He was saying then what he really felt—often bitterly felt; but using this real feeling advisedly, and with skilful tact, for the purpose of the hour.
What was this purpose? to win the regard, the esteem, the tenderness of a religious exalted nature, shrined in a beautiful form—to gain and hold ascendency: it was a life-long habit; one of those forms of refined self-indulgence which he pursued, reckless of consequences. He had found now the key-note of the character: it was a beautiful instrument, and he was well-pleased to play on it.
‘I think, sir,’ said Mary, modestly, ‘that you forget the great provision made for our weakness.’
‘How?’ said he.
‘They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,’ she replied, gently.
He looked at her as she spoke these words with a pleased, artistic perception of the contrast between her worldly attire and the simple religious earnestness of her words.
‘She is entrancing,’ he thought to himself; ‘so altogether fresh and naïve.’
‘My sweet saint,’ he said, ‘such as you are the appointed guardians of us coarser beings: the prayers of a soul given up to worldliness and ambition effect little; you must intercede for us. I am very orthodox, you see,’ he added, with that subtle smile which sometimes irradiated his features. ‘I am fully aware of all that your reverend Doctor tells you of the worthlessness of unregenerate doings; and so, when I see angels walking below, I try to secure a “friend at court.”’
He saw that Mary looked embarrassed and pained at this banter, and therefore added, with a delicate shading of earnestness—
‘In truth, my fair young friend, I hope you will sometimes pray for me. I am sure if I have any chance of good, it must come to me in such ways.’