CHAPTER LV.

CLERICAL CHARITIES.

Melmotte's success, and Melmotte's wealth, and Melmotte's antecedents

were much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seen

there in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comes

from sight. He had been staying at Caversham, and many in those parts

knew that Miss Longestaffe was now living in his house in London.

The purchase of the Pickering estate had also been noticed in all

the Suffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumours, therefore, of his past

frauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune,

were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest

man in England. Miss Melmotte's little attempt had also been

communicated in the papers; and Sir Felix, though he was not

recognised as being "real Suffolk" himself, was so far connected

with Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality

respecting the Melmottes generally. Suffolk is very old-fashioned.

Suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the Melmotte fashion.

Suffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and irrecoverably

Conservative, did not believe in Melmotte as a Conservative Member

of Parliament. Suffolk on this occasion was rather ashamed of the

Longestaffes, and took occasion to remember that it was barely the

other day, as Suffolk counts days, since the original Longestaffe was

in trade. This selling of Pickering, and especially the selling of

it to Melmotte, was a mean thing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly

believed that Melmotte had picked the very bones of every shareholder

in that Franco-Austrian Assurance Company.

Mr. Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talking

about him,--or talking rather of the attempted elopement. "I know

nothing about it," said Roger, "and I do not intend to ask. Of course

I did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I

did believe that she was willing to marry him. But whether the father

had consented or not I never enquired."

"It seems he did not consent."

"Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than

such a marriage. Melmotte will probably be in the 'Gazette' before

long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep

one if he had it."

"You think Melmotte will turn out a failure."

"A failure! Of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--a

miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to

end,--too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that

his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we

coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?"

"At just a table here and there," suggested his friend.

"No;--it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so

can I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do

set the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs

in return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know,--at any rate

they believe,--that he is what he is because he has been a swindler

greater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence?

Men reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean

to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then

there comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the

approval of all the world,--and the natural aptitude to do what all

the world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmotte

is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general."

Roger dined with the Bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same hero

was discussed under a different heading. "He has given £200," said

the Bishop, "to the Curates' Aid Society. I don't know that a man

could spend his money much better than that."

"Clap-trap!" said Roger, who in his present mood was very bitter.

"The money is not clap-trap, my friend. I presume that the money is

really paid."

"I don't feel at all sure of that."

"Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men,--very

ready to make known defalcations on the part of promising

subscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the

election."

"And you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?"

"Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society,--and I am

always for encouraging useful men."

"Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?"

"There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carbury. Mr. Melmotte

wishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side

which you at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that

respect is pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter

of ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not

know why we should say that it is vile in this man." Roger frowned

and shook his head. "Of course Mr. Melmotte is not the sort of

gentleman whom you have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member

for a Conservative constituency. But the country is changing."

"It's going to the dogs, I think;--about as fast as it can go."

"We build churches much faster than we used to do."

"Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?" asked the

Squire.

"It is very hard to see into the minds of men," said the Bishop;

"but we can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men

on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago.

There is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to

another, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm,

less also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carbury,

by following forms only because their fathers followed the same forms

before them."

"I suppose men will go to heaven, my Lord, by doing as they would be

done by."

"There can be no safer lesson. But we must hope that some may be

saved even if they have not practised at all times that grand

self-denial. Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for,

nay, almost demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may

commit,--of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready

to forgive in that way yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation

at being wrongly judged by others who condemn you without knowing

your actions or the causes of them; and do you never judge others

after that fashion?"

"I do not put myself forward as an example."

"I apologise for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt

to forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in

general. Taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich

and the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not

worse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horace

did, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look

only at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of

the world at large."

"But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when

Horace wrote."

"But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit

by wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, has

not freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?"

"In Rome they were worshipping just such men as this Melmotte. Do you

remember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured

the Via Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar

to post for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hear

Melmotte's name mentioned. Hoc, hoc tribuno militum! Is this the man

to be Conservative member for Westminster?"

"Do you know of the scourges, as a fact?"

"I think I know that they are deserved."

"That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. If the man

is what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of

his punishment will come. Your friend in the ode probably had a bad

time of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps

is managed more justly than you think, Mr. Carbury."

"My Lord, I believe you're a Radical at heart," said Roger, as he

took his leave.

"Very likely,--very likely. Only don't say so to the Prime Minister,

or I shall never get any of the better things which may be going."

The Bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and was

therefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in

general than Roger Carbury. To Roger everything seemed to be out

of joint. He had that morning received a letter from Lady Carbury,

reminding him of the promise of a loan, should a time come to her

of great need. It had come very quickly. Roger Carbury did not in

the least begrudge the hundred pounds which he had already sent to

his cousin; but he did begrudge any furtherance afforded to the

iniquitous schemes of Sir Felix. He felt all but sure that the

foolish mother had given her son money for his abortive attempt, and

that therefore this appeal had been made to him. He alluded to no

such fear in his letter. He simply enclosed the cheque, and expressed

a hope that the amount might suffice for the present emergency. But

he was disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the

Carbury family. There was Paul Montague, bringing a woman such as

Mrs. Hurtle down to Lowestoft, declaring his purpose of continuing

his visits to her, and, as Roger thought, utterly unable to free

himself from his toils,--and yet, on this man's account, Hetta was

cold and hard to him. He was conscious of the honesty of his own

love, sure that he could make her happy,--confident, not in himself,

but in the fashion and ways of his own life. What would be Hetta's

lot if her heart was really given to Paul Montague?

When he got home, he found Father Barham sitting in his library. An

accident had lately happened at Father Barham's own establishment.

The wind had blown the roof off his cottage; and Roger Carbury,

though his affection for the priest was waning, had offered him

shelter while the damage was being repaired. Shelter at Carbury Manor

was very much more comfortable than the priest's own establishment,

even with the roof on, and Father Barham was in clover. Father Barham

was reading his own favourite newspaper, "The Surplice," when Roger

entered the room. "Have you seen this, Mr. Carbury?" he said.

"What's this? I am not likely to have seen anything that belongs

peculiarly to 'The Surplice.'"

"That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the Anglican

Church. Mr. Melmotte is a convert to our faith. He is a great man,

and will perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the

globe."

"Melmotte a convert to Romanism! I'll make you a present of him, and

thank you to take him; but I don't believe that we've any such good

riddance."

Then Father Barham read a paragraph out of "The Surplice." "Mr.

Augustus Melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented

a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church

of St. Fabricius, in Tothill Fields. The donation was accompanied

by a letter from Mr. Melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little

doubt that the new member for Westminster will be a member, and no

inconsiderable member, of the Catholic party in the House, during the

next session."

"That's another dodge, is it?" said Carbury.

"What do you mean by a dodge, Mr. Carbury? Because money is given for

a pious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be a

dodge?"

"But, my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave

£200 to the Protestant Curates' Aid Society. I have just left the

Bishop exulting in this great act of charity."

"I don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to the

Church to which he belonged in his darkness."

"And you would be really proud of Mr. Melmotte as a convert?"

"I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul," said

the priest; "but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the

great."

"The great! oh dear!"

"A man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of

Mr. Melmotte. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our

own, it is a great sign to us that the Truth is prevailing." Roger

Carbury, without another word, took his candle and went to bed.