CHAPTER X.
THE RECTOR OF DRUMBARROW AND HIS WIFE.
Herbert Fitzgerald, in speaking of the Rev. Aeneas Townsend to LadyClara Desmond, had said that in his opinion the reverend gentlemanwas a good man, but a bad clergyman. But there were not a few in thecounty Cork who would have said just the reverse, and declared himto be a bad man, but a good clergyman. There were others, indeed,who knew him well, who would have declared him to be perfect in bothrespects, and others again who thought him in both respects to bevery bad. Amidst these great diversities of opinion I will venture onnone of my own, but will attempt to describe him.
In Ireland stanch Protestantism consists too much in a hatred ofPapistry--in that rather than in a hatred of those errors againstwhich we Protestants are supposed to protest. Hence the cross--whichshould, I presume, be the emblem of salvation to us all--creates afeeling of dismay and often of disgust instead of love and reverence;and the very name of a saint savours in Irish Protestant ears ofidolatry, although Irish Protestants on every Sunday profess tobelieve in a communion of such. These are the feelings rather thanthe opinions of the most Protestant of Irish Protestants, and itis intelligible that they should have been produced by the closevicinity of Roman Catholic worship in the minds of men who areenergetic and excitable, but not always discreet or argumentative.
One of such was Mr. Townsend, and few men carried their Protestantfervour further than he did. A cross was to him what a red cloth issupposed to be to a bull; and so averse was he to the intercessionof saints, that he always regarded as a wolf in sheep's clothing acertain English clergyman who had written to him a letter dated fromthe feast of St. Michael and All Angels. On this account HerbertFitzgerald took upon himself to say that he regarded him as a badclergyman: whereas, most of his Protestant neighbours looked uponthis enthusiasm as his chief excellence.
And this admiration for him induced his friends to overlook what theymust have acknowledged to be defects in his character. Though hehad a good living--at least, what the laity in speaking of clericalincomes is generally inclined to call a good living, we will sayamounting in value to four hundred pounds a year--he was always indebt. This was the more inexcusable as he had no children, and hadsome small private means.
And nobody knew why he was in debt--in which word nobody he himselfmust certainly be included. He had no personal expenses of his own;his wife, though she was a very queer woman, as Lady Clara had said,could hardly be called an extravagant woman; there was nothing largeor splendid about the way of living at the glebe; anybody who camethere, both he and she were willing to feed as long as they choseto stay, and a good many in this way they did feed; but they neverinvited guests; and as for giving regular fixed dinner-parties, asparish rectors do in England, no such idea ever crossed the brain ofeither Mr. or Mrs. Townsend.
That they were both charitable all the world admitted; and theiradmirers professed that hence arose all their difficulties. But theircharities were of a most indiscreet kind. Money they rarely had togive, and therefore they would give promises to pay. While theircredit with the butcher and baker was good they would give meat andbread; and both these functionaries had by this time learned that,though Mr. Townsend might not be able to pay such bills himself, hisfriends would do so, sooner or later, if duly pressed. And thereforethe larder at Drumbarrow Glebe--that was the name of the parish--wasnever long empty, and then again it was never long full.
But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Townsend were content to bestow theircharities without some other object than that of relieving materialwants by their alms. Many infidels, Mr. Townsend argued, had beenmade believers by the miracle of the loaves and fishes; and thereforeit was permissible for him to make use of the same means for drawingover proselytes to the true church. If he could find hungry Papistsand convert them into well-fed Protestants by one and the sameprocess, he must be doing a double good, he argued;--could by nopossibility be doing an evil.
Such being the character of Mr. Townsend, it will not be thoughtsurprising that he should have his warm admirers and his hotdetractors. And they who were inclined to be among the latter werenot slow to add up certain little disagreeable eccentricities amongthe list of his faults,--as young Fitzgerald had done in the matterof the dirty surplices.
