On the Monday morning, when it was necessary for Julian to return to Camford, Mr Carden called him into his study after breakfast, and asked him to choose any book he liked, as a farewell present, from the shelves.
“But why a farewell present, Mr Carden?” asked Julian, laughing. “Aren’t you ever going to ask me to Harton again?”
“No,” said Mr Carden with a sad smile, “never again.
“I resign my mastership at the end of this term,” he continued, in answer to Julian’s inquiring look; “my health is so uncertain that I feel unequal any longer to these most arduous, most responsible duties. Perhaps, too,” he added, “I may be a little disappointed in the result of my labours; but, at any rate, though as yet few are aware of it, this is my last month at Harton—so choose one of my books, Julian, as a farewell present.”
Julian expressed his real sorrow at Mr Carden’s failing health. “If you go away,” he said, “it will seem as if the chief tie which bound me to dear old Harton was suddenly snapped.” He chose as his memento a small volume of sermons which Mr Carden had published in former days, and asked him to write his name on the title-page.
“Yes,” said the master, “you shall have that book if you like; but I mean you to have also a more substantial memorial of my library. Here, Julian, this book I always destined to be yours some day; you may as well have it now.”
He took down from the shelves a richly bound copy of Coleridge’s works, in ten volumes, which Julian knew to be the one book of his library which he most deeply prized. His marginal comments enriched almost every page, and Julian was ashamed to take what he knew that the owner so highly valued.
“But I thought you told me once that you were thinking of publishing a biography of Coleridge, and an edition of his writings,” said Julian. “Surely, sir, you will want these manuscript notes, won’t you?”
“Ah, Julian! that is one of the many plans which have floated through my mind unfulfilled. My life, I fear, will have been an incomplete one. Thank God that there is no such thing as a necessary man—il n’y a point d’hommes nécessaires; others will be found to do a thousandfold better the work which I had purposed to do.” And then he murmured half to himself—
“Till, in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death came suddenly, and took them where men never see the sun.”