The Story Teller.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 183, 3 February 1893, Page 7

The Story Teller.

THE CURA TE’S TEMPT A TJON. The Rev Oswald Campion sat deep in thought in a small room in Walworth,. His thin and naturally thoughtful face wore a wor' ied and hopeless look, and his tall figure seemed to stoop under some heavy burden. ‘ How will it all end ?’ he mur mured ; ‘ God help me in this trouble.’ Wearily he arose and crossed to the fireplace. He strove to warm his numbed fingers over the small handful of embers in the grate, then with a sigh rested his arm on the mantelpiece. Again he sighed, and passed his long, thin hands over his brow. A sudden terrible thought occurred to him, ‘ God of mercy,’ he cried, ‘ add not that to my cup of bitterness !’ He started violently as the door was opened, and a gentleman entered quietly. Campion tried to speak, but his dry lips refused their office. Seeing his agitation, his visitor said, calmly :

‘I congratu'ato you, Mr Campion ; veu have a son.’

* And my wife ?’ ‘ls doing as well as can be expected ; but, as you know, she is far from strong and requires every care.’ * I know,’ said the clergyman, sadly. ‘ May I go and see her ?’ * Certainly, but do not. excite her,’

Campion’s face flushed, but it was by excitement rather than joy, for the weight on his heart was too heavy to be easily raised. With merely a slight bow to the medical man, he went upstairs.

During the few minutes he was allowed to remain in his wife’s room he strove desperately to hide his anxiety and en courage the girl-mother who glanced at him wistfully as he looked at his new-born heir. * Cheer up, Edith, my darling/ he said, brightly, as he kissed her pale face ; 4 you will soon be well again now, aud then we will get away from this frightful London.’ * Ah ! Oswald,’ she whispered, pressing his hand affectionately, 4 if we coul i do so ! But I am so troubled to know ho w we shall manage now.’ 1 You mustn't bother yourself, dearest. We shall do splendidly. I have heard of a first-rate curacy, and I have every hope that I shall obtain it. So keep up your spirits ’ * But meantime, dear, what are we to do ?’ ‘ Do ? Why pull on as best we can.’ ‘ But have you any money, Oswald ? You know you told me yesterday that you did not know what to do for some.’ 1 Yesterday ! Oh ! that was a long time ago, I have plenty now, Robinson has paid me that thirty shillings that has beeu owing so long, so for the present we are quite rich,’ he said, gaily. 1 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. lie paused on the landing, and a look of blank despair settled on his features. 4 God forgive me for those lies!’ he thought. 1 But I could not let the poor girl lie there, weak and ill, and fret about money matters. It is bad enough to have to do so when you are strong and well ; 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 bis pockets. He found a solitary sixpence and fourpence halfpenny in bronze and placed it before him. He surveyed his possessions and murmured bitterly : 4 Home thing must be done at once. I Will cast my ridiculous pride on one side, aad will call on Mr Pearson. I don’t suppose it is much after three, so 1 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 w'th a stipend of £BO 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 as would ensure his j wivlow 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 bylove 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, wh n Oswald had preached a sermon embodying bold and striking views, the rector sized the opportunity to east doubts on the young man’s orthodox} 7 and to gently hint that lie might find a more congenial sphere of work elsewhere.

The curate’s sensii ive 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 over-looked by the powerful. Too sincere and intellectual to preach commonplace but ‘ taking ’ sermons, ho 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 lOjjgL, and prospects nil. Wearily, aud 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 tbat 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 4 whish ’ and feeling of dampness to his toes warned him that one of them was not even- weather-proof. 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 r. quired.

‘ I wish to see Mr Pearson ‘ Hum. I know he is busy. Can you state your business ?’

4 Certainly not, to you, sir,’ said the curate, in a tone that caused the other evi dent surprise, He, however, crossed over to a senior clerk and made a whispered communication The elder man glanced round, and then said in a tone loud enough to reach Campion : 4 Oh, you had better take up his name. The governor’s always willing to see a parson.’ The young man recrossed to the curate, and taking his card disappeared into an inner room. Presently he returned, saying, 4 Step this way, please.’

