Part 11

"Certainly not," he indignantly replied. "Well, I will tell you just what happened. As we were going into the dining-room she said to me, in that wooden voice of hers: 'How do you manage in America, about precedence, having no aristocracy?'

"I said, 'We are greatly troubled about it, and I fear will never find a solution of the problem until we become again an English colony.''

"John," I cried, "how could you?"

"Well, she looked so melancholy that I thought I would jolly her up a bit."

"Yes," I retorted, "but haven't you been here long enough to learn that what you call 'jollying' the English call 'ragging,' and leave it to schoolboys, and do not indulge in it at dinner-parties?"

"Well, I learned to-night," he replied. Seemingly that was the end of the matter, but I knew better, and insisted upon knowing all, so he continued: "She asked what we were doing in the meantime, and I said: 'Oh, we are just experimenting.'

"'How do you mean "experimenting,"' she said.

"Well, at one house the butler, when he announced dinner, said: 'The oldest lady present will please go in first.' Of course, no one would move; so that night we had no dinner. The next dinner we went to, he said: 'This evening it is requested that the most beautiful lady present will lead the way.' And as they all rushed together, several people were injured, and again the dinner had to be given up. And, when I left, I found that every one was standing as near the door as possible, so as to slip in first and get the best seat at table."

She gasped, and exclaimed, "How extraordinary!" and never spoke another word during the dinner. I do not know now whether she is thinking it over, or whether she suspects that I was engaged in that interesting pastime of "pulling her leg," though from the glimpse I caught-- But I spare you!

XXIX

VESTED INTERESTS

I think Ruth has written you some nonsense about me to which I hope you will pay no attention. She is somewhat of a romancer. I do not mean that the bare facts are not as she states them, but I have your own high authority for the dictum that "A fact is often a most misleading thing"!

At any rate, I know she could not have told you about the interesting conversation we men had over our cigars after dinner, last night. After the ladies withdrew Sir William asked me many questions about our church. He wished particularly to learn how "The Anglican Church in the States" got on without the supervision of the state. I explained how rectors were "called," and bishops elected, and deputies to the General Convention chosen, etc. He was greatly interested, and said that unless something was done to give the laity a voice in the management of the parish, he believed the days of the Church of England were numbered. I asked him why he felt so despondent, and he said:

"Take the case of this parish: the rector is an uncouth creature who was given the living by a man to whom his father was tutor, and who probably took orders with this in view, for he is far more interested in his glebe than in the cure of souls. He will not listen to any suggestions, but goes his own way. All the money goes into his hands and there is no accounting to any one. I do not suggest that he is dishonest, but I do say that a man who had the right feeling would recognize that the people should know the amounts given, and the purposes for which they are used."

I said: "Surely there is a churchwarden?"

"True, but he is the schoolmaster, appointed by the rector and dependent upon him. The service is conducted in a most slovenly manner, and the music is quite painful. I offered to pay for a proper choirmaster, but he said that was an insult to his wife's sister, who plays the organ. The result of his bad manners and dictatorial spirit is that the congregation has dwindled to a mere handful, and they are mostly children whom the schoolmaster compels to come. The fact is that dissent is increasing at an alarming rate, and I think that soon there will be nothing left but the parson and the glebe!"

"Can the bishop do nothing?" I asked.

"Apparently not. The bishop says that if a responsible person will prefer charges he will take the matter up, but that 'a man cannot be deprived of his living because he happens to be unpopular.' Of course, if the Church of England exists to provide 'livings,' there is nothing more to be said. But if its purpose is to minister to the people, a way must be found to accomplish that. But I fear the attempt will prove fatal to the Establishment."

Of course, you and I should not feel that this would be fatal to the church, but what these men fear is that if the impartial hand of the state is withdrawn, the church will become a sect, or rather as many sects as there are now parties. And if disestablishment comes before the laity have gained their rights, we can guess what the "ecclesiastic" clerical, and especially the laymen--whom Thomas Browne once referred to as "ecclesiastical eunuchs"!--will make of it.

