CHAPTER XXVII.

THE INTERVIEW.

The morning sun rose as clear and lovely on the day that Wolsey left Ipswich for his last visit to Freston Tower as it did upon the day of his first visit. But how different were the sensations of the man in the few short years which had intervened between the hour of buoyant love, and that of painful compliance with a request which any other man would have studiously avoided!

It was quite true that he felt himself independent; but was he really so? It is true that he was not dependent upon the smile of De Freston, or the generosity of his relative, Edmund Daundy, or upon any friend in Ipswich.

He rode out of his native town, along that beautiful strand, in the morning sun, with a gloomy heart--a heart which nature, or rather the God of nature, had gifted with a sensitiveness and grace which now the spirit within him had resisted, but had not quite banished. Whoever sins against philanthropy cannot be happy in spirit, let his knowledge embrace an insight into every book that ever was written or printed in the world. Nothing but the love of our fellow-creatures can make any work of any mind pleasant to the soul of the Christian. Men may be selfish in gaining knowledge, but what is the use of finding a treasure, if it is only to be selfishly enjoyed? for intelligence, except it can be used to enlighten others, would make its possessor only the more miserable.

Wolsey used to journey in the days of his poverty with pure love in his heart--love for De Freston and his daughter--love for his father, his mother, his uncle, hu friends. He loved none of these now, and this made the Orwell so dull and gloomy in his sight.

He was on his way to that hospitable hall, where all was mirth and harmony within at the prospect of the marriage which was to take place on the morrow. The banks of the river were as green as in former days, the swallows were as lively, boys were bathing, ships were sailing, boats were moving, birds were singing, nature smiling; the difference was in Wolsey, and not in the things around him. The monastery of St. Peter's frowned upon him as he crossed the ford of Stoke, monks were chanting matins, country folk bringing in their produce from the farm-yard, and smiling health animating some lively lass who was paying her first visit to the great provincial town of Suffolk.

Stern were Wolsey's features, as deep thought sat upon his brow. He saw not the bows which foot passengers gave him. His eye seemed fixed upon some mental object. He was absorbed in his own reflections, thinking of those who were his friends, and of the manner in which he should receive their welcome.

De Freston had been his patron in days past; but De Freston could be of no service to him now. He was now a priest, and a priest must not feel as other men do. He must be more dignified, more reserved, more distant, more exalted. He was a priest of Rome; he must forget that he was ever a poor scholar at Ipswich, fostered and cherished by many friends, and sent to Oxford by their kindness and patronage. He was a priest of Rome! Rome must be now his patron; Rome must claim every secret impulse of his heart, and all his kindred must be forgotten. Something of offence arose out of De Freston's preference in bestowing the hand of his daughter upon Latimer. Something of offence suggested itself in Ellen's preference of his friend, and towards Latimer a sort of aversion sprang up on account of his successful rivalry. But human nature must be subdued. The decree of Rome forbade any such ideas to be entertained; not on account of any exigency of the times, but because the priests could not, without this decided law of privation, be trained in the way of implicit obedience. If Wolsey really loved Ellen, he would have been glad to hear of her happiness, even though she had preferred his friend Latimer.

In self-sacrifices for the promotion of another's happiness, there is ever a noble and graceful love, which carries with it unspeakable admiration. But this passion of Wolsey's had given way to a misanthropic philosophy, which ever after induced him to look with disregard upon the ties of mutual affection.

At the time he was moving along the strand, he was as sharp an ascetic as any monk whose monastery he afterwards caused to be destroyed. At last, Freston Tower broke upon his view, glittering as it did in the morning sun of a lovely June day, without any exclamation of pleasure. No longer did his heart bound at the sight, as if he was about to see those who loved him, and those whom he had loved. Time was that he would have wished for a horse to have borne him to that lovely Tower, and few would have gone fast enough to have answered the quick and lively energy of the young aspirant for everything laudable, honorable, and good. Now he was moving in solemn state, without any apparent emotion of joy or sorrow.

