# The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 15/The Curate's Temptation

Illustrated by G. Hillyard Swinstead.
Layout 4
The Curate's Temptation.
By Maurice Saxon.
I.
HE Rev. Oswald Campion sat deep in thought in a small room in Walworth. His thin and naturally thoughtful face wore a worried and hopeless look, and his tall figure seemed to stoop under some heavy burden. "How will it all end?" he murmured; "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.
'Cheer up, my darling!'
Campion tried to speak, but his dry lips refused their office. Seeing his agitation, his visitor said, calmly:
"I congratulate you, Mr. Campion; you have a son."
"And my wife?"
"Is 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 pale 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 encourage 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; "you will soon be well again now, and then we will get away from this dreadful London."
"Ah! Oswald," she whispered, pressing his hand affectionately, "if we could do so! But I am so troubled to know how we shall manage now."
"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 you did not know what to do for some." ​"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."
​"Hum! I know he is very busy. Can you state your business?"
"Certainly not, to you, sir," said the curate, in a tone that caused the other evident surprise. He, however, crossed 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: "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, "Step this way, please."
Campion followed his conductor, and was ushered into a plainly but comfortably furnished office. He 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—
"Take a seat, Mr. Campion; I am always glad to see the ministers of God, although I am unusually busy just at present."
I would not willingly disturb you; I can call some other time."
"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. Indeed, we can. There is work enough for all in the Lord's vineyard. Have you an appointment in London?"
"Unfortunately, I have not at present."
"And, naturally, you do not wish to waste time that is so precious and can never be recovered. We will gladly enrol you amongst our workers. The harvest is great, but, alas! 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 therefore seek is employment that will afford at least some slight pecuniary return. I thought you might—"
"What?" interrupted the other, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. "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 workman is worthy of his hire.'"
"'What do I hear?'"
"Alas! that holy text is too often made an excuse for avariciousness," said the other, raising his hand deprecatingly. "But let us not 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?"
"I see," said Pearson, raising his eyebrows superciliously. "I quite misunderstood 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 private affairs." Then he struck a bell, and as his clerk entered, said—
"Johnson, show this person out."
Campion retired, feeling terribly humiliated; as he opened the office door he heard the clerk, with a laugh, say to his colleague, "I thought he looked too seedy to be up to much."
"He found the purse in his hand."
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. He 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 an elderly gentleman came out of the shop, and turned up the street in front of the curate. The young man followed aimlessly, and almost unconsciously 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 the snow with a dull thud. He quickened his steps, uttering a feeble "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 he determined to retain it. Then the natural honesty of his pure nature asserted itself, and he looked round for the owner. The delay, however, had been fatal; he just caught sight of the old gentleman stepping 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 his weariness and his hunger; even the biting wind and cold driving sleet affected him not, for he was at war with himself. 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 onwards until he reached his home.
III.
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 counted the coins. ​Five sovereigns, two half-sovereigns, and a total of sixteen shillings in silver. He surveyed the treasure with startled eyes, and murmured, "It is a fortune; such a sum would tide us over our present difficulties, and with Edith strong again I could once more try for work." Then he pushed the money from him crying, "I will not be tempted; I will not imperil my soul; I will return it!" He half turned as if to carry his purpose into instant execution, but suddenly remembered he had no means of tracing the owner. As the thought occurred to him he once more examined the purse, but, despite himself, he could not help feeling relieved when he found neither name nor address. Stay! In his hurry he has overlooked the ticket pocket. What is in it? A card! He draws it out, and in astonishment reads "Mr. George Morley, 59, Burton-crescent, W.C."
"He surveyed the treasure with startled eyes."
"What!" he cried. 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, for my father's sake. Ah! 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 me. Alas! my last hope is dead. Doubtless he 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 its 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 on the curate's face. Then, standing by the open door, said—"I'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—
"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?"
