“The Rector of Estcourt is an old man, and very ill,” said Maurice, after a pause of offence; “Owen, my friend, has a curacy in Simonborough. I told him I should venture—though of course aware I had not the slightest title to influence you—to name him to Mrs. Crofton, in case of anything happening.”
“Aware that you have not the slightest title to influence me—that means, does it not, Maurice?” said I, “that you rather think you have some claim upon that Rectory at Estcourt, and that you magnanimously resign it in favor of your friend? It was your father’s—it is your mother’s desire to see you in his place—you have thought of it vaguely all your life as a kind of inheritance, which you were at liberty to accept or withdraw from; now, to be sure, we are very, very old friends—is not that plainly, and without any superfluity of words, what you mean?”
Maurice made a still longer pause—he was seized with the restlessness common to men when they are rather hard tested in conversation. He got up unawares, picked up a book off the nearest table, as if he meant to answer me by means of that, and then returned to his chair. Then, after a little further struggle, he laughed, growing very red at the same time.
“You put the case strongly, but I will not say you are wrong,” he answered; “after all, I believe, if it must be put into words, that is about how the thing stands; but, of course, you know I am perfectly aware”——
“Exactly,” said I; “we both understand it, and it is not necessary to enter further into that part of the subject; but now, tell me, Maurice, supposing your rights of natural succession to be perfectly acknowledged, why is it that you substitute another person, and postpone your own settlement to his?”
“My dear Mrs. Crofton,” cried Maurice, restored to himself by the question, “what would not I give to be able to accept as mine that calm, religious life?—what would not I relinquish for a faith as entire and simple as my friend Owen’s? But that is my misfortune. I suppose my mind is not so wholesomely constituted as other people’s. I cannot believe so and so, just because I am told to believe it—I cannot shape my creed according to the received pattern. If I could, I should be but too happy; but que voulez-vous? a man cannot act against his convictions—against his nature.”
“Nay, I assure you I am a very calm spectator,” said I; “I would not have either one thing or another. I have not the least doubt that you will know better some day, and why should I concern myself about the matter?”
“Why, indeed?” echoed Maurice, faintly; but he was mortified; he expected a little honor, at the very least, as his natural due, if not a womanish attempt at proselytizing. The discomfiture of my adversary was balm to my eyes—I was, as may be perceived, in a perfectly unchristian state of mind.
“And how then about yourself?—what do you mean to do?” asked I; “you are getting towards the age when men begin to think of setting up houses and families for themselves. Do you mean to be a College Don all your life, Maurice? I fear that must be rather an unsatisfactory kind of existence; and one must take care, if that is the case, not to ask any young ladies again to meet you—some one might happen to be too captivating for your peace of mind—a Miss Reredos might outweigh a fellowship;—such things have been even with men of minds as original as your own.”
“Miss Reredos! ah, she amuses herself!” said Maurice, with a conscious smile.