Campion followed his conductor, and wag ushered into a plainly furnished but comfortable office. Pie saw before him a stout, pompous looking gentleman seated at a desk, who glanced up as his visitor entered, but hope died out of the curate’s heart as he caught the look of complacency on the florid countenance.

Mr Pearson pushed his papers on one side, and, with a pious look, said—--4 Take a seat, Mr Campion ; I am always glad to see the ministers of God, although I am unusually busy at present.’ ‘ I would not willingly disturb you ; I can call some other time,’ 4 By no means, my friend. My motto has always been God’s work before worldly affairs, and I judge by your garb that you come in His name.’ ‘I trust so,’’ said the curate ; then plunging into his business, he continued .- ‘ I saw your advertisement in yesterday’s “ Telegraph.” asking for clerical or lay workers for your East-end Mission, and I thought perhaps * That we could utilise your services. In-

deed, we can. There is work enough for all in the Lord’s vineyard. Have you an appointment in London ?’

4 Unfortunately, I hivi n otHft'Jwesent.’ ‘And, naturally you do nßt- wish to waste time that is so precious and can never be recovered. We will gladly enrol you arnong our workers The harvest is great, but, alas 1 the labourers are few,’ said Mr Pearson, turning his eyes upwards. Campion paused, then said desperately : * I fear you do not quite understand me. I am anxious, most anxious, to work, but I have a wife and child to consider. What. I seek is employment that will afford at least some slight pecuniary return, I thought you might ’ 4 What?’ interrupted the other, opening his eyes wide with astonishment. 4 What do I hear ? Do you come to tell me that you wish to enter our grand cause from mercenary motives ?’ ‘ Certainly not, sir, but surely ‘ the work m an is worthy of his hire.’ ’ ‘ Alas ! that holy text is too often made an excuse for avariciousness,’ said the ot her, raising his hand depreeatingly. 4 But let us r,o: bandy words. If I give my services, surely I have a right to expect others to do the same.’

‘ Truly, sir, but you are wealthy, you can afford it, If you had a wife and child wanting the bare necessaries of life, would you then be willing to do so ?’ ‘ 1 see,’ said Pearson, raising his eyebrow's superciliously. ‘ I quite misunder stood you, I did not think you were one of those unscrupulous individuals who don the garb of a clergyman as an excuse for begging.’ ‘ Sir,’ said Campion indignantly, ‘ I am at least entitled to my costume, I am fully ordained, and ’ ‘ Well, well,’ said the other, ‘ I have neither time nor inclination to listen to your piivate affairs.’ Then he struck a bell, and as his elerlc entered, said ‘ Johnston, show this person out.’ Campion retired, feeling terribly humiliated ; as he opened the office door he heard the clerk, with a laugh, say to bis colleague, ‘ 1 thought he looked too seedy to be up to much.’

Utterly dejected, Campion walked back towards London bridge. It was five o’clock and the streets were, comparatively speaking, quiet. The snow was still falling, and an east wind drove it fiercely into the faces of the pedestrians. ITe had tasted nothing since breakfast, and paused as he came to a confectioner’s. The simple cakes looked very tempting to the hungry man, but heroically he moved on, determined not to lessen his small store. Just then aD elderly man came out of the shop, and turned up the street in front of the curate. The young man followed aimlessly, and almost uncon seiously kept his eyes fixed on the figure before him. Suddenly the stranger placed his hand in his pocket and drew out his handkerchief, apparently to wipe the snow from his face. As he did so Campion noticed something fall into tlie snow with a dull thud. He quickened his steps, uttering a feeble 4 Stop sir !’ but the wind carried away his voice. He stopped and picked up the article, and shuddered violently when he found a purse in his hand, that from its weight seemed to be well filled. Visions of the importance of the treasure to him flashed through his mind, and for a moment ho determined to retain it. Then the natural honesty of his pure nature asserted itself, and he looked round for the owner. The delay, however, hi d been fatal ; he just caught sight of the old man stepp'ng into a hansom, and then the vehicle rolled off, leaving the young man too bewildered to follow it,

