They began to ring the bell on that Sunday morning before ten o’clock. Mrs. Fenwick was still sitting at the breakfast-table, with the windows open, when the sound was first heard,—first heard, that is, on that morning. She looked at Mary, groaned15, and put her hands to her ears. The Vicar laughed, and walked about the room.
“At what time do they begin?” said Mary.
“Not till eleven,” said Mrs. Fenwick. “There, it wants a quarter to ten now, and they mean to go on with that music for an hour and a quarter.”
“We shall be keeping them company by-and-by,” said the Vicar.
“The poor old church bells won’t be heard through it,” said Mrs. Fenwick.
Mrs. Fenwick was in the habit of going to the village school for half an hour before the service on Sunday mornings, and on this morning she started from the house according to her custom at a little after ten. Mary Lowther went with her, and as the school was in the village and could be reached much more shortly by the front gate than by the path round by the church, the two ladies walked out boldly before the new chapel. The reader may perhaps remember that Mrs. Fenwick had promised her husband to withdraw that outward animosity to the chapel which she had evinced by not using the vicarage entrance. As they went there was a crowd collected, and they found that after the manner of the Primitive Methodists in their more enthusiastic days, a procession of worshippers had been formed in the village, which at this very moment was making its way to the chapel. Mrs. Fenwick, as she stood aside to make way for them, declared that the bell sounded as though it were within her bonnet16. When they reached the school they found that many a child was absent who should have been there, and Mrs. Fenwick knew that the truant17 urchins18 were amusing themselves at the new building. And with those who were not truant the clang of the new bell distracted terribly that attention which was due to the collect. Mrs. Fenwick herself confessed afterwards that she hardly knew what she was teaching.
Mr. Fenwick, according to his habit, went into his own study when the ladies went to the school, and there, according to custom also on Sunday mornings, his letters were brought to him, some few minutes before he started on his walk through the garden to the church. On this morning there were a couple of letters for himself, and he opened them both. One was from a tradesman in Salisbury, and the other was from his wife’s brother-in-law, Mr. Quickenham. Before he started he read Mr. Quickenham’s letter, and then did his best to forget it and put it out of his mind till the morning service should be over. The letter was as follows:—
Pump Court, June 30, 1868.
Dear Fenwick,
I have found, as I thought I should, that Lord Trowbridge has no property in, or right whatever to, the bit of ground on which your enemies have been building their new Ebenezer. The spot is a part of the glebe, and as such seems to have been first abandoned by a certain parson named Brandon, who was your predecessor19’s predecessor. There can, however, be no doubt that the ground is glebe, and that you are bound to protect it as such, on behalf of your successors, and of the patrons of the living.
I found some difficulty in getting at the terrier of the parish,—which you, who consider yourself to be a model parson, I dare say, have never seen. I have, however, found it in duplicate. The clerk of the Board of Guardians20, who should, I believe, have a copy of it, knew nothing about it; and had never heard of such a document. Your bishop21’s registrar22 was not much more learned,—but I did find it in the bishop’s chancery; and there is a copy of it also at Saint John’s, which seems to imply that great attention has been paid by the college as patron to the interests of the parish priest. This is more than has been done by the incumbent23, who seems to be an ignorant fellow in such matters. I wonder how many parsons there are in the Church who would let a Marquis and a Methodist minister between them build a chapel on the parish glebe?
Yours ever,
Richard Quickenham.
If I were to charge you through an attorney for my trouble you’d have to mortgage your life interest in the bit of land to pay me. I enclose a draft from the terrier as far as the plot of ground and the vicarage-gate are concerned.
Here was information! This detestable combination of dissenting24 and tyrannically territorial25 influences had been used to build a Methodist Chapel upon land of which he, during his incumbency26 in the parish, was the freehold possessor! What an ass27 he must have been not to know his own possessions! How ridiculous would he appear when he should come forward to claim as a part of the glebe a morsel28 of land to which he had paid no special attention whatever since he had been in the parish! And then, what would it be his duty to do? Mr. Quickenham had clearly stated that on behalf of the college, which was the patron of the living, and on behalf of his successors, it was his duty to claim the land. And was it possible that he should not do so after such usage as he had received from Lord Trowbridge? So meditating,—but grieving that he should be driven at such a moment to have his mind forcibly filled with such matters,—still hearing the chapel bell, which in his ears drowned the sound from his own modest belfry, and altogether doubtful as to what step he would take, he entered his own church. It was manifest to him that of the poorer part of his usual audience, and of the smaller farmers, one half were in attendance upon Mr. Puddleham’s triumph.
