Charles met him at the gate. "Hallo," said he, "surely I heard voices? With whom were you talking?"
"With Hetty."
"Hetty?" Charles let out a whistle. "But it is about her I wanted to speak, here, before you go indoors. I say—where is she? Cannot we call her back?"
"No: we have no right. To some extent I have changed my mind about her: or rather, she has forced me to change it. Her soul is hardened."
"By whose fault?"
"No matter by whose fault: she must learn her responsibility to God.
Father has been talking with you, I suppose."
"Yes: he is bitterly wroth—the more bitterly, I believe, because he loves you better than any of us. He says you have him at open defiance. 'Every day,' he cried out on me, 'you hear how he contradicts me, and takes your sister's part before my face. And now comes this sermon! He rebukes me in the face of my parish.' Mind you, I am not taking his part: if you stand firm, so will I. But I wanted to tell you this, that you may know how to meet him."
For a while the brothers paced the dark walls in silence. Under the falling dew the scent of honeysuckle lay heavy in the garden. Years later, in his country rides, a whiff from the hedgerow would arrest Charles as he pondered a hymn to the beat of his horse's hoofs, and would carry him back to this hour. John's senses were less acute, and all his thoughts for the moment turned inward.
"I have done wrong," he announced at length and walked hastily towards the house.
In the hall he met his father coming out. "Sir," he said, "I have behaved undutifully. I have neglected you and set myself to contradict you. I was seeking you to beg your forgiveness."