Chapter 8

Another and a much more reputable Council of Three sat that night in Miss Tresilyan's apartments. Mr. Fullarton represented the male element there, and was in great force. The late accession to his flock had decidedly raised his spirits: he knew how materially it would strengthen his hands; but, independently of all politic consideration, Cecil's grace and beauty exercised a powerful influence over him. Do not misconstrue this. I believe a thought had never crossed his mind relating to any living woman that his own wife might not have known and approved; nevertheless was it true, that Mr. Fullarton liked his penitents to be fair: not a very eccentric or unaccountable taste either. It is a necessity of our nature to take more delight in the welfare and training of a beautiful and refined being, than in that of one who is coarse and awkward and ugly. Even with the merely animal creation we should experience this; and not above one divine in fifty is _more_ than human, after all.

So, gazing on the fair face and queenly figure that were then before him, and feeling a sort of vested interest in their possessor, the heart of the pastor was merry within him; and he, so to speak, caroused over the profusely-sugared tea and well-buttered _galette_ with a decorous and regulated joviality; ever as he drank casting down the wreaths of his florid eloquence at the feet of his entertainers. In any atmosphere whatsoever, no matter how uncongenial, those garlands were sure to bloom. His zeal was such a hardy perennial that the most chilling reception could not damage its vitality. Principle and intention were both all right, of course, but they were clumsily carried out, and the whole effect was to remind one unpleasantly of the clockmaker puffing his wares. At the most unseasonable times and in the most incongruous places, Mr. Fullarton always had an eye to business, introducing and inculcating his tenets with an assurance and complacency peculiar to himself. Sometimes he would adopt the familiarly conversational, sometimes the theatrically effective style; but it never seemed to cross his mind that either could appear ridiculous or grotesque. Some absurd stories were told of his performances in this line. On one occasion, they say, he addressed his neighbor at dinner, to whom he had just been introduced, abruptly thus: "You see, what we want is--more faith," in precisely the manner and tone of a _gourmet_ suggesting that "the soup would be all the better for a little more seasoning;" or of Mr. Chouler asserting, "the farmers must be protected, sir." On another, meeting for the first time a very pious and wealthy old man (I believe a joint-stock bank director), he proceeded to sound him as to his "experiences." The unsuspecting elder, rather flattered by the interest taken in his welfare, and never dreaming that such communications could be any thing but privileged and confidential, parted with his information pretty freely. Mr. Fullarton was so delighted at what he had heard that he turned suddenly round to the mixed assembly and cried out. "Why, here's a blessed old Barzillai!" His face was beaming like that of an enthusiastic numismatist who stumbles upon a rare Commodus or an authentic Domitian. There were several people present of his own way of thinking; but some, even among those, felt very ill afterward from their efforts to repress their laughter. The miserable individual thus endued with the "robe of honor" would have infinitely preferred the most scandalously abusive epithet to that fervid compliment. He would have parted with half his bank shares at a discount (they were paying about 14 per cent. then--you can get them tolerably cheap now) to have been able to sink into his shoes on the spot; indeed these were almost large enough to form convenient places of refuge. It had a very bad effect on him: he never again unbosomed himself on any subject to man, woman, or child. Even in his last illness--though he must have had one or two troublesome things on his mind, unless he had peculiar ideas, as to the propriety of ruining widows and orphans--he declined to commit himself,

But locked the secret in his breast, And died in silence, unconfessed.

On that Saturday night, to one of the party at all events, Mr. Fullarton's presence was very welcome. Mrs. Danvers was somewhat of a hard drinker in theology, and, like other intemperate people, was not over particular as to the quality of the liquors set before her, provided only that they were hot and strong, and unstinted. The succulent and highly-flavored eloquence to which she was listening suited her palate exactly, besides which, the chaplain's peculiar opinions happened to coincide perfectly with her own. As the evening progressed she got more and more exhilarated; and at length could not forbear intimating "how sincerely she valued the privilege of sitting under so eminent a divine."

The latter made a scientific little bow, elaborated evidently by long practice, expressive at once of gratification and humility.

"A privilege, if such it be, dear Mrs. Danvers, that some of my congregation estimate but very lightly. You would hardly believe how many members of my flock I scarcely know, except by name. It is a sore temptation to discouragement. I fear that Major Keene's pernicious example is indeed contagious, and that his evil communications have corrupted many--alas! too many." He rounded off the period with a ponderous professional sigh.

