes he hadnot got married--especially when the case is such an extreme one that heneed not pretend to hope that matters will come all right again, orencourage his young friend to make the best of it. 

I was myself in favour of a separation, and said I would make Ellen anallowance myself--of course intending that it should come out of Ernest'smoney; but he would not hear of this. He had married Ellen, he said, andhe must try to reform her. He hated it, but he must try; and finding himas usual very obstinate I was obliged to acquiesce, though with littleconfidence as to the result. I was vexed at seeing him waste himselfupon such a barren task, and again began to feel him burdensome. I amafraid 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 hadrecovered he got the doctor to tell her that if she had such anotherattack she would certainly die; this so frightened her that she took thepledge. 

Then he became more hopeful again. When she was sober she was just whatshe was during the first days of her married life, and so quick was he toforget pain, that after a few days he was as fond of her as ever. ButEllen could not forgive him for knowing what he did. She knew that hewas on the watch to shield her from temptation, and though he did hisbest to make her think that he had no further uneasiness about her, shefound the burden of her union with respectability grow more and moreheavy upon her, and looked back more and more longingly upon the lawlessfreedom of the life she had led before she met her husband. 

I will dwell no longer on this part of my story. During the springmonths of 1861 she kept straight--she had had her fling of dissipation, and this, together with the impression made upon her by her having takenthe pledge, tamed her for a while. The shop went fairly well, andenabled Ernest to make the two ends meet. In the spring and summer of1861 he even put by a little money again. In the autumn his wife wasconfined of a boy--a very fine one, so everyone said. She soonrecovered, and Ernest was beginning to breathe freely and be almostsanguine when, without a word of warning, the storm broke again. Hereturned one afternoon about two years after his marriage, and found hiswife lying upon the floor insensible. 

From this time he became hopeless, and began to go visibly down hill. Hehad been knocked about too much, and the luck had gone too long againsthim. The wear and tear of the last three years had told on him, andthough not actually ill he was overworked, below par, and unfit for anyfurther burden. 

He struggled for a while to prevent himself from finding this out, butfacts were too strong for him. Again he called on me and told me whathad happened. I was glad the crisis had come; I was sorry for Ellen, buta complete separation from her was the only chance for her husband. Evenafter this last outbreak he was unwilling to consent to this, and talkednonsense about dying at his post, till I got tired of him. Each time Isaw him the old gloom had settled more and more deeply upon his face, andI had about made up my mind to put an end to the situation by a _coup demain_, such as bribing Ellen to run away with somebody else, or somethingof that kind, when matters settled themselves as usual in a way which Ihad not anticipated. 

CHAPTER LXXVI

The winter had been a trying one. Ernest had only paid his way byselling his piano. With this he seemed to cut away the last link thatconnected him with his earlier life, and to sink once for all into thesmall shop-keeper. It seemed to him that however low he might sink hispain 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 eachother. If it had not been for his children, he would have left her andgone to America, but he could not leave the children with Ellen, and asfor taking them with him he did not know how to do it, nor what to dowith them when he had got them to America. If he had not lost energy hewould probably in the end have taken the children and gone off, but hisnerve was shaken, so day after day went by and nothing was done. 

He had only got a few shillings in the world now, except the value of hisstock, which was very little; he could get perhaps 3 or 4 pounds byselling his music and what few pictures and pieces of furniture stillbelonged to him. He thought of trying to live by his pen, but hiswriting had dropped off long ago; he no longer had an idea in his head. Look which way he would he saw no hope; the end, if it had not actuallycome, was within easy distance and he was almost face to face with actualwant. When he saw people going about poorly clad, or even without shoesand stockings, he wondered whether within a few months' time he tooshould not have to go about in this way. The remorseless, resistlesshand 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-handclothes, and spending his evenings in cleaning and mending them. 

One morning, as he was returning from a house at the West End where hehad bought some clothes from one of the servants, he was struck by asmall crowd which had gathered round a space that had been railed off onthe grass near one of the paths in the Green Park. 

It was a lovely soft spring morning at the end of March, and unusuallybalmy for the time of year; even Ernest's melancholy was relieved for awhile by the look of spring that pervaded earth and sky; but it soonreturned, and smiling sadly he said to himself: "It may bring hope toothers, but for me there can be no hope henceforth. "

As these words were in his mind he joined the small crowd who weregathered round the railings, and saw that they were looking at threesheep with very small lambs only a day or two old, which had been pennedoff for shelter and protection from the others that ranged the park. 

They were very pretty, and Londoners so seldom get a chance of seeinglambs that it was no wonder every one stopped to look at them. Ernestobserved that no one seemed fonder of them than a great lubberly butcherboy, who leaned up against the railings with a tray of meat upon hisshoulder. He was looking at this boy and smiling at the grotesqueness ofhis admiration, when he became aware that he was being watched intentlyby 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 knewhim in a moment as John, his father's old coachman at Battersby, and wentup to him at once. 

"Why, Master Ernest, " said he, with his strong northern accent, "I wasthinking of you only this very morning, " and the pair shook handsheartily. John was in an excellent place at the West End. He had donevery well, he said, ever since he had left Battersby, except for thefirst year or two, and that, he said, with a screw of the face, had wellnigh 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 herfrom Battersby, but I very easily may have been. Anyhow, after I hadleft your papa's place a few days I wrote to Ellen to an address we hadagreed 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 last fewwords of his story Ernest had turned white as a sheet, and was leaningagainst the railings. 

"John, " said my hero, gasping for breath, "are you sure of what yousay--are you quite sure you really married her?"

"Of course I am, " said John, "I married her before the registrar atLetchbury on the 15th of August 1851. 

"Give me your arm, " said Ernest, "and take me into Piccadilly, and put meinto a cab, and come with me at once, if you can spare time, to MrOverton's at the Temple. "

CHAPTER LXXVII

I do not think Ernest himself was much more pleased at finding that hehad never been married than I was. To him, however, the shock ofpleasure was positively numbing in its intensity. As he felt his burdenremoved, he reeled for the unaccustomed lightness of his movements; hisposition was so shattered that his identity seemed to have been shatteredalso; he was as one waking up from a horrible nightmare to find himselfsafe and sound in bed, but who can hardly even yet believe that the roomis 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 waswithout hope. It is I, who for weeks have been railing at fortune, andsaying that though she smiled on others she never smiled at me. Why, never was anyone half so fortunate as I am. "

"Yes, " said I, "you have been inoculated for marriage, and haverecovered. "

"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 lovedand lost, than never to have lost at all'?"

"You are an inveterate bachelor, " was the rejoinder. 

Then we had a long talk with John, to whom I gave a 5 pound note upon thespot. He said, "Ellen had used to drink at Battersby; the cook hadtaught her; he had known it, but was so fond of her, that he had chancedit and married her to save her from the streets and in the hope of beingable to keep her straight. She had done with him just as she had donewith Ernest--made him an excellent wife as long as she kept sober, but avery bad one afterwards. "

"There isn't, " said John, "a sweeter-tempered, handier, prettier girlthan 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'tkeep her; she's that artful she'll get it under your very eyes, withoutyou knowing it. If she can't get any more of your things to pawn orsell, she'll steal her neighbours'. That's how she got into troublefirst when I was with her. During the six months she was in prison Ishould have felt happy if I had not known she would come out again. Andthen she did come out, and before she had been free a fortnight, shebegan shop-lifting and going on the loose again--and all to get money todrink with. So seeing I could do nothing with her and that she was justa-killing of me, I left her, and came up to London, and went into serviceagain, and I did not know what had become of her till you and Mr Ernesthere 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 manyprotestations of affection towards Ernest, to whom he had been alwaysmuch attached. 

We talked the situation over, and decided first to get the children away, and then to come to terms with Ellen concerning their future custody; asfor herself, I proposed that we should make her an allowance of, say, apound a week to be paid so long as she gave no trouble. Ernest did notsee where the pound a week was to come from, so I eased his mind bysaying I would pay it myself. Before the day was two hours older we hadgot the children, about whom Ellen had always appeared to be indifferent, and had confided them to the care of my laundress, a good motherly sortof 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 beto her. He was always thinking that people had a claim upon him for someinestimable service they had rendered him, or for some irreparablemischief done to them by himself; the case however was so clear, thatErnest's scruples did not offer serious resistance. 

I did not see why he should have the pain of another interview with hiswife, so I got Mr Ottery to manage the whole business. It turned outthat we need not have harrowed ourselves so much about the agony of mindwhich Ellen would suffer on becoming an outcast again. Ernest saw MrsRichards, the neighbour who had called him down on the night when he hadfirst discovered his wife's drunkenness, and got from her some details ofEllen's opinions upon the matter. She did not seem in the leastconscience-stricken; she said: "Thank goodness, at last!" And althoughaware that her marriage was not a valid one, evidently regarded this as amere detail which it would not be worth anybody's while to go into moreparticularly. As regards his breaking with her, she said it was a goodjob both for him and for her. 

"This life, " she continued, "don't suit me. Ernest is too good for me;he wants a woman as shall be a bit better than me, and I want a man thatshall be a bit worse than him. We should have got on all very well if wehad not lived together as married folks, but I've been used to have alittle place of my own, however small, for a many years, and I don't wantErnest, or any other man, always hanging about it. Besides he is toosteady: his being in prison hasn't done him a bit of good--he's just asgrave as those as have never been in prison at all, and he never swearsnor curses, come what may; it makes me afeared of him, and therefore Idrink the worse. What us poor girls wants is not to be jumped up all ofa sudden and made honest women of; this is too much for us and throws usoff our perch; what we wants is a regular friend or two, who'll just keepus from starving, and force us to be good for a bit together now andagain. That's about as much as we can stand. He may have the children;he can do better for them than I can; and as for his money, he may giveit or keep it as he likes, he's never done me any harm, and I shall lethim alone; but if he means me to have it, I suppose I'd better haveit. "--And have it she did. 

"And I, " thought Ernest to himself again when the arrangement wasconcluded, "am the man who thought himself unlucky!"

I may as well say here all that need be said further about Ellen. Forthe next three years she used to call regularly at Mr Ottery's everyMonday morning for her pound. She was always neatly dressed, and lookedso quiet and pretty that no one would have suspected her antecedents. Atfirst she wanted sometimes to anticipate, but after three or fourineffectual attempts--on each of which occasions she told a most pitifulstory--she gave it up and took her money regularly without a word. Onceshe came with a bad black eye, "which a boy had throwed a stone and hither by mistake"; but on the whole she looked pretty much the same at theend of the three years as she had done at the beginning. Then sheexplained that she was going to be married again. Mr Ottery saw her onthis, and pointed out to her that she would very likely be againcommitting bigamy by doing so. "You may call it what you like, " shereplied, "but I am going off to America with Bill the butcher's man, andwe 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. Ibelieve it was Bill who had blacked her eye, and she liked him all thebetter for it. 

From one or two little things I have been able to gather that the couplegot on very well together, and that in Bill she has found a partnerbetter suited to her than either John or Ernest. On his birthday Ernestgenerally receives an envelope with an American post-mark containing abook-marker with a flaunting text upon it, or a moral kettle-holder, orsome other similar small token of recognition, but no letter. Of thechildren she has taken no notice. 

CHAPTER LXXVIII

Ernest was now well turned twenty-six years old, and in little more thananother year and a half would come into possession of his money. I sawno reason for letting him have it earlier than the date fixed by MissPontifex herself; at the same time I did not like his continuing the shopat Blackfriars after the present crisis. It was not till now that Ifully understood how much he had suffered, nor how nearly his supposedwife's habits had brought him to actual want. 

I had indeed noted the old wan worn look settling upon his face, but waseither too indolent or too hopeless of being able to sustain a protractedand successful warfare with Ellen to extend the sympathy and make theinquiries which I suppose I ought to have made. And yet I hardly knowwhat I could have done, for nothing short of his finding out what he hadfound out would have detached him from his wife, and nothing could do himmuch good as long as he continued to live with her. 

After all I suppose I was right; I suppose things did turn out all thebetter in the end for having been left to settle themselves--at any ratewhether they did or did not, the whole thing was in too great a muddlefor 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, andI 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 andbegun to live, so to speak, upon his own account. Of these years, sixmonths had been spent as a clergyman, six months in gaol, and for two anda half years he had been acquiring twofold experience in the ways ofbusiness and of marriage. He had failed, I may say, in everything thathe 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 ofhis being worth all the pains I could bestow upon him; my only fear waslest I should meddle with him when it might be better for him to be letalone. On the whole I concluded that a three and a half years'apprenticeship to a rough life was enough; the shop had done much forhim; it had kept him going after a fashion, when he was in great need; ithad thrown him upon his own resources, and taught him to see profitableopenings all around him, where a few months before he would have seennothing but insuperable difficulties; it had enlarged his sympathies bymaking him understand the lower classes, and not confining his view oflife to that taken by gentlemen only. When he went about the streets andsaw the books outside the second-hand book-stalls, the bric-a-brac in thecuriosity shops, and the infinite commercial activity which isomnipresent around us, he understood it and sympathised with it as hecould 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 thatoverlooked populous suburbs, and looked down upon street after street ofdingy houses, he used to wonder what kind of people lived in them, whatthey 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 thewriter of the Odyssey (who, by the way, I suspect strongly of having beena clergyman), but he assuredly hit the right nail on the head when heepitomised his typical wise man as knowing "the ways and farings of manymen. " What culture is comparable to this? What a lie, what a sicklydebilitating debauch did not Ernest's school and university career nowseem to him, in comparison with his life in prison and as a tailor inBlackfriars. I have heard him say he would have gone through all he hadsuffered if it were only for the deeper insight it gave him into thespirit of the Grecian and the Surrey pantomimes. What confidence againin his own power to swim if thrown into deep waters had not he wonthrough his experiences during the last three years!

