Part 37 (1/2)

Nothing then remained for him but to pay a few bills, to pack up some books which he had left in a friend's room, and then to bid adieu, at least for a time, to the cloisters and groves of the University. He quitted in June, when everything was in that youthful and fragrant beauty which he had admired so much in the beginning of his residence three years before.

Part III.

CHAPTER I.

But now we must look forward, not back. Once before we took leave to pa.s.s over nearly two years in the life of the subject of this narrative, and now a second and a dreary and longer interval shall be consigned to oblivion, and the reader shall be set down in the autumn of the year next but one after that in which Charles took his cla.s.s and did not take his degree.

At this time our interest is confined to Boughton and the Rectory at Sutton. As to Melford, friend Bateman had accepted the inc.u.mbency of a church in a manufacturing town with a district of 10,000 souls, where he was full of plans for the introduction of the surplice and gilt candlesticks among his people, and where, it is to be hoped, he will learn wisdom. Willis also was gone, on a different errand: he had bid adieu to his mother and brother soon after Charles had gone into the schools, and now was Father Aloysius de Sancta Cruce in the Pa.s.sionist Convent of Pennington.

One evening, at the end of September, in the year aforesaid, Campbell had called at Boughton, and was walking in the garden with Miss Reding.

”Really, Mary,” he said to her, ”I don't think it does any good to keep him. The best years of his life are going, and, humanly speaking, there is not any chance of his changing his mind, at least till he has made a trial of the Church of Rome. It is quite possible that experience may drive him back.”

”It is a dreadful dilemma,” she answered; ”how can we even indirectly give him permission to take so fatal a step?”

”He is a dear, good fellow,” he made reply; ”he is a sterling fellow; all this long time that he has been with me he has made no difficulties; he has read thoroughly the books that I recommended and more, and done whatever I told him. You know I have employed him in the parish; he has taught the Catechism to the children, and been almoner. Poor fellow, his health is suffering now: he sees there's no end of it, and hope deferred makes the heart sick.”

”It is so dreadful to give any countenance to what is so very wrong,”

said Mary.

”Why, what is to be done?” answered Campbell; ”and we need not countenance it; he can't be kept in leading-strings for ever, and there has been a kind of bargain. He wanted to make a move at the end of the first year--I didn't think it worth while to fidget you about it--but I quieted him. We compounded in this way: he removed his name from the college-boards,--there was not the slightest chance of his ever signing the Articles,--and he consented to wait another year. Now the time's up, and more, and he is getting impatient. So it's not we who shall be giving him countenance, it will only be his leaving us.”

”But it is so fearful,” insisted Mary; ”and my poor mother--I declare I think it will be her death.”

”It will be a crus.h.i.+ng blow, there's no doubt of that,” said Campbell; ”what does she know of it at present?”

”I hardly can tell you,” answered she; ”she has been informed of it indeed distinctly a year ago; but seeing Charles so often, and he in appearance just the same, I fear she does not realize it. She has never spoken to me on the subject. I fancy she thinks it a scruple; troublesome, certainly, but of course temporary.”

”I must break it to her, Mary,” said Campbell.

”Well, I think it _must_ be done,” she replied, heaving a sudden sigh; ”and if so, it will be a real kindness in you to save me a task to which I am quite unequal. But have a talk with Charles first. When it comes to the point he may have a greater difficulty than he thinks beforehand.”

And so it was settled; and, full of care at the double commission with which he was charged, Campbell rode back to Sutton.

Poor Charles was sitting at an open window, looking out upon the prospect, when Campbell entered the room. It was a beautiful landscape, with bold hills in the distance, and a rus.h.i.+ng river beneath him.

Campbell came up to him without his perceiving it; and, putting his hand on his shoulder, asked his thoughts.

Charles turned round, and smiled sadly. ”I am like Moses seeing the land,” he said; ”my dear Campbell, when shall the end be?”

”That, my good Charles, of course does not rest with me,” answered Campbell.

”Well,” said he, ”the year is long run out; may I go my way?”

”You can't expect that I, or any of us, should even indirectly countenance you in what, with all our love of you, we think a sin,” said Campbell.

”That is as much as to say, 'Act for yourself,'” answered Charles; ”well, I am willing.”

Campbell did not at once reply; then he said, ”I shall have to break it to your poor mother; Mary thinks it will be her death.”