on the thursday in passion week, which fell on the 6th of april, mr. and mrs. quickenham came to bullhampton vicarage. the lawyer intended to take a long holiday,—four entire days,—and to return to london on the following tuesday; and mrs. quickenham meant to be very happy with her sister.

“it is such a comfort to get him out of town, if it’s only for two days,” said mrs. quickenham; “and i do believe he has run away this time without any papers in his portmanteau.”

mrs. fenwick, with something of apology in her tone, explained to her sister that she was especially desirous of getting a legal opinion on this occasion from her brother-in-law.

“that’s mere holiday work,” said the barrister’s anxious wife. “there’s nothing he likes so much as that; but it is the reading of those horrible long papers by gaslight. i wouldn’t mind how much he had to talk, nor yet how much he had to write, if it wasn’t for all that weary reading. of course he does have juniors with him now, but i don’t find that it makes much difference. he’s at it every night, sheet after sheet; and though he always says he’s coming up immediately, it’s two or three before he’s in bed.”

mrs. quickenham was three or four years older than her sister, and mr. quickenham was twelve years older than his wife. the lawyer therefore was considerably senior to the clergyman. he was at the chancery bar, and after the usual years of hard and almost profitless struggling, had worked himself up into a position in which his income was very large, and his labours never ending. since the days in which he had begun to have before his eyes some idea of a future career for himself, he had always been struggling hard for a certain goal, struggling successfully, and yet never getting nearer to the thing he desired. a scholarship had been all in all to him when he left school; and, as he got it, a distant fellowship already loomed before his eyes. that attained was only a step towards his life in london. his first brief, anxiously as it had been desired, had given no real satisfaction. as soon as it came to him it was a rung of the ladder already out of sight. and so it had been all through his life, as he advanced upwards, making a business, taking a wife to himself, and becoming the father of many children. there was always something before him which was to make him happy when he reached it. his gown was of silk, and his income almost greater than his desires; but he would fain sit upon the bench, and have at any rate his evenings for his own enjoyment. he firmly believed now, that that had been the object of his constant ambition; though could he retrace his thoughts as a young man, he would find that in the early days of his forensic toils, the silent, heavy, unillumined solemnity of the judge had appeared to him to be nothing in comparison with the glittering audacity of the successful advocate. he had tried the one, and might probably soon try the other. and when that time shall have come, and mr. quickenham shall sit upon his seat of honour in the new law courts, passing long, long hours in the tedious labours of conscientious painful listening; then he will look forward again to the happy ease of dignified retirement, to the coming time in which all his hours will be his own. and then, again, when those unfurnished hours are there, and with them shall have come the infirmities which years and toil shall have brought, his mind will run on once more to that eternal rest in which fees and salary, honours and dignity, wife and children, with all the joys of satisfied success, shall be brought together for him in one perfect amalgam which he will call by the name of heaven. in the meantime, he has now come down to bullhampton to enjoy himself for four days,—if he can find enjoyment without his law papers.

mr. quickenham was a tall, thin man, with eager gray eyes, and a long projecting nose, on which, his enemies in the courts of law were wont to say, his wife would hang a kettle, in order that the unnecessary heat coming from his mouth might not be wasted. his hair was already grizzled, and, in the matter of whiskers, his heavy impatient hand had nearly altogether cut away the only intended ornament to his face. he was a man who allowed himself time for nothing but his law work, eating all his meals as though the saving of a few minutes in that operation were matter of vital importance, dressing and undressing at railroad speed, moving ever with a quick, impetuous step, as though the whole world around him went too slowly. he was short-sighted, too, and would tumble about in his unnecessary hurry, barking his shins, bruising his knuckles, and breaking most things that were breakable,—but caring nothing for his sufferings either in body or in purse so that he was not reminded of his awkwardness by his wife. an untidy man he was, who spilt his soup on his waistcoat and slobbered with his tea, whose fingers were apt to be ink-stained, and who had a grievous habit of mislaying papers that were most material to him. he would bellow to the servants to have his things found for him, and would then scold them for looking. but when alone he would be ever scolding himself because of the faults which he thus committed. a conscientious, hard-working, friendly man he was, but one difficult to deal with; hot in his temper, impatient of all stupidities, impatient often of that which he wrongly thought to be stupidity, never owning himself to be wrong, anxious always for the truth, but often missing to see it, a man who would fret grievously for the merest trifle, and think nothing of the greatest success when it had once been gained. such a one was mr. quickenham; and he was a man of whom all his enemies and most of his friends were a little afraid. mrs. fenwick would declare herself to be much in awe of him; and our vicar, though he would not admit as much, was always a little on his guard when the great barrister was with him.

