“I don't imagine that mine is a lot many would be found to envy,” said L'Estrange, with a gentle smile.
“The old story, of course. 'Qui fit, Maecenas, ut Nemo'—I forget my Horace—'ut Nemo; how does it go?”
“Yes, sir. But I never said I was discontented with my lot in my life. I only remarked that I did n't think that others would envy it.”
“I have it,—I have it,” continued Bramleigh, following out his own train of thought,—“I have it. 'Ut Nemo, quam sibi sortem sit coutentus.' It's a matter of thirty odd years since I saw that passage, L'Estrange, and I can't imagine what could have brought it so forcibly before me to-day.”
“Certainly it could not have been any application to yourself,” said the curate, politely.
“How do you mean, sir?” cried Bramleigh, almost fiercely. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that few men have less cause for discontent with fortune.”
“How can you—how can any man, presume to say that of another!” said Bramleigh, in a loud and defiant tone, as he arose and paced the room. “Who can tell what passes in his neighbor's house, still less in his heart or his head? What do I know, as I listen to your discourse on a Sunday, of the terrible conflict of doubts that have beset you during the week—heresies that have swarmed around you like the vipers and hideous reptiles that gathered around St. Anthony, and that, banished in one shape, came back in another? How do I know what compromises you may have made with your conscience before you come to utter to me your eternal truths; and how you may have said, 'If he can believe all this, so much the better for him'—eh?”
He turned fiercely round, as if to demand an answer; and the curate modestly said, “I hope it is not so that men preach the gospel.”
“And yet many must preach in that fashion,” said Bramleigh, with a deep but subdued earnestness. “I take it that no man's convictions are without a flaw somewhere, and it is not by parading that flaw he will make converts.”