The Soul of the Bishop. A novel

Front matter

THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP THE SOUk OF THE BISHOP a iRoveb BV JOHN STRANGE WINTER, AUTHOR OF "BOOTLES' BAST," "CAVALRY LIFE," " AEMT SOCIETY," "BEAUTIFUL JIM," " MIGNON'S SECRET," " f>INNA FORGET, " "BUTTONS," "THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE," "GOOD-BYE," "MRS. BOB," "ONLY HUMAN," "THREE GIRLS," "MY GEOFF," "A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN," "AUNT JOHNNIE," ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : F. V. WHITE & CO., 14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1893. PRINTED BY KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, 182, 183 AND 184, HIGn HOLBORN, W.C. AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.

Preface

. In presenting " The Soul of the Bishop " to the world, I feel that it is necessary for me to make some explanation to my readers as to the reason which has made me choose this unlikely theme as the motive of this story. I use the word " unlikely " advisedly, because I am aware that I have the reputation of being a writer of light stories, of pretty trifles pour passer le temps — which is one of the disadvantages of beginning to write novels while very young, as it often creates a difficulty in more mature years when the author wishes to be taken seriously, feeling strongly that the work has grown in quality or in strength with the years that have gone by. " The Soul of the Bishop " has been on my mind for more than two years, and I now offer it to the world with much diffidence, being not very sure whether I have made out a good case or not.

But if my readers see what my aim has been, that it has been to present with unmis takable force an attitude of mind which is very prevalent to-day, then I shall not feel that I have thrown my work away. VI PKEFACE. I have not attempted to elucidate the situation, nor have I tried to bring the story to the conventional ending usual in such tales — a practice which, to my mind, has utterly spoiled some of the best and most interesting novels bearing on religion, which have appeared of late years. What I have tried to show is the working of a mind so thoroughly endowed with practical common-sense as to be unable to reconcile an innate sense of justice and an intense desire to follow real Christianity — I mean the original religion which Christ Himself taught (regarding Him from any Christian standpoint, or even from that of the Agnostic) — with the so-called religion of Christ, as laid down by some of the dogmas to which the Orthodox Church sets her seal to-day.

I have tried to shew how a really honest mind may and, alas, too often does, suffer mental and moral ship-wreck over those rocks which the Church allows to endanger the channel to a harbour never easy to navigate at any time. I do not, of course, presume to expect that my story will do much to bring about the removal of those rocks and stumbling-blocks which the Church permits to stand in the way of those who wish to believe in a religion which shall be in true accord with that plain, unselfish, and eminently practical one which Christ Himself taught while on earth. Nor do I expect that any words of mine will cause the Church's Articles of Iteligion to be

PREFACE.

. VII pruned of those which common-sense rejects, and so make the Orthodox Church one more in accord with the advanced thought, cultivation, and enlightenment of modern times, instead of remaining as it is now, fast bound by the out-of-date and worse than useless dogmas of a constitution formed at a time when every energy was directed so as to offer as much opposition as possible to wards the Church of Rome — an aim which was served to such an extent that the real and practical religion of Christ was almost lost sight of. I only desire to show that these rocks do exist and that their effect upon thousands of men and women who are, by the ver}- conditions under which we live, being taught day by day to think for themselves on spiritual matters, is terrible indeed. It was not many years ago that a great Churchman, one in a position of much authority, refused in any way to countenance a meeting of the British Association, which was held in the town over which he held spiritual sway, on the ground that the tendency of such meetings was bad for " the people," causing them to think for themselves and to discuss questions which had best remain untouched.

There fore, during that week while the meetings were taking place, he never once entered the town. To me the fact that a highly-cultivated scholar could put forth views so deliberately blinding came as the surest proof that there must be something to find out, something to make eccle-

PREFACE.

. VIII siastics afraid of " the people " learning about the religion which they professed ; and this was the very first thing which set me thinking of these matters. This was some years before I came to London and mingled among those who will insist on thinking for themselves, even about the abstruse points of their religion. Since those days, the wave of independent thought has grown and thriven apace ; and to-day, men and women will judge for themselves, regardless of the continual exhorta tions which, from time to time, peal forth from almost every Orthodox pulpit in the land, to the effect that it is impossible for the laity to think rightly for themselves and that their only safety lies in being content to believe what the clergy tell them they must believe — in order to be saved ! In the face of this growing tendency, the question arises — is it right or wise of the Church to stand by hard and fast rules, framed by men possessed only of the narrow, highly-prejudiced views and opinions of the Middle Ages, or of times even more remote than those ?