how it had come to pass that mr. chamberlaine had not been called upon to take a part in the cathedral services during passion week cannot here be explained; but it was the fact, that when mr. quickenham arrived at bullhampton, the canon was staying at the privets. he had come over there early in the week,—as it was supposed by mr. fenwick with some hope of talking his nephew into a more reasonable state of mind respecting miss lowther; but, according to mrs. fenwick’s uncharitable views, with the distinct object of escaping the long church services of the holy week,—and was to return to salisbury on the saturday. he was, therefore, invited to meet mr. quickenham at dinner on the thursday. in his own city and among his own neighbours he would have thought it indiscreet to dine out in passion week; but, as he explained to mr. fenwick, these things were very different in a rural parish.

mr. quickenham arrived an hour or two before dinner, and was immediately taken out to see the obnoxious building; while mrs. fenwick, who never would go to see it, described all its horrors to her sister within the guarded precincts of her own drawing-room.

“it used to be a bit of common land, didn’t it?” said mr. quickenham.

“i hardly know what is common land,” replied the vicar. “the children used to play here, and when there was a bit of grass on it some of the neighbours’ cows would get it.”

“it was never advertised—to be let on building lease?”

“oh dear no! lord trowbridge never did anything of that sort.”

“i dare say not,” said the lawyer. “i dare say not.” then he walked round the plot of ground, pacing it, as though something might be learned in that way. then he looked up at the building with his hands in his pockets, and his head on one side. “has there been a deed of gift,—perhaps a peppercorn rent, or something of that kind?” the vicar declared that he was altogether ignorant of what had been done between the agent for the marquis and the trustees to whom had been committed the building of the chapel. “i dare say nothing,” said mr. quickenham. “they’ve been in such a hurry to punish you, that they’ve gone on a mere verbal permission. what’s the extent of the glebe?”

“they call it forty-two acres.”

“did you ever have it measured?”

“never. it would make no difference to me whether it is forty-one or forty-three.”

“that’s as may be,” said the lawyer. “it’s as nasty a thing as i’ve looked at for many a day, but it wouldn’t do to call it a nuisance.”

“of course not. janet is very hot about it; but, as for me, i’ve made up my mind to swallow it. after all, what harm will it do me?”

“it’s an insult,—that’s all.”

“but if i can show that i don’t take it as an insult, the insult will be nothing. of course the people know that their landlord is trying to spite me.”

“that’s just it.”

“and for awhile they’ll spite me too, because he does. of course it’s a bore. it cripples one’s influence, and to a certain degree spreads dissent at the cost of the church. men and women will go to that place merely because lord trowbridge favours the building. i know all that, and it irks me; but still it will be better to swallow it.”

“who’s the oldest man in the parish?” asked mr. quickenham; “the oldest with his senses still about him.” the parson reflected for awhile, and then said that he thought brattle, the miller, was as old a man as there was there, with the capability left to him of remembering and of stating what he remembered. “and what’s his age,—about?” fenwick said that the miller was between sixty and seventy, and had lived in bullhampton all his life. “a church-going man?” asked the lawyer. to this the vicar was obliged to reply that, to his very great regret, old brattle never entered a church. “then i’ll step over and see him during morning service to-morrow,” said the lawyer. the vicar raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as to the propriety of mr. quickenham’s personal attendance at a place of worship on good friday.

“can anything be done, richard?” said mrs. fenwick, appealing to her brother-in-law.

“yes;—undoubtedly something can be done.”

“can there, indeed? i am so glad. what can be done?”

“you can make the best of it.”

“that’s just what i’m determined i won’t do. it’s mean-spirited, and so i tell frank. i never would have hurt them as long as they treated us well; but now they are enemies, and as enemies i will regard them. i should think myself disgraced if i were to sit down in the presence of the marquis of trowbridge; i should, indeed.”

