Reding naturally wished to take the important step he was meditating as quietly as he could; and had adopted what he considered satisfactory measures for this purpose. But such arrangements often turn out very differently from their promise; and so it was in his case.
The Passionist House was in the eastern part of London; so far well;—and as he knew in the neighbourhood a respectable publisher in the religious line, with whom his father had dealt, he had written to him to bespeak a room in his house for the few days which he trusted would suffice for the process of his reception. What was to happen to him after it, he left for the advice he might get from those in whose hands he found himself. It was now Wednesday; he hoped to have two days to prepare himself for his confession, and then he proposed to present himself before those who were to receive it. His better plan would have been to have gone to the Religious House at once, where doubtless the good fathers would have lodged him, secured him from intrusion, and given him the best advice how to proceed. But we must indulge him, if, doing so great a work, he likes to do it in his own way: nor must we be hard on him, though it be not the best way.
On arriving at his destination, he saw in the deportment of his host grounds for concluding that his coming was not only expected, but understood. Doubtless, then the paragraph of the Oxford Gazette had been copied into the London papers; nor did it relieve his unpleasant surprise to find, as he passed to his room, that the worthy bibliopolist had a reading-room attached to his shop, which was far more perilous to his privacy than a coffee-room would have been. He was not obliged, however, to mix with the various parties who seemed to frequent it; and he determined as far as possible to confine himself to his apartment. The rest of the day he employed in writing letters to friends: his conversation of the morning had tranquillised him; he went to bed peaceful and happy, slept soundly, rose late, and, refreshed in mind and body, turned his thoughts to the serious duties of the day.
Breakfast over, he gave a considerable time to devotional exercises, and then, opening his writing-desk, addressed himself to his work. Hardly had he got into it when his landlord made his appearance; and, with many apologies for his intrusion, and a hope that he was not going to be impertinent, proceeded to inquire if Mr. Reding was a Catholic. “The question had been put to him, and he thought he might venture to solicit an answer from the person who could give the most authentic information.” Here was an interruption, vexatious in itself, and perplexing in the form in which it came upon him; it would be absurd to reply that he was on the point of becoming a Catholic, so he shortly answered in the negative. Mr. Mumford then informed him that there were two friends of Mr. Reding’s below, who wished very much to have a few minutes’ conversation with him. Charles could make no intelligible objection to the request; and in the course of a few minutes their knock was heard at the room door.
On his answering it, two persons presented themselves, apparently both strangers to him. This, however, at the moment was a relief; for vague fears and surmises had begun to flit across his mind as to the faces which were to make their appearance. The younger of the two, who had round full cheeks, with a boyish air, and a shrill voice, advanced confidently, and seemed to expect a recognition. It broke upon Charles that he had seen him before, but he could not tell where. “I ought to know your face,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Reding,” answered the person addressed, “you may recollect me at College.”
“Ah, I remember perfectly,” said Reding; “Jack the kitchen-boy at St. Saviour’s.”
“Yes,” said Jack; “I came when young Tom was promoted into Dennis’s place.”
Then he added, with a solemn shake of the head, “I have got promotion now.”
“So it seems, Jack;” answered Reding; “but what are you? Speak.”
“Ah, sir,” said Jack, “we must converse in a tone of befitting seriousness;” and he added, in a deep inarticulate voice, his lips not being suffered to meet together, “Sir, I stand next to an Angel now.”
“A what? Angel? Oh, I know,” cried Charles, “it’s some sect; the Sandemanians.”
“Sandemanians!” interrupted Jack; “we hold them in abhorrence; they are levellers; they bring in disorder and every evil work.”
“I beg pardon, but I know it is some sect, though I don’t recollect what. I’ve heard about it. Well, tell me, Jack, what are you?”
“I am,” answered Jack, as if he were confessing at the tribunal of a Proprætor, “I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church.”
“That’s right, Jack,” said Reding; “but it’s not distinctive enough; so are we all; every one will say as much.”
“Hear me out, Mr. Reding, sir,” answered Jack, waving his hand; “hear me, but strike; I repeat, I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church, assembling in Huggermugger Lane.”