Mr. Townsend's most uncompromising foe for many years had been theRev. Bernard M'Carthy, the parish priest for the same parish ofDrumbarrow. Father Bernard, as he was called by his own flock, orFather Barney, as the Protestants in derision were delighted to namehim, was much more a man of the world than his Protestant colleague.He did not do half so many absurd things as did Mr. Townsend, andprofessed to laugh at what he called the Protestant madness of therector. But he also had been an eager, I may also say, a maliciousantagonist. What he called the "souping" system of the Protestantclergyman stank in his nostrils--that system by which, as he stated,the most ignorant of men were to be induced to leave their faith bythe hope of soup, or other food. He was as firmly convinced of theinward, heart-destroying iniquity of the parson as the parson was ofthat of the priest. And so these two men had learned to hate eachother. And yet neither of them were bad men.
I do not wish it to be understood that this sort of feeling alwaysprevailed in Irish parishes between the priest and the parson evenbefore the days of the famine. I myself have met a priest at aparson's table, and have known more than one parish in which theProtestant and Roman Catholic clergymen lived together on amicableterms. But such a feeling as that above represented was common,and was by no means held as proof that the parties themselveswere quarrelsome or malicious. It was a part of their religiousconvictions, and who dares to interfere with the religiousconvictions of a clergyman?
On the day but one after that on which the Castle Richmond ladieshad been thrown from their car on the frosty road, Mr. Townsend andFather Bernard were brought together in an amicable way, or in a waythat was intended to be amicable, for the first time in their lives.The relief committee for the district in which they both lived wasone and the same, and it was of course well that both should act onit. When the matter was first arranged, Father Bernard took the bullby the horns and went there; but Mr. Townsend, hearing this, did notdo so. But now that it had become evident that much work, and for along time, would have to be performed at these committees, it wasclear that Mr. Townsend, as a Protestant clergyman, could not remainaway without neglecting his duty. And so, after many mental strugglesand questions of conscience, the parson agreed to meet the priest.
The point had been very deeply discussed between the rector and hiswife. She had given it as her opinion that priest M'Carthy was pitch,pitch itself in its blackest turpitude, and as such could not betouched without defilement. Had not all the Protestant clergymenof Ireland in a body, or, at any rate, all those who were worthanything, who could with truth be called Protestant clergymen, hadthey not all refused to enter the doors of the National schoolsbecause they could not do so without sharing their ministrationthere with papist priests; with priests of the altar of Baal, as Mrs.Townsend called them? And should they now yield, when, after all, theassistance needed was only for the body--not for the soul?
It may be seen from this that the lady's mind was not in its naturelogical; but the extreme absurdity of her arguments, though they didnot ultimately have the desired effect, by no means came home tothe understanding of her husband. He thought that there was a greatdeal in what she said, and almost felt that he was yielding toinstigations from the evil one; but public opinion was too strong forhim; public opinion and the innate kindness of his own heart. He feltthat at this very moment he ought to labour specially for the bodiesof these poor people, as at other times he would labour specially fortheir souls; and so he yielded.
"Well," said his wife to him as he got off his car at his own doorafter the meeting, "what have you done?" One might have imagined fromher tone of voice and her manner that she expected, or at least hopedto hear that the priest had been absolutely exterminated and madeaway with in the good fight.
> Mr. Townsend made no immediate answer, but proceeded to divesthimself of his rusty outside coat, and to rub up his stiff, grizzled,bristly, uncombed hair with both his hands, as was his wont when hewas not quite satisfied with the state of things.
"I suppose he was there?" said Mrs. Townsend.
"Oh, yes, he was there. He is never away, I take it, when thereis any talking to be done." Now Mr. Townsend dearly loved to hearhimself talk, but no man was louder against the sins of otherorators. And then he began to ask how many minutes it wanted todinner-time.
Mrs. Townsend knew his ways. She would not have a ghost of a chanceof getting from him a true and substantial account of what had reallypassed if she persevered in direct questions to the effect. Soshe pretended to drop the matter, and went and fetched her lord'sslippers, the putting on of which constituted his evening toilet; andthen, after some little hurrying inquiry in the kitchen, promised himhis dinner in fifteen minutes.
