“A moment’s patience,” broke in Aunt Dinah, “you won’t let me speak. Of course you may argue till doomsday, if you keep all the talk to yourself. I say, William, there are not six peers in England can show as good blood as you, and I’ll not hear of your being shut up in a beggarly garret in Westminster Hall, or the Temple, or wherever it is they put the—the paltry young barristers, when you might and must have a bishopric if you choose it, and marry a peer’s daughter. And choose what you will, I choose that, and into the Church you go; yes, into the Church, the Church, Sir, the Church! and that’s enough, I hope.”
William was stunned and looked helplessly at his aunt, whom he loved very much. But the idea of going into the Church, the image of his old friend Dykes, turned into a demure curate as he had seen him three weeks ago. The form of stout Doctor Dalrymple, with his pimples and shovel hat, and a general sense of simony and blasphemy came sickeningly over him; his likings, his conscience, his fears, his whole nature rose up against it in one abhorrent protest, and he said, very pale and in the voice of a sick man, gently placing his hand upon his aunt’s arm, and looking with entreating eyes into hers:
“My dear aunt, to go into the Church without any kind of suitability, is a tremendous thing, for mere gain, a dreadful kind of sin. I know I’m quite unfit. I could not.”
William did not know for how many years his aunt had been brooding over this one idea, how she had lived in this air-built castle, and what a crash of hopes and darkness of despair was in its downfall. But if he had, he could not help it. Down it must go. Orders were not for him. Deacon, priest, or bishop, William Maubray never could be.
Miss Perfect stared at him with pallid face.
“I tell you what, William,” she exclaimed, “you had better think twice—you had better⸺”
“I have thought—indeed I have—for Doctor Sprague suggested the Church as a profession long ago; but I can’t. I’m not fit.”
“You had better grow fit, then, and give up your sins, Sir, and save both your soul and your prospects. It can be nothing but wickedness that prevents your taking orders—holy orders. Mercy on us! A blasphemy and a sin to take holy orders! What sort of state can you be in?”
“I wish to Heaven I were good enough, but I’m not. I may not be worse than a good many who go into the Church. Others may, but I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t! You conceited, young, provoking coxcomb! As if the world were looking for miracles of piety from you? Who on earth expects you to be one bit more pious than other curates who do their best? Who are you, pray, that anything more should be expected from you? Do your duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call you. That’s simple. We expect no more.”