With mingled feelings that he could not analyse, the curate walked homewards. He forgot bis weariness ard his hunger; e en the biting wind and cj'd driving sleet troubled him not for lie was at war with him self, A terrible temptation was before him. On the one side was his upright nature, and on the other his love for his helpless wife and child. Unconsciously he passed onward until he reached his home. In his own room once more Oswald took out the purse, and examined its exterior carefully. Then he opened it, and turned its contents out on the table. His head swam as he saw the unusual glitter of gold ; and with amazement he couuted the coins. Five sovereigns, two halt sovereigns, and a total of sixteen shillings in silver. He surveyed the treasure with startled eyes, and murmured, 4 It is a fortune ; such a sum would tide us over the present difficult-

ies, and wi h Edith strong and well I could once more try for work.’ Then he pushed the money from him crying, 4 1 will not be -tempted ; I will not imperil my soul ; I will return it !’ He half turned as if to carry his intention into instant execution, buf suddenly remembered he had no means of tracing the owner. As the thought oc—cured to him he once more examined the purse, but, despite himself, he could not help feeling relievad when he found neither name nor address. Stay ! In his hurry he has overlooked the ticket pocket. What is in it ? A curd 1 He draws it out, and in astonishment rends— 4 Mr George Mcrley, 59, Burton crescent, W.C,’ 4 What !’ he cried. 4 This is indeed miraculous. My father’s friend, the man who owed so much to him. Surely the hand of the Almighty is in all this ! I will go to him. He will help me fot my father’s sake, Ah 1 but will he ? Did I not write to him some months ago ? Did I not open my soul to him, and yet he has not even deigned to reply to mo. Alas 1 my last hope is dead. Doubtless ho will take his money, and let me and my darlings starve. Yet no, by Heaven !it shall not be. For myself I care nothing, but they shall not suffer. Let the sin and ita consequences be mine, and mine alone ; I will keep what God has given into my hand.’ He paced the room excitedly, still dragged first this way, then that, by conflicting emotions, till he was roused by the entrance of his landlady.

She paused as she noticed the strange, stern look cm the curate’s face. Then standing by the open door, said—‘l’m mortal sorry to trouble you. Mr

Campion ; I’m sure it grieves me sorely to think of your good lady ill upstairs, but I am in great straits myself, and if I don’t get some money, I’m sure I don’t know what will become of us.’

The young man looked at the woman gravely as he answered—--4 You have been more than kind to us, Mrs Martin ; you have helped us when you were ill able to do so, and, believe me, I am not ungrateful. Is your present need so very great ?’ 4 Indeed it is, sir. You know I’m a widow with no one to help me, and mw the baker says he won’t leave any more bread without the money ; and the landlord has just called for the rent, and declares lie’ll distrain tomorrow.’

* I owe you two pounds, Mrs Martin, Will that be sufficient for your wants ?’ said Campion, quietly. 4 Oh yes, indeed, sir, more than enough,’ answered the woman, her face brightening. 4 God be merciful to ine, and pardon my sin 1’ said the curate to himself; 4 1 cannot let this woman and her little ones suffer on my account, the temptation is too great.’ Then aloud, ‘Take your money, Mrs Martin, there is plenty on the table.’ 4 As his landlady stopped forward, he turned to the window so that she could not see his face, for he feared that his emotion would betray itself. 4 Oh, thank you, sir,’ said Mrs Martin, as she picked up the coins. 4 I’m truly glad to see you with so much, as much foryour3 and your dear wife’s sake as for my own.* Then, as he did not. speak, she withdrew quietly. (To be Continued.)