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A little lower down the table, Hugh Calverley's mind was also full of one subject. "Nay," he whispered earnestly to Bertram: "he is yet hid some whither, here, in Wales. Men wit not where; and God forbid too many should!" "Then men be yet a-searching for him?" "High and low, leaving no stone unturned. God keep His true servant safe, unto His honour!"
"Master Warine," said Hugh Calverley's voice behind him, "the day may come when thou and I would be full fain to creep into Heaven at the heels of the Lutterworth parson." The anointing at baptism, when a white cloth was always placed on the head. Bertram, Ursula, Parnel, Warine, and Maude and her family, are all fictitious persons.
They show his chair, and a jug out of which he drank, but one has not much faith in these chairs and jugs; they always seem to be supplied to demand, and must be found to gratify the pilgrims. One of the examination queries which might have found a place in Mr. Calverley's paper of questions is this: "When did Mr.
"Master Calverley's father! the Queen's squire?" "He. And look you, Maude, heard man ever the like! the Queen's own Grace was on her knees three hours unto my Lord of Arundel, praying him to spare Master Calverley's life. Think of it, Maude! Caesar's daughter!" "Mercy, Jesu!" Maude could imagine nothing more frightful. It seemed to her equivalent to the whole world tumbling into chaos.
He could also, I must add, enjoy Dickens's humour as heartily as any one. He was well up in 'Pickwick, though I don't know whether he would have been equal to Calverley's famous examination-paper, and he had a special liking for the 'Uncommercial Traveller. But when Dickens deserted his proper function Fitzjames was roused to indignation.
"But the Royal Mary fell a victim to a Spanish privateer, and I might never have arrived at all but for the gallantry of Captain Blood, who rescued me." Light broke upon the darkness of Calverley's mind. "I see. I understand." "I will take leave to doubt it." His lordship's tone abated nothing of its asperity. "But that can wait.
Calverley's Pickwick Examination Paper is said to be diminishing. Pathetic questions are sometimes put. Are we not too much cultivated? Can this fastidiousness be anything but a casual passing phase of taste? Are all people over thirty who cling to their Dickens and their Scott old fogies?
Now all was to do again; the minister raged, shrugged, furnished a new emissary with credentials, and marked Calverley's name for punishment. As much, indeed, was written to Calverley by Lord Ufford, the poet, diarist, musician and virtuoso: Our Scottish Mortimer, it appears, is unwilling to have the map of Europe altered because Mr. Robert Calverley has taken a whim to go into Italy.
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