But, as I have said, I thought my godson had now seen as much of theunder currents of life as was likely to be of use to him, and that it wastime he began to live in a style more suitable to his prospects. Hisaunt had wished him to kiss the soil, and he had kissed it with avengeance; but I did not like the notion of his coming suddenly from theposition of a small shop-keeper to that of a man with an income ofbetween three and four thousand a year. Too sudden a jump from badfortune to good is just as dangerous as one from good to bad; besides, poverty is very wearing; it is a quasi-embryonic condition, through whicha 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 itover early. 

No man is safe from losing every penny he has in the world, unless he hashad his facer. How often do I not hear middle-aged women and quietfamily men say that they have no speculative tendency; _they_ never hadtouched, and never would touch, any but the very soundest, best reputedinvestments, and as for unlimited liability, oh dear! dear! and theythrow up their hands and eyes. 

Whenever a person is heard to talk thus he may be recognised as the easyprey of the first adventurer who comes across him; he will commonly, indeed, wind up his discourse by saying that in spite of all his naturalcaution, and his well knowing how foolish speculation is, yet there aresome 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 awfulthing the loss of it is, and finds out how easily it is lost by those whoventure out of the middle of the most beaten path. Ernest had had hisfacer, as he had had his attack of poverty, young, and sufficiently badlyfor a sensible man to be little likely to forget it. I can fancy fewpieces 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 aspeculation master attached to every school. The boys would beencouraged to read the _Money Market Review_, the _Railway News_, and allthe best financial papers, and should establish a stock exchange amongstthemselves in which pence should stand as pounds. Then let them see howthis making haste to get rich moneys out in actual practice. There mightbe a prize awarded by the head-master to the most prudent dealer, and theboys who lost their money time after time should be dismissed. Of courseif any boy proved to have a genius for speculation and made money--welland good, let him speculate by all means. 

If Universities were not the worst teachers in the world I should like tosee professorships of speculation established at Oxford and Cambridge. When I reflect, however, that the only things worth doing which Oxfordand Cambridge can do well are cooking, cricket, rowing and games, ofwhich there is no professorship, I fear that the establishment of aprofessorial chair would end in teaching young men neither how tospeculate, nor how not to speculate, but would simply turn them out asbad speculators. 

I heard of one case in which a father actually carried my idea intopractice. He wanted his son to learn how little confidence was to beplaced in glowing prospectuses and flaming articles, and found him fivehundred pounds which he was to invest according to his lights. Thefather expected he would lose the money; but it did not turn out so inpractice, for the boy took so much pains and played so cautiously thatthe 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 everyoneelse was making them. For a few years I had been so scared and hadsuffered so severely, that when (owing to the good advice of the brokerwho had advised my father and grandfather before me) I came out in theend a winner and not a loser, I played no more pranks, but kepthenceforward as nearly in the middle of the middle rut as I could. Itried in fact to keep my money rather than to make more of it. I haddone with Ernest's money as with my own--that is to say I had let italone after investing it in Midland ordinary stock according to MissPontifex's instructions. No amount of trouble would have been likely tohave increased my godson's estate one half so much as it had increasedwithout my taking any trouble at all. 

Midland stock at the end of August 1850, when I sold out Miss Pontifex'sdebentures, stood at 32 pounds per 100 pounds. I invested the whole ofErnest's 15, 000 pounds at this price, and did not change the investmenttill a few months before the time of which I have been writinglately--that is to say until September 1861. I then sold at 129 poundsper share and invested in London and North-Western ordinary stock, whichI was advised was more likely to rise than Midlands now were. I boughtthe London and North-Western stock at 93 pounds per 100 pounds, and mygodson now in 1882 still holds it. 

The original 15, 000 pounds had increased in eleven years to over 60, 000pounds; the accumulated interest, which, of course, I had re-invested, had come to about 10, 000 pounds more, so that Ernest was then worth over70, 000 pounds. At present he is worth nearly double that sum, and all asthe result of leaving well alone. 

Large as his property now was, it ought to be increased still furtherduring the year and a half that remained of his minority, so that oncoming of age he ought to have an income of at least 3500 pounds a year. 

I wished him to understand book-keeping by double entry. I had myself asa young man been compelled to master this not very difficult art; havingacquired it, I have become enamoured of it, and consider it the mostnecessary branch of any young man's education after reading and writing. I was determined, therefore, that Ernest should master it, and proposedthat he should become my steward, book-keeper, and the manager of myhoardings, for so I called the sum which my ledger showed to haveaccumulated from 15, 000 to 70, 000 pounds. I told him I was going tobegin to spend the income as soon as it had amounted up to 80, 000 pounds. 

A few days after Ernest's discovery that he was still a bachelor, whilehe was still at the very beginning of the honeymoon, as it were, of hisrenewed unmarried life, I broached my scheme, desired him to give up hisshop, and offered him 300 pounds a year for managing (so far indeed as itrequired any managing) his own property. This 300 pounds a year, I needhardly 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 mosthideous, hopeless _liaisons_ imaginable, and at the same time raised froma life of almost squalor to the enjoyment of what would to him be ahandsome 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 pounds for yourself. "

I fixed upon this sum, because it was the one which Mr Disraeli gaveConingsby when Coningsby was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes. MrDisraeli evidently thought 300 pounds a year the smallest sum on whichConingsby could be expected to live, and make the two ends meet; withthis, however, he thought his hero could manage to get along for a yearor two. In 1862, of which I am now writing, prices had risen, though notso much as they have since done; on the other hand Ernest had had lessexpensive antecedents than Coningsby, so on the whole I thought 300pounds a year would be about the right thing for him. 

CHAPTER LXXIX

The question now arose what was to be done with the children. Iexplained to Ernest that their expenses must be charged to the estate, and showed him how small a hole all the various items I proposed tocharge would make in the income at my disposal. He was beginning to makedifficulties, when I quieted him by pointing out that the money had allcome to me from his aunt, over his own head, and reminded him there hadbeen an understanding between her and me that I should do much as I wasdoing, if occasion should arise. 

He wanted his children to be brought up in the fresh pure air, and amongother children who were happy and contented; but being still ignorant ofthe fortune that awaited him, he insisted that they should pass theirearlier years among the poor rather than the rich. I remonstrated, buthe was very decided about it; and when I reflected that they wereillegitimate, I was not sure but that what Ernest proposed might be aswell for everyone in the end. They were still so young that it did notmuch matter where they were, so long as they were with kindly decentpeople, and in a healthy neighbourhood. 

"I shall be just as unkind to my children, " he said, "as my grandfatherwas to my father, or my father to me. If they did not succeed in makingtheir children love them, neither shall I. I say to myself that I shouldlike to do so, but so did they. I can make sure that they shall not knowhow much they would have hated me if they had had much to do with me, butthis is all I can do. If I must ruin their prospects, let me do so at areasonable 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 yearbefore he is born. It is then he insists on setting up a separateestablishment; when this has been once agreed to, the more complete theseparation for ever after the better for both. " Then he said moreseriously: "I want to put the children where they will be well and happy, and where they will not be betrayed into the misery of falseexpectations. "

In the end he remembered that on his Sunday walks he had more than onceseen 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 hada family of their own fast coming on and the children seemed to thrive;both father and mother indeed were comfortable well grown folks, in whosehands young people would be likely to have as fair a chance of coming toa 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 themthan Ernest did, we offered them a pound a week to take the children andbring 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 thepresent. Then Ernest sent his small stock of goods to Debenham's, gaveup the house he had taken two and a half years previously, and returnedto civilisation. 

I had expected that he would now rapidly recover, and was disappointed tosee him get as I thought decidedly worse. Indeed, before long I thoughthim looking so ill that I insisted on his going with me to consult one ofthe most eminent doctors in London. This gentleman said there was noacute disease but that my young friend was suffering from nervousprostration, the result of long and severe mental suffering, from whichthere was no remedy except time, prosperity and rest. 

He said that Ernest must have broken down later on, but that he mighthave gone on for some months yet. It was the suddenness of the relieffrom tension which had knocked him over now. 

"Cross him, " said the doctor, "at once. Crossing is the great medicaldiscovery of the age. Shake him out of himself by shaking something elseinto him. "

I had not told him that money was no object to us and I think he hadreckoned me up as not over rich. He continued:--

"Seeing is a mode of touching, touching is a mode of feeding, feeding isa mode of assimilation, assimilation is a mode of recreation andreproduction, and this is crossing--shaking yourself into something elseand 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 youprefer it, and who I know have not money enough to let them get away fromLondon. This has set me thinking how I can best cross them even if theycannot leave home, and I have made a list of cheap London amusementswhich I recommend to my patients; none of them cost more than a fewshillings 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; ifyou can dose your young friend with this pretty freely you will soonbring him round. However, Mr Pontifex is not well enough to stand sogreat a change as going abroad yet; from what you tell me I should thinkhe had had as much change lately as is good for him. If he were to goabroad now he would probably be taken seriously ill within a week. Wemust wait till he has recovered tone a little more. I will begin byringing 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. Ishould prescribe for Mr Pontifex a course of the larger mammals. Don'tlet him think he is taking them medicinally, but let him go to theirhouse twice a week for a fortnight, and stay with the hippopotamus, therhinoceros, and the elephants, till they begin to bore him. I find thesebeasts do my patients more good than any others. The monkeys are not awide enough cross; they do not stimulate sufficiently. The largercarnivora are unsympathetic. The reptiles are worse than useless, andthe marsupials are not much better. Birds again, except parrots, are notvery beneficial; he may look at them now and again, but with theelephants and the pig tribe generally he should mix just now as freely aspossible. 

"Then, you know, to prevent monotony I should send him, say, to morningservice 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 tillthe 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 himgo to the theatres in the evenings--and then let him come to me again ina fortnight. "

Had the doctor been less eminent in his profession I should have doubtedwhether he was in earnest, but I knew him to be a man of business whowould neither waste his own time nor that of his patients. As soon as wewere out of the house we took a cab to Regent's Park, and spent a coupleof hours in sauntering round the different houses. Perhaps it was onaccount of what the doctor had told me, but I certainly became aware of afeeling I had never experienced before. I mean that I was receiving aninflux of new life, or deriving new ways of looking at life--which is thesame thing--by the process. I found the doctor quite right in hisestimate of the larger mammals as the ones which on the whole were mostbeneficial, and observed that Ernest, who had heard nothing of what thedoctor had said to me, lingered instinctively in front of them. As forthe elephants, especially the baby elephant, he seemed to be drinking inlarge draughts of their lives to the re-creation and regeneration of hisown. 

We dined in the gardens, and I noticed with pleasure that Ernest'sappetite was already improved. Since this time, whenever I have been alittle out of sorts myself I have at once gone up to Regent's Park, andhave invariably been benefited. I mention this here in the hope thatsome 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 thanour friend the doctor had expected. "Now, " he said, "Mr Pontifex may goabroad, 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 talkedabout my not being able to spare him for so long. I soon made this allright. 

"It is now the beginning of April, " said I, "go down to Marseilles atonce, and take steamer to Nice. Then saunter down the Riviera toGenoa--from Genoa go to Florence, Rome and Naples, and come home by wayof Venice and the Italian lakes. "

"And won't you come too?" said he, eagerly. 

I said I did not mind if I did, so we began to make our arrangements nextmorning, and completed them within a very few days. 

CHAPTER LXXX

We left by the night mail, crossing from Dover. The night was soft, andthere was a bright moon upon the sea. "Don't you love the smell ofgrease about the engine of a Channel steamer? Isn't there a lot of hopein it?" said Ernest to me, for he had been to Normandy one summer as aboy with his father and mother, and the smell carried him back to daysbefore those in which he had begun to bruise himself against the greatoutside world. "I always think one of the best parts of going abroad isthe first thud of the piston, and the first gurgling of the water whenthe paddle begins to strike it. "

It was very dreamy getting out at Calais, and trudging about with luggagein a foreign town at an hour when we were generally both of us in bed andfast asleep, but we settled down to sleep as soon as we got into therailway carriage, and dozed till we had passed Amiens. Then waking whenthe first signs of morning crispness were beginning to show themselves, Isaw that Ernest was already devouring every object we passed with quicksympathetic curiousness. There was not a peasant in a blouse driving hiscart betimes along the road to market, not a signalman's wife in herhusband's hat and coat waving a green flag, not a shepherd taking out hissheep to the dewy pastures, not a bank of opening cowslips as we passedthrough the railway cuttings, but he was drinking it all in with anenjoyment too deep for words. The name of the engine that drew us wasMozart, and Ernest liked this too. 

We reached Paris by six, and had just time to get across the town andtake a morning express train to Marseilles, but before noon my youngfriend was tired out and had resigned himself to a series of sleeps whichwere seldom intermitted for more than an hour or so together. He foughtagainst this for a time, but in the end consoled himself by saying it wasso nice to have so much pleasure that he could afford to throw a lot ofit away. Having found a theory on which to justify himself, he slept inpeace. 

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 enfeebledstate. For a few days he was really ill, but after this he righted. Formy 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 isbetter. I remember being ill once in a foreign hotel myself and how muchI enjoyed it. To lie there careless of everything, quiet and warm, andwith no weight upon the mind, to hear the clinking of the plates in thefar-off kitchen as the scullion rinsed them and put them by; to watch thesoft shadows come and go upon the ceiling as the sun came out or wentbehind a cloud; to listen to the pleasant murmuring of the fountain inthe court below, and the shaking of the bells on the horses' collars andthe clink of their hoofs upon the ground as the flies plagued them; notonly 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 soforgotten care, drop off to sleep for ever, would not this be a betterpiece 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 itout. 