"Was Herbert Fitzgerald there?"
"Oh yes; he is always there. He's a nice young fellow; a very fineyoung fellow; but--"
"But what?"
"He thinks he understands the Irish Roman Catholics, but heunderstands them no more than--than--than this slipper," he said,having in vain cudgelled his brain for a better comparison.
"You know what Aunt Letty says about him. She doubts he isn't quiteright, you know."
Mrs. Townsend by this did not mean to insinuate that Herbert was atall afflicted in that way which we attempt to designate, when wesay that one of our friends is not all right, and at the same timetouch our heads with our forefinger. She had intended to convey animpression that the young man's religious ideas were not exactly ofthat stanch, true-blue description which she admired.
"Well, he has just come from Oxford, you know," said Mr. Townsend:"and at the present moment Oxford is the most dangerous place towhich a young man can be sent."
"And Sir Thomas would send him there, though I remember telling hisaunt over and over again how it would be." And Mrs. Townsend as shespoke, shook her head sorrowfully.
"I don't mean to say, you know, that he's absolutely bitten."
"Oh, I know--I understand. When they come to crosses andcandlesticks, the next step to the glory of Mary is a very easy one.I would sooner send a young man to Rome than to Oxford. At the one hemight be shocked and disgusted; but at the other he is cajoled, andcheated, and ruined." And then Mrs. Townsend threw herself back inher chair, and threw her eyes up towards the ceiling.
But there was no hypocrisy or pretence in this expression of herfeelings. She did in her heart of hearts believe that there was somecollege or club of papists at Oxford, emissaries of the Pope or ofthe Jesuits. In her moments of sterner thought the latter were theenemies she most feared; whereas, when she was simply pervaded byher usual chronic hatred of the Irish Roman Catholic hierarchy, shewas wont to inveigh most against the Pope. And this college, shemaintained, was fearfully successful in drawing away the souls ofyoung English students. Indeed, at Oxford a man had no chance againstthe devil. Things were better at Cambridge; though even there therewas great danger. Look at A---- and Z----; and she would name twoperverts to the Church of Rome, of whom she had learned that theywere Cambridge men. But, thank God, Trinity College still stood firm.Her idea was, that if there were left any real Protestant truth inthe Church of England, that Church should look to feed her lambsby the hands of shepherds chosen from that seminary, and from thatseminary only.
"But isn't dinner nearly ready?" said Mr. Townsend, whose ideas werenot so exclusively Protestant as were those of his wife. "I haven'thad a morsel since breakfast." And then his wife, who was peculiarlyanxious to keep him in a good humour that all might come out aboutFather Barney, made another little visit to the kitchen.
At last the dinner was served. The weather was very cold, and therector and his wife considered it more cosy to use only the parlour,and not to migrate into the cold air of a second room. Indeed, duringthe winter months the drawing-room of Drumbarrow Glebe was only usedfor visitors, and for visitors who were not intimate enough in thehouse to be placed upon the worn chairs and threadbare carpet of thedining-parlour. And very cold was that drawing-room found to be byeach visitor.
But the parlour was warm enough; warm and cosy, though perhaps attimes a little close; and of evenings there would pervade it a smellof whisky punch, not altogether acceptable to unaccustomed nostrils.Not that the rector of Drumbarrow was by any means an intemperateman. His single tumbler of whisky toddy, repeated only on Sundaysand some other rare occasions, would by no means equal, in point ofdrinking, the ordinary port of an ordinary English clergyman. Butwhisky punch does leave behind a savour of its intrinsic virtues,delightful no doubt to those who have imbibed its grosser elements,but not equally acceptable to others who may have been lessfortunate.
