by George Eliot
thinking that if Mr Barton had shaken into that little box a small portion of
Scotch high-dried, he might have produced something more like an amiable emotion
in Mrs Brick's mind than anything she had felt under his morning's exposition of
the unleavened bread. But our good Amos laboured under a deficiency of small
tact as well as of small cash; and when he observed the action of the old
woman's forefinger, he said, in his brusque way, "So your snuff is all gone,
eh?"
Mrs Brick's eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson might be
intending to replenish her box, at least mediately, through the present of a
small copper.
"Ah, well! you'll soon be going where there is no more snuff. You'll be in need
of mercy then. You must remember that you may have to seek for mercy and not
find it, just as you're seeking for snuff."
At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided from Mrs Brick's
eyes. The lid of her box went "click!" and her heart was shut up at the same
moment.
But now Mr Barton's attention was called for by Mr Spratt, who was dragging a
small and unwilling boy from the rear. Mr Spratt was a small-featured,
small-statured man, with a remarkable power of language, mitigated by
hesitation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable sentiments in
unexceptionable language on all occasions.
"Mr Barton, sir�aw�aw�excuse my trespassing on your time�aw�to beg that you will
administer a rebuke to this boy; he is�aw�aw� most inveterate in ill-behaviour
during service-time."
The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contending against "candles"
at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no sooner had Mr Spratt uttered his
impeachment, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr Barton
and the accused.
"That's my child, Muster Barton," she exclaimed, further manifesting her
maternal instincts by applying her apron to her offspring's nose. "He's al'ys
a-findin' faut wi' him, an' a-poundin' him for nothin'. Let him goo an' eat his
roost goose as is a-smellin' up in our noses while we're a-swallering them
greasy broth, an' let my boy allooan."
Mr Spratt's small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of uttering sentiments not
unexceptionable before the clergyman; but Mr Barton, foreseeing that a
prolongation of this episode would not be to edification, said "Silence!" in his
severest tones.
"Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you set him the
example of being saucy." Then stooping down to Master Fodge, and taking him by
the shoulder, "Do you like being beaten?"
"No- a."
"Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you were not naughty, you
wouldn't be beaten. But if you are naughty, God will be angry, as well as Mr
Spratt; and God can burn you for ever. That will be worse than being beaten."
Master Fodge's countenance was neither affirmative nor negative of this
proposition.
"But," continued Mr Barton, "if you will be a good boy, God will love you, and
you will grow up to be a good man. Now, let me hear next Thursday that you have
been a good boy."
Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to him from
this change of courses. But Mr Barton, being aware that Miss Fodge had touched
on a delicate subject in alluding to the roast goose, was determined to witness
no more polemics between her and Mr Spratt, so, saying good morning to the
latter, he hastily left the College.
The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and already the
vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed through the gate. Mrs Barton
heard him open the door, and ran out of the sitting-room to meet him.
"I'm afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning! Let me take
your hat. Your slippers are at the fire."
Mr Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is difficult, when you have
been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, to attend to the
very minor morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly's attentions, but
sniffed and said, "Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?"
"It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn't go into the study, because you said
you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Patty and I have
been covering them, and they are all ready in the sitting-room."
"O, I can't do those this morning," said Mr Barton, as he took off his boots and
put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; "you must put them away
into the parlour."
The sitting-room was also the day-nursery and schoolroom; and while Mamma's back
was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted on superseding Chubby in the
guidance of a headless horse, of the red-wafered species, which she was drawing
round the room, so that when Papa opened the door Chubby was giving tongue
energetically.
"Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to be quiet."
"Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby; go with Patty, and see what Nanny is getting for our
dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry these books into the
parlour. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily."
Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easychair, and took up a work on
Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society; thinking he would
finish it and return it this afternoon, as he was going to the Clerical Meeting
at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had its headquarters.
The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been founded some eight or ten
months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. When he first came
to Shepperton, he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose Christian
experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr Johns, of Gun Street
Chapel, and had been consolidated at Cambridge under the influence of Mr Simeon.
John Newton and Thomas Scott were his doctrinal ideals; he would have taken in
the Christian Observer and the Record, if he could have afforded it; his
anecdotes were chiefly of the pious-jocose kind, current in dissenting circles;
and he thought an Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable.