"Indeed it is, sir. You know I'm a widow with no one to help me, and now the baker says he won't leave any more bread without the money; and the landlord has just called for the rent, and declares he'll distrain tomorrow."
"I owe you two pounds, Mrs. Martin. Will that be sufficient for your wants?" said Campion, quietly.
"Oh yes, indeed, sir, more than enough," answered the woman, her face brightening.
"God be merciful to me, and pardon my sin!" said the curate to himself; "I 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."
As his landlady stepped forward, he turned to the window so that she could not see his face, for he feared that his emotion would betray itself.
"Oh, thank you, sir," said Mrs. Martin, as she picked up the coins. "I'm truly glad to see you with so much, as much for yours and your dear wife's sake as for my own." Then, as he did not speak, she withdrew quietly.
​Campion turned from the window, trembling violently. "Thus," he cried, "are my fetters forged. Now, there is no escape!" Then he added, bitterly, "I am fit to be neither saint nor sinner. As I have fallen, at least let me face my crime like a man. If I have lost my soul, I will take its price as my reward, and behave like a man, not like a weak-minded boy."
"'Oh, thank you, sir.' said Mrs. Martin."
He gathered up the money, and without waiting to give himself time for further reflection ran upstairs to his wife's room.
The girl was awake, and received him with a look of love. She noticed at once his excited face, and, gently drawing him towards her, said—
"Have you had good fortune, dear?"
"Yes," he replied, cheerfully. "Indeed I have; see here!" and he showed her his hand full of gold and silver.
The girl's face flushed with pleasure. Not for a moment did any possible suspicion of his honesty enter her mind. She trusted him to the fullest extent, and was too weak to question how he had become possessed of so much.
She kissed his face as he bent over her, and murmured, "I am so thankful, Oswald. Now I can go to sleep comfortably; to-morrow you shall tell me all about your wonderful good luck."
Someone tapped gently at the door. The nurse came over to him, and whispered, "You are wanted, sir." He arose quietly, and, with one fond glance at his sleeping wife, descended the stairs. Then he underwent a sudden revulsion of feeling. He pictured to himself that the police were waiting for him to charge him with theft. Before his mind rose a vision of his denunciation by the owner of the lost purse, and in a state of nervous agitation he laid his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door.
IV.
As the curate paused irresolutely at the door, Mrs. Martin handed him a card; but his head swam so much that, in the dull light, he in vain tried to read it. Mastering his emotion, he flung open the door, and, with the pasteboard still in his hand, entered the room. He stopped, and almost staggered back, as he saw a short, stout gentleman standing with his back to the fire. Instinctively he recognised the owner of the purse, and an intense horror took possession of him. His crime had found him out full soon, and, with the desperation of despair, he advanced like a culprit to his doom. But as the mists cleared from his eyes he saw that his visitor's face did not bear the look of an avenging Nemesis. His mouth was parted with a genial smile, and the soft eyes shone with good-humour.
The stranger sprang forward as he saw the curate, and, grasping the young man's hands in his, said, in a voice quavering with excitement: "My young friend, I am delighted to find you at last. Believe me, this is a happy meeting to me."
Dumbfounded at his unexpected reception, Campion was silent for a moment; then he exclaimed, in a stiff manner, the better to conceal his agitation: "Sir, I am at a disadvantage. I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"What!" said the other, in surprise. ​"You have my card in your hand. Do you not recognise the name? I am George Morley, your father's friend."
"True, true," murmured the curate, absently; "but what has that to do with me?"
"Surely you are not well. What has it to do with you? I intend it shall have a great deal to do with you. Besides, did you not write and confide in me?"
"Yes, but that is long ago. You did not answer my letter."
"Now look here, young man, don't be too ready to take umbrage. Your letter only reached me two weeks ago, when I returned from the Continent. You gave me your address at Middlethorpe, and a nice hunt I've had to find you. I went down there at once, but your late rector couldn't tell me your present place of residence. I've been looking for you ever since, and had almost given up in despair, when, not an hour ago, I luckily thought of Pearson; he knows all the parsons, and, by a curious coincidence, he said you had only just left him; in fact, your card was still on his desk; so I came on at once."
