Except where his feelings were deeply involved, as they had been in that matter of Beatrix's affair with the Marquis de Lassigny, George Grafton was a man who exercised authority with an easy grace which those who came within its sphere scarcely realised as authority, so much did his wishes seem to comply with their own. His family appeared to possess and to exercise complete liberty of action, and he to fall in with their wishes as much as they with his. But this was because they all loved one another, and they had kept him young between them. If any of them wanted to do anything that he did not care about, he had only to say that he didn't care about it, and they not only didn't do it, but didn't want to do it, because there was nothing so well worth doing as pleasing him. This was in small matters; but there had never been any big difference of desire, except in Beatrix's affair, which he had not handled with his wonted easy detachment. But in the way that had turned out he had proved to have been in the right, in a good many ways which she had not been able to see, and now did see; and his treatment of her during her recovery from love's illness had restored his happy ascendancy, somewhat shaken while the illness had lain heavily upon her.

With his servants and dependants there was never any trouble at all. They liked serving him, and took a pride in serving him well. In business it was the same; but on the rare occasions on which he had had to assert his authority he had done it with a decision that showed his customary easy manner to rest upon strength, and not upon a weak complaisance.

In business negotiation he usually had his way, because he had always made up his mind beforehand what his way was to be, and that it was reasonable that he should have it. By this means he missed the coups that come from imposing unreasonable conditions on an opponent, but gained a reputation for fairness and straightness of dealing which made up for it.

He was, in fact, a man of decision and character, under his amiable easy-going exterior, and he was not afraid of a contest, though he preferred not to enter one unless he thought he had a good chance of coming out victor.

It is doubtful, however, whether he had ever entered into one which would provide such a test of his qualities, as when he decided to get rid of the Vicar of Abington—the Reverend A. Salisbury Mercer, M.A.

This was after the commotion occasioned by Denis Cooper's refusal of the living of Surley had died down.

The commotion had been considerable, and a good deal of it had been created by the Vicar of Abington, who really had nothing to do with it at all. Denis had now departed to his curacy in the East End of London, and his sisters had betaken themselves to the Cathedral City of Medchester, where they had many friends, or at least acquaintances, and their activities could be made use of for the general benefit of their fellow church-people. Mr. Leadbetter had been instituted Rector of Surley, and it was beginning to be known that he had refused the Bishop's offer of the living before it had been made to Denis, but had thought better of it on going over to Surley, and finding that the little church, otherwise undistinguished, possessed a remarkable roof for sound. He was a bachelor, with plenty of money of his own, besides what would come to him from his rectorate, and intended to provide a new organ, and to train a small but exquisite choir to render a full musical service, after the manner of Cathedrals and College Chapels, twice a day.

Grafton unfolded his resolve to Worthing, over the dinner table, when the girls and Miss Waterhouse had left them to their cigars.

"I'm going to get rid of Mercer," he said. "The fellow has become an infernal nuisance, and I'm tired of him."

Worthing stared at him, and laughed. "You can't do it," he said. "I thought you knew better than that. You're the patron of the living, and you appoint a man when it becomes vacant. But once appointed he sticks there till he chooses to go. You've nothing more to do with it than anybody else."

"Oh, I know all that. When I say I'm going to get rid of him, I don't mean that I've got the power to turn him out. But you can do a good many things that you haven't got that sort of power over, if you go the right way to work."

"Well, I don't care much about Mercer myself, though I've always tried to keep my opinion dark for the sake of peace. He's a tiresome fellow, and that's a fact; but he's never done anything that he could be shifted for. It takes a Bishop all he knows, and a devil of a lot of money besides, to get rid of an incumbent who's a real wrong 'un. There was a case over at Minbrook when I first came here."

"I know that too. But to my mind a quarrelsome back-biting fellow like Mercer does more harm in a community like this than many a man who kicks over the traces in a way to give a handle against himself."

"I quite agree with you there," said Worthing, allowing himself to be diverted to this question of the welfare of a community, which he had much at heart. "I'm glad you take that view of it. It's the right view for a landholder to take, in my opinion. It's up to us who are running a place like this to keep people contented and happy. It's the human side, as I often tell young Bradby. You've got to be just in your dealings, but there are lots of little points where the law seems to give you an unfair advantage. I don't say it does, but it seems to, in the way things are looked at now, with all this Radicalism about. You can run things all right on the old system if you bring goodwill to bear, and remember the people you're dealing with aren't any different to what you are yourself. It seems to me that's the best thing about the old system—the human contact between all parties concerned."

"Well, the parson of a village ought to be the one above all others who makes that contact. What's he there for otherwise?"

"I agree with that too. I'm a good churchman, and all that, and of course the religious side of it is important. But to my mind it's more important still that he should be the friend of all his people, rich and poor alike, so that they can go to him for anything, and find a friend in him."

