Rolles
had in contemplation a considerable work - a folio, it was said -
on the authority of the Fathers of the Church. These attainments,
these ambitious designs, however, were far from helping him to any
preferment; and he was still in quest of his first curacy when a
chance ramble in that part of London, the peaceful and rich aspect
of the garden, a desire for solitude and study, and the cheapness
of the lodging, led him to take up his abode with Mr. Raeburn, the
nurseryman of Stockdove Lane.
It was his habit every afternoon, after he had worked seven or
eight hours on St. Ambrose or St. Chrysostom, to walk for a while
in meditation among the roses. And this was usually one of the
most productive moments of his day. But even a sincere appetite
for thought, and the excitement of grave problems awaiting
solution, are not always sufficient to preserve the mind of the
philosopher against the petty shocks and contacts of the world.
And when Mr. Rolles found General Vandeleur's secretary, ragged and
bleeding, in the company of his landlord; when he saw both change
colour and seek to avoid his questions; and, above all, when the
former denied his own identity with the most unmoved assurance, he
speedily forgot the Saints and Fathers in the vulgar interest of
curiosity.
"I cannot be mistaken," thought he. "That is Mr. Hartley beyond a
doubt. How comes he in such a pickle? why does he deny his name?
and what can be his business with that black-looking ruffian, my
landlord?"
As he was thus reflecting, another peculiar circumstance attracted
his attention.
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