"Yesterday! Oh! that was a long time ago. I have plenty now. Robinson has paid me that thirty shillings that has been owing so long, so for the present we are quite rich," he said, gaily.
"But, Oswald—"
"There, darling; Dr. Thornton said you were not to be excited, so I must not let you talk any more."
He kissed her again, as an old woman, who was doing duty as nurse, entered, and then quietly withdrew.
He paused on the landing, and a look of blank despair settled on his features. "God forgive me for those lies!" he thought. "But I could not let my poor girl lie there, weak and ill, and fret about money affairs. It is bad enough to have to do so when you are well and strong, but for her now it would be terrible."
He re-entered his room and sat down at the table. Then he proceeded to turn out his pockets. He found a solitary sixpence and fourpence halfpenny in bronze and placed it before him. He surveyed his possessions and murmured bitterly: "Something must be done at once. I will cast my ridiculous pride on one side, and will call on Mr. Pearson. I don't suppose it is much after three, so I shall have time to catch him to-day." Without hesitation he put on his hat—which unfortunately gave too evident signs of its owner's impecuniosity—and left the house.
Oswald Campion's was a common case. The only son of a struggling professional man, he had received a good school education and had finally been sent to the University of Oxford. He obtained his degree with honours, and then had decided to take "Orders." Almost as soon as he had done so he obtained a curacy in the Midlands with a stipend of £80 a year.
Here he had met Edith Burton, the orphan daughter of a local lawyer, and their acquaintance had speedily ripened into love. Meanwhile, Campion's father died, leaving only sufficient property to ensure his widow a bare maintenance. As time went on the young man pressed his sweetheart to marry him at once, and painted such glowing pictures of their future, brightened by love and ennobled by their religious work, that the girl at last consented.
Their bright views early received a rude shock. Campion's marriage much displeased his rector, who fully understood that a "single" curate made a church attractive to the spinster element of the congregation. So one day, when Oswald had preached a sermon embodying bold and striking views, the rector seized the opportunity to cast doubts on the young man's orthodoxy and to gently hint that he might find a more congenial sphere of work elsewhere.
The curate's sensitive nature was wounded, and, without weighing the consequences, he promptly resigned his charge. Then he came to London, where he thought his sincerity would ensure him success. Alas! he knew not the modern Babylon. Too proud to play the toady, he was overlooked by the powerful. Too sincere and intellectual to preach commonplace but "taking" sermons, he could not impress the masses, and, lacking assumption and confidence, he was pushed aside by inferior but stronger men. Thus it was that after six months' struggle he felt that he had exhausted every resource, but found himself with a sick wife and young infant to provide for on a capital of 10-1/2 d., and prospects nil.
II.
Wearily, and with flagging footsteps, Campion took his way along the Borough, and over London bridge. He looked longingly at the omnibuses going westward, but he felt that his small capital would not justify the expenditure of even a penny; so he plodded onwards. It was February, and snow was falling thickly, so that the streets were "slushy"; and the cold air affected even the well clad. The poor curate, in his threadbare clothes, and without an overcoat, felt the keen weather intensely; and his sensitive body suffered an amount of discomfort that coarser natures never experience. Every step reminded him that his boots were worn down at the heels, and a suspicious "whish" and feeling of dampness to his toes warned him that one of them was not even weatherproof. At last he paused in front of a large warehouse in Cannon-street. He glanced up, and saw the name, "Pearson & Co., Papermakers," and knew that he had reached his destination. He paused, however, on the threshold, feeling that terrible sinking that occurs to nervous men when they find themselves in a position repugnant to their feelings. At last he summoned up sufficient courage to enter the office. A dapper young clerk stared at him rudely, and then, with an easy air of insolence, asked him what he required.
"I wish to see Mr. Pearson."