Miss Tresilyan was leaning back in her arm-chair: as the wood-fire sprang up brightly and sank again suddenly, her great deep eyes seemed to flash back the fitful gleams. It was long since she had spoken. In truth, she had been drawing largely upon her piety at first, to make herself feel interested, and, when this failed, upon her courtesy, to appear so; but she was conscious of relapses more and more frequent into the dreary regions of Boredom. Every body _would_ agree with every body else so completely! A bold contradiction, a stinging sarcasm, or a caustic retort, would have been worth any thing just then to take off the cloying taste of the everlasting honey. She roused herself at these last words enough to ask languidly, "What has he done?"

There could not be a simpler question, nor one put more carelessly; but it was rather a "facer" to Mr. Fullarton, who dealt in generalities as a rule, and objected to being brought to book about particulars--considering, indeed, such a line of argument as indicative of a caviling and narrow-minded disposition in his interlocutor.

"Well," he said, not without hesitation, "Major Keene has only once been to church; and, I believe, has spoken scoffingly since of the discourse he heard delivered there. Yet I may say I was more than usually 'supported' on that occasion." The man's thorough air of conviction softened somewhat the absurd effect of his childish vanity.

Cecil would have been sorry to confess how much excuse she felt inclined to admit just then for the sins both of commission and omission--sins that, at another time, when her faculties were fresh and her judgment unbiassed, she might have looked upon as any thing but venial. Ah! Mr. Fullarton, the seed you have scattered so profusely to-night is beginning to bear fruit already you never dreamed of. Beet-root and turnips will not succeed on _every_ soil. It must be long before a remunerative crop of these can be gathered from the breezy upland which for centuries, till the heather was burned, has worn a robe of uncommercial but imperial purple.

Nevertheless, Miss Tresilyan frowned perceptibly. It looked very much as if Keene had been amusing himself at her expense when he affected an interest in her leading the choir. Unwittingly to "make sport for the men of war in Gath" by no means suited the fancy of that haughty ladye.

"It is very wrong of him not to come to church," she observed after a pause (for the sin of sarcasm disapproval was not so ready, and she made the most of scanty means of condemnation). "Yet I scarcely think he can be actively hostile. You know he almost lives with the Molyneuxs, and has great influence with them. Do they not attend regularly?"

Mr. Fullarton admitted that they did. "But," said he, "constant intercourse with such a man must ere long have its injurious effect. Indeed, I felt it my bounden duty to warn Mrs. Molyneux on the subject. I grieve to say she treated my admonition with a very unwarrantable levity."

Mrs. Danvers's sympathetic groan was promptly at the service of the speaker; fortunately, turning to thank her for it by a look, he missed detecting her pupil's smile. She could fancy so well Fanny's little _moue_, combining amusement, vexation, and impertinence, while undergoing the ecclesiastical censure.

"You must be merciful to Mrs. Molyneux," she remarked, with a demure gravity that did her credit under the circumstances. "She is my greatest friend, you know. When a wife is so very fond of her husband, surely there is some excuse for her adopting his prejudices for and against people?"

The pastor brightened up suddenly: he had just recollected another fact to fire off against the _bête noir_.

"I forgot to tell you that Major Keene is much addicted to play, and, besides, is intimate with the Vicomte de Châteaumesnil. _Noscitur a sociis._" The reverend man was an indifferent classic, but he had a way of flashing scraps out of grammars and _Analecta Minora_ before women and others unlikely to be down upon him, as if they were quotations from some recondite author.

"You can not mean that cripple who is drawn about in a wheel-chair?" Cecil asked. "We saw him to-day, only for a moment, for he drew his cloak over his face as we passed. I never saw such a melancholy wreck, and I pitied him so much that I fear he will haunt me."

Far deeper would have been the compassion had she guessed at the pang that shot straight to Armand's heart as he veiled his blasted features and haggard eyes, feeling bitterly that such as he were not worthy to look upon her in the glory of her brilliant beauty.

"A notorious atheist and profligate," was the reply. "We can not regard his sore affliction in any other light than a judgment--a manifest judgment, dear Miss Tresilyan."

There was grave disapproval and just a shade of contempt in the face of one of his hearers as she said, "The hand of God is laid so heavily there that man may surely forbear him." But Mrs. Danvers struck in to her favorite's rescue, rejoicing in an opportunity of displaying her partisanship.