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 hisbedside just as it was getting dusk and said in a grave, quiet mannerthat he should like to speak to me. 

"I have been thinking, " he said, "that I may perhaps never recover fromthis illness, and in case I do not I should like you to know that thereis only one thing which weighs upon me. I refer, " he continued after aslight pause, "to my conduct towards my father and mother. I have beenmuch too good to them. I treated them much too considerately, " on whichhe broke into a smile which assured me that there was nothing seriouslyamiss with him. 

On the walls of his bedroom were a series of French Revolution printsrepresenting events in the life of Lycurgus. There was "Grandeur d'amede Lycurgue, " and "Lycurgue consulte l'oracle, " and then there was"Calciope a la Cour. " Under this was written in French and Spanish:"Modele de grace et de beaute, la jeune Calciope non moins sage que belleavait merite l'estime et l'attachement du vertueux Lycurgue. Vivementepris de tant de charmes, l'illustre philosophe la conduisait dans letemple de Junon, ou ils s'unirent par un serment sacre. Apres cetteauguste ceremonie, Lycurgue s'empressa de conduire sa jeune epouse aupalais de son frere Polydecte, Roi de Lacedemon. 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 temoigna d'abordquelque surprise, mais l'estime qu'il avait pour son frere lui inspiraune reponse pleine de beinveillance. Il s'approcha aussitot de Calciopequ'il embrassa tendrement, combla ensuite Lycurgue de prevenances etparut tres satisfait. "

He called my attention to this and then said somewhat timidly that hewould rather have married Ellen than Calciope. I saw he was hardeningand made no hesitation about proposing that in another day or two weshould proceed upon our journey. 

I will not weary the reader by taking him with us over beaten ground. Westopped at Siena, Cortona, Orvieto, Perugia and many other cities, andthen after a fortnight passed between Rome and Naples went to theVenetian provinces and visited all those wondrous towns that lie betweenthe 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 enjoyedthe trip more than I did myself, but it was not till we were on the pointof returning that Ernest had recovered strength enough to be calledfairly well, and it was not for many months that he so completely lostall sense of the wounds which the last four years had inflicted on him asto 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 init now and again for a long while after they have lost it. One painwhich he had almost forgotten came upon him on his return to England, Imean the sting of his having been imprisoned. As long as he was only asmall shop-keeper his imprisonment mattered nothing; nobody knew of it, and if they had known they would not have cared; now, however, though hewas returning to his old position he was returning to it disgraced, andthe pain from which he had been saved in the first instance bysurroundings so new that he had hardly recognised his own identity in themiddle of them, came on him as from a wound inflicted yesterday. 

He thought of the high resolves which he had made in prison about usinghis disgrace as a vantage ground of strength rather than trying to makepeople forget it. "That was all very well 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 supposedwife and was now comfortably off again, wanted to renew theiracquaintance; he was grateful to them and sometimes tried to meet theiradvances half way, but it did not do, and ere long he shrank back intohimself, pretending not to know them. An infernal demon of honestyhaunted 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 haveno right to their acquaintance. "

He thought that everyone except himself was _sans peur et sans reproche_. Of course they must be, for if they had not been, would they not havebeen bound to warn all who had anything to do with them of theirdeficiencies? Well, he could not do this, and he would not have people'sacquaintance under false pretences, so he gave up even hankering afterrehabilitation and fell back upon his old tastes for music andliterature. 

Of course he has long since found out how silly all this was, how silly Imean in theory, for in practice it worked better than it ought to havedone, by keeping him free from _liaisons_ which would have tied histongue and made him see success elsewhere than where he came in time tosee it. He did what he did instinctively and for no other reason thanbecause it was most natural to him. So far as he thought at all, hethought wrong, but what he did was right. I said something of this kindto 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 besure I should have aimed low enough if I had thought I had got thechance. "

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. Ionce saw a fly alight on a cup of hot coffee on which the milk had formeda thin skin; he perceived his extreme danger, and I noted with what amplestrides and almost supermuscan effort he struck across the treacheroussurface and made for the edge of the cup--for the ground was not solidenough to let him raise himself from it by his wings. As I watched him Ifancied that so supreme a moment of difficulty and danger might leave himwith an increase of moral and physical power which might even descend insome measure to his offspring. But surely he would not have got theincreased moral power if he could have helped it, and he will notknowingly alight upon another cup of hot coffee. The more I see the moresure I am that it does not matter why people do the right thing so longonly as they do it, nor why they may have done the wrong if they havedone it. The result depends upon the thing done and the motive goes fornothing. I have read somewhere, but cannot remember where, that in somecountry district there was once a great scarcity of food, during whichthe poor suffered acutely; many indeed actually died of starvation, andall were hard put to it. In one village, however, there was a poor widowwith a family of young children, who, though she had small visible meansof subsistence, still looked well-fed and comfortable, as also did allher little ones. "How, " everyone asked, "did they manage to live?" Itwas plain they had a secret, and it was equally plain that it could be nogood one; for there came a hurried, hunted look over the poor woman'sface if anyone alluded to the way in which she and hers throve whenothers starved; the family, moreover, were sometimes seen out at unusualhours of the night, and evidently brought things home, which could hardlyhave been honestly come by. They knew they were under suspicion, and, being hitherto of excellent name, it made them very unhappy, for it mustbe confessed that they believed what they did to be uncanny if notabsolutely wicked; nevertheless, in spite of this they throve, and kepttheir 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 a bittersense of degradation she confessed the truth; she and her children wentinto the hedges and gathered snails, which they made into broth andate--could she ever be forgiven? Was there any hope of salvation for hereither in this world or the next after such unnatural conduct?

So again I have heard of an old dowager countess whose money was all inConsols; she had had many sons, and in her anxiety to give the youngerones a good start, wanted a larger income than Consols would give her. She consulted her solicitor and was advised to sell her Consols andinvest in the London and North-Western Railway, then at about 85. Thiswas to her what eating snails was to the poor widow whose story I havetold above. With shame and grief, as of one doing an unclean thing--buther boys must have their start--she did as she was advised. Then for along while she could not sleep at night and was haunted by a presage ofdisaster. Yet what happened? She started her boys, and in a few yearsfound her capital doubled into the bargain, on which she sold out andwent back again to Consols and died in the full blessedness offund-holding. 

She thought, indeed, that she was doing a wrong and dangerous thing, butthis had absolutely nothing to do with it. Suppose she had invested inthe full confidence of a recommendation by some eminent London bankerwhose advice was bad, and so had lost all her money, and suppose she haddone this with a light heart and with no conviction of sin--would herinnocence of evil purpose and the excellence of her motive have stood herin 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 didnot of course know that he knew it. Towneley was rich himself, and wasmarried now; Ernest would be rich soon, had _bona fide_ intended to bemarried already, and would doubtless marry a lawful wife later on. Sucha man was worth taking pains with, and when Towneley one day met Ernestin 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 laughinglyinside out, telling him he would have no such nonsense. 

Towneley was just as much Ernest's idol now as he had ever been, andErnest, who was very easily touched, felt more gratefully and warmly thanever towards him, but there was an unconscious something which wasstronger than Towneley, and made my hero determine to break with him moredeterminedly perhaps than with any other living person; he thanked him ina low hurried voice and pressed his hand, while tears came into his eyesin spite of all his efforts to repress them. "If we meet again, " hesaid, "do not look at me, but if hereafter you hear of me writing thingsyou do not like, think of me as charitably as you can, " and so theyparted. 

"Towneley is a good fellow, " said I, gravely, "and you should not havecut him. "

"Towneley, " he answered, "is not only a good fellow, but he is withoutexception the very best man I ever saw in my life--except, " he paid methe compliment of saying, "yourself; Towneley is my notion of everythingwhich I should most like to be--but there is no real solidarity betweenus. I should be in perpetual fear of losing his good opinion if I saidthings he did not like, and I mean to say a great many things, " hecontinued more merrily, "which Towneley will not like. "

A man, as I have said already, can give up father and mother for Christ'ssake tolerably easily for the most part, but it is not so easy to give uppeople like Towneley. 

CHAPTER LXXXI

So he fell away from all old friends except myself and three or four oldintimates of my own, who were as sure to take to him as he to them, andwho like myself enjoyed getting hold of a young fresh mind. Ernestattended to the keeping of my account books whenever there was anythingwhich could possibly be attended to, which there seldom was, and spentthe greater part of the rest of his time in adding to the many notes andtentative essays which had already accumulated in his portfolios. Anyonewho was used to writing could see at a glance that literature was hisnatural development, and I was pleased at seeing him settle down to it sospontaneously. I was less pleased, however, to observe that he wouldstill occupy himself with none but the most serious, I had almost saidsolemn, subjects, just as he never cared about any but the most seriouskind of music. 

I said to him one day that the very slender reward which God had attachedto the pursuit of serious inquiry was a sufficient proof that Hedisapproved of it, or at any rate that He did not set much store by itnor wish to encourage it. 

He said: "Oh, don't talk about rewards. Look at Milton, who only got 5pounds for 'Paradise Lost. '"

"And a great deal too much, " I rejoined promptly. "I would have givenhim twice as much myself not to have written it at all. "

Ernest was a little shocked. "At any rate, " he said laughingly, "I don'twrite poetry. "

This was a cut at me, for my burlesques were, of course, written inrhyme. So I dropped the matter. 

After a time he took it into his head to reopen the question of hisgetting 300 pounds a year for doing, as he said, absolutely nothing, andsaid he would try to find some employment which should bring him inenough to live upon. 

I laughed at this but let him alone. He tried and tried very hard for along 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; butat the same time the harder do I see it is to impose oneself upon thatfolly and credulity. 

He tried editor after editor with article after article. Sometimes aneditor listened to him and told him to leave his articles; he almostinvariably, however, had them returned to him in the end with a politenote saying that they were not suited for the particular paper to whichhe had sent them. And yet many of these very articles appeared in hislater works, and no one complained of them, not at least on the score ofbad literary workmanship. "I see, " he said to me one day, "that demandis very imperious, and supply must be very suppliant. "

Once, indeed, the editor of an important monthly magazine accepted anarticle from him, and he thought he had now got a footing in the literaryworld. The article was to appear in the next issue but one, and he wasto receive proof from the printers in about ten days or a fortnight; butweek after week passed and there was no proof; month after month went byand there was still no room for Ernest's article; at length after aboutsix months the editor one morning told him that he had filled everynumber of his review for the next ten months, but that his article shoulddefinitely appear. On this he insisted on having his MS. Returned tohim. 

Sometimes his articles were actually published, and he found the editorhad edited them according to his own fancy, putting in jokes which hethought were funny, or cutting out the very passage which Ernest hadconsidered the point of the whole thing, and then, though the articlesappeared, when it came to paying for them it was another matter, and henever 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; thereis not one but has the mark of the beast upon him. "

At last after months of disappointment and many a tedious hour wasted indingy anterooms (and of all anterooms those of editors appear to me to bethe dreariest), he got a _bona fide_ offer of employment from one of thefirst class weekly papers through an introduction I was able to get forhim from one who had powerful influence with the paper in question. Theeditor 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 onebook there was an editorial note to the effect that the writer was to becondemned. Ernest particularly admired the book he was desired tocondemn, and feeling how hopeless it was for him to do anything likejustice 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 havingdone this it expired within a fortnight after the last of Ernest'sarticles had appeared. It certainly looked very much as if the othereditors knew their business in declining to have anything to do with myunlucky godson. 

I was not sorry that he failed with periodical literature, for writingfor reviews or newspapers is bad training for one who may aspire to writeworks of more permanent interest. A young writer should have more timefor reflection than he can get as a contributor to the daily or evenweekly press. Ernest himself, however, was chagrined at finding howunmarketable 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 moresaleable. If I was even a cathedral in a colonial town people would giveme something, but as it is they do not want me"; and now that he was welland rested he wanted to set up a shop again, but this, of course, I wouldnot hear of. 

"What care I, " said he to me one day, "about being what they call agentleman?" And his manner was almost fierce. 

"What has being a gentleman ever done for me except make me less able toprey and more easy to be preyed upon? It has changed the manner of mybeing swindled, that is all. But for your kindness to me I should bepenniless. Thank heaven I have placed my children where I have. "

I begged him to keep quiet a little longer and not talk about taking ashop. 

"Will being a gentleman, " he said, "bring me money at the last, and willanything bring me as much peace at the last as money will? They say thatthose 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 arehappy for many a long year after they would have entered into the kingdomof Heaven if they had been poor. I want to live long and to raise mychildren, if I see they would be happier for the raising; that is what Iwant, and it is not what I am doing now that will help me. Being agentleman 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 wantdone and will pay me for doing for them. They know what they want andwhat is good for them better than I can tell them. "

It was hard to deny the soundness of this, and if he had been dependentonly on the 300 pounds a year which he was getting from me I should haveadvised him to open his shop again next morning. As it was, I temporisedand 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 adoptedevolution as an article of faith. "It seems to me, " he said once, "thatI am like one of those caterpillars which, if they have been interruptedin making their hammock, must begin again from the beginning. So long asI went back a long way down in the social scale I got on all right, andshould have made money but for Ellen; when I try to take up the work at ahigher stage I fail completely. " I do not know whether the analogy holdsgood or not, but I am sure Ernest's instinct was right in telling himthat after a heavy fall he had better begin life again at a very lowstage, and as I have just said, I would have let him go back to his shopif I had not known what I did. 

