Ivy Compton-Burnett - Dolores

“Of course the Wesleyans are the largest religious body in existence,” said Mrs Blackwood, with detached appreciation of her native sect.

“The largest dissenting body,” supplied the Reverend Cleveland in a casual tone, suggesting an opinion that it was not worth while to adopt a decisive attitude in his present environment.

“Ye-es,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head in rather shocked repudiation of the other view.

“The largest dissenting body, dear,” said Mrs Hutton, repeating her husband’s correction to her sister with more distinctness.

“No, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood, her voice becoming a little higher pitched; “it is generally known that no other religious sect can compare with the Wesleyans in point of numbers.”

“Or in point of anything else,” said Mr Blackwood—“in point of anything else, my darling.”

“My dear Caroline, it stands to reason that one of the dissenting sects could not be larger than the whole of the Established Church,” said Mrs Hutton with a little laugh, as though it were hardly needful to state a truth so obvious.

“My dear, it is not a question of its standing to reason,” said Mrs Blackwood. “It is a question of what is definitely known and proved. It is an established fact that the Wesleyan body is twenty times as large as any other body.”

“Oh, my darling, come, come,” said Mr Blackwood. “We all know that the Wesleyans are the largest and the most important body; but twenty times as large as any other is putting it rather strong.”

“My dear Herbert, I do not know why you should contradict me,” said Mrs Blackwood. “I should not speak if I had not my information on dependable authority.”

“Oh, well, if you have it on dependable authority, my love, then that is all right,” said Mr Blackwood, with tenderness.

“What do you think about it, Miss Hutton? I suppose you know all the arguments on both sides by heart,” said Mrs Cassell, with no misgiving on her words as a compliment to Dolores’ studious tastes.

“No; it is a branch of statistics in which I am quite unversed,” said Dolores, smiling.

“Why, de-ar, I thought you knew ever-ything,” said Mrs Merton-Vane.

“Are any of you Wesleyans aware,” said Dr Cassell, his tone not indicating any great respect for the sect he mentioned, “that you owe your existence — your existence as a religious body — to a mere accident?”

“No, doctor; let us hear the story,” said Mr Blackwood, with an easy frankness of falling in with the doctor’s plans.

“When John Wesley was six years old,” said Dr Cassell, “the rectory where his family lived — Wesley senior was a clergyman, you know — was burned to, the ground. Every one in the house had — as it was supposed — been rescued; and the family were watching the gradual — devastation of their abode; when it was discovered that John was missing. He was asleep in an upper room and had been forgotten. After many vain suggestions — of methods of rescue — he was saved by a man’s standing on the shoulders of another, and lifting him from the window. Hardly was the rescue accomplished, when the roof fell in. A moment later the founder of the Wesleyans would have been lying crushed beneath a heap of burning chaos.”

“Well, doctor, I never heard that before — I never heard that,” said Mr Blackwood loudly.

“No-o,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head with full corroboration of the novelty.

“I think, doctor,” said Mrs Blackwood, “that we should say that we owe the existence of our sect to a special intervention of a higher power than ours, rather than to ‘a mere accident.’”

“Yes, yes, I think so, indeed,” said Mr Billing, slightly shaking his head, and looking at the floor.

“The father of the Wesleys,” continued Dr Cassell, “is said to have viewed the — conflagration of his home with perfect calm; observing: ‘God has given me all my eight children; I am rich enough.’”

“Ah, indeed!” said Mr Billing.

“Just fancy, if he had been burnt there wouldn’t have been any Wesleyans,” said Elsa, laughing.

“Elsa, if you must talk so foolishly, you had better not talk at all,” said Mrs Blackwood.

“But, mother, it is so amusing to think of you and father without the chance of being Wesleyans,” said Elsa, with further laughter, and a knowledge of the direction of Bertram’s eyes.

“This escape in childhood made a deep impression upon John Wesley,” said Dr Cassell; continuing as if no break had occurred, though with no bitterness to Elsa; and at once attracting Mrs Cassell’s gaze. “He always regarded it as a proof of his being destined — for some especial religious mission. Later in life he inscribed under a portrait of himself the following words—‘Is not this a brand plucked from the burning?’”

“Oh, I wish my hus-band was here,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, showing appreciation.

“Did he indeed — indeed?” said Mr Billing.

“Well, Mr Billing, you have a sample of the doctor’s powers of instruction” said Mr Blackwood. “I can tell you he is one by himself on that matter. There’s not a subject under the sun, which he can’t talk about, and give you any amount of information about, at a moment’s notice. Anecdotes, facts, bits of science — it all comes as grist to his mill; I can tell you that it does.”

“You — er — you have been a great reader?” said Mr Billing, fidgeting slightly as he addressed the doctor.

“Yes — well — yes, I think I may say I have been a reader,” said Dr Cassell, making a frank effort against a smile. “From my boyhood my tastes have tended in the direction of books rather than of anything else. I am interested in a great many subjects. I do not think there is one that engrosses me to the exclusion of others; though of course medical matters have absorbed me a great deal. I think I may say that I am not like the man who was so lost in mathematics, that he forgot his own name and the date of his birth.”

“I am su-re you are not,” said Mrs Merton-Vane.

“So am I,” said Mrs Hutton, allowing her eyes to meet her husband’s.

“It is strange to think,” said Lettice, with rather conscious modesty, “that, had there been no Divine intervention to prevent the death of Wesley in childhood, there would have been such a gap in the evangelization of the world. One is apt to forget, in religious matters as in others, how large a train of events may be attached to a single incident.”

“That is just the same as I said, Letty, only put into stilted words,” said Elsa.

“You’re quite right, you’re quite right, Letty, my darling,” said Mr Blackwood.

“Yes, it is so in all things,” said Mrs Blackwood, in tones of a quality to attract attention. “Suppose Shakespeare, or Browning, or Milton had never been born, or had died in childhood! Think of the immense difference in the world of thought! We hardly realise, when we are being inspired by their finest passages, how trivial an accident might have torn them from us.”

“Mother, you never read Shakespeare, or Browning, or Milton,” said Elsa. “And if you did, you would not know which were the finest passages.”

“My dear Elsa, think what you are saying before you speak. You know quite well that Milton has always been my favourite poet. I was reading some of ‘Paradise Lost’ only the other day — the part about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and comparing it with the corresponding parts of Genesis. How very magnificent some of the passages are, are they not, Mr Billing? The language is so good, and the rhythm is always so accurate. As I was saying to Lettice, Milton’s poetry carries so many lessons in it.”