"Did Mr. Pearson tell you why I had called on him, and how he received me?"
"I don't remember that he said anything special; but he mentioned you were looking for work, though I don't know whether that's quite a correct word to use with respect to a clergyman's duties."
"And why have you sought me out now? asked Campion huskily, his intense feeling making him brusque and almost discourteous.
"Oh, look here, Campion," said Morley, rising, "your whys and wherefores are getting too much for me. Don't you know your father helped me very materially in my early days, and now I want to do something to repay the debt."
"He buried his face in his hands."
"And how can you tell that his son deserves your assistance?" Then springing to his feet he cried: "I cannot, dare not tell you why, but you shall not help me; I am unworthy of it!" Then he sank down on a chair and buried his face in his hands and groaned in anguish. "If I had but waited!" he thought. "Had I but resisted temptation for one short hour all would have been well, and I should have been an honest man. Now, I can never hold up my head again."
Morley stood looking at the young man for a moment in silence, then he gently approached him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said kindly—
"Campion, for your father's sake, you must let me help you. Whatever wrong you have done, or think you have done, need not affect the question. You are over-wrought, and doubtless exaggerate matters. But, be that as it may, whether your fault is real or imaginary, it is not against me."
Campion once more sprang from his chair, and, facing his visitor, cried out, as though the words were wrung from him by torture—
"You! Yes, it is against you and God, that I have sinned. Did you not lose your purse to-day?"
"Yes, I did; but how do you know that?"
"I saw you drop it. I picked it up. I, that you have imagined honest and upright, have stolen your money and paid my debts with it." ​"But you did not know whom it belonged to?"
"I did. Your card was in the purse."
"Ah!"
"I see," said the curate, almost with relief. "Now you appreciate the true character of the man you offer to assist. Go, call in the police, and give me up to justice."
Morley's face became overcast, and a look of deep sorrow settled upon it. He sat in silence for a few moments, that seemed an age to the man cowering before him. Then he said, in an authoritative yet kind voice, "Campion, I am an old man, and your father's friend. I beseech of you to look on me as standing in his place, and tell me all about this sad affair. Do not seek either to condemn or excuse yourself, but tell me the tale simply, and as straightforwardly as though you were speaking of another."
Thus abjured, the young man described in detail the doings of the day, in a voice often broken by his agitation. He did not seek to palliate his offence, but his narrative showed how circumstances had combined to urge him into dishonesty.
The elder man listened to him attentively, but in silence, then as he concluded he took his hands in his, and said—
"My poor friend, your tale has greatly moved me. Believe me, the money is of no importance to me, but I dare not ask you to look lightly on your sin. You used the hard term theft for your act, but I do not think it is that. I am not a lawyer, but I imagine the law has a milder term for such offences. However that may be, now more than ever I claim my right to help you. If you accept my assistance, a useful career is before you, and your error will serve as an incentive to future work. Then I ask you to think of your young wife and helpless child; surely they appeal strongly to you to take the help I offer you."
"You heap coals of fire on my head," murmured the young man, in broken accents.
"The two men sat talking far into the evening."
The two men sat talking far into the evening, and when Morley rose to leave he had gained his point. The curate had learnt the lesson, that oftentimes appears so hard to believe, that if God is willing to forgive, it is meet that man should not condemn himself too severely, and should accept human forgiveness if fully and freely offered.
The Rev. Oswald Campion is now a well-known preacher. He holds an important living in the south of England, and his preaching has drawn a large congregation around him. It is not his eloquence or rhetorical display that affects his hearers, for he speaks in simple language, as an erring man to fellow-men liable to fall into temptation, and the sincerity of his words none can dispute. His early error has impressed his soul, and he never tires of preaching the doctrines of mercy and forgiveness.