As the time fixed upon by his aunt drew nearer I prepared him more andmore for what was coming, and at last, on his twenty-eighth birthday, Iwas able to tell him all and to show him the letter signed by his auntupon her death-bed to the effect that I was to hold the money in trustfor him. His birthday happened that year (1863) to be on a Sunday, buton the following day I transferred his shares into his own name, andpresented him with the account books which he had been keeping for thelast year and a half. 

In spite of all that I had done to prepare him, it was a long whilebefore I could get him actually to believe that the money was his own. Hedid not say much--no more did I, for I am not sure that I did not feel asmuch moved at having brought my long trusteeship to a satisfactoryconclusion as Ernest did at finding himself owner of more than 70, 000pounds. When he did speak it was to jerk out a sentence or two ofreflection at a time. "If I were rendering this moment in music, " hesaid, "I should allow myself free use of the augmented sixth. " A littlelater I remember his saying with a laugh that had something of a familylikeness to his aunt's: "It is not the pleasure it causes me which Ienjoy so, it is the pain it will cause to all my friends except yourselfand Towneley. "

I said: "You cannot tell your father and mother--it would drive themmad. "

"No, no, no, " said he, "it would be too cruel; it would be like Isaacoffering up Abraham and no thicket with a ram in it near at hand. Besideswhy should I? We have cut each other these four years. "

CHAPTER LXXXII

It almost seemed as though our casual mention of Theobald and Christinahad in some way excited them from a dormant to an active state. Duringthe years that had elapsed since they last appeared upon the scene theyhad remained at Battersby, and had concentrated their affection upontheir other children. 

It had been a bitter pill to Theobald to lose his power of plaguing hisfirst-born; if the truth were known I believe he had felt this moreacutely than any disgrace which might have been shed upon him by Ernest'simprisonment. He had made one or two attempts to reopen negotiationsthrough me, but I never said anything about them to Ernest, for I knew itwould upset him. I wrote, however, to Theobald that I had found his soninexorable, and recommended him for the present, at any rate, to desistfrom returning to the subject. This I thought would be at once whatErnest would like best and Theobald least. 

A few days, however, after Ernest had come into his property, I receiveda letter from Theobald enclosing one for Ernest which I could notwithhold. 

The letter ran thus:--

 "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 Dr 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 to 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 affordto smile now at his father's offering to pay for his clothes, and hissending him a Post Office order for the exact price of a second-classticket, and he was of course shocked at learning the state his mother wassaid to be in, and touched at her desire to see him. He telegraphed thathe would come down at once. I saw him a little before he started, andwas pleased to see how well his tailor had done by him. Towneley himselfcould not have been appointed more becomingly. His portmanteau, hisrailway wrapper, everything he had about him, was in keeping. I thoughthe had grown much better-looking than he had been at two or three andtwenty. His year and a half of peace had effaced all the ill effects ofhis previous suffering, and now that he had become actually rich therewas an air of _insouciance_ and good humour upon his face, as of a manwith whom everything was going perfectly right, which would have made amuch plainer man good-looking. I was proud of him and delighted withhim. "I am sure, " I said to myself, "that whatever else he may do, hewill never marry again. "

The journey was a painful one. As he drew near to the station and caughtsight of each familiar feature, so strong was the force of associationthat 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 toit from Cambridge for the vacations. Do what he would, the old dullweight of _home-sickness_ began to oppress him, his heart beat fast as hethought of his approaching meeting with his father and mother, "and Ishall have, " he said to himself, "to kiss Charlotte. "

Would his father meet him at the station? Would he greet him as thoughnothing had happened, or would he be cold and distant? How, again, wouldhe take the news of his son's good fortune? As the train drew up to theplatform, Ernest's eye ran hurriedly over the few people who were in thestation. His father's well-known form was not among them, but on theother side of the palings which divided the station yard from theplatform, he saw the pony carriage, looking, as he thought, rathershabby, and recognised his father's coachman. In a few minutes more hewas in the carriage driving towards Battersby. He could not help smilingas he saw the coachman give a look of surprise at finding him so muchchanged in personal appearance. The coachman was the more surprisedbecause when Ernest had last been at home he had been dressed as aclergyman, and now he was not only a layman, but a layman who was got upregardless of expense. The change was so great that it was not tillErnest actually spoke to him that the coachman knew him. 

"How are my father and mother?" he asked hurriedly, as he got into thecarriage. "The Master's well, sir, " was the answer, "but the Missis isvery sadly. " The horse knew that he was going home and pulled hard atthe reins. The weather was cold and raw--the very ideal of a Novemberday; in one part of the road the floods were out, and near here they hadto pass through a number of horsemen and dogs, for the hounds had metthat morning at a place near Battersby. Ernest saw several people whomhe knew, but they either, as is most likely, did not recognise him, ordid not know of his good luck. When Battersby church tower drew near, and he saw the Rectory on the top of the hill, its chimneys just showingabove the leafless trees with which it was surrounded, he threw himselfback 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 fewminutes more he was on the steps in front of his father's house. Hisfather, hearing the carriage arrive, came a little way down the steps tomeet him. Like the coachman he saw at a glance that Ernest was appointedas though money were abundant with him, and that he was looking robustand full of health and vigour. 

This was not what he had bargained for. He wanted Ernest to return, buthe was to return as any respectable, well-regulated prodigal ought toreturn--abject, broken-hearted, asking forgiveness from the tenderest andmost long-suffering father in the whole world. If he should have shoesand stockings and whole clothes at all, it should be only becauseabsolute rags and tatters had been graciously dispensed with, whereashere he was swaggering in a grey ulster and a blue and white necktie, andlooking better than Theobald had ever seen him in his life. It wasunprincipled. Was it for this that he had been generous enough to offerto provide Ernest with decent clothes in which to come and visit hismother's death-bed? Could any advantage be meaner than the one whichErnest had taken? Well, he would not go a penny beyond the eight or ninepounds which he had promised. It was fortunate he had given a limit. Whyhe, Theobald, had never been able to afford such a portmanteau in hislife. He was still using an old one which his father had turned over tohim when he went up to Cambridge. Besides, he had said clothes, not aportmanteau. 

Ernest saw what was passing through his father's mind, and felt that heought to have prepared him in some way for what he now saw; but he hadsent his telegram so immediately on receiving his father's letter, andhad followed it so promptly that it would not have been easy to do soeven 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 hashanded over to me Aunt Alethea's money. "

Theobald flushed scarlet. "But why, " he said, and these were the firstwords 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 gooddeal and looked sheepish, but he got the words out. 

"Because, my dear father, " said Ernest still laughing, "my aunt left itto him in trust for me, not in trust either for you or for my UncleJohn--and it has accumulated till it is now over 70, 000 pounds. But tellme how is my mother?"

"No, Ernest, " said Theobald excitedly, "the matter cannot rest here, Imust know that this is all open and above board. "

This had the true Theobald ring and instantly brought the whole train ofideas which in Ernest's mind were connected with his father. Thesurroundings were the old familiar ones, but the surrounded were changedalmost beyond power of recognition. He turned sharply on Theobald in amoment. I will not repeat the words he used, for they came out before hehad time to consider them, and they might strike some of my readers asdisrespectful; there were not many of them, but they were effectual. Theobald said nothing, but turned almost of an ashen colour; he neveragain spoke to his son in such a way as to make it necessary for him torepeat what he had said on this occasion. Ernest quickly recovered histemper and again asked after his mother. Theobald was glad enough totake this opening now, and replied at once in the tone he would haveassumed towards one he most particularly desired to conciliate, that shewas 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 lifefor 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 Ernesthad been born. His father went before him and prepared her for her son'sapproach. 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 wouldcome, I knew, I knew he could 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 notknow how we have loved you and mourned over you, papa just as much as Ihave. You know he shows his feelings less, but I can never tell you howvery, very deeply he has felt for you. Sometimes at night I have thoughtI have heard footsteps in the garden, and have got quietly out of bedlest I should wake him, and gone to the window to look out, but there hasbeen only dark or the greyness of the morning, and I have gone cryingback to bed again. Still I think you have been near us though you weretoo proud to let us know--and now at last I have you in my arms oncemore, 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 havebeen so hard; I was wrong, very wrong"; the poor blubbering fellow meantwhat he said, and his heart yearned to his mother as he had never thoughtthat it could yearn again. "But have you never, " she continued, "comealthough it was in the dark and we did not know it--oh, let me think thatyou have not been so cruel as we have thought you. Tell me that you cameif only to comfort me and make me happier. "

Ernest was ready. "I had no money to come with, mother, till justlately. "

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--andnow that I have you safe again, say that you will never, never leaveme--not till--not till--oh, my boy, have they told you I am dying?" Shewept bitterly, and buried her head in her pillow. 

CHAPTER LXXXIII

Joey and Charlotte were in the room. Joey was now ordained, and wascurate to Theobald. He and Ernest had never been sympathetic, and Ernestsaw at a glance that there was no chance of a _rapprochement_ betweenthem. 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, forthere was a good deal of family likeness between the pair; but Joey'sface was cold and was illumined with no spark of Bohemianism; he was aclergyman and was going to do as other clergymen did, neither better norworse. He greeted Ernest rather _de haut en bas_, that is to say hebegan 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; hehad been dreading it for the last three hours. She, too, was distant andreproachful in her manner, as such a superior person was sure to be. Shehad a grievance against him inasmuch as she was still unmarried. Shelaid the blame of this at Ernest's door; it was his misconduct shemaintained in secret, which had prevented young men from making offers toher, and she ran him up a heavy bill for consequential damages. She andJoey had from the first developed an instinct for hunting with thehounds, and now these two had fairly identified themselves with the oldergeneration--that is to say as against Ernest. On this head there was anoffensive and defensive alliance between them, but between themselvesthere was subdued but internecine warfare. 

This at least was what Ernest gathered, partly from his recollections ofthe parties concerned, and partly from his observation of their littleways during the first half-hour after his arrival, while they were alltogether in his mother's bedroom--for as yet of course they did not knowthat he had money. He could see that they eyed him from time to timewith a surprise not unmixed with indignation, and knew very well whatthey were thinking. 

Christina saw the change which had come over him--how much firmer andmore vigorous both in mind and body he seemed than when she had last seenhim. She saw too how well he was dressed, and, like the others, in spiteof the return of all her affection for her first-born, was a littlealarmed about Theobald's pocket, which she supposed would have to bemulcted for all this magnificence. Perceiving this, Ernest relieved hermind and told her all about his aunt's bequest, and how I had husbandedit, in the presence of his brother and sister--who, however, pretendednot to notice, or at any rate to notice as a matter in which they couldhardly be expected to take an interest. 

His mother kicked a little at first against the money's having gone tohim as she said "over his papa's head. " "Why, my dear, " she said in adeprecating tone, "this is more than ever your papa has had"; but Ernestcalmed her by suggesting that if Miss Pontifex had known how large thesum 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 pointof departure, began spending Ernest's money for him. 

I may say in passing that Christina was right in saying that Theobald hadnever had so much money as his son was now possessed of. In the firstplace he had not had a fourteen years' minority with no outgoings toprevent the accumulation of the money, and in the second he, like myselfand almost everyone else, had suffered somewhat in the 1846 times--notenough to cripple him or even seriously to hurt him, but enough to givehim a scare and make him stick to debentures for the rest of his life. Itwas the fact of his son's being the richer man of the two, and of hisbeing rich so young, which rankled with Theobald even more than the factof his having money at all. If he had had to wait till he was sixty orsixty-five, and become broken down from long failure in the meantime, whythen perhaps he might have been allowed to have whatever sum shouldsuffice to keep him out of the workhouse and pay his death-bed expenses;but that he should come in to 70, 000 pounds at eight and twenty, and haveno wife and only two children--it was intolerable. Christina was too illand in too great a hurry to spend the money to care much about suchdetails as the foregoing, and she was naturally much more good-naturedthan Theobald. 

"This piece of good fortune"--she saw it at a glance--"quite wiped outthe disgrace of his having been imprisoned. There should be no morenonsense about that. The whole thing was a mistake, an unfortunatemistake, true, but the less said about it now the better. Of courseErnest would come back and live at Battersby until he was married, and hewould pay his father handsomely for board and lodging. In fact it wouldbe only right that Theobald should make a profit, nor would Ernesthimself wish it to be other than a handsome one; this was far the bestand simplest arrangement; and he could take his sister out more thanTheobald or Joey cared to do, and would also doubtless entertain veryhandsomely at Battersby. 

"Of course he would buy Joey a living, and make large presents yearly tohis sister--was there anything else? Oh! yes--he would become a countymagnate now; a man with nearly 4000 pounds a year should certainly becomea county magnate. He might even go into Parliament. He had very fairabilities, nothing indeed approaching such genius as Dr Skinner's, noreven as Theobald's, still he was not deficient and if he got intoParliament--so young too--there was nothing to hinder his being PrimeMinister 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 tohear people call her son 'my lord'--Lord Battersby she thought would dovery nicely, and if she was well enough to sit he must certainly have herportrait painted at full length for one end of his large dining-hall. Itshould be exhibited at the Royal Academy: 'Portrait of Lord Battersby'smother, ' she said to herself, and her heart fluttered with all its wontedvivacity. If she could not sit, happily, she had been photographed notso very long ago, and the portrait had been as successful as anyphotograph could be of a face which depended so entirely upon itsexpression as her own. Perhaps the painter could take the portraitsufficiently from this. It was better after all that Ernest had given upthe Church--how far more wisely God arranges matters for us than ever wecan do for ourselves! She saw it all now--it was Joey who would becomeArchbishop of Canterbury and Ernest would remain a layman and becomePrime Minister" . . . And so on till her daughter told her it was time totake her medicine. 