"That is the religious side of it, isn't it?"

"I suppose it ought to be. But the parsons now-a-days seem to want to run a country parish as they would a town one. We don't see much of it hereabouts, except with Brill, and he's kept in order by Lady Mansergh. Brill's a nice kind-hearted fellow too, and if it wasn't for all that high falutin' church business, and changing all the services from what they've been accustomed to, and shoving them off their perches generally, he'd do as well as any country parson. Take a man like Williams. He's a good deal more interested in his dogs and his carpentering than he is in his church services, I should say. I don't want to hold him up as a perfect example, but he's the friend of all his parishioners. Beckley's a close-fisted landlord, and doesn't get on particularly well with his tenants. But Williams often does them a good turn with him. He's a human sort of fellow. That's what I like about Williams."

"And that's just what Mercer isn't."

Worthing had rather forgotten about Mercer, and his inclination to make the best of people and give everybody a chance was strong in him. He frowned slightly. "He's cantankerous," he said. "I can't deny that."

"Yes, he's cantankerous, and a good many other things besides. There's hardly a soul round about—of our sort, I mean—that he hasn't fallen out with. When I first came here he warned me against the whole lot of them, without exception."

"Did he? Well, he oughtn't to have done that. I don't believe you'd find a nicer lot of people, take 'em all round, anywhere in England."

"That's what you told me, on the same day as he'd said the opposite, and I'm more inclined to your opinion than his. Then he makes trouble in the place itself. My girls and Miss Waterhouse are finding that out constantly. There's always a lot of quarrelling going on, and if you follow it up you generally find he has had a finger in the pie."

"Well, I can't deny that either. I've often had to smooth over things that he has put wrong. He is a tiresome fellow, and there's no denying it. It would certainly be a good thing for the parish if he were got rid of. Still he hasn't done anything that he could be got rid of for, and I don't see how you're going to bring it about."

"I'm going to ask him to go."

Worthing stared and laughed again. "I should like to be there when you do it," he said.

"I don't think you would. If you thought I was getting the better of him you'd want to take his part. That's what you're made like."

"Oh, I don't know about that. But I do like to keep the peace."

"If we can persuade Mr. Mercer to take himself off, I hope we shall get somebody here who'll help you. We'd better go up to the girls now. They'll be wanting their bridge."

When the Vicar walked up to the Abbey the next morning in answer to Grafton's note requesting an interview, it was with anticipations not unpleasurable. Somehow, he had never succeeded in gaining the footing of intimacy with his chief parishioners that he felt to be his due. It was even some weeks now since he had been invited to the house, and he had felt aggrieved about it, because in his position he ought to have been the most frequent guest at the only other house in the place occupied by such people as himself.

It had not always been so. On the Graftons' first arrival he had felt himself free to run in and out of the house on the most intimate terms, and had always been sure of a welcome, as was only right and proper. It had begun to steal over him lately, in wafts of cold suspicion, which he had put away from him whenever they approached, that his welcome had perhaps never been quite so warm as he had taken for granted. He had also begun to suspect that certain criticisms he had passed upon the Graftons—of course without meaning anything by them—might have come to their ears, and accounted for the cessation of invitations, to lunch and to dine, which had never failed even after the running in and out showed itself to be not quite what they wanted. But this suspicion had stiffened him against them. If they proved themselves difficult to get on with, as so many people in this part of the world unfortunately did, he was not the man to give in to them. He had his own position of dignity and responsibility and would take his stand unflinchingly upon that. It was the duty of a Squire and a parson to keep on good terms with one another for the sake of example, especially when the people of a parish were so quarrelsome and difficult to manage as they were at Abington. He had done all he could to bring that happy state of things about. If the other party was blind to the advantages, nay to the Christian duty, of such an understanding, then he must pursue his course unflinchingly apart. On no account would he knuckle under, and debase his sacred profession.

Still, he had no wish to quarrel, and it was somewhat of a relief to be asked to a consultation with Grafton, no doubt upon some measure of importance in connection with the parish. There had been far too little of that co-operation. A Squire might do so much to help a parson in his devoted labours for the good of the community, and Grafton had done so little, though on his first coming the Vicar had had strong hopes that here was at last a man who would back him up, in his spiritual duties, as he in his turn was only too anxious to give help and advice, in all matters, in return.

But in spiritual matters he had even been denied what was undoubtedly his due. Grafton had not even come to church regularly, nor put pressure on his household to do so. The last was inexcusable. The Vicar could make allowances for a man in Grafton's position who worked in London, though not very regularly, and looked upon his days in the country as holidays. But his servants ought to be made to come to church. The Vicar had felt so strongly about this that he had once told Grafton so, and pointed out that he himself was always there in fair weather or foul. Grafton had said that most of his servants did attend church regularly, and none of them kept away altogether, and had not been able to see that that was not the point. And pressed to exercise his authority he had refused to do so.