I imagine that the majority of those who think — the Agnos tics, who are increasing every day; the Freethinkers, who are many ; and all the multitude of creedless Chris tians, who are legion — will be of one opinion and will join in saying — NO ! John Strange Winter. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — The New Bishop . . . . 1 II. — Dawn 17 III. — " What will the Story op these Two be ? " 44 IV. — The Comfortable Fatima . , 62 V. — Not Good Enough ! . . . .81 VI.— One Word! 123 VII.—" My Homage to You "... 143 VIII. — A Straight Question . . . 164 IX. — A Plain Answer .... 193 X. — An Aching Soul ....

Chapter I. The New Bishop

Who is the honest man ? He that doth still and strongly good pursue, To God, his neighbour, and himself most true ; Whom neither force nor fawning can Unfix, or wrench from giving all their due. — Herbert. His bishopric let another take ! — Acts. The old city of Blankhampton was in mourning, for John, by Divine Providence, Lord Bishop of the Diocese, was lying dead in his Palace a couple of miles awaj^, and people were speaking more kindly of him than they had done for long enough. In vol. I. truth the late Bishop had not been always a very popular man, but had been of an austere manner and somewhat haughty of demeanour, but the townspeople had for gotten all that now, and only re-called his great learning, his magnificent powers of work, and his unimpeachable domestic qualities. They told each other that it would be well for the county and for the town, if all the clergy had proved them selves to be as perfectly devoted husbands and fathers as the late Prelate had undoubtedly set them the example of being.

They reminded each other that if the dead man had had some unlovable qualities, he had had others that were eminently lovable. If his high-stepping horses had seemed, to his poorer brethren, to be sure signs of their Bishop's arrogance and haughtiness of mind, yet those same horses had never been turned out on to the hard world, to work out their declininoyears in underfed neglect, for no horses had ever been sold out of the episcopal stables during the whole of the dead man's reign. Well, the reign had come to an end now, and the shutters kept up in the windows of the principal shops in sign of mourning did honour to him who was but just departed from among them. There was much hurrying to and fro at the Palace, there was a great deal of extra business for the florists, and there was a great gather ing of clergy and laity on the cold wintry morning, when John, by Divine Providence, Lord Bishop of the Diocese, was laid to sleep, not with his fathers, but with his predecessors ; and then that chapter in the history of Blankhampton was closed for ever.

The next question which troubled the good people of Blankhampton and indeed of Blankshire, was, who would be appointed 1* to the Bishopric ? The Conservatives were in power, so that probably the new Bishop would be a man of good family ; it was equally probable that he would be a man of somewhat evangelical principles, to which Blankshire people greatly objected, although the late Bishop had been distinctly of a Low Church turn. Still, they were not so anxious on that score as they were that their new spiritual lord should be a man of good family. They knew what they wanted, and they were not slow to express the same, although, it is true, they only expressed it to one another, which was not likely to make much differ ence to the eventual disposal of the See. They also knew what they did not want ; and one of their desires was, that they should not have a school-master for their Bishop, although the predecessor of the dead Prelate had been a school-master in his time and had been universally beloved and revered by all classes of the community within his See.

Still, since those days, society had very much changed. Blankhampton itself had grown from a dull aristocratic Cathedral city, with one cavalry regiment quartered in its barracks and the little gathering of good class men who took up their quarters there during the winter months for the hunting, to a big bustling rather frivolous place, whose Cathedral set had been utterly swamped by the gayer, livelier and more worldly society which had gathered itself about the now very large military garrison. This part of Blankhampton wanted what it called "a real swagger Bishop," and a promoted head-master from one of the public schools did not exactly fulfil their ideas of this somewhat anomalous being. However, in due course of time, the doubts and fears of all sections of the town were put finally at rest, for it became known that the Prime Minister had offered the Bishopric of Blankhampton to a London clergyman, by whom it had been accepted.

The news was for several days the one topic of conversation in the old city. Who was he ? What was he like ? How old was he ? Was he High Church or Low ? Was he married or single ? Had he been popular in his London parish ? What had he done that he should be made Bishop of Blankhampton ? These and many other such questions fluttered to and fro upon the perturbed and expectant air. Well, the natural curiosity was very soon satisfied. Within a week, the Bishop elect came down to look at the Palace, and although the spectacle of a clergyman walking quietly down the street by himself, is not one of a very unusual character, some instinct or other seemed to tell every person whom he met that this was none other than the new Bishop. He was not, as yet, wearing Bishop's clothing — for the very good reason that his tailor had not yet sent home the garments for which he had been measured some days previously — but every man woman and child in Blankhampton who had chanced to set eyes upon him, knew that this was their new spiritual head.

