The Curate in Charge

Once more Mr. St. John slowly shook his head; a smile came over his face; he held out his hand. “It is pleasant to hear you say it; somehow it is pleasant to hear you say it. I felt sure Cicely had been saying something to you this morning. But no, no; they would never have given me the living, and I should never have asked for it. As for a wrong, nobody will feel it a wrong; not myself, nor the Church, and the people here last of all.”

“They must look upon you as their father,” said Mildmay warmly. “Nothing else is possible. To them it is the greatest wrong of all.”

“You speak like a – boy,” said the curate. “Yes; you speak like a kind, warm-hearted boy. The girls say the same kind of things. You are all young, and think of what ought to be, not of what is. The people! The Church does not give them any voice in the matter, and it is just as well. Mr. Mildmay, I’ve been a long time among them. I’ve tried to do what I could for them. Some of them like me well enough; but the people have never forgotten that I was only curate – not rector. They have remembered it all these twenty years, when sometimes I was half tempted to forget it myself.”

“Oh, sir, do not think so badly of human nature!” said Mildmay, almost with a recoil from so hard a judgment.

“Do I think badly of human nature? I don’t feel that I do; and why should this be thinking badly? Which is best for them to have, a man who is well off, who is a real authority in the parish, whom the farmers and masters will stand in awe of, and who will be able to help them in trouble – or a poor man who has to struggle for himself, who has nothing to spare, and no great influence with any one? I shall feel it, perhaps, a little,” said Mr. St. John, with a smile; “but it will be quite unreasonable to feel it. In a month you will be twice as popular in the parish as I am after twenty years.”

“It is not possible!” said the young man.

“Ah, my dear Mr. Mildmay, a great many things are possible! The girls think like you. I suppose it is natural; but when you come to take everything into account – the only thing to have been desired was that I should have died before Mr. Chester; or, let us say that he should have outlived me, which sounds more cheerful. Come,” said the curate with an effort, “don’t let us think of this. I hope you are a friend, Mr. Mildmay, as I said; but, as you say yourself, you are only a friend of yesterday, so why you should take my burden on your shoulders I don’t know. I think we may venture to call on the Ascotts now. He is a little rough, or rather bluff, but a good man; and she is a little – fanciful,” said the curate, searching for a pleasant word, “but a kind woman. If you take to them, and they to you – ”

“On what pretence should I go to see them, unsettled as I am about my future?” said Mildmay, hesitating.

The curate looked at him with a smile. He rang the bell, then opened the door, which, like most innocent country doors, opened from the outside. Then he fixed his mild eyes upon the young man. He had some gentle insight in his way by right of his years and experience of life, simple-minded as he was. “You go as the new rector – the best of introductions,” he said, and led the way smiling. It was not difficult, perhaps, to see through the struggle in Mildmay’s mind between his own wish and determination, and his sympathetic sense of the hardship involved to others. I think the curate was quite right in believing that it was the personal inclination which would gain the day, and not the generous impulse; as, indeed, Mr. St. John fully recognized it ought to be.

Mr. Ascott was in his library, reading the newspaper, but with such an array of papers about him, as made that indulgence look momentary and accidental. He was not the squire of the parish, but he had a considerable landed property in the neighbourhood, and liked to be considered as holding that position. He received Mr. Mildmay, boldly introduced by the curate as the new rector, with the greatest cordiality. “I had not seen the appointment,” he said, “but I am most happy to welcome you to the parish. I hope you like what you have seen of it? This is quite an agreeable surprise.”

Mildmay found it very difficult to reply, for was not every word of congratulation addressed to him an injury to his companion, whose star must set as his rose? The curate, however, showed no such feeling. His amour propre was quite satisfied by being the first to know and to present to the parish its new rector. “Yes, I thought you would be pleased to hear at once,” he said, with gentle complacency. “I would not let him pass your door.”

“Poor Chester! This reminds me of him,” said Mr. Ascott. “He came to Brentburn in my father’s time, when I was a young fellow at home fresh from the university. He was a very accomplished man. It was a pity he had such bad health. A parish gets out of order when it is without the proper authorities. Even a good deputy – and St. John, I am sure, has been the best of deputies – is never like the man himself.”