I suppose this reverie, which is a mere fragment of what actually ranthrough Christina's brain, occupied about a minute and a half, but it, orthe presence of her son, seemed to revive her spirits wonderfully. Ill, dying indeed, and suffering as she was, she brightened up so as to laughonce or twice quite merrily during the course of the afternoon. Next dayDr Martin said she was so much better that he almost began to have hopesof her recovery again. Theobald, whenever this was touched upon aspossible, would shake his head and say: "We can't wish it prolonged, " andthen Charlotte caught Ernest unawares and said: "You know, dear Ernest, that these ups and downs of talk are terribly agitating to papa; he couldstand whatever comes, but it is quite too wearing to him to think half-a-dozen different things backwards and forwards, up and down in the sametwenty-four hours, and it would be kinder of you not to do it--I mean notto say anything to him even though Dr Martin does hold out hopes. "

Charlotte had meant to imply that it was Ernest who was at the bottom ofall the inconvenience felt by Theobald, herself, Joey and everyone else, and she had actually got words out which should convey this; true, shehad not dared to stick to them and had turned them off, but she had madethem hers at any rate for one brief moment, and this was better thannothing. Ernest noticed throughout his mother's illness, that Charlottefound immediate occasion to make herself disagreeable to him whenevereither doctor or nurse pronounced her mother to be a little better. Whenshe wrote to Crampsford to desire the prayers of the congregation (shewas sure her mother would wish it, and that the Crampsford people wouldbe pleased at her remembrance of them), she was sending another letter onsome quite different subject at the same time, and put the two lettersinto the wrong envelopes. Ernest was asked to take these letters to thevillage post-office, and imprudently did so; when the error came to bediscovered Christina happened to have rallied a little. Charlotte flewat Ernest immediately, and laid all the blame of the blunder upon hisshoulders. 

Except that Joey and Charlotte were more fully developed, the house andits inmates, organic and inorganic, were little changed since Ernest hadlast seen them. The furniture and the ornaments on the chimney-piecewere 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 CarloDolci and the Sassoferrato as in old times; there was the water colour ofa scene on the Lago Maggiore, copied by Charlotte from an original lenther by her drawing master, and finished under his direction. This wasthe 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 thewalls was unchanged; the roses were still waiting for the bees; and thewhole family still prayed night and morning to be made "truly honest andconscientious. "

One picture only was removed--a photograph of himself which had hungunder one of his father and between those of his brother and sister. Ernest noticed this at prayer time, while his father was reading aboutNoah's ark and how they daubed it with slime, which, as it happened, hadbeen Ernest's favourite text when he was a boy. Next morning, however, the photograph had found its way back again, a little dusty and with abit of the gilding chipped off from one corner of the frame, but theresure enough it was. I suppose they put it back when they found how richhe had become. 

In the dining-room the ravens were still trying to feed Elijah over thefireplace; what a crowd of reminiscences did not this picture bring back!Looking out of the window, there were the flower beds in the front gardenexactly as they had been, and Ernest found himself looking hard againstthe blue door at the bottom of the garden to see if there was rainfalling, as he had been used to look when he was a child doing lessonswith his father. 

After their early dinner, when Joey and Ernest and their father were leftalone, Theobald rose and stood in the middle of the hearthrug under theElijah picture, and began to whistle in his old absent way. He had twotunes only, one was "In my Cottage near a Wood, " and the other was theEaster Hymn; he had been trying to whistle them all his life, but hadnever succeeded; he whistled them as a clever bullfinch might whistlethem--he had got them, but he had not got them right; he would be asemitone out in every third note as though reverting to some remotemusical progenitor, who had known none but the Lydian or the Phrygianmode, or whatever would enable him to go most wrong while still keepingthe tune near enough to be recognised. Theobald stood before the middleof the fire and whistled his two tunes softly in his own old way tillErnest left the room; the unchangedness of the external and changednessof the internal he felt were likely to throw him completely off hisbalance. 

He strolled out of doors into the sodden spinney behind the house, andsolaced himself with a pipe. Ere long he found himself at the door ofthe cottage of his father's coachman, who had married an old lady's maidof his mother's, to whom Ernest had been always much attached as she alsoto him, for she had known him ever since he had been five or six yearsold. Her name was Susan. He sat down in the rocking-chair before herfire, and Susan went on ironing at the table in front of the window, anda smell of hot flannel pervaded the kitchen. 

Susan had been retained too securely by Christina to be likely to sidewith Ernest all in a moment. He knew this very well, and did not call onher for the sake of support, moral or otherwise. He had called becausehe liked her, and also because he knew that he should gather much in achat 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 yourpoor papa and mamma wanted you? I'm sure your ma has said to me ahundred times over if she has said it once that all should be exactly asit had been before. "

Ernest smiled to himself. It was no use explaining to Susan why hesmiled, so he said nothing. 

"For the first day or two I thought she never would get over it; she saidit was a judgement upon her, and went on about things as she had said anddone many years ago, before your pa knew her, and I don't know what shedidn't say or wouldn't have said only I stopped her; she seemed out ofher mind like, and said that none of the neighbours would ever speak toher again, but the next day Mrs Bushby (her that was Miss Cowey, youknow) called, and your ma always was so fond of her, and it seemed to doher 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 theneighbours 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 Lordhad turned them to a well. 

"'Oh yes, Susan, ' said she, 'be sure it is so. Whom the Lord loveth hechasteneth, Susan, ' and here she began to cry again. 'As for him, ' shewent on, 'he has made his bed, and he must lie on it; when he comes outof prison his pa will know what is best to be done, and Master Ernest maybe thankful that he has a pa so good and so long-suffering. '

"Then when you would not see them, that was a cruel blow to your ma. Yourpa did not say anything; you know your pa never does say very much unlesshe's downright waxy for the time; but your ma took on dreadful for a fewdays, and I never saw the master look so black; but, bless you, it allwent off in a few days, and I don't know that there's been muchdifference 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, asalso on the following morning; his father read about David's dyinginjunctions 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 on so manytimes that he was in a misbehaving humour, on this the second night afterhis arrival. He knelt next Charlotte and said the responsesperfunctorily, not so perfunctorily that she should know for certain thathe was doing it maliciously, but so perfunctorily as to make heruncertain whether he might be malicious or not, and when he had to prayto be made truly honest and conscientious he emphasised the "truly. " Ido not know whether Charlotte noticed anything, but she knelt at somedistance from him during the rest of his stay. He assures me that thiswas the only spiteful thing he did during the whole time he was atBattersby. 

When he went up to his bedroom, in which, to do them justice, they hadgiven him a fire, he noticed what indeed he had noticed as soon as he wasshown into it on his arrival, that there was an illuminated card framedand glazed over his bed with the words, "Be the day weary or be the daylong, at last it ringeth to evensong. " He wondered to himself how suchpeople could leave such a card in a room in which their visitors wouldhave 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 is all right. " I believe Christina hadbought the card at a bazaar in aid of the restoration of a neighbouringchurch, and having been bought it had got to be used--besides, thesentiment 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. 

On the third day after Ernest's arrival Christina relapsed again. Forthe last two days she had been in no pain and had slept a good deal; herson's presence still seemed to cheer her, and she often said how thankfulshe was to be surrounded on her death-bed by a family so happy, so God-fearing, so united, but now she began to wander, and, being more sensibleof the approach of death, seemed also more alarmed at the thoughts of theDay of Judgment. 

She ventured more than once or twice to return to the subject of hersins, and implored Theobald to make quite sure that they were forgivenher. She hinted that she considered his professional reputation was atstake; it would never do for his own wife to fail in securing at any ratea pass. This was touching Theobald on a tender spot; he winced andrejoined with an impatient toss of the head, "But, Christina, they _are_forgiven you"; and then he entrenched himself in a firm but dignifiedmanner behind the Lord's prayer. When he rose he left the room, butcalled Ernest out to say that he could not wish it prolonged. 

Joey was no more use in quieting his mother's anxiety than Theobald hadbeen--indeed he was only Theobald and water; at last Ernest, who had notliked interfering, took the matter in hand, and, sitting beside her, lether 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 thisthat weighed upon her. She had given up much, and had always tried togive up more year by year, still she knew very well that she had not beenso spiritually minded as she ought to have been. If she had, she shouldprobably have been favoured with some direct vision or communication;whereas, though God had vouchsafed such direct and visible angelic visitsto one of her dear children, yet she had had none such herself--nor evenhad Theobald. 

She was talking rather to herself than to Ernest as she said these words, but they made him open his ears. He wanted to know whether the angel hadappeared to Joey or to Charlotte. He asked his mother, but she seemedsurprised, as though she expected him to know all about it, then, as ifshe remembered, she checked herself and said, "Ah! yes--you know nothingof all this, and perhaps it is as well. " Ernest could not of coursepress the subject, so he never found out which of his near relations itwas who had had direct communication with an immortal. The others neversaid anything to him about it, though whether this was because they wereashamed, or because they feared he would not believe the story and thusincrease his own damnation, he could not determine. 

Ernest has often thought about this since. He tried to get the facts outof Susan, who he was sure would know, but Charlotte had been beforehandwith him. "No, Master Ernest, " said Susan, when he began to questionher, "your ma has sent a message to me by Miss Charlotte as I am not tosay nothing at all about it, and I never will. " Of course no furtherquestioning was possible. It had more than once occurred to Ernest thatCharlotte did not in reality believe more than he did himself, and thisincident went far to strengthen his surmises, but he wavered when heremembered how she had misdirected the letter asking for the prayers ofthe congregation. "I suppose, " he said to himself gloomily, "she doesbelieve in it after all. "

Then Christina returned to the subject of her own want ofspiritual-mindedness, she even harped upon the old grievance of herhaving eaten black puddings--true, she had given them up years ago, butfor how many years had she not persevered in eating them after she hadhad misgivings about their having been forbidden! Then there wassomething that weighed on her mind that had taken place before hermarriage, and she should like--

Ernest interrupted: "My dear mother, " he said, "you are ill and your mindis unstrung; others can now judge better about you than you can; I assureyou that to me you seem to have been the most devotedly unselfish wifeand mother that ever lived. Even if you have not literally given up allfor Christ's sake, you have done so practically as far as it was in yourpower, and more than this is not required of anyone. I believe you willnot only be a saint, but a very distinguished one. "

At these words Christina brightened. "You give me hope, you give mehope, " she cried, and dried her eyes. She made him assure her over andover again that this was his solemn conviction; she did not care aboutbeing a distinguished saint now; she would be quite content to be amongthe meanest who actually got into heaven, provided she could make sure ofescaping that awful Hell. The fear of this evidently was omnipresentwith her, and in spite of all Ernest could say he did not quite dispelit. She was rather ungrateful, I must confess, for after more than anhour's consolation from Ernest she prayed for him that he might haveevery blessing in this world, inasmuch as she always feared that he wasthe only one of her children whom she should never meet in heaven; butshe was then wandering, and was hardly aware of his presence; her mind infact 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 theever receding tide of Evangelicalism had ebbed many a stage lower, evenduring the few years of his absence. His father used to walk to thechurch 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 apair of Geneva bands. Ernest noticed that the bands were worn no longer, and lo! greater marvel still, Theobald did not preach in his Master'sgown, 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 couldnever under any circumstances become, but the old easy-goingslovenliness, if I may say so, was gone for ever. The orchestralaccompaniments to the hymns had disappeared while my hero was yet a boy, but there had been no chanting for some years after the harmonium hadbeen introduced. While Ernest was at Cambridge, Charlotte and Christinahad prevailed on Theobald to allow the canticles to be sung; and sungthey were to old-fashioned double chants by Lord Mornington and Dr Dupuisand others. Theobald did not like it, but he did it, or allowed it to bedone. 

Then Christina said: "My dear, do you know, I really think" (Christinaalways "really" thought) "that the people like the chanting very much, and that it will be a means of bringing many to church who have stayedaway hitherto. I was talking about it to Mrs Goodhew and to old MissWright only yesterday, and they _quite_ agreed with me, but they all saidthat we ought to chant the 'Glory be to the Father' at the end of each ofthe psalms instead of saying it. "

Theobald looked black--he felt the waters of chanting rising higher andhigher upon him inch by inch; but he felt also, he knew not why, that hehad better yield than fight. So he ordered the "Glory be to the Father"to be chanted in future, but he did not like it. 

"Really, mamma dear, " said Charlotte, when the battle was won, "youshould not call it the 'Glory be to the Father' you should say 'Gloria. '"

"Of course, my dear, " said Christina, and she said "Gloria" for everafter. 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 whenTheobald went away for an unusually long holiday one summer, he couldfind no one but a rather high-church clergyman to take his duty. Thisgentleman was a man of weight in the neighbourhood, having considerableprivate means, but without preferment. In the summer he would often helphis brother clergymen, and it was through his being willing to take theduty at Battersby for a few Sundays that Theobald had been able to getaway for so long. On his return, however, he found that the whole psalmswere being chanted as well as the Glorias. The influential clergyman, Christina, and Charlotte took the bull by the horns as soon as Theobaldreturned, and laughed it all off; and the clergyman laughed and bounced, and Christina laughed and coaxed, and Charlotte uttered unexceptionablesentiments, and the thing was done now, and could not be undone, and itwas no use grieving over spilt milk; so henceforth the psalms were to bechanted, but Theobald grisled over it in his heart, and he did not likeit. 

