‘I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there’s no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused.’ — Henry IV.
WHEN Philip Debarry had come home that morning and read the letters which had not been forwarded to him, he laughed so heartily1 at Mr Lyon’s that he congratulated himself on being in his private room. Otherwise his laughter would have awakened2 the curiosity of Sir Maximus, and Philip did not wish to tell any one the contents of the letter until he had shown them to his uncle. He determined3 to ride over to the rectory to lunch; for as Lady Mary was away, he and his uncle might be tete-a-tete.
The rectory was on the other side of the river, close to the church of which it was the fitting companion: a fine old brick-and-stone house, with a great bow-window opening from the library on to the deep-turfed lawn, one fat dog sleeping on the door-stone, another fat dog waddling4 on the gravel5, the autumn leaves duly swept away, the lingering chrysanthemums6 cherished, tall trees stooping or soaring in the most picturesque7 variety, and a Virginian creeper turning a little rustic8 hut into a scarlet9 pavilion. It was one of those rectories which are among the bulwarks10 of our venerable institutions — which arrest disintegrating11 doubt, serve as a double embankment against Popery and Dissent12, and rally feminine instinct and affection to reinforce the decisions of masculine thought.
‘What makes you look so merry, Phil?’ said the rector, as his nephew entered the pleasant library.
‘Something that concerns you,’ said Philip, taking out the letter. ‘A clerical challenge. Here’s an opportunity for you to emulate13 the divines of the sixteenth century and have a theological duel14. Read this letter.’
‘What answer have you sent the crazy little fellow?’ said the rector, keeping the letter in his hand and running over it again and again, with brow knit, but eyes gleaming without any malignity15. ‘O, I sent no answer. I awaited yours.’
‘Mine!’ said the rector, throwing down the letter on the table. ‘You don’t suppose I’m going to hold a public debate with a schismatic of that sort? I should have an infidel shoe-maker next expecting me to answer blasphemies16 delivered in bad grammar.’
‘But you see how he puts it,’ said Philip. With all his gravity of nature he could not resist a slightly michievous prompting, though he had a serious feeling that he should not like to be regarded as failing to fulfil his pledge. ‘I think if you refuse, I shall be obliged to offer myself.’
‘Nonsense! Tell him he is himself acting17 a dishonourable part in interpreting your words as a pledge to do any preposterous18 thing that suits his fancy. Suppose he had asked you to give him land to build a chapel19 on; doubtless that would have given him a “lively satisfaction.” A man who puts a non-natural strained sense on a promise is no better than a robber.’
‘But he has not asked for land. I daresay he thinks you won’t object to his proposal. I confess there’s a simplicity20 and quaintness21 about the letter that rather pleases me.’
‘Let me tell you, Phil, he’s a crazy little firefly, that does a great deal of harm in my parish. He inflames22 the Dissenters23’ minds on politics. There’s no end to the mischief24 done by these busy prating25 men. They make the ignorant multitude the judges of the largest questions, both political and religious, till we shall soon have no institution left that is not on a level with the comprehension of a huckster or a drayman. There can be nothing more retrograde — losing all the results of civilisation26, all the lessons of Providence27 — letting the windlass run down after men have been turning at it painfully for generations. If the instructed are not to judge for the uninstructed, why, let us set Dick Stubbs to make our almanacs, and have a President of the Royal Society elected by universal suffrage28.’
The rector had risen, placed himself with his back to the fire, and thrust his hands in his pockets, ready to insist further on this wide argument. Philip sat nursing one leg, listening respectfully, as he always did, though often listening to the sonorous29 echo of his own statements, which suited his uncle’s needs so exactly that he did not distinguish them from his old impressions.
‘True,’ said Philip, ‘but in special cases we have to do with special conditions. You know I defend the casuists. And it may happen that, for the honour of the church in Treby and a little also for my honour, circumstances may demand a concession30 even to some notions of a dissenting31 preacher.’
‘Not at all. I should be making a figure which my brother clergy32 might well take as an affront33 to themselves. The character of the establishment has suffered enough already through the Evangelicals, with their extempore incoherence and their pipe-smoking piety34. Look at Wimple, the man who is vicar of Shuttleton — without his gown and bands, anybody would take him for a grocer in mourning.’
‘Well, I shall cut a still worse figure, and so will you, in the dissenting magazines and newspapers. It will go the round of the kingdom. There will be a paragraph headed, “Tory Falsehood and Clerical Cowardice,” or else “The Meanness of the Aristocracy and the Incompetence35 of the Beneficed Clergy.” ’
‘There would be a worse paragraph if I were to consent to the debate. Of course it would be said that I was beaten hollow, and that now the question had been cleared up at Treby Magna, the church had not a sound leg to stand on. Besides,’ the rector went on, frowning and smiling, ‘it’s all very well for you to talk, Phil, but this debating is not so easy when a man’s close upon sixty. What one writes or says must be something good and scholarly; and after all had been done, this little Lyon would buzz about one like a wasp36, and cross-question and rejoin. Let me tell you, a plain truth may be so worried and mauled by fallacies as to get the worst of it. There’s no such thing as tiring a talking machine like Lyon.’ ‘Then you absolutely refuse?’ ‘Yes, I do.’
‘You remember that when I wrote my letter of thanks to Lyon you approved my offer to serve him if possible.’
‘Certainly I remember it. But suppose he had asked you to vote for civil marriage, or to go and hear him preach every Sunday?’
‘But he has not asked that.’
‘Something as unreasonable37, though.’