During the whole of that afternoon he said not a word of the barrister’s letter to any one. He struggled to banish29 the subject from his thoughts. Failing to do that, he did banish it from his tongue. The letter was in the pocket of his coat; but he showed it to no one. Gilmore dined at the vicarage; but even to him he was silent. Of course the conversation at dinner turned upon the chapel. It was impossible that on such a day they should speak of anything else. Even as they sat at their early dinner Mr. Puddleham’s bell was ringing, and no doubt there was a vigour30 in the pulling of it which would not be maintained when the pulling of it should have become a thing of every week. There had been a compact made, in accordance with which the Vicar’s wife was to be debarred from saying anything against the chapel, and, no doubt, when the compact was made, the understanding was that she should give over hating the chapel. This had, of course, been found to be impossible, but in a certain way she had complied with the compact. The noise of the bell however, was considered to be beyond the compact, and on this occasion she was almost violent in the expression of her wrath31. Her husband listened to her, and sat without rebuking32 her, silent, with the lawyer’s letter in his pocket. This bell had been put up on his own land, and he could pull it down to-morrow. It had been put up by the express agency of Lord Trowbridge, and with the direct view of annoying him; and Lord Trowbridge had behaved to him in a manner which set all Christian charity at defiance33. He told himself plainly that he had no desire to forgive Lord Trowbridge,—that life in this world, as it is constituted, would not be compatible with such forgiveness,—that he would not, indeed, desire to injure Lord Trowbridge otherwise than by exacting34 such penalty as would force him and such as he to restrain their tyranny; but that to forgive him, till he should have been so forced, would be weak and injurious to the community. As to that, he had quite made up his mind, in spite of all doctrine35 to the contrary. Men in this world would have to go naked if they gave their coats to the robbers who took their cloaks; and going naked is manifestly inexpedient. His office of parish priest would be lowered in the world if he forgave, out of hand, such offences as these which had been committed against him by Lord Trowbridge. This he understood clearly. And now he might put down, not only the bell, but with the bell the ill-conditioned peer who had caused it to be put up—on glebe land. All this went through his mind again and again, as he determined37 that on that day, being Sunday, he would think no more about it.
When the Monday came it was necessary that he should show the letter to his wife,—to his wife, and to the Squire38, and to Mary Lowther. He had no idea of keeping the matter secret from his near friends and advisers39; but he had an idea that it would be well that he should make up his mind as to what he would do before he asked their advice. He started, therefore, for a turn through the parish before breakfast on Monday morning,—and resolved as to his course of action. On no consideration whatever would he have the chapel pulled down. It was necessary for his purpose that he should have his triumph over the Marquis,—and he would have it. But the chapel had been built for a good purpose which it would adequately serve, and let what might be said to him by his wife or others, he would not have a brick of it disturbed. No doubt he had no more power to give the land for its present or any other purpose than had the Marquis. It might very probably be his duty to take care that the land was not appropriated to wrong purposes. It might be that he had already neglected his duty, in not knowing, or in not having taken care to learn the precise limits of the glebe which had been given over to him for his use during his incumbency. Nevertheless, there was the chapel, and there it should stand, as far as he was concerned. If the churchwardens, or the archdeacon, or the college, or the bishop had power to interfere40, as to which he was altogether ignorant, and chose to exercise that power, he could not help it. He was nearly sure that his own churchwardens would be guided altogether by himself,—and as far as he was concerned the chapel should remain unmolested. Having thus resolved he came back to breakfast and read Mr. Quickenham’s letter aloud to his wife and Mary Lowther.
“Glebe!” said the Vicar’s wife.
“Do you mean that it is part of your own land?” asked Mary.
“Exactly that,” said the Vicar.