During this same absence what had Mrs Goodhew and old Miss Wright takento doing but turning towards the east while repeating the Belief?Theobald disliked this even worse than chanting. When he said somethingabout 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, butthe spirit of her aunts Jane and Eliza was strong in Charlotte, and thething 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 tothe east during the time the Creed was said, and by-and-by othersfollowed their example, and ere long the few who had stood out yieldedand turned eastward too; and then Theobald made as though he had thoughtit 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 shegot frightened and ran away. 

And they changed the double chants for single ones, and altered thempsalm by psalm, and in the middle of psalms, just where a cursory readerwould see no reason why they should do so, they changed from major tominor and from minor back to major; and then they got "Hymns Ancient andModern, " and, as I have said, they robbed him of his beloved bands, andthey made him preach in a surplice, and he must have celebration of theHoly Communion once a month instead of only five times in the year asheretofore, and he struggled in vain against the unseen influence whichhe felt to be working in season and out of season against all that he hadbeen 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 heknew exceedingly well that go where he would it was undermining him; thatit was too persistent for him; that Christina and Charlotte liked it agreat deal better than he did, and that it could end in nothing but Rome. Easter decorations indeed! Christmas decorations--in reason--were properenough, but Easter decorations! well, it might last his time. 

This was the course things had taken in the Church of England during thelast forty years. The set has been steadily in one direction. A few menwho knew what they wanted made cats' paws of the Christmas and theCharlottes, and the Christmas and the Charlottes made cats' paws of theMrs Goodhews and the old Miss Wrights, and Mrs Goodhews and old MissWrights told the Mr Goodhews and young Miss Wrights what they should do, and when the Mr Goodhews and the young Miss Wrights did it the littleGoodhews and the rest of the spiritual flock did as they did, and theTheobalds 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 yetthe Church of England looks with no friendly eyes upon the theory ofEvolution or Descent with Modification. 

My hero thought over these things, and remembered many a _ruse_ on thepart of Christina and Charlotte, and many a detail of the struggle whichI cannot further interrupt my story to refer to, and he remembered hisfather's favourite retort that it could only end in Rome. When he was aboy he had firmly believed this, but he smiled now as he thought ofanother alternative clear enough to himself, but so horrible that it hadnot even occurred to Theobald--I mean the toppling over of the wholesystem. At that time he welcomed the hope that the absurdities andunrealities of the Church would end in her downfall. Since then he hascome to think very differently, not as believing in the cow jumping overthe moon more than he used to, or more, probably, than nine-tenths of theclergy themselves--who know as well as he does that their outward andvisible symbols are out of date--but because he knows the bafflingcomplexity of the problem when it comes to deciding what is actually tobe done. Also, now that he has seen them more closely, he knows betterthe nature of those wolves in sheep's clothing, who are thirsting for theblood of their victim, and exulting so clamorously over its anticipatedearly fall into their clutches. The spirit behind the Church is true, though her letter--true once--is now true no longer. The spirit behindthe High Priests of Science is as lying as its letter. The Theobalds, who do what they do because it seems to be the correct thing, but who intheir hearts neither like it nor believe in it, are in reality the leastdangerous of all classes to the peace and liberties of mankind. The manto fear is he who goes at things with the cocksureness of pushingvulgarity and self-conceit. These are not vices which can be justly laidto the charge of the English clergy. 

Many of the farmers came up to Ernest when service was over, and shookhands with him. He found every one knew of his having come into afortune. The fact was that Theobald had immediately told two or three ofthe greatest gossips in the village, and the story was not long inspreading. "It simplified matters, " he had said to himself, "a gooddeal. " Ernest was civil to Mrs Goodhew for her husband's sake, but hegave Miss Wright the cut direct, for he knew that she was only Charlottein disguise. 

A week passed slowly away. Two or three times the family took thesacrament together round Christina's death-bed. Theobald's impatiencebecame more and more transparent daily, but fortunately Christina (whoeven if she had been well would have been ready to shut her eyes to it)became weaker and less coherent in mind also, so that she hardly, if atall, perceived it. After Ernest had been in the house about a week hismother fell into a comatose state which lasted a couple of days, and inthe end went away so peacefully that it was like the blending of sea andsky in mid-ocean upon a soft hazy day when none can say where the earthends and the heavens begin. Indeed she died to the realities of lifewith less pain than she had waked from many of its illusions. 

"She has been the comfort and mainstay of my life for more than thirtyyears, " said Theobald as soon as all was over, "but one could not wish itprolonged, " and he buried his face in his handkerchief to conceal hiswant of emotion. 

Ernest came back to town the day after his mother's death, and returnedto the funeral accompanied by myself. He wanted me to see his father inorder to prevent any possible misapprehension about Miss Pontifex'sintentions, and I was such an old friend of the family that my presenceat Christina's funeral would surprise no one. With all her faults I hadalways rather liked Christina. She would have chopped Ernest or any oneelse into little pieces of mincemeat to gratify the slightest wish of herhusband, but she would not have chopped him up for any one else, and solong as he did not cross her she was very fond of him. By nature she wasof an even temper, more willing to be pleased than ruffled, very ready todo a good-natured action, provided it did not cost her much exertion, norinvolve expense to Theobald. Her own little purse did not matter; anyone might have as much of that as he or she could get after she hadreserved what was absolutely necessary for her dress. I could not hearof her end as Ernest described it to me without feeling verycompassionate towards her, indeed her own son could hardly have felt moreso; I at once, therefore, consented to go down to the funeral; perhaps Iwas also influenced by a desire to see Charlotte and Joey, in whom I feltinterested on hearing what my godson had told me. 

I found Theobald looking remarkably well. Every one said he was bearingit so beautifully. He did indeed once or twice shake his head and saythat his wife had been the comfort and mainstay of his life for overthirty years, but there the matter ended. I stayed over the next daywhich was Sunday, and took my departure on the following morning afterhaving told Theobald all that his son wished me to tell him. Theobaldasked me to help him with Christina's epitaph. 

"I would say, " said he, "as little as possible; eulogies of the departedare in most cases both unnecessary and untrue. Christina's epitaph shallcontain nothing which shall be either the one or the other. I shouldgive her name, the dates of her birth and death, and of course say shewas my wife, and then I think I should wind up with a simple text--herfavourite 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 Ernestwas sent to give the order to Mr Prosser, the stonemason in the nearesttown, who said it came from "the Beetitudes. "

CHAPTER LXXXIV

On our way to town Ernest broached his plans for spending the next yearor two. I wanted him to try and get more into society again, but hebrushed this aside at once as the very last thing he had a fancy for. Forsociety indeed of all sorts, except of course that of a few intimatefriends, he had an unconquerable aversion. "I always did hate thosepeople, " he said, "and they always have hated and always will hate me. Iam an Ishmael by instinct as much as by accident of circumstances, but ifI keep out of society I shall be less vulnerable than Ishmaels generallyare. The moment a man goes into society, he becomes vulnerable allround. "

I was very sorry to hear him talk in this way; for whatever strength aman may have he should surely be able to make more of it if he act inconcert than alone. I said this. 

"I don't care, " he answered, "whether I make the most of my strength ornot; I don't know whether I have any strength, but if I have I dare sayit 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 Ican 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, " headded 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 whichno one dares to say, a lot of shams which want attacking, and yet no oneattacks them. It seems to me that I can say things which not another manin England except myself will venture to say, and yet which are crying tobe said. "

I said: "But who will listen? If you say things which nobody else woulddare to say is not this much the same as saying what everyone exceptyourself knows to be better left unsaid just now?"

"Perhaps, " said he, "but I don't know it; I am bursting with thesethings, and it is my fate to say them. "

I knew there would be no stopping him, so I gave in and asked whatquestion he felt a special desire to burn his fingers with in the firstinstance. 

"Marriage, " he rejoined promptly, "and the power of disposing of hisproperty after a man is dead. The question of Christianity is virtuallysettled, or if not settled there is no lack of those engaged in settlingit. 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 Ihappen to like. Before, however, I begin to stir up this particular oneI propose to travel for a few years, with the especial object of findingout what nations now existing are the best, comeliest and most lovable, and also what nations have been so in times past. I want to find out howthese people live, and have lived, and what their customs are. 

"I have very vague notions upon the subject as yet, but the generalimpression I have formed is that, putting ourselves on one side, the mostvigorous and amiable of known nations are the modern Italians, the oldGreeks and Romans, and the South Sea Islanders. I believe that thesenice peoples have not as a general rule been purists, but I want to seethose of them who can yet be seen; they are the practical authorities onthe question--What is best for man? and I should like to see them andfind out what they do. Let us settle the fact first and fight about themoral tendencies afterwards. "

"In fact, " said I laughingly, "you mean to have high old times. "

"Neither higher nor lower, " was the answer, "than those people whom I canfind 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 hadwritten before the birth of her last child, and which I have given in anearlier chapter. 

"And you do not find this letter, " said I, "affect the conclusion whichyou have just told me you have come to concerning your present plans?"

He smiled, and answered: "No. But if you do what you have sometimestalked 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 havebeen held sacred from the public gaze. 

"Because my mother would have wished it published; if she had known youwere writing about me and had this letter in your possession, she wouldabove all things have desired that you should publish it. Thereforepublish it if you write at all. "

This is why I have done so. 

Within a month Ernest carried his intention into effect, and having madeall the arrangements necessary for his children's welfare left Englandbefore Christmas. 

I heard from him now and again and learnt that he was visiting almost allparts of the world, but only staying in those places where he found theinhabitants unusually good-looking and agreeable. He said he had filledan immense quantity of note-books, and I have no doubt he had. At lastin the spring of 1867 he returned, his luggage stained with the variationof each hotel advertisement 'twixt here and Japan. He looked very brownand strong, and so well favoured that it almost seemed as if he must havecaught some good looks from the people among whom he had been living. Hecame back to his old rooms in the Temple, and settled down as easily asif he had never been away a day. 

One of the first things we did was to go and see the children; we tookthe train to Gravesend, and walked thence for a few miles along theriverside till we came to the solitary house where the good people livedwith whom Ernest had placed them. It was a lovely April morning, butwith a fresh air blowing from off the sea; the tide was high, and theriver was alive with shipping coming up with wind and tide. Sea-gullswheeled around us overhead, sea-weed clung everywhere to the banks whichthe 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 morehungry than I had done for many a day; I did not see how children couldlive in a better physical atmosphere than this, and applauded theselection which Ernest had made on behalf of his youngsters. 

While we were still a quarter of a mile off we heard shouts andchildren's laughter, and could see a lot of boys and girls rompingtogether and running after one another. We could not distinguish our owntwo, but when we got near they were soon made out, for the other childrenwere blue-eyed, flaxen-pated little folks, whereas ours were dark andstraight-haired. 

We had written to say that we were coming, but had desired that nothingshould be said to the children, so these paid no more attention to usthan they would have done to any other stranger, who happened to visit aspot so unfrequented except by sea-faring folk, which we plainly werenot. The interest, however, in us was much quickened when it wasdiscovered that we had got our pockets full of oranges and sweeties, toan extent greater than it had entered into their small imaginations toconceive as possible. At first we had great difficulty in making themcome near us. They were like a lot of wild young colts, veryinquisitive, but very coy and not to be cajoled easily. The childrenwere nine in all--five boys and two girls belonging to Mr and MrsRollings, and two to Ernest. I never saw a finer lot of children thanthe young Rollings, the boys were hardy, robust, fearless little fellowswith eyes as clear as hawks; the elder girl was exquisitely pretty, butthe younger one was a mere baby. I felt as I looked at them, that if Ihad had children of my own I could have wished no better home for them, nor better companions. 

Georgie and Alice, Ernest's two children, were evidently quite as onefamily with the others, and called Mr and Mrs Rollings uncle and aunt. They had been so young when they were first brought to the house thatthey had been looked upon in the light of new babies who had been borninto the family. They knew nothing about Mr and Mrs Rollings being paidso much a week to look after them. Ernest asked them all what theywanted to be. They had only one idea; one and all, Georgie among therest, wanted to be bargemen. Young ducks could hardly have a moreevident 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, theimage of what Mr Rollings must have been at his age. As we looked athim, so straight and well grown and well done all round, I could see itwas in Ernest's mind as much as in mine that she could hardly do muchbetter. 

"Come here, Jack, my boy, " said Ernest, "here's a shilling for you. " Theboy blushed and could hardly be got to come in spite of our previousblandishments; 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 ofthat. "

"Yes, " said Mr Rollings, "he's a werry good boy, only that I can't gethim 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 what's thematter with all my children, and yours, Mr Pontifex, is just as bad, butthey none of 'em likes book learning, though they learn anything elsefast enough. Why, as for Jack here, he's almost as good a bargeman as Iam. " And he looked fondly and patronisingly towards his offspring. 

"I think, " said Ernest to Mr Rollings, "if he wants to marry Alice whenhe gets older he had better do so, and he shall have as many barges as helikes. In the meantime, Mr Rollings, say in what way money can be of useto you, and whatever you can make useful is at your disposal. "

I need hardly say that Ernest made matters easy for this good couple; onestipulation, however, he insisted on, namely, there was to be no moresmuggling, and that the young people were to be kept out of this; for alittle bird had told Ernest that smuggling in a quiet way was one of theresources of the Rollings family. Mr Rollings was not sorry to assent tothis, and I believe it is now many years since the coastguard people havesuspected any of the Rollings family as offenders against the revenuelaw. 