By Bishop Goldwell he was much admired, and had received wonderful encouragement from him to devote himself to the good of the Church. Alice, too, the proud Alice, had promised to work him a piece of altar tapestry whenever he should be presented with preferment. Did he then contrast this unfeeling woman, superstitious and cold as she was, with the mild, amiable, and lovely Ellen?

He was espied from the Tower by the fair one, who waved her hand from the sunny chamber, where they had so often met.

'Here he comes, Latimer. Here he comes! but how slowly he moves. Perhaps he is thinking of the days of his youth, and weighing in his learned mind the thought whether he is happier now than he was then; for he takes no notice of our salutation, though his face seems lifted to the Tower.'

'He is perhaps conning over some passage of the poets, or thinking of some deep logical question of the schools. He is very often lost in thought.'

'But this is not a time, William, for Thomas Wolsey to forget us. He must surely be thinking of us. He cannot fail to discern us. Or does he think it beneath the dignity of his office to come on merrily to the marriage feast?'

'I know not, Ellen, but that you may find Wolsey a little changed in this respect. At no time of my acquaintance with him did he fail in self-esteem or self-deportment: and we have not often seen him on horseback. Had we not better receive him in the hall?'

'Is it so, indeed, William? and are we to forget that in this very room we have spent so many joyful hours of literary pleasure? I shall be almost sorry that I wrote to him to come, if thus it should seem by his progress that he was performing a penance rather than promoting love! Let us, however, receive him with respect in the hall, as he has become so great a man as not to recognise us in the Tower.'

Wolsey had recognised his former friends; he even saw their hands waving from the fifth story; but the man had no answering delight to say, 'My heart is glad,' or, 'God be praised that you are well!' All feeling was dormant, even the salutation of the poor old lodge gate-keeper elicited no recognition.

'Dame, I say,' said the old man, as he addressed his aged partner, 'pride is come home from a distance, and I have opened the park gates to the visitor.'

'What art thou talking of? what dost thou mean?' she replied.

'I mean to say, that I have opened the gate to Master Wolsey, and he is gone up the park; and if he meets my lord and lady as he has done me, he'll turn all our merrymaking into misery.'

'What, the lively Master Thomas grown proud! Well a'day, well a'day! Men's fortunes will sometimes change their faces, and Arthur Burch told me Master Thomas was grown a great man!'

De Freston was made aware of Wolsey's coming; he waited not for his formal announcement; but came from the hall across the drawbridge in company with Ellen and Latimer to welcome their friend.

Oh, that word _friend_! How dreadfully is it abused! How often made a mere conventional term, and used in the world just as interest may prompt, or anything be got by it. One true one is better than a host of pretenders, and a man without that one is miserable. To look for many, is not to know the world; to value one when you have found him is to possess wisdom. Ice, in summer; hail, in harvest time; and a swallow in winter, are as congenial, as a cold and heartless friend meeting you in the day of your rejoicing. Fond hearts met Wolsey at the entrance to Freston Hall. Fond hearts beaming with love, rejoicing in his arrival, and bounding to make him welcome. But they could not fail to remark how stately he had grown! how very dignified! how distant, grand, and great.

'Ha! Thomas, my friend! Welcome to De Freston's Hall!'

'I thank thee, thy daughter, and her friend!' with a most courteous bow of seemingly profound respect, which at once killed all the natural joy of the interview, and told the nobleman that an ambassador from Rome had arrived, in the place of that cheerful friend who was once the delight of his hall.

Wolsey was stately, not uncourteous. He had schooled himself most admirably, and acted his part with all the precision of an accomplished performer.

So gentlemanly in his external deportment, but resolved to show no intimacy; so very easy in his manner, that no one could be affronted; and yet so little heart, that Ellen could have burst into tears at the strange alteration of the man who once was her liveliest companion.

The very domestics, anticipating from Arthur's account the arrival of a great man, and who had so associated Thomas Wolsey with all that was cheerful and gay, becoming, and pleasant, were petrified at the stately gaze with which he seemed to contemplate the architecture of the hall, and the little notice he took of any one in it.

'We have friends to meet thee, Master Wolsey,' said De Freston, evidently convinced that some more distant form was now necessary. 'Some of thy oldest friends will be with us at the hour of noon. They will be delighted to greet thee, after so long an absence.'

