"I wanted to tell you--" Fred hesitated an instant and then went on plungingly, "I might go into the Church now; and really, look where I may, I can't see anything else to do. I don't like it, but I know it's uncommonly hard on my father to say so, after he has spent a good deal of money in educating me for it."Fred paused again an instant, and then repeated, "and I can't see anything else to do.""I did talk to your father about it, Fred, but I made little way with him. He said it was too late. But you have got over one bridge now: what are your other difficulties?""Merely that I don't like it. I don't like divinity, and preaching, and feeling obliged to look serious. I like riding across country, and doing as other men do. I don't mean that I want to be a bad fellow in any way; but I've no taste for the sort of thing people expect of a clergyman. And yet what else am I to do?
My father can't spare me any capital, else I might go into farming.
And he has no room for me in his trade. And of course I can't begin to study for law or physic now, when my father wants me to earn something. It's all very well to say I'm wrong to go into the Church; but those who say so might as well tell me to go into the backwoods."Fred's voice had taken a tone of grumbling remonstrance, and Mr. Farebrother might have been inclined to smile if his mind had not been too busy in imagining more than Fred told him.
"Have you any difficulties about doctrines--about the Articles?"he said, trying hard to think of the question simply for Fred's sake.
"No; I suppose the Articles are right. I am not prepared with any arguments to disprove them, and much better, cleverer fellows than Iam go in for them entirely. I think it would be rather ridiculous in me to urge scruples of that sort, as if I were a judge,"said Fred, quite simply.
"I suppose, then, it has occurred to you that you might be a fair parish priest without being much of a divine?""Of course, if I am obliged to be a clergyman, I shall try and do my duty, though I mayn't like it. Do you think any body ought to blame me?""For going into the Church under the circumstances? That depends on your conscience, Fred--how far you have counted the cost, and seen what your position will require of you. I can only tell you about myself, that I have always been too lax, and have been uneasy in consequence.""But there is another hindrance," said Fred, coloring. "I did not tell you before, though perhaps I may have said things that made you guess it. There is somebody I am very fond of:
I have loved her ever since we were children.""Miss Garth, I suppose?" said the Vicar, examining some labels very closely.
"Yes. I shouldn't mind anything if she would have me. And I know I could be a good fellow then.""And you think she returns the feeling?"
"She never will say so; and a good while ago she made me promise not to speak to her about it again. And she has set her mind especially against my being a clergyman; I know that. But I can't give her up.
I do think she cares about me. I saw Mrs. Garth last night, and she said that Mary was staying at Lowick Rectory with Miss Farebrother.""Yes, she is very kindly helping my sister. Do you wish to go there?""No, I want to ask a great favor of you. I am ashamed to bother you in this way; but Mary might listen to what you said, if you mentioned the subject to her--I mean about my going into the Church.""That is rather a delicate task, my dear Fred. I shall have to presuppose your attachment to her; and to enter on the subject as you wish me to do, will be asking her to tell me whether she returns it.""That is what I want her to tell you," said Fred, bluntly. "I don't know what to do, unless I can get at her feeling.""You mean that you would be guided by that as to your going into the Church?""If Mary said she would never have me I might as well go wrong in one way as another.""That is nonsense, Fred. Men outlive their love, but they don't outlive the consequences of their recklessness.""Not my sort of love: I have never been without loving Mary.
If I had to give her up, it would be like beginning to live on wooden legs.""Will she not be hurt at my intrusion?"
"No, I feel sure she will not. She respects you more than any one, and she would not put you off with fun as she does me. Of course Icould not have told any one else, or asked any one else to speak to her, but you. There is no one else who could be such a friend to both of us." Fred paused a moment, and then said, rather complainingly, "And she ought to acknowledge that I have worked in order to pass.
She ought to believe that I would exert myself for her sake."There was a moment's silence before Mr. Farebrother laid down his work, and putting out his hand to Fred said--"Very well, my boy. I will do what you wish."That very day Mr. Farebrother went to Lowick parsonage on the nag which he had just set up. "Decidedly I am an old stalk," he thought, "the young growths are pushing me aside."He found Mary in the garden gathering roses and sprinkling the petals on a sheet. The sun was low, and tall trees sent their shadows across the grassy walks where Mary was moving without bonnet or parasol.
She did not observe Mr. Farebrother's approach along the grass, and had just stooped down to lecture a small black-and-tan terrier, which would persist in walking on the sheet and smelling at the rose-leaves as Mary sprinkled them. She took his fore-paws in one hand, and lifted up the forefinger of the other, while the dog wrinkled his brows and looked embarrassed. "Fly, Fly, I am ashamed of you,"Mary was saying in a grave contralto. "This is not becoming in a sensible dog; anybody would think you were a silly young gentleman.""You are unmerciful to young gentlemen, Miss Garth," said the Vicar, within two yards of her.
Mary started up and blushed. "It always answers to reason with Fly,"she said, laughingly.
"But not with young gentlemen?"