"Why should I take them from where they are, " said Ernest to me in thetrain as we went home, "to send them to schools where they will not beone half so happy, and where their illegitimacy will very likely be aworry to them? Georgie wants to be a bargeman, let him begin as one, thesooner the better; he may as well begin with this as with anything else;then if he shows developments I can be on the look-out to encourage themand 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, andupon the way in which young people should go through the embryonic stageswith their money as much as with their limbs, beginning life in a muchlower social position than that in which their parents were, and a lotmore, which he has since published; but I was getting on in years, andthe walk and the bracing air had made me sleepy, so ere we had got pastGreenhithe Station on our return journey I had sunk into a refreshingsleep. 

CHAPTER LXXXV

Ernest being about two and thirty years old and having had his fling forthe last three or four years, now settled down in London, and began towrite steadily. Up to this time he had given abundant promise, but hadproduced nothing, nor indeed did he come before the public for anotherthree 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 foryears. Ernest and we formed our little set, and outside of this mygodson was hardly known at all. 

His main expense was travelling, which he indulged in at frequentintervals, but for short times only. Do what he would he could not getthrough more than about fifteen hundred a year; the rest of his income hegave away if he happened to find a case where he thought money would bewell bestowed, or put by until some opportunity arose of getting rid ofit with advantage. 

I knew he was writing, but we had had so many little differences ofopinion upon this head that by a tacit understanding the subject wasseldom referred to between us, and I did not know that he was actuallypublishing till one day he brought me a book and told me flat it was hisown. 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 differentpeople, and viewing the same class of subjects from differentstandpoints. 

People had not yet forgotten the famous "Essays and Reviews, " and Ernesthad wickedly given a few touches to at least two of the essays whichsuggested vaguely that they had been written by a bishop. The essayswere all of them in support of the Church of England, and appeared bothby internal suggestion, and their prima facie purport to be the work ofsome half-dozen men of experience and high position who had determined toface the difficult questions of the day no less boldly from within thebosom of the Church than the Church's enemies had faced them from withouther pale. 

There was an essay on the external evidences of the Resurrection; anotheron the marriage laws of the most eminent nations of the world in timespast and present; another was devoted to a consideration of the manyquestions which must be reopened and reconsidered on their merits if theteaching of the Church of England were to cease to carry moral authoritywith it; another dealt with the more purely social subject of middleclass destitution; another with the authenticity or rather theunauthenticity of the fourth gospel--another was headed "IrrationalRationalism, " and there were two or three more. 

They were all written vigorously and fearlessly as though by people usedto authority; all granted that the Church professed to enjoin belief inmuch 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 mixedup 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 toreign, on the ground that William the Conqueror was illegitimate. 

One article maintained that though it would be inconvenient to change thewords of our prayer book and articles, it would not be inconvenient tochange 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 hadbeen the law's mode of growth and adaptation, and had in all ages beenfound a righteous and convenient method of effecting change. It wassuggested 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 tobe faith, there being indeed no other ultimate foundation than this forany of man's beliefs. If so, the writer claimed that the Church couldnot be upset by reason. It was founded, like everything else, on initialassumptions, that is to say on faith, and if it was to be upset it was tobe upset by faith, by the faith of those who in their lives appeared moregraceful, more lovable, better bred, in fact, and better able to overcomedifficulties. Any sect which showed its superiority in these respectsmight carry all before it, but none other would make much headway forlong together. Christianity was true in so far as it had fosteredbeauty, and it had fostered much beauty. It was false in so far as itfostered ugliness, and it had fostered much ugliness. It was thereforenot a little true and not a little false; on the whole one might gofarther and fare worse; the wisest course would be to live with it, andmake the best and not the worst of it. The writer urged that we becomepersecutors as a matter of course as soon as we begin to feel verystrongly upon any subject; we ought not therefore to do this; we oughtnot to feel very strongly--even upon that institution which was dearer tothe writer than any other--the Church of England. We should bechurchmen, but somewhat lukewarm churchmen, inasmuch as those who carevery much about either religion or irreligion are seldom observed to bevery well bred or agreeable people. The Church herself should approachas nearly to that of Laodicea as was compatible with her continuing to bea Church at all, and each individual member should only be hot instriving to be as lukewarm as possible. 

The book rang with the courage alike of conviction and of an entireabsence of conviction; it appeared to be the work of men who had a rule-of-thumb way of steering between iconoclasm on the one hand and credulityon the other; who cut Gordian knots as a matter of course when it suitedtheir convenience; who shrank from no conclusion in theory, nor from anywant of logic in practice so long as they were illogical of maliceprepense, and for what they held to be sufficient reason. Theconclusions were conservative, quietistic, comforting. The arguments bywhich they were reached were taken from the most advanced writers of theday. All that these people contended for was granted them, but thefruits of victory were for the most part handed over to those already inpossession. 

Perhaps the passage which attracted most attention in the book was onefrom the essay on the various marriage systems of the world. It ran:--

"If people require us to construct, " exclaimed the writer, "we set goodbreeding as the corner-stone of our edifice. We would have it everpresent consciously or unconsciously in the minds of all as the centralfaith in which they should live and move and have their being, as thetouchstone of all things whereby they may be known as good or evilaccording as they make for good breeding or against it. "

"That a man should have been bred well and breed others well; that hisfigure, head, hands, feet, voice, manner and clothes should carryconviction upon this point, so that no one can look at him without seeingthat 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 greatestnumber of these well-bred men and women, and the greatest happiness ofthese well-bred men and women, this is the highest good; towards this allgovernment, all social conventions, all art, literature and scienceshould directly or indirectly tend. Holy men and holy women are thosewho keep this unconsciously in view at all times whether of work orpastime. "

If Ernest had published this work in his own name I should think it wouldhave fallen stillborn from the press, but the form he had chosen wascalculated at that time to arouse curiosity, and as I have said he hadwickedly dropped a few hints which the reviewers did not think anyonewould have been impudent enough to do if he were not a bishop, or at anyrate some one in authority. A well-known judge was spoken of as beinganother of the writers, and the idea spread ere long that six or seven ofthe leading bishops and judges had laid their heads together to produce avolume, which should at once outbid "Essays and Reviews" and counteractthe influence of that then still famous work. 

Reviewers are men of like passions with ourselves, and with them as witheveryone else _omne ignotum pro magnifico_. The book was really an ableone and abounded with humour, just satire, and good sense. It struck anew note and the speculation which for some time was rife concerning itsauthorship made many turn to it who would never have looked at itotherwise. One of the most gushing weeklies had a fit over it, anddeclared it to be the finest thing that had been done since the"Provincial Letters" of Pascal. Once a month or so that weekly alwaysfound some picture which was the finest that had been done since the oldmasters, or some satire that was the finest that had appeared since Swiftor some something which was incomparably the finest that had appearedsince something else. If Ernest had put his name to the book, and thewriter had known that it was by a nobody, he would doubtless have writtenin a very different strain. Reviewers like to think that for aught theyknow 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 rulewill 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 morningto find himself famous. He was Christina's son, and perhaps would nothave been able to do what he had done if he was not capable of occasionalundue elation. Ere long, however, he found out all about it, and settledquietly down to write a series of books, in which he insisted on sayingthings which no one else would say even if they could, or could even ifthey would. 

He has got himself a bad literary character. I said to him laughinglyone day that he was like the man in the last century of whom it was saidthat nothing but such a character could keep down such parts. 

He laughed and said he would rather be like that than like a modernwriter or two whom he could name, whose parts were so poor that theycould be kept up by nothing but by such a character. 

I remember soon after one of these books was published I happened to meetMrs Jupp to whom, by the way, Ernest made a small weekly allowance. Itwas at Ernest's chambers, and for some reason we were left alone for afew minutes. I said to her: "Mr Pontifex has written another book, MrsJupp. "

"Lor' now, " said she, "has he really? Dear gentleman! Is it aboutlove?" And the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep's eye glance at mefrom under her aged eyelids. I forget what there was in my reply whichprovoked it--probably nothing--but she went rattling on at full speed tothe effect that Bell had given her a ticket for the opera, "So, ofcourse, " she said, "I went. I didn't understand one word of it, for itwas all French, but I saw their legs. Oh dear, oh dear! I'm afraid Ishan't be here much longer, and when dear Mr Pontifex sees me in mycoffin he'll say, 'Poor old Jupp, she'll never talk broad any more'; butbless 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 Juppasked if he was still going on writing more books now that this one wasdone. "Of course I am, " he answered, "I'm always writing books; here isthe manuscript of my next;" and he showed her a heap of paper. 

"Well now, " she exclaimed, "dear, dear me, and is that manuscript? I'veoften heard talk about manuscripts, but I never thought I should live tosee 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 thelanguage 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 withanother visit, which she knows she is privileged from time to time to do, for Ernest likes her. 

CHAPTER LXXXVI

And now I must bring my story to a close. 

The preceding chapter was written soon after the events it records--thatis to say in the spring of 1867. By that time my story had been writtenup to this point; but it has been altered here and there from time totime occasionally. It is now the autumn of 1882, and if I am to say moreI should do so quickly, for I am eighty years old and though well inhealth cannot conceal from myself that I am no longer young. Ernesthimself is forty-seven, though he hardly looks it. 

He is richer than ever, for he has never married and his London and North-Western shares have nearly doubled themselves. Through sheer inabilityto spend his income he has been obliged to hoard in self-defence. Hestill lives in the Temple in the same rooms I took for him when he gaveup his shop, for no one has been able to induce him to take a house. Hishouse, he says, is wherever there is a good hotel. When he is in town helikes to work and to be quiet. When out of town he feels that he hasleft little behind him that can go wrong, and he would not like to betied to a single locality. "I know no exception, " he says, "to the rulethat it is cheaper to buy milk than to keep a cow. "

As I have mentioned Mrs Jupp, I may as well say here the little thatremains to be said about her. She is a very old woman now, but no onenow living, as she says triumphantly, can say how old, for the woman inthe Old Kent Road is dead, and presumably has carried her secret to thegrave. Old, however, though she is, she lives in the same house, andfinds it hard work to make the two ends meet, but I do not know that sheminds this very much, and it has prevented her from getting more to drinkthan would be good for her. It is no use trying to do anything for herbeyond paying her allowance weekly, and absolutely refusing to let heranticipate it. She pawns her flat iron every Saturday for 4d. , and takesit out every Monday morning for 4. 5d. When she gets her allowance, andhas done this for the last ten years as regularly as the week comesround. As long as she does not let the flat iron actually go we knowthat she can still worry out her financial problems in her own hugger-mugger way and had better be left to do so. If the flat iron were to gobeyond redemption, we should know that it was time to interfere. I donot know why, but there is something about her which always reminds me ofa woman who was as unlike her as one person can be to another--I meanErnest's mother. 

The last time I had a long gossip with her was about two years ago whenshe came to me instead of to Ernest. She said she had seen a cab driveup just as she was going to enter the staircase, and had seen MrPontifex's pa put his Beelzebub old head out of the window, so she hadcome on to me, for she hadn't greased her sides for no curtsey, not forthe likes of him. She professed to be very much down on her luck. Herlodgers did use her so dreadful, going away without paying and leavingnot so much as a stick behind, but to-day she was as pleased as a pennycarrot. She had had such a lovely dinner--a cushion of ham and greenpeas. She had had a good cry over it, but then she was so silly, shewas. 

"And there's that Bell, " she continued, though I could not detect anyappearance of connection, "it's enough to give anyone the hump to see himnow that he's taken to chapel-going, and his mother's prepared to meetJesus and all that to me, and now she ain't a-going to die, and drinkshalf a bottle of champagne a day, and then Grigg, him as preaches, youknow, asked Bell if I really was too gay, not but what when I was youngI'd snap my fingers at any 'fly by night' in Holborn, and if I was toggedout and had my teeth I'd do it now. I lost my poor dear Watkins, but ofcourse that couldn't be helped, and then I lost my dear Rose. Sillyfaggot to go and ride on a cart and catch the bronchitics. I neverthought when I kissed my dear Rose in Pullen's Passage and she gave methe chop, that I should never see her again, and her gentleman friend wasfond of her too, though he was a married man. I daresay she's gone tobits by now. If she could rise and see me with my bad finger, she wouldcry, 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 withtheir nice white stockings and their living to get, " etc. , etc. 

And yet age does not wither this godless old sinner, as people would sayit ought to do. Whatever life she has led, it has agreed with her verysufficiently. At times she gives us to understand that she is still muchsolicited; at others she takes quite a different tone. She has notallowed 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 haveseen me when I was sweet seventeen. I was the very moral of my poor dearmother, and she was a pretty woman, though I say it that shouldn't. Shehad such a splendid mouth of teeth. It was a sin to bury her in herteeth. "

I only knew of one thing at which she professes to be shocked. It isthat 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 thewords, but I tell him he's a drunken sot. " I believe the old woman inreality rather likes it. 