Mr. Buckthorne, who had kept silent while we were talking, now said: "This is a hard case, but it is nothing to what our parish has to endure." I said, "What is your trouble? What has your parson done?"

"You might better ask what has he not done! In the first place, there is a very ugly story about a farmer's daughter--the rights of which I neither know nor wish to know--but as a result none of the farmers will have anything to say to him. In the second place, he sits in the bar of the public house every Saturday night till closing time, drinking with the village topers, and consequently the respectable tradesmen will not come into the church. And finally it is reported--I do not say it is true, for I should not like to bring such a charge against any man without positive proof--but I do know it is commonly believed that he has shot partridges _sitting!_ and, of course, after that, no _gentleman_ will have anything to do with him."

"I should hope not," cried Sir William indignantly.

No, I did not laugh at this moral anticlimax. I again asked if the bishop could do nothing.

"Oh, the bishop has been appealed to, and, being a good man himself and a gentleman, is, of course, greatly distressed. I was one of those who went to see him, but all he could say was: 'Dear me, this is very sad. But it is to be remembered that the man is a rector and has a vested interest in the living. Of course, if responsible people can be found to substantiate these charges, undoubtedly he could be brought to trial, but it must not be forgotten that the law against libel is very stringent, and I should not care to move unless I could be assured that a verdict in my favor was a little more than probable.' And so the matter was dropped."

"What shall we say to these things?" Well, the obvious thing is that it is not royalty, as the Fourth of July orators used to declaim, nor the House of Lords, as the Hyde Park speakers are asserting, nor the palaces of the bishops, as some of our non-conformist friends believe; it is the "vested interests," which the new democracy must blast out of church and state before the people can determine their own destiny.

I suspect, if we were face to face, you with your sceptical spirit would suggest that there is something else to be said, which is that this quiet and intelligent-looking Mr. Buckthorne may have been feeding me on the same diet I served to his sister. At any rate, if not about the lesser immorality of his parson, at least about his heinous crime of shooting partridges, sitting.

I do not deny that this is possible, and indeed, much as I should wish to believe such a story, I am almost in hopes it is not true, for, if you will read to the end of this long story--which must, however, be left to my next--you will see why I have to-day a fellow feeling for the wretch, which last night I should have thought impossible!

XXX

"THE AULD UN'"

We had intended to take our departure the next morning, but Sir William was so insistent that we should stay at least a part of the day that we decided to wait until the afternoon. This gave great pleasure to Ruth, who wished to see the garden--she is still dreaming of that country parsonage where she will have a garden of her own!

As there was nothing in particular for me to do our host suggested that I might take a gun and go out with him to "pick up a few rabbits." I told him the only ones I was likely to pick up would be those shot by some one else, for I had not handled a gun since I was in college. But, evidently, he felt about that as you would feel if a brother parson were to say that he was so rusty in his Greek that he could not read his New Testament. It would not seem credible!

You must know that nothing can be done in England without "dressing for the part." Sir William was already arrayed for the _battue_, but I had to get out some knickerbockers, which took time because the troublesome footman had put them away! However they were found at last, and they with my Norfolk jacket made me presentable, so we started with the keeper, who carried over his shoulder a sack in which were evidently live creatures of some sort, for the bag was constantly agitated. I hoped they might be rabbits for me to "pick up," but they proved to be ferrets.

When we reached the warrens these crawling creatures--which look like diminutive dachshunds--were shaken out of the bag and promptly melted into the earth. Soon there was heard a faint squealing, and the keeper announced that one of the young ferrets was killing a rabbit and would be of no further use to us. But the others had a deeper sense of duty, or were better sportsmen--which seems to mean the same thing--for soon the rabbits began to pop up all over the place. Sir William had potted two before I could get my gun to my shoulder. The keeper called my attention to the fact that it was necessary to "look lively," but that is a thing at which I have never been good.

