Part 38 (2/2)

The shopman returned. ”Oh, what a sweet face!” she said, looking at the frontispiece of a little book she got hold of; ”do look, Henry; whom does it put you in mind of?”

”Why, it's meant for St. John the Baptist,” said Henry.

”It's so like little Angelina Primrose,” said she, ”the hair is just hers. I wonder it doesn't strike you.”

”It does--it does,” said he, smiling at her; ”but it's getting late; you must not be out much longer in the sharp air, and you have nothing for your throat. I have chosen my books while you have been gazing on that little St. John.”

”I can't think who it is so like,” continued she; ”oh, I know; it's Angelina's aunt, Lady Constance.”

”Come, Louisa, the horses too will suffer; we must return to our friends.”

”Oh, there's one book, I can't recollect it; tell me what it is, Henry.

I shall be so sorry not to have got it.”

”Was it the new work on Gregorian Chants?” asked he.

”Ah, it's true, I want it for the school-children, but it's not that.”

”Is it 'The Catholic Parsonage'?” he asked again; ”or, 'Lays of the Apostles'? or, 'The English Church older than the Roman'? or, 'Anglicanism of the Early Martyrs'? or, 'Confessions of a Pervert'? or, 'Eustace Beville'? or, 'Modified Celibacy'?”

”No, no, no,” said Louisa; ”dear me, it is so stupid.”

”Well, now really, Louisa,” he insisted, ”you must come another time; it won't do, dearest; it won't do.”

”Oh, I recollect,” she said, ”I recollect--'Abbeys and Abbots;' I want to get some hints for improving the rectory-windows when we get home; and our church wants, you know, a porch for the poor people. The book is full of designs.”

The book was found and added to the rest, which had been already taken to the carriage. ”Now, Louisa,” said White. ”Well, dearest, there's one more place we must call at,” she made answer; ”tell John to drive to Sharp's; we can go round by the nursery--it's only a few steps out of the way--I want to say a word to the man there about our greenhouse; there is no good gardener in our own neighbourhood.”

”What is the good, Louisa, now?” said her husband; ”we shan't be at home this month to come;” and then, with due resignation, he directed the coachman to the nurseryman's whom Louisa named, as he put her into the carriage, and then followed her.

Charles breathed freely as they went out; a severe text of Scripture rose on his mind, but he repressed the uncharitable feeling, and turned himself to the anxious duties which lay before him.

CHAPTER III.

Nothing happened to Charles worth relating before his arrival at Steventon next day; when, the afternoon being fine, he left his portmanteau to follow him by the omnibus, and put himself upon the road.

If it required some courage to undertake by himself a long journey on an all-momentous errand, it did not lessen the difficulty that that journey took in its way a place and a person so dear to him as Oxford and Carlton.

He had pa.s.sed through Bagley Wood, and the spires and towers of the University came on his view, hallowed by how many tender a.s.sociations, lost to him for two whole years, suddenly recovered--recovered to be lost for ever! There lay old Oxford before him, with its hills as gentle and its meadows as green as ever. At the first view of that beloved place he stood still with folded arms, unable to proceed. Each college, each church--he counted them by their pinnacles and turrets. The silver Isis, the grey willows, the far-stretching plains, the dark groves, the distant range of Shotover, the pleasant village where he had lived with Carlton and Sheffield--wood, water, stone, all so calm, so bright, they might have been his, but his they were not. Whatever he was to gain by becoming a Catholic, this he had lost; whatever he was to gain higher and better, at least this and such as this he never could have again. He could not have another Oxford, he could not have the friends of his boyhood and youth in the choice of his manhood. He mounted the well-known gate on the left, and proceeded down into the plain. There was no one to greet him, to sympathize with him; there was no one to believe he needed sympathy; no one to believe he had given up anything; no one to take interest in him, to feel tender towards him, to defend him. He had suffered much, but there was no one to believe that he had suffered. He would be thought to be inflicting merely, not undergoing, suffering. He might indeed say that he had suffered; but he would be rudely told that every one follows his own will, and that if he had given up Oxford, it was for a whim which he liked better than it. But rather, there was no one to know him; he had been virtually three years away; three years is a generation; Oxford had been his place once, but his place knew him no more. He recollected with what awe and transport he had at first come to the University, as to some sacred shrine; and how from time to time hopes had come over him that some day or other he should have gained a t.i.tle to residence on one of its ancient foundations. One night in particular came across his memory, how a friend and he had ascended to the top of one of its many towers with the purpose of making observations on the stars; and how, while his friend was busily engaged with the pointers, he, earthly-minded youth, had been looking down into the deep, gas-lit, dark-shadowed quadrangles, and wondering if he should ever be Fellow of this or that College, which he singled out from the ma.s.s of academical buildings. All had pa.s.sed as a dream, and he was a stranger where he had hoped to have had a home.

He was drawing near Oxford; he saw along the road before him brisk youths pa.s.s, two and two, with elastic tread, finis.h.i.+ng their modest daily walk, and nearing the city. What had been a tandem a mile back, next crossed his field of view, shorn of its leader. Presently a stately cap and gown loomed in the distance; he had gained the road before their owner crossed him; it was a college-tutor whom he had known a little.

Charles expected to be recognized; but the resident pa.s.sed by with that half-conscious, uncertain gaze which seemed to have some memory of a face which yet was strange. He had pa.s.sed Folly Bridge; troops of hors.e.m.e.n overtook him, talking loud, while with easy jaunty pace they turned into their respective stables. He crossed to Christ Church, and penetrated to Peckwater. The evening was still bright, and the gas was lighting. Groups of young men were stationed here and there, the greater number in hats, a few in caps, one or two with gowns in addition; some were hallooing up to their companions at the windows of the second story; scouts were carrying about _aeger_ dinners; pastry-cook boys were bringing in desserts; shabby fellows with Blenheim puppies were loitering under Canterbury Gate. Many stared, but no one knew him. He hurried up Oriel Lane; suddenly a start and a low bow from a pa.s.ser-by; who could it be? it was a superannuated s...o...b..ack of his college, to whom he had sometimes given a stray s.h.i.+lling. He gained the High Street, and turned down towards the Angel. What was approaching? the vision of a proctor. Charles felt some instinctive quiverings; but it pa.s.sed by him, and did no harm. Like Kehama, he had a charmed life. And now he had reached his inn, where he found his portmanteau all ready for him. He chose a bedroom, and, after fully inducting himself into it, turned his thoughts towards dinner.

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