Wolsey's reply shot like a shaft--ay, and a well-aimed one it was--to the hearts of Latimer and Ellen.

'I suppose thy friend, Bishop Goldwell, and Alice, his niece, have consented to be here.'

'Indeed they have not; nor have we invited them, for, since the day of Ivan's death, we have never exchanged a word.'

'I can only regret it,' replied Wolsey. 'He is a man whose acquaintance I should have courted, and his niece a fit companion for thy daughter. I thought they had been intimate.'

'Their characters are very dissimilar.'

'That should be no bar to friendship.'

'But I know that Bishop Goldwell does not admire thy friend Latimer, and that he is the aversion of Alice.'

'On such an occasion as this, distances should be abridged, and differences of opinion softened, wounds healed, and friends united.'

'I agree with thee, Wolsey; thy doctrine is herein sound, but somewhat opposed to thy practice.'

'Ah! how so?'

'Thou thyself art not thyself as formerly. Thy bearing is widely different; thy manner, speech, and conduct, have undergone a great change.'

'I am a priest; yet I am here to-day by thine invitation. Why not Bishop Goldwell and his niece?'

'They are not our kin.'

'And I now have no kin, no connexions, no property, no friends, but the church, to which I am henceforth devoted.'

'Does that destroy thy former friendships?'

'It cancels every one: I have given them up!--forsaken them all!--and I shall follow the Church of Rome, of which I am her devoted servant.'

'And so,' said Ellen, 'I may address thee no longer as my learned and dear friend--my choice companion--my tutor--my relative and associate, but simply as "Your Reverence?"'

'I am come to perform a duty, Mistress Ellen, and if thou wouldst have me discharge it gracefully, I pray thee mar not the dignity of mine office by any allusions to the past.'

'I cannot forget what thou wast, Thomas Wolsey, both to me and to thy friend Latimer, once our loving companion.'

'And now,' said Wolsey, with a bow of studied courtesy, 'the humble servant of both!'

'No, Thomas Wolsey,' replied the maiden, 'thou art not humble at all! Thy priesthood, Thomas, sits mournfully on thy years; and the wisdom which used to ornament thy brow seems lost in outward stateliness. I like thee not in thy change.'

'May be, Mistress Ellen, thou may'st one day think differently, and then praise that reserve which now thou dost misinterpret.'

'It may be so, Thomas Wolsey! but my heart must be contracted instead of being enlarged; my soul must bend to form and ceremony, and not to love; and I must admire Alice De Clinton, and imitate her bearing, and forget the friends who taught me truth, that I may be admitted to the favor of a priest!'

Even the self-possessed Wolsey was abashed at this charge. His well-schooled reserve was about to give way to generous impulses, and thoughts of joy and thankfulness to God for such kind friends and benefactors were beginning to rise in the heart; but over them all, rose his vow of devotion to the church; and, denying himself where self-denial was uncalled for, he rejected the spirit of love, and feigned a momentary sickness.

He retired to his room to get the command of himself, leaving the friends of his youth to talk over his estrangement. He nevertheless attended the banquet, sat on the right hand of the betrothed, was attentive and most punctilious in his devotions, spoke when addressed, and yet offered no opinion of his own, nor put himself forward to lead the converse; heard all, and reflected upon all, surprised all, and pleased none; yet did he conduct himself with such dignified exterior, that no man could say he transgressed the strictest rules of decorum, or thought not of others as much as of himself. It was difficult to decide upon such a point.

To his uncle, to his friends, to the assembled company at that festive meeting, to De Freston and his daughter, to Latimer and his father, who had through his son received such a favorable account of him, he was the same dignified unaccountable being. Sir William Latimer was never more astonished at seeing such a character as Wolsey then appeared. His son had assured him that he had been the means of his introduction to the University, and that he was his bosom friend: nevertheless, nothing could be more distant than Wolsey's manner and conversation with him.

He retired early to his room, to prepare himself for the last ceremony he ever performed in his native town, and the last time he saw his friends at Ipswich, though he never forgot the early steps of education which he had there received.