it was not only at bullhampton that this affair of the methodist chapel demanded and received attention. at turnover also a good deal was being said about it, and the mind of the marquis was not easy. as has been already told, the bishop had written to him on the subject, remonstrating with him as to the injury he was doing to the present vicar, and to future vicars, of the parish which he, as landlord, was bound to treat with beneficent consideration. the marquis had replied to the bishop with a tone of stern resolve. the vicar of bullhampton had treated him with scorn, nay, as he thought, with most unpardonable insolence, and he would not spare the vicar. it was proper that the dissenters at bullhampton should have a chapel, and he had a right to do what he liked with his own. so arguing with himself, he had written to the bishop very firmly; but his own mind had not been firm within him as he did so. there were misgivings at his heart. he was a churchman himself, and he was pricked with remorse as he remembered that he was spiting the church which was connected with the state, of which he was so eminent a supporter. his own chief agent, too, had hesitated, and had suggested that perhaps the matter might be postponed. his august daughters, though they had learned to hold the name of fenwick in proper abhorrence, nevertheless were grieved about the chapel. men and women were talking about it, and the words of the common people found their way to the august daughters of the house of stowte.
“papa,” said lady carolina; “wouldn’t it, perhaps, be better to build the bullhampton chapel a little farther off from the vicarage?”
“the next vicar might be a different sort of person,” said the lady sophie.
“no; it wouldn’t,” said the earl, who was apt to be very imperious with his own daughters, although he was of opinion that they should be held in great awe by all the world—excepting only himself and their eldest brother.
that eldest brother, lord saint george, was in truth regarded at turnover as being, of all persons in the world, the most august. the marquis himself was afraid of his son, and held him in extreme veneration. to the mind of the marquis the heir expectant of all the dignities of the house of stowte was almost a greater man than the owner of them; and this feeling came not only from a consciousness on the part of the father that his son was a bigger man than himself, cleverer, better versed in the affairs of the world, and more thought of by those around them, but also to a certain extent from an idea that he who would have all these grand things thirty or perhaps even fifty years hence, must be more powerful than one with whom their possession would come to an end probably after the lapse of eight or ten years. his heir was to him almost divine. when things at the castle were in any way uncomfortable, he could put up with the discomfort for himself and his daughters; but it was not to be endured that saint george should be incommoded. old carriage-horses must be changed if he were coming; the glazing of the new greenhouse must be got out of the way, lest he should smell the paint; the game must not be touched till he should come to shoot it. and yet lord saint george himself was a man who never gave himself any airs; and who in his personal intercourse with the world around him demanded much less acknowledgment of his magnificence than did his father.
and now, during this easter week, lord saint george came down to the castle, intending to kill two birds with one stone, to take his parliamentary holiday, and to do a little business with his father. it not unfrequently came to pass that he found it necessary to repress the energy of his father’s august magnificence. he would go so far as to remind his father that in these days marquises were not very different from other people, except in this, that they perhaps might have more money. the marquis would fret in silence, not daring to commit himself to an argument with his son, and would in secret lament over the altered ideas of the age. it was his theory of politics that the old distances should be maintained, and that the head of a great family should be a patriarch, entitled to obedience from those around him. it was his son’s idea that every man was entitled to as much obedience as his money would buy, and to no more. this was very lamentable to the marquis; but nevertheless, his son was the coming man, and even this must be borne.
“i’m sorry about this chapel at bullhampton,” said the son to the father after dinner.
“why sorry, saint george? i thought you would have been of opinion that the dissenters should have a chapel.”
“certainly they should, if they’re fools enough to want to build a place to pray in, when they have got one already built for them. there’s no reason on earth why they shouldn’t have a chapel, seeing that nothing that we can do will save them from schism.”
“we can’t prevent dissent, saint george.”
“we can’t prevent it, because, in religion as in everything else, men like to manage themselves. this farmer or that tradesman becomes a dissenter because he can be somebody in the management of his chapel, and would be nobody in regard to the parish church.”
“that is very dreadful.”
“not worse than our own people, who remain with us because it sounds the most respectable. not one in fifty really believes that this or that form of worship is more likely to send him to heaven than any other.”
“i certainly claim to myself to be one of the few,” said the marquis.
“no doubt; and so you ought, my lord, as every advantage has been given you. but, to come back to the bullhampton chapel,—don’t you think we could move it away from the parson’s gate?”
“they have built it now, saint george.”
“they can’t have finished it yet.”
“you wouldn’t have me ask them to pull it down? packer was here yesterday, and said that the framework of the roof was up.”
“what made them hurry it in that way? spite against the vicar, i suppose.”
“he is a most objectionable man, saint george; most insolent, overbearing, and unlike a clergyman. they say that he is little better than an infidel himself.”
“we had better leave that to the bishop, my lord.”
“we must feel about it, connected as we are with the parish,” said the marquis.
“but i don’t think we shall do any good by going into a parochial quarrel.”
“it was the very best bit of land for the purpose in all bullhampton,” said the marquis. “i made particular inquiry, and there can be no doubt of that. though i particularly dislike that mr. fenwick, it was not done to injure him.”
“it does injure him damnably, my lord.”
“that’s only an accident.”
“and i’m not at all sure that we shan’t find that we have made a mistake.”
“how a mistake?”
“that we have given away land that doesn’t belong to us.”
“who says it doesn’t belong to us?” said the marquis, angrily. a suggestion so hostile, so unjust, so cruel as this, almost overcame the feeling of veneration which he entertained for his son. “that is really nonsense, saint george.”
“have you looked at the title deeds?”
“the title deeds are of course with mr. boothby. but packer knows every foot of the ground,—even if i didn’t know it myself.”
“i wouldn’t give a straw for packer’s knowledge.”
“i haven’t heard that they have even raised the question themselves.”
“i’m told that they will do so,—that they say it is common land. it’s quite clear that it has never been either let or enclosed.”
“you might say the same of the bit of green that lies outside the park gate,—where the great oak stands; but i don’t suppose that that is common.”
“i don’t say that this is—but i do say that there may be difficulty of proof; and that to be driven to the proof in such a matter would be disagreeable.”
“what would you do, then?”
“take the bull by the horns, and move the chapel at our own expense to some site that shall be altogether unobjectionable.”
“we should be owning ourselves wrong, augustus.”
“and why not? i cannot see what disgrace there is in coming forward handsomely and telling the truth. when the land was given we thought it was our own. there has come up a shadow of a doubt, and sooner than be in the wrong, we give another site and take all the expense. i think that would be the right sort of thing to do.”
lord saint george returned to town two days afterwards, and the marquis was left with the dilemma on his mind. lord saint george, though he would frequently interfere in matters connected with the property in the manner described, would never dictate and seldom insist. he had said what he had got to say, and the marquis was left to act for himself. but the old lord had learned to feel that he was sure to fall into some pit whenever he declined to follow his son’s advice. his son had a painful way of being right that was a great trouble to him. and this was a question which touched him very nearly. it was not only that he must yield to mr. fenwick before the eyes of mr. puddleham and all the people of bullhampton; but that he must confess his own ignorance as to the borders of his own property, and must abandon a bit of land which he believed to belong to the stowte estate. now, if there was a point in his religion as to which lord trowbridge was more staunch than another, it was as to the removal of landmarks. he did not covet his neighbour’s land; but he was most resolute that no stranger should, during his reign, ever possess a rood of his own.