“That is just what I have been saying,” said Mr. St. John; but though he took it with great equanimity, it was less pleasant to him to hear this, than to say it himself. “I think I will leave you now,” he added. “I have a great deal to do this morning. Mr. Ascott will tell you many things that will be really valuable, and at two o’clock or sooner we will expect you at the rectory.”

“It is a pity to trouble you and your girls, St. John. He can have some luncheon here. Mrs. Ascott will be delighted to see him.”

“I shall be at the rectory without fail,” said Mildmay, with a sense of partial offence. He belonged to the rectory, not to this complacent secular person. A certain esprit de corps was within him. If the rest of the world neglected the poor curate, he at least would show that to him the old priest was the first person in the parish. “Or,” he added, hesitating, “I will go with you now.”

Mr. St. John did not wish this. He felt that he would be less at his ease with his poor people if conscious of this new man fresh from Oxford at his elbow. There might be, for anything he knew to the contrary, newfangled ways even of visiting the sick. To talk to them cheerily, kindly, as he had always done, might not fall in with the ideas of duty held by “high” schools of doctrine, of whatever kind. He went away plodding along the high road in the sultry noon, with a smile still upon his face, which faded, however, when the stimulus of Mildmay’s company, and the gratification of presenting the stranger to the great people of the parish, had subsided. These circumstances were less exhilarating when the curate was alone, and had to remember Wilkins and all the outstanding bills, and the fact that the furniture in the rectory was to be sold, and that Cicely that very night would ask him once more what he had made up his mind to do. What could he make up his mind to do? The very question, when he put it to himself merely, and when it was not backed up by an eager young face, and a pair of eyes blazing into him, was bewildering enough; it made the curate’s head go round and round. Even when he came to Brentburn twenty years ago it was not his own doing. Friends had found the appointment for him, and arranged all the preliminaries. Nothing had been left for him but to accept it, and he had accepted. And at that time he had Hester to fall back upon. But now to “look out for something,” to apply for another curacy, to advertise and answer advertisements, describing himself and his capabilities – how was he to do it? He was quite ready to consent to anything, to let Cicely manage for him if she would; but to take the initiative himself! The very thought of this produced a nervous confusion in his mind which seemed to make an end of all his powers.

“You must come upstairs and see my wife,” said Mr. Ascott. “She will be delighted to make your acquaintance. She has been a great deal in society, and I don’t doubt you and she will find many people to talk about. As for me, I am but a country fellow, I don’t go much into the world. When your interests are all in the country, why, stick to the country is my maxim; but my wife is fond of fine people. You and she will find a hundred mutual acquaintances in half-an-hour, you will see.”

“But I am not fond of fine people – nor have I so many acquaintances.”

“Oh, you Oxford dons know everybody. They all pass through your hands. Come along, it will be quite a pleasure for my wife to see you. Adelaide, I am bringing you some one who will be a surprise to you as well as a pleasure. Mr. Mildmay, our new rector, my dear.”

“Our new rector!” Mrs. Ascott said, with a subdued outcry of surprise. She was seated in a corner of a large light room with three or four large windows looking out upon a charming lawn and garden, beyond which appeared the tufted undulations of the common, and the smooth green turf and white posts of the race-ground. With a house like this, looking out upon so interesting a spot, no one need be surprised that Mrs. Ascott’s fine friends “kept her up,” and that for at least one week in the year she was as popular and sought after as any queen. Though it was only one week in the year, it had a certain influence upon her manners. She lived all the year through in a state of reflected glory from this brief but ever-recurring climax of existence. The air of conferring a favour, the look of gracious politeness, yet preoccupation, which suited a woman over-balanced by the claims of many candidates for her hospitality, never departed from her. She gave that little cry of surprise just as she would have done had her husband brought a stranger to her to see if she could give him a bed for the race week. “I am delighted to make Mr. Mildmay’s acquaintance,” she said; “but, my dear, I thought there was going to be an effort made for poor Mr. St. John?” This was in a lower tone, as she might have said, “But there is only one spare room, and that I have promised to Mr. St. John.” Her husband laughed.