However, I determined that I would do better the next time the rabbits appeared. This I did, for a moment later I saw a little bunch of fluff, no bigger than your fist, roll over and then lie still. One would have thought I had killed a bull moose, so generous was the applause of the keeper and Sir William. I felt like Mr. Winkle--or was it Mr. Tupman--when he shut his eyes and brought down the bird! I shot a number of times more but without success, and began to think I really must look more lively still. And I did! There were a few moments when no more rabbits appeared, though, from time to time, one of those slimy ferrets would come to the surface, stretch its long neck and look around to see if anything of interest appeared, and then silently melt again into the earth. Suddenly a head appeared from a hole some distance away. Sir William did not move--evidently had not seen it, so, thinking this was my chance I fired, and the creature rolled over, kicked once or twice, and then lay still.

I looked for applause, but as you may have noticed the audience does not always respond at the moment one expects!

There was a moment of silence, and then Sir William exclaimed: "Good Lord! You've shot the ferret!"

The keeper groaned as if he had lost his only child, and said, with tears in his voice: "It was the auld un'."

There was nothing to be said, and the keeper sadly buried his favorite, and I felt as if I were one of that party who had buried Sir John Moore:

"Not a drum was heard. Slowly and sadly we laid him down!"

We walked away without a word. There came, however, to my mind a story Sir William had told me as we left the house in the morning, of an American who came over to one of the great "Shoots" in Yorkshire and asked his host as they started out the first morning, "How much he ought to give the keeper?" and he replied: "It depends upon where you hit him." I laughed then, but I was not laughing now! For I was wondering what sum would make good the loss of an "Auld Un'."

I gave the keeper what I could afford--indeed more--but I am not sure he will ever be the same man again! I know one thing. I could have bought a fat red deer for what that little handful of fluff cost me!

As we started to leave the little clump of pines which had been the scene of the murder, the keeper threw the sack on the ground and said to the boy who had accompanied us--to bring home the rabbits, I suppose--"You can bring 'em home, Jock."

He evidently had not the heart to gather up the remaining ferrets, and so strode away after Sir William. The boy looked up at me with a grin and held up the index finger of his right hand, on which there was the scar of a bite. I gathered that he and the "Auld Un" had not been the best of friends, and that there was one of the party who did not mourn its untimely death!

I hurried after the others, and when I caught up with them, broke my gun to eject the lethal cartridge and the one that had not been fired, but my host said: "Oh, I wouldn't do that; we might meet a grouse on the way back. Jenkins," he said, turning to the keeper, "have you seen any hereabouts?"

"There was a brace, Sir William, in the stubble-field this morning. They may be around now, we might take a look."

"I think, then," said Sir William, "we will cut through the Green Lane, and see what there is in that field."

We had hardly entered the lane when a bird rose from behind a bush with a whirr that startled me, but I fired almost without taking aim, and brought it down. There was an awful silence, and then Sir William said, in a strained voice: "I hardly know what we had better do. Still, as it is done, Jenkins, you had better send it up to the Hall."

"Excuse me, Sir William," said Jenkins, "but there would be a lot of talk in the servants' hall, and I think it would be better if I took it home with me and burned the feathers, and no one but ourselves need be any the wiser. Thank God, the boy is back there in the wood! And I don't suppose the gentleman will talk."

After a long pause my host replied, with a sigh, that he supposed that would be best.

Perhaps you will be asking, what was the trouble? I knew no more than you! At first I thought I must have killed the twin brother of the "Auld Un'" but reflected that ferrets do not fly. It could not have been one of the keeper's children as I feared when I caught a glimpse of his face, for children do not have feathers to burn! At last, I said, rather testily, I fear: "Would you mind telling what is the trouble?"

Sir William looked at me, more in sorrow than in anger, and solemnly replied: "It was a _pheasant_."

Even then I did not understand. But little by little it came out that I had committed the unpardonable sin. For the time of pheasants was not yet! There is a heavy fine for shooting them out of season, but that did not trouble my generous host. It was the shame of the thing! If it were ever known among his fellow sportsmen that he or his keeper had been seen with a dead pheasant in their possession before the appointed day, he was a ruined man!