During dinner there was no conversation about Herbert Fitzgerald,or the committee, or Father Barney. The old gardener, who waited attable with all his garden clothes on him, and whom the neighbours,with respectful deference, called Mr. Townsend's butler, was a RomanCatholic; as, indeed, were all the servants at the glebe, and as are,necessarily, all the native servants in that part of the country. Andthough Mr. and Mrs. Townsend put great trust in their servant Jerryas to the ordinary duties of gardening, driving, and butlering,they would not knowingly trust him with a word of their habitualconversation about the things around them. Their idea was, that everyword so heard was carried to the priest, and that the priest kept abook in which every word so uttered was written down. If this were sothrough the parish, the priest must in truth have had something todo, both for himself and his private secretary; for, in spite of allprecautions that were taken, Jerry and Jerry's brethren no doubt didhear much of what was said. The repetitions to the priest, however, Imust take leave to doubt.
But after dinner, when the hot water and whisky were on the table,when the two old arm-chairs were drawn cozily up on the rug, eachwith an old footstool before it; when the faithful wife had mixedthat glass of punch--or jug rather, for, after the old fashion, itwas brewed in such a receptacle; and when, to inspire increasedconfidence, she had put into it a small extra modicum of the eloquentspirit, then the mouth of the rector was opened, and Mrs. Townsendwas made happy.
"And so Father Barney and I have met at last," said he, rathercheerily, as the hot fumes of the toddy regaled his nostrils.
"And how did he behave now?"
"Well, he was decent enough--that is, as far as absolute behaviourwent. You can't have a silk purse from off a sow's ear, you know."
"No, indeed; and goodness knows there's plenty of the sow's ear abouthim. But now, Aeneas, dear, do tell me how it all was, just from thebeginning."
"He was there before me," said the husband.
"Catch a weasel asleep!" said the wife.
"I didn't catch him asleep at any rate," continued he. "He was therebefore me; but when I went into the little room where they hold themeeting--"
"It's at Berryhill, isn't it?"
"Yes, at the Widow Casey's. To see that woman bowing and scrapingand curtsying to Father Barney, and she his own mother's brother'sdaughter, was the best thing in the world."
"That was just to do him honour before the quality, you know."
"Exactly. When I went in, there was nobody there but his reverenceand Master Herbert."
"As thick as possible, I suppose. Dear, dear; isn't it dreadful!--DidI put sugar enough in it, Aeneas?"
"Well, I don't know; perhaps you may give me another small lump. Atany rate, you didn't forget the whisky."
"I'm sure it isn't a taste too strong--and after such work as you'vehad to-day.--And so young Fitzgerald and Father Barney--"
"Yes, there they were with their heads together. It was somethingabout a mill they were saying."
"Oh, it's perfectly dreadful!"
"But Herbert stopped, and introduced me at once to Father Barney."
"What! a regular introduction? I like that, indeed."
"He didn't do it altogether badly. He said something about being gladto see two gentlemen together--"
"A gentleman, indeed!"
"--who were both so anxious to do the best they could in the parish,and whose influence was so great--or something to that effect. Andthen we shook hands."
"You did shake hands?"
"Oh, yes; if I went there at all, it was necessary that I should dothat."
"I am very glad it was not me, that's all. I don't think I couldshake hands with Father Barney."
"There's no knowing what you can do, my dear, till you try."
"H--m," said Mrs. Townsend, meaning to signify thereby that she wasstill strong in the strength of her own impossibilities.
"And then there was a little general conversation about the potato,for no one came in for a quarter of an hour or so. The priest saidthat they were as badly off in Limerick and Clare as we are here.Now, I don't believe that; and when I asked him how he knew, hequoted the 'Freeman.'"
"The 'Freeman,' indeed! Just like him. I wonder it wasn't the'Nation.'" In Mrs. Townsend's estimation, the parish priest was muchto blame because he did not draw his public information from somenewspaper specially addicted to the support of the Protestant cause.
"And then Somers came in, and he took the chair. I was very muchafraid at one time that Father Barney was going to seat himselfthere."
"You couldn't possibly have stood that?"
"I had made up my mind what to do. I should have walked about theroom, and looked on the whole affair as altogether irregular,--asthough there was no chairman. But Somers was of course the properman."
"And who else came?"
