“You say right—it is fearful. Think now what my life is, and has been. One long lie—a lie to man and to God. For I do believe so far,” he added, solemnly; “I believe in the one ruling Spirit of the universe—unknown, unapproachable. None but a madman would deny the existence of a God.”
He ceased, and looked upwards with his piercing eyes—piercing, yet full of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion.
“Shall we walk on, or do you utterly renounce me?” said he, with a touching, sad humility.
“Renounce you!”
“Ah! you would not, could you know all I have endured. To me, earth has been a hell—not the place of flames and torments of which your divines prate, but the true hell—that of the conscience and the soul. I, too, a man whose whole nature was athirst for truth. I sought it first among its professors; there I found that they who, too idle or too weak to demonstrate their creed, took it upon trust, did what their fathers did, believed what their fathers believed—were accounted orthodox and pious men; while those who, in their earnest eager youth, dared—not as yet to doubt, but meekly to ask a reason for their faith—they were at once condemned as impious. But I pain you: shall I go on, or cease?”
“Go on.”
“Truth, still truth, I yearned for in another form—in domestic peace—in the love of woman.—My soul was famishing for any food; I snatched this—in my mouth it became ashes!” His voice seemed choking, but with an effort he continued. “After this time I gave up earth, and turned to interests beyond it. With straining eyes I gazed into the Infinite—and I was dazzled, blinded, whirled from darkness to light, and from light to darkness—no rest, no rest! This state lasted long, but its end came. Now I walk like a man in his sleep, feeling nothing, fearing nothing,—no, thou mighty Unknown, I do not fear! But then I hope nothing: I believe nothing. Those pleasant dreams of yours—God, Heaven, Immortality—are to me meaningless words. At times I utter them, and they seem to shine down like pitiless stars upon the black boiling sea in which I am drowning.”
“Oh, God, have mercy!” moaned Olive Rothesay. “Give me strength that my own faith fail not, and that I may bring Thy light unto this perishing soul!” And turning to Harold, she said aloud, as calmly as she could, “Tell me—since you have told me thus far—how you came to take upon yourself the service of the Church; you who”——
“Ay, well may you pause and shudder! Hear, then, how the devil—if there be one—can mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light. But it is a long history—it may drive me to utter things that you will shrink from.”
“I will hear it.” There was, in that soft, firm voice an influence which Harold perforce obeyed. She was stronger than he, even as light is stronger than darkness.