Long ago, letters had been written to Venice, begging that if an English clergyman should travel that way he might be told how earnestly his presence was requested; this was the first who had answered the summons. He was a very young man, much out of health, and travelling under the care of a brother, who was in great dread of his doing anything to injure himself. Amabel soon perceived that, though kind and right-minded, he could not help them, except as far as his office was concerned. He was very shy, only just in priest’s orders; he told her he had never had this office to perform before, and seemed almost to expect her to direct him; while his brother was so afraid of his over-exerting himself, that she could not hope he would take charge of Philip.
However, after the physician had seen Guy, she brought Mr. Morris to him, and came forward, or remained in her room, according as she was wanted. She thought her husband’s face was at each moment acquiring more unearthly beauty, and feeling with him, she was raised above thought or sensation of personal sorrow.
When the first part of the service was over, and she exchanged a few words, out of Guy’s hearing, with Mr. Morris, he said to her, as from the very fullness of his heart, ‘One longs to humble oneself to him. How it puts one to shame to hear such repentance with such a confession!’
The time came when Philip was wanted. Amabel had called in Anne and the clergyman’s brother, and went to fetch her cousin. He was where she had left him in the sitting-room, his face hidden in his arms, crossed on the table, the whole man crushed, bowed down, overwhelmed with remorse.
‘We are ready. Come, Philip.’
‘I cannot; I am not worthy,’ he answered, not looking up.
‘Nay, you are surely in no uncharitableness with him now,’ said she, gently.
A shudder expressed his no.
‘And if you are sorry—that is repentance—more fit now than ever—Won’t you come? Would you grieve him now?’
‘You take it on yourself, then,’ said Philip, almost sharply, raising his haggard face.