But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was beginning to be felt
in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on the Low-Church
party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian
doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movement was felt from the golden
head to the miry toes of the Establishment; and so it came to pass that, in the
district round Milby, the market-town close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed
to have a clerical meeting every month, wherein they would exercise their
intellects by discussing theological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement
their brotherly love by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally
suggested itself as an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive,
there was provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind.
Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided will and
opini
on of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had no self-distrust. He
would march very determinedly along the road he thought best; but then it was
wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best road. And so a very little
unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made him see that an Episcopalian
Establishment was much more than unobjectionable, and on many other points he
began to feel that he held opinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be
crudely and suddenly communicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that
has been rubbed with spices; the strong original odour was blended with
something new and foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined
High-Church nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the
genuine onion-eater.
We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to-day, because we shall
probably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just now I am
bent on introducing you to Mr Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski, with whom Mr
and Mrs Barton are invited to dine to-morrow.
CHAPTER III.
Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the
white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across the
white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton and his wife are audibly crushing the
crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on Friday evening, they
approach the door of the above-named desirable country residence, containing
dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, &c., situated only half a mile from the
market-town of Milby.
Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasant but
uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is reclining behind a
screen in the corner of the sofa, and allowing you to discern that the hair of
the gentleman who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspaper over his
knees, is becoming decidedly grey. A little "King Charles," with a crimson
ribbon round his neck, who has been lying curled up in the very middle of the
hearth-rug, has just discovered that that zone is too hot for him, and is
jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accommodating his person on
the silk gown. On the table there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as
soon as the expected knock is heard at the door.
The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently Mr and Mrs Barton are
ushered in�Mr Barton erect and clerical in a faultless tie and shining cranium;
Mrs Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk.
"Now this is charming of you," said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing to meet
them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance. "I am really ashamed of my
selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in this frightful weather."
Then, giving her hand to Amos, "And you, Mr Barton, whose time is so precious!
But I am doing a good deed in drawing you away from your labours. I have a plot
to prevent you from martyrising yourself."
While this greeting was going forward, Mr Bridmain, and Jet the spaniel, looked
on with the air of actors who had no idea of by-play. Mr Bridmain, a stiff and
rather thick-set man, gave his welcome with a laboured cordiality. It was
astonishing how very little he resembled his beautiful sister.
For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As she seated herself by
Mrs Barton on the sofa, Milly's eyes, indeed, rested�must it be
confessed?�chiefly on the details of the tasteful dress, the rich silk of a
pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colours in an evening), the
black lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at the back of the small
closely-braided head. For Milly had one weakness�don't love her any the less for
it, it was a pretty woman's weakness�she was fond of dress; and often when she
was making up her own economical millinery, she had romantic visions how nice it
would be to put on really handsome stylish things�to have very stiff balloon
sleeves, for example, without which a woman's dress was nought in those days.
You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not? which makes us think
foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may lie in an excessive admiration for
small hands and feet, a tall lithe figure, large dark eyes, and dark silken
braided hair. All these the Countess possessed, and she had, moreover, a
delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and a clear brunette complexion.
Her mouth, it must be admitted, receded too much from her nose and chin, and to
a prophetic eye threatened "nut-crackers" in advanced age. But by the light of
fire and wax-candles that age seemed very far off indeed, and you would have
said that the Countess was not more than thirty.
Look at the two women on the sofa together! The large, fair, mild-eyed Milly is
timid even in friendship: it is not easy to her to speak of the affection of
which her heart is full. The lithe, dark, thin-lipped Countess is racking her
small brain for caressing words and charming exaggerations.
"And how are all the cherubs at home?" said the Countess, stooping to pick up
Jet, and without waiting for an answer. "I have been kept in-doors by a cold
ever since Sunday, or I should not have rested without seeing you. What have you
done with those wretched singers, Mr Barton?"
"O, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well with a little
practice. I was quite determined that the old set of singers should be
dismissed. I had given orders that they should not sing the wedding psalm, as
they call it, again, to make a new-married couple look ridiculous, and they sang
it in defiance of me. I could put them into the Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose
for to do so, for lifting up their voices in church in opposition to the
clergyman."