"But surely, Mrs Jupp, " said I, "Tom's wife used not to be Topsy. Youused to speak of her as Pheeb. "

"Ah! yes, " she answered, "but Pheeb behaved bad, and it's Topsy now. "

Ernest's daughter Alice married the boy who had been her playmate morethan a year ago. Ernest gave them all they said they wanted and a gooddeal more. They have already presented him with a grandson, and I doubtnot, will do so with many more. Georgie though only twenty-one is ownerof a fine steamer which his father has bought for him. He began whenabout thirteen going with old Rollings and Jack in the barge fromRochester to the upper Thames with bricks; then his father bought him andJack barges of their own, and then he bought them both ships, and thensteamers. I do not exactly know how people make money by having asteamer, but he does whatever is usual, and from all I can gather makesit pay 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--any literaryability; he has a fair sense of humour and abundance of common sense, buthis instinct is clearly a practical one. I am not sure that he does notput me in mind almost more of what Theobald would have been if he hadbeen a sailor, than of Ernest. Ernest used to go down to Battersby andstay with his father for a few days twice a year until Theobald's death, and the pair continued on excellent terms, in spite of what theneighbouring clergy call "the atrocious books which Mr Ernest Pontifex"has written. Perhaps the harmony, or rather absence of discord whichsubsisted between the pair was due to the fact that Theobald had neverlooked 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 havesaid, got on excellently, but it was doubtless as well that Ernest'svisits were short and not too frequent. Once Theobald wanted Ernest tobring his children, but Ernest knew they would not like it, so this wasnot done. 

Sometimes Theobald came up to town on small business matters and paid avisit to Ernest's chambers; he generally brought with him a couple oflettuces, or a cabbage, or half-a-dozen turnips done up in a piece ofbrown paper, and told Ernest that he knew fresh vegetables were ratherhard to get in London, and he had brought him some. Ernest had oftenexplained to him that the vegetables were of no use to him, and that hehad rather he would not bring them; but Theobald persisted, I believethrough sheer love of doing something which his son did not like, butwhich was too small to take notice of. 

He lived until about twelve months ago, when he was found dead in his bedon 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 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 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 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 marriageas though it were recent, it had really taken place some six yearspreviously, she being then about thirty-eight years old, and her husbandabout seven years younger. 

There was no doubt that Theobald passed peacefully away during his sleep. Can a man who died thus be said to have died at all? He has presentedthe phenomena of death to other people, but in respect of himself he hasnot 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 thanhalf living. He presented so many of the phenomena of living that Isuppose on the whole it would be less trouble to think of him as havingbeen alive than as never having been born at all, but this is onlypossible because association does not stick to the strict letter of itsbond. 

This, however, was not the general verdict concerning him, and thegeneral verdict is often the truest. 

Ernest was overwhelmed with expressions of condolence and respect for hisfather's memory. "He never, " said Dr Martin, the old doctor who broughtErnest into the world, "spoke an ill word against anyone. He was notonly liked, he was beloved by all who had anything to do with him. "

"A more perfectly just and righteously dealing man, " said the familysolicitor, "I have never had anything to do with--nor one more punctualin the discharge of every business obligation. "

"We shall miss him sadly, " the bishop wrote to Joey in the very warmestterms. The poor were in consternation. "The well's never missed, " saidone old woman, "till it's dry, " and she only said what everyone elsefelt. Ernest knew that the general regret was unaffected as for a losswhich could not be easily repaired. He felt that there were only threepeople in the world who joined insincerely in the tribute of applause, and these were the very three who could least show their want ofsympathy. I mean Joey, Charlotte, and himself. He felt bitter againsthimself for being of a mind with either Joey or Charlotte upon anysubject, and thankful that he must conceal his being so as far aspossible, not because of anything his father had done to him--thesegrievances were too old to be remembered now--but because he would neverallow him to feel towards him as he was always trying to feel. As longas communication was confined to the merest commonplace all went well, but if these were departed from ever such a little he invariably feltthat his father's instincts showed themselves in immediate opposition tohis own. When he was attacked his father laid whatever stress waspossible on everything which his opponents said. If he met with anycheck his father was clearly pleased. What the old doctor had said aboutTheobald's speaking ill of no man was perfectly true as regards othersthan himself, but he knew very well that no one had injured hisreputation in a quiet way, so far as he dared to do, more than his ownfather. This is a very common case and a very natural one. It oftenhappens that if the son is right, the father is wrong, and the father isnot going to have this if he can help it. 

It was very hard, however, to say what was the true root of the mischiefin the present case. It was not Ernest's having been imprisoned. Theobald forgot all about that much sooner than nine fathers out of tenwould have done. Partly, no doubt, it was due to incompatibility oftemperament, but I believe the main ground of complaint lay in the factthat he had been so independent and so rich while still very young, andthat thus the old gentleman had been robbed of his power to tease andscratch in the way which he felt he was entitled to do. The love ofteasing in a small way when he felt safe in doing so had remained part ofhis nature from the days when he told his nurse that he would keep her onpurpose to torment her. I suppose it is so with all of us. At any rateI am sure that most fathers, especially if they are clergymen, are likeTheobald. 

He did not in reality, I am convinced, like Joey or Charlotte one whitbetter than he liked Ernest. He did not like anyone or anything, or ifhe liked anyone at all it was his butler, who looked after him when hewas not well, and took great care of him and believed him to be the bestand ablest man in the whole world. Whether this faithful and attachedservant continued to think this after Theobald's will was opened and itwas found what kind of legacy had been left him I know not. Of hischildren, the baby who had died at a day old was the only one whom heheld to have treated him quite filially. As for Christina he hardly everpretended to miss her and never mentioned her name; but this was taken asa 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 Harmony ofthe Old and New Testaments which he had compiled during many years withsuch exquisite neatness and a huge collection of MS. Sermons--being allin fact that he had ever written. These and the Harmony fetchedninepence a barrow load. I was surprised to hear that Joey had not giventhe three or four shillings which would have bought the whole lot, butErnest tells me that Joey was far fiercer in his dislike of his fatherthan ever he had been himself, and wished to get rid of everything thatreminded him of him. 

It has already appeared that both Joey and Charlotte are married. Joeyhas a family, but he and Ernest very rarely have any intercourse. Ofcourse, Ernest took nothing under his father's will; this had long beenunderstood, so that the other two are both well provided for. 

Charlotte is as clever as ever, and sometimes asks Ernest to come andstay with her and her husband near Dover, I suppose because she knowsthat the invitation will not be agreeable to him. There is a _de haut enbas_ tone in all her letters; it is rather hard to lay one's finger uponit but Ernest never gets a letter from her without feeling that he isbeing 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 beenif it had anything to do with making Charlotte what she is. "

"Could you like, " she wrote to him not long ago, "the thoughts of alittle sea change here? The top of the cliffs will soon be bright withheather: the gorse must be out already, and the heather I should thinkbegun, to judge by the state of the hill at Ewell, and heather or noheather--the cliffs are always beautiful, and if you come your room shallbe cosy so that you may have a resting corner to yourself. Nineteen andsixpence is the price of a return-ticket which covers a month. Would youdecide just as you would yourself like, only if you come we would hope totry and make it bright for you; but you must not feel it a burden on yourmind if you feel disinclined to come in this direction. "

"When I have a bad nightmare, " said Ernest to me, laughing as he showedme this letter, "I dream that I have got to stay with Charlotte. "

Her letters are supposed to be unusually well written, and I believe itis said among the family that Charlotte has far more real literary powerthan Ernest has. Sometimes we think that she is writing at him as muchas to say, "There now--don't you think you are the only one of us who canwrite; read this! And if you want a telling bit of descriptive writingfor your next book, you can make what use of it you like. " I daresay shewrites very well, but she has fallen under the dominion of the words"hope, " "think, " "feel, " "try, " "bright, " and "little, " and can hardlywrite a page without introducing all these words and some of them morethan once. All this has the effect of making her style monotonous. 

Ernest is as fond of music as ever, perhaps more so, and of late yearshas added musical composition to the other irons in his fire. He findsit still a little difficult, and is in constant trouble through gettinginto the key of C sharp after beginning in the key of C and being unableto get back again. 

"Getting into the key of C sharp, " he said, "is like an unprotectedfemale travelling on the Metropolitan Railway, and finding herself atShepherd's Bush, without quite knowing where she wants to go to. How isshe ever to get safe back to Clapham Junction? And Clapham Junctionwon't quite do either, for Clapham Junction is like the diminishedseventh--susceptible of such enharmonic change, that you can resolve itinto all the possible termini of music. "

Talking of music reminds me of a little passage that took place betweenErnest and Miss Skinner, Dr Skinner's eldest daughter, not so very longago. Dr Skinner had long left Roughborough, and had become Dean of aCathedral in one of our Midland counties--a position which exactly suitedhim. Finding himself once in the neighbourhood Ernest called, for oldacquaintance sake, and was hospitably entertained at lunch. 

Thirty years had whitened the Doctor's bushy eyebrows--his hair theycould not whiten. I believe that but for that wig he would have beenmade a bishop. 

His voice and manner were unchanged, and when Ernest remarking upon aplan of Rome which hung in the hall, spoke inadvertently of the Quirinal, he replied with all his wonted pomp: "Yes, the QuirInal--or as I myselfprefer to call it, the QuirInal. " After this triumph he inhaled a longbreath through the corners of his mouth, and flung it back again into theface of Heaven, as in his finest form during his head-mastership. Atlunch he did indeed once say, "next to impossible to think of anythingelse, " but he immediately corrected himself and substituted the words, "next to impossible to entertain irrelevant ideas, " after which he seemedto feel a good deal more comfortable. Ernest saw the familiar volumes ofDr Skinner's works upon the bookshelves in the Deanery dining-room, buthe saw no copy of "Rome or the Bible--Which?"

"And are you still as fond of music as ever, Mr Pontifex?" said MissSkinner to Ernest during the course of lunch. 

"Of some kinds of music, yes, Miss Skinner, but you know I never did likemodern music. "

"Isn't that rather dreadful?--Don't you think you rather"--she was goingto have added, "ought to?" but she left it unsaid, feeling doubtless thatshe had sufficiently conveyed her meaning. 

"I would like modern music, if I could; I have been trying all my life tolike 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 Inever really liked him. "

"Ah! how can you say so? You cannot understand him, you never could saythis if you understood him. For me a simple chord of Beethoven isenough. This is happiness. "

Ernest was amused at her strong family likeness to her father--a likenesswhich had grown upon her as she had become older, and which extended evento voice and manner of speaking. He remembered how he had heard medescribe 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 itwere 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 theDean he plied him so well with compliments that the old gentleman waspleased and flattered beyond his wont. He rose and bowed. "Theseexpressions, " he said, _voce sua_, "are very valuable to me. " "They arebut a small part, Sir, " rejoined Ernest, "of what anyone of your oldpupils must feel towards you, " and the pair danced as it were a minuet atthe end of the dining-room table in front of the old bay window thatlooked upon the smooth shaven lawn. On this Ernest departed; but a fewdays afterwards, the Doctor wrote him a letter and told him that hiscritics were a [Greek text], and at the same time [Greek text]. Ernestremembered [Greek text], and knew that the other words were something oflike nature, so it was all right. A month or two afterwards, Dr Skinnerwas gathered to his fathers. 

"He was an old fool, Ernest, " said I, "and you should not relent towardshim. "

"I could not help it, " he replied, "he was so old that it was almost likeplaying with a child. "

Sometimes, like all whose minds are active, Ernest overworks himself, andthen occasionally he has fierce and reproachful encounters with DrSkinner or Theobald in his sleep--but beyond this neither of these twoworthies can now molest him further. 

To myself he has been a son and more than a son; at times I am halfafraid--as for example when I talk to him about his books--that I mayhave been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have, I trust hehas forgiven me. His books are the only bone of contention between us. Iwant him to write like other people, and not to offend so many of hisreaders; he says he can no more change his manner of writing than thecolour 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 havetalent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer unpractical kind, and no matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest. His first book was a success for reasons which I have already explained, but none of his others have been more than creditable failures. He isone of those unfortunate men, each one of whose books is sneered at byliterary 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 becondemned. 

He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life. I have told him overand over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thingI can say to him which makes him angry with me. 

"What can it matter to me, " he says, "whether people read my books ornot? It may matter to them--but I have too much money to want more, andif the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by. I do notknow nor greatly care whether they are good or not. What opinion can anysane man form about his own work? Some people must write stupid booksjust as there must be junior ops and third class poll men. Why should Icomplain of being among the mediocrities? If a man is not absolutelybelow mediocrity let him be thankful--besides, the books will have tostand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the better. "

I spoke to his publisher about him not long since. "Mr Pontifex, " hesaid, "is a _homo unius libri_, but it doesn't do to tell him so. "

I could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith inErnest's literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failurewas 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 thereligious 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 aset, and Mr Pontifex belongs to no set--not even to a club. "

I replied, "Mr Pontifex is the exact likeness of Othello, but with adifference--he hates not wisely but too well. He would dislike theliterary and scientific swells if he were to come to know them and theyhim; there is no natural solidarity between him and them, and if he werebrought into contact with them his last state would be worse than hisfirst. His instinct tells him this, so he keeps clear of them, andattacks them whenever he thinks they deserve it--in the hope, perhaps, that a younger generation will listen to him more willingly than thepresent. "

"Can anything, "' said the publisher, "be conceived more impracticable andimprudent?"

To all this Ernest replies with one word only--"Wait. "

Such is my friend's latest development. He would not, it is true, runmuch chance at present of trying to found a College of SpiritualPathology, but I must leave the reader to determine whether there is nota strong family likeness between the Ernest of the College of SpiritualPathology and the Ernest who will insist on addressing the nextgeneration rather than his own. He says he trusts that there is not, andtakes the sacrament duly once a year as a sop to Nemesis lest he shouldagain feel strongly upon any subject. It rather fatigues him, but "noman's opinions, " he sometimes says, "can be worth holding unless he knowshow to deny them easily and gracefully upon occasion in the cause ofcharity. " In politics he is a Conservative so far as his vote andinterest are concerned. In all other respects he is an advanced Radical. His father and grandfather could probably no more understand his state ofmind than they could understand Chinese, but those who know himintimately do not know that they wish him greatly different from what heactually is.