“No, father—no. By God’s blessing I will never ask you for a pound. I can hold my fellowship for four years longer without orders, and in four years’ time I think I can earn my bread.”
“I don’t doubt that, Harry.”
“Then why should I not follow my wishes in this matter? The truth is, I do not feel myself qualified to be a good clergyman.”
“It is not that you have doubts, is it?”
“I might have them if I came to think much about it—as I must do if I took orders. And I do not wish to be crippled in doing what I think lawful by conventional rules. A rebellious clergyman is, I think, a sorry object. It seems to me that he is a bird fouling his own nest. Now, I know I should be a rebellious clergyman.”
“In our church the life of a clergyman is as the life of any other gentleman—within very broad limits.”
“Then why did Bishop Proudie interfere with your hunting?”
“Limits may be very broad, Harry, and yet exclude hunting. Bishop Proudie was vulgar and intrusive, such being the nature of his wife, who instructs him; but if you were in orders I should be very sorry to see you take to hunting.”
“It seems to me that a clergyman has nothing to do in life unless he is always preaching and teaching. Look at Saul,”—Mr. Saul was the curate of Clavering—“he is always preaching and teaching. He is doing the best he can; and what a life of it he has. He has literally thrown off all worldly cares—and consequently everybody laughs at him, and nobody loves him. I don’t believe a better man breathes, but I shouldn’t like his life.”
At this point there was another pause, which lasted till the cigars had come to an end. Then, as he threw the stump into the fire, Mr. Clavering spoke again. “The truth is, Harry, that you have had, all your life, a bad example before you.”
“No, father.”
“Yes, my son;—let me speak on to the end, and then you can say what you please. In me you have had a bad example on one side, and now, in poor Saul, you have a bad example on the other side. Can you fancy no life between the two, which would fit your physical nature, which is larger than his, and your mental wants, which are higher than mine? Yes, they are, Harry. It is my duty to say this, but it would be unseemly that there should be any controversy between us on the subject.”
“If you choose to stop me in that way—”
“I do choose to stop you in that way. As for Saul, it is impossible that you should become such a man as he. It is not that he mortifies his flesh, but that he has no flesh to mortify. He is unconscious of the flavour of venison, or the scent of roses, or the beauty of women. He is an exceptional specimen of a man, and you need no more fear, than you should venture to hope, that you could become such as he is.”
At this point they were interrupted by the entrance of Fanny Clavering, who came to say that Mr. Saul was in the drawing-room. “What does he want, Fanny?” This question Mr. Clavering asked half in a whisper, but with something of comic humour in his face, as though partly afraid that Mr. Saul should hear it, and partly intending to convey a wish that he might escape Mr. Saul, if it were possible.
“It’s about the iron church, papa. He says it is come—or part of it has come—and he wants you to go out to Cumberly Green about the site.”
“I thought that was all settled.”
“He says not.”
“What does it matter where it is? He can put it anywhere he likes on the Green. However, I had better go to him.” So Mr. Clavering went. Cumberly Green was a hamlet in the parish of Clavering, three miles distant from the church, the people of which had got into a wicked habit of going to a dissenting chapel near to them. By Mr. Saul’s energy, but chiefly out of Mr. Clavering’s purse, an iron chapel had been purchased for a hundred and fifty pounds, and Mr. Saul proposed to add to his own duties the pleasing occupation of walking to Cumberly Green every Sunday morning before breakfast, and every Wednesday evening after dinner, to perform a service and bring back to the true flock as many of the erring sheep of Cumberly Green as he might be able to catch. Towards the purchase of this iron church Mr. Clavering had at first given a hundred pounds. Sir Hugh, in answer to the fifth application, had very ungraciously, through his steward, bestowed ten pounds. Among the farmers one pound nine and eightpence had been collected. Mr. Saul had given two pounds; Mrs. Clavering gave five pounds; the girls gave ten shillings each; Henry Clavering gave five pounds;—and then the parson made up the remainder. But Mr. Saul had journeyed thrice painfully to Bristol, making the bargain for the church, going and coming each time by third-class, and he had written all the letters; but Mrs. Clavering had paid the postage, and she and the girls between them were making the covering for the little altar.
“Is it all settled, Harry?” said Fanny, stopping with her brother, and hanging over his chair. She was a pretty, gay-spirited girl, with bright eyes and dark brown hair, which fell in two curls behind her ears.
“He has said nothing to unsettle it.”
“I know it makes him very unhappy.”
“No, Fanny, not very unhappy. He would rather that I should go into the church, but that is about all.”
“I think you are quite right.”
“And Mary thinks
