Campbell had been much pleased with Reding, and his interest in him was not lessened by a hint from Bateman that his allegiance to the English Church was in danger. He called on him in no long time, asked him to dinner, and, when Charles had returned his invitation, and Campbell had accepted it, the beginning of an acquaintance was formed between the rectory at Sutton and the family at Boughton which grew into an intimacy as time went on. Campbell was a gentleman, a travelled man, of clear head and ardent mind, candid, well-read in English divinity, a devoted Anglican, and the incumbent of a living so well endowed as almost to be a dignity. Mary was pleased at the introduction, as bringing her brother under the influence of an intellect which he could not make light of; and, as Campbell had a carriage, it was natural that he should wish to save Charles the loss of a day’s reading and the trouble of a muddy walk to the rectory and back by coming over himself to Boughton. Accordingly it so happened that he saw Charles twice at his mother’s for once that he saw him at Sutton. But whatever came of these visits, nothing occurred which particularly bears upon the line of our narrative; so let them pass.
One day Charles called upon Bateman, and, on entering the room, was surprised to see him and Campbell at luncheon, and in conversation with a third person. There was a moment’s surprise and hesitation on seeing him before they rose and welcomed him as usual. When he looked at the stranger he felt a slight awkwardness himself, which he could not control. It was Willis; and apparently submitted to the process of reconversion. Charles was evidently de trop, but there was no help for it; so he shook hands with Willis, and accepted the pressing call of Bateman to seat himself at table, and to share their bread and cheese.
Charles sat down opposite Willis, and for a while could not keep his eyes from him. At first he had some difficulty in believing he had before him the impetuous youth he had known two years and a half before. He had always been silent in general company; but in that he was changed, as in everything else. Not that he talked more than was natural, but he talked freely and easily. The great change, however, was in his appearance and manner. He had lost his bloom and youthfulness; his expression was sweeter indeed than before, and very placid, but there was a thin line down his face on each side of his mouth; his cheeks were wanting in fulness, and he had the air of a man of thirty. When he entered into conversation, and became animated, his former self returned.
“I suppose we may all admire this cream at this season,” said Charles, as he helped himself, “for we are none of us Devonshire men.”
“It’s not peculiar to Devonshire,” answered Campbell; “that is, they have it abroad. At Rome there is a sort of cream or cheese very like it, and very common.”
“Will butter and cream keep in so warm a climate?” asked Charles; “I fancied oil was the substitute.”
“Rome is not so warm as you fancy,” said Willis, “except during the summer.”
“Oil? so it is,” said Campbell; “thus we read in Scripture of the multiplication of the oil and meal, which seems to answer to bread and butter. The oil in Rome is excellent, so clear and pale; you can eat it as milk.”
“The taste, I suppose, is peculiar,” observed Charles.
“Just at first,” answered Campbell; “but one soon gets used to it. All such substances, milk, butter, cheese, oil, have a particular taste at first, which use alone gets over. The rich Guernsey butter is too much for strangers, while Russians relish whale-oil. Most of our tastes are in a measure artificial.”
“It is certainly so with vegetables,” said Willis; “when I was a boy I could not eat beans, spinach, asparagus, parsnips, and I think some others.”
“Therefore your hermit’s fare is not only the most natural, but the only naturally palatable, I suppose—a crust of bread and a draught from the stream,” replied Campbell.
“Or the Clerk of Copmanhurst’s dry peas,” said Charles.
“The macaroni and grapes of the Neapolitans are as natural, and more palatable,” said Willis.
“Rather they are a luxury,” said Bateman.
“No,” answered Campbell, “not a luxury; a luxury is in its very idea a something recherché. Thus Horace speaks of the ‘peregrina lagois’. What nature yields sponte suâ around you, however delicious, is no luxury. Wild ducks are no luxury in your old neighbourhood, amid your Oxford fens, Bateman; nor grapes at Naples.”
“Then the old women here are luxurious over their sixpenn’rth of tea,” said Bateman; “for it comes from China.”
Campbell was posed for an instant. Somehow neither he nor Bateman were quite at their ease, whether with themselves or with each other; it might be Charles’s sudden intrusion, or something which had happened before it. Campbell answered at length that steamers and railroads were making strange changes; that time and place were vanishing, and price would soon be the only measure of luxury.