Then there was that point of Barbara's confirmation. Miss Waterhouse had asked him the previous year whether he should be holding confirmation classes, and he had said that he should, for the Advent confirmation, but only for the young people of the village, and that of course Barbara could not be expected to attend them. He had offered, at the sacrifice of his own valuable time to prepare Barbara for confirmation by herself, and Miss Waterhouse had thanked him, but had put the matter off. Then when the time had drawn near, and he had raised the question, he had been told that Barbara would not be confirmed that year at all. They would be in London after Christmas and she would be confirmed in the spring, at the church where her sisters had been. But they had not moved to London after Christmas, and Barbara had not been confirmed. He had asked about it and received an evasive answer.

He was thinking of this, and getting nettled about it, as he walked through the park to the Abbey, when it suddenly occurred to him that this was probably what Grafton wanted to see him about. Well, if it was, that would put a good many things right. He would pocket the offence that he had felt and had been right in feeling, at having had his offer treated in the fashion it had been, and would renew it. Barbara was a very interesting child—she was seventeen, and ought to have been confirmed long ago—and he would enjoy his talks with her. By the time he reached the house he was convinced that it was Barbara's religious education that Grafton wished to see him about.

He was received in the long, low library, with its ranks of mellow russet books which no one ever read, its raftered ceiling, and its latticed windows. It was the room which Grafton called his, but seldom used except for business purposes or when men were staying in the house. He was writing at a table at the far end of the room when the Vicar was announced, and came forward to greet him at once with his pleasant friendly air. It was no part of his intention to antagonise him.

The Vicar began the conversation. "I wondered, as I came up," he said in his pompous but would-be-intimate manner, "whether it was about Barbara's confirmation you wanted to talk to me. She really ought to have been confirmed last year, and the intention was that she should be this spring, wasn't it? There will be a confirmation either here or at Feltham later on in the year, and I shall be very pleased to prepare her for it if you wish it. I could come here once or twice a week, or she could come to me, whichever you preferred."

Grafton was about to refuse, rather shortly, when he bethought himself.

"Are you going to have a confirmation class?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. But I shouldn't expect her to attend that. It's for the boys and girls of the village. There are one or two farmers' daughters this year, but nobody of the same class as Barbara. You couldn't—"

"What has class got to do with it?" Grafton interrupted him. "I should have thought in a matter like that everybody was equal."

"Oh, well, if you take it like that!" said the Vicar, "I think so, of course, but—"

"What should you teach her?" asked Grafton.

"What should I teach her?" He seemed somewhat at a loss. "I shouldn't teach her any Roman doctrine, if that's what you're thinking of. Good Prayer Book doctrine, you know. At confirmation you take upon yourself the vows that others have made for you in your Baptism. You'll find it all in the Prayer Book. Careful preparation deepens the spiritual life, at a time when the young soul is at its most malleable, and open to religious impressions. It is a very blessed opportunity."

He spoke with unction. Grafton looked as if he were suffering from a slight nausea. "I don't care a bit about doctrine," he said. "I do believe in Christianity, and I think I recognise its spirit when I see it. I see it in my daughter Caroline. She hasn't a thought in her head that isn't sweet and good. She never thinks of herself when there's anybody else to think of. She does everybody good all round her, by just being herself."

The Vicar rather enjoyed theological discussion. "That's an interesting point of view," he said. "And a very natural one. I admire Caroline myself—enormously. But I should say hers was a natural goodness. Very beautiful, of course, and something to thank God for; but not of itself religious."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps I should say not of itself Christian. You may observe the same sort of goodness in people who don't follow the Christian religion—in Buddhists and so forth. In the Christian religion we are taught to look for Grace, and—"

"Oh, well, grace or goodness—it's the same thing. I won't go on with this; I didn't ask you to be good enough to come and see me to talk about Barbara's confirmation. I shouldn't want you to prepare her. It's yourself I want to talk about. You're not very comfortable here at Abington, are you? You don't care for the people round you, and you find it difficult to get on with the villagers."

The Vicar's mouth opened. "I don't understand you," he said.

"I know that as patron of this living I've no sort of authority over the man who holds it, or anything of that sort; but I might be able to ease the wheels a bit if you saw your way to exchanging it for another. I believe such things are done. I don't know whether you've ever thought about it."