Never again can I laugh at Mr. Winkle! It is true I had not posed as a sportsman, but I should have had the moral courage to decline to have anything to do with a sport which might bring sorrow to the owner of the beloved "Auld Un'," and entail a shameful secret on my kindly host.

Much as I like them, I was glad to leave these kindly people, and one of them at least, I am sure, was glad to have me go! I can only hope that I may not be hereafter bracketed in his mind with the miscreant who is suspected of shooting partridges "sitting"!

XXXI

CHURCH AND STATE

We were now headed for Chester, but stopped the Sunday at Malvern. We had to take refuge in the hotel near the station because the more select one was full; but we found it comfortable, and the people with whom we came in contact made up for the exclusive refinement of the smaller inn.

On Sunday morning Ruth announced that she was going to take a "day off," so I went to the Abbey alone. It is a beautiful building in spite of restorations, but, as usual, I was more interested in the people than in the building, and as I had to look with Ruth's eyes as well as my own, the first thing that attracted me was the number of children present, and, secondly, the beauty of the girls' hair. There were a score of girls whose hair would have made the fortune of the proprietor of a capillary tonic. It was long and glossy, and fine as silk. Sometimes, it seemed to me, the color was rather pale, but it floated over their shoulders in waves of beauty. I thought of St. Paul's remark that a woman's glory is her hair, which showed a more sympathetic appreciation than one would have expected from such a source. Indeed, it is almost the only thing he says about women which appeals to the modern mind.

You remember Newman's complaint, in the Apologia, that if there is anything more dreary than the Anglican service, he does not know what it is. Well, that may have been true in his day before the Romantic spirit, which in its ecclesiastical form we call the Oxford Movement, had revealed the beauty of the liturgy, but it could hardly have been justly said of the service this morning at the Abbey. But the sermon! I have since learned that the vicar was ill and that a curate was suddenly called upon to take his place. It would have been far better had there been no sermon at all. The service was enough. I believe it is often enough, and the trouble with us parsons is that we do not know when to stop! I do not mean after the sermon has begun, but before it! Certainly in this church, had the organist been taken suddenly ill they would not have called on a choir boy to play the organ, nor should that curate have been allowed to fret the congregation as he did. Well, it had one merit, it was but ten minutes long.

As I walked away I was joined by a man whom I had noticed at the hotel. He abruptly remarked: "Beastly sermon!" Well, "dog will not eat dog," so I only said: "Did you think so?"

"I should say I did. I call it a disgrace to allow such an exhibition. Damn lazy beggar, he didn't even get his text right. I wonder if there is any other profession in which such incompetence would be tolerated? I do not know what his stipend may be, I only know he is grossly overpaid no matter how small it may be."

There did not seem to be anything to say that would not sound like an anticlimax after such eloquence, so I kept silence, a thing, by the way, an Englishman never resents.

One often hears it said that Englishmen do not care for sermons, but I suspect they like them as much as other people, when they can get them! I have been wondering since if I should have been so much impressed by the girls' hair if there had been more men in the church!

As you know the _Cause Célèbre_ is making great excitement here as all over the world--perhaps more here. As the judges were expected to give their decision yesterday, I hurried to the railway station early this morning to get a Sunday paper. But there are no such things! Did you know that? It seems incredible that the result of this portentous trial is known all over the world except a hundred miles from the spot where the verdict was given. But it is so!

In the evening I attended service at the little church near the hotel--Ruth's day off lasting into the evening! Not that I am surprised. We parsons work off the nervous strain in the act of preaching and forget that the family has the strain without the relief! At any rate, that is the way with Ruth. I think she expects each Sunday that I shall come, what the English call a "cropper," so I am glad when she can be induced to rest on the Lord's Day. But, on the other hand, a parson is like an actor, of whom I have heard it said that if he gets a night "off" he goes to some other theatre! Well, apart from its religious influence, which I trust was not altogether lacking, I am glad I went to this church, for reasons I will now explain.