In person, the Reverend Archibald Netherby was a complete surprise to the entire population. The majority of them had expected that he would be a grave, somewhat austere, middle-aged man, grizzly and unkempt as to his hair, portly in person, and wearing either pince-nez or spectacles. He was, however, totally different to this. Imagine a man of forty, big, strong, athletic and alert, with a quick, clean gait and a keen, interested, everyday sort of manner. He was fair of complexion, was clean shaven, and his thick, light brown hair was cut as closely as any soldier's up at the barracks. His eyes were very blue and looked at you in a straight and frank manner. For the rest, his nose was straight, his mouth pleasant enough, and his chin firm and square, with a cleft in the middle of it. The new Bishop had come on the previous evening to the Station Hotel and had put up there in a simple and unosten tatious manner.

Having breakfasted in the Coffee Room, and leisurely looked over the London papers, he got up, flicked the crumbs off his coat, smoothed his tall hat round with his sleeve, like any other man, and quietly sallied forth into the fresh and pleasant morning. Of course, to a man accustomed to the bustle of a busy London parish, Blankhampton seemed almost oppressively quiet and old-fashioned, but he sauntered up St. Thomas's Street, taking notes of houses and shops and people, and before ever he reached the Cathedral, had made up his mind that it was the very place for him. Now the shops in Blankhampton are remarkably good, infinitely better than you will find in most provincial towns, taking exception always to the two delightful watering-places, Brighton and Scarborough. There is a big bookseller's shop in St Thomas's Street at Blankhampton, which seems almost always to arrest the attention of the passer-by, and the Bishop-elect proved no exception to the general rule.

He pulled up short at the sight of a battle picture of Lady Butler's and stood looking at it for some minutes, a marked and noticeable figure on the wide pavement, and at least a dozen people passing by said to one another, " That must be the new Bishop," although perhaps one would not expect to see a bishop looking into a shop window like any ordinary person. " Oh no," said one girl to another, " that's not the new Bishop — he's too young." " I'm sure it is," answered the one who had spoken first, " I feel certain of it. Let us stop and look into this window." Now the window adjoining the book seller's shop happened to be a gunsmith's, so was scarcely as appropriate for two smart young girls to stop at as the book seller's window was for the Bishop. How ever, that is neither here nor there.

They stood looking in at six-shooters and the latest thing in breech-loaders, while the stranger passed from the window in which Lady Butler's " Quatre Bras " was flanked by beautifully-bound editions of the poets, to the other one where the photographs of the late Prelate were displayed, side by side with the last Society beauty, and the last notoriety in the way of skirt-dancing. "I say," said one of the girls to the other, " but isn't he splendid ? Fancy his stopping to look at those photographs too ; that doesn't look as if he was over and above goody-goody, does it ? " " Oh, he is not looking at them, he is looking at the poor old Bishop," said the other girl. " Yes, he is," persisted the first speaker, " I noticed that all the skirt dancers were up at this end ; see, he's looking at them now."

" I wonder whether he is married ? " said the second girl. " Married ? Yes," answered the other. " and got half-a-dozen children at home. Of course he's married — sure to be." " Well, I don't know — he doesn't look married to me," said her companion. Well, the new Bishop, having had a good look at the photographs, passed on his way up the street, towards the Cathedral. It certainly had, at that moment, crossed his mind that it was an odd thing for two pretty young girls to be taking such interest in a gunsmith's window, but imagining that in his ordinary parson's clothes nobody would spot him — ■ yes, I know that " spot " is slang, but the Bishop did say " spot " in his own mind, and, as a humble but faithful chronicler, I wish to present this man to my readers as he really was — and not, in any sense, as the pompous ass a typical bishop is supposed to be — it never occurred to him that the gunsmith's window was but an excuse for them to get a good look at himself.