The Vicar was still at a loss. "The living is certainly not much of a prize," he said, with a laugh. "It couldn't be held except by a man with private means of his own—considerable private means. If you had any idea of raising the endowment—"

"Well, I might do that—or add to the income, or whatever it might be, for a man who could make himself happy here, and get on with us all. I won't beat about the bush, Mercer. You seem to have got at loggerheads with everybody here, and it's no more comfortable for us than it is for you. You haven't fallen out with us yet, but I can't help feeling it may come any time. If I could do anything to make it easy for you to get away from a place where you don't find congenial society, we could part on good terms now, and it might save trouble in the future."

The Vicar now understood that the proposal was not to raise the endowment of the living for his own benefit. He had not yet grasped the fact that he was being invited to quit.

"I can only say that if you and I fall out it won't be my fault," he said. "It's quite true that the people round here—your sort of people, I mean—are a cantankerous lot."

"Well, I don't find them so, Mercer. I don't find them so."

He did not like being contradicted in this resolute fashion. "I'm afraid we must agree to differ on that point then," he said stiffly.

"It's the whole point, Mercer. It isn't only one or two you've managed to fall out with; that might happen to anybody, though if sensible people manage to fall out with their neighbours they generally manage to fall in again sooner or later. It's the whole lot. When we first came here you warned me against every single family about here we were likely to make friends with, except two. And you've fallen out with them since."

He now understood that he was being brought to book, and he liked that less than anything. He grew red and gobbled like a turkey cock before he spoke.

"This is a most unwarrantable attack," he said. "Did you ask me to come here to receive a lecture from you, Mr. Grafton?"

"I asked you to come here to see if we couldn't come to some mutual understanding that needn't reflect upon you if we can do so. My reasons for wanting a change made are likely to be painful to you, I know, and probably surprising as well. But I must state them if anything is to come of it. So I do so as directly as possible. If you'll accept them, and talk it over on the grounds that I should like a change made, so much the better. Then we needn't go over the reasons any more."

"You'd like a change made." He understood it now, and summoned all his powers of resistance, and resentment. "And you really think, Mr. Grafton, that because you've bought this property, and live in the biggest house on it, you can order things in that way. Let me tell you that there is one house in this parish that you have not bought, and that is my humble Vicarage. You have no more right to dispose of that than you have of—of the Bishop's Palace at Medchester. You—"

"Can't we talk over things reasonably, Mercer? If I thought I had that sort of power, I should make some attempt to exercise it, shouldn't I? I shouldn't be asking you if we can't come to some understanding."

"And what understanding on such a subject is possible, I should like to know. You want me to go; that's the plain truth of the matter. Do you think I'm not a fit person to exercise my duties here, may I ask?"

Grafton was silent, with a silence that was significant.

There was a drop in the temperature. "For my own satisfaction this must be cleared up," said the Vicar, speaking with dignified restraint. "If you have any charges to bring against me I must know what they are, so that I can meet them in the open."

"There are no charges, Mercer, to be met in that way. I've told you already why I should like a change made, if you can bring yourself to consider it. It isn't only the people of our own sort, as you say, that you don't get on with. You're at loggerheads with half your parishioners at one time or another. My girls are always coming across it, wherever they go. They're keen—Caroline is especially—to make friends with the people in the place, and for us who live here in a certain relation with them to do what we can for them. It's one of the pleasures of landholding to be given that sort of opportunity. We've all of us come to see that. I believe we should be as happy and contented a community as you'd find anywhere, if—well, if it weren't for you, Mercer. I don't want to be offensive, but that's what it comes to."

The Vicar was trembling with anger. "But this is outrageous," he exclaimed.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Grafton easily. "I've no wish to offend you, but it seems to me that the state of things I want here is worth taking that risk for. I tell you plainly that you seem to me such a difficulty in the way of it that if you go on here I can't continue to offer you the friendship of myself and my family. In ordinary life, if a man you know is continually acting in a way you don't like, you drop his acquaintance, or if it's necessary you fight him. I don't want to fight you, and I don't suppose you want to fight me. I've said enough to show you that I've reasons which seem to me important for wanting to come to the understanding with you that I've indicated. I don't want to argue about them, or to push them in. They're there. I'll ask you to think over what I've said. Anything I can do to make it advantageous and agreeable to you to find some other place to work in, I will do; and if you decide to go, well, as far as people outside will be able to see, you and we will part as friends, and you'll be going, of course, of your own free will."

He rose from his chair, and the Vicar rose at the same time. He had an enormous amount to say, but found it difficult to say it as Grafton walked down the long room, opened the door for him, and accompanied him through the dining-room into the hall.

"It wants thinking over, I know," said Grafton, taking no notice of his beginnings of sentences. "You can't decide this sort of thing in a hurry. If you and Mrs. Mercer will come and dine with us to-morrow night, you and I could have a friendly talk about it afterwards and see if there's anything to be done. Caroline will write Mrs. Mercer a note."

The Vicar was on the doorstep, still striving for speech. Grafton said good-bye to him, and returned to the library.