“you can easily manage that by standing up when you meet him,” said mr. quickenham. mr. quickenham could be very funny at times, but those who knew him would remark that whenever he was funny he had something to hide. his wife as she heard his wit was quite sure that he had some plan in his head about the chapel.

at half-past six there came mr. chamberlaine and his nephew. the conversation about the chapel was still continued, and the canon from salisbury was very eloquent, and learned also, upon the subject. his eloquence was brightest while the ladies were still in the room, but his learning was brought forth most manifestly after they had retired. he was very clear in his opinion that the marquis had the law on his side in giving the land for the purpose in question, even if it could be shown that he was simply the lord of the manor, and not so possessed of the spot as to do what he liked in it for his own purposes. mr. chamberlaine expressed his opinion that, although he himself might think otherwise, it would be held to be for the benefit of the community that the chapel should be built, and in no court could an injunction against the building be obtained.

“but he couldn’t give leave to have it put on another man’s ground,” said the queen’s counsel.

“there is no question of another man’s ground here,” said the member of the chapter.

“i’m not so sure of that,” continued mr. quickenham. “it may not be the ground of any one man, but if it’s the ground of any ten or twenty it’s the same thing.”

“but then there would be a lawsuit,” said the vicar.

“it might come to that,” said the queen’s counsel.

“i’m sure you wouldn’t have a leg to stand upon,” said the member of the chapter.

“i don’t see that at all,” said gilmore. “if the land is common to the parish, the marquis of trowbridge cannot give it to a part of the parishioners because he is lord of the manor.”

“for such a purpose i should think he can,” said mr. chamberlaine.

“and i’m quite sure he can’t,” said mr. quickenham. “all the same, it may be very difficult to prove that he hasn’t the right; and in the meantime there stands the chapel, a fact accomplished. if the ground had been bought and the purchasers had wanted a title, i think it probable the marquis would never have got his money.”

“there can be no doubt that it is very ungentlemanlike,” said mr. chamberlaine.

“there i’m afraid i can’t help you,” said mr. quickenham. “good law is not defined very clearly here in england; but good manners have never been defined at all.”

“i don’t want anyone to help me on such a matter as that,” said mr. chamberlaine, who did not altogether like mr. quickenham.

“i dare say not,” said mr. quickenham; “and yet the question may be open to argument. a man may do what he likes with his own, and can hardly be called ungentlemanlike because he gives it away to a person you don’t happen to like.”

“i know what we all think about it in salisbury,” said mr. chamberlaine.

“it’s just possible that you may be a little hypercritical in salisbury,” said quickenham.

there was nothing else discussed and nothing else thought of in the vicarage. the first of june had been the day now fixed for the opening of the new chapel, and here they were already in april. mr. fenwick was quite of opinion that if the services of mr. puddleham’s congregation were once commenced in the building they must be continued there. as long as the thing was a thing not yet accomplished it might be practicable to stop it; but there could be no stopping it when the full tide of methodist eloquence should have begun to pour itself from the new pulpit. it would then have been made the house of god,—even though not consecrated,—and as such it must remain. and now he was becoming sick of the grievance, and wished that it was over. as to going to law with the marquis on a question of common-right, it was a thing that he would not think of doing. the living had come to him from his college, and he had thought it right to let the bursar of saint john’s know what was being done; but it was quite clear that the college could not interfere or spend their money on a matter which, though it was parochial, had no reference to their property in the parish. it was not for the college, as patron of the living, to inquire whether certain lands belonged to the marquis of trowbridge or to the parish at large, though the vicar no doubt, as one of the inhabitants of the place, might raise the question at law if he chose to find the money and could find the ground on which to raise it. his old friend the bursar wrote him back a joking letter, recommending him to put more fire into his sermons and thus to preach his enemy down.

“i have become so sick of this chapel,” the vicar said to his wife that night, “that i wish the subject might never be mentioned again in the house.”

“you can’t be more sick of it than i am,” said his wife.

“what i mean is, that i’m sick of it as a subject of conversation. there it is, and let us make the best of it, as quickenham says.”

“you can’t expect anything like sympathy from richard, you know.”

“i don’t want any sympathy. i want simply silence. if you’ll only make up your mind to take it for granted, and to put up with it—as you had to do with the frost when the shrubs were killed, or with anything that is disagreeable but unavoidable, the feeling of unhappiness about it would die away at once. one does not grieve at the inevitable.”

“but one must be quite sure that it is inevitable.”

“there it stands, and nothing that we can do can stop it.”

