Here Tray jumped up suddenly and bolted—he saw someone else he was fond of, and ran to meet him. It was the vicar, coming out of his vicarage.
A very nice-looking vicar—fresh, clean, alert, well tanned by sun and wind and weather—a youngish vicar still; tall, stout, gentlemanlike, shrewd, kindly, wordly, a trifle pompous, and authoritative more than a trifle; not much given to abstract speculation, and thinking fifty times more of any sporting and orthodox young country squire, well-inched and well-acred (and well-whiskered), than of all the painters in Christendom.
“ ‘When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war,’ ” thought Little Billee; and he felt a little uncomfortable. Alice’s father had never loomed so big and impressive before, or so distressingly nice to look at.
“Welcome, my Apelles, to your ain countree, which is growing quite proud of you, I declare! Young Lord Archie Waring was saying only last night that he wished he had half your talent! He’s crazed about painting, you know, and actually wants to be a painter himself! The poor dear old marquis is quite sore about it!”
With this happy exordium the parson stopped and shook hands; and they both stood for a while, looking seaward. The parson said the usual things about the sea—its blueness; its grayness; its greenness; its beauty; its sadness; its treachery.
“Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable sea!”
“Who indeed!” answered Little Billee, quite agreeing. “I vote we don’t, at all events.” So they turned inland.
The parson said the usual things about the land (from the country-gentleman’s point of view), and the talk began to flow quite pleasantly, with quoting of the usual poets, and capping of quotations in the usual way—for they had known each other many years, both here and in London. Indeed, the vicar had once been Little Billee’s tutor.
And thus, amicably, they entered a small wooded hollow. Then the vicar, turning of a sudden his full blue gaze on the painter, asked, sternly:
“What book’s that you’ve got in your hand, Willie?”
“A—a—it’s the Origin of Species, by Charles Darwin. I’m very f‑f‑fond of it. I’m reading it for the third time. … It’s very g‑g‑good. It accounts for things, you know.”
Then, after a pause, and still more sternly:
“What place of worship do you most attend in London—especially of an evening, William?”
Then stammered Little Billee, all self-control forsaking him:
“I d‑d‑don’t attend any place of worship at all, morning, afternoon, or evening. I’ve long given up going to church altogether. I can only be frank with you; I’ll tell you why. …”
And as they walked along the talk drifted on to very momentous subjects indeed, and led, unfortunately, to a serious falling out—for which probably both were to blame—and closed in a distressful way at the other end of the little wooded hollow—a way most sudden and unexpected, and quite grievous to relate. When they emerged into the open the parson was quite white, and the painter crimson.
“Sir,” said the parson, squaring himself up to more than his full height and breadth and dignity, his face big with righteous wrath, his voice full of strong menace—“sir, you’re—you’re a—you’re a thief, sir, a thief! You’re trying to rob me of my Saviour! Never you dare to darken my doorstep again!”
“Sir,” said Little Billee, with a bow, “if it comes to calling names, you’re—you’re a—no; you’re Alice’s father; and whatever else you are besides, I’m another for trying to be honest with a parson; so good morning to you.”
And each walked off in an opposite direction, stiff as pokers; and Tray stood between, looking first at one receding figure, then at the other, disconsolate.
And thus Little Billee found out that he could no more lie than he could fly. And so he did not marry sweet Alice after all, and no doubt it was ordered for her good and his. But there was tribulation for many days in the house of Bagot, and for many months in one tender, pure, and pious bosom.
And the best and the worst of it all is that, not very many years after, the good vicar—more fortunate than most clergymen who dabble in stocks and shares—grew suddenly very rich through a lucky speculation in Irish beer, and suddenly, also, took to thinking seriously about things (as a man of business should)—more seriously than he had ever thought before. So at least the story goes in North Devon, and it is not so new as to be incredible. Little doubts grew into big ones—big doubts resolved themselves into downright negations. He quarrelled with his bishop; he quarrelled with his dean; he even quarrelled with his “poor dear old marquis,” who died before there was time to make it up again. And finally he felt it his duty, in conscience, to secede from a Church which had become too narrow to hold him, and took himself and his belongings to London, where at least he could breathe. But there he fell into a great disquiet, for the long habit of feeling himself always en évidence—of being looked up to and listened to without contradiction; of exercising influence and authority in spiritual matters (and even temporal); of impressing women, especially, with his commanding presence, his fine sonorous voice, his lofty brow, so serious and smooth, his soft, big, waving hands, which soon lost their country tan—all this had grown as a second nature to him, the breath of his nostrils, a necessity of his life. So he rose to be the most popular Unitarian preacher of his day, and pretty broad at that.
But his dear daughter Alice, she stuck to the old faith, and married a venerable High-Church archdeacon, who very cleverly clutched at and
