no eloquence on the part of the two ladies at the vicarage, or of the squire, could turn mr. fenwick from his purpose, but he did consent at last to go over with the squire to salisbury, and to consult mr. chamberlaine. a proposition was made to him as to consulting the bishop, for whom personally he always expressed a liking, and whose office he declared that he held in the highest veneration; but he explained that this was not a matter in which the bishop should be invited to exercise authority.
“the bishop has nothing to do with my freehold,” he said.
“but if you want an opinion,” said the squire, “why not go to a man whose opinion will be worth having?”
then the vicar explained again. his respect for the bishop was so great, that any opinion coming from his lordship would, to him, be more than advice; it would be law. so great was his mingled admiration of the man and respect for the office!
“what he means,” said mrs. fenwick, “is, that he won’t go to the bishop, because he has made up his mind already. you are, both of you, throwing away your time and money in going to salisbury at all.”
“i’m not sure but what she’s right there,” said the vicar. nevertheless they went to salisbury.
the rev. henry fitzackerly chamberlaine was very eloquent, clear, and argumentative on the subject, and perhaps a little overbearing. he insisted that the chapel should be removed without a moment’s delay; and that notice as to its removal should be served upon all the persons concerned,—upon mr. puddleham, upon the builder, upon the chapel trustees, the elders of the congregation,—“if there be any elders,” said mr. chamberlaine, with a delightful touch of irony,—and upon the marquis and the marquis’s agent. he was eloquent, authoritative and loud. when the vicar remarked that after all the chapel had been built for a good purpose, mr. chamberlaine became quite excited in his eloquence.
“the glebe of bullhampton, mr. fenwick,” said he, “has not been confided to your care for the propagation of dissent.”
“nor has the vicarage house been confided to me for the reading of novels; but that is what goes on there.”
“the house is for your private comfort,” said the prebendary.
“and so is the glebe,” said the vicar; “and i shall not be comfortable if i make these people put down a house of prayer.”
and there was another argument against the vicar’s views, very strong. this glebe was only given to him in trust. he was bound so to use it, that it should fall into the hands of his successor unimpaired and with full capability for fruition. “you have no right to leave to another the demolition of a building, the erection of which you should have prevented.” this argument was more difficult of answer than the other, but mr. fenwick did answer it.
“i feel all that,” said he; “and i think it likely that my estate may be liable for the expense of removal. the chapel may be brought in as a dilapidation. but that which i can answer with my purse, need not lie upon my conscience. i could let the bit of land, i have no doubt,—though not on a building lease.”
“but they have built on it,” said mr. chamberlaine.
“no doubt, they have; and i can see that my estate may be called upon to restore the bit of ground to its former position. what i can’t see is, that i am bound to enforce the removal now.”
mr. chamberlaine took up the matter with great spirit, and gave a couple of hours to the discussion, but the vicar was not shaken.
the vicar was not shaken, but his manner as he went out from the prebendary’s presence, left some doubt as to his firmness in the mind both of that dignitary and of the squire. he thanked mr. chamberlaine very courteously, and acknowledged that there was a great deal in the arguments which had been used.
“i am sure you will find it best to clear your ground of the nuisance at once,” said mr. chamberlaine, with that high tone which he knew so well how to assume; and these were the last words spoken.
“well?” said the squire, as soon as they were out in the close, asking his friend as to his decision.
“it’s a very knotty point,” said fenwick.
“i don’t much like my uncle’s tone,” said the squire; “i never do. but i think he is right.”
“i won’t say but what he may be.”
“it’ll have to come down, frank,” said the squire.
“no doubt, some day. but i am quite sure as to this, harry; that when you have a doubt as to your duty, you can’t be wrong in delaying that, the doing of which would gratify your own ill will. don’t you go and tell this to the women; but to my eyes that conventicle at bullhampton is the most hideous, abominable, and disagreeable object that ever was placed upon the earth!”
“so it is to mine,” said the squire.
“and therefore i won’t touch a brick of it. it shall be my hair shirt, my fast day, my sacrifice of a broken heart, my little pet good work. it will enable me to take all the good things of the world that come in my way, and flatter myself that i am not self-indulgent. there is not a dissenter in bullhampton will get so much out of the chapel as i will.”
“i fancy they can make you have it pulled down.”