‘Well,’ said Philip, taking up Mr Lyon’s letter and looking graver — looking even vexed38, ‘it is rather an unpleasant business for me. I really felt obliged to him. I think there’s a sort of worth in the man beyond his class. Whatever may be the reason of the case, I shall disappoint him instead of doing him the service I offered.’
‘Well, that’s a misfortune; we can’t help it.’
‘The worst of it is, I should be insulting him to say, “I will do anything else, but not just this that you want.” He evidently feels himself in company with Luther and Zwingli and Calvin and considers our letters part of the history of Protestantism.’
‘Yes, yes. I know it’s rather an unpleasant thing, Phil. You are aware that I would have done anything in reason to prevent you from becoming unpopular here. I consider your character a possession to all of us.’
‘I think I must call on him forthwith, and explain and apologise.’
‘No, sit still; I’ve thought of something,’ said the rector, with a sudden revival39 of spirits. ‘I’ve just seen Sherlock coming in. He is to lunch with me today. It would do no harm for him to hold the debate — a curate and a young man — he’ll gain by it; and it would release you from any awkwardness, Phil. Sherlock is not going to stay here long, you know; he’ll soon have his title. I’ll put the thing to him. He won’t object if I wish it. It’s a capital idea. It will do Sherlock good. He’s a clever fellow, but he wants confidence.’
Philip had not time to object before Mr Sherlock appeared — a young divine of good birth and figure, of sallow complexion40 and bashful address.
‘Sherlock, you have came in most opportunely,’ said the rector. ‘A case has turned up in the parish in which you can be of eminent41 use. I know that is what you have desired ever since you have been with me. But I’m about so much myself that there really has not been sphere enough for you. You are a studious man, I know; I daresay you have all the necessary matter prepared — at your finger-ends, if not on paper.’
Mr Sherlock smiled with rather a trembling lip, willing to distinguish himself, but hoping that the rector only alluded42 to a dialogue on baptism by aspersion43, or some other pamphlet suited to the purposes of the Christian44 Knowledge Society. But as the rector proceeded to unfold the circumstances under which his eminent service was to be rendered, he grew more and more nervous.
‘You’ll oblige me very much, Sherlock,’ the rector ended, ‘by going into this thing zealously45. Can you guess what time you will require? because it will rest with us to fix the day.’
‘I should be rejoiced to oblige you, Mr Debarry, but I really think I am not competent to —’
‘That’s your modesty46, Sherlock. Don’t let me hear any more of that. I know Filmore of Corpus said you might be a first-rate man if your diffidence didn’t do you injustice47. And you can refer anything to me, you know. Come, you will set about the thing at once. But, Phil, you must tell the preacher to send a scheme of the debate — all the different heads — and he must agree to keep rigidly48 within the scheme. There, sit down at my desk and write the letter now; Thomas shall carry it.’
Philip sat down to write, and the rector, with his firm ringing voice, went on at his ease, giving ‘indications’ to his agitated49 curate.
‘But you can begin at once preparing a good, cogent50, clear statement, and considering the probable points of assault. You can look into Jewel, Hall, Hooker, Whitgift, and the rest: you’ll find them all here. My library wants nothing in English divinity. Sketch51 the lower ground taken by Usher52 and those men, but bring all your force to bear on marking out the true High–Church doctrine53. Expose the wretched cavils54 of the Nonconformists, and the noisy futility55 that belongs to schismatics generally. I will give you a telling passage from Burke on the Dissenters, and some good quotations56 which I brought together in two sermons of my own on the Position of the English Church in Christendom. How long do you think it will take you to bring your thoughts together? You can throw them afterwards into the form of an essay; we’ll have the thing printed; it will do you good with the bishop57.’
With all Mr Sherlock’s timidity, there was fascination58 for him in this distinction. He reflected that he could take coffee and sit up late, and perhaps produce something rather fine. It might be a first step towards that eminence59 which it was no more than his duty to aspire60 to. Even a polemical fame like that of a Philpotts must have had a beginning. Mr Sherlock was not insensible to the pleasure of turning sentences successfully, and it was a pleasure not always unconnected with preferment. A diffident man likes the idea of doing something remarkable61, which will create belief in him without any immediate62 display of brilliancy. Celebrity63 may blush and be silent, and win a grace the more. Thus Mr Sherlock was constrained64, trembling all the while, and much wishing that his essay were already in print.
‘I think I could hardly be ready under a fortnight.’
‘Very good. Just write that, Phil, and tell him to fix the precise day and place. And then we’ll go to lunch.’
The rector was quite satisfied. He had talked himself into thinking that he should like to give Sherlock a few useful hints, look up his own earlier sermons, and benefit the curate by his criticism, when the argument had been got into shape. He was a healthy-natured man, but that was not at all a reason why he should not have those sensibilities to the odour of authorship which belong to almost everybody who is not expected to be a writer — and especially to that form of authorship which is called suggestion, and consists in telling another man that he might do a great deal with a given subject, by bringing a sufficient amount of knowledge, reasoning, and wit to bear upon it.
Philip would have had some twinges of conscience about the curate, if he had not guessed that the honour thrust upon him was not altogether disagreeable. The church might perhaps have had a stronger supporter; but for himself, he had done what he was bound to do: he had done his best towards fulfilling Mr Lyon’s desire.
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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13
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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14
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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15
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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18
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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22
inflames
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的第三人称单数 ) | |
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23
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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24
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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25
prating
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的现在分词 ) | |
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26
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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30
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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32
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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33
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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34
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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35
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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38
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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44
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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45
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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46
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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50
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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51
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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52
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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53
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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54
cavils
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| v.挑剔，吹毛求疵( cavil的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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56
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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57
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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58
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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60
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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61
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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62
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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