“And that old thief of a Marquis has given away what belongs to us?” said Mrs. Fenwick.
“He has given away what did not belong to himself,” said the Vicar. “But I can’t admit that he’s a thief.”
“Surely he ought to have known,” said Mary.
“As for that, so ought I to have known, I suppose. The whole thing is one of the most ridiculous mistakes that ever was made. It has absolutely come to pass that here, in the middle of Wiltshire, with all our maps, and surveys, and parish records, no one concerned has known to whom belonged a quarter of an acre of land in the centre of the village. It is just a thing to write an article about in a newspaper; but I can’t say that one party is more to blame than the other; that is, in regard to the ignorance displayed.”
“And what will you do, Frank?”
“Nothing.”
“You will do nothing, Frank?”
“I will do nothing; but I will take care to let the Marquis know the nature of his generosity41. I fancy that I am bound to take on myself that labour, and I must say that it won’t trouble me much to have to write the letter.”
“You won’t pull it down, Frank?”
“No, my dear.”
“I would, before a week was over.”
“So would I,” said Mary. “I don’t think it ought to be there.”
“Of course it ought not to be there,” said Mrs. Fenwick.
“They might as well have it here in the garden,” said Mary.
“Just the same,” said Mrs. Fenwick.
“It is not in the garden; and, as it has been built, it shall remain,—as far as I am concerned. I shall rather like it, now that I know I am the landlord. I think I shall claim a sitting.” This was the Vicar’s decision on the Monday morning, and from that decision the two ladies were quite unable to move him.
This occurred a day or two after the affair of the rubies42, and at a time when Mary was being very hard pressed to name a day for her wedding. Of course such pressure had been the result of Mr. Gilmore’s success on that occasion. She had then resolutely43 gone to work to overcome her own, and his, melancholy44 gloom, and, having in a great degree succeeded, it was only natural that he should bring up that question of his marriage day. She, when she had accepted him, had done so with a stipulation45 that she should not be hurried; but we all know what such stipulations are worth. Who is to define what is and what is not hurry? They had now been engaged a month, and the Squire was clearly of opinion that there had been no hurry. “September was the nicest month in the year,” he said, “for getting married and going abroad. September in Switzerland, October among the Italian lakes, November in Florence and Rome. So that they might get home before Christmas after a short visit to Naples.” That was the Squire’s programme, and his whole manner was altered as he made it. He thought he knew the nature of the girl well enough to be sure that, though she would profess no passionate46 love for him before starting on such a journey, she would change her tone before she returned. It should be no fault of his if she did not change it. Mary had at first declined to fix any day, had talked of next year, had declared that she would not be hurried. She had carried on the fight even after the affair of the rubies, but she had fought in opposition47 to strong and well-disciplined forces on the other side, and she had begun to admit to herself that it might be expedient36 that she should yield. The thing was to be done, and why not have it done at once? She had not as yet yielded, but she had begun to think that she would yield.
At such a period it was of course natural that the Squire should be daily at the vicarage, and on this Monday morning he came down while the minds of all his friends there were intent on the strange information received from Mr. Quickenham. The Vicar was not by when Mr. Gilmore was told, and he was thus easily induced to join in the opinion that the chapel should be made to disappear. He had a landlord’s idea about land, and was thoroughly48 well-disposed to stop any encroachment49 on the part of the Marquis.
“Lord Trowbridge must pull it down himself, and put it up again elsewhere,” said the Squire.
“But Frank says that he won’t let the Marquis pull it down,” said Mrs. Fenwick, almost moved to tears by the tragedy of the occasion.
Then the Vicar joined them, and the matter was earnestly debated;—so earnestly that, on that occasion, not a word was said as to the day of the wedding.
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1
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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3
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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6
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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hoarsest
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| （指声音）粗哑的，嘶哑的( hoarse的最高级 ) | |
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8
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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10
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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11
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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12
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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13
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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15
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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16
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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19
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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incumbency
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| n.职责，义务 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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28
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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29
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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30
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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31
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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32
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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33
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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36
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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38
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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39
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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41
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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42
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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43
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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44
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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45
stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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46
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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47
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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48
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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49
encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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