'But, hush, mother! hush! breathe not a word of this. Let it die. I am a priest, mother. I must not marry--I cannot. I must deny, denounce, and destroy any such idea in my soul! Your prayers, mother, in silence; but tell it not to De Freston--tell it not to my uncle--breathe it not to the world--that thy son, Thomas Wolsey, ever had such a weakness.' 'How, my dear son, wilt thou ever sustain the shock? I cannot bear to think of it.' 'Thou must assist me, mother, with all thy courage and thy kindness to smile upon the bride and the bridegroom. Doubt not my strength. I can do what I will with myself, but do not thou betray me or my weakness. I would retire to prepare for the morrow's interview at Freston Hall. Once more I will see the Tower, the Orwell--the scenes of my youth and of my early love--and then, farewell for ever.' 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.