"And a most wholesome discipline that would be," said the Countess; "indeed, you
are too patient and forbearing, Mr Barton. For my part, I lose my temper when I
see how far you are from being appreciated in that miserable Shepperton "
If, as is probable, Mr Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to the
insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announced just
then, and that he had to offer his arm to the Countess.
As Mr Bridmain was leading Mrs Barton to the dining-room, he observed, "The
weather is very severe."
"Very, indeed," said Milly.
Mr Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies he spoke of the weather,
and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view: as a question of
climate in general, comparing England with other countries in this respect; as a
personal question, inquiring how it affected his lady interlocutor in
particular; and as a question of probabilities, discussing whether there would
be a change or a continuance of the present atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen
he talked politics, and he read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself
for this function. Mr Barton thought him a man of considerable political
information, but not of lively parts.
"And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr Ely's?" said the
Countess between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a little over-spiced. Mrs
Short, of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting her best apartments, gave
only moderate wages to her cook.)
"Yes," said Mr Barton, "Milby is a central place, and there are many
conveniences in having only one point of meeting."
"Well," continued the Countess, "every one seems to agree in giving the
precedence to Mr Ely. For my part I cannot admire him. His preaching is too cold
for me. It has no fervour �no heart. I often say to my brother, it is a great
comfort to me that Shepperton church is not too far of for us to go to; don't I,
Edmund?"
"Yes," answered Mr Bridmain, "they show us into such a bad pew at Milby�just
where there is a draught from that door. I caught a stiff neck the first time I
went there."
"O, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in the pew. I was
writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling her all about my
feelings. She and I think alike on such matters. She is most anxious that when
Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the living at their place,
Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous clever man there. I have been
describing a certain friend of mine to her, who, I think, would be just to her
mind. And there is such a pretty rectory, Milly; shouldn't I like to see you the
mistress of it?"
Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blushed very red, and gave a
little embarrassed laugh�he could rarely keep his muscles within the limits of a
smile.
At this moment John, the man-servant, approached Mrs Barton with a gravy-tureen,
and also with a slight odour of the stable, which usually adhered to him
throughout his in-door functions. John was rather nervous; and the Countess
happening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and
emptied itself on Mrs Barton's newly-turned black silk.
"O, horror! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs Barton's dress," said the
Countess to the trembling John, carefully abstaining from approaching the
gravy-sprinkled spot on the floor with her own lilac silk. But Mr Bridmain, who
had a strictly private interest in silks, goodnaturedly jumped up and applied
his napkin at once to Mrs Barton's gown.
Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to make light
of the matter for the sake of John as well as others. The Countess felt inwardly
thankful that her own delicate silk had escaped, but threw out lavish
interjections of distress and indignation.
"Dear saint that you are," she said, when Milly laughed, and suggested that, as
her silk was not very glossy to begin with, the dim patch would not be much
seen; "you don't mind about these things, I know. Just the same sort of thing
happened to me at the Princess Wengstein's one day, on a pink satin. I was in an
agony. But you are so indifferent to dress; and well you may be. It is you who
make dress pretty, and not dress that makes you pretty."
Alice, the buxom lady's-maid, wearing a much better dress than Mrs Barton's, now
appeared to take Mr Bridmain's place in retrieving the mischief, and after a
great amount of supplementary rubbing, composure was restored, and the business
of dining was continued.
When John was recounting his accident to the cook in the kitchen, he observed,
"Mrs Barton's a hamable woman; I'd a deal sooner ha' throwed the gravy o'er the
Countess's fine gownd. But laws! what tantrums she'd ha' been in arter the
visitors was gone."
"You'd a deal sooner not ha' throwed it down at all, I should think," responded
the unsympathetic cook, to whom John did not make love. "Who d'you think's to
mek gravy anuff, if you're to baste people's gownds wi' it?"
"Well," suggested John, humbly, "you should wet the bottom of the duree a bit,
to hold it from slippin.'"
"Wet your granny!" returned the cook; a retort which she probably regarded in
the light of a reductio ad absurdum, and which in fact reduced John to silence.
