“Not so much as the English, I think,” said the priest. “And you are not to suppose that we are all Irish. Of my flock the greater proportion are English.”
“It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours,” said the bishop. “Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of persons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give the exact number in this diocese. But in my own immediate neighbourhood I could not put my hand upon any families which I know to be Roman Catholic.”
“It is not, my lord, because there are none.”
“Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know my neighbours.”
“I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor,” said Mr Hepworth.
“They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our Saviour,” said the priest.
“I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn,” said the bishop, with a curious smile. “We were speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our idea of human nature. But that an old faith should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easily intelligible.”
“The Roman population still believed,” said Carbury, “when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears.”
“The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also.”
“The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord,” said the priest.
“That begs the whole question,” said the bishop, turning to his host, and, beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace sties. Father Barham turned to Mr Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A’s and the B’s, and the C’s and the D’s. He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.
“Your priest is a very zealous man,” said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, “and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet.”
“I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare.”
“That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company.”
“I am sure he would repeat nothing.”
“Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me.”
“I don’t think it answers,” said Mrs Yeld to her husband as they went home. “Of course I don’t want to be prejudiced; but Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics.”
“You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn’t have them decline to meet each other.”
“It isn’t quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion.”
“It ought to be,” said the bishop.
“Of course I don’t mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but I don’t know that I want to meet Mr Barham again.”
“I don’t know that I do, either,” said the bishop; “but if he comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly.”
Chapter XVII
Marie Melmotte Hears a Love Tale
On the following morning there came a telegram from Felix. He was to be expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; and Roger, at Lady Carbury’s request, undertook to send a carriage to the station for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There was still another train by which he might come so as to be just in time for dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carbury with a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her cousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily, when displeased; but he assented. Then the carriage had to be sent again. Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous at Carbury. The squire kept a waggonette and a pair of horses which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. He himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by some cheap conveyance. He had already sent the carriage once on this day, — and now sent it again, Lady Carbury having said a word which showed that she hoped that this would be done. But he did it with deep displeasure. To the mother her son was Sir Felix, the baronet, entitled to special consideration because of his position and rank, — because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of the day. To Roger Carbury, Felix was a vicious young man, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due. Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonette was sent. But the waggonette again came back empty. That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and Henrietta, in very much gloom.
About four in the morning the house was roused by the coming of the baronet. Failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains, he had contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found himself deposited at some distant town from which he had posted to Carbury. Roger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and Lady Carbury also left her room. Sir Felix evidently thought that he had been a very fine fellow in going through so much trouble. Roger held a very different opinion, and spoke little or nothing. “Oh, Felix,” said the mother, “you have so terrified us!”
“I can tell you I was terrified myself when I found that I had to come fifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who could hardly get up a trot.”
“But why didn’t you come by the train you named?”
“I couldn’t get out of the city,” said the baronet with a ready lie.
“I suppose you were at the Board?” To this Felix made no direct answer. Roger knew that there had been no Board. Mr Melmotte was in the country and there could be no Board, nor could Sir Felix have had business in the city. It was sheer impudence, — sheer indifference, and, into the bargain, a downright lie. The young man, who was of himself so unwelcome, who had come there on a project which he, Roger, utterly disapproved, — who had now knocked him and his household up at four o’clock in the morning, — had uttered no word of apology. “Miserable cub!” Roger muttered between his teeth. Then he spoke aloud, “You had better not keep your mother standing here. I will show you your room.”
“All right, old fellow,” said Sir Felix. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you all in this way. I think I’ll just take a drop of brandy and soda before I go to bed, though.” This was another blow to Roger.
“I doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have, I don’t know where to get it. I can give you some brandy if you will come with me.” He pronounced the word “brandy” in a tone which implied that it was a wicked, dissipated beverage. It was a wretched work to Roger. He was forced to go upstairs and fetch a key in order that he might wait upon this cub, — this cur! He did it, however, and the cub drank his brandy-and-water,