“then their making me shall be my hair shirt, and i shall be fitted just as well.” upon that they went back to bullhampton, and the squire told the two ladies what had passed; as to the hair shirt and all.
mr. fenwick in making for himself his hair shirt did not think it necessary to abstain from writing to the marquis of trowbridge. this he did on that same day after his return from salisbury. in the middle of the winter he had written a letter to the marquis, remonstrating against the building of the chapel opposite to his own gate. he now took out his copy of that letter, and the answer to it, in which the agent of the marquis had told him that the marquis considered that the spot in question was the most eligible site which his lordship could bestow for the purpose in question. our vicar was very anxious not to disturb the chapel now that it was built; but he was quite as anxious to disturb the marquis. in the formation of that hair shirt which he was minded to wear, he did not intend to weave in any mercy towards the marquis. it behoved him to punish the marquis,—for the good of society in general. as a trespasser he forgave the marquis, in a christian point of view; but as a pestilent wasp on the earth, stinging folks right and left with an arrogance, the ignorance of which was the only excuse to be made for his cruelty, he thought it to be his duty to set his heel upon the marquis; which he did by writing the following letter.
bullhampton vicarage, july 18, 186—.
my lord marquis,
on the 3rd of january last i ventured to write to your lordship with the object of saving myself and my family from a great annoyance, and of saving you also from the disgrace of subjecting me to it. i then submitted to you the expediency of giving in the parish some other site for the erection of a dissenting chapel than the small patch of ground immediately opposite to the vicarage gate, which, as i explained to you, i had always regarded as belonging to the vicarage. i did not for a moment question your lordship’s right to give the land in question, but appealed simply to your good-feeling. i confess that i took it for granted that even your lordship, in so very high-handed a proceeding, would take care to have right on your side. in answer to this i received a letter from your man of business, of which, as coming from him, i do not complain, but which, as a reply to my letter to your lordship, was an insult. the chapel has been built, and on last sunday was opened for worship.
i have now learned that the land which you have given away did not belong to your lordship, and never formed a portion of the stowte estate in this parish. it was, and is, glebe land; and formed, at the time of your bestowal, a portion of my freehold as vicar. i acknowledge that i was remiss in presuming that you as a landlord knew the limits of your own rights, and that you would not trespass beyond them. i should have made my inquiry more urgently. i have made it now, and your lordship may satisfy yourself by referring to the maps of the parish lands, which are to be found in the bishop’s chancery, and also at st. john’s, oxford, if you cannot do so by any survey of the estate in your own possession. i enclose a sketch showing the exact limits of the glebe in respect to the vicarage entrance and the patch of ground in question. the fact is, that the chapel in question has been built on the glebe land by authority—illegally and unjustly given by your lordship.
the chapel is there, and though it is a pity that it should have been built, it would be a greater pity that it should be pulled down. it is my purpose to offer to the persons concerned a lease of the ground for the term of my incumbency at a nominal rent. i presume that a lease may be so framed as to protect the rights of my successor.
i will not conclude this letter without expressing my opinion that gross as has been your lordship’s ignorance in giving away land which did not belong to you, your fault in that respect has been very trifling in comparison with the malice you have shown to a clergyman of your own church, settled in a parish partly belonging to yourself, in having caused the erection of this chapel on the special spot selected with no other object than that of destroying my personal comfort and that of my wife.
i have the honour to be
your lordship’s most obedient servant,
francis fenwick.
when he had finished his epistle he read it over more than once, and was satisfied that it would be vexatious to the marquis. it was his direct object to vex the marquis, and he had set about it with all his vigour. “i would skin him if i knew how,” he had said to gilmore. “he has done that to me which no man should forgive. he has spoken ill of me, and calumniated me, not because he has thought ill of me, but because he has had a spite against me. they may keep their chapel as far as i am concerned. but as for his lordship, i should think ill of myself if i spared him.” he had his lordship on the hip, and he did not spare him. he showed the letter to his wife.
“isn’t malice a very strong word?” she said.
“i hope so,” answered the vicar.
“what i mean is, might you not soften it without hurting your cause?”
“i think not. i conscientiously believe the accusation to be true. i endeavour so to live among my neighbours that i may not disgrace them, or you, or myself. this man has dared to accuse me openly of the grossest immorality and hypocrisy, when i am only doing my duty as i best know how to do it; and i do now believe in my heart that in making these charges he did not himself credit them. at any rate, no man can be justified in making such charges without evidence.”
“but all that had nothing to do with the bit of ground, frank.”