“I told you, my dear, that was nonsense. What do ladies know of such matters? They talked of some foolish petition or other to the Lord Chancellor, as if the Lord Chancellor had anything to do with it! You may be very thankful you had me behind you, my dear, to keep you from such a foolish mistake. No; Mr. Mildmay has it, and I am very glad. The dons have done themselves credit by their choice, and we are in great luck. I hope you will not be like your predecessor, Mr. Mildmay, and take a dislike to the parish. We must do our best, Adelaide, to prevent that.”

“Indeed, I hope so,” said the lady. “I am sure I am delighted. I think I have met some relations of yours, Mr. Mildmay – the Hamptons of Thornbury? Yes; I felt sure I had heard them mention you. You recollect, Henry, they lunched with us here the year before last, on the cup day? They came with Lady Teddington – charming people. And you know all the Teddingtons, of course? What a nice family they are! We see a great deal of Lord Charles, who is often in this neighbourhood. His dear mother is often rather anxious about him. I fear – I fear he is just a little disposed to be what you gentlemen call fast.”

“We gentlemen don’t mince our words,” said her husband; “rowdy young scamp, that is what I call him; bad lot.”

“You are very severe, Henry – very severe – except when it is a favourite of your own. How glad I am we are getting some one we know to the rectory. When do you take possession, Mr. Mildmay? We shall be quite near neighbours, and will see a great deal of you, I hope.”

“I do not feel quite sure, since I have been here, whether I will come to the rectory at all,” said Mildmay. “Mr. St. John was so hasty in his announcement, that I feel myself a swindler coming here under false pretences. I have not made up my mind whether I will accept the living or not.”

“Since you have been here? Then you don’t like the place,” said Mr. Ascott. “I must say I am surprised. I think you are hasty, as well as St. John. Poor Chester, to be sure, did not like it, but that was because he thought it did not agree with him. The greatest nonsense! it is as healthy a place as any in England; it has a hundred advantages. Perhaps this sort of thing mayn’t suit you as a clergyman,” he said, waving his hand towards the distant race-course; “but it gives a great deal of life to the place.”

“And so near town,” said Mrs. Ascott; “and such nice people in the neighbourhood! Indeed, Mr. Mildmay, you must let us persuade you; you must really stay.”

“Come, now,” cried her husband, “let’s talk it over. What’s your objection? Depend upon it, Adelaide, it is those pets of yours, the St. John’s who have been putting nonsense into his head.”

“Poor things, what do they know!” said Mrs. Ascott, with a sigh. “But indeed, Mr. Mildmay, now that we have seen you, and have a chance of some one we can like, with such nice connections, we cannot let you go.”

This was all very flattering and pleasant. “You are extremely kind,” said Mildmay. “I must put it to the credit of my relations, for I have no right to so much kindness. No, it is not any objection to the place. It is a still stronger objection. I heard Mrs. Ascott herself speak of some effort to be made for Mr. St. John – ”

“I – what did I say?” cried the lady. “Mr. St. John? Yes, I was sorry, of course; very sorry.”

“It was all nonsense,” said the husband. “I told her so. She never meant it; only what could she say to the girls when they appealed to her? She is a soft-hearted goose – eh, Adelaide? One prefers women to be so. But as for old St. John, it is sheer nonsense. Poor old fellow! yes, I am sorry for him. But whose fault is it? He knew Chester’s life was not worth that; yet he has hung on, taking no trouble, doing nothing for himself. It is not your part or our part to bother our minds for a man who does nothing for himself.”

“That is true enough,” said Mildmay; “but his long services to the parish, his age, his devotion to his work – it does not seem right. I don’t say for you or for me, but in the abstract – ”

“Devotion?” said Mr. Ascott. “Oh yes; he has done his work well enough, I suppose. That’s what is called devotion when a man dies or goes away. Yes, oh yes, we may allow him the credit of that, the poor old fogey, but – yes, oh yes, a good old fellow enough. When you have said that, there’s no more to say. Perhaps in the abstract it was a shame that Chester should have the lion’s share of the income, and St. John all the work; but that’s all over; and as for any hesitation of yours on his account – ”

“It may be foolish,” said the young man, “but I do hesitate – I cannot help feeling that there is a great wrong involved – to Mr. St. John, of course, in the first place – but without even thinking of any individual, it is a sort of thing that must injure the Church; and I don’t like to be the instrument of injuring the Church.”