"There was O'Leary, from Boherbue."
"He was another Papist?"
"Oh, yes; there was a majority of them. There was Greilly, the manwho has got that large take of land over beyond Banteer; and thenFather Barney's coadjutor came in."
"What! that wretched-looking man from Gortnaclough?"
"Yes; he's the curate of the parish, you know."
"And did you shake hands with him too?"
"Indeed I did; and you never saw a fellow look so ashamed of himselfin your life."
"Well, there isn't much shame about them generally."
"And there wasn't much about him by-and-by. You never heard a mantalk such trash in your life, till Somers put him down."
"Oh, he was put down? I'm glad of that."
"And to do Father Barney justice, he did tell him to hold his tongue.The fool began to make a regular set speech."
"Father Barney, I suppose, didn't choose that anybody should do thatbut himself."
"He did enough for the two, certainly. I never heard a man so fond ofhis own voice. What he wants is to rule it all just his own way."
"Of course he does; and that's just what you won't let him do. Whatother reason can there be for your going there?"
And so the matter was discussed. What absolute steps were takenby the committee; how they agreed to buy so much meal of such amerchant, at such a price, and with such funds; how it was to beresold, and never given away on any pretext; how Mr. Somers hadexplained that giving away their means was killing the goose thatlaid the golden eggs, when the young priest, in an attitude fororatory, declared that the poor had no money with which to make thepurchase; and how in a few weeks' time they would be able to grindtheir own flour at Herbert Fitzgerald's mill;--all this was alsotold. But the telling did not give so much gratification to Mrs.Townsend as the sly hits against the two priests.
And then, while they were still in the middle of all this; when thepunch-jug had given way to the teapot, and the rector was beginningto bethink himself that a nap in his arm-chair would be veryrefreshing, Jerry came into the room to announce that Richard hadcome over from Castle Richmond with a note for "his riverence." Andso Richard was shown in.
Now Richard might very well have sent in his note by Jerry, whichafter all contained only some information with reference to a listof old women which Herbert Fitzgerald had promised to send over tothe glebe. But Richard knew that the minister would wish to chatwith him, and Richard himself had no indisposition for a littleconversation.
"I hope yer riverences is quite well then," said Richard, as hetendered his note, making a double bow, so as to include them both.
"Pretty well, thank you," said Mrs. Townsend. "And how's all thefamily?"
"Well, then, they're all rightly, considhering. The Masther's no justwhat he war, you know, ma'am."
"I'm afraid not--I'm afraid not," said the rector. "You'll not take aglass of spirits, Richard?"
"Yer riverence knows I never does that," said Richard, with somewhatof a conscious look of high morality, for he was a rigid teetotaller.
"And do you mean to say that you stick to that always?" said Mrs.Townsend, who firmly believed that no good could come out ofNazareth, and that even abstinence from whisky must be bad ifaccompanied by anything in the shape of a Roman Catholic ceremony.
"I do mean to say, ma'am, that I never touched a dhrop of anythingsthronger than wather, barring tay, since the time I got the pledgefrom the blessed apostle." And Richard boldly crossed himself in thepresence of them both. They knew well whom he meant by the blessedapostle: it was Father Mathew.
"Temperance is a very good thing, however we may come by it," saidMr. Townsend, who meant to imply by this that Richard's temperancehad been come by in the worst way possible.
"That's thrue for you, sir," said Richard; "but I never knew anypledge kept, only the blessed apostle's." By which he meant to implythat no sanctity inherent in Mr. Townsend's sacerdotal proceedingscould be of any such efficacy.
And then Mr. Townsend read the note. "Ah, yes," said he; "tell Mr.Herbert that I'm very much obliged to him. There will be no otheranswer necessary."
"Very well, yer riverence, I'll be sure to give Mr. Herbert themessage." And Richard made a sign as though he were going.
"But tell me, Richard," said Mrs. Townsend, "is Sir Thomas anybetter? for we have been really very uneasy about him."
"Indeed and he is, ma'am; a dail betther this morning, the Lord bepraised."