So he sauntered happily on, followed at a little distance by the two girls. His way led him to the Cathedral, a glorious fane of nearly pure Norman architecture, always affectionately held up by Blankhampton folk as the most perfect Temple of God in the wide world and always familiarly called by them — "the Parish." The bells were just ringing for morning-service and, when he passed under the great organ screen into the choir, he was seen and taken possession of by a soft voiced flat-footed verger, who never sus pected for a moment that this was the new Bishop. Probably he was the only person in Blankhampton, who did not suspect his real condition ; but, as a rule, cathedral vergers do not take much account of clergymen, unless they happen to be wearing gaiters. His cloth, however, secured him a seat in the stalls, not very far from the Dean's seat, and when the Dean himself came in, he guessed in a moment, who the tall fair-faced stranger was, and at the conclusion of the short service, sent ;his own verger to make sure whether his suspicion was correct or not and, if it was, to beg the stranger to join him in the vestry.

From that moment, the new Bishop's incognito came to an end ; he was the lion of the hour ; he was carried off to the Deanery to lunch and he was driven over in the Dean's carriage to see the Palace ; in short, he was completely taken in hand and so many of his future flock were presented to him that he was almost bewildered. After this, the good people of Blank hampton very soon learned all that there was to learn about their new spiritual head They learned first of all that the Netherbys were one of the oldest families that have ever flourished in the good old North Country, and the Reverend Archi bald of that name was the head of the family, being the eldest son of the oldest branch of the house ; that he had been educated at Eton and Oxford, where he had done fairly well but not brilliantly ; that he was nearly forty-one years of age and had an unsurpassable record for dogged hard work, and that he was possessed of the quality of shrewd common-sense to a degree which almost amounted to brilliance.

They learned that, as vicar of one of the busiest and most important parishes in London, he had filled his church Sunday after Sunday, with a crowd of people, all eager and anxious to learn, although it was generally acknowledged that his sermons read infinitely better than they preached ; indeed, to tell the truth, it was generally admitted that the new Bishop of Blank hampton " could not preach a bit." They learned also, that in administrative power he was unequalled, that his net-work of parish organisation had been the most com plete and the most useful that had ever been known in that parish before, that he had a perfect genius for administration, an indomitable will, a simple unostentatious manner, an exceedingly kind heart, and, on occasion, the gay spirits of a boy. The good people of Blankhampton learned also that the inhabitants of his old parish were heartbroken at his promotion, although they owned that it was no more than his due that he should wear the lawn sleeves of a bishop and fill one of the highest dignities of the Church ; still, that they were parting with him with infinite regret and tears of sorrow, and looked forward to the future with apprehension and almost with despair.

They learned that his servants were coming with him in a body, and that the Palace was to be done up and made fit for occupation by a local firm. And they also discovered that Archibald Netherby, Bishop-elect of Blank hampton, was not married.

Chapter II. Dawn

0, that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it come ! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. — Julius Cæsar. Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. — Genesis. In due course of time, the new Bishop was consecrated in Blankhampton Cathedral and duly took up his abode at Blankhampton Palace. The firm, who had received the commission to do up and re-furnish that charming old mansion, were so inordinately proud of the order that when their task was accomplished they took the liberty of giving a sort of private view of the grand vol. i. old house, and very many of the towns people, most of those indeed who happened to be customers of the firm, took the opportunity of inspecting the work. All sorts and conditions of men and women drove or walked out to the rambling but stately mansion, and went into raptures over the size of the rooms, the beauty of the gardens, the excellent accommodation in the stables, and the good taste of the new fittings and decorations.

" It is most extraordinary," said one lady to another, " that a bachelor should make himself a home like this." " Perhaps he won't be a bachelor long," returned the other, trying to calculate mentally how a certain cosy-corner of white and pale blue would suit her own drawing room, " perhaps he won't be a bachelor long. I say, Maria, don't you like that cosy corner ? " " I like it all" said Maria gushingly. DAWN, 19 Maria was a sweet young thing " about " forty, and had a gentle vision in her mind, at that moment, of herself as mistress of that beautiful old palace, of herself moving to and fro in the spacious rooms, of herself walking through life beside the new Bishop. It was a mere vision, it was quite innocent, it was almost as impossible as it was unlikely of fulfilment ; but Maria was young in mind and ambitious in thought, and her little dream hurt nobody, not even herself.

