"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."