This was the course things had taken in the Church of England during the last forty years.  The set has been steadily in one direction.  A few men who knew what they wanted made cats’ paws of the Christmas and the Charlottes, and the Christmas and the Charlottes made cats’ paws of the Mrs Goodhews and the old Miss Wrights, and Mrs Goodhews and old Miss Wrights told the Mr Goodhews and young Miss Wrights what they should do, and when the Mr Goodhews and the young Miss Wrights did it the little Goodhews and the rest of the spiritual flock did as they did, and the Theobalds went for nothing; step by step, day by day, year by year, parish by parish, diocese by diocese this was how it was done.  And yet the Church of England looks with no friendly eyes upon the theory of Evolution or Descent with Modification.

My hero thought over these things, and remembered many a ruse on the part of Christina and Charlotte, and many a detail of the struggle which I cannot further interrupt my story to refer to, and he remembered his father’s favourite retort that it could only end in Rome.  When he was a boy he had firmly believed this, but he smiled now as he thought of another alternative clear enough to himself, but so horrible that it had not even occurred to Theobald—­I mean the toppling over of the whole system.  At that time he welcomed the hope that the absurdities and unrealities of the Church would end in her downfall.  Since then he has come to think very differently, not as believing in the cow jumping over the moon more than he used to, or more, probably, than nine-tenths of the clergy themselves—­who know as well as he does that their outward and visible symbols are out of date—­but because he knows the baffling complexity of the problem when it comes to deciding what is actually to be done.  Also, now that he has seen them more closely, he knows better the nature of those wolves in sheep’s clothing, who are thirsting for the blood of their victim, and exulting so clamorously over its anticipated early fall into their clutches.  The spirit behind the Church is true, though her letter—­true once—­is now true no longer.  The spirit behind the High Priests of Science is as lying as its letter.  The Theobalds, who do what they do because it seems to be the correct thing, but who in their hearts neither like it nor believe in it, are in reality the least dangerous of all classes to the peace and liberties of mankind.  The man to fear is he who goes at things with the cocksureness of pushing vulgarity and self-conceit.  These are not vices which can be justly laid to the charge of the English clergy.

Many of the farmers came up to Ernest when service was over, and shook hands with him.  He found every one knew of his having come into a fortune.  The fact was that Theobald had immediately told two or three of the greatest gossips in the village, and the story was not long in spreading.  “It simplified matters,” he had said to himself, “a good deal.”  Ernest was civil to Mrs Goodhew for her husband’s sake, but he gave Miss Wright the cut direct, for he knew that she was only Charlotte in disguise.