“Tut – tut – tut!” said Mr. Ascott; “your conscience is too tender by far.”

“Mr. Mildmay,” said the lady sweetly, “you must not expect me to follow such deep reasoning. I leave that to superior minds; but you ought to think what a great thing it is for a parish to have some one to look up to – some one the poor people can feel to be really their superior.”

“Not a poor beggar of a curate,” cried her husband. “There, Adelaide! you have hit the right nail on the head. That’s the true way to look at the subject. Poor old St. John! I don’t say he’s been well treated by destiny. He has had a deal of hard work, and he has stuck to it; but, bless you! how is a man like that to be distinguished from a Dissenting preacher, for instance? Of course, he’s a clergyman, in orders and all that, as good as the Archbishop of Canterbury; but he has no position – no means – nothing to make him the centre of the parish, as the clergyman ought to be. Why, the poorest labourer in the parish looks down upon the curate. ‘Parson’s just as poor as we is,’ they say. I’ve heard them. He has got to run up bills in the little shops, and all that, just as they have. He has no money to relieve them with when they’re out of work. The farmers look down upon him. They think nothing of a man that’s poor; and as for the gentry – ”

“Stop, Henry,” said Mrs. Ascott; “the gentry have always been very kind to the St. Johns. We were always sorry for the girls. Poor things! their mother was really quite a lady, though I never heard that she had anything. We were all grieved about this last sad affair, when he married the governess; and I should always have made a point of being kind to the girls. That is a very different thing, however, Mr. Mildmay,” she added, with a sweet smile, “from having a clergyman whom one can really look up to, and who will be a friend and neighbour as well as a clergyman. You will stay to luncheon? I think I hear the bell.”

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT THE GIRLS COULD DO

MILDMAY left the house of the Ascotts hurriedly at this intimation. He thought them pleasant people enough – for who does not think those people pleasant who flatter and praise him? – but he would not allow himself to be persuaded out of his determination to return to the rectory. I must add however that his mind was in a more confused state than ever as he skirted the common by the way the curate had taken him on the previous night. There were two sides to every question; that could not be gainsaid. To leave Brentburn after passing twenty years here in arduous discharge of all the rector’s duties, but with the rank and remuneration only of the curate, was an injury too hard to contemplate to Mr. St. John; but then it was not Mildmay’s fault that he should interfere at his own cost to set it right. It was not even the fault of the parish. It was nobody’s fault but his own, foolish as he was, neglecting all chances of “bettering himself.” If a man would do nothing for himself, how could it be the duty of others, of people no way connected with him, scarcely knowing him, to do it for him? This argument was unanswerable; nothing could be more reasonable, more certain; and yet – Mildmay felt that he himself was young, that the rectory of Brentburn was not much to him one way or the other. He had wanted it as the means of living a more real life than that which was possible to him in his college rooms; but he had no stronger reason, no special choice of the place, no conviction that he could do absolute good here; and why should he then take so lightly what it would cost him nothing to reject, but which was everything to the curate? Then, on the other hand, there was the parish to consider. What if – extraordinary as that seemed – it did not want Mr. St. John? What if really his very poverty, his very gentleness, made him unsuitable for it? The argument seemed a miserable one, so far as the money went; but it might be true. The Ascotts, for instance, were the curate’s friends; but this was their opinion. Altogether Mr. Mildmay was very much perplexed on the subject. He wished he had not come to see for himself, just as an artist has sometimes been sorry for having consulted that very troublesome reality, Nature, who will not lend herself to any theory. If he had come without any previous inspection of the place, without any knowledge of the circumstances, how much better it would have been! Whereas now he was weighed down by the consideration of things with which he had really nothing to do. As he went along, full of these thoughts, he met the old woman whom he had first spoken to by the duck-pond on the day before, and who had invited him to sit down in her cottage. To his surprise – for he did not at first recollect who she was – she made him a curtsy, and stopped short to speak to him. As it was in the full blaze of the midday sunshine, Mildmay would very gladly have escaped – not to say that he was anxious to get back to the rectory, and to finish, as he persuaded himself was quite necessary, his conversation with Cicely. Old Mrs. Joel, however, stood her ground. She had an old-fashioned large straw bonnet on her head, which protected her from the sun; and besides, was more tolerant of the sunshine, and more used to exposure than he was.