"A judgment, of course. It would be sinful to doubt it. Besides, do not _others_ suffer?" (She cast up her eyes here pointedly, as though she said, "There may be more perfect saints, but if you want a fair specimen of the fine old English martyr--_me voici_.") "Cecil, my love, I wonder you did not perceive Major Keene's true character at once. You were talking to him a good deal the other day."

"He did not favor me with any remarkably heretical opinions," Miss Tresilyan replied, carelessly. "Perhaps they have been exaggerated. At all events, he is not likely to do us much harm. Don't you think _we_ are safe, Bessie? Dick does not care much for play; and his ideas on religious subjects are so very simple that it would be hard to unsettle them."

Clearly she thought the topic was exhausted, but it had a strange fascination for Mr. Fullarton. One of the many good-natured people, who especially abound in those semi-English Continental towns, had been kind enough to quote or misquote to him a remark of Royston's about that sermon; and on this topic the chaplain was very vulnerable. He would have forgiven a real substantial injury far sooner than a depreciation of his discourses.

Was he one whit weaker or more susceptible than his fellows? I think not. All the philosophy on earth will not teach us to endure without wincing a mosquito's bite. The hardiest hero bears about him one spot where an ivy-leaf clinging intercepted the petrifying water--a tiny out-of-the-way spot, not very near the head or heart, but palpable enough to be stricken by Paris's arrow or Hagen's spear. Cæsar is very sensitive about that bald crown of his, and fears lest even the laurel wreath should cover it but meagrely. Many wars, since that which brought Ilium to the dust, might have been traced to slighted vanity, and many excellent Christians have waxed quite as wroth as the queen of heathenish heaven about the _spretæ injuria formæ_. (Do you think this is a peculiarly feminine failing? I have seen a first-class man and Ireland scholar look massacres at the child of his bosom friend, when the unconscious innocent made disagreeable remarks on his personal appearance, alluding particularly to the shape of his nose, which was _not_ Phidian. He has since been heard to speak of that terrible deed in Bethlehem as a painful but justifiable measure of political expediency; and is inclined, on many grounds, to excuse and sympathize with the stem Idumean.) The insult offered to the embassador in Tarentum was only the outbreak of a single drunkard's brutality, but all the wealth of the fair city of Phalanthus did not suffice to pay the account for washing the soiled robe white again; and blood enough ran down her streets to have quenched some blazing temples before the Romans would give her a receipt in full.

Arguing from these _data_, we may conclude that Mr. Fullarton was laboring under a slight delusion in believing (which he did sincerely) that only a pure and disinterested zeal for the welfare of his flock impelled him to say, "I shall make it my business to inquire more fully into Major Keene's antecedents. I am convinced there is something discreditable in the background, and it may be well to be armed with proofs in case of need."

Though _he_ may have deceived himself completely as to the nature of the spirit that possessed him, Cecil Tresilyan was more clear-sighted. She had not failed to remark a certain vicious twinkle in the speaker's eye and a deeper flush on his ruddy countenance, betokening rather a mundane resentment. Her lip began to curl.

"How very disagreeable some of your duties must be. No doubt you interpret them correctly, but in this case perhaps it would be well to be _quite_ sure before acting on the offensive. If I were a man--even a clergyman--I don't think I should like to have Major Keene for my declared enemy."

The text with which the chaplain enforced his reply--expressive of a determination to keep his own line at all hazards, strong in the rectitude of his cause--had better not be quoted here, especially as it was not apposite enough to "lay" the contradictory spirit that was alive in his fair opponent. (How very angry Cecil would have been if she had been told ten minutes ago that such an expression would apply to her!) The temptation to answer sharply was so powerful that she took refuge in distant coldness.

"You quite misunderstand me, Mr. Fullarton. I never dreamed of offering advice; it would have been excessively presumptuous in me, especially as I have not the faintest interest in the subject we have been talking about. Need we discuss it any longer? I think Major Keene has been too highly honored already."

That weary look was so manifest now on the beautiful face that even the chaplain, albeit tenacious of his position as a sea-anemone, felt that, for once, he had overstaid his time and was periling his popularity. So, after an expansive benediction, and an entreaty that they would be early at church on the morrow, he went "to his own place."

With a sigh of admiration--"What an excellent man, and how well he talks!" said Bessie Danvers.

With a sigh of relief--"He talks a great deal, and it is very late," said Cecil Tresilyan.