"It was a kind of a fit, wasn't it, Richard?" asked the parson.
"A sort of a fit of illness of some kind, I'm thinking," saidRichard, who had no mind to speak of his family's secrets out ofdoors. Whatever he might be called upon to tell the priest, at anyrate he was not called on to tell anything to the parson.
"But it was very sudden this time, wasn't it, Richard?" asked thelady; "immediately after that strange man was shown into hisroom--eh?"
"I'm sure, ma'am, I can't say; but I don't think he was a ha'porthworse than ordinar, till after the gentleman went away. I did hearthat he did his business with the gentleman, just as usual like."
"And then he fell into a fit, didn't he, Richard?"
"Not that I heard of, ma'am. He did a dail of talking about some lawbusiness, I did hear our Mrs. Jones say; and then afther he warn'tjust the betther of it."
"Was that all?"
"And I don't think he's none the worse for it neither, ma'am; for themasther do seem to have more life in him this day than I'se seen thismany a month. Why, he's been out and about with her ladyship in thepony-carriage all the morning."
"Has he now? Well, I'm delighted to hear that. It is some troubleabout the English estates, I believe, that vexes him?"
"Faix, then, ma'am, I don't just know what it is that ails him,unless it be just that he has too much money for to know what to dowid it. That'd be the sore vexation to me, I know."
"Well; ah, yes; I suppose I shall see Mrs. Jones to-morrow, or atlatest the day after," said Mrs. Townsend, resolving to pique the manby making him understand that she could easily learn all that shewished to learn from the woman: "a great comfort Mrs. Jones must beto her ladyship."
"Oh yes, ma'am; 'deed an' she is," said Richard; "'specially in thematter of puddins and pies, and such like."
He was not going to admit Mrs. Jones's superiority, seeing
that hehad lived in the family long before his present mistress's marriage.
"And in a great many other things too, Richard. She's quite aconfidential servant. That's because she's a Protestant, you know."
Now of all men, women, and creatures living, Richard the coachman ofCastle Richmond was the most good tempered. No amount of anger orscolding, no professional misfortune--such as the falling down ofhis horse upon the ice, no hardship--such as three hours' perpetualrain when he was upon the box--would make him cross. To him it was amatter of perfect indifference if he were sent off with his car justbefore breakfast, or called away to some stable work as the dinnerwas about to smoke in the servants' hall. He was a great eater, butwhat he didn't eat one day he could eat the next. Such things neverruffled him, nor was he ever known to say that such a job wasn't hiswork. He was always willing to nurse a baby, or dig potatoes, or cooka dinner, to the best of his ability, when asked to do so; but hecould not endure to be made less of than a Protestant; and of allProtestants he could not endure to be made less of than Mrs. Jones.
"'Cause she's a Protestant, is it, ma'am?"
"Of course, Richard; you can't but see that Protestants are moretrusted, more respected, more thought about than Romanists, can you?"
"'Deed then I don't know, ma'am."
"But look at Mrs. Jones."
"Oh, I looks at her often enough; and she's well enough too for awoman. But we all know her weakness."
"What's that, Richard?" asked Mrs. Townsend, with some interestexpressed in her tone; for she was not above listening to a littlescandal, even about the servants of her great neighbours.
"Why, she do often talk about things she don't understand. But she'sa great hand at puddins and pies, and that's what one mostly looksfor in a woman."
This was enough for Mrs. Townsend for the present, and so Richard wasallowed to take his departure, in full self-confidence that he hadbeen one too many for the parson's wife.
"Jerry," said Richard, as they walked out into the yard togetherto get the Castle Richmond pony, "does they often thry to make aProthestant of you now?"
"Prothestants be d----," said Jerry, who by no means shared inRichard's good gifts as to temper.
"Well, I wouldn't say that; at laist, not of all of 'em."
"The likes of them's used to it," said Jerry.
And then Richard, not waiting to do further battle on behalf of hisProtestant friends, trotted out of the yard.