“charlotte says that she is sure richard has got something in his head. though he will not sympathise, he will think and contrive and fight.”

“and half ruin us by his fighting,” said the husband. “he fancies the land may be common land, and not private property.”

“then of course the chapel has no right to be there.”

“but who is to have it removed? and if i could succeed in doing so, what would be said to me for putting down a place of worship after such a fashion as that?”

“who could say anything against you, frank?”

“the truth is, it is lord trowbridge who is my enemy here, and not the chapel or mr. puddleham. i’d have given the spot for the chapel, had they wanted it, and had i had the power to give it. i’m annoyed because lord trowbridge should know that he had got the better of me. if i can only bring myself to feel,—and you too,—that there is no better in it, and no worse, i shall be annoyed no longer. lord trowbridge cannot really touch me; and could he, i do not know that he would.”

“i know he would.”

“no, my dear. if he suddenly had the power to turn me out of the living i don’t believe he’d do it,—any more than i would him out of his estate. men indulge in little injuries who can’t afford to be wicked enough for great injustice. my dear, you will do me a great favour,—the greatest possible kindness,—if you’ll give up all outer, and, as far as possible, all inner hostility to the chapel.”

“oh, frank!”

“i ask it as a great favour,—for my peace of mind.”

“of course i will.”

“there’s my darling! it shan’t make me unhappy any longer. what!—a stupid lot of bricks and mortar, that, after all, are intended for a good purpose,—to think that i should become a miserable wretch just because this good purpose is carried on outside my own gate. were it in my dining-room, i ought to bear it without misery.”

“i will strive to forget it,” said his wife. and on the next morning, which was good friday, she walked to church, round by the outside gate, in order that she might give proof of her intention to keep her promise to her husband. her husband walked before her; and as she went she looked round at her sister and shuddered and turned up her nose. but this was involuntary.

in the mean time mr. quickenham was getting himself ready for his walk to the mill. any such investigation as this which he had on hand was much more compatible with his idea of a holiday than attendance for two hours at the church service. on easter sunday he would make the sacrifice,—unless a headache, or pressing letters from london, or apollo in some other beneficent shape, might interfere and save him from the necessity. mr. quickenham, when at home, would go to church as seldom as was possible, so that he might save himself from being put down as one who neglected public worship. perhaps he was about equal to mr. george brattle in his religious zeal. mr. george brattle made a clear compromise with his own conscience. one good sunday against a sunday that was not good left him, as he thought, properly poised in his intended condition of human infirmity. it may be doubted whether mr. quickenham’s mind was equally philosophic on the matter. he could hardly tell why he went to church, or why he stayed away. but he was aware when he went of the presence of some unsatisfactory feelings of imposture on his own part, and he was equally alive, when he did not go, to a sting of conscience in that he was neglecting a duty. but george brattle had arranged it all in a manner that was perfectly satisfactory to himself.

mr. quickenham had inquired the way, and took the path to the mill along the river. he walked rapidly, with his nose in the air, as though it was a manifest duty, now that he found himself in the country, to get over as much ground as possible, and to refresh his lungs thoroughly. he did not look much as he went at the running river, or at the opening buds on the trees and hedges. when he met a rustic loitering on the path, he examined the man unconsciously, and could afterwards have described, with tolerable accuracy, how he was dressed; and he had smiled as he had observed the amatory pleasantness of a young couple, who had not thought it at all necessary to increase the distance between them because of his presence. these things he had seen, but the stream, and the hedges, and the twittering of the birds, were as nothing to him.

as he went he met old mrs. brattle making her weary way to church. he had not known mrs. brattle, and did not speak to her, but he had felt quite sure that she was the miller’s wife. standing with his hands in his pockets on the bridge which divided the house from the mill, with his pipe in his mouth, was old brattle, engaged for the moment in saying some word to his daughter, fanny, who was behind him. but she retreated as soon as she saw the stranger, and the miller stood his ground, waiting to be accosted, suspicion keeping his hands deep down in his pockets, as though resolved that he would not be tempted to put them forth for the purpose of any friendly greeting. the lawyer saluted him by name, and then the miller touched his hat, thrusting his hand back into his pocket as soon as the ceremony was accomplished. mr. quickenham explained that he had come from the vicarage, that he was brother-in-law to mr. fenwick, and a lawyer,—at each of which statements old brattle made a slight projecting motion with his chin, as being a mode of accepting the information slightly better than absolute discourtesy. at the present moment mr. fenwick was out of favour with him, and he was not disposed to open his heart to visitors from the vicarage. then mr. quickenham plunged at once into the affair of the day.

