But the oddity in the present case was that he said nothing. I should, however, have forgotten all about it, but that after some time I began to observe that as often as I alluded to Clara--which was not often--he contrived to turn the remark aside, and always without saying a syllable about her. The conclusion I came to was that, while he shrunk from condemnation, he was at the same time unwilling to disturb the present serenity of my mind by defending her conduct.

Early in the Spring, an unpleasant event occurred, of which I might have foreseen the possibility. One morning I was alone, working busily, when the door opened.

'Why, Charley--back already!' I exclaimed, going on to finish my sentence.

Receiving no answer, I looked up from my paper, and started to my feet.

Mr Osborne stood before me, scrutinizing me with severe grey eyes. I think he knew me from the first, but I was sufficiently altered to make it doubtful.

'I beg your pardon,' he said coldly--'I thought these were Charles...o...b..rne's chambers.' And he turned to leave the room.

'They _are_ his chambers, Mr Osborne,' I replied, recovering myself with an effort, and looking him in the face.

'My son had not informed me that he shared them with another.'

'We are very old friends, Mr Osborne.'

He made no answer, but stood regarding me fixedly.

'You do not remember me, sir,' I said. 'I am Wilfrid c.u.mbermede.'

'I have cause to remember you.'

'Will you not sit down, sir? Charley will be home in less than an hour--I quite expect.'

Again he turned his back as if about to leave me.

'If my presence is disagreeable to you,' I said, annoyed at his rudeness, 'I will go.'

'As you please,' he answered.

I left my papers, caught up my hat, and went out of the room and the house. I said _good morning_, but he made no return.

Not until nearly eight o'clock did I re-enter. I had of course made up my mind that Charley and I must part. When I opened the door, I thought at first there was no one there. There were no lights, and the fire had burned low.

'Is that you, Wilfrid?' said Charley.

He was lying on the sofa.

'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 d.a.m.nation--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 G.o.d 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.'