Wilfrid Cumbermede

‘Yes, Charley,’ I returned.

‘Come in, old fellow. The avenger of blood is not behind me,’ he said, in a mocking tone, as he rose and came to meet me. ‘I’ve been having such a dose of damnation—all for your sake!’

‘I’m very sorry, Charley. But I think we are both to blame. Your father ought to have been told. You see day after day went by, and—somehow—’

‘Tut, tut! never mind. What does it matter—except that it’s a disgrace to be dependent on such a man? I wish I had the courage to starve.’

‘He’s your father, Charley. Nothing can alter that.’

‘That’s the misery of it. And then to tell people God is their father! If he’s like mine, he’s done us a mighty favour in creating us! I can’t say I feel grateful for it. I must turn out to-morrow.’

‘No, Charley. The place has no attraction for me without you, and it was yours first. Besides, I can’t afford to pay so much. I will find another to-morrow. But we shall see each other often, and perhaps get through more work apart. I hope he didn’t insist on your never seeing me.’

‘He did try it on; but there I stuck fast, threatening to vanish and scramble for my living as I best might. I told him you were a far better man than I, and did me nothing but good. But that only made the matter worse, proving your influence over me. Let’s drop it. It’s no use. Let’s go to the Olympic.’

The next day I looked for a lodging in Camden Town, attracted by the probable cheapness, and by the grass in the Regent’s Park; and having found a decent place, took my things away while Charley was out. I had not got them, few as they were, in order in my new quarters before he made his appearance; and as long as I was there few days passed on which we did not meet.

One evening he walked in, accompanied by a fine-looking young fellow, whom I thought I must know, and presently recognized as Home, our old school-fellow, with whom I had fought in Switzerland. We had become good friends before we parted, and Charley and he had met repeatedly since.

‘What are you doing now, Home?’ I asked him.

‘I’ve just taken deacon’s orders,’ he answered. ‘A friend of my father’s has promised me a living. I’ve been hanging-about quite long enough now. A fellow ought to do something for his existence.’

‘I can’t think how a strong fellow like you can take to mumbling prayers and reading sermons,’ said Charley.

‘It ain’t nice,’ said Home, ‘but it’s a very respectable profession. There are viscounts in it, and lots of honourables.’

‘I dare say,’ returned Charley, with drought. ‘But a nerveless creature like me, who can’t even hit straight from the shoulder, would be good enough for that. A giant like you, Home!’

‘Ah! by-the-by, Osborne,’ said Home, not in love with the prospect, and willing to turn the conversation, ‘I thought you were a church-calf yourself.’

‘Honestly, Home, I don’t know whether it isn’t the biggest of all big humbugs.’

‘Oh, but—Osborne!—it ain’t the thing, you know, to talk like that of a profession adopted by so many great men fit to honour any profession,’ returned Home, who was not one of the brightest of mortals, and was jealous for the profession just in as much as it was destined for his own.

‘Either the profession honours the men, or the men dishonour themselves,’ said Charley. ‘I believe it claims to have been founded by a man called Jesus Christ, if such a man ever existed except in the fancy of his priesthood.’

‘Well, really,’ expostulated Home, looking, I must say, considerably shocked, ‘I shouldn’t have expected that from the son of a clergyman!’

‘I couldn’t help my father. I wasn’t consulted,’ said Charley, with an uncomfortable grin. ‘But, at any rate, my father fancies he believes all the story. I fancy I don’t.’

‘Then you’re an infidel, Osborne.’

‘Perhaps. Do you think that so very horrible?’

‘Yes, I do. Tom Paine, and all the rest of them, you know!’

‘Well, Home, I’ll tell you one thing I think worse than being an infidel.’

‘What is that?’

‘Taking to the Church for a living.’

‘I don’t see that.’

‘Either the so-called truths it advocates are things to live and die for, or they are the veriest old wives’ fables going. Do you know who was the first to do what you are about now?’

‘No. I can’t say. I’m not up in Church history yet.’

‘It was Judas.’

I am not sure that Charley was right, but that is what he said. I was taking no part in the conversation, but listening eagerly, with a strong suspicion that Charley had been leading Home to this very point.

‘A man must live,’ said Home.

‘That’s precisely what I take it Judas said: for my part I don’t see it.’

‘Don’t see what?’

‘That a man must live. It would be a far more incontrovertible assertion that a man must die—and a more comfortable one, too.’

‘Upon my word, I don’t understand you, Osborne! You make a fellow feel deuced queer with your remarks.’

‘At all events, you will allow that the first of them—they call them apostles, don’t they?—didn’t take to preaching the gospel for the sake of a living. What a satire on the whole kit of them that word living, so constantly in all their mouths, is! It seems to me that Messrs Peter and Paul and Matthew, and all the rest of them, forsook their livings for a good chance of something rather the contrary.’

‘Then it was true—what they said about you at Forest’s?’

‘I don’t know what they said,’ returned Charley; ‘but before I would pretend to believe what I didn’t—’

‘But I do believe it, Osborne.’

‘May I ask on what grounds?’

‘Why—everybody does.’

‘That would be no reason, even if it were a fact, which it is not. You believe it, or rather, choose to think you believe it, because you’ve been told it. Sooner than pretend to teach what I have never learned, and be looked up to as a pattern of godliness, I would ‘list in the ranks. There, at least, a man might earn an honest living.’

‘By Jove! You do make a fellow feel uncomfortable!’ repeated Home. ‘You’ve got such a—such an uncompromising way of saying things—to use a mild expression.’

‘I think it’s a sneaking thing to do, and unworthy of a gentleman.’

‘I don’t see what right you’ve got to bully me in that way,’ said Home, getting angry.

It was time to interfere.

‘Charley is so afraid of being dishonest, Home,’ I said, ‘that he is rude.—You are rude now, Charley.’

‘I beg your pardon, Home,’ exclaimed Charley at once.