“you know that chapel they are building, mr. brattle, just opposite to the parson’s gate?”

mr. brattle replied that he had heard of the chapel, but had never, as yet, been up to see it.

“indeed; but you remember the bit of ground?”

yes;—the miller remembered the ground very well. man and boy he had known it for sixty years. as far as his mind went he thought it a very good thing that the piece of ground should be put to some useful purpose at last.

“i’m not sure but what you may be right there,” said the lawyer.

“it’s not been of use,—not to nobody,—for more than forty year,” said the miller.

“and before that what did they do with it?”

“parson, as we had then in bull’umpton, kep’ a few sheep.”

“ah!—just so. and he would get a bit of feeding off the ground?” the miller nodded his head. “was that the vicar just before mr. fenwick?” asked the lawyer.

“not by no means. there was muster brandon, who never come here at all, but had a curate who lived away to hinton. he come after parson smallbones.”

“it was parson smallbones who kept the sheep?”

“and then there was muster threepaway, who was parson well nigh thirty years afore muster fenwick come. he died up at parsonage house, did muster threepaway.”

“he didn’t keep sheep?”

“no; he kep’ no sheep as ever i heard tell on. he didn’t keep much barring hisself,—didn’t muster threepaway. he had never no child, nor yet no wife, nor nothing at all, hadn’t muster threepaway. but he was a good man as didn’t go meddling with folk.”

“but parson smallbones was a bit of a farmer?”

“ay, ay. parsons in them days warn’t above a bit of farming. i warn’t much more than a scrap of a boy, but i remember him. he wore a wig, and old black gaiters; and knew as well what was his’n and what wasn’t as any parson in wiltshire. tithes was tithes then; and parson was cute enough in taking on ’em.”

“but these sheep of his were his own, i suppose?”

“whose else would they be, sir?”

“and did he fence them in on that bit of ground?”

“there’d be a boy with ’em, i’m thinking, sir. there wasn’t so much fencing of sheep then as there be now. boys was cheaper in them days.”

“just so; and the parson wouldn’t allow other sheep there?”

“muster smallbones mostly took all he could get, sir.”

“exactly. the parsons generally did, i believe. it was the way in which they followed most accurately the excellent examples set them by the bishops. but, mr. brattle, it wasn’t in the way of tithes that he had this grass for his sheep?”

“i can’t say how he had it, nor yet how muster fenwick has the meadows t’other side of the river, which he lets to farmer pierce; but he do have ’em, and farmer pierce do pay him the rent.”

“glebe land, you know,” said mr. quickenham.

“that’s what they calls it,” said the miller.

“and none of the vicars that came after old smallbones have ever done anything with that bit of ground?”

“ne’er a one on’em. mr. brandon, as i tell ‘ee, never come nigh the place. i don’t know as ever i see’d him. it was him as they made bishop afterwards, some’eres away in ireland. he had a lord to his uncle. then muster threepaway, he was here ever so long.”

“but he didn’t mind such things.”

“he never owned no sheep; and the old ‘oomen’s cows was let to go on the land, as was best, and then the boys took to playing hopskotch there, with a horse or two over it at times, and now mr. puddleham has it for his preaching. maybe, sir, the lawyers might have a turn at it yet;” and the miller laughed at his own wit.

“and get more out of it than any former occupant,” said mr. quickenham, who would indeed have been very loth to allow his wife’s brother-in-law to go into a law suit, but still felt that a very pretty piece of litigation was about to be thrown away in this matter of mr. puddleham’s chapel.

mr. quickenham bade farewell to the miller, and thought that he saw a way to a case. but he was a man very strongly given to accuracy, and on his return to the vicarage said no word of his conversation with the miller. it would have been natural that fenwick should have interrogated him as to his morning’s work; but the vicar had determined to trouble himself no further about his grievance, to say nothing further respecting it to any man, not even to allow the remembrance of mr. puddleham and his chapel to dwell in his mind; and consequently held his peace. mrs. fenwick was curious enough on the subject, but she had made a promise to her husband, and would at least endeavour to keep it. if her sister should tell her anything unasked, that would not be her fault.