“Well—he is, as you say, a peaceable, mild man; not one to push himself——”
“Push himself!” cried the Master; “not much of that, I should think. But even if you don’t push yourself, you needn’t stay for twenty years a curate. What does he mean by it? I am afraid there must be something wrong.”
“And I am quite sure there is nothing wrong,” cried Mildmay, warmly, “unless devotion to thankless work, and forgetfulness of self is wrong; for that is all his worst enemy can lay to his charge.”
“You are very warm about it,” said the Master, with some surprise; “which does you credit, Mildmay. But, my dear fellow, what do you expect me—what do you expect the college to do? We can’t provide for our poor members who let themselves drop out of sight and knowledge. Perhaps if you don’t take the living, and Ruffhead does, you might speak to him to keep your friend on as curate. But I have nothing to do with that kind of arrangement. And I’m sure you will excuse me when I tell you we start to-night.”
“Master,” said Mildmay solemnly, “when you hear of a young colonel of thirty promoted over the head of an old captain of twice his age, what do you say?”
“Say, sir!” cried the Master, whose sentiments on this, as on most other subjects, were well known; “say! why I say it’s a disgrace to the country. I say it’s the abominable system of purchase which keeps our best soldiers languishing. Pray, what do you mean by that smile? You know I have no patience to discuss such a question; and I cannot see what it has to do with what we were talking of,” he added abruptly, breaking off with a look of defiance, for he suddenly saw the mistake he had made in Mildmay’s face.
“Hasn’t it?” said the other. “If you will think a moment—Ruffhead and I are both as innocent of parochial knowledge as—as little Ned there.” (Ned at this moment had come to the window which opened upon the garden, and, knocking with impatient knuckles, had summoned his father out.) “Mr. St. John has some thirty years’ experience, and is thoroughly known and loved by the people. What can anybody think—what can any one say—if one of us miserable subalterns is put over that veteran’s head? Where but in the Church could such a thing be done—without at least such a clamour as would set half England by the ears?”
“Softly, softly,” cried the Master. “(Get away, you little imp. I’ll come presently.) You mustn’t abuse the Church, Mildmay. Our arrangements may be imperfect, as indeed all arrangements are which are left in human hands. But, depend upon it, the system is the best that could be devised; and there is no real analogy between the two professions. A soldier is helpless who can only buy his promotion, and has no money to buy it with. But a clergyman has a hundred ways of making his qualifications known, and as a matter of fact I think preferment is very justly distributed. I have known dozens of men, with no money and very little influence, whose talents and virtues alone—but you must know that as well as I do. In this case there must be something behind—something wrong—extreme indolence, or incapacity, or something——”
“There is nothing but extreme modesty, and a timid retiring disposition.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried the Master; “these are the pretty names for it. Indolence which does nothing for itself, and hangs a dead weight upon friends. Now, tell me seriously and soberly, why do you come to me with this story? What, in such a case, do you suppose I can do?”