“it is part and parcel of the same thing. he has chosen to treat me as an enemy, and has used all the influence of his wealth and rank to injure me. now he must look to himself. i will not say a word of him, or to him, that is untrue; but as he has said evil of me behind my back which he did not believe, so will i say the evil of him, which i do believe, to his face.” the letter was sent, and before the day was over the vicar had recovered his good humour.
and before the day was over the news was all through the parish. there was a certain ancient shoemaker in the village who had carried on business in devizes, and had now retired to spend the evening of his life in his native place. mr. bolt was a quiet, inoffensive old man, but he was a dissenter, and was one of the elders and trustees who had been concerned in raising money for the chapel. to him the vicar had told the whole story, declaring at the same time that, as far as he was concerned, mr. puddleham and his congregation should, at any rate for the present, be made welcome to their chapel. this he had done immediately on his return from salisbury, and before the letter to the marquis was written. mr. bolt, not unnaturally, saw his minister the same evening, and the thing was discussed in full conclave by the puddlehamites. at the end of that discussion, mr. puddleham expressed his conviction that the story was a mare’s nest from beginning to end. he didn’t believe a word of it. the marquis was not the man to give away anything that did not belong to him. somebody had hoaxed the vicar, or the vicar had hoaxed mr. bolt; or else,—which mr. puddleham thought to be most likely,—the vicar had gone mad with vexation at the glory and the triumph of the new chapel.
“he was uncommon civil,” said mr. bolt, who at this moment was somewhat inclined to favour the vicar.
“no doubt, mr. bolt; no doubt,” said mr. puddleham, who had quite recovered from his first dismay, and had worked himself up to a state of eloquent enthusiasm. “i dare say he was civil. why not? in old days when we hardly dared to talk of having a decent house of prayer of our own in which to worship our god, he was always civil. no one has ever heard me accuse mr. fenwick of incivility. but will any one tell me that he is a friend to our mode of worship? gentlemen, we must look to ourselves, and i for one tell you that that chapel is ours. you won’t find that his ban will keep me out of my pulpit. glebe, indeed! why should the vicar have glebe on the other side of the road from his house? or, for the matter of that, why should he have glebe at all?” this was so decisive that no one at the meeting had a word to say after mr. puddleham had finished his speech.
when the marquis received his letter he was up in london. lord trowbridge was not much given to london life, but was usually compelled by circumstances,—the circumstances being the custom of society as pleaded by his two daughters,—to spend the months of may, june, and july at the family mansion in grosvenor square. moreover, though the marquis never opened his mouth in the house of lords, it was, as he thought, imperative on him to give to the leader of his party the occasional support of his personal presence. our vicar, knowing this, had addressed his letter to grosvenor square, and it had thus reached its destination without loss of time. lord trowbridge by this time knew the handwriting of his enemy; and, as he broke the envelope, there came upon him an idea that it might be wise to refuse the letter, and to let it go back to its writer unopened. it was beneath his dignity to correspond with a man, or to receive letters from a man who would probably insult him. but before he could make up his mind, the envelope had been opened, and the letter had been read. his wrath, when he had read it, no writer of a simple prose narration should attempt to describe. “disgrace,” “insult,” “ignorance,” and “malice,”—these were the words with which the marquis found himself pelted by this pestilent, abominable, and most improper clergyman. as to the gist of the letter itself, it was some time before he understood it. and when he did begin to understand it, he did not as yet begin to believe it. his intelligence worked slowly, whereas his wrath worked quickly. but at last he began to ask himself whether the accusation made against him could possibly be based on truth. when the question of giving the land had been under consideration, it had never occurred to any one concerned that it could belong to the glebe. there had been some momentary suspicion that the spot might possibly have been so long used as common land as to give room for a question on that side; but no one had dreamed that any other claimant could arise. that the whole village of bullhampton belonged to the marquis was notorious. of course there was the glebe. but who could think that the morsel of neglected land lying on the other side of the road belonged to the vicarage? the marquis did not believe it now. this was some piece of wickedness concocted by the venomous brain of the iniquitous vicar, more abominable than all his other wickednesses. the marquis did not believe it; but he walked up and down his room all the morning thinking of it. the marquis was sure that it was not true, and yet he could not for a moment get the idea out of his mind. of course he must tell st. george. the language of the letter which had been sent to him was so wicked, that st. george must at least agree with him now in his anger against this man. and could nothing be done to punish the man? prosecutions in regard to anonymous letters, threatening letters, begging letters, passed through his mind. he knew that punishment had been inflicted on the writers of insolent letters to royalty. and letters had been proved to be criminal as being libellous,—only then they must be published; and letters were sometimes held to form a conspiracy;—but he could not quite see his way to that. he knew that he was not royal; and he knew that the vicar neither threatened him or begged aught from him. what if st. george should tell him again that this vicar had right on his side! he cast the matter about in his mind all the day; and then, late in the afternoon, he got into his carriage, and had himself driven to the chambers of messrs. boothby, the family lawyers.