She had not often an opportunity of seeing the interior of a palace, and she was ready to take every stick and stone of it to her metaphorical bosom. Maria's friend, how ever, was more practical. " I want something new in my drawing room," she said, reflectively, " and Robert has promised I shall have carte blanche. I've waited ten years to have it done up, you know, and the other day he told me I could have it done when Hiked, and I need 2* not stint myself as to the cost of it. I've a good mind to have a corner like that one — it would be out of the common, wouldn't it?" " Yes," sighed Maria," " it would be out of the common, that's true. Everything here is out of the common." " Well, to my mind," said Maria's friend, " it all looks a little new. Of course, there's the wonderful old oak furniture in the dining-room, and the large settees in this room and the pictures and the chapel furnishings and the great chests in the hall, they were all here before and are heirlooms, so to speak ; but to me, it all looks as if it wanted living in."

" It wants a wife," said Maria, with a sigh. That was exactly what all Blankhampton said, nay more, it was what all Blankshire said, that the Bishop's Palace had need most of anything of a mistress. DAWN. 21 The Bishop himself, however, when he came to take possession, seemed very well satisfied to do without that luxury. He brought with him a few favourite pieces of furniture and a large quantity of pictures and bric-a-brac of all kinds, and, in an incredibly short time, he had settled down and made himself thoroughly at home in the big Palace. But it must not be imagined that such a man had lived for forty-one years in the world without having the idea of marriage suggested to him many times. He was, unlike most bishops, a very rich man inde pendently of his office, and, on many occasions, he had had hints thrown out to him that it was a thousand pities he did not marry.

" I look upon you, my dear Archie Netherby," said an old friend, a very great lady, to him one day, when dining at his house in London, " I look upon you as a good husband wasted. Why, my dear boy, with a house like this, with an income like yours, with your position and, — I don't want to flatter you, Archie, — but, with your looks, why you should enjoy it all by your self, I cannot imagine. Why don't you marry ? " It is true that the big parson turned a little red and showed some signs of con fusion. " My dear friend," he said, with an effort to speak lightly, " I haven't time to think of these things. Perhaps some day, I shall find myself with more leisure." " Leisure," echoed the lady, " oh, non sense — you want very little leisure to get married. It is the will you want, Archie, not the leisure."

However, be that as it may, Archibald Netherby went down to Blankshire without having changed his state, and he took up his abode in the big palace and flung DAWN 23 himself heart and soul into the many and arduous duties of his office, and had apparently, no intention whatever of giving that same palace a mistress. Blankhampton, not to say Blankshire, took it into its ireneral head that the new Bishop wanted encouragement. That was the favourite formula of the ladies in that part of the world, when a man did not easily surrender himself to the toils of the match-maker ; and of a surety the en couragement that the new Bishop received was enough to have tempted any man at least to consider the question. But the Bishop did not seem even to see the little snares that were spread out for his delectation ; he went serenely on his way, making pilgrimage after pilgrimage into the uttermost corners of the earth — or, if not into the uttermost corners of the earth, certainly into the utter most corners of his diocese ; he started just such a wonderful network of organi zation from one end of it to the other, as he had found of such good effect in his London parish ; he infected all the young ladies with a desire to do parish work, and he infected all vounomen with an enthusiasm for helping their less fortunate brethren ; he made himself personally acquainted with every clergyman in his See ; he preached at every church in Blank shire : in short, he began like the proverbial new broom, and he showed not the smallest sign of turning into an old one.

But he did not get married. The winter passed away and the bright summer came in its stead. The new Bishop proved himself as good at tennis and cricket, as he had proved himself to be full of energy in his work ; but even tennis did not help matters on towards providing the Palace with a mistress. He was very popular, he was greatly admired, and lie was DAWN, 25 a pattern to all his clergy ; but he remained a bachelor. He received quite ten times as many invitations as he could possibly accept ; everybody in the county said that he was the best fellow, the finest all round worker, and the kindest soul that they had ever met. And they agreed, one and all, that, although the matter of his sermons was exceeding good, yet his manner of delivering them was the one blot and blemish upon his otherwise beautiful presence.

For a wonder the new Bishop was on excellent terms with the Dean. It does not always follow. In Blankhampton, at least, the Deanery and the Palace had never been on really good terms, excepting during a very short period after the present Dean had succeeded to the Deanerj7. It is the case with many Deaneries and Bishoprics. In Blankhampton, for instance, up to the time of Archibald Netherby's appointment, the relations between the two THE SOUL OF THE BISHOT. spiritual heads of the Church had been more than usually strained. But at the end of six months the Dean and the Bishop were still great friends and on the best of terms with each other, nor did there seem to be any likelihood of any disagreement arising between them. One of their most pleasant arrangements was that the Bishop should preach as often as could be arranged in his Cathedral Church.