“An all-vegetable diet has much to recommend it,” said Lady Delingpole, “especially against gout, or avoirdupois, but you, my boy, suffer from neither. Reverend Bertram, what does the Church say about the morality of eating meat?”
“Well, your ladyship, from Genesis of course we are taught that man was given dominion over the animals. The Bible is quite explicit on that point. However, there is on the other hand no positive commandment in favour of eating meat, so the Church can have—on general principles and without reference to individual cases—no objection to an all vegetable diet.”
“The Almighty preferred Abel’s sacrifice to Cain’s, and from Leviticus we know the Lord likes his mutton. At least his priests did.” Lord Delingpole reached for a toothpick.
“If you believe there is such a creature as God,” laughed his son. “‘Every reflecting mind must allow that there is no proof of the existence of a Deity.’”
“I had hoped, sir, that the presence of Reverend Bertram at our table might induce you to refrain from some of your more outrageous remarks, but I see you are as dead to courtesy as you are to common sense.”
“I was quoting my friend’s excellent pamphlet on the subject, father. He says—”
“Your friend? What is the name of this philosopher-sage?”
“Shelley, sir. Percy Shelley,” the son answered with evident pride and affection.
“And he is a student, I gather, and not one of your masters?”
“He was, sir, but he was expelled for publishing the pamphlet.”
“No wonder! We want no heathens at Oxford!” Lady Delingpole exclaimed.
“I think Shelley is very courageous and principled!” Viscount Lynnon cried.
“Rather, he is both imprudent and impudent, with the egoism of youth,” his father averred. “What does anyone care what this Mr. Shelley thinks or believes, so long as the fool refrains from publishing it? He knew, everyone knows, you cannot obtain your degree without being a member of the Church of England. He entered into a contract, so to speak, and has, in the most insulting terms, failed to honour it. Further, no right-thinking gentleman would promulgate such a pernicious dogma, so damaging to the fabric of society, and particularly harmful in its effects upon the lower orders.”
“The lower orders!” Viscount Lynnon replied, unable to contain himself. “They groan under the restraints of pseudo-morality on the one hand, and taxes and tithes on the other, under a system calculated to keep them poor, and to maintain the rich and mighty in their place, while the clergyman tells the poor cottager that his miserable lot is divinely ordained, and it is sinful to resent it. But the day of awakening is at hand! All wealth must be equally distributed, and we will do away with greed and oppression
forever.”
Edmund ventured a glance at Baddeley, keeping his usual place by the sideboard, but that worthy man’s composure did not waver in the slightest. If their butler was moved by the fervent speeches of the young viscount, if radical notions stirred in his breast, he betrayed no sign.
“I do apologize, my dear Mr. Bertram,” her Ladyship said. “James, apologize to Reverend Bertram, immediately.”
“Pray, do not concern yourself, ma’am,” Edmund laughed. “These sentiments are neither modern, nor unique. They are discussed in the Scriptures themselves. ‘The fool hath said there is no God.’”
“This puppy, this Shelley—still under-age, I presume—must think very well of himself,” said Lord Delingpole with some asperity, “if he believes all of mankind has been waiting, since the dawn of coherent thought, for an Oxford undergraduate to survey the cosmos, examine and sift the debates which have preoccupied the wisest scholars and our most eminent divines, and to publish his final pronouncement on the matter.”
“The idea of the perfectibility of mankind is a beguiling one,” added Edmund composedly, “and Mr. Shelley is undoubtedly one of those confident young men who can clearly see what eludes his elders. I for one, do not understand why eliminating God is a necessary first step to the work of creating paradise on earth, but most radicals do insist upon it.”
“But my friend Shelley truly is the herald of a new age!” cried the Viscount, as Baddeley re-filled his water glass.
“This is my fate, my inevitable fate,” Lord Delingpole sighed. “I sired a son, and we saw to it that he received the best education in England—the best in the world, in fact. Before he was out of skirts, we taught him his letters and his sums. Naturally, he went to Eton. In the summer months, he had music and dancing masters and his own tutor. Then we sent him up to Oxford, where—when he has not been applying to us for more spending monies—he has been cramming his head full of the most errant nonsense, seditious poison, and immoral folly. So my reward—my reward, Mr. Bertram, for all my anxious cares and my costly expenditure—is that my son is a confirmed radical, and now, I gather, an atheist.”
Lord Delingpole raised his glass in salute.
“To me, this is another proof of the existence of God, and that he possesses a good sense of humour.”
* * * * * * *
Edmund rewarded himself for his unstinting patience through the dinner, by ripping open the letter from his wife as soon as he had ridden out of sight of his boyhood home. His horse knew the way home, and his wife Mary’s handwriting was bold and clear, and he could make it out even in the gathering dusk.
Dear Edmund,
I thank you for the receipt of your letter, despite the fresh pain it has occasioned me. My hopes, it seems, hang upon the slenderest thread. Shall I further diminish myself in your regard if I point out that once again, my wishes, what I want and
