His becoming a Catholic had been an amazing shock to Jack, who had always supposed that Frank, like himself, took the ordinary sensible English view of religion. To be a professed unbeliever was bad form—it was like being a Little Englander or a Radical; to be pious was equally bad form—it resembled a violent devotion to the Union Jack. No; religion to Jack (and he had always hitherto supposed, to Frank) was a department of life in which one did not express any particular views: one did not say one's prayers; one attended chapel at the proper times; if one was musical, one occasionally went to King's on Sunday afternoon; in the country one went to church on Sunday morning as one went to the stables in the afternoon, and that was about all.
Frank had been, too, so extremely secretive about the whole thing. He had marched into Jack's rooms in Jesus Lane one morning nearly a fortnight ago.
"Come to mass at the Catholic Church," he said.
"Why, the—" began Jack.
"I've got to go. I'm a Catholic."
"What!"
"I became one last week."
Jack had stared at him, suddenly convinced that someone was mad. When he had verified that it was really a fact; that Frank had placed himself under instruction three months before, and had made his confession—(his confession!)—on Friday, and had been conditionally baptized; when he had certified himself of all these things, and had begun to find coherent language once more, he had demanded why Frank had done this.
"Because it's the true religion," said Frank. "Are you coming to mass or are you not?"
Jack had gone then, and had come away more bewildered than ever as to what it was all about. He had attempted to make a few inquiries, but Frank had waved his hands at him, and repeated that obviously the Catholic religion was the true one, and that he couldn't be bothered. And now here they were at tea in Jesus Lane for the last time.
Of course, there was a little suppressed excitement about Frank. He drank three cups of tea and took the last (and the under) piece of buttered bun without apologies, and he talked a good deal, rather fast. It seemed that he had really no particular plans as to what he was going to do after he had walked out of Cambridge with his carpet-bag early next morning. He just meant, he said, to go along and see what happened. He had had a belt made, which pleased him exceedingly, into which his money could be put (it lay on the table between them during tea), and he proposed, naturally, to spend as little of that money as possible. … No; he would not take one penny piece from Jack; it would be simply scandalous if he—a public-school boy and an University man—couldn't keep body and soul together by his own labor. There would be hay-making presently, he supposed, and fruit-picking, and small jobs on farms. He would just go along and see what happened. Besides there were always casual wards, weren't there? if the worst came to the worst; and he'd meet other men, he supposed, who'd put him in the way of things. Oh! he'd get on all right.
Would he ever come to Barham? Well, if it came in the day's work he would. Yes: certainly he'd be most obliged if his letters might be sent there, and he could write for them when he wanted, or even call for them, if, as he said, it came in the day's work.
What was he going to do in the winter? He hadn't the slightest idea. He supposed, what other people did in the winter. Perhaps he'd have got a place by then—gamekeeper, perhaps—he'd like to be a gamekeeper.
At this Jack, mentally, threw up the sponge.
"You really mean to go on at this rotten idea of yours?"
Frank opened his eyes wide.
"Why, of course. Good Lord! did you think I was bluffing?"
"But … but it's perfectly mad. Why on earth don't you get a proper situation somewhere—land-agent or something?"
"My dear man," said Frank, "if you will have it, it's because I want to do exactly what I'm going to do. No—I'm being perfectly serious. I've thought for ages that we're all wrong somehow. We're all so beastly artificial. I don't want to preach, but I want to test things for myself. My religion tells me—" He broke off. "No; this is fooling. I'm going to do it because I'm going to do it. And I'm really going to do it. I'm not going to be an amateur—like slumming. I'm going to find out things for myself."
"But on the roads—" expostulated Jack.
"Exactly. That's the very point. Back to the land."
Jack sat up.
"Good Lord!" he said. "Why, I never thought of it."
"What?"
"It's your old grandmother coming out."
Frank stared.
"Grandmother?"
"Yes—old Mrs. Kelly."
Frank laughed suddenly and loudly.
"By George!" he said, "I daresay it is. Old Grandmamma Kelly! She was a gipsy—so she was. I believe you've hit it, Jack. Let's see: she was my grandfather's second wife, wasn't she?"
Jack nodded.
"And he picked her up off the roads on his own estate. Wasn't she trespassing, or something?"
Jack nodded again.
"Yes," he said, "and he was a magistrate and ought to have committed her: And he married her instead. She was a girl, traveling with her parents."
Frank sat smiling genially.
"That's it," he said. "Then I'm bound to make a success of it."
And he took another cigarette.
Then one more thought came to Jack: he had determined already to make use of it if necessary, and somehow this seemed to be the moment.
"And Jenny Launton," he said "I suppose you've thought of her?"
A curious look came into Frank's eyes—a look of great gravity and tenderness—and the humor died out. He said nothing for an instant. Then he drew out of his breast-pocket a letter in an envelope, and tossed it gently over to Jack.
"I'm telling her in that," he said. "I'm going to post it to-night, after I've seen the Dean."
Jack glanced down at it.
"Miss Launton,
"The Rectory,
"Merefield, Yorks."
ran the inscription. He turned it over; it was fastened and sealed.
"I've told her we must wait a bit," said Frank, "and that I'll write again in a few weeks."
Jack was silent.
"And you think it's fair on her?" he asked deliberately.
Frank's face broke up into humor.
"That's for her to say," he observed. "And, to tell the truth, I'm not at all afraid."
"But a gamekeeper's wife! And you a Catholic!"
"Ah! you don't know Jenny," smiled Frank. "Jenny and I quite understand one another, thank you very much."
"But is it quite fair?"
"Good Lord!" shouted Frank, suddenly roused. "Fair! What the devil does it matter? Don't you know that all's fair—under certain circumstances? I do bar that rotten conventionalism. We're all rotten—rotten, I tell you; and I'm going to start fresh. So's Jenny. Kindly don't talk of what you don't understand."
He stood up, stretching. Then he threw the end of his cigarette away.
"I must go to the Dean," he said. "It's close on the half-hour."