“Sir,” she said, “I hear as you’re the new gentleman as is coming to our parish. I am a poor woman, sir, the widow o’ Job Joel, as was about Brentburn church, man and boy, for more than forty year. He began in the choir, he did, and played the fiddle in the old times; and then, when that was done away with, my husband he was promoted to be clerk, and died in it. They could not ezackly make me clerk, seeing as I’m nothing but a woman; but Dick Williams, as is the sexton, ain’t married, and I’ve got the cleaning of the church, and the pew-opening, if you please, sir; and I hope, sir, as you won’t think it’s nothing but justice to an old servant, to let me stay?”

“What do you think of Mr. St. John going away?” asked Mildmay abruptly.

The old woman stared, half alarmed, and made him another curtsy, to occupy the time till she could think how to answer. “Mr. St. John, sir? He’s a dear good gentleman, sir; as innocent as a baby. When he’s gone, sir, they will find the miss of him,” she said, examining his face keenly to see how he meant her to answer, which is one of the highest arts of the poor.

“If he goes away, after being here so long, why shouldn’t you be sent away, too?” said Mildmay. He felt how absurd was this questioning, as of an oracle, which came from the confused state of his own mind, not from any expectation of an answer; and then he could not but smile to himself at the idea of thus offering up a victim to the curate’s manes.

Mrs. Joel was much startled. “Lord bless us!” she said, making a step backwards. Then commanding herself, “It weren’t Mr. St. John, sir, as gave me my place; but the rector hisself. Mr. St. John is as good as gold, but he ain’t not to say my master. Besides, there’s a many as can do the parson’s work, but there ain’t many, not in this parish, as could do mine. Mr. St. John would be a loss – but me, sir – ”

Here she made another curtsy, and Mildmay laughed in spite of himself. “You – would be a greater loss?” he said. “Well, perhaps so; but if there are any good reasons why he should leave, there must be the same for you.”

“I don’t see it, sir,” said Mrs. Joel promptly. “The parson’s old, and he’s a bit past his work; but I defy any one in the parish to say as the church ain’t as neat as a new pin. Mr. St. John’s getting a bit feeble in the legs; he can’t go long walks now like once he could. Me! I may be old, but as for my mop and my duster, I ain’t behind nobody. Lord bless you! it’s a very different thing with Mr. St. John from what it is with me. He’s got those girls of his to think upon, and those little children. What’s he got to do with little children at his age? But I’ve nobody but myself to go troubling my brains about. I thinks o’ my work, and nought else. You won’t get another woman in the parish as will do it as cheap and as comfortable as me.”

“But don’t you think,” said Mildmay – whose conduct I cannot excuse, and whose only apology is that his mind was entirely occupied with one subject – “don’t you think it is very hard upon Mr. St. John at his age, to go away?”

Mrs. Joel found herself in a dilemma. She had no desire to speak ill of the curate, but if she spoke too well of him, might not that annoy the new rector, and endanger her own cause? She eyed him very keenly, never taking her eyes off his face, to be guided by its changes. “Between gentlefolks and poor folks,” she said at last, philosophically, “there’s a great gulf fixed, as is said in the Bible. They can’t judge for us, nor us for them. He’s a deal abler to speak up for hisself, and settle for hisself, than the likes o’ me; and I reckon as he could stay on if he’d a mind to; but me, sir, it’s your pleasure as I’ve got to look to,” said the old woman, with another curtsy. This oracle, it was clear, had no response or guidance to give.

“Well,” he said, carelessly, “I will speak to Miss St. John – for I don’t know about the parish; and if she approves – ”

A gleam of intelligence came into the keen old eyes which regarded him so closely; the old face lighted up with a twinkle of mingled pleasure, and malice, and kindness. “If that’s so, the Lord be praised!” she cried; “and I hope, sir, it’s Miss Cicely; for if ever there was a good wife, it’s her dear mother as is dead and gone; and Miss Cicely’s her very breathing image. Good morning to you, and God bless you